this Commentary aired today on NPR. you can hear me actually saying it by clicking the npr link to the left.
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I wasn't expecting to see anyone I knew that afternoon. I was leaving my office, talking to my 12-year old daughter about her school day, and as we were getting into the car, I noticed this cat, sitting on a bench, smoking a cigarette. I up-nodded the obligatory "Sup, Blackman," and started to get into my car. He took a long drag on his cigarette and said, "You don't remember me, do you," just as I was sitting into the car. I stood up and looked at him squarely. Looking into his eyes, I used peripheral vision to instantly scan his somewhat skeletal face, receding hairline, and dark mouth. I wasn't sure where I knew him from, but he was...vaguely familiar.
"You did a real good job in that movie playing that preacher." That told me two things: He had seen "The Second Chance," and he had recognized me from it. I still didn't remember him, though. But I'm always thankful when someone thinks enough of me to pay my work a compliment, so I said "I appreciate that, brothaman. Thank you," and started back into the car.
"You still stay out South?" Uh-oh. This cat knew where I grew up? "Yeah, I still stay in the neighborhood." He leaned forward and took another drag before flicking away the cigarette. "What's your brother Greg doing these days?" Wait a minute. This cat knew me. I explained that Greg was now a popular professor at Howard University and that a lot of people in the neighborhood had gone on to success, blah blah--I was trying to buy time to recall something--anything about this face I did not know that would trigger a memory.
"You still don't remember me, do you?" I told him that I remembered him from "out South," only a half-truth. "I started a fight with you when we were at J. T. Moore." J.T. Moore Junior High School? You've got to be kidding me, I thought to myself. I was what, 12 years old? I glanced to my daughter, reflecting on how fast time flies, before looking back up with a half smile. "That was a long time ago, man." I felt bad because I still did not remember.
He then went on to describe the day it happened: the crew he was hanging around, the trouble he was trying to make, the other brothers that gassed him up to jump into my face and start a ruckus in the hallway. Listening intently, I looked underneath the furrowed brow, below the hardened skin, and through the aged expression that looked 10 years my senior now.
And I remembered him.
Vaguely yes, but remembered still. When he finished the story, I asked him how he was doing now. He told me that he had continued on a downward spiral through high school and had recently been released from a stretch in the penitentiary; he told me he was struggling with "some things" right now, and when I noted that he was sitting outside the waiting area of the methadone clinic, it didn't take me too long to put two and two together. We reminisced about the good and the bad-old-days; about the mutual people we knew who were either dead, on "that stuff," or on lockdown somewhere. And we finally came back to the present when he said, "I'm really proud of you, brother."
It almost became an awkward pause. You know, when brothers say things that touch each other, we often don't know how to accept it. But I recovered quickly by saying, "Brother, we're both still standing here today, and in America, that's a big deal. So we're proud of each other."
Then he caught me totally off guard. He rose up and walked toward me, gave me the grip and then he hugged me. I mean, that brother hugged me like I was family. Then he looked me square in the eye and said, "Man, I just want to apologize for starting that fight with you. My life just hasn't been right and I'm trying to do right now. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me."
I couldn't shake the pause this time, because I needed it to get myself together. To "maintain" as we say. I nodded, assured him that there was no harm, no foul, got into the car and drove off slowly. I asked my daughter if she'd heard the conversation. She did. Did she learn any lessons? Yes, the same ones I had: Kids will be kids; You never know the burdens people carry with them through life; But most importantly, it's good to forgive, even when you've forgotten what--or even who--it's for.
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has anything like this ever happened to you? what would you have done?
