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Friday
Evening
I.
Exhaustion! That’s the word that permeates my mind as
I stand- 6’1inches-tall-lean-frame-medium-brown-skin-with-a-head-fulla-dreads-and-tired-brown-eyes-
pressed against the door of the train, filled with evening
rush, for the last 40 minutes. Finally the train pulls to
my stop and the door opens. As usual, I spill out onto the
street by force of the weeknight stampede. I get my first
flyer of the evening over on the corner of Nostrand and Fulton.
“No War on Iraq” it says with a website link on
it. Minutes later, I put the key in the door and find my way
to my prized possession, the PC. I sign on AOL, and soon receive
an IM from a girl who lives on the Upper East Side of the
city. I tell her my name is Donovan Thompson and that I’m
from Bed-Stuy in Brooklyn. Of course, she got ignorant on
me. Yea, that’s right she did. That’s why I immediately
killed my interest in her and signed off. Closed minded people.
I’m saying, ain’t there some hell everywhere you
go? So why hide the heavens ‘round my haven? Man, I
wish there was something I could do to show people what living
in Bed-Stuy is really like, sans all the crack, brothels,
gangs, and raging poverty that they think we’re famous
for. Shit on that.
II.
Inside the romantically incensed Akwaaba Café (a dim-lit
spacey café internally surrounded with abstract perceptions
of popular music artists, hung on walls), the hostess steps
onstage.
“Next we have Shalonda “DaSheThang” Whitehall
up on this beautifully blessed stage. Get on up girl and let
‘em know what’s been on yo’ mind.”
With a loud applause, I- 5’5-inches-tall-voluptious-frame-reddish-brown-skin-with-auburn-hilighted-Halle-Berry-haircut-and-gleaming-glowing-eyes-
step up as the hostess passes me the mic and steps down:
“And I will name this piece – A Shot of Neo-Grammar…
I had called myself Passion
But he femaled me with all of
His smooth, talkative and
Singin’ and swingin’ tenderness- nothing short
of-
Leaving me singled out
For he is a eating, spineless backstabber
With his sleepy eyes and lies!
So I listened to
My man Musiq, and my sinuses cried
As I dialed up my partner-in-crime Brooklyn
To vent to her, ‘bout my wicked Crooklyn
Studying why I-had-allowed
Him! To be-friend me…
But in the escape of this sunken haze,
I had decided to change my identity to-
Miss Independent Thang
And not succumb to Romancio’s vile venom,
That is never shrinking
Thank you!!”
I step down as the usual rounds of applauses, stomps and whistles
come my way. I walk over to the bar and order a Strawberry
Daiquiri. I then swim deeply into the opening notes of Billy
Holiday’s signature sound.
Saturday Morning
III.
It’s Saturday morning and I know my boy Da Artist is
up working on something. I think I’ll stop by his shop
and find out what’s up. I get showered dressed, and
I hop on da B44 to the B25. I get off and turn the corner
of Buffalo Ave, where the Master Lee Creations is at. I walk
in and I see the beautiful image of Aaliyah gracing the center
of the wall on the left, and Tupac on the upper right side.
Biggie on the lower left, and a whole bunch of loved celebrities
who had perished… resting alive on that same mural,
my best man had sprayed painted. Art’s back is to me
painting a fat cross as I walk in. He turns his head and looks
startled. I walk up to him and give him a light fist pound.
“Well, I see you’re still alive Don. You ain’t
call me all week.”
“Sorry Art. I’ve been busy with my power point
presentations at work. What you got for me today?” I
asked.
“I dunno. But ever since what happened to Merlin Santana,
I’ma have to add him to the list of those I paint.”
“Damn, I hoping it wasn’t true. He’s 26
Art, a good kid, and he ain’t got no business getting’
killed off like that.”
Art nods with his arms crossed.
“So how much you price for a big wall portrait of him?”
“$20. I’m givin’ u a break son,” he
replied.
“Nah, don’t worry, I’m givin’ u $40
‘cuz u my man. Aiight I’ma go now, ring me when
it’s done. You still have my numba right?”
“Yea Don thanks for stoppin’ by. Now g’won
home and chill out.”
Saturday Afternoon
IV.
There’s nothing like standing in a vast room analyzing
the mesmerizing canvass- and the many stories it tells about
my people. This season the Renovation Plaza showcases a collection
of photosynthesis, which is like bits and pieces of images
being assimilated into a strong, unique image. It’s
like a collage of-
“Yea, uh huh! That’s you! I saw you the other
night Sharita, and I you know I didn’t get a chance
to tell you how delicious you are.”
“Um… thank you.” I reply to the waif-like
looking man standing behind me still, checking out my posterior.
“But my name is Shalonda, what’s yours,”
I asked, turning around, looking him squarely in the eye.
“Ronnie. Just stopping by on my lunch break. Ah yea,
I see you like what you see too, right?”
“Yea, in this place alone, of course” I replied
with a weak smile. I guess he didn’t catch my hint.
“So have you ever heard of MoCADA?” he asked still
flirting.
“No.”
“Oh well it just opened up 3 years ago. I’m the
curator. It’s called the Museum of Contemporary African
Diaspora Arts. Here’s my card, you should stop by sometime
sugar, and lemme show you around.
Ignoring that womanizing expression on his face, I take the
card and chatted cordially with him for a few more minutes.
“Look I’m hungry, you wanna grab a bite to eat
‘cross the street at Burger King?” he offered.
“Um, no thanks. I’m good.”
“Yea, I know you are. Ok, well… stop by the MoCADA
sometime, payce.”
“Sure” I said as he skips out.
I shrug my shoulders at another woman standing across the
room who gave me this knowing look as I shake the encounter
off my mind.
V.
“Hello?” I answered, picking up my cell.
“Yea Don, I bagged this chick at the Plaza. She lookin’
mad dope and fly and she makes her own money on the serious
tip. She lives on the block where them 300 G’s homes
is at. You think I could hook up with this one?”
Here we go again.
“Maybe Ron, if she’s feelin’ you back. You
know that”.
“Kool, no hard feelings. Oh right, you don’t come
by to see me no mo’. You know you gotta support me.
I got a black business”.
“Aiight, as soon as I get a day off, I’ma stop
by.”
“Aiight, truce”
He hangs up. I inhale the last bite of my Whopper and slurp
up the last drops of my Coke. You see? A playa wannabe like
him never gets it right.
Tuesday Afternoon
VI.
Following the directions on the card, I enter the MOCADA.
I tried to get one of my girlfriends to come but they got
a crazier schedule than mine. Besides it’s my day off.
I step in and of course, that Big Daddy Ronnie comes running
right over to me. He shows me around and suddenly I stop when
I see this image… called Stars and Stripes by Emma Amos.
It’s an American flag which supposedly represents democracy-
but it doesn’t. Within the stripes is this big fat bloody
X, right dead smack in the center. The red stripes are the
blood that Black people shed on account of the white stripes
of White supremist torturers. Now the sides of the flag, where
the 50 stars are supposed to be, are replaced by this piercing
image of immense suffering. In the image is a group of Black
kids who are stricken with poverty as they walk on their bare
feet on the roadside to school, besides a busload of White
kids. Tell me… is that what a democracy supposed to
be? No, I don’t think so… I turn around and I
see-
VII.
Her. Her intense concentration appears as mesmerizing as she
looks.
“Deep shit, ain’t it?” I asked.
“Mmhmm,” she murmurs, turning back to the artwork.
“Amos told the truth right there.”
Yo why’s Ron glaring down across the room at me for?
I don’t know what his problem is. I turn back to this
mysterious creature as she glances shyly at me.
“Did you see Ernest Crichlow’s display yet? That
black woman sittin’ on that KKK’s lap was a scandalous
sight”.
I nod knowingly at what she passionately said.
After feeling the whole place out, we find ourselves walking
out. I wave to Ron, who’s apparently consumed with some
fresh young prey that had walked in, minding her own business.
We walk down the stairs and I opened the door outside for
the one I just met.
“You didn’t tell me your name.”
“I’m Shalonda,” she replied.
“Kool, I’m Donovan. Pleased to meet you. You live
around here?”
“Yea.”
And we converse all the way to Decatur Street, where the Mirror/Mirror
Bakery stands in front of us. I open the door, and we enter.
VIII.
I order my favorite, a thick slice of red velvet cake, and
a cup of mandarin orange tea. Donovan orders a mushroom wrap
and sweet homemade hot chocolate. He covered the tab as soon
as I offered Yvette a twenty for giving me a slice of heaven.
We sit in the comfortable booth in the back. Mmm… I
savor that first bite of my cake. He spots the grin on my
face, reaches over and holds my hand across the table.
“You know what?” he asked.
“What?”
“I think Bed-Stuy is it”.
“Yea, this is the place to be”.
“And you know what else?”
“What?” I queried curiously.
“I think THIS is IT”.
And I knew exactly what he meant, ‘cuz this moment of
connection is IT.
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