Free X by Ilyasah Shabazz Page B

Hill into the next neighborhood is like getting to the depths of something. The heart. It’s a beating pulse of a place, full of music and laughter and energy. Most buildings aren’t so shiny, clean, and new. They’re solid and worn and real. Some blocks are run-down; others are really nice. Every door looks weathered but approachable. Places you can get into, things you can actually touch.
    People lounge around on their front porches, laughing and talking. Some might think they’re no good, but to me they seem like the sort of people you want to spend an afternoon with, just shooting the breeze. A lot of the young fellows, not too much older than me, wear the most amazing billowing suits. They walk with a sort of swagger, swinging their arms and looking left to right with their hats pulled low.
    They use long lines of words I’ve never heard before. Everything is “cool,” and the guys look “hip,” which is how they score “chicks” and take them out dancing. Afterward they might go back to someone’s “pad” and “pull some tones” off a record or the radio. You dig?
    Roxbury, the neighborhood is called. It’s not the mixed place that the Hill is. Nearly all of the faces you see down here are Negro. And it isn’t a buttoned-up polite sort of place like the Hill, either. It’s tough and energetic and makes my senses come alive. Jazz strains leak from behind the doors of the hippest clubs. Any given block might steam with the scent of chicken and rice or sausage and fries or a simmering vat of chowder. The people move fast, and they’re all so different, covering every imaginable size, shape, and shade, with skin light as mine to darker than even Papa was. And style. I’ve never seen such swinging threads. Shop doors are propped wide so it’s easy to see in. The sort of place where everything’s all out in the open.
    It’s not so hard — being black — when I’m surrounded by so many others, and everyone seems to be getting along just fine, from the rich-looking dark men in pressed suits to the vagrants in the alleys. Mothers lugging babies and groups of pretty girls in short, smooth dresses with purses to match. Schoolboys with satchels and newsboys on bikes. Milkmen and mail carriers and shopkeepers and barmaids. All Negro.
    No such thing as “just a nigger” in Roxbury. I love it.

Boston, 1940
    Ella frowns with concern over my repeated explorations into Roxbury. “You should stay on the Hill,” she tells me. She reminds me about a place nearby, called Townsend’s, a drugstore and soda fountain, where I can get friendly with teenagers my age.
    “You should go there,” Ella insists. “It’s where everyone your age spends time.”
    To please her, I go on over to Townsend’s Drug Store. Loud, snazzy pop music plays on the radio. I recognize a few tunes I like by Erskine Hawkins. Other songs remind me of the music my classmates at Mason used to play, but a lot of it feels too high and light to me now, after hearing the deep soulful tunes that guys play on the streets down in Roxbury.
    Ella’s right: the place is full of people my own age. Boys and girls in dark and light hues, dressed in skirts and slacks, looking like they’ve just come out of school. Some carry books or satchels or have stacks of textbooks on the table beside them. They look and sound like Mason students. I guess I know these people, and I could fit in if I wanted to, but I find myself looking out the window.
    They order French fries and milk shakes, banana splits and grilled burgers and sandwiches. The air’s full of laughter and the general hum of people chatting over one another, trying to get a word in edgewise.
    With the dollar Ella gave me, I order a raspberry soda and fries. I perch on a red swivel stool at the counter, turning from time to time to see what’s going on around the room. The waiter stands inside the U-shaped counter, going from side to side taking orders, gliding to the register to ring people