Chapter 11
Because she hated the idea that some therapist would, say, use her sculpture of an Algerian sand dune to diagnose her as paranoid schizophrenic, Rai had assiduously avoided the art workshops at the Place. Even so, the writing course offered that afternoon piqued her interest — especially when she discovered that a grad student from the writing program at NYU would be leading it. Maybe this could be the first step to getting published, she thought as she followed two other kids up the narrow stairs to the dreaded fifth floor.
The art room was all that Rai had feared, with its collection of tchotchies that was pretentious when they weren’t plain bad — she didn’t even need to look to know that. The writing teacher, however, was a pretty blonde woman with a touch of an English accent — which Rai took as a good sign. She identified herself as Jennifer, a portent that Rai did not appreciate as much.
“Look, I don’t know shit about psychology,” Jennifer began before they had even sat around the butcher-paper covered table. Rai relaxed at the curse, as did the Latina girl who sat down across from her. “And I sure as hell can’t tell you anything about how to get off the street. But I’m curious. I want to know about you. So just write. Tell me a story.”
“I got a zillion fuckin’ stories. Whaddata wanna hear?” The other girl’s accent was heavy — Puerto Rican, Rai thought, or maybe Dominican. She slouched aggressively, which might have been a hip-hop fashion statement, or might just have been bad posture.
The teacher paused, a little unsure of herself. “What do you want to tell? Maybe… how you ended up here? Or is that too personal?”
“Fuck, lady, I been naked with half the dicks in this cuntlickin’ city, and you’s asking me about personal?” She gave a wicked little smile when the older woman blushed dark red. “OK. I got a story for you.” She grabbed pen and paper from the middle of the table and began to scribble in a large script.
The instructions suited Rai just fine. She began a detailed story about the Easter ham, full of what she thought were erudite allusions to the Macabees, the Brothers Karamazov, and KRS-One. From time to time, she interrupted her rhythm to look at the Puerto Rican girl, who had already piled half a dozen sheets in front of her. The other participant, a boy as black as anyone she had ever met, sat stiffly and wrote in neat, but somehow incorrect, letters. His features were sharp and handsome, but they didn’t seem to move.
Rai’s story had barely reached the climactic moment in the church when Jennifer asked them to stop writing, but Rai was pleased. The style was good, the story compelling — certainly enough to ask the teacher about how to get a short story published. That would have to be after the class, Rai reminded herself. She didn’t want to be too harsh on these other kids, because they were clearly trying.
Jennifer turned to the other girl. “Since you were so enthusiastic,” she said dryly, “maybe you’d like to read your story first?” She got two raised eyebrows and a cunning little smile in return, but the girl shuffled her papers and began to read.
I was about 14. My family was no Cosby Show, but it wasn’t the worst family in the Bronx. Dad left when I was five, but that was OK, ‘cause it meant he wouldn’t hit me any more. I don’t remember him much, but I know if I saw him on the streets today I’d fucking kick him in the balls.
It was just me and my mom and my two sisters. Mom worked at a supermarket down on the Grand Concourse, so we had enough money for food, but not much else. We was born here, but my mom wasn’t exactly legal, so she wasn’t about to apply for food stamps or any of that shit. I always got my sisters’ clothes. I’m not complaining. Mom worked so we’d have something. It was better than what a lot of my friends had.
My sisters were like two and three years older than me, so they were out on the town, partying every weekend, sleeping around. I know it hurt my Mom a lot, and she tried to be a good influence, but what can you do when you’re working the evening shift. Plus, my mom had me. I was like her little angel. I went to school on time, and I always came in to kiss her goodnight when she came home late. I was very respectful.
Then I met a boy. It’s always about a boy. Well, he was lots older than me, but he liked me a lot. Or that’s what he said. And he had a great ride, this old Camaro, and he would drive me all around the city. I didn’t know he was doing it with lots of girls.
One night in the back of the Camaro, we did it. I know there’s always supposed to be a moral thing in getting laid too young, that it’s supposed to hurt or something, but it was amazing. Like a new world. Not like I’d been a virgin or anything. My uncle fixed that when I was nine. But when your mom’s bro pulls down your pants and sticks a spoon in there every time you’re alone with him, it’s not like you’re looking forward to real fucking. This was just way different.
It was so great, I had to tell somebody. I told my sister Tisha, the middle one. She knew the boy had a rep, but she didn’t want to tell me, so she told my mom. And my mom went off, crying and all, and she told me I could never see the boy again. She told me that he’d gotten a lot of girls pregnant, and maybe he had syphilis or something. Then she beat the shit out of me. ‘Cause she loved me, she said, and I think she meant it.
I should have run away then, but I was my momma’s baby. I didn’t want to break her heart. I already felt guilty about fucking around, and then Mom finds out and grounds me? Guilty. Yeah, that’s what I felt. I never said it like that before.
Mom set my sisters up like guards, and I knew I wasn’t going to be able to get away with anything. They wouldn’t even let a boy into the house. Except their own boyfriends, and I guess I could have narked on them, but I didn’t.
I had a really good friend — a girl, of course, because who else could come? — who always came to my house after school. Just about every day. This thing with Kenny — that’s the guy with the Camaro — was the center of my life then, so we kept talking about it. My friend Nakisha came from this strict religious family, and they didn’t even talk about sex, so she wanted to hear about it all the time. First of all, I just told her about it, but then she wanted a demonstration. So I took off my pants and I used my finger to show what was going on.
What happened with Nakisha came pretty fast. We started off just kissing and touching, but pretty soon it went where it goes. I don’t know how my sisters didn’t know what was going on. Maybe they were just having too much fun of their own, but two 14 year old girls locked in a room every afternoon?
Then one afternoon my mom came home from work sick, and she decided to come in and see how her little angel was doing. That would be the day Nakisha and me forgot to lock the door. In she comes, and Nakisha and me is naked, and I’m on top of her and licking her. I did not want my mom to see that scene.
She grounded me for a year. So every day I went to school, and every day I came back home and she locked me in my room. I just did my homework and drew. That’s when I found my mom’s old jazz records, so I got way into Tito and Coltrane and Dizzy. It was almost worth a year’s grounding.
Finally the year goes by and my mom sits down to have a talk with me. She says now I can have friends over again, or even go out sometimes, but then she says, ‘Get this, Yazzy, I ain’t gonna have no dykes in this family, you understand? So if I ever smell pussy on your breath again…’ She never said what she was going to do, but I knew it would be hell.
It wasn’t three weeks later when my mom caught me again. This time it was my math teacher. Before she could do whatever it was she was planning, I put some stuff in a bag and I was out the door. I went to live with my gramma for a bit, but that sucked, so I moved in with a guy. It just got worse from there.
When I decided I’d had enough of the guy, I spent some time on the street. Almost a year. And maybe my mom didn’t cure my sex drive, but spend a couple of nights around 34th Street giving twenty buck blowjobs, and I understood what she was talking about.
The story ended on a firm note, like a fable. The moral had been spoken, and the girl had no more to say.
Nor could the teacher speak. She had made a couple of notes early in the story, but the rest of her paper was blank.
“So you’re the big fucking famous writer,” the girl challenged Jennifer. “So tell me why it sucks, huh?”
“It does not suck at all. Not at all.” She paused, clearly unsure what she could say. “But maybe… perhaps we can hear the stories from…” Now she looked even more awkward. She had forgotten to ask everyone’s name.
The boy understood her pause very well. “I am Abdul,” he said in English that seemed far too correct.
“Rai.”
“And I’m Yazmín,” concluded the other girl, gnawing at the cap of her pen and biting her lip.
“Yes, then. Perhaps we can hear from Abdul and Rai, and then we can talk about all of them.”
“Your clean little twat just don’t wanna talk ‘bout blowjobs.”
“Exactly.” Though Jennifer blushed again, her voice had a bit of a teasing tone. She might survive here, Rai thought. “Would you like to read, Abdul?”
Abdul seemed quiet and shy, so Rai expected him to be reluctant to speak, but he obediently turned to the first page, and began to read in a deep, comforting voice.
I am from a village near Khartoum, in Sudan. Now it is about a year ago. My family, we all knew that the fundamentalists will come. They are what you Americans call fundamentalists, but I think it is not a good word. These bad men made threats. They told my father that he must send men to fight the Christians in the south, but he said no.
My father, who is also Abdul, was what you might call the chief. He would not do what they wanted, so we knew they would come for us. I could not sleep.
Since I was awake, I heard when they came. I heard them step on the gravel in the street. I did not wake my parents; instead I said to myself, ‘what can that sound be? Is it they?’ And then, before I could make the answer a word, I heard the door break down. I heard my mother and my little sister scream. Then I could move. I jumped from the back window, and I ran.
I do not know what happened to my father and my mother and my sister Fatima. I believe that I am a bad son.
My village was not very far from Khartoum. Perhaps a week’s walk, and sometimes in a truck. But I was very hungry, so I had to steal cassava and yams from the farmers along the way. Someday I want to return and pay them back, because they were very poor people. I had to throw much away, because raw cassava is very difficult to eat.
My father once told me that when something went wrong, I must find a man in the city. So once I arrived in Khartoum, I found this man.
This man was my father’s friend, and a good man. He arranged that I work on a boat that sailed down the Nile. Smugglers, I think you say in English. When I came to America, I saw Star Wars. Han Solo reminded me of the smuggler captain. A man believes that he is selfish, but he has a kind heart. I had no money, so he called me a sailor, but I have never been on the water. When we cross the border into Egypt, he hid me under the skins of sheep, because I had no passport.
At Lake Nassar, I left the boat. I thanked the captain, but he said, ‘there is no thanks necessary. You worked your way.’ What a kind liar, that man! Then I stuck out my thumb, and very slowly I went to Cairo. I was very hungry, but sometimes the men who gave me rides took me to their houses and gave me food. Sometimes I could even sleep in a bed. The Egyptians are kind people.
The people of Cairo were not so kind. I stayed there for several days, for there are many people who live in the street there. I knew that I must go. I did not like the smell of the river. Perhaps it passed by my parents’ prison, or by their grave.
From Cairo the story is simple. I went to the port and I found a huge crate where the tarp was loose. With some food and water that I had stolen in the city — Allah forgive me — I climbed inside and fastened the crate. The next morning, I felt it move onto a ship. Two weeks later, I arrived in this country.
I was very lucky. The workers on the dock found me and took me to a Catholic church. The priest took me to Covenant House. They were good to me, even if I knew little English and I could tell them nothing. But they understood, and now I am safe and soon I will make money and go to college.
Again, the room was silent. Jennifer’s face showed that she had not expected these stories. Finally, when the quiet became awkward, she spoke. “Rai? Do you want to read?”
“No fucking way.”
