It took twelve cops to pull my brother and father apart. The big bodies of men, allentangled like a swirling1 hurricane, crashed loudly into the living room. Within an instant,familiar things were no longer in my sight—no windows, no floor, no furniture, and nolight. All I could see was a chaotic2 mass of body parts in motion: dark pants and strongarms bursting out of dark sleeves, enormous hands grabbing, fists punching, limbs tangledtogether and tearing away, heavy, polished black shoes scuffling and stomping3. Therewere quick flashes of shiny things: buttons, badges, and guns. At least a dozen pistolhandles, stiff and sticking out of dull leather holsters, a few cradled in palms and thumbs,sat on wide black belts around broad hips4. Chaos5 filled the air with the sounds of cursing,grunting, and howling. The entire house seemed to be shaking. And somewhere in the eyeof this storm were the two most important male figures in my life, destroying each other.
I always thought of my brother’s anger as weather — powerful, destructive, andunpredictable. I don’t know if it was a singular act or an ongoing6 illness that made him sovolatile, but it was all I had ever known.
I was a little girl with very few memories of a big brother who protected me. Moreoften, I felt I had to protect myself from him, and sometimes I would find myselfprotecting my mother from him too.
This particular fight with our father had escalated7 more quickly than most, however. Ashouting match became a tornado8 of fists in what seemed like a matter of seconds, bangingthrough the room, knocking things over, and leaving havoc9 in its wake. In that moment,the rage between my father and brother was so forceful that no one person could havestopped it. No one would have dared.
By the time I was a toddler, I had developed the instincts to sense when violence wascoming. As though I was smelling rain, I could tell when adult screaming had reached acertain pitch and velocity10 that meant I should take cover. When my brother was around, itwas not uncommon11 for holes to be punched in walls or for other objects to go flying. Inever really knew how or why the fights would begin, but I did know when tension wasturning into an argument and when an argument was destined12 to become a physical fight.
And I knew this particular one was going to be epic13.
My Nana Reese was there, which was a bit odd because it was rare that she or anyonefrom my father’s family, who lived in Harlem, was at our house. We were in Melville, apredominately white, affluent-adjacent town in Suffolk County on Long Island, New York,though I would eventually move thirteen times growing up. Thirteen times to pack up andgo, to try to find another place—a better place, a safer place. Thirteen new starts, thirteennew streets with new houses full of people to judge you and wonder where or who yourfather is. Thirteen occasions to be labeled unworthy and discarded, to be placed on theoutside.
Pastor15 Nana Reese, the Good Reverend Roscoe Reese, and their African MethodistPentecostal Church were where my father came from. Roy was the only son of Addie,Nana Reese’s sister. My father never lived with his father, and there was always a potentdistance between them, a mystery that inevitably16 held a misery17. These people, living in thevillage of Harlem, were his people. They had come up from Alabama and parts of NorthCarolina and other regions of the South, bringing with them traditions, traumas18, and gifts—some of which were ancient, African, and mystical in origin.
Nana Reese and I found each other right before all hell really broke loose. The thunderof profanity, fists, and feet drowned out all other sounds, so I didn’t hear when the copsburst in.
I didn’t know if they had come to save us or kill us. It was Long Island in the 1970s,and two Black males were being violent—the appearance of the police almost never meantthat help had arrived. On the contrary, their presence often complicated and elevated theexisting terror and escalated violence. That hasn’t changed, but this was my first encounterwith the fact. I had no benefit of experience; I had no benefit of any kind. My cousinLaVinia, Nana Reese’s daughter, always said, “You kids had all the burdens of beingBlack but none of the benefits.” It took me a long time to understand the reality of herobservation.
This, of course, was not the first vicious fight between my father and brother—for aslong as I could remember, their relationship had been a war zone. But it was the first timethe troops had been called in. It was also the first time I witnessed the possibility that amember of my family could brutally19 die in front of my eyes. Or that I could die too. Iwasn’t yet four years old.
Before my mother and father found their marriage unbearable20, they lived together inBrooklyn Heights. Though the neighborhood had seen a stream of bohemians arrive asearly as 1910, and the 1950s brought in a wave of urban activists—liberal folks withmoney who loathed21 the suburbs—in the 1970s it was still a pretty eclectic mix of mostlyworking- and middle-class families. It was pre-yuppie and ungentrified. If there was atolerant place for a young mixed-race family in that era, Brooklyn Heights was probablythe closest you could come to it.
Throughout my childhood, I would live in many obscure places, mostly on LongIsland, and feel very much like a castaway on this island-off-the-island of Manhattan. Bothmy parents worked very hard so we could live in neighborhoods where we could glimpsethat elusive22 “better life” and feel “safe.” Conventional wisdom, however, suggests that“better” and “safe” are synonymous with white.
We were not a conventional family. Was it better to live in a place where my whitemother would often walk alone through the front door first, ahead of my Black father withher mixed kids—for their safety? What does that do to the psyche23 of a man who issupposed to be the head of the household? How can such a man keep his family safe, andwhat does such an indignity24 signal to his Black son?
After the squad25 of policemen managed to separate my father and brother, though there wasstill a considerable amount of yelling, everyone was alive. The truly dangerous part of thestorm was over; the thunder had stopped. The next thing I knew I was cradled in NanaReese’s arms, crying and trembling. She had scooped26 me up like a sack of laundry and setme close beside her on what the kids used to call “the rocking couch,” a cheap, flimsystructure the color of dirt, rust27, and olive, dotted with flecks28 of mustard. Sometimes I thinkit was that couch that planted the seed of my eventual14 preference for Chanel. We kidscalled it the “rocking couch” because it was missing a leg, and if you shifted your weightback and forth29 it would, well, rock. This was a noble attempt to find humor amid brokenthings, a talent I shared with my brother and sister. In the midst of the violence andtrauma, a great comfort came to me on that sad sofa.
Nana Reese held me tight until my little frame stopped shaking and my breathingbecame normal. From disorientation I returned to the room, I returned to my body. Sheturned my face up toward the light and made sure my eyes were focused and locked on tohers. She placed her delicate hand firmly on my thigh30. Her touch immediately steadied anyaftershocks still pulsing through me. Her gaze was unusual—not that of a great-auntie, amother, or a doctor. It was instead as if she looked directly into the essence of me. In thatinstant we were not a frightened little girl and a consoling elder but two souls, ageless andequal.
She told me, “Don’t be scared of all the trouble you see. All your dreams and visionsare going to happen for you. Always remember that.”
As she spoke31, a warm and loving current spread out from her hand to my leg, gentlycoursing through my body in waves and rising up and out the top of my head. Through thedevastation a path had been washed clear; I knew there was light. And somehow I knewthat light was mine and everlasting32. Before that moment I hadn’t had any dreams I couldremember. I had very few memories either. I certainly had yet to hear a song in my heador have a vision.
From around when I was four years old, after my parents’ divorce, I didn’t see myNana Reese much. My mother and my father’s families remained locked in conflict, andsince I lived with my mother, I was largely cut off from Nana’s life of healing and holyrolling in Harlem. I did later learn that people called Nana Reese a “prophetess.” I alsolearned that she was not the only healer in my lineage. Beyond all that, I believe a deepfaith was awakened33 in me that day.
I understood on a soul level that no matter what happened to me, or around me,something lived inside me that I could always call on. I had something that would guideme through any storm.
And when the wind blows, and shadows grow closeDon’t be afraid, there’s nothing you can’t faceAnd should they tell you you’ll never pull throughDon’t hesitate, stand tall and say
I can make it through the rain
—“Through the Rain”
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1
swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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stomping
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| v.跺脚，践踏，重踏( stomp的现在分词 ) | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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ongoing
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| adj.进行中的，前进的 | |
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escalated
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| v.（使）逐步升级( escalate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）逐步扩大；（使）更高；（使）更大 | |
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tornado
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| n.飓风，龙卷风 | |
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havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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velocity
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| n.速度，速率 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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eventual
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| adj.最后的，结局的，最终的 | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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traumas
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| n.心灵创伤( trauma的名词复数 )；损伤；痛苦经历；挫折 | |
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brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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psyche
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| n.精神；灵魂 | |
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indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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flecks
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| n.斑点，小点( fleck的名词复数 )；癍 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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