I Ain't Scared of You (3 page)

Then he'd really get tight. “Don't worry 'bout it. Don't worry 'bout it. Just-just don't worry 'bout it. You ain't gotta worry 'bout it. You all
worried
'bout it.”

He'd just get mad at you because
he
was making up words.

*  *  * 

There was plenty of moments like that, too. I'll never forget one time when he was sittin' on the porch with his fan. It was scorching outside this day—I mean, really, really hot. A neighbor pulled up. We all sittin' there. (You couldn't just run around when my grand-daddy was around; we had to sit on the porch.) The neighbor comes by, says to my grandfather, “Hey, Brother Mac.”

Granddaddy spoke back, “Hey, man, how's it goin'?”

“It's a steamer today, ain't it?”

“Yeah, man . . . It's about 100 degrees
centipede.”

Ain't nobody even say nothin'. We all just looked around.
Centipede? What the fuck is some centipede?

My granddaddy was a hard-working man, and wasn't scared of a lot. But one thing he was scared of, boy: my grandmama. Big Mama ran things back then. She wasn't scared to fight him. They'd always be fighting about something. All night long, just fighting. The police used to come to our house so much that when they would just roll
past
the neighborhood, my friends would be lookin' at me.

We'd be at school, hear the siren—
waaaahhhwaaaaaaahhhhh—
then somebody'd say, “Bernie, they gettin' ready to go to yo' house, ain't they?”

The police
stayed
at our house, talking all nice, trying to calm my grandparents down. “Mister, Missus Mac, y'all stop.”

Granddaddy'd go on in a corner: “Hmmph. That's
her.
That's
her.
That's
her.
Her be startin' all that. Her be doin' all that.”

Grandmama would just be sitting there. “Yeah, I'm gon' show you what
her
be doin'.”

“Oh, yeah, we gon' see what's g'wains on.” That's where I got that from—“g'wains on”—from my grandmama. Then she'd be like, “Tell ya what: it's gon' be a new day in the week when I get up on ya. 'Cause on the eighth day, I ain't gon' get off ya.”

Then she'd get tight-lipped on ya—and she'd always close her eyes when she was threatening him. That meant she serious. Her
eyes would close real slow and tight, and she'd always have to add: “I'mma cut yo' ass in two.”

I asked her once why she always closed her eyes when she said stuff like that.

“Baby, so I can say it with conviction,” she said.

Scared the shit outta me.

But most of us came from that. That's what was real. That was how our families were back then. But that's also when families were strong and were upright. You got pregnant, they sent you down South. They hid you. It was an embarrassment to the family. You were a bastard.

And families took care of each other. When somebody got old or had something bad happen, they didn't go to no doctors. There was always that sick uncle or aunt that you kept in the attic or somewhere.

We had an uncle like that, my grandmother's brother, was crazy as hell. He had had a couple of nervous breakdowns. You never saw him. They kept him in the back.

All you'd hear is him hollerin'
“Hhaaaggggghhhh!”

You'd be eatin, hear that shit, look around . . .

Big Mama would be like, “Don't worry 'bout what's back there. Eat ya supper.”

You'd start eatin' again—and all of a sudden he'd break out again:
“Haagggggghhhh!”

Big Mama: “Didn't I say eat yo' supper?”

I'm thinkin',
How am I supposed to eat with that crazy muh'fucka back there hollerin' and shit?

And we couldn't go in the back either. They had a skeleton key where they kept the door locked. That nigga would be back there going crazy. And they'd go and knock on the door and slide him his food. We never could go back there.

One day my grandmother was gone. (And you always knew
when your grandmother was at home because her wig had the little styrofoam stand. If her wig was on that styrofoam she was in the crib; if that wig was gone, that mean she was gone.) So I got my brothers and them and said, “Come on, y'all, I got the skeleton key. Let's see who back there.”

So went back there, banged on the door.

He went,
“Haaaaggghhh!”

I went,
“Haaaaahgggghhh.”

“Haaaaggghh.”

“Haaaagghh.”

Then I said, “Who back there?”

He ain't say nothin'.

I said, “Why don't you come out?”

“If I could come out, I'da been gone.”

I said, “You want me to open the door?”

Then I heard my brothers, “Here come Big Mama, here come Big Mama.”

I ran. Put the key back. My grandmother came in, asked us what we wanted for dinner, then went back there where he was.

And don't you know that crazy sum'bitch
told on me?

He wasn't that damn crazy. He knew my name and everythang.

“Bernie came back here, tried to let me out.”

My grandmother ain't say nothin' for a coupla hours. We was sittin' at the table. We all eatin'. Then she started talkin' to me, real calm and quietly.

I mean, I knew to tell 'cause she had that
look
on me, right?

Man, she whooped me with an ironing cord. I hollered. I screamed. I ran all around the house.

But that sum'bitch used to run track. She was dead on my ass.

The next day, she was gone. I went back there again, stood outside that door.
Maaaan,
I cussed his butt
out.

“Oh, you's a
punk
sum'bitch, you know that? Wit' ya—ya—ya trick ass!” I'm all up in the keyhole talkin' shit. “I hope ya go crazy. I hope it ain't no lights on in that muthafucka. I hope ya go blind.”

He on the other side of the door, “You, too! You, too!”

“That's why ya locked up in there. . . .
Hhhhhaggghhh!”

Grown folks stayed on us 'bout everything. Always tellin' don't do this or that. Let them tell it, everything was gon' “put yo' eye out.”

Put yo' eye out? How come it was always yo' eye? How come you never heard, “You gon' cut yo' ear off?” Or “Boy, you gon' lose yo' nose?”

Nope. It was, “Carry the knife by the handle. And walk wit' it! Walk, before you mess around and put yo' eye out!”

But what happened to those kind of injuries you had when you
was a kid? Lil' kids don't have those kind of injuries now. They don't fall down the stairs. We used to get cut up, bruised, scarred. One time, we had a board holding up our window and I knocked it away, and the window smashed my hand. My nail was all black, hurtin' like a muh'fucka.

Those were the old injuries. Kids don't have those no more. Now, they just continuously get shot. They can't just hurt themself no more.

Bernie rehearses for
Midnight Mac
on HBO.

What happened to the kid shit? Worst happened to us was, we'd get burnt. “Get the butter!” Now? “Shot.”

I always tell people how I had it hard so they'll understand my hunger, my desire to succeed. That's why I'm not complacent. I'm not settling for less. I ain't never been picked first to do a damn thing. Even when I was a young dude and we played ball—and man, I was an athlete. I played baseball, football, basketball. I boxed for four years. I always had to earn it. Always. When we picked teams before we played ball in the street, folks used to look over me all the time.

CAPTAIN NO. 1:
Give me Jacobs.

Look dead at me . . .

I'm just standing there . . .

I'm the last one.

CAPTAIN 2 (rolling his eyes):
(sigh) C'mon, nigga.

I got cut from my high-school basketball team four times. We had practice early in the morning, six o'clock. We had two sides in
the layup line. I was on one side, did a layup, shot a jumper. The coach looked at me and said, “You can go.” Shit, I went . . .

. . . on the
other
side of the layup line. Did the same thing over there, ran a little drill, layed up the ball. The coach tapped me on my shoulder this time:
“You
can go.”

I came back the next day.

Got in line. Blended in. Did my lil' shit. The coach lookin' at me—leaning down, squinting. He said, “Didn't I cut you yesterday?”

I'm looking all surprised and shit. I said, “Naw, you ain't cut
me.”

He stared at me some more, thought about it, then he said, “Go on, man. Get in line.”

I got in line, did a little drill. Then the coach nodded and said, “You cut
now.”

So I went back on the other side. I'm in line and everything. The coach came over to talk to the assistant coach about something. Then he looked at me.

COACH:
Come here!

I came over.

I made the squad.

I had to work harder than everybody. I didn't start. I was sitting on the bench, just sitting. Everytime he'd say a name—“Frank”—I'd scoot down. Just trying to get close so he could see me. I started stickin' my head out real far so he could just get a
look
at me.

But I wouldn't play. I'd go to the locker room, take a shower, guys teasing me: “Ain't no need in you takin' no shower, man. You still fresh.” I'm the Minute Man—it'd be a minute left in the game and the coach'd put you in.

And when you get in, you ain't gonna pass that ball either. I ain't passin'
shit.
Everybody on your team out there yelling: “Bernie! Bernie!
Berniiiieeee!”

Man, shit, I'm out there shaking and baking on myself. I'm puttin' moves on and shit. Ain't nobody even checkin' me but I'm pump-fakin', takin' the ball through my legs, behind my back.

Shit, I had to get
two points.
At least I'd get in the paper.