Soulacoaster Read online

  UNTILYOU JUST

  CAN’T BOOGIE NO MORE

  In Chicago, you love the sweetness of summer because you’ve made it through the meanness of winter.

  One summer Saturday the streets were bouncing, and the whole neighborhood was dancing to the sound of my brother Bruce’s band. Me and my mother were singing Taste of Honey’s “Boogie Oogie Oogie,” she looking over at me, me looking over at her, smiling all the while, a singing team that had everyone up and happy. Wasn’t always that way, though. There’s a story behind how I got to sing that day.

  My brother Bruce’s band was pretty cool. Bruce played bass, a guy named Pucci was on lead guitar; Pucci’s brothers were also in the band—Al on drums and Terry on synths. They did all-instrumental versions of popular songs. I watched them rehearse on the porch, and I knew the songs that they would rehearse, and I sang along with them in my head. Naturally I wanted to sing with them, but Bruce would always tell me they didn’t want a lead singer. I really wanted to be in that band, but the more I wanted it, the more Bruce seemed to be against it.

  When it came to anything to do with music, I knew my stuff. For example, Bruce and his band would all tune up at the same time. I’d tell them, “If y’all tune up at the same time, by the end of the tuning session, everyone will be pretty much off key. Better to tune up one at a time.”

  “Get out of here,” Bruce said. “What do you know about this stuff, little brother?”

  “Bro,” I said, “I can sing.”

  “We good, Rob,” he said. “We don’t need no singer.”

  I may have been younger, but I knew he was wrong. They played songs like Kool and the Gang’s “Ladies’ Night” that needed a singer. It was just a situation, though, where Big Bro didn’t wanna mess with Li’l Bro.

  But Li’l Bro wasn’t going away.

  I kept bugging Bruce to give me a chance, let me rehearse, let me sing. He kept saying they wanted to do only instrumentals. Finally I went to the boss: Mom.

  When I told her the story, she was really feeling me. After all, she was a singer, too. She told Bruce, “If you don’t let Rob sing in your band, there ain’t gonna be no band!”

  Bruce had no choice. He told me what songs he wanted to sing, and I was ready. Except for one thing—I didn’t know all the lyrics.

  “I’ll have Lisette write the words out for you,” said Bruce.

  Lisette had good handwriting, and she printed the lyrics to the O’Jays’ “Use Ta Be My Girl” and Earth, Wind & Fire’s “Serpentine Fire.” The words were written on a yellow pad. The letters were big; the words couldn’t be plainer. But I had a hard time reading them. I had a hard time reading anything.

  As I stumbled over the lyrics, Bruce and the other guys saw that I couldn’t even make out simple words. At first I tried to play it off like I couldn’t really see them, but they figured it out. I think Bruce saw this as a way to keep me out of the group. I got embarrassed because I thought he might be right—if I can’t read, how am I going to be able to do this? So I stopped singing and left.

  That night our mother saw how upset I was.

  “What’s wrong, baby?”

  I told her about how I’d made a fool of myself.

  “No child of mine is a fool,” she said. “It’s just that music comes easy to you and reading don’t. What you need to do, son, is listen to the records and get the words directly from the singers. Memorize the lyrics from the record. Then you don’t have to read. All you gotta do is sing, and your singing is something no one can make fun of.”

  I did what my mother said. I learned the words from the records and, to make me feel even more secure, she came out there so we could sing side by side. We sounded as good as Taste of Honey. Maybe better.

  Once I learned all the songs, it got to the point where we would plug in and sit on the porch and play and the whole block would turn out with people coming from everywhere just to listen to us.

  Growing up, Bruce and I were close; we’d get into all kinds of trouble together, in spite of the fact that in the beginning he didn’t want me in the band. We’d act up with all sorts of pranks. Sometimes we played with our food. Our mother hated that, but you know how boys are.

  One night Mom fixed us her traditional soul food dinner; Ham hocks, pinto beans, cornbread, and greens. I liked it all—except the greens; couldn’t stand greens.

  When my mother went back into the kitchen, Bruce and I started messing with our food. I stabbed the greens with my fork, flicked them up, and, just like that, they flew across the room and stuck against the wall. Mom didn’t notice them that night, but the next night, with Grandma at the table, she did.

  “Who the hell threw those greens against the wall?” she asked.

  “Bruce,” I said, pointing at my brother.

  “Rob,” said Bruce, pointing back at me.

  “One of y’all is lying,” she said. “I wanna know which one.”

  “Bruce is lying,” I said.

  “I’m telling the truth,” Bruce shot back. “Rob’s lying.”

  “Robert would never lie,” said Grandma, my staunchest defender.

  If she hadn’t said that, maybe I would have confessed, but I didn’t want to look like a liar in front of Grandma. She had me up on a pedestal.

  “Okay,” said Mom, “if that’s how y’all wanna play it, fine. I’ll be right back.”

  She went into the yard and came back with a switch.

  “Don’t whip Rob,” said Grandma. “He’d never do nothing like that. And if he did, he’d never lie about it.”

  “Stay out of this,” Mom told her mother. “This here is between me and my sons.”

  Mom next turned to us and said, “Pull down your pants.”

  “Right here?” I asked. “Right in front of Grandma?”

  “You heard me, boy. Right here.”

  It was embarrassing, but we did it. We stuck out our booties and Mom started whipping us. First Bruce, then me, then back to Bruce, then back to me.

  It got to hurting so bad I finally blurted out the truth.

  “Okay,” I confessed, “I was the one! I threw the greens!”

  “Go to your room, Bruce,” she said. “Rob, you stay here.”

  Before she started whipping me again, I looked over at Grandma and saw the sad look on her face; I had let her down. Meanwhile, Mom was more furious than disappointed. She took that switch and let me have it twice as hard. When she was through, I could barely walk.

  “Now get out of here,” she said, “and get in your room. Think about what you did. Think about what lying got you. And Rob, if I ever catch you lying like that again, I’m giving you an even worse whipping. You hear me, son?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  WILLIE PEARL

  In my book, Willie Pearl gets her own chapter. I want to pay her tribute and, though she’s long gone, I want to tell the world how her spirit entered my soul and helped give me the confidence I have today. I owe her so much.

  Willie Pearl was Mom’s best friend when we lived in the Vista Gardens Apartments. Willie Pearl and her two boys, Bam and Wof, stayed right upstairs above us. The woman had her problems, but she always managed to work and feed her sons. She always kept up appearances. When Willie Pearl came downstairs and showed up at our door, we got happy in a hurry. Her hair was always done up right, her clothes were fashionable and bright, and her smile could cut through anyone’s sadness.

  In our poor neighborhood, she was the first one to buy her kids one of those toy Casio keyboards. Soon as I saw that flimsy little thing, I started fiending to play it. It called to me.

  “Hey, Joann,” said Willie Pearl, “look how your boy is eyeing that instrument. Think he can play it?”

  “I believe he can,” Mom said.

  “Well, let him try.”

  I put my fingers all over the Casio. I wanted to be one of those guys who could sit down and play whatever was on the radio. But I couldn’t. With two or three fingers, I could fool around b
aby chords. I heard simple melodies in my head, and those were the only ones I could manage to play on this toy keyboard.

  I started into this song called “Orphanage,” about a little boy who’d lost his mother and father. The story flowed out of me; I didn’t try for it. It was just there. I found the right notes on the Casio and the right words to tell my little tale.

  “Good God almighty,” Willie Pearl exclaimed, “your boy can sing, Joann. Your boy can really sing! Where’d you learn that song, Rob?”

  “Just made it up.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Oh yes, he did,” my mother said. “Rob has a mind for making up music.”

  “That’s beautiful,” said Willie Pearl. “I believe he’s blessed. Y’all keep this Casio down here. My boys don’t care nothing about it. But your Rob, well, he’s got a thing for it. Rob will use it.”

  “You mean that?” I asked Willie Pearl.

  “Indeed I do, child. Now you go on and write some songs. Write one for your mama.”

  Next day when Willie Pearl came over, I had my new song ready.

  “What’s it called, son?” she asked.

  “'Hard Times,'” I said.

  “And it’s for your mama?”

  “Yes, ma’am, it’s all about Mom.”

  “Hard Times” was a simple melody in a deep blues bag. When I started singing, I could see that I’d tapped a main vein; I could see it in Willie Pearl’s eyes, which were wet with tears.

  “Hard times,” I sang, “she working night and day. Hard times, just to keep the landlord away. Hard times, she does it all alone. Hard times, her love keeps us strong.”

  “Sing it again, son,” Willie Pearl requested.

  I sang it again, and before I knew it, the woman was calling every last person living in Vista Gardens to come over and hear me sing 'bout these “Hard Times.”

  “He don’t sing like no boy,” said Willie Pearl. “Robert sings like a man.” She was showing me off like I was her own son.

  After that, many were the times Willie Pearl would come over just to hear me sing. Some of those times I could see that she was flying high in a friendly sky. Other times she was sober as a church mouse. But every time she made me feel special. In her loving way, she let me know that my songs lifted a heavy burden off her shoulders. It’s a powerful feeling that I still cherish to this day, knowing that something I created can lift burdens and lighten loads.

  As Willie Pearl closed her eyes and sat back with a sweet smile on her face, I let new melodies come to my Angers and new stories come to my lips.

  Willie Pearl—this beautiful woman who let me use that little Casio—inspired me to create.

  “You touch my soul, boy,” she said. “You touch my heart.”

  Her words of encouragement fueled my reaching some of my highest Soulacoaster moments.

  I was smiling at the same time I was

  frowning. I was feeling funny about the

  whole thing. I knew I had gotten a pass.

  I knew I hadn’t earned this diploma.

  HOOPING AHEAD

  My hoop skills got me on my elementary school basketball team. Our team did really well and the school was proud of us. As a result, I had some positive energy moving through me. Basketball was a way for me to feel good about myself.

  Our coach, Mr. Wright, was a smart and honest man. When it came to ball, Coach was all business; he demanded the best from you. He was firm but fair. I wasn’t the greatest player in the world, but I had a great desire to win, my hard work, and my hustle. Coach saw my desire and encouraged it. He knew how bad I wanted to win. I respected his attitude, and he respected mine. He started me as a forward.

  My jump shot might have looked a little funny, but it was falling. I was reading the defense, forcing turnovers, cashing in on fast breaks. The basketball court was where I shined. The basketball court was never the problem. The problem was the classroom.

  Because of my reading, I kept falling further behind. I had ways of covering it up—skipping classes, pretending I lost my book—but I knew that one day it’d all catch up with me. And it did—I was held back a few grades. But because of basketball, I was allowed to slide at school.

  This reading problem hurt my heart so bad because of how I longed to know what was in those books. I had a desire for learning. I had an imagination that drew me to stories. When I looked through picture books, for instance, the pictures seemed to be waving at me. If our class took a field trip to a museum, I became part of the paintings on the walls. If there was a picture of a man on a boat in the middle of the sea, I’d make up a story in my mind: The man had dreamed of an enchanted island where a princess was waiting for him. She was the love of his life, and he was sailing all the way around the world to find her.

  I felt like a bird without wings. I had the desire to fly but just couldn’t do it. I had the desire to read stories but just didn’t know how. To me, stories were the most beautiful things in the world.

  I’m in love with hearing a good story.

  When our class went to see The Black Stallion, the story jumped off the screen into my soul. The movie was so powerful and inspiring to me. A boy and a horse, surviving a shipwreck, stranded together on a deserted island. After they were rescued, they achieved the impossible. The Black Stallion made me believe that I could survive my struggles, that I could overcome the obstacles in my life; things that I didn’t think I could ever do, I believed now that I could.

  We also saw Star Wars. That movie touched me, too. I could relate to Luke Skywalker overcoming Darth Vader. I understood what the Force was about. From that day on, I wanted to believe “the Force” was with me and would get me through those dark days at school.

  During my last year of elementary school, nothing could stop our basketball team. We buried the rest of the league, and we wound up undefeated champs.

  But I also couldn’t be any sadder because there was no way I could graduate with the rest of the team. I had too many F’s. My failures had caught up with me. I was going to be held back in elementary school while the rest of the guys would move on to high school.

  Then came the news. A teacher called me into her office and said it plainly: “You’ll be graduating with everyone else.”

  I couldn’t believe it. I thought she had me confused with another student. I even asked her to repeat it.

  “It’s no mistake, Robert,” she said. “You will be graduating. We all know that you have a strong desire to win. You’ve proven that in basketball. So we’re hoping that when you get to high school, you’ll show that desire in the classroom.

  But you must realize that high school won’t fool with you. If you don’t try harder and make passing grades, high school will kick you out.”

  I thanked her and left, but her words hung heavy over my head; her words were echoing inside my brain when, a week later, my mother and I went to my elementary school graduation.

  I was smiling at the same time I was frowning. I was feeling funny about the whole thing. I knew I had gotten a pass. I knew I hadn’t earned this diploma. All the families were there, everyone happy and proud, aunts and uncles, cousins and grandmas, crowding around the graduates, taking pictures, congratulating, hugging, wishing 'em well.

  As they called out the names of my classmates, I was flashing on all the games we won, the points I scored, the plays I made, the championship, the trophy, the pride that came with victory. I also remembered how the other kids learned to write and read while I couldn’t, flashing on all those times when, staring at words on a page, my eyes went bleary and my mind went blank, flashing on how it felt to get all F’s. In my heart, I knew that I didn’t deserve the diploma. The feeling haunted me and I felt like I was living a waking nightmare.

  When the principal called out out our names, each of us got up to get a handshake and a certificate.

  “Terrence Smith . ..”

  Terrence got up and hurried across the stage where he was handed his diploma.


  “Larry Washington . . .”

  Larry walked over to get his diploma.

  I saw the faces of my fellow classmates and their families. Everyone was filled with pride—except me: I was filled with shame, so much shame that when they called my name, I walked across the stage, took the diploma, threw it into the audience, and ran out of the auditorium. My mother ran after me.

  We were out in the parking lot when she said, “What’s wrong, son?”

  “I don’t deserve it,” I said. “I didn’t earn it. I want to be able to say 'This is mine, I earned this!’ Then nobody can ever take it away from me.”

  “The day will come when you’ll feel that you did earn it, Rob. You just gotta be patient.”

  I remember there were

  40 or 50 kids in the classroom.

  Everyone seemed to be old friends.

  I didn’t know a soul.

  I took a seat in the first row and thought to

  myself: What the hell am Idoing in here?

  I felt like an alien.

  ROOM 126

  Kenwood Academy, situated in the same Hyde Park neighborhood as the world-famous University of Chicago, where President Barack Obama and his wife Michelle once lived, was considered a great high school that attracted the smartest students, kids who wound up going to all the best colleges.

  I got to go there, not because I was smart, but because I played basketball. I was happy for the chance to keep playing with my teammates and to move up to a higher league. I was totally blinded by my past, and I couldn’t see into the future. In my fantasy, I had a shot at the NBA: I felt good about basketball. But I didn’t feel good about high school because I knew eventually everyone would find out that I couldn’t read. I was afraid that I’d lose my shot at pro basketball and my dreams of a better life. I couldn’t go back to grammar school and I didn’t know how I was going to get through high school. I was trapped. I’d never have teachers, like in grade school, who’d keep passing me. Besides, I didn’t want that. I wanted to learn to read like everyone else.