It seems to me that once you decide to find doubles, you find them everywhere.
How does a single human mind come to be divided into two beings, into a life that “does not become” and a life that does? In one, life stops, ceases to exist. In the other, life keeps going, like a tree that flowers against its will, enduring.
So Patrick talks to Marcus at night, keeping him alive, as if the man he killed never died. So Patrick talks to his mother before he goes to sleep, placing her next to him, at his bedside, the person he loved most in life, whom he believes he abandoned, now ash.
For Ammons, of all the places in the world, the place where his brother died is the dearest and the worst to him. He cannot leave this place. Here he must stand and fail. Does everybody have such a moment, a juncture or place to which they return, to which they say, Come back to life, so that we go on with our lives, sustaining our shadow selves, spirit-beings who talk to us and also punish us?
Here is my life that did not become, a place to which I return and return.
I am back in the Delta. It is 2006, and I’ve decided to tough it out. Just a few more years, long enough for me to watch my first batch of eighth graders graduate from high school. I get a dog to ease the loneliness, and this dog is spectacular. On a Delta kind of night, sun setting late and stars visible, my dog scratches at his mosquito bites, and I sip a beer. I call my parents; I tell them I’m going to stay. When I speak, my voice does not tremble: I know who they are, and though they are disappointed now, I know that they will come not only to accept but also to understand.
Because Stars had been shut down and I’ve started teaching at Central, I see Patrick roaming the halls. When he tires of crowds or noise, he visits my class. He steps in through my doorway, wanting to say hi. I am erasing stuff on the chalkboard, distracted, tired out of my mind. He shows me a poem or rap he’s written on a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket.
But it’s a chaotic school with regular fighting, and Patrick starts to go absent. I do not notice at first, of course—a new crop of students keeps me occupied—but another teacher mentions it to me. Didn’t you have Patrick Browning? He hasn’t been showing up.
I get groceries at Walmart, and, stepping out into the parking lot with my cart, I remember—his house is just a few blocks away. I knock on his door. Nobody answers and it is dark inside, but I know his father is lying on the couch; I know to wait. Patrick emerges.
Out on the porch we talk freely, as we always have out here. He knows why I’ve come. He says, I’m sorry, Ms. Kuo. I tell him, You don’t need to say you’re sorry. He promises me he’ll go back again. I tell him, Keep your chin up. At this, he lifts his head, as if the phrase is meant literally. I tell him, I’ll be here to see you graduate. He nods. I tell him that the Boys & Girls Club just opened; wouldn’t he like to apply for a job there? We can even play Ping-Pong. I joke, Hey, I’m Asian, Ping-Pong is in my blood; you don’t stand a chance. He smiles because I no longer seem angry. Tomorrow he’ll prove himself. He’ll show me his word is good. He rises to escort me to my car.
In my imagined life, I do not leave the Delta; he does not drop out of school. The night Marcus might have been killed, Patrick has decided to stay inside, studying for a test. He is focused and alert, because he has a task. Nobody asks him to look for his sister. When his father hears rustling noises outside, he gets up from the couch and says to the man, Get out of here, or I’ll call the police. Marcus leaves. Patrick hears the commotion but thinks nothing of it; he continues reading. Nothing happens on the porch; the porch is just a porch. A place to chat when the weather is warm.
—
I KNOW WHAT I am doing: wishful thinking, crazy thinking. I know that maybe nothing would be different if I had stayed, that Patrick might have kept living his life and I mine. And I know it sounds as if I think I could have saved him, as if I think I’m so important in his life. It’s not like that.
Or maybe it is, in the sense that the alternative, the rational thought, would be to say to myself, You can’t do that much, you’re not that important, there are so many forces in a person’s life, good and bad, who do you think you are? That’s what I said to make myself feel better after I left the Delta, and sometimes I still say it. But then what is a human for? A person must matter to another, it must mean something for two people to have passed time together, to have put work into each other and into becoming more fully themselves. So even if I am wrong, if my dreaming is wrong, the alternative, to not dream at all, seems wrong, too.
It’s not that I, in particular, could have altered the course of Patrick’s life or that Patrick, in particular, would have responded to me. Rather, I have to believe that two people can make a powerful impression on one another, especially in a certain kind of place, where so many have left, and in a certain time, when we are coming of age, not worn down or hardened. In these times and places we are fragile and ready.
—
HABITS BEING HARD to break, he’d skip again. Driving along, I might catch him in the act, wandering along Valley Drive, while I run errands during my lunch break.
Patrick recognizes my car. I pull over, guiltily aware that I would not stop for just any student. I lean toward the passenger door and open it. Patrick climbs in and fiddles with the music, waiting for a reprimand. My hands grip the steering wheel. We drive a bit. He rolls down the window. Looking out, his eyes linger on what he sees. A homeless man squatting in the heat; a kid on a bike. I sense his shame––he feels he disappointed me, and himself, too. With shame one must be gentle. I turn off the music and ask simple questions. How are you? Where are you going? In the quiet of the car, we make plans for tomorrow.
I taught myself to feel free I taught myself to feel free and alive to wake up thankful to be here and to know everything is a blessing from my food, my family, and visits.
When the old man moans in his room and the white guys tell sad stories, I insist I’m fine.
I have perfect health and happiness.
I instantly realize the peaceful insects flying across the room noiseless and the bright light bulb that shine like the sun for me every day inside the county jail downtown Only to a newcomer is it all startling.
If you ask me I’m not here Just in my own world.
PATRICK, April 2010
AUTHOR’S NOTE
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