Under a Withering Sun

Under a Withering Sun

by Chaka Heinze

www.chakaheinze.com

www.awitheringsun.com

Smashwords Edition

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Published by Athanatos Publishing Group

www.athanatosministries.org

Copyright 2013 All Rights Reserved

ISBN 978-1-936830-55-8

Cover Design by Julius Broqueza

By

For my Grandmama Marion Johnson and Mr. Mick who both infused my life with faith and joy, inexpressible joy.

Chaka

Contents

Prologue

Part One: The Wreck

Part Two: Rebuilding

Part Three: Restoration

Epilogue

Prologue

I did it—I didn’t chicken out. I bought my plane ticket and a journal today.

There was a counselor back at the center (which Chris and I lovingly referred to as the cage) whose name was Miss Garfield. The name fit perfectly because her rotund, orange face truly did resemble an overweight tabby cat. But I digress. Miss Garfield once recommended that we keep a journal to gauge our progress. I don’t know if she would call the summer I’m planning progress, but when I thought about it, I knew that I wanted at least one other person to read my story. Life isn’t meant to just fade away without being recorded. What’s the purpose in that?

Maybe, somewhere in these pages, I will finally be able to face the pain head-on. I keep dodging it and dulling it, but you can only run for so long before it overtakes you. Pain is like that; it’s a relentless suitor who won’t take no for an answer. It will overcome your will, and it will have you—it’s only a matter of time.

So here’s my story. I will try to record everything that happens this summer as faithfully as I can. It might not be pretty, but it will be my voice.

Now the question is—do I tell this story in the first or third person? I suppose in the end it will all be left up to the person writing the final draft should this journal ever become more than a place to collect thoughts like unread books collect dust.

Well, it’s time to pack.

Part One: The Wreck

June 5, Saturday

It could be the downtown of AnyCity, USA: same dilapidated old houses, half-empty strip malls and corner liquor stores built when the area was a thriving metropolis—before the haves fled to the suburbs, taking most of their wealth with them. Now only the have- nots are left behind to occupy, legally or illegally, the skeletal structures. Maybe that’s not a fair assessment; perhaps it’s even a bit melodramatic.

There are signs that the area is not entirely devoid of life: a few flowers on a front stoop here and there, former shops converted into the Church-of-the-Risen This and the Church-of-the-Redeemed That. Then there’s the small mom and pop joint on the corner with a few teenagers loitering near its entrance. The girls bat their lashes and boys strut like peacocks; mating rituals initiated, I suppose, from the beginning of time.

In the middle of it all sits the community center. The youth community center or the Wreck, as some lovingly call it, occupies the space formerly held by a major grocery chain that didn’t survive the latest recession. It sports a gym (the hoops even have nets on them) and several small rooms where any young person interested can gather and take a free class. They offer art, dance, theater, music, writing and the Wreck’s crowning achievement; a class on computer basics. They use the four computers purchased with funds raised by some of the aforementioned churches. Now, the Wreck is a thriving establishment and a place where kids eight to eighteen can come and hang out for free, thanks to the guilty consciences of those earlier inhabitants who now live comfortably in their monolithic neighborhoods with names like Crestview Manor and Ivory Tower Estates.

And here I am, newly arrived from a place far away from this one, to volunteer for a sort of teaching job at the Wreck. I say sort of because I’m not actually trained as a teacher. I only just finished my sophomore year of college, but I fancy myself a writer-in-training, and a writer-of-sorts is just what they need to head up their summer program. And it’s only sort of a job seeing as I don’t get paid. But I figure that they’re doing me more of a favor than I’m doing them by allowing me to volunteer. I get to maybe make a small mark on the world, something that says I was here or at least that’s what I’m hoping for.

It’s the reason I responded when I saw the posting for someone to lead a small creative writing class for the summer. Since I have some money in the bank, I paid rent for June and July and set up camp in one of the old brick houses. It was probably a real beaut around the turn of the century, but now it’s divided into several smaller apartments and not much to look at. My home is the smallest apartment tucked away behind the staircase, and except for a few hours during the night when the kid upstairs is home from wherever they take him during the day and running around before bedtime, the place is pretty quiet. Like I said, not much to look at, but at this point I don’t need much. So that’s where I am now, nestled into my little hovel, assessing my day and trying to get this all down in my new journal.

My place came furnished with a bed and a sofa. I don’t mind using other people’s discarded stuff as long as I have covers on it so my skin never comes in contact with the fabric. So, a few pale yellow sheets on the sagging sofa and a matching bed cover with pillows on my bed and this place is downright festive. Two steps from my bed and I’m in my cozy kitchen which has a stove that I swear is original to the house. In the corner sits a small dorm-sized fridge I provided for myself. Another step and I’m in the bathroom with its tiny shower, old sink and a toilet that never really comes clean. The wood floor groans a little when I walk around and the paint is peeling on the walls, but the roof doesn’t leak. That’s something to rejoice in, right? Just call me the princess of silver linings.

The only thing I brought with me, besides my journal and some cash, are two suitcases. My parents bought me a new set of luggage before driving me to college a couple of years back. They’d been so proud to get me settled into the dorms.

Mama had—no, I promised myself I wouldn’t do that. My eyes are blurring a bit and that makes it hard to see the pages I’m writing on. I’m biting my lip now. Maybe physical pain will take my mind off of anything else. I’ve managed to stop the tears from falling, but damn, now my head is hurting like I had a good bawl.

Tomorrow is Sunday and the only day of the week that the Wreck is closed; I think I’ll get together a lesson plan for Monday’s class. Poetry is a positive outlet, so I’m going to lay that on them a little and let them show me what they have. I plan on keeping it painless and sticking with a few of my favorites for inspiration before letting them take it away.

Well, that’s all for now. Good night.

June 6, Sunday

Today was hot, humidity so dense I felt like I was wading rather than walking; it made me feel like I was drowning a little bit. Where I come from the air is dry, and you can walk from here to there without collecting it on your person. And the mugginess here must somehow add twenty to thirty degrees to the temperature. I shouldn’t complain because comfort is not at the top of my agenda this summer. Good thing too, because so far it hasn’t been.

There wasn’t much to see as I ambled around the area today. After eating my small breakfast, I headed out before the sun had a chance to rise farther into the sky, thereby reflecting its intense heat through the damp air (which seemed to serve as some sort of magnifying glass, attempting to broil everything in its path). Did I mention that it was hot outside? Sweat was pouring off my body by the time I walked the few blocks over to the Wreck. And while passing by one of the storefront churches, the undulating gospel music washed over me, and my heart seemed to speed up trying to keep time with the tempo. I picked up my pace and was careful to avoid looking inside the tinted windows for fear that the condemning eyes of the zealous would ignite the guilt which had taken up permanent residence inside my heart. At one time I’d lived among the faithful, but life had conspired to carry me far off the path. Now I existed in a kind of spiritual limbo.

The parking lot in front of the Wreck held only a few cars. I took out my key and unlocked the front doors (and carefully locked them behind me again). There was nothing particularly endearing about the look of the place, but from what I’d learned, it meant a great deal to a lot of local people. The air must have been on the bare minimum because, although it wasn’t damp like outdoors, it didn’t feel refreshingly cool either. The slap of my sandals echoed loudly as I stalked across the linoleum floor past the front office and a few closed doors before reaching my small classroom where I would be teaching a few kids to find their inner poet, or more likely where I would be trying to get a few kids to stay awake long enough to be introduced to a few.

I walked in and looked around the sparsely furnished classroom, glad to see several windows providing plenty of light: life was dim enough, no need for the room to be. There were no desks and only a handful of chairs, but that was okay with me. I’d bought some large pillows from the Goodwill in the hopes of making the learning environment informal. This would be neither an English nor a technical writing course; I was going for a more relaxed atmosphere to inspire the creative juices to start flowing. Writing that made me smile; I’ve always hated that saying. It makes inspiration sound like saliva or snot. I don’t even know where that saying comes from. Maybe I’ll look it up later, probably not though.

It turns out I wasn’t alone. The director, Aaron Parks, peeked in the room to formally introduce himself. He was a thick six foot dude with dark skin and silver interwoven in his long braids. He was solid looking with a blunt, but very kind face. Mr. Parks turned around to introduce me to another guy who appeared to be about college age. I was surprised to see that he looked white; I mean I shouldn’t have been, white people are everywhere. Aaron said something like, Regina Leeman, Damion Martin. We nodded to each other and, boy, was he handsome: tan skin, blue-gray eyes, dark black hair curling around the edges near his ears and a smile that said, How you doin’? I looked him over and then dismissed him; he wasn’t the reason I’d come.

Once my classroom was set up, I headed over to the Mom and Pop for a few groceries to stock my tiny fridge. Then I swam home to write this down, exciting stuff so far.

June 7, Monday

As soon as my alarm clock jarred me awake a knot began to form in my stomach. The knot consisted of approximately seventy-five percent anxiety and twenty-five percent excitement. It took a quick walk around the snoozing neighborhood to clear my head and make it about a fifty-fifty split. Once back in my hole under the stairs, I ate a little cereal and got ready for the day. I was trying to establish a regular schedule. Routines help me to deal with my everyday life. I’m not OCD or anything, but the monotony of relying on carefully cultivated habits makes my life bearable. Deviations, surprises and I don’t get along really well.

By the time I got to the Wreck, a group of boys were already playing basketball. Since class didn’t start until later that morning, I stood leaning against the wall watching. Damion approached wearing basketball shorts, a jersey and a skullcap that hid his hair. I’ll admit it again; he’s extremely attractive. We made small talk: How are you, Good to see you, You ready for this summer and See you again sometime.

Around seven students showed for my class: four girls and three boys, which wasn’t at all disappointing. I’d been hoping to keep the size small and cozy to make it easier for everyone to open up. We began with introductions; basically, since they already knew each other, they introduced themselves to me. I met LaShaun, Dante, Cedrick, Rachelle, Tracy, Benita, and Monique.

I asked the question, What’s important to you? Monique talked about her baby, LaShaun talked about his music, Dante talked about girls and Tracy talked about getting an education. Once the dialogue was rolling along I asked them how they knew those things were valuable to them. Monique didn’t hesitate to answer; she knew her baby was important because she wouldn’t think twice about doing whatever it took to protect her. After a little more pushing on my part to describe how that felt, she explained that without her baby: the sun’s rays couldn’t warm her, words would lose their meaning and no comfort could soothe her pain.

Her response impressed and touched me. I could actually feel what she was saying. My lame response was, Well done.

After class the students were heading to lunch at the diner, next strip mall over. I wanted to hang with them and get to know them better (and had nothing else to do), so I tagged along. The place was jumping with wall to wall kids, looked like a house party up in there. And there was Damion again, skullcap on and smile set to razzle-dazzle. Somehow we accidentally ended up elbow to elbow in line. Good to see you again. I didn’t mind the small talk. Small talk was safe.

Another guy pushed by us. Like a bee to honey, he commented as he and Damion bumped fists.

At least you know I got taste, Damion responded. I smiled on the inside; it was freeing to feel like I was on the outside of that scene. I was more of a spectator than a participant, nothing was personal. I planned on keeping it that way.

He was asking me questions as we carried food to a table filled with kids. I evaded and got him to talk about himself. Most guys love to talk about themselves, he was no exception. He was a scholarship student at the university, basketball scholarship. Born and raised in this very neighborhood, mom lived a few miles away; sister was married and lived in the burbs. Mom was Italian, dad half black, half Mexican. Mom stayed and dad split when he was born. Old story. He worked fulltime and volunteered to teach basketball basics to the kids at the Wreck during his free time. And he played every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night on a team at the Wreck.

When he began to push for my story, it was suddenly time to go. He stopped me as I was about to bolt. Maybe you can watch me play some time.

Maybe you can come to my class some time. That got a laugh.

June 8, Tuesday

Same morning routine. Nice safe routine.

I asked my students what inspired creativity. Their number one answer was pain and suffering, followed closely by love and loss. How does pain inspire? I asked them.

LaShaun was the most outspoken of the three guys in the class.

Well, Teach, it’s like this, he told me, When something hurts you got to examine it to try and figure out what’s going on so you can stop it. You don’t want to keep hurting, so you explore it and express it to get it out. If something feels good, you want to share it. When I pen a rhyme about something, it’s either to kick out some pain or it’s to share something so beautiful that I just can’t keep it to myself, kind of like Rachelle over there. What’s up, girl? Yeah, I’m talking about you. He flirted with his blushing classmate as the other kids laughed and I tried to restore order.

I’m serious when I write that these kids are so bright they make me just want to stand and applaud. But not wanting to act as if I expected less of them, I said something like, You express yourself very well, LaShaun. It was highly professional of me.

I gave them an assignment to bring in the lyrics to a song that they thought was particularly artful and that they thought was inspired by pain, suffering, love or loss. You from uptown, Dante joked. You sound like you white.

I’m only slightly offended. People tell me that a lot. Correcting him,

I said, I sound like a black woman with an education.

He raised an eyebrow at me thoroughly unashamed of himself. What inspires you? he asked. Ain’t no pain and suffering in uptown so it must be love, Damion-love. That seemed to strike their funny bones, and they were laughing again.

Forcing a smile I answered, Pain and suffering are universal. Everyone’s got their burden. Let’s pick it up tomorrow.

When I arrived at the diner for lunch, there he was again. Damion sat his stuff down next to me and I started the conversation with, I’m just here for the students.

Damion smiled at that and didn’t seem the least put off. That must be the black in him, that tenacious, playas-don’t-quit attitude. Aren’t we all here for the kids? he asked. I smiled tightly before turning my back on him and asking Monique if she had pictures of her baby.

June 9, Wednesday

Happy hump day. That’s what my sister and I always began Wednesday with Happy hump day. It’s all