Soulacoaster Page 8

  “You always are,” said the principal."Robert has failing grades,” she defended, “and there’s nothing more I can do.”

  “Well, there’s something I can do,” my teacher responded, standing up and pointing her finger directly at the principal. “I can go to the press and tell my story. I can tell them that we have a musical genius at Kenwood who is being kicked to the curb. I can tell them the truth. Here at Kenwood, talent has blossomed. And this young man in question is brimming with talent. Your choice is simple. You see to it that he gets help, or I see to it that your treatment is reported far and wide.”

  “Well, if that’s how you see it, Miss McLin.”

  “It isn’t how I see it,” she said. “It’s how it is.”

  Miss McLin saved the day. I got to stay in school.

  It had taken a long time, but the turning point had arrived. Music, not basketball, became my calling. I saw that. I felt that. For the first time, I felt like I was being introduced to my true self. Meeting the real Robert was a profound healing for me.

  I dedicated myself to music.

  I also dedicated myself to helping Miss McLin in any way I could. I owed her everything. She took me all over the city. When they lit the big Christmas tree in downtown Chicago, she had me sing “Joy to the World”; that night I was on the news. When Oprah asked Miss McLin to put together a choir, I was in that choir.

  One day my mother asked, “Why are you spending this time with that woman outside of school?”

  “’Cause she’s getting me on TV. She’s telling the world about me. Last month she even took me to her church—the Holy Vessel—where she’s the pastor. She had me sing, and during her sermon she even talked about me.”

  “How’s a teacher gonna be a pastor, too?”

  “… sometimes God puts people in places where they life because Robert needed a certain kind of schooling.

  “I don’t know. But she is.”

  “Well you don’t need to be going to her church. We got our own church. You’re my boy, not hers.”

  The fact that my mother was jealous of Ms. McLin’s being a part of my life made me love my mother even more. But Miss McLin was changing my life. She was giving me a future. I needed to keep going to her church.

  When she sat down and played the piano in church, for example, she had me sitting on the bench next to her. I was there to turn the pages on her sheet music. I couldn’t read the music, but when it was time to turn, Miss McLin nodded at me. I turned the page perfectly. Everything I did for Miss McLin I wanted to be perfect.

  Miss McLin wanted to take me to Memphis for a gospel convention. She was going to play, and she was gonna have me sing. I was excited; never been outside of Illinois. Never been on a plane. I was going to be able to learn a lot, see a lot, and be with the choir.

  “You can’t go to Memphis,” my mother said.

  “But …”

  “Decision is final, boy. It’s too far from here, and God knows what goes on at that convention.”

  “It’s a gospel music convention.”

  “You don’t think gospel folk party?”

  “But Miss McLin will be watching out for me.”

  “Miss McLin this and Miss McLin that … boy, all I hear you talkin’ ’bout is Miss McLin. I’m tired of hearing about that woman.”

  I kept begging but couldn’t convince my mother to let me go to Memphis. Then one night she came into my room and saw me crying.

  “What’s wrong, son?” she asked.

  “I just gotta go to Memphis, I really do.”

  I could see that my mother was moved by my tears. Finally, she said, “Well, let

  need to be. I know the Good Lord placed me in Robert’s And for that, I’ll always be grateful to God.”

  me just talk to this lady and see what she has to say for herself.”

  Right then I got a burst of joy and confidence. I felt like things were gonna work out.

  A few days later, Miss McLin was in our kitchen, talking to my mother.

  “I just had to meet this person who’s got my son smiling more than I do,” Mom admitted.

  “I know I’ve been taking up a lot of your boy’s time,” Miss McLin responded.

  “You sure have.”

  “And I know how much he means to you.”

  “He means the world.”

  “And all I can say is that no one can or will ever take your place.”

  “You got that right.”

  “You are the person who first inspired his music,” Miss McLin continued, “and I know that for the rest of Robert’s life, you will continue to be his main inspiration.”

  “Glad to hear you say that.”

  “Well, it’s the truth. But sometimes God puts people in places where they need to be. I know the Good Lord placed me in Robert’s life because Robert needed a certain kind of schooling. And for that, I’ll always be grateful to God.”

  “Praise His holy name.”

  “Amen. So what I’m saying is that Robert has a destiny: You’re the main ingredient in that destiny. He was born of your flesh and he contains all the music that God put in your heart. In a much smaller way, I’m also part of Robert’s destiny. I was put here to show him certain things, encourage him in certain ways, and take him to certain places. I believe that Memphis is one of those places God wants me to take him.”

  My mom started to answer back, but didn’t. At that moment I felt her jealousy melting like an ice cube in the noonday sun. Soon they were talking heart to heart, mother to mother. A week later I was on my way to Memphis.

  “So what I’m saying is that Robert

  has a destiny: You’re the main ingredient

  in that destiny He was born of your flesh

  and he contains all the music that God

  put in your heart. In a much smaller way,

  I’m also part of Robert’s destiny”

  IN THE BASEMENT

  In high school, I was this nappy-headed kid. Sure, it helped when I started singing, but I couldn’t really compete with the guys who wore Izod shirts and the fresh Adidas sneakers. They had money, and I didn’t. I came from the ’hood. I used to draw the alligator on my shirt; I’d do it carefully and hoped nobody looked too closely.

  It seemed like ever since I started doing talent shows, pretty girls started paying attention to me. I met a girl in high school named Sujay who seemed to like me for who I was. I didn’t have a crush on her, but she was pretty and sexy, so we ended up getting together. I appreciated how Sujay appreciated me, but I have to say, there was another girl who really got my attention.

  Her name was Billie, and we’re still friends today, but she’d see me only at her mom’s house. She wouldn’t really associate with me at school. Billie was in a clique of girls that ran with the Izod boys. All their boyfriends were basketball players. I knew I didn’t come up to her standards, but she was so beautiful I didn’t even care. I’d meet her on the q.t. if that’s what she wanted. I’d meet her anywhere.

  Then there was Charlene. She sang in the choir and was also a talented dancer. Sometimes she wore leotards to class, sometimes ballet dresses. She was gorgeous. She was the Beyoncé of Kenwood. Whenever I saw Charlene, I heard music. I got shy whenever she came into the room though. She came from a beautiful family—her mom and Miss McLin were friends—and she was talented. Man, I really wanted to get next to Charlene. But she didn’t really see me that way. We were cool, but only as friends. And the only way I could change that was in make-believe. When Miss McLin asked me and Charlene to do a musical together—she did the choreography and Charles Craig and I wrote the music—I made her my girlfriend in the play. That’s how I got to kiss Charlene—on stage, in public. In private, she wasn’t having it.

  When I was 17,I met Chance, who was my older woman. My homie was kicking it with Chance’s sister. She’d always call me “cutie pie” and shower me with affection—I had a deep crush on her. We’d take walks in the park, go to the movies, and talk all nigh
t. I fell in love with Chance, who knew more about lovemaking than me. She had experience, and I was eager to show her that I was mature for my age.

  We were falling deeper in love and learning about each other’s bodies. Soon I thought I knew all there was to know—except, to my surprise, I didn’t. One day at my mom’s house, we were making love in my room when I happened to look down and saw blood. I pulled out and saw that I was covered in blood. I panicked and started crying. What the hell was going on? I asked Chance if she was bleeding too and she said “Yeah.” She tried to explain something but I ran outta the room and went straight to my sister, Theresa.

  “What happened?” I demanded.

  “You ain’t bleeding,” said Sis. “She is. She’s just having her period.”

  Theresa explained how the monthly cycle works.

  I understood, but I also didn’t want to go back there. The blood was too much for me. It freaked me out. When it came to sex, I swore I was done, and I was. I didn’t have sex with another girl for three or four years.

  We were falling

  deeper in love

  and learning about

  each other’s bodies.

  Soon I thought

  I knew all there was

  to know—except,

  to my surprise,

  I didn’t.

  EASY

  One Saturday afternoon when I was in my late teens, I’m hangin’ out with my boys and we’re bored. We decide to go downtown.

  “How ’bout Rush Street, Rob?”

  “Rush Street is cool. Let’s see what’s happening on Rush Street.”

  Rush Street, on the north side of Chicago Avenue, had expensive restaurants, cool night spots, and lots of rich folk and tourists walking ’round, people with money and style. Rush Street was beautiful.

  We got some bus transfers, rolled downtown, jumped off, and there we were, in the middle of the mix—kids from the ’hood, hanging with the rich people, checking out the scene. Rush Street was crowded with tourists, businessmen, and fine ladies. Compared to where I lived, downtown was like a whole new world, and every time I went there, I always wanted to be a part of that world.

  Me and my boys were sitting on a ledge near a fancy apartment building where we had a front-row seat to what was going on.

  I noticed a guy playing guitar had attracted a little crowd. His playing wasn’t great, and his voice was even worse, but people were busy throwing money into his open guitar case.

  That’s when I got an idea. “Hey, man, watch this,” I told my homies.

  I put on my shades, took the Chicago Bulls baseball cap off my head, put it on the ground, and started singing “Easy Like Sunday Morning” by the Commodores, a song I knew everyone loved.

  But with cars and trucks going by, it was kind of hard to be heard, so I sang really loud. I gave my solo everything that I had. Four or five people passing by stopped smiled, nodding in my direction. One guy gave me a thumbs-up and dropped some change in my cap. Another guy stopped and listened to me for a minute or two. Then he dropped in a buck. A woman did the same. Then another. And then still another. Before long, my cap was overflowing. I kept singing and folks kept dropping bills. Before I knew it, I had made close to $75; I had never seen that much money at once in my whole life.

  I took me and my boys to a famous pizza place right in the middle of downtown, called Giordano’s. And though it didn’t look like we belonged there—four or five raggedy, young boys from the projects—I had more than enough money to feed us all, and that’s just what I did. We ate good that day. I even carved my name in the wall, a Giordano’s tradition.

  “Great day, Rob.”

  “Easy day—easy like Sunday morning,” I crooned. “I think I might come back here tomorrow.”

  No one said a word. My friends’ silence gave me the idea that, even though I was treating them to pizza, they looked down on what I’d done. To them street performing was like begging, like being a bum. But I didn’t care.

  Street performing that day helped me discover something new and exciting: I had talent and people were willing to pay for it.

  Next day I went back to Rush Street by myself and made $90.1 was there for a lot longer and my throat got hoarse, but I hung in. I loved it, and so did the passing crowd. It felt really good to sing for people and make them smile. It felt even better taking money home to Mom to help out with the rent.

  “You got all of this money by singing?” she asked.

  “People like the way I sing, Mom,” I said.

  “I knew it,” she said. “I always knew that your singing was good enough for you to get paid.”

  “Are you proud of me?” I asked.

  “Son,” she said, “I couldn’t be prouder.”

  NEICE

  All through my school life, kids made fun of me once they found out I couldn’t read. At home, even my brothers and sister did the same—they’d call me all kinds of nasty names. I would always try to avoid getting into it with my brothers and sister ’cause every time we would get into it, the first thing that they would bring up, no matter who was around, was the fact that I couldn’t read or write or spell. I remember that feeling to this day.

  Lonneice was a classmate who used to sit at a desk directly across from me in sixth or seventh grade. One day I noticed her watching me fumble around with my pencil while we were taking a test. She asked me if I was okay. I said right away, “Yes I’m good,” and started staring intently at my test like I knew what I was doing. But her vibe let me know that she didn’t believe me. I started filling in the circles fast, so that from her perspective it would look like I was acing this test. But, sadly, I was failing it in every way possible. I couldn’t wait for the bell to ring because I was so embarrassed.

  Recess was my only escape at the time. I would sit outside on the school steps and just watch all of the other kids, some playing around, some talking and laughing, some playing sports. I would ask myself: Why me? Why can’t I read and write like everyone else? Why do I start to yawn every time I get ready to read something? Why is it that every time I open a book, confusing music notes start to ring in my head really loud as I look at the letters?

  My mother had sat up with me many, many nights trying to help me learn to read and write. She would even give me spelling bees. She would sit me down and spell out a word. Then she would make me sing the word while spelling it out, after nothing else would work. Not knowing what I was doing at the time, I would always make a sentence out of that word and sing it back to her as if it was a song. She would say: “That sounds great baby, but spell the word.” And that’s when everything would go blank. Blank, blank, blank. That’s when I discovered that darkness did not just come from the flicking of a light switch, but it was also within me. Failing at reading hurt me a lot more than I ever let on.

  So when I met Lonneice, I really appreciated her because she was the only one in school who didn’t look down on me. After that first day in class, I started walking her to her next class. Then we started hanging out during recess. She would always talk about dancing, and I would always talk about being successful. Lonneice never cared about the fact that I couldn’t read. She just loved to hear me talk about how I was gonna take my mom out of the ’hood and move her to some big old house up in the hills. And how the driveway would be filled with all kinds of cars, and my mom would never have a worry or care in the world when it came to having the things that she wanted. Lonneice loved the fact that my dreams of success were built around my mother’s happiness. Lonneice was beautiful inside and out. She had fight brown eyes, long sandy brown hair, and a dancer’s body. She was a ballerina and a singer who understood my music and my talent, just like I understood hers. She could dance in any style, from classical ballet to hip-hop. She had an old soul and was wise and loyal. Lonneice always believed in me. And all of that became the ingredients in the recipe to the big pot of love that I fell in.

  Neice had a grandmother named Grandma Cherrill who called every
one “darling.” When I met her, it was like meeting my own grandmother because she made me feel right at home. Grandma Cherrill loved me, just like my mother loved Neice. Everyone got along like old friends. It all felt like family.

  I remember the first time Lonneice took me home to meet her family. Her mom, Marcella, had some questions for me, questions like: “Where did you meet my daughter? And why did you choose her?”

  “We’re in the same class in school. And no disrespect, ma’am, but she kinda chose me.”

  She also asked me if I had a job, was I going to college, and what was I going to be in life.

  I told her that at the time I didn’t have a job, and I doubted very seriously that I was going to college, but that I was going to be a very successful singer. And Lonneice’s mom laughed out loud and asked me: “How in the hell are you going to be successful at singing or anything else if you don’t go to college?”

  “I’m working on that,” I told her.

  Marcella just continued to size me up as she asked me, “Working on that how?” And even though I heard her, I said “Huh?”

  “How are you working on that?”

  That’s when Grandma Cherrill interrupted, “Darling, he’s not under investigation, so quit asking him all those questions. If Lonneice likes him, then I like him, too, so you all might as well get used to it.”

  And that’s when I fell in love with Grandma Cherrill.

  “He has good manners.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I said. “I try.”

  “We better go or we’ll be late for the movies,” said Neice.

  “What are you seeing?” asked Grandma Cherrill.

  I said, “Beverly Hills Cop.”

  “That Eddie Murphy is a good-looking boy,” said Grandma.

  “He sure is,” Lonneice agreed.

  “If y’all excuse me for just a second,” I said, “I need to use your bathroom.”

  I had to go real bad, but, didn’t want Neice’s mama and grandma to know I really had to go. In order to make them think I was only peeing, I had to get in and out in a hurry. When I got out of the bathroom, Neice’s grandmother said in a voice that couldn’t have been any nicer, “Darling, you better go back in there and fix yourself.”