the words. I was feeling happy to see her smile and feel proud of her children. I was also happy thinking about the epic meal that would happen after the service was over.
That morning, I’d gone upstairs to check in and smell what Grandma was cooking for the later meal. Everything was almost ready: fried chicken, greens, corn bread with butter, and a couple of pies that she would bake and serve hot later, straight from the oven.
It always seemed to me that Pastor Box took the service long past the time that church was supposed to be over. But this day it was almost forever. But at long last, the final prayer was said. When I opened my eyes and looked toward the back, ready to go get Mom and walk her back home to Grandma’s, I saw that her seat was empty.
Tragil had spotted her leaving earlier. There was nothing to do but put our focus on what we had in front of us—food. Out of church we flew, sprinting down the street and into our building, up the three flights of stairs, following the unmistakable aroma of fried chicken and the sounds of laughter.
Grandma’s house was full of different relatives—her sister, my aunts and uncles, cousins, everybody. Mom wasn’t there, but since people would flit in and out all day, maybe she had stopped in earlier or would come later? As usual, I managed to be first in line for the buffet. That way, by the time everyone else was served, I could come back for seconds.
After the seriousness of church, everyone joked, making small talk, catching up with each other and the latest gossip or news. Unless you were me or Tragil, the keepers of family secrets, you would have never guessed that the day before, I was scared almost to death when police held a gun to my head during a drug raid.
DURING THAT SPRING OF 1990, OUR HAPPIER DAYS WERE few and further apart.
My fondest memories were the little things. More and more, basketball was just me going up to the park by myself with Roger’s ball and trying to get me a game. Or running my own drills, shooting the ball from every conceivable spot on the court. The dream of being great one day at basketball felt too big for me—like shoes that I couldn’t fill. But I liked the feel of the ball in my hands and the way I could forget everything else other than getting it through the hoop.
My favorite pastime that spring was watching Knight Rider with Grandma. In syndicated reruns, the show came on in Chicago once a week and that was my time. Everyone in the neighborhood and most of the Southside just about knew how much Willie Mae Morris loved David Hasselhoff and his talking car, KITT. Everyone knew not to mess with me and my grandma when we were up there watching that show. Years later, I actually told David Hasselhoff how he helped me get through tough times in childhood.
The violence with Mom’s boyfriend became more dangerous. She was around less and less. One night when they were home and the electricity had been turned off in our apartment there was another police raid. This time, as usual, the boyfriend had slipped out just before the police came pounding— boom, boom, boom —at the front door, announcing themselves. I scrambled out the back door and up the steps, hoping that Tragil was right behind me, at the same instant that the police threw on their floodlights, catching me in blinding white light as I got to Grandma’s back door. My sister knew they’d snatch both of us if she tried to get out, too, so instead of running she decided to go back inside and hide under her bed. The police came into the dark apartment with flashlights and guns drawn. They found her but couldn’t see that she was a young person and put the gun to her head, telling her to come out real slow. Then they interrogated her at length about the person they saw going up the steps—about what drugs I had and who I was.
Tragil was traumatized, sobbing and telling them, “That’s my baby brother. He didn’t do nuthin’!”
Eventually they accepted