From Territories

1

Traffic on East 176^th Street is risky. Baby hair at my neck-back prickles at the fear in Ma and Dad’s voices. Their darting black eyes are glistening marbles that threaten, as they make us swear to look up and down the street two-three times before crossing. Then, their eyes go still. Magnets sucking the three of us into their trance, interrupted only by warnings that crackle and sing.

“Listen, nuh. Unnu cyaan’t jus cross di street like unnu deh a coun-tree. Dem heah Americans . . . especially di mad heroine junky dem, jus lo-o-vah drag race. An dem no care if dem lick down innocent, likkle pickney, like unnu. Naw, sah. Is pure sport fi dem. Unnu mus mind.”

Summertime, our parents patrol the front yard. Ma at least squats down to weed her plot of roses and sunflowers, frowning over her shoulder at the thought of us daring to cross. But Dad just strides. Stretching his long legs five-six paces, back and forth, forth and back across our shoebox yard. His bulging arms fold tight across his chest, matching the stiff scowl creasing his sweat-shine forehead.

“Ple-e-e-ea-ea-se, Ma?”

I screw up my face pitifully and tug her red, gold, black and green dashiki’s crisp, pointed sleeve.

“I promise I’ll stay right by the living room window—right underneath.”

Then, I remind her that I have no choice, I have to play by myself since none of our friends are home, Johnny’s napping and it’s Marie’s turn to help with dinner (even though I know she’s at our desk in a trance, etching tiny motions, enlarging her favorite scene from the latest Fantastic Four).

“Please, Ma. We’ll be eleven in three days. “Pre-teens.”

“No boddah rush-rush so fi grow big, Miss. Ang. Almost is another word fi not quite. And you’re still a child.”

Not for long . . . in a few years we will be teenagers dressing up in go-go boots and hot pants just like Cousin Kim, just like those girls on Soul Train with Afros bouncing and free smiles lighting the way. But for now I can play. Tilt my head to catch a glimpse outside the living room window and see mounds of snow piled up against our gate. I have to get outside.

“Jus doan mek me see yu even tink ‘bout crossin’ dat street by yuself. Y’understand?”

“Thanks, Ma.”

Yank my parka from the hall closet, hangers clang and I race down the steps with my hat jumping off my ears. Tug the front door open over the stubborn shag carpet and a blast of late February wind tears my eyes. I zip up my coat and pull my wool hat all the way down over my ears. A loud sigh transforms into a frosty puff of air that melts into the humming of our block. Blaring car horns from an orange Volkswagen bus and a mint van announce a fight.

“Hey, man! You drive like tha mothafuckin’ pigs!”

“Fuck you, maricon!”

They fly all the way up the block just as the number 27 bus groans and whines to a stop on Soundview Avenue. And the six train’s boiling kettle screech signals its stop so I jump and jangle, jump from the doorstep onto the driveway to join in. The jingle-jangling weight of Dad’s spare change draws down one side of my parka. Same coat from last year and the other pocket’s ripped so I tilt to one side, the heavy change dragging me to the left, lopsided. Ma and Dad say we have to economize, cut back on things cause of inflation. But every night Dad still adds more coins to the growing stacks of quarters and Kennedy silver dollars on his dresser top. And I take handfuls to fill my pockets.

A whoosh of air nothing like winter wind passes through me before I see the thing’s shadow. Not ready yet, not without my magic machete—my bark-stripped tree branch hidden in...