that box and holler (even though it’s November) APRIL FOOLS! APRIL FOOLS! I PSYCHED YOU OUT! I PSYCHED YOU OUT! and we could go home again like before I feel so tired and I don’t like listening to all these stupid people talking. This is the fourth, no fifth one. Tall skinny woman in blue jeans and a jacket and tie.
“We are all here today—oh, my name is Jermaine Hicks—as we were saying, we are all sad to see our friend and sister lose her valiant—I mean that in every sense of the word—val-lee-ant, fight for life. She was a star, a diamond among rhinestones, a warrior. That’s not rhetoric, that’s real. I guess there were bad things you could say about her, there’s bad things you could say about anybody. But to me this moment is about celebrating the life she did have, as well as pouring out our grief for the one she didn’t have and now will never have. Her shit was not easy—Oh, I’m not supposed to talk like that here?” She look over at Rhonda. When I look at Rhonda, Rhonda is staring the girl down so hard her eyes look like traffic lights. “I’m not supposed to mention Medicaid didn’t want to pay for her drugs or that the ’fare was threatening her again to leave school or lose her benefits, that there’s a padlock on her door and that she died broke and depressed, deeply depressed.”
Rhonda mumble behind us, “I done had enough of dis bungee-brain crack addict.”
Rhonda get up. The girl is still talking.
“And now we’re looking at her laid out in a white dress talking about her like she was an angel. Yeah, well, maybe that’s irony or something,’cause her life sure the fuck was hell!” My mother’s life wasn’t no hell!
“Excuse me,” Rhonda say. Jermaine don’t pay Rhonda no mind. “She died broke, depressed but with a heart too mutherfucking big to be bitter.” She looks at Rhonda, who’s standing next to her now. Rhonda say something to her.
“Yeah, I’ll sit down when I’m finished, but I ain’t finished yet.”
“Hey, let’s go!” Rhonda stare at her until she go sit down.
“I think Rita have a few words she want to say before we close out dis part of the service,” Rhonda say.
Rita lean over kiss me, then get up in front Mommy’s casket. Rhonda come sit next to me.
“This girl was my friend, my sister, and sometimes my daughter. I loved her.” She unfolds a piece of paper. “This poem is called ‘Mother to Son’ by Langston Hughes. The first time I heard it was when Precious memorized and recited it to the class, serious back in the day!” She laughs. “I’m going to read it now.” She looks at me. “This is for you, Papi.”
MOTHER TO SON
Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
So boy, don’t you set down on the steps
’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now—
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
She turns around to Mommy. “I love you, Precious.” Then comes and sits back down. I like her poem, I feel good.
“What’s next?” I ask. PING! go Rhonda upside my head again. I hate her!
“Dis ain’t no show, boy! ‘What’s next?’ I never hear the like!”
“Would you jus’ stop!” Rita says to Rhonda, Rhonda jus’ roll her eyes at Rita. Rita lean over and whisper, “They’re going to close the casket now.”
“Huh?”
“The pallbearers, they’re the ones who actually carry the casket out the funeral parlor to the car, and then when it’s at the graveyard they take the casket out the car and to the grave site.”
“So—” I don’t understand but I stop talking, one of the guys done turned out the little
“We are all here today—oh, my name is Jermaine Hicks—as we were saying, we are all sad to see our friend and sister lose her valiant—I mean that in every sense of the word—val-lee-ant, fight for life. She was a star, a diamond among rhinestones, a warrior. That’s not rhetoric, that’s real. I guess there were bad things you could say about her, there’s bad things you could say about anybody. But to me this moment is about celebrating the life she did have, as well as pouring out our grief for the one she didn’t have and now will never have. Her shit was not easy—Oh, I’m not supposed to talk like that here?” She look over at Rhonda. When I look at Rhonda, Rhonda is staring the girl down so hard her eyes look like traffic lights. “I’m not supposed to mention Medicaid didn’t want to pay for her drugs or that the ’fare was threatening her again to leave school or lose her benefits, that there’s a padlock on her door and that she died broke and depressed, deeply depressed.”
Rhonda mumble behind us, “I done had enough of dis bungee-brain crack addict.”
Rhonda get up. The girl is still talking.
“And now we’re looking at her laid out in a white dress talking about her like she was an angel. Yeah, well, maybe that’s irony or something,’cause her life sure the fuck was hell!” My mother’s life wasn’t no hell!
“Excuse me,” Rhonda say. Jermaine don’t pay Rhonda no mind. “She died broke, depressed but with a heart too mutherfucking big to be bitter.” She looks at Rhonda, who’s standing next to her now. Rhonda say something to her.
“Yeah, I’ll sit down when I’m finished, but I ain’t finished yet.”
“Hey, let’s go!” Rhonda stare at her until she go sit down.
“I think Rita have a few words she want to say before we close out dis part of the service,” Rhonda say.
Rita lean over kiss me, then get up in front Mommy’s casket. Rhonda come sit next to me.
“This girl was my friend, my sister, and sometimes my daughter. I loved her.” She unfolds a piece of paper. “This poem is called ‘Mother to Son’ by Langston Hughes. The first time I heard it was when Precious memorized and recited it to the class, serious back in the day!” She laughs. “I’m going to read it now.” She looks at me. “This is for you, Papi.”
MOTHER TO SON
Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
So boy, don’t you set down on the steps
’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now—
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
She turns around to Mommy. “I love you, Precious.” Then comes and sits back down. I like her poem, I feel good.
“What’s next?” I ask. PING! go Rhonda upside my head again. I hate her!
“Dis ain’t no show, boy! ‘What’s next?’ I never hear the like!”
“Would you jus’ stop!” Rita says to Rhonda, Rhonda jus’ roll her eyes at Rita. Rita lean over and whisper, “They’re going to close the casket now.”
“Huh?”
“The pallbearers, they’re the ones who actually carry the casket out the funeral parlor to the car, and then when it’s at the graveyard they take the casket out the car and to the grave site.”
“So—” I don’t understand but I stop talking, one of the guys done turned out the little
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