The Waking (52 page)
Authors: H. M. Mann
“
You have experience in food service,” she tells me, “and just putting where you have it
from
will get you the job.”
I tell her that I also washed a lot of dishes.
“
You’re not going to be a dishwasher, Manny. I’ll bet I’ll be handing you orders in no time.”
I’m taking the food classes anyway. I want to last at my next job.
In addition to the classes, NA meetings, religious services, Positive Life Awareness meetings, and even some anger management counseling, I read. A lot. It’s like getting an entirely new education. I read James Weldon Johnson’s
Autobiography of an Ex-Coloured Man, Roots
and
Queen
by Alex Haley,
The Color Purple
by Alice Walker,
Invisible Man
by Ralph Ellison,
Native Son
and
Black Boy
by Richard Wright, and
Whippins, Switches & Peach Cobbler
by Brian Egeston. I wish Egeston would write more books. The brother speaks to me. Officer Jones loans me her copy of Toni Morrison’s
Beloved,
and I spend an entire week trying to understand it. I mean, I’ve been to Kentucky and Ohio, but it may take me a lifetime to understand what Morrison’s trying to say to me. And if Flake was right, I’ll have a
long
time to re-read it.
Some of what I read disturbs me, though. James Baldwin’s
The Fire Next Time
messes me up. Baldwin, who had to go away from the U.S. to Paris so he could understand the U.S., says that the white man’s religion is destroying black people because they’re worshiping a white god, yet he also says that the Nation of Islam is dangerous. It seems like such a contradiction. Don’t worship the white God, and don’t worship the “black” God either. I don’t know much about the Bible, another book I’m studying, but I do know that God is
light,
not white. He’s in the lightning, He’s in the sun, He’s in the moon and stars. He is light, and what is light? Roy G. Biv. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. There’s no white in there, and there’s no black in there. Yeah, most of the paintings and drawings I’ve seen show God and Jesus as white, probably since white artists did them. White is the absence of color, a blank page, and black is just too much color, I guess. I look at my body most days and see Roy G. Biv. Luckily, Baldwin doesn’t leave me hanging. He says to just love each other. Just love each other. Simple. Plain and simple. I can deal with that.
A few weeks into September, after I’ve already been struggling but enjoying Dr. Taylor’s class, Mary visits one Sunday with Olivette Howard. I know it’s her the second I walk into the visiting area, and not because she’s sitting next to Mary.
Olivette Howard has my mama’s face and eyes.
She nods at me as I sit. “Turn your head side to side, boy,” she says, and I do. “Yep. You’re my kin. Nice to meet you, cousin Emmanuel.”
For the next hour, she tells me stories of Africatown, of how she and her husband started Curley’s Restaurant on the Hill in the 1930’s, how she and her husband eventually owned three restaurants, how strong her sons are, and how much she misses Africatown. Mary sits quietly watching us, smiling, laughing, and patting her stomach while Olivette starts throwing names at me rapid-fire, names of all the people I’m related to down in Mobile, some of the names familiar. I try to slow her down with “Yeah, I met her” and “Isn’t he about six-two with a little goatee?” but Olivette keeps rattling on.
Olivette leans in. “I brought a scrapbook of all this for you to see, Emmanuel, but they wouldn’t let me bring it up. I’ll make you a copy and give it to you as a wedding gift.”
When the hour ends, I get permission to help Mary out of her chair since she’s showing. “She’s got two in there,” Olivette says as she stands. “You’re gonna need four hands, Emmanuel.”
As Olivette walks away, Mary whispers, “How did she know that? I never told her that.”
I smile. “She just knows. Get used to it.”
But I don’t know much about history. I barely pull a C at midterm, and it’s only because Dr. Taylor gives essay exams where I can write forever and get some partial credit. There’s so much to know, so much to connect, and this is only a survey course. I keep telling myself that I’ve been out of school for nearly half my lifetime, that I need to re-train my brain, that I need to concentrate. But it’s so hard sometimes. I can’t stop thinking about getting out before Mary has the babies. Her due date is December 8, and my release date won’t be until December 21. I may be thirteen days too late. I discuss my problem with Dr. Taylor after class, and he suggests writing a letter.
“
Who would I write it to?”
He smiles. “Write it to the world, Emmanuel.”
“
I meant, who do I send it to?”
He looks up. “I’d make two copies, one for the warden, and one for me.”
“
You want to read it?”
He nods. “And if it’s as good as I think it’s going to be, I’ll be sending it to the
Tribune-Review
.”
“
The newspaper?”
“
I’ll even type it up for you.” He looks at the clock. “We ended a little early today, didn’t we? Hmm.” He nods at a desk. “Get started.”
“
They’ll be coming for me.”
“
So you have some make-up work to do. I’ll cover for you.” He hands me a little essay notebook. “I’ve got some essays to grade anyway. Take your time.”
I stare at the blue lines on that little notebook for ten minutes. How did Dr. King do it? And how can I do it? I’m nothing like him. Okay, I’m a little like him, but I’m too militant. A militant pacifist? No. A mighty man of peace? That sounds crazy—
“
Having trouble?” Dr. Taylor asks.
“
Yeah. If I can just get it started …” I’m sure it will all spill out.
“
Why are you here, Emmanuel?”
“
I’m, um, trying to write this essay.”
He smiles. “I meant, why are you here, on this earth?”
“
Oh.” I write “Why I’m Here” at the top of the page, close my eyes, and say a little prayer. “Okay, y’all, wherever you are and whoever you are, give me the words …”
And then I open my eyes, and my hand begins to fly …
My people were stolen from their native country in 1860 and taken to Mobile Bay, Alabama, where some stayed and built Africatown. Others migrated north to industrial centers like Pittsburgh.
I’m from the Hill, born after the building of the Civic Center destroyed an entire way of life, two years after Dr. King died and riots destroyed what was left of the Hill.
My father, a Cajun from Louisiana, left my mother before I was born. I’ve never met him, and that has cost me a great deal. I may never meet him, but if he’s reading this, I want him to know that I’ll be all right and that I’d still like to meet him.
My mother never recovered from the shock of his leaving and became a heroin addict. One night when I was only four years old, my mother was murdered in our apartment at the Bedford Dwellings, a housing project since torn down by recent so-called urban renewal on the Hill. Her case is still unsolved over twenty-five years later. To the man who killed Glory Mann, I hope I never meet you.
I was raised by my aunt, a godly woman, a saint who I never learned to love because she wasn’t my mama. I dropped out of school in the ninth grade and ran the streets, dealing the very drug that addicted my mother, and I later let it addict me.
One night back in May, I left the Hill, violating my probation, taking a journey beyond my wildest imagination to Cincinnati, Louisville, Memphis, New Orleans, Birmingham, Montgomery, Mobile Bay, and Atlanta, names that echo the struggles of my people.
I have learned much, and I have been cured of my addiction to heroin. I don’t think I could have been cured any other way. I would be dead by now if I had stayed on the Hill.
So I am here in the Allegheny County Jail, which did not rehabilitate me several times before, for the last time. I will not return to this place once my sentence is completed because I have rehabilitated myself without the help of the judicial system. I did it on my own.
But that’s not quite true. I’ve had lots of help, from folks like Flake from the Hill, Luke Slade from East St. Louis, Illinois, Rose, Penny, Rufus from the
American Queen,
Mrs. Letitia Walker from Savannah, Georgia, Mrs. Genevieve Broussard from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, Mississippi Red of the
Illinois Central
,
Maxi Kazula and the rest of my many relatives in Africatown, Alabama, Bobby Hughes of Beulah, Alabama, Moses Green of Trimble, Georgia, Jeff Pettis of Roanoke, Virginia, my Auntie June Mann of the Hill, my mother Glory Mann, and Mary Moore, the girl who prayed for me and always had a candle lit for me at St. Benedict the Moor.
I have earned my GED, I’m taking a community college class, I’m studying commercial food preparation, I’m reading at least a book a day, and I’m clean. I’m about to become a father and get married, and I have a job waiting for me at the Crawford Grill when I get out.
I also know who I am.
I stop writing.
Officer Baldwin sure is taking his time today. Maybe Dr. Taylor made some arrangements. I re-read my letter so far. It says what I want it to, but I have to finish it somehow. What will the parole board ask me? Oh yeah.
Am I ready to return to society? The better question is, is society ready for me to return to it?
I close the notebook and hand it to Dr. Taylor.
“
Is it finished?” he asks me.
“
You might want to double-check my spelling.”
“
I’ll type this up tonight and put it in the warden’s hands tomorrow.”
“
You might want to read it first, you know, see if it’s all right.”
“
I’m sure it will be.” He opens the notebook, and I watch his eyes scanning the page. “It definitely will be, Emmanuel.”
Officer Baldwin taps on the door.
“
Gotta go,” I say. “Uh, thanks.”
Baldwin and I are barely down the hall when Dr. Taylor comes rushing up behind us. “Officer, may I have a moment?”
Baldwin doesn’t move. “Say what you gotta say. He’s already late.”
“
Emmanuel, you’ll need to read ahead in your text.”
I hate that textbook. It is so boring. “Why?”
He smiles. “So you can take your final exam early.” He shakes the notebook. “I don’t expect you to be here in December to take it.”
“
You don’t?”
He squeezes my shoulder. “You don’t belong here.”
I look at Baldwin, who rolls his eyes. “I know I don’t, Dr. Taylor. That’s what I’ve trying to tell these chumps.”
Baldwin laughs. “C’mon, Manny. Let’s get you back to your books.”
And when I get back to my cell, I reopen
Beloved.
I’m going to understand
every
word this time. And even if I don’t, I’ll just start over.
No matter where I am, I can always start over.
24: Home on the Hill
Knapsack slung over my shoulder, wearing clothes given to me in Africatown and boots that should have worn out months ago, carrying sculptures carved by a man who hears his ancestors in the wood and a kente cloth blanket made in Alabama, squeezing the silver lid given to me by a man who may one day be my adopted father, I leave County on an icy, sleety, rainy day, re-reading my journey on three little notepads. Folks driving by probably think I’m crazy, walking up Pride Street without a coat or an umbrella, sleet clinging to my Malcolm X goatee, smiling and flipping pages, tasting the rain, kicking ice pellets, knocking on trees to wake up someone’s ancestors. But I don’t care.
They’ll never be as free as I am at this moment.
Never.
I could have taken the bus, I guess. But that wouldn’t be right. I feel the earth under my feet, even walking in the mud instead of on the cracked sidewalks. I’m part of this planet now, and this planet is part of me, like it or not.
Why? Because it’s the
first
day of December, the best first day of any month any time since the creation of the world. You can have January 1 and all the parades and games. December 1. That’s the day I’ll celebrate forever. It’s like Juneteenth and the fourth of July and the day I was saved under that tent all rolled into one.
