Doors

I thought I was the luckiest boy in the world when I saw my sister come into the house with a White Castle bag. She would hold the bag in front of me out of my arm’s reach, teasingly. I could already taste the warm burgers and greasy fries that I would later drown in ketchup, but she would not hand the bag over until our deal was brokered—could she sneak her boyfriend in the house? I loved it when she babysat me because she was the rebellion that rewarded the white lies I told my mother about the boys she wasn’t sneaking into the house. She would always introduce me to them as her adopted brother because I was, but I guess she felt the need to honestly explain why I was a few shades too dark to be related. Our parents raised us to respect the house and all the rules that came with it, and on that summer day when my mother came home from work, she asked me if my sister had any friends over—I felt compelled to answer honestly: I told her no. I was conscribed to my sister’s world of tattoos and leather vest secrets. Home is what you make it, and it has always revolved around the opening and closing of a door.

Sometimes I question where I get my spunk from, then my thoughts wander to the slamming of a door. In my house, slamming a door was a great way to end a sentence or even a better way to segue an admonishment into an ass whipping. But regardless of its ramifications, I believe I’ve not only adopted my sister’s method of segueing, I’ve mastered it ineffably. I remember her arguing with my mother about one thing or another, but all I could hear was Godzilla thrashing the living room— the fireplace’s mantle cleared of family photos. I looked around the living room finding my favorite picture of her and saw that the glass in the picture frame had cracked-- she had left without kissing me goodbye. Her walking away from the home and family that loved her would become cyclical. There were no doors slamming that day.

Lying in my bed one night, I questioned why my sister couldn’t be like the sisters on T.V. Why couldn’t I go to her house in the suburbs when I needed to get away, but I instead ended up knocking on a project door to play with kids who didn't know Mommy? But why was it that I felt that this was the safest place in the world when shootouts were far from a sporadic occurrence here? I still wonder about those kids that I used to help with their homework, let them beat me in wrestling matches, admonish when they would come out of their rooms before the weed smoke cleared up, or smack their hands when they grabbed the joint out of their father's ashtray. I always wondered why my sister wasn't doing the right thing when she knew better, was taught better. I was young then, and even though I wanted to make a change, I wasn't physically able to exert my will over their father, and once I stepped out of those project doors, that world was behind me, but also in front of me.

I could remember exactly what she was wearing as my uncle wheeled her out of the terminal at Orlando International Airport–no more than eighty pounds. Ambivalence raged within me–weighing my heart when I saw her. She looked like The Cryptkeeper from Tales from the Crypt, but her eyes still twinkled at our secret conscription. She smiled then cried, and I couldn't resist hugging her skeletal frame and kissing her balding head—I was still her JoJo. The streets were tearing her apart while H.I.V decimated her immune system. Months later, when she regained her health, it was like her world of tattoos and leather vest was beckoning and she walked out of the house door—I was no longer conscripted. But months later, I closed the same door behind me. It's like I've followed in her footsteps because I found myself walking through my friend's project door. I was living with her kids, and their hearts were colorblind to our racial difference (love has that effect), but all I could see was my niece and nephews in their black faces. I always kept an eye on the youngest one because he was asthmatic, and his lungs were under constant assault from the Newport in between his mother's lips. But I believe it was the crack that she rolled then frizzled that was truly taking its toll on him. No matter how much perfume she sprayed, the scent of jasmine could never mask the monster that embedded itself in the apartment. I remember my heart being wrenched when he asked me if I was coming back, when he saw me leaving with my suitcase—I was compelled to answer as honestly as I did my mother: yes.

One night, I remember thinking about the conversation we had—me and my sister. I couldn't say it clearer than I love you when I spoke to her on the phone in a prison booth. She had walked through our house doors once again, her fiancée in tow. She asked me why I couldn't come home now, but all I could say as a reply was: two more years. I guess she never grasped the concept of a prison sentence, or how violent offenders aren't given anything except time although most violent crimes could be linked to drugs in a neighborhood. My sister's body was frittering away through drug use, and I was involved in an altercation with men who wouldn't have been on the streets, myself included, if it wasn't for drugs. But the system needs to rotate its doors in a way that what is apparent, isn't a nexus, only a drug dealer wheeling a Lexus or a fend itching for the next fix. My sister never had it all; her mind, challenged since birth, would never understand the concepts of Time and Prison. I'll wait for you to come home to get married, she told me. I want you to walk me down the aisle—not daddy. The church doors were waiting for me. On the same night, I thought about another conversation we had. I wish I never raised my voice at her while she lay in a hospital bed, or dangled the prospect of returning home in front of her like the White Castle bag she dangled in front of me. I needed her to conscribe to my cause—her health and my hope— but all she wanted was to come home. I still feel that way now as tears come down my cheeks because I never got the chance to tell her that I was sorry before her last breath. Or the tears that I never shed at her funeral because I felt dehumanized by the officers—I shed them now. But when I talked to my mother about our conversation, all she could relate was that my sister felt alive because she talked to me. I could still feel all her kisses and caresses, and remember how I used to wipe my face after, or how I squirmed and ran from her when all she wanted to do was give me love. I wish I could hide behind a bottle, but there is no filter between myself and my memories. Then I wonder why did it take me over a year to come to this point, or is it that my pain has led me to pen this story? And now I remember my mission, and the reason why I will not be going back to a suburb in Orlando when my time is up. I have to walk through those project doors to remind those kids that their mother still lives through the opening and closing of a door.