It Takes a Village

The beating drums, African horns, babies, mamas, grandmas, and great-grandmas surround the circle of life in the woods. A village is a community comprised of a cluster of women and men that fill the cavity to develop and strengthen the young. This is my understanding of family and the extension of…

My neighborhood is full of support, and as a child I never appreciated the internal beauty within the folds of cohabitation—whether single, double, or overcapacity. It was filled with women who’d experienced their share of strobe lights, catty-fights, disco mania, and baby mama/baby daddy drama. No matter what, all the women stuck together like a herd of penguins protecting the young from lurking predators.

During the summer days you would find me and other cool kids playing hopscotch, double-Dutch rope, or skating up and down the sidewalk on balled wheels made for indoor skating. All day we would rip up and down the street laughing and cracking on Bubblicious gum, soaking up the sun and whizzing past the drunken wine heads who were vigilant about patrolling the ‘hood and protecting all who were part of the fine fabrics woven together as one. They knew every child’s name and to whom we all belonged.

The pimps and their moneymakers were good people too . . . they would spend their days nap- ping on the side of the buildings, but when dusk approached, the half-dressed fast tails winked once and suddenly “Lights, Camera, Action.” The shiny cars would line up for at least twelve hours of curbside entertainment.

If there weren’t any summer day camps in session, our parents could rely on the neighborhood mother who spent her days collecting checks on the first of the month from the government. She was ol’ reliable. Let’s call her Ms. Pat.

Ms. Pat would sit in the living room window all day smoking on her Salem cigarettes puffing the smoke through the screen, and watching her soap operas in between. She made sure we ate our breakfast on the porch and called us in for a quick peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch. When Ms. Pat’s shift ended upon the strike of 5:00 p.m., she would yell for her daughter to take her daily field trip to the liquor store to buy more Salem cigarettes. Our field trip often brought on brief reunions with crack head cousins, Alcoholic Anonymous rejects, and our favorite neighborhood street braider, who’d confirm our weekend porch side appointment in passing.

There was a role for everyone, and they all played their own deck of cards well. The alcoholic duo, Uncle Sid and Uncle Ben, would teach us the “art of knowing how to hold your liquor” and tips on never mixing whites and browns together. They would yell in unison, “Take it straight to the back of your throat with no chaser and gasp for air.”

The street hustlers taught us the value of entrepreneurship and how to resist a corporate gig.  Mr. Pimp-‘licious always thought he was giving us lessons we’d never consider: “Stay in school, keep your head up, and stay off the damn pole.”  Of course we were wise enough not to trust his ass. There was also  Candy the crack head and Vicki the fiend. They would catch you walking out of the store and beg for $5, $10, or $40. Now how are you gonna ask twelve and thirteen-year-old kids for $40? But knowing them had a few perks, like the days or weeks when our mothers were recycling the leftover meals—they would knock on our doors in the nick of time to sell big ass T-bone steaks and live whole chickens. I’m still wondering where the hell they got live chickens.

Now, I can’t forget Rose and Tiny, the magnificent, rude ass, self-indulgent air-benders. They were a part of the village and fulfilled no real purpose but somehow managed to fit in without notice. They walked slowly, swinging their hands backward, bending the air, and crushing the mood of everyone they surrounded. Sidewalks cracked and stairs trembled, alerting innocent bystanders of their arrival accompanied by rudeness and hunger. Rose and Tiny were kind at times but their focus was destruction . . . destruction of delectable steaks and chickens.

At night when the sunset dimmed the block and the streetlamps blazed bright, my crew and I would run like refugees climbing over stone-covered mountains seeking shelter. We would plow through the front door of one of our houses— depending on which of our mothers was scheduled to kill, clean, bake, and fry the chicken and steak. Once all the children were fed and nestled all in one bed, the late night card game/dance party would begin. A few secretive knocks at the door and peep hole confirmations would prompt the catwalk to shine the spotlight on a few pimps and their bitches, wine heads, crack fiends, pot- heads, air-benders, welfare mamas, ex-con daddies, hustlers, drug dealers, and government working citizens. They all gathered in the kitchen, cracked opened a few decks of cards, smoked their cigarettes, lit their incense, danced to the jumping needle on the record, and drank their Colt 45 and straight Hennessy or cheap gin.

The whole village would fellowship together under one roof without, false pretenses or high expectations—just a village taking care of one another.