A friend for the end of the world
I wrote a story about a week ago, posted it, then deleted it. I am posting it again with some minor edits, and providing a bit more context. I have come to a few realizations I think are important to share with the story.
I was initially excited about the story for many reasons. I had thought about writing short fiction for some time but never got to it and more importantly, didn't know how to tell a "fake story". But on my way home after a pretty difficult night out in the town, I decided to just do it. Underground, I began writing the story in the notepad of my phone on the train ride home.
I made it home and in one sitting, put my thoughts together and finished the story. As I have written before, writing to me feels like purging. I literally felt sick until I got it out. So finally in note form on the blog, I did not read it over (as with most of my other posts) because I knew I would not share it if I did and clicked publish. I was immediately in awe with the level of imagery, language, and detail I had used in the story. In my excitement, I shared it with a few friends.
I made it home and in one sitting, put my thoughts together and finished the story. As I have written before, writing to me feels like purging. I literally felt sick until I got it out. So finally in note form on the blog, I did not read it over (as with most of my other posts) because I knew I would not share it if I did and clicked publish. I was immediately in awe with the level of imagery, language, and detail I had used in the story. In my excitement, I shared it with a few friends.
And they shared what they thought. I felt sick all over again; I felt crazy. This is what I wrote to one friend the following day: "You know what it is, the stories I want to tell scare me. They almost haunt me. And they require a lot of self sacrifice." So I deleted the post.
I truly believe that things align in interesting ways. Since deleting the post, I have come articles and videos from writers and musicians similarly expressing that their art "haunts" them. At Kanye West's recent show in Atlantic City, he said in addressing criticisms about him being crazy that "[he] will die for what's in [his] heart". Cue the self sacrifice piece I wrote to my friend.
There are a few stories I have in mind. One about a young immigrant woman who has 8 abortions; a black man who travels to Africa to find a woman to marry; the events surrounding the sexual liberation of a black girl living in Ohio; a young woman at Brown who falls for a drug dealer and ends up in jail. These are the stories I have in my heart. They scare me.
Suffice it to say that fiction is true in someone's world. The stories I have to tell use my experiences, those of people I know, stories on the news, in popular culture, literature, in my imagination; narratives which deeply afflict me.
I am inviting you to an emotional, insane writing journey and as I do not know who is reading this, I have to assure you that it will be worth it. I try not to give directives on this blog and aim for it to be truly exploratory but I hope that in bearing witness to my journey and my work, you are staying true to your own. A lot of my material will be explicit, unforgiving, and may trigger some experiences for some people. Feel free to comment, share, and reach out when need be.
Below is the story. As always, feel free to share and comment.
A friend for the end of the world
A this is how I met him kind of story.
Melody picked up her dark blue and white polka dot panty in the pile of clothes heaped in the rush of the tender razing of the night before. This was her third time seeing Brandon after he had first lured her to his apartment with the promise of just watching t.v. and ordering Chinese food. She bent over and put one leg in her panty, her thigh brushing his leg. She began shaking her head, remembering the first night she made the two hour trip from the Bronx to Brooklyn to see him. She was hearing with clarity the angst in his voice as he ordered baked ziti for him and rice and jerk chicken he said was the best on the menu, for her. She could not remember if he asked her to pay for part of the bill or told her not to order something too expensive. She pushed and shifted her underwear, adjusting it to lay perfectly on what Brandon had lovenamed "the hump". He looked up from the couch and smiled at her. That was it, she recalled, he had asked her to give him some cash to tip the delivery man.
The comfortable warmth of the spring night Melody met Brandon, she wore a curve hugging black dress she borrowed from her friend. Walking to the train station from the project housing where her friend lived, boys stared, whispering within her hearing insanities about her body. Melody walked fast, dragging along her friend who laughed and lamented about "how lucky she is; her beautiful body".
As she walked out of the club in between sleep and morning dusk, someone thought so too. In the sobering exit routine at the end of the night, luckily 4am at clubs in New York City, someone behind her said something within her hearing that she began to laugh irrepressibly. She turned to him and said something light in response, joking that he was funny. That was his cue, he decided to make a move. He looked straight into her eyes, almost forcing the entirety of his 6'2 slender frame into her, and introduced himself: "Brandon, a single black man with his own place, money, no kids, and no baby mama drama". Melody was slightly irritated at this boast, not the least impressed by his brazen proclamation. He was above status quo for a Black man in America but that was according to indicators and stereotypes she had convinced herself she did not by into. She had just returned home from college and was without a job.
She inquired, "so what do you do?".
"I'm a teacher", Brandon chimed, "I am changing lives".
Melody's friend was irritated and ready to go home. By then, the club's bouncer was sternly reminding the growing crowd at the front of the club to make their way home, or at least away from the vicinity. The bouncer walked over to where Brandon and Melody stood. Brandon, charmingly gazing at Melody and directing her to walk with him, explained to the bouncer that he was getting this beautiful lady's number. The bouncer, now behind them, stared down behind Melody. Brandon turned. The bouncer was trailing off, "go ahead brother", and the two laughed. Brandon gave him a dap.
The underwear she was wearing tonight was also one her father had given her, just like the one from the third time she came over. She wondered what he, her father, would think if he could see her in Brooklyn, under the roof of an African-American man who to say the least, would occasionally rant that he does not understand why Africans think that they are better than African-Americans. She thought about judgement day and the sky-wide screen displaying her life. Scenes of sin; the first time she fornicated and the first time she smoked.
Melody knew that Brandon's true pardon was his inherited narrative. He was everything she had studied in her public policy and Black studies courses. He grew up with a single mother in a Brooklyn housing project. He was born in 1984. He once joked that he used to eat the paint in his apartment and thinks that he might have ADD. He never filtered. He desperately wanted her to listen but he never really processed what she said. Once, while watching a special of Roots, Brandon reflected that he wanted a white woman just so that he can do to them what they did to us. "Rape her and shit", he explained.
The first night she came to Brooklyn, Melody had stood with Brandon for almost two hours at the Franklin Avenue train station, shaking. He was embracing her, and she confided that she had been raped by at least four different men before the age of ten.
Once, they walked past a group of rowdy young boys at the entrance of the train station. He told her goodluck, kissed her, and walked away. He did not sense her fear then either.
But when she could no longer understand herself, tears in her eyes in anguish that her revolutionary ideals would never take root, in need of a sobering experience, Brandon planted kisses on her entire body, holding her up against the tumult of her past. He told her she was so beautiful; that she would be okay. "If anyone can make it, it would be you", he comforted. The smell of the blunt the two had just smoked lingered on her lips when he loved her elsewhere.
He said he did not mean rape, he was just angry. Melody cried as he thrust deeper. The bedrock of their relationship was a painful composition of their lives and experiences and this inherited history.
At precisely dawn, Melody sat on the bed, restless. She did not understand why he always left his bedroom door open. Which ever monsters Melody was hiding from, Brandon would always invite them in.
Suffice it to say that fiction is true in someone's world. The stories I have to tell use my experiences, those of people I know, stories on the news, in popular culture, literature, in my imagination; narratives which deeply afflict me.
I am inviting you to an emotional, insane writing journey and as I do not know who is reading this, I have to assure you that it will be worth it. I try not to give directives on this blog and aim for it to be truly exploratory but I hope that in bearing witness to my journey and my work, you are staying true to your own. A lot of my material will be explicit, unforgiving, and may trigger some experiences for some people. Feel free to comment, share, and reach out when need be.
Below is the story. As always, feel free to share and comment.
A friend for the end of the world
A this is how I met him kind of story.
Melody picked up her dark blue and white polka dot panty in the pile of clothes heaped in the rush of the tender razing of the night before. This was her third time seeing Brandon after he had first lured her to his apartment with the promise of just watching t.v. and ordering Chinese food. She bent over and put one leg in her panty, her thigh brushing his leg. She began shaking her head, remembering the first night she made the two hour trip from the Bronx to Brooklyn to see him. She was hearing with clarity the angst in his voice as he ordered baked ziti for him and rice and jerk chicken he said was the best on the menu, for her. She could not remember if he asked her to pay for part of the bill or told her not to order something too expensive. She pushed and shifted her underwear, adjusting it to lay perfectly on what Brandon had lovenamed "the hump". He looked up from the couch and smiled at her. That was it, she recalled, he had asked her to give him some cash to tip the delivery man.
The comfortable warmth of the spring night Melody met Brandon, she wore a curve hugging black dress she borrowed from her friend. Walking to the train station from the project housing where her friend lived, boys stared, whispering within her hearing insanities about her body. Melody walked fast, dragging along her friend who laughed and lamented about "how lucky she is; her beautiful body".
As she walked out of the club in between sleep and morning dusk, someone thought so too. In the sobering exit routine at the end of the night, luckily 4am at clubs in New York City, someone behind her said something within her hearing that she began to laugh irrepressibly. She turned to him and said something light in response, joking that he was funny. That was his cue, he decided to make a move. He looked straight into her eyes, almost forcing the entirety of his 6'2 slender frame into her, and introduced himself: "Brandon, a single black man with his own place, money, no kids, and no baby mama drama". Melody was slightly irritated at this boast, not the least impressed by his brazen proclamation. He was above status quo for a Black man in America but that was according to indicators and stereotypes she had convinced herself she did not by into. She had just returned home from college and was without a job.
She inquired, "so what do you do?".
"I'm a teacher", Brandon chimed, "I am changing lives".
Melody's friend was irritated and ready to go home. By then, the club's bouncer was sternly reminding the growing crowd at the front of the club to make their way home, or at least away from the vicinity. The bouncer walked over to where Brandon and Melody stood. Brandon, charmingly gazing at Melody and directing her to walk with him, explained to the bouncer that he was getting this beautiful lady's number. The bouncer, now behind them, stared down behind Melody. Brandon turned. The bouncer was trailing off, "go ahead brother", and the two laughed. Brandon gave him a dap.
The underwear she was wearing tonight was also one her father had given her, just like the one from the third time she came over. She wondered what he, her father, would think if he could see her in Brooklyn, under the roof of an African-American man who to say the least, would occasionally rant that he does not understand why Africans think that they are better than African-Americans. She thought about judgement day and the sky-wide screen displaying her life. Scenes of sin; the first time she fornicated and the first time she smoked.
Melody knew that Brandon's true pardon was his inherited narrative. He was everything she had studied in her public policy and Black studies courses. He grew up with a single mother in a Brooklyn housing project. He was born in 1984. He once joked that he used to eat the paint in his apartment and thinks that he might have ADD. He never filtered. He desperately wanted her to listen but he never really processed what she said. Once, while watching a special of Roots, Brandon reflected that he wanted a white woman just so that he can do to them what they did to us. "Rape her and shit", he explained.
The first night she came to Brooklyn, Melody had stood with Brandon for almost two hours at the Franklin Avenue train station, shaking. He was embracing her, and she confided that she had been raped by at least four different men before the age of ten.
Once, they walked past a group of rowdy young boys at the entrance of the train station. He told her goodluck, kissed her, and walked away. He did not sense her fear then either.
But when she could no longer understand herself, tears in her eyes in anguish that her revolutionary ideals would never take root, in need of a sobering experience, Brandon planted kisses on her entire body, holding her up against the tumult of her past. He told her she was so beautiful; that she would be okay. "If anyone can make it, it would be you", he comforted. The smell of the blunt the two had just smoked lingered on her lips when he loved her elsewhere.
He said he did not mean rape, he was just angry. Melody cried as he thrust deeper. The bedrock of their relationship was a painful composition of their lives and experiences and this inherited history.
At precisely dawn, Melody sat on the bed, restless. She did not understand why he always left his bedroom door open. Which ever monsters Melody was hiding from, Brandon would always invite them in.
"Melody knew that Brandon's true pardon was his inherited narrative. He was everything she had studied in her public policy and Black studies courses. He grew up with a single mother in a Brooklyn housing project. He was born in 1984. He once joked that he used to eat the paint in his apartment and thinks that he might have ADD. He never filtered. He desperately wanted her to listen but he never really processed what she said. Once, while watching a special of Roots, Brandon reflected that he wanted a white woman just so that he can do to them what they did to us. "Rape her and shit", he explained."
ReplyDelete- For some reason I saw so much of myself in this paragraph until you got to the revenge rape part (though that is a view that some express openly, I don't agree at all). The being a part of statistical data is really salient to me. As Black people, we are every statistic under the sun (but White men still don't get profiled for the shit they do), but there are larger constructs like racism that contribute to these statistics. And as a future public health social worker, I've done loads of research on the Black community ("structural violence" = giant concept that every one should know)and criticized how research officials even approach and display their research. But that's a different rant. As far as the revenge rape comment goes, Black men were very much perpetrators of rape as well in those times towards Black women. I always find it interesting that no one actually acknowledges that. It infuriates the hell out of me.
"But when she could no longer understand herself, tears in her eyes in anguish that her revolutionary ideals would never take root, in need of a sobering experience, Brandon planted kisses on her entire body, holding her up against the tumult of her past. He told her she was so beautiful; that she would be okay. "If anyone can make it, it would be you", he comforted. The smell of the blunt the two had just smoked lingered on her lips when he loved her elsewhere."
- I can't even explain to you how powerful this paragraph is. It's just beautiful. It's one of the realest things I've ever read. It's like he understands, but he doesn't. And he won't, especially given what he said in the 1st quote I put in this post. It's a freeing and trapping experience (sexual liberation mixed with sexually dominant societal structures that make the whole experience a tad uncomfortable) at the same time. The fact that you effortlessly caught that in this short paragraph and short story amazes the heck out of me.
"As far as the revenge rape comment goes, Black men were very much perpetrators of rape as well in those times towards Black women. I always find it interesting that no one actually acknowledges that. It infuriates the hell out of me." - that is a very important point I had not considered. Thank you. I think what I wanted to make clear was that Melody also did not agree with that sentiment, because of first, her own experience with rape, and second, her radical stance on issues. To an extent, she is younger but is more knowledgeable than Brandon.
Delete"It's like he understands, but he doesn't." - YESSSSSS!!!!!
"(sexual liberation mixed with sexually dominant societal structures that make the whole experience a tad uncomfortable)" - Exactly!!!!!
Thank you so much for your comment Rebecca, every word is so pertinent to what I was trying to get across as well as ideas/thoughts I had not considered. I am really glad you read the story and enjoyed it. Much, much appreciated.