Bag Lady
Ms. Johnson puts Mama’s Gun by Erykah Badu on her record. She sits down at her kitchen table, drinks her first cup of coffee with all of her students’ journals stacked at the edge, and looks outside of her window. “Bag Lady” is the first song that comes on.
“Bag lady, you gon hurt yo back, dragging all them bags like that… I guess nobody ever told you, all you must hold onto, is you, is you, is you…”
Jerome Bradley’s English journal:
It’s sometime in the early 2000’s. Empty McDonald’s cups and water bottles are scattered on side streets. Abandoned Little Tikes and Barbie Bikes outside of lead infested boards of a home. Public housing authorities and water parks that can’t shoot out water anymore. Sounds of children jumping on broken trampolines and swinging on creaky swing sets.
-
I live on Kensington Station and have lived here as long as I’ve been teaching. It can be a quiet but deadly neighborhood. I drive by flowers, candles, crosses, and teddy bears every day before getting to school. I see his name in big letters with an R.I.P in front of it. His Black body on a poster surrounded by clouds. Wings of an angel. My start student lost his life last year and I have never been the same since. My husband thought I was crazy for staying on Kensington Station and believing in my students' potential, but I’ve grown used to the banter.
I teach an African American literature course for my juniors in Mumford High School where I’ve teaching there for 16 years. There are days when I absolutely love my job and days when I don’t—typical teacher attitude. I always tell my students that I want the best for them. That I want them to not the stereotypes that the white man has created for them. I want them to love their Blackness and their roots as much as I love mine.
We have been studying Roots by Alex Haley for the past two weeks, a classic storytelling of the journey of our descendants from slavery. I asked my students to create a project where they interview their family members and ask them what they remember from their past. If they remember what jobs, schools, or stores were like when they were their age. I wanted them to understand how looking at their family’s roots can help shape them into who they are today.
My classroom has a mix of all kinds of students’, but they tend to stay separated. My Asian American students stay in the right corner. They contribute to class discussion sometimes, but they often stay silent on their iPods. My Latino students stay in the left corner. They talk but only with each other during group discussions. And then you have my pride and joys. My Black students, they stay in the front. They do all kinds of things, draw, throw paper airplanes, make pencil beats on the desk. Loud as they can be but they’re my babies. They’re all my babies.
There are a few students who always give me a difficult time in class, especially these three that have been close ever since the killing of “him”. I ponder daily on their discussions in class.
I can’t do this.
What’s holding you back Jerome?
I’m not sure…
He only saying that cuz he ain’t forreal got family like that, that’s why.
Well of course he must have someone, Aaron.
Ms. Johnson, why you always gotta give us these assignments that always have to deal with how black we are like I get it, it’s an “African American class” and all but you know I don’t really associate myself with that stuff anyways. I don’t even forreal live on this side of town. I just don’t get it, Ms. Johnson.
Miss. Syreeta, your Blackness is not defined by area code or street address, let’s get one thing clear.
Now Jerome, you can see me after class and I’ll help you figure out something, okay hun?
He got up from his desk, stared at me dead in my eyes, and then leaves without any explanation. Aaron followed him and Syreeta put her head down on the table.
-
I know all of my kids fairly well. I know that Aaron lives in a household full of six sisters and two brothers and takes care of all of them because grandmamma is sick. He has beautiful locks and golden-brown skin. I know that Syreeta has a brother who is in the Old Wayne County jail and she rarely gets to see him. She takes hour long train rides to get to school because her parents can’t afford private schooling. Her light skin and long curly hair make all the boys drool. And then Jerome. He’s a star student in my eyes. He resembles “him” a lot. Tall, dark moonlight skin, slender in size. He loves reading Gwendolyn Brooks and James Baldwin. He has a beautiful way to his writing. A pen to paper relationship that I’ve always admired. I’ve kept his journal to read in the mornings when I drink my coffee. Of course, with his permission. Jerome doesn’t think he is talented or has a lot to offer, but he’s very special. Despite the fact that he couch surfs and the only way to make a means for himself is to sell that dope. I know. But I want the best for all my children.
-
Erykah Badu cracks in the background.
“Bag lady, you gon’ miss yo bus, you can’t hurry up, cause you got too much stuff, when they see you coming, niggas take off running, from you, it’s true, oh yes they do…”
Jerome Bradley’s English journal:
I love my city. We take flight and fly over horizons of the sky like birds. We drink Culligan water and we grow tall. We grow tall like the skyscrapers that look down on our city. We grow tall like the water plants. I love my city.
-
Every morning, I sit at my kitchen table and read my students journals or write my own with a warm cup of coffee. My house is quiet. I think about how quiet it is often. I never got to experience the joy of having children run around my house. After three miscarriages I stopped trying. My husband stopped trying too. I try not to reach out to him. I hope that life is well for him though. He got tired of me talking about my students. My children. I knew he wanted children badly. I guess when he ran off with another woman, he got what he wanted.
-
I gave my students roughly a week to complete the assignment. A week should have given them adequate time to find family members and create conversation. I know that it may be difficult for my three students Jerome, Aaron, and Syreeta. But they’re smart kids. I know they’re capable to complete anything they set their minds too. That’s why I push them so hard, especially Jerome, my star student. His intelligence is too good to waste on some reefa for a couple dollars. The kid has serious potential and I am going to make sure that he fulfills every bit of it. Even if I am the only person who tries.
I take attendance at the start of every class. I always know which student is there and which student is not. When a student is absent from my class, I make it a point to call home or drive by their house every time. When I took attendance this day, I knew someone was missing but was so focused on my agenda for the day.
Good morning, class. I hope that you have had time to think about your family and who you are going to interview. Does anybody have any questions before we dive deeper into our Alex Haley text?
Jerome raised his hand slowly.
Ah, yes, Aaron.
Do you hate being Black?
No, I love being Black. I wouldn’t want to be anything el-
Then why do you try so hard to transform us into people that we ain't? Huh? You don’t do that for the Asians and you sure as hell don’t do that for the Hispanics. So why us? Why do you push so hard for us Ms. Johnson to not be the niggas that we are?
I’m not understanding what you’re trying to say Aaron. I only want what’s best for all of you as my Black students. For all my students. I-I-I work hard to make sure you all are groomed and well kempt. I do what I can Aaron to protect you. I don’t want you to end up like “him”
Just say his name, Ms. Johnson.
No, I can’t.
Just say it.
No…
JUST SAY IT.
Fine! I don’t want you to end up like Marcus. There I said it.
Well maybe Ms. Johnson, your pushing is doing too much. I’m gonna be who I’m gonna be regardless of them white niggas.
Syreeta lifted her head from the desk.
And that’s on peeeriooooddddd.
Miss Syreeta, do you have any questions?
No, Ms. Johnson but you know where Jerome’s ugly ass is at? I haven’t seen him all morning.
Jerome… shit.
To see his empty seat made my heart instantly drop. How did I not see that? The thought of him being on the corner of Kensington Station or maybe he couldn’t find a place to lay his head that night, or maybe his bus was too late in picking him up…
The bell rung.
Okay, class, uh you have two more class period before it’s due, uh have a good day.
Aaron and Syreeta stayed after class.
I can’t talk right now, y’all. I need to figure out where Jerome is. Whatever y’all want to discuss, it will have to be at a later time.
Jerome unfolded his arms and got up slightly from the desk he leaned on.
Ms. Johnson, I know where Jerome is at.
Aaron, quit playing with me. I can’t deal with the foolishness today,
No, forreal Ms. Johnson.
If you know where he is then why didn’t you drag him here to school?
He didn’t want me to….
Syreeta, were you in on this too?
No, Ms. Johnson. Aaron just told me as soon as the bell rung. I-I gotta go catch my train.
Aaron, son, don’t you play with me. Where is Jerome?
He slid an address on my desk.
This is all I can give you that he gave me, Ms. Johnson. I need to go pick up my little brothers.
-
Erykah Badu cracks in the background again, but Ms. Johnson turns it down after she reads Jerome’s last journal entry.
“One day, he gon’ say you crowding my space. One day, he gon’ say you crowding my space, so pack light, pack lighhhh….”
Jerome Bradley’s English journal:
Death can be a beautiful thing. I would know because I have had a relationship with it for as long as I can remember. Pick-up basketball games with ghosts and street memorials. Candles and teddy bears lined up in remembrance of him. Home. My brother. MARCUS. My brother… I miss you.
-
I could just hear my husband now saying that I am insane for pulling up to a random address that a student of mine has given me. He said that I was crazy for staying late at school because the child didn’t want to go home yet, for going to home visits to talk with the parents, for providing transportation to not only school and back but to grocery stores and jobs, and for paying for after school activity fees. The lengths that I go for my children will forever be long. I care for mine too much to let them fall within the cracks that the system has created for them I refuse to let it happen, especially for my star student, Jerome.
I soon arrive to my destination and was puzzled to find myself in the heart of the downtown area. I can hear my husband telling me, “I told you so.”
It was starting to get dark and the back alleyways were starting to get difficult to see even with my headlights on and the streetlights. During the night, everybody loves to come to the city to walk around, eat, shop, and get drunk at the bars. Moving bodies were everywhere and I couldn’t pinpoint Jerome’s. A few minutes had passed, and I grew tired of looking. I set my GPS for home until I saw a tall slender figure on the ground. The city lights provided enough light for me to see his face and his beautiful dark skin. It was Jerome. I quickly parked my car and ran towards him.
Jerome! Jerome! Get up! What the hell are you doing?
Ms. Johnson?
Jerome, why are you out here laying in these streets. You could have been snatched up by any ol body.
Ms. Johnson, you wouldn’t understand. Just leave me alone. I don’t need your help. I’m good.
Son…
Ms. Johnson, I’m not your son. See, I don’t know why you keep worrying so much about me. I’m not Marcus. I’m not like that nigga. It’s like you’ve never had kids of your own. Look, I’m fine. Chill the fuck out and mind your business.
I got up slowly, still with my eyes glued to his face, and walked toward my car. Tears welled up in my eyes.
Marcus Bradley.
June 19, 1984-January 14, 2000.
Died due to a drive-by shooting.
I took care of him like he was my own, but he never liked the constant worrying.
He wanted to live his own life, so I let him.
But I should have stayed there… I should have stayed on him…
Shit… why do I keep doing this to myself?