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Writing this reminds me of how good I had it. My parents bought
a house on Willow Avenue, 1855 to be exact. I ate every day, wore clean clothes,
and could talk on the phone for a good 30 minutes before I was told my yap trap
had gone into overtime and it was time to hang up. I’m also reminded that I
didn’t have my dog Fritz yet. My father bought him the summer of 1981. Life was
grand!
On most mornings, I walked to school with my friend
Cynthia. Her family lived on the corner house on 18th and Michigan Avenue.
I would walk down 18th Street, wait for her outside, and then we
would walk down Michigan while having an entire conversation about nothing. It was important nothing, though, so that made it special.
We’d get to the corner of Michigan Avenue and have to cross
over 16th Street and walk though Gluck Park to arrive at North
Junior High School. On June 17, 1980, life “growed” us up in a hurtful flash.
We looked to the right and there had been a house fire. The smell of wet wood,
wet fire, wet smoke and unbeknownst to us, wet death suffocated the air.
My eyes grew large with sadness and my mouth dropped open after the
ensuing shock.
“Cynthia…Marshall’s house caught on fire.”
“Ah ha, ah ha, Marshall’s house caught on fire!” She
pointed her finger towards the house to make sure I knew which house it was. Of
course I knew, but I believe my gaze went from her finger to the house.
“Cynthia that’s not funny. His house caught on fire.”
I can’t remember if we said anything else as we walked the
remaining five minutes to school. I do remember a feeling of sadness and I’m
sure she felt the same.
Like the other students, I took my seat in homeroom
class and waited for attendance to begin. We all settled down waiting for our
name to be called and readily answering. “Here.” That didn’t happen on June 17,
1980.
I’m sorry I can’t remember my homeroom teacher’s name. I
just remember that she was an old white woman who, now that I’ve lived a little
bit, looked like Barbara Bush.
She sat at her desk the same as she did every day. This day
there was no smile on her face and no expression. She didn’t call the first
name, either. Instead, she stared straight ahead, looking at no one in particular,
and said words that probably broke the heart of every teenager in the room.
“Marshall Lewis died today. Marshall Lewis is dead.”
Gasps and silent chatter filled the room. I turned around
to look at Marshall’s desk and he wasn’t there. I don’t remember much that happened
inside school on that half-day. I do remember getting out of school and having
to walk the same route I’d taken that morning - right past Marshall’s house.
I walked alone trying not to look and staring at the same
time. I was 14 and this was the first time that I was adult sick. Being adult
sick doesn’t belong on a child. A common cold, the chicken pox, maybe even a
headache, but adult sick?
My mother made us use the side door because we were not
going in and out her front door. All that ripping and running was for side
doors. Entering the side door if you turned to the right you could walk down
the stairs, which led to the family room/basement. If you walked three steps up
you would be in the kitchen. I walked up the three stairs into the kitchen.
I went to the sink and washed my hands because you can’t
have outside hands on the inside, and then proceeded to do nothing. I opened up
and closed cabinet doors. I picked up a glass and put it down. I look out the
window for nothing hoping to see something. I paced a bit and then stood still.
My mother had a small radio in the kitchen and although I had been in there for
at least a minute, it was the first time I heard it.
One in a Million You, by Larry Graham came on and I began
crying. I cried and cried, and cried. And then I stopped. I cleaned myself up
and went back to being the 14-year-old girl that I was when I woke up on June
17, 1980.
For 46 years every time I heard, One in a Million You, I’d
turn off the radio and proclaim how much I hate that song. For 46 years I have
thought off and on about Marshall Lewis. I’ve tried to write about him, but I
never talked about him. These last two months he’s hung around, so…
Unspoken words hurt. Unspoken truths hurt. Unspoken words
that are true hurt the most. Stop trying to protect yourself from your truth.
You end up not defending yourself when you should, put a wall up when you
shouldn’t, and become a play toy for people who have no rules.
Marshall used to pull my hair, chase me down the hall, push
and poke me. I always said, “Stop it, Marshall, with yo’ black ugly self!” Shoot,
that negro didn’t care what I said because the next day he was right back to
pulling my hair and chasing me.
I asked God to forgive me for getting upset with Cynthia.
She responded to seeing the house like a 14-year-old that was scared. She didn’t
know. I have asked God to forgive me for being mad for so many years at the
teacher. I felt she should have said more or said it differently. She didn’t
know. The 14-year-old me didn’t know how to give grace. The 60-year-old me does.
46 years of holding this, what I believe my truth is, is
the fact that I didn’t say anything when the teacher made the announcement. I should
have spoken up for Marshall. What would I have said?
I thank God for memories, that I never forgot him, and that I still remember what Marshall looked like. As I write this, I can see him, sitting at his desk in the back of the room, with a little goofy crooked smile on his face. I bet he was plotting what time during the day he'd chase me…
Yah’ll, the state of affairs right about now ain’t right. A smile. A hug. A phone call. A visit. A text. Love on someone. Love on yourself.
I luv you.
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