“Fear of change. I mean, the books I put out were all stories I wanted to tell. You know, stories about our history. My audience loved them, and I was always told to give my readers what they want. I figure that’s all they wanted from me. What I’ve always been giving them.”
“I think if they’re true fans, they will love whatever you have to share.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah. Did you ever stop to think that maybe your readers just love to hear your voice, and you’ve been limiting what that voice is allowed to say?”
He looks at me thoughtfully.
“You should share it with the world,” I tell him. “If you believe in it, your readers will too.”
The look in his eyes seems to shift into something softer, and he cracks a smile. “I needed to hear that. Thank you.”
“No problem. I think your dad would be proud. You, following in his footsteps.”
This gives him pause, that heartbreaking pinch tightening his features again, but only for a second before it disappears.
“My pops had always encouraged me to do spoken word, but I just never had the balls to do it. Figured I’d just write it down in a book instead.”
“I can tell he meant a lot to you.”
“He did.”
“He and my mom were perfect examples of a healthy relationship. They both died when I was fourteen. It was wild, cause it happened on the same day.”
Sympathy washes over me, but I let him continue.
“They were leaving a lounge after one of his poetry nights, and a drunk driver hit them. My momma’s sister, Mimi, took me in after that. No hesitation. It was just me, her, and her son. We didn’t have a big family. And that’s another story within itself,” he chuckles. “But she treated me like her own. Some days, I'd forget she wasn't my momma. They looked alike, acted alike,” he pauses. “Had the same heart.
“I was grateful for my aunt, and I felt it was my job to do right by her for taking on such a big task. She was already a single mother, barely surviving with one child, and then here I come. I never wanted to be a burden, so I helped her out as much as I could. Got a job, helped with bills. Fixed things around her house. Graduated with honors. Stayed out of trouble. It was my way of saying thank you to her.”
“Wow, Othello, I can’t even imagine how devastating that must have been.”
“Yeah, it was a rough time. But I had a lot of therapy,” he chuckles like he’s trying to make light of the situation. “And I was encouraged to write all my feelings out in a journal, which was no big deal, because my love for writing was second nature.I wrote about things I was feeling. Things I saw. The injustices around me. The experiences of being a black man in this world and all the emotions that came with that. I didn’t expect my passion to become something I could do for a living, but then it happened. I think about my parents all the time, especially my father. And wonder just how proud of me he is.”
“I’m sure he’shellaproud of you. And I’m sure he’d want you to share your love for poetry with the world too.”
The smile on his face is so big and warm that I almost want to reach over and hug him. “I’m sure he would too,” Othello tells me.
“Do you remember the first poem you ever wrote?”
“Something terrible and that will never see the light of day.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah. About as bad as you trying to change your mind on this date I asked you on.”
We laugh, and then he adjusts in his seat and turns towards me.
“Marley.” He calls my name so softly it pulls the air right out of me.
“Yes?”
“Please don’t make me beg.”
He leans in close.
“When we get to Maui, let me take you out?”
