Serenity… refocus – seek joy – thrive

I have a story to tell. It’s about the day I went across the street to the convenience store to get milk and walked right into a… well, I’m still not sure what to call it. Maybe you have a name for it. A gift, anyway, it was. When I came out of the store that day I looked at every person I saw differently, though – this I know.

Here’s what happened:

Like I said, I needed milk and this store, being right across the street, was indeed convenient. Only, when I looked over there I saw that there were a bunch of people jammed into one of the doorways of this very small store, with more trying to get in. I knew just from that that Malik was on duty because when the owners are there no one just hangs out. Malik was well-known in the neighborhood, a youth football coach who was viewed by the kids as part father confessor, part big brother, part wise old man and all around good guy.

Anyway, this crowd – this was weird even for Malik days; usually kids hang out outside or pick up a broom and sweep the parking lot or make sure the gas nozzles are on straight, or whatever. Never had I seen them all trying to cram into the tiny store doorway at once, everyone looking in the same direction, plus these weren’t all teens – obviously something had happened and I hoped it wasn’t something bad.

Perhaps strangely, the crowd didn’t deter me or the guy who had just pulled up to the pumps in the late model Mercedes. Me, I didn’t feel like walking to the big store and he, well there were no other gas stations nearby and he was obviously in a big hurry.  Anyway, the people in the doorway somehow made room for us get through and as soon as I crossed the threshold I heard that noise people make in threes in the back of their throats; “Mmph, mmph, mmph,” then “Man, that’s a blessing.” So, Malik was okay, that was his voice – but why was everyone staring his way? And what was the good news? I snaked around shoulders and arms, listening to the echo as it moved from person to person -  “.. a blessing”, “Yeah, that’s a blessing.” Maybe someone won the lottery.

Just as I reached the back of the store and grabbed the milk someone said “26!” and the process started over again – Malik’s voice saying that’s a blessing and the echoes throughout the men in the store. I had what I came for but I was really curious now about what was going on, so I sidled on over to the car product section, because that is where I had the best view of the front door and the register, and pretended I was really interested in STP and stuff. From there I got my first real look at the crowd – had to be about 25 people, all but two younger than 40, most looked like they were in their 20s, all Black, all male, all looking toward Malik.

Some of the guys I recognized – like Old Pete who walks around with a shopping cart collecting cans and plastic and old bike parts to fix up bikes for neighborhood kids. And the kid with his sideways baseball cap, big shirt, big shorts and one sock falling down. He stomps around with a frown on his face, holding his crotch, and every time I see him I have to laugh (to myself) because he reminds me of some sort of Spanky and Our Gang character or something who has to go to the bathroom. I do not tell him this because I think he thinks he looks “tough.”

No scowl on the kid this day, though; in fact, he looks young and anxious and innocent as he stares at up at Malik – who looms over everyone because the shorter store owners have a raised floor behind the register to make them look bigger. Malik is already so big that, with his football-player build, shiny bald head and earring, even on level ground he looks like someone just coaxed out of a lamp. 

Another sends a number into the mix and gets the throat sounds and the blessing and then suddenly the kid pipes up – “16!” he says, looking if possible even more worried. Everyone turns to him, Malik looks at him – then shakes his head three times in lieu of the sound and says, “Man… that’s a blessing”. The kid’s face is luminous and gratified – his offering was accepted. There is also an illumination in my mind as I get an idea of what all this is about.  They are calling out ages. Their ages. I realized I was witnessing …what? A rite? An affirmation? A bonding? I had no idea what to call it, but it was something special so I ignored my warming milk and stayed right where I was as the ages and blessings moved through the gathering.

Finally Old Pete says “64!” and a murmur arises even before Malik strongly declares that that’s a blessing and the crowd echoes it. Another surprising offering comes – “65!” and things stop for a minute as everyone looks. I see it’s Mercedes Man, the guy who had been in such a hurry. He was still there, right next to Old Pete – it seems he, too, got caught up in the impromptu pageantry of whatever was going on, and put off whatever he had been rushing toward. All attention was focused on the two older men, Mercedes Man and Old Pete – and they looked at each other, eyes weighing and cataloging.

One in a $1000 suit, his whole being so soft and shiny and expensive he looked like he’d been run over with a floor buffer; the other in old overalls and scruffy tennis shoes, his whole being so scarred and pitted by life he just looked like he’d been run over, period. I saw the expressions flicker across everyone’s faces as they sincerely but distractedly offered their blessings – only a year separated these two in age, but life had separated them in far more than that.

After a moment things started rolling again.

I had to leave so I walked to the front, put my milk on the counter and, as a sort of sideways acknowledgement of what I had just witnessed, said “42!” I understood the kid’s anxiety now – would my offering be accepted, I wondered? Black women may die of different things, but we too tend to die early. I got my answer as Malik smiled and shook his head three times and declared my age a blessing, and as the men added theirs Malik presented an offering of his own. “I’m 32.” Then, maybe thinking he should explain the all male grouping (I was still the only female in the store, and there were still only Black people in there – both odd things) Malik started talking about how Black men, Black boys – they sometimes don’t live that long. Any age a Black man attained was a blessing; an older age, like he was, sometimes a miracle. He has a little girl, he says, five years old and the center of his life. He wants to grow old for her so he stays out of messes and away from trouble – but sometimes even that doesn’t work if you’re the wrong color in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Everyone listens and nods, looking somber and determined, hopeful and a bit hopeless as some offer their stories, too, of themselves or someone they know who is gone – to disease, to prison, or, far too often, to the grave. Not all sadness or despair, of course, or even primarily – plenty of triumphs and just day-to-day eventless lives. Kids off to college, better jobs, forming families and so on. All the more shocking when often senseless tragedy strikes someone-who-could-be-me, though.

I knew all this, of course, what Black U.S. American doesn’t? But after looking at and listening to this group of men and boys who were everything – rich, poor and in-between; fat, thin, baby thugs, fathers, sons, blue collar, white collar, never had a collar in their lives, high yellow, golden brown, black as coal, very young, old young, very old – after looking and listening and accidently witnessing this… whatever it was, after this I knew all this in a very different way, to the marrow of my bones.

And I walked out of the store changed, if just a little. Even now, years later,  I sometimes pass groups of young or old Black men, or Latino, or other target groups and think – that’s a blessing.

And when I look at my three beautiful Black grandsons I see them in my mind’s eye as old men, and hope the blessings hold.

[The title of this piece is from Dwayne Betts’ wonderful, thought-provoking essay, The Tragedy of Biggie and Pac / photo of group of young men is from here]

This entry was posted on Sunday, July 11th, 2010 at 10:46 am and is filed under edited to add, feminism, grandma blogging, mostly remembered memories, telling our stories, womanism. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.