Chapter 1: What''s Going On CHAPTER 1 WHAT''S GOING ON My childhood room was a melting pot of dolls, games, and trinkets all perfectly matched to my personality, with the exception of the walls, painted pink by my dad. Everything bursting with color and wonder. I collected Cabbage Patch Kids, some white, and of course every one of the Black dolls I could find, in every hue. My Little Pony dolls, random Barbies I rarely thought to play with, stuffed animals oversized and miniature perched atop a pink toy box like a gigantic strawberry ready to be picked. The stars of the show, regal in their own right, were a collection of African dolls standing high atop a shelving unit. Everything else paled in their presence. Deep hues of melanin draped in kente cloth. I wanted to look like them--to become them.
Even though my room wasn''t what some would have considered to be fit for a princess, it was just right for me. And for every "girlie" element in the room, I had what back then would be considered tomboyish: Super Mario Brothers in the Nintendo, Sonic on the Sega Genesis, and Pac-Man for when I needed a break from the dolls. Soft and hard. Truth be told, my room was a perfect fit for a little New Yorker. A little New Yorker with her fist clenched and raised in the air, pumping it back and forth, and forth and back, playacting like the real people I looked up to every day. The living embodiment of the kente-clad dolls on the shelves in the room. "Power to the people! Power to the people! Power to the people," I''d yell with thunder in my voice just before hopping down and cutting my path across the thick blue-carpeted floors. I knew from an early age that I had no desire to be a princess exactly--maybe a warrior princess like Nefertiti or the other African warriors and queens who were closer to my imagination.
But at the time those were just dolls. I had demands, as I repeated the phrase over and over and over again, inspired by the rallies I''d joined with my parents, where we were surrounded by the force of powerful people who seemed big and strong and equipped with voices to be heard. My white socks with ruffled trim were slippery enough on the bottom for me to roam around the apartment as if I were wearing roller skates. And I glided around every corner to every door to every room, bouncing, wiggling, and shaking, doing everything in my power to solicit a reaction from everyone else in the apartment with me. "Close my door, Tamika." Sharon, my sister fifteen years my senior, has always been Black girl magic in the flesh. She now has four degrees. She had a job, which meant she had her own money and a dream social life.
Her friends were the shit, and she had no time for mine. "I''m trying to get ready for work," she said, sucking her teeth to make sure I knew she was done. Sharon''s friends had the best hairstyles. From buns to the asymmetrical cuts, doobies, and fans. Not only did they look good; they lived well. At night, they painted New York with their presence at the hottest lounges and clubs to just kick it. And when they were not in New York, they spread their magic around the world, traveling abroad, something that was unheard of at the time for people their age. Sharon was a Harlem socialite coming up in a time when Harlem was the place to be, oozing with iconic music, fashion, and reverence for Blackness.
Sharon got where she was by not taking easy paths out or accepting disrespect, no matter where it came from. And she wasn''t any easier on me than she''d be on anyone else who didn''t give her the respect she deserved. She never caused any problems, but she was tough and made sure you knew it. And I made sure she knew to carve out space for my little voice as well. "Power to the people!" I screamed again, pumping my fist back and forth in her face. I left out grinning, knowing I had gotten under her skin. That day, I made sure I was both seen and heard in our apartment. As I was the smallest and youngest, there were times I felt invisible growing up.
More than anything, I wanted to make my presence known. Years later as an adult, I''d research what characteristics and traits the family''s youngest typically have: rebellion, creativity, outgoingness, and openness. They were all true. And in the early years of my life, rebellion was what I channeled most. "Power to the people," I began to repeat once more until my mom''s voice stopped me dead in my tracks. Booming and resonant. In our house and certainly with her friends, Mom''s voice was the closest thing to God''s. She spoke words laced with conviction that left you with no choice other than to stop and listen.
"Tamika, get in here," she said. I eased Sharon''s door closed, and made my way to the kitchen, tiptoeing as I drew closer to where I knew Mom would be standing. Peering only my head around the narrow half wall separating the kitchen from the living room, I waited in suspense. "You know I can see you, right?" I swear that woman must have had eyes behind her head. I''m reminded of that time I turned around and shot double birds at a boy named Malcolm Simmons in church one Sunday--she knew. Malcolm was the most awkward, most aggravating boy I had ever met in my entire life. He had big eyes and a little face that I never quite understood, with unkempt hair and an always open hand to ask for whatever snacks my mom had given me for church that morning. There were no assigned seats at church, but Malcolm''s mom was determined to sit in the same place every Sunday, putting her son right behind us.
"Tamika, it''s ok to share," my mom would say. "Not with him," I said under my breath. I knew better than to mention it out loud. The first Sunday I met Malcolm and his family I was thrown by his voice. Coming from that little head with those big eyes, his annoying tone was odd to say the least. That Sunday I rolled my eyes and paid him dust. The next week, Malcolm returned with a vengeance. Anytime our pastor went into his rendition of "I''d Rather Have Jesus," it brought all the women in the church to their feet.
My mom swayed and sang next to me, in unison with the pastor and other members of the congregation. It was a beautiful moment of unity and clarity. And like clockwork, Malcolm''s voice buzzed in my left ear, hands out again, asking for what he already knew he wasn''t going to get. I broke form and jolted my head around like an owl for the meanest death stare a twelve-year-old Tamika could muster. "Turn around, Tamika." Even though she had eyes in the back of her head, for me at least, she didn''t notice when raggedy-ass Malcolm yanked my ponytails as revenge a few minutes later. I was pissed off, but there was only so much I could do about it without getting in trouble. I knew I should contain myself, but the rage burning up through me and now rushing out like smoke pouring forth from a wildfire was too much.
I turned around and shot two birds like daggers, one from each hand. I kept them up, making sure my eyes connected with his. I wanted him to know it was time to leave me alone for good. The other moms and families in the church who sat behind us started to murmur, taking notice of my message, but that was of no personal concern to me. Before I knew it, I felt a tingling sensation at the top of my knee as Mom popped me to get my attention. "Tamika, have you lost your damn mind in this church???" Maybe I had. Two Sundays later, while at service, I noticed a group of boys crowded around Malcolm in the basement of the sanctuary. At first, it wasn''t too alarming because that''s where they spent most Sundays.
All the boys gathered together to talk smack about girls between debates over which cartoons they liked most, and who had the toughest Transformer. Prior to that day, there were times I heard them pick on Malcolm here and there, but I never thought much about it between all the other commotion they''d get into every weekend. But this Sunday was different. I heard one of the boys, Lonnie, tell the others, "Watch this," as he pushed Malcolm to the floor and raised his fist to strike him. It shocked me that everyone was ready to stand by and watch, and laugh, as one little boy hurt another. I stepped in. "Stop it, Lonnie!" I said, as I grabbed his arm. "Leave him alone.
" Malcolm was curled up on the floor, scrambling to cover his head with his hands as he began to cry. Lonnie turned towards me, snatching his arm away from my hands. "And if I don''t, what are you going to do about it, Tamika?" "If you don''t leave him alone, I''ll knock your ass out." The wave of "ooooooooh" from all the other kids must have been enough for Lonnie to stand down. He stepped over Malcolm and walked back towards the stairs mumbling something under his breath. The other kids watching dispersed and followed Lonnie while I stayed to help Malcolm up. Malcolm didn''t say anything, nor did I. There was no need for words.
That time had passed, but from that day onward, we shared a mutual understanding. Malcolm stopped whispering in my ear to ask for snacks. And he didn''t need to, because I always made sure I packed two bags of Teddy Grahams. One for him and one for me. Malcolm and I never became the best of friends, but he knew that I was not going to let anything happen to him and I knew to expect the same in return. "I heard what you did for Malcolm today," my mom told me that evening. "That''s what I''m talking about. Be kind.
You never know what others are going through. His mom told me that Malcolm''s dad passed recently, just before they joined our church. They moved from Queens.