Tapestry 08: Packed Light, Left Heavy
Have I mentioned my bitterness surrounding my name not being corrected? It’s still viscerally stewing in the background.
I didn’t sleep that night. I’m 11.99 years old, managing a full life crisis, and I hadn’t been properly adorned. And while, sure, the chanteuse was grappling with a minefield of five children and triflin’ niggas, I was swallowing bullets ricocheting right in front of me—much of which she caused. Atlanta? That’s really far away. Wizard of Oz far. And as you’d suspect, I wasn’t briefed on any of the details.
The Plan, you ask? You find out as I found out.
We started our day as we always had. 6:30 AM wakeup without command. Shifting about quietly. The chanteuse was stoic. The sisters were unaware. The baboon was leaving for his construction job shortly. And me? Utterly perplexed.
I thought last night would’ve been the night my real family would’ve up to pick me up. There couldn’t have been a more opportune time to usher me back to the grounds I knew. I remembered them as a regal bunch of Aunt Vivs, Jennifer Lewis’s and Mahershala Ali’s—not just sharp on the tongue, but willing to slice when necessary. I felt them in me. We’d all communed by the fire to align before my arrival into this reality and agreed to find each other once I got myself born. I can taste the smokiness of the turkey wings and sense the crackling of the flames. They didn’t come that night.
As the mammal left for the watering hole, she lined each of us up in the living room for the rundown. I hadn’t bothered with my previously curated birthday garb—I knew the day would call for the grit of one of my throwback Swap Shop two-piece sets. I obliged the summon to learn what the day would require.
She handed each of us a large black Hefty garbage bag. We were instructed to put whatever we wanted in the bag, but we would not be coming back. The instructions emphasized packing underwear and school clothes first, with no allowance for anything that doesn’t fit in the bag. Time was limited and precarious.
The Intrepid was loaded, I transitioned into sensible “escape from your home to seek new land silhouette” as I stewed over the thoughts of my tartans in a trash bag. Seventeen minutes later we were on I-95 headed north, ride-or-die auntie in tow.
I had so many loose ends. My grandma-ma. Joe. There were seven more weeks of sixth grade left. I had to leave my computer and the encyclopedia set Joe had given me, one of my post prized possessions. I used them to obsessively research nylon, sateen, corduroy and other finery after discovering those words stitched into the tags of my Ralph Lauren couture. I’d become deeply attuned to them—and to the world of beauty I was beginning to remember from emersing myself into its pages. I was permitted to bring only my most crucial pieces on our caravan across the Everglades; despondency and resentment were included at no extra cost.
“Baduizm” as softly playing ss the hush settled into the our covered wagon. I could hear the brown noise of wheel to pavement, ac blowing and fertile thoughts left to wander. As the exit signs passed, I curled up inside of my inner dialogue, where I always sought comfort in assigning logic to explain my external circumstances. Peicing together the why’s that were never explained to me as I felt the should’ve gave me a sense of grounding. It always struck me that no one around me ever practiced this. They seemed to have such a contentment with distorted reality. They never spoke logic aloud and their actions demonstrated that they didn’t ponder it either. I was in this alone. The bliss of ignorance was unavailable to me and I began to realize that I’d probably never get to reside in unconscious darkness.
As we ascended up the turnpike, I wondered, “Would the father know where I was? How far is this Atlanta land? Will my cousins come visit? And what exactly are the accommodations? How far ahead had the chanteuse planned for our next steps?
Silence became my closest friend that day. We’ve been inseparable ever since.
We pulled off the Panola Road exit to join Auntie Pat at the Atlanta tabernacle. She became our safe haven for the next few months as my mother worked through what I now know was one of the hardest knots she’d ever had to untangle. She quickly got a job at K-Mart, registered us in various schools, and got us back into formation within a week. Her execution was surgical.
It was unbelievably cramped in Auntie’s bungalow, but the love was at an all-time high. While there was a stiffening in our physical, there was a softening in all of our emotional
The chanteuse was unrecognizable. She was distant, yet symphonic. She never took her grip off taking care of us, though I could tell she wasn’t taking care of herself. My greatest contribution to her was to not be in her way—something those sisters could never seem to manage. I watched her wield strength from the hardship. She was harvesting resiliency in real time. She. never took a moment of pity or victimhood. It was forward movement, seeking of what’s required next. A knowing. A control of her narrative. An awareness of her self-worth. A restructuring of her mindset and values for her family.
The most valuable course I’ve ever taken.
As the next school year approached, we secured a new vestibule. Two stories. No central air. Charcoal colored ashy tile. Brown Walls. Just as few stars as our last shelter, but there were stairs, which somehow felt like a plus. I don’t know how she did it. But she did. Things felt aligned again.
As seventh grade loomed and I outlined the schema of my upcoming year’s aesthetic, I wondered how much capacity the chanteuse had for specific requests. My instinct told me to tread towards light-to-none. While she wasn't one for words and tenderness, she was one for clarity in where you stand with her. One of the most pivotal moments of connection came when we stopped by her K-Mart job to pick up her paycheck.
I’d roamed the brightly lit isles to explore the season’s latest trends and happened upon a Timex that could serve as the centerpiece of my accessory collection for the year. It was $49. I knew it was a far reach. Generally, I’m never one to make direct requests with the chanteuse unless all signs point to go—I know how to read a room.
Upon my meek inquiry, I saw her gaze soften. I could feel that it would be a large stretch—a real luxury for her to spend that much money on a solitary item for one of five. I immediately regretted putting her in the position. She silently obliged. I’ve never forgotten.
Atlanta became home. The ground felt fertile with possibility and familiar. It was the rich cultured soil we didn’t know we needed. There were two-parent households. Homes. Landscaping. BMWs and Mercedes that didn’t have Jewish people at the wheel. My entire mind recalibrated and recognized something beyond the borders of my previous understanding of the world.
I started to see families that looked like the ones I imagined. The ones I remembered.
Life began. We thrived.
