Mom: I got you this, because those new bikes aren’t safe.
Me: Thanks, Mom. A goddamn tricycle? You think I’m gonna go outside pedaling this, with my ass dragging on the sidewalk, while all my friends are doing wheelies and jumps and shit? This ain’t even a bike.
The next time I saw my dad, I told him what had happened. “You want a bike?” he asked. “I’ll get you a brand-new, genuine BMX bike.”
Later that day, he brought me a six-speed Huffy Sonic 6. It had a shield over the handlebars with a gear shifter behind it. If you pulled the brake up real fast, it would even spin out. It was exactly what I wanted.
“Go ahead, boy,” he said. “Go ride that bike.”
I couldn’t believe it. This was the greatest day of my life.
I came home with my new bike early that evening, all hyped up.
Me: Mom! Dad got me the Sonic 6. It’s outside. Wait till you see it.
Mom: Uh-uh, you ain’t playing with that! It’s stolen. Where he at?
Me: I think he’s talking to somebody on the corner.
Mom: Well, you tell him to take that back.
Me: . . .
Mom: You go tell him. Or do you want me to tell him?
She marched downstairs with me under one arm and the bike dragging from the other.
My dad saw the approaching storm and instantly went on the defensive. “Nancy, don’t start that stuff.”
“My boy ain’t playing with that. It’s hot!”
That was the expression she always used: It’s hot!
So no Sonic 6 for me. No nothing, ever, for me.
In Mom’s defense, when I cooled off the next day, I realized that the bike hadn’t come with a price tag, instructions, stickers, or anything that an item sold in a store would normally have.
Not long after that, my dad came by with a trash bag full of my favorite action figures. They weren’t in packages, of course. They were just lying mangled in that bag. I was starting to notice that nothing he got me ever came in a box or with a price tag or wrapped in plastic. But it didn’t matter.
Me: Mom! Look, look. Dad got me Lex Luthor. Michael Jackson! Oh my God, He-Man!
Mom: That stuff is hot!
Me: But Mom . . .
Mom: Put that stuff back in the bag, tie it up, and give it to me right now!
I returned them to the bag, tied it up, and gave it to her obediently.
She put it outside the door and called my dad. “You come get that hot shit. That shit is smoking at the top of the stairs right now. I don’t want it in this apartment.”
* * *
My dad always got me the perfect gifts, even if they were all stolen. But my mom, who spent actual money, always managed to screw it up. No matter what I wanted to get to fit in with the other kids in school, she always managed to buy something that would make me an outcast instead.
At that time, just like nearly every other kid, I looked up to Michael Jordan. He wore compression shorts underneath his basketball shorts, so some of the kids on my team began dressing the same way.
I made the mistake of saying to my mom, “For Christmas, I wanna get those basketball tights that go under your shorts, like Michael Jordan wears.”
“That’s it? That’s what you want for Christmas?”
“Yes, please!”
When Christmas rolled around, there was a small package from my mom waiting for me under our miniature tree. I tore open the gift wrap, threw the lid off the box, and saw . . . girls’ tights.
They were spandex, and really tight—not even remotely close to what Michael Jordan wore.
I put them on, just in case she knew something I didn’t, and checked them out in the mirror. I looked like I was going to ballet class.
“What are these supposed to be?” I asked my mom.
“You said tights. They couldn’t find your size nowhere, so I got you these. Boy, wear those tights, trust me.”
I trusted her and wore them under my shorts to the next game.
“What kinda tights is those, Kev?” one of my teammates asked. “Those ain’t for basketball, that’s for sure.”
“Uh-huh, yeah they are. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Let me see.” He reached for the label, and I dodged him. I dodged everyone that day.
People say that when it comes to gift-giving, it’s the thought that counts. Don’t believe them. It’s the gift that counts.
12
* * *
HORSEFACE AND JAMMIN’ JOE
Every kid reaches a breaking point, where he or she says, “All right, I know you’re the parent and you’re an adult, but I’m gonna speak my mind.”
My moment was in seventh grade. My friend’s dad was taking him and some other kids to Clementon Park on a Saturday afternoon. The amusement park wasn’t that far away, but my mom didn’t know the kid or his parents, so she refused to let me go.
That’s when I decided, I’m gonna go for it. Whatever happens, happens, but enough is enough.
I could feel the lump forming in my throat as I got ready to stand up to her for the first time and make my voice heard.
Mom: I don’t know what these people are about. I’m not letting you go off with a bunch of strangers to get left behind accidentally or get caught up in gang activities.
Me: He’s my friend. He’s a good person. So is his dad. They would never do that.
Mom: I said no and I mean no. End of discussion.
Me: I-I-I’m sick of this. I don’t want to be here anymore! I don’t want to live here! I want to live with Dad. He lets me do whatever I want.
Mom: Then go.
Me: Huh?
Mom: Go live with your dad.
Me: What?
Mom: You heard me. If that’s what you want, you’re free to go.
Me: Okay, cool.
I couldn’t believe my luck. I was finally free. I’d be able to go to movies and birthday parties and play outside with friends like a normal kid. Plus, maybe my dad could find me another Sonic 6.
I stuffed my clothing into a shopping bag and grabbed my basketball. Then she took me to my dad’s house in South Philly and left me there.
When I looked up at the building, half the windows either were broken or didn’t have shades. The place looked abandoned. I walked up the stairs, only to find that my dad’s apartment made ours look like a mansion in comparison. It was a single room with ratty furniture and a bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. The small space was packed with people and animals and smoke and empty beer bottles and trash all over the floor.
“Kev!” Dad yelled when I entered, like I’d just arrived at a party. “You remember your aunt Antoinette, and your cousins Alton, Pat, Grant, Jammin’ Joe, and Horseface. And of course, Uncle Don and Uncle Ray Ray. And my buddies Tank and Jo-Jo.”
Not a single one of those people looked familiar. I took a step forward and stepped in shit from some kind of animal. I didn’t know what kind, because there were creatures all over the place: dogs, cats, birds, snakes, rats.