I’M FROM HERE
September morning. The air is cool, but not chilly. It’s still a little dark.
First day of school. First grade. New school. I don’t expect to know anybody there. It’s far away, not sure how far. . . do 6 year-old kids think in distances? I can’t remember.
Late 70’s in the South End of Boston. I am oblivious to much of the City. The racial tensions, the political unrest, the seething boundaries of a city that has been so taut for so many years. I get just glimpses; pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that I won’t put together for years, a puzzle that is still missing some parts. . . I don’t understand them, but still . . . Don’t go past Tremont Street, it marks the beginning of Roxbury; your white skin betrays you. . . Don’t go on this end of Columbus Ave, the boundary of South Boston; your cousin’s dark skin makes it dangerous. . . .
The South End is an odd place; some projects, some abandoned buildings, some convenience stores, but also vibrant sidewalks, active children, frazzled families. No one racial group commands a majority. . . white spillover from south Boston, black spillover from Roxbury; the Irish from nearby Dorchester, who always seem to be in fighting with the Italians from North Boston. They all seem to be thrown together here. I think I am half aware those strange adult conflicts.
The street is quiet as I come out of my apartment. It is an old four story brownstone. My mother and I live on the 3rd floor. My best friend, cousin, and closest companion, Jomo, lives with his father on the 4th floor. Named after the Kenyan leader who led his country to independence from Britain in the 60s, my cousin, a year older than me, is strong and kind and patient.
I follow him most everywhere; he has a knack for these city streets, a way of navigating. I never once saw him afraid. Cautious, yes, very cautious. With knowing eyes, like a cat, always scanning. And the very definition of cool. His mother was my mother’s sister . . . smart, sophisticated, almost debutante like. His father was like an African god: proud, determined, strict, intellectual, calm. Jomo’s brown skin meant he could navigate all worlds; and kept people on their toes in the racially-conscious Boston of the 70s . . .was he white? black? Puerto Rican? He never answered such questions. Jomo seemed to know everything: music, lingo, style, how to walk, how to talk, how to be. I don’t try to emulate him. Even as a small child, I knew that I either was a certain way or I wasn’t. I’d rather succeed in being my strange, goofy, unaware self than make it half way to hipness. So my cousin and I were a perfect pair; two people completely comfortable in our own skin, yet so different. I was everything he wasn’t: overexpressive, uncareful, impulsive, empathetic, silly, goofy; and also . . . confrontational. Where my cousin savily navigated conflict, I found it. Or more accurately, it found me, and I welcomed it with a wink and a nod. This was a time when 6, 7, and 8 year olds were actually allowed to roam the streets, like a pack of young wolves. Wandering, watching, laughing, fighting. When I went out, I always stayed close to my cousin; he made things a little safer . . . abandoned railroad tracks, new construction, half-empty buildings. What could we find, who could we find, who wants a little danger??
This day, though, my cousin isn’t with me. I search my brain for clues, but. . . I can’t remember who was with me this first day of first grade. . . I remember the walk to the bus. The quiet walk down my street. . . I turn the corner to the main road, where the bus will be waiting for me, and I see it. . . the line of children waiting for the bus. It looks like a hundred kids on the sidewalk. . . talking, strutting, waiting. . . .
I am in line now. I don’t remember how I got there. I don’t remember giving anyone a hug or kiss goodbye. I just am. In the back, somewhere, off in my head, daydreaming about . . . who knows. I’m nervous, I think. Because of the unknown. The kids are all older, they all seem so confident. . . . the bus is there now. Opening its doors. It isn’t until I walk on, at the end of the line, that I realize that I am the only white face on the bus. . . the uniqueness of it strikes me. Being. . . different. Most of my life, I’ve valued and appreciated being different. . . . I wonder if it started at that moment. I walk down the isle of the full bus, with seats packed with bodies, with faces that aren’t . . .friendly. As I make my slow walk to the back, there are no open seats, no welcoming individuals; I just keep walking. My long blond hair falling over my shoulders, falling into my hair. My untied laces thwapping against the ground. I am suddenly and acutely aware of how strange I am. . . and I wonder what will happen if I reach the end of the bus and there are no seat. . . Will I have to go home? Will they call a new bus? Will I need to sit in the aisle?
A small boy on the left catches my eye. A familiar face. He moves his bag that was next to him and motions me over. He is small, so small, especially sitting next to my long, gangly appearance. And dark, black as the night. Ernie is his name. He lives in the housing projects two blocks away. I’ve seen him walking there. He may have gone to the same kindergarten as me. He is wearing short sleeves, and I recognize the scars covering his arms. The scars that I know cover most of his upper body. I had heard that his mother had poured scalding water on him when he was a baby, and that is why he lived with his aunt and uncle in the hi-rise apartments. He had huge deep, sad, eyes like an old hound dog, and a large, expressive smile. I sat next to him, and felt. . . comfortable. I didn’t feel different, or special, or unusual. . . I just was. Ernie and I must have talked, but I couldn’t say what about. I remember that he was a nice kid, a good kid, but not much else. Trying to remember those days are like trying to look through a window caked with mud. . . I get bits and pieces and glimpses. Sometimes I get better looks on different days. . . . I don’t remember too much about 1st grade. But I remember getting on the bus, remember feeling out of place, and remember the kind boy with the scarred arms that made me feel like I was home . . . .
Will Scarlet's Feud 