I'm sitting here looking into the eyes of a child who was not created by me but who is now mine. I have never even been one to baby-sit, but I keep telling myself that everything is going to be fine. I never looked at a child as being anything more than a bother. Now here I am doing another man's job by being this child's father.

Don't get me wrong. I love this little boy as if he were my own. It scares me though, that someday he will be a black man out in this world alone. I see black men dying left and right; a knife through the heart or a bullet through the head. My mother used to tell me that the black man doesn't die, he's born dead.

Mother would repeat, "The doctors should snap the black man's neck at birth. A horse isn't even forced to suffer. The life of a black man doesn't get any better. It only gets rougher and rougher".

As a boy, these were the insults I would constantly hear because Mother was set on putting the black man down. I would some day grow to be a black man so I worried if Mother would then want me around. By being born a male I had already failed her in life. It was serendipity, but Mother's tongue prepared me for the fight.

I grew up with a fear of becoming a black man, so all my life I've tried exceptionally hard to do right. Sometimes the other brothers out there make me feel like it's a no win fight. If one black man robs a bank then that black man might as well be me. Because when I go on a job interview that black man is the only man they see. When a brother goes out and gets a white girl and turns her out on drugs, it is my honest brothers and myself who get labeled as losers and thugs.

I'm damn tired of defending myself for crimes of which I have not committed. If I ever cause fault to someone else's life, then I'd be man enough to admit it. But there's no need for me to be bitter. What's done is already done. Today all black men have a responsibility to do right. I'm not the only one.

Mother told me I wouldn't do right. She said I'd grow up to be exactly like my father. She said I'd find a good woman, beat that good woman, make babies, and continue life without a bother.

"You'll end up in jail", Mother said, "I can see you now all doped up and high. Your daddy wasn't nothin'. You ain't gonna be nothing so you might as well not even try."

I cried. Oh my God did I cry. The pain and sadness Mother had in her heart made me want to die. It was her own hurt she was releasing. It had nothing to do with me, except for the fact that she feared she alone couldn't raise a black man and this failure she didn't want to see.

Consequently, that is when my responsibility as a black man came into play. As much as Mother went through for me I wasn't going to let her see that day. I remember how my father would hit Mother (It's funny. I can't seem to picture my father's face). I can remember the occasions he would come home drunk and completely demolish the place.

Mother would call Big Mama and Pops (her parents). Pops would come over waiving his gun. Everybody knew that it had no bullets in it, not a one. My father would relinquish anyway just to give Pops the gratification of protecting his family. Big Mama would preach to Mother that staying with my father was, in fact, sleeping with the enemy.

"But the boy Big Mama", Mother would cry, "He needs his father. I can't raise him by myself."
"Honey-child", Big Mama would respond, "Leave him with his daddy while you go out and seek your wealth."

Mother would peep around the corner at me. My head was down with my hands in the pockets of my pants. Then Mother would turn back to Big Mama and with no further doubt she'd say, "I can't".
Ironically, my father was the one who ended up doing the leaving. He packed up his belongings and kissed Mother and me good-bye one summer evening.

Mother and my father had been together five years before my time plus my first five years on earth. "Elena", my father said to Mother, "I only see things getting worse. I haven't been man enough to stop hitting you or man enough to stop picking up a drink. But there is one thing I've been man enough to do and that, my dear, is to think. Your heart won't understand why I'm doing this, and society will label me as a typical black man. But before I stay around and continue to hurt my family I'll cut off my right hand."

My father left. We never saw him again. He was gone without a trace. I remember the tears toppling from his eyes (It's funny though, I can't seem to picture my father's face).

I don't hold anything against my father. The best thing he could have done for us was to leave. In his own unacceptable by society way he set me and Mother free.

At such a young age I was left to be the man of the house. However, by the time I was in high school men had been in and out. I fought with these men. I talked to them anyway I pleased. I even cursed. Before I would let any man mistreat Mother I'd fearlessly die first.

Of course Mother didn't go for this. She would knock me upside my head. With tears of refuge I would cry to her that before a man mistreated her she'd see him dead.

"I can't wait until you're 18", Mother would say, "so you can get out of my house".

I never took those words to heart. Where I come from that came out of almost every mother's mouth.
After Mother and I would argue I'd go talk with Pops for a while. Listening to Pops' childhood stories always gave me a smile.

"Boy your mama is like a wounded Doe", Pops would always start off, "and she needs you by her side while she heals, so don't you go gettin' lost. There's a difference between "lost" and lost so listen to me boy."

By that time I knew Pops was setting up the path for his same old story:

"I was standing outside the grocery store when a woman asked, "Are you lost little boy? Why are you wandering about?"

"No Mam. I'm just waiting for my mama", I said, "she said she'd be right out".

As the woman walked on I contemplated over what sense of the word lost she meant. Had I lied to the woman outside the grocery store? On this my thoughts were spent. Am I recognized at all for who I am or am I just a shade of fear? Was this land really made for you and me? Do I really belong here? Do I care whether or not my brother lives or dies, or the same about myself? Will I have an equal opportunity to enjoy this country's great wealth? Do I know at all about my history or am I merited only on his-story? Should I strive to what may be a dead end not knowing what's in store for me? Where am I headed? I haven't the slightest idea. Will I be carried off by society's breeze? I had to find that woman outside the grocery store to set my mind at ease. I searched high and low for that woman. I had to get the truth to her at all cost. But I too had to hurry back to the grocery store or my mama would have thought I was lost."

Pops told that story to every brother in the neighborhood. He wanted to see all of us do good. I wanted to do good for myself more than anybody could ever dream. I wanted it for Mother, my family, and most importantly, I wanted it for me.

I made it up in my head that no matter what I'd keep my nose clean. On the other hand there was slinging dope and my profit, the dope fiend. Some brothers had Cadillacs, Mercedes Benzes, and phat gold chains for days. But none of those materialistic set ups could coerce me into changing my ways. Those high priced cars and fancy particulars carried an odor worse than any smell. The odor of a young brother in a 10' x 9' jail cell.

I don't put down the hustlers though. I don't condone what they do either. That loot weighing down their pockets only makes them weaker and weaker. I understand them wanting to make sure their family has a meal to eat each night. Slinging dope pays the bills and puts food on the table even though it's not right. Like I said, I don't put down the hustlers. Those brothers feel that they are doing what they have to do. I can't say anything bad against them because different circumstances could have turned me into a hustler too.

With all aside, my main goal was to soak up a lifetime worth of knowledge. I wanted to be the first one in my family to conquer that loophole called college. First I had to make it through high school, which in itself was a challenge. As always, there was that one person who it seems was put on earth to throw someone's dream off balance.

In my sophomore year of high school one of my teachers asked me to stand. She requested that I tell my peers what I wanted for myself as a man. I told them that I wanted to go to college as no one in my family had done before. This teacher looked at me and said, "Which university do you want to play basketball for?"

That single statement knocked me down a peg. It made me think about what I had failed to thus far. How else was I going to pay for college unless I tokened myself as a basketball star?

By the end of my senior year of high school I had an idle grade point average of 4.0. At graduation my Valedictorian speech earned me a standing ovation. In short, I stole the show. That fall I entered college on a full academic scholarship. My battle had just begun. In my optimistic thoughts the battle had already been won. I was living in the campus dorms. I had finally made it out on my own. I once had a fear that I'd never see that day. At that point in my life I thought nothing could go wrong.

But one day the school secretary came into the main lecture hall and tapped me upon my shoulder. I left the room with her and when I saw Big Mama and Pops my blood chilled colder and colder. All of a sudden there was this awful roar that echoed through the halls. Then this crying holler ricocheted off the walls. There was another awful roar and I recognized it this time. I realized that these chilling sounds had come from the voice box of mine.

That was when Big Mama had broken the news to me that Mother had been killed. The drive by bullet hadn't been meant for her, but I suppose it was God's Will.

Mother had walked to the mailbox only moments after an argument between two gangs had occurred. Before anyone knew it, shots were fired, and Mother's body lay dead on the curb.

Four weeks went by before I returned to school. My dorm mate had piled all my mail upon my bed. On top of the pile was a letter written by Mother and this is what it read:

Dear Braylee,

We haven't talked for a while. It feels like it's been such a long time. As a matter of fact, it's been far too long. That's why I'm dropping you a line. I don't even know where to start. Baby, no matter what you might think you've always been my heart. I feel so distant from you. I guess it's a barrier that I created. But I've only just realized this now that we're separated.

So many people have done wrong to me. So many people have tampered with my pride. Through it all you've been the only one by my side. For you, I don't know whether that was good or bad. Because you were the only one there, I took out all the anger on you that I had.

I look back at all the things I've said to you and my eyes fill with tears. They weren't meant to be words of anger. They were words of my fears.

You're in college now and I know you feel like you're on top of the world. You'll probably graduate with honors then go on to marry the perfect girl. You will have children and I'm sure you'll teach them well. I didn't teach you the things you needed to know. But look at you, who can tell?

Baby, don't get your hopes up too high. I know what this world has to offer. They'll hand you your degree, dress you up in a suit, but still they'll see you as the culprit. You'll be an even bigger threat because you've attended college. The only thing worse than a black man to them is a black man with knowledge.
Well, good luck, Son. I'll let you go now. I don't want to keep you from studying those books. But one last thing, "I Love You, Son" no matter how sometimes things might have looked.

Mother

Mother had never said, "I love you" to me, therefore I was never given the opportunity to say it back to her. There were times when I would sit and stare at Mother and get the urge to say "I love you" on the spur. I never did. That is the only act of cowardliness I can honestly admit. "I love you Mother! I love you Mother!" But now it's too late to say it.

Mother is gone. But she did leave behind the fruit of her priceless labor. Knowing that I, Mother's son, did right, is a message I'll communicate to my fruits to savor.

So here I sit looking into the eyes of a child who was not created by me but who is now mine. His eyes assure me that he too will grow to be a strong black man because he has eyes like mine.

© 2002 Joylynn M. Jossel

Jossel lives in Ohio. This is Jossel's first appearance in Mocha Memoirs.