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“Welcome home, Ali. Who might you have been visiting at three forty-five in the morning?”
Nana Mama, of course. She’s sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of something steaming in front of her, probably her favorite beverage, boiled water with lemon and sugar and “a pinch of turmeric.” Her voice is surprisingly calm. She’s got me, but maybe she’ll cut me a break.
“Explain yourself, young man.”
“I knew it was late, Nana. But I didn’t know it was that late.”
How foolish can I be? I didn’t know the time? That’s not gonna fly with Nana.
“Ali, let’s not do some old comedy routine. You know what I mean, where I ask you a completely reasonable question and you snap back with a lie.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
“Right,” she says. “So, answer the question. Where’ve you been?”
I stammer and sputter a little. But then I figure that the faster I answer, the safer I’ll be. I don’t know. I think it’ll sound more truthful that way. And I do plan on telling the truth.
“My friend Gabe told me that there was a police investigation over near Massachusetts Avenue and 15th Street. So I went over there to meet up with him, see what was going on.”
I guess I overcooked the truth just enough that Nana Mama wrinkles her forehead and asks another question, a “follow-up for clarification,” she calls it.
“How did Gabe learn about a police investigation at three in the morning? Did he recently join the DC force?”
“Well, he just knew,” I say.
“He just knew,” she repeats. Nana Mama has had enough. She is ready to give her closing summation and argument.
“I don’t know what you’re up to, Ali. And it’s not because I don’t care. I care a great deal. But I’m not in the mood to launch a full-scale interview right now. However, I do have this to say. You know what this neighborhood is like at three forty-five in the morning. You know how dangerous it can be. I don’tknowhow you and your friend ‘justknow’what’s happening on the street when you should be sleeping or praying in your bed.”
Obviously, I’m not about to tell her about my awesome new cell phone setup. And, of course, I don’t tell her how the crime scenes hypnotize me. Or about…
“Are you listening?” she asks.
“Yes, Nana.”
Then she says something that brings me an instant wave of relief.
“I will not share this information with your father, but…”
“Thanks, Nana,” I say.
“Hold on,” she says. “You may have noticed that I used the wordbut. So I will not, on this one occasion, share this story with your father,BUTif it ever happens again, I will not waste any time getting it to him.”
I decide it’d be best not to say anything except, “Thank you, Nana.” And I’ve got to admit that I am truly thankful.
“Ali, take care of yourself. Watch out for yourself. Be a man.”
I’m a little confused. Be a man?
Isn’t that what I’m trying to do?
WHENEVER THERE’S Aserious (and let’s just say “potentially dangerous”) disagreement about something in my school, the battles seem to take place in some very specific places—the boys’ locker room, the girls’ locker room, the small scruffy patch of weeds behind the handball court where kids go to smoke. But the place where the most serious confrontations take place is almost always the school cafeteria. I know. From experience.
In the past few days, the arguments over the police situation have calmed down a little. But this thing is not going away fast. In the week since the shooting, most kids have broken off into four groups.
The first group thinks that the whole system is broken and that almost all cops abuse their power. The second group thinks that almost all cops are brave, kind, decent men and women who faithfully guard the community. Then there is a third group of kids who really don’t have an opinion and, to quote my bud Cedric, “care mainly about basketball, clothes, and where they’re going to hang out on Friday night.” Finally, there is a fourth group, and that group is mainly made up of… well, I think I’m actually the only member of that group. I’m the only one who kind of thinks that I could sometimes be a member of any of the other three groups. That’s how complicated the situation is. At least to me.
The real truth is that I’m sick and tired and angry at having to take abuse from some of the kids in the first group. This is the group who loud-whispered “cop kid” when they passed me by. I was also sure that someone in this group had Scotch-taped two strips of raw bacon to my locker. (Bacon. Pig. Cops are pigs. Get it? Freaking hilarious, no?)
