C_RTWH_EL
By JASMINUM MCMULLEN
in Fall 2017
Sedrick Miles, "Black Girl Dancing," 2017
My grandmother’s house was right next door to my aunt’s house. It was one of those homes that shared a wall, an identical floorplan, yard, and gutter system. All the homes in Jeffrey Manor were built the same. I wondered if there was some connection to the uniformity and the fact the neighborhood was predominantly black. My paternal grandparents had lived there my whole life, thirty plus years. As a kid growing up I lived in apartments with my mom, but many of my summers and holidays took place on Merrill Street. My mother always admired the closeness of my father’s family so she sacrificed some of the time she wanted to spend with me, and I benefited from a different household dynamic which included seeing my two grandparents live in an actual house with its own tree that we called Sammy. The house on Merrill Street was home base for all of us, my aunts Sheri, Wocky, and Shackles, as well as my dad, my sister/cousin Nicky and her children. People on the block didn’t move; the same families that lived there when I was five still live there now that I’m thirty-four. For me, Merrill Street was a place that resisted deterioration. The residents watched me grow up and remembered my name. We were all part of one story.
One Sunday, two summers ago, Shackles, Juice, and I were outside. Shackles, my youngest aunt, had a way of loving you that involved some sarcasm and teasing. She was quick to call you out for trying to act too grown even if you were thirty-four. Shackles was sitting on the porch watching Juice run around in circles. Juice was my sister/cousin Nicky’s daughter which made her a little more like my niece than my “nth” cousin. There she was, moving across the lawn like a rocket, a burst of energy, her braids bouncing along trying to keep up. I wondered if she knew she was beautiful, and I hoped she would love her skin way sooner in life than I had. Shackles kept telling Juice to come sit down before she had to have another breathing treatment. Juice approached the stairs. “But I just want to do a cartwheel,” she said.
Shackles wrapped her arms around Juice and leveled with her. “Let’s sit down and you can do it after a few minutes.” I joined the huddle. Juice looked sad. She just wanted to play like other kids, but I could tell she has been told “slow down” or “not so fast” before and it always ended in a rest period. I don’t remember all of what it’s like being a kid on Merrill Street, but I do remember a lot of play was about learning your limits.
I said, “I can do a cartwheel Juice. Want to see?” Juice looked up at me and smirked.
Shackles said,“Girl you can’t do no cartwheel.” Juice laughed.
“Yes I can do a cartwheel,” I said. Shackles raised her eyebrow at me.
“When was the last time you did a cartwheel?”
I felt like she was calling me a fraud. I wanted to prove it. I found a place in the middle of the front yard.
“I did one a couple of summers ago. It’s something you don’t forget,” I said.
I remembered running through the sprinklers in a one-piece bathing suit in nearly the same spot in front of my grandmothers living room window with Nicky when we were girls. I heard the familiar song of the ice cream truck a block or so down; a tasty interruption if our efforts to argue the case for a couple dollars ended in a Choco Taco for me and a Bomb Pop for her. I could almost smell the summer of 92 before returning to reality. I took off my glasses; which were just frames with clear lenses, no prescription, but I liked the way they made me look studious. Everyone in my family, on both sides, wore real glasses, but I liked the black rimmed square frames because my dad wore them. In my pocket I found my cellphone and handed it off to Shackles for safekeeping. My final preparation involved stuffing my t-shirt into my jeans to anchor my belly and keep my bra from being exposed once I got up into the air. I started to get in position.
“This isn’t going to end well,” Juice said. She covered her eyes and then decided to let just one peek out from her tiny hands.
I raised my arms high above my head and separated my legs, one in front and one in back. With Sammy as my witness, my form was perfect and I went down, all three hundred or so pounds of me. When I felt the grass on my palms, my legs were above my head, and they slapped together. In that moment, I thought, “This is a round off,” and continued my way down.I was on the hem of victory. I expected a perfect landing, but I hadn’t noticed before that the grass was damp. I slipped. My body hit the ground and I bounced. There were a few seconds that I couldn’t account for. The entire time my eyes were closed, and I never saw the ground coming. The impact felt like I had been broken in two. The lower part of my stomach was out of my pants and rolled up like a rug in the grass. I felt fire in my thighs and for a moment I couldn’t move anything below my waist. Fear crept into my mind like a phantom.
“Paralyzed?” I thought.
From the porch, Shackles asked me if I was ok. I lied. Juice erupted with laughter while I lay on the ground with my pride strewn about in the grass. I was under my mother’s watchful eye, always, but a lifetime away from her embrace. Heaven was like that, distant and close. From the porch, Shackles asked again if I was ok, but this time she didn’t wait for my response instead she sent Juice inside to get Sheri. Ms. Brenda from next door came out of her house to investigate. She knew me long before I had breasts.
“I’m just counting the blades grass,” was the best explanation I could offer. She thought it was funny, my being there, convinced that a cartwheel was possible.
Sheri, my laid back and practical aunt, emerged from Granny’s house with Kim, a member of our extended family, and Juice. She was cool and controlled. She was going to assess the situation.
“The grass was wet,” I said. “I should’ve tried this on the concrete.” The latter sounded ridiculous to everyone, including Juice, who was off laughing at the thought of it, but to me it was logical. I tried to collect all the reasons why my perfect cartwheel failed. I blamed the grass, my shoes, and I would’ve blamed the wind and the fact that it was gloomy out if I could prove it.
“Next summer you’ll see,” I said, propped up on my elbows.
“What’s going to be different about next summer?” Shackles asked.
“I’ll lose some weight. I’ll be ready.”
“Girl you can’t do no damn cartwheel.”
A few people came up the street, kids maybe, and I laid on the ground in the middle of the front yard hoping I’d sink deep into the earth. It was an odd spectacle. Ms. Brenda, Sheri, and Kim surrounded me like seagulls over some abandoned fries in a Portillo’s parking lot. I was seized.
“I got it,” I said and pushed through the pain of my limbs crawling with desperation to reanimate.
The ground supported one knee and then the other. I was kneeling in my own impression. My jeans and shirt were damp with the swallowed up souls of grass. I had lain there so long the patch of lawn had yellowed. Somehow I stumbled into a stance and remembered something my mother used to say about getting older and how much harder it is to bounce back. In the yard, I stood, a battle worn soldier basking in the inclement triumph of saving face. Shackles watched as I tried to sell it with my walk. One step forward and the soreness came alive; gnawing my flesh like a teething biscuit.
Grandma’s front porch only had three major steps and one minor at the threshold all covered in green outdoor carpet splitting at the sharp edge of the stairs so the concrete could peek through. Inside, I found the couch and didn’t move for a while. Wocky joined me. She had been napping through the entire incident. Wocky was my most affectionate aunt; she babied me the most and I never outgrew the attention. I knew comfort was guaranteed. Grandma wanted to know what happened, and I just sat there recalling the story and breathing through the pain. Wocky laughed at me and failed at trying to hide it. I was mortified. I wanted some sympathy but mostly I wanted to not sound like I was past my prime for things like cartwheels. Immediately Juice cut me off over this detail and that. She wanted to tell the cartwheel story to anyone who would listen and her version had me sounding like an asshat. She told grandma, her mother, brother, and she even told Shackles and Shackles was there. I tried to tell the real story, but every time I got my hands on it, Juice would fill up with so much enthusiasm she couldn’t help telling the story her own way. I realized the little crumb snatcher hustled me. I could not help but respect the move. The cartwheel story was hers; I had to relinquish it. In our family, there is a lot of love and love is often found in the stories we share. I remember stories told to me before I was able to tell my own. Juice demonstrated her ability to tell a story and preserve it. The experience of being a feature in her story caused me to see her through new eyes. She had a voice. She was fearless in using it. And I knew she would be alright in this world.
Jasminum McMullen is a Sharpie pen enthusiast and daughter of Oak Park, Illinois. Her poems have appeared in CRAM, Journal of Modern Poetry (JOMP), Journal of Ordinary Thought (JOT), and Stella Veritatis. She is currently an undergraduate senior pursuing a BA in English Literature at Dominican University.
