Spare A Little Change
By Naje Badu Love
DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG!
5 pm has arrived. Atlanta’s downtown streets are already clogged with traffic. Agile pedestrians waltz in and out of lanes of honking cars. The choo-chug of a Marta train bustling across a rusted, elevated railway compliment the orchestration of early evening congestion. From outside appearance, not a single soul within the swarm of travelers is distracted by the frigid, December chill. A strange but pleasant vibration hovering in the air is accompanied by an ominous arrangement of clouds lingering in the distant horizon. Hard to ignore is Mother Nature’s gray insinuation of oncoming snowfall. Yet, and still, cold weather does very little to detract eager home-goers from navigating heedlessly through the busy procession. Centered in the middle of the rush-hour syncopation stands Rick Power, a six-foot-one, middle-aged man whose appearance embodies a person in dire straits. A faint glimmer of hope also envelops him, subtly suggesting there is a story inside of him that transcends well beyond the state of homelessness. An unwavering determination settled deeply in his eyes is chaperoned by an air of urgency. One might conclude that he is also in possession of a boisterous past. Peeking seductively through his rugged presentation is a set of features that propose he’d once been a striking specimen. Thick bushy eyebrows and a prominently bridged nose accentuate his smudged face. High, scored cheekbones jut sharply from beneath his piercing, root-beer-colored eyes. His matted beard does little to hide an impeccable jawline and chin resembling that of a Greek god.
Oddly, Rick seems to be one of the few amidst the haste who has reached a destination. Rather than zig-zagging between passersby, he is standing still, in the middle of the corner, fixated on an imaginary existence in his mind. His unwavering focus makes it evident that he is the least bit bothered by the world passing by him. After several moments of daydreaming, he shakes his head and desperately braces himself against the brisk, 40-degree breeze. In rhythm with the surrounding milieu, he uses one gloved hand to close a tattered, oversized trench coat, held loosely together by a tethered piece of rope. Without missing a beat, he reaches upward with the other hand to stretch a heavily worn and soiled beanie over his exposed ears. Briefly, he allows his fingers to gently brush over an embroidered logo stitched across the faded, royal purple and gold yarn: Lakers. Proudly, he smiles.
Amongst the Atlanta natives, the beanie is a tell-tale sign that Rick is a Los Angeles transplant. As a diehard, lifelong Laker fan, loitering vulnerably within a metropolis of rival Hawk fans brings about little concern, if at all. The elation glimmering in his eyes as he caresses the beanie was less resultant of the pride held for his hometown’s basketball team. Rather, his elevated joy has been sparked by a memory of the day he received the small gift from his father, Elijah, many years prior. It had been his seventh birthday, the most unforgettable moment of his entire life; the same day he and his father attended their first of many Laker games together. Even in the arctic chill, such a memory impels Rick to shuffle his feet and bounce a shoulder to an imaginary beat. Momentarily, he allows the little boy inside of him to have his way. People were watching. They were always watching. City folks were less likely to give their hard-earned money to a person who was down on their luck and smiling. Thus, his outward expression of glee suddenly subsides.
Rick trades his snaggletooth grin with an expression of urgent necessity. Wearing a sullen countenance varnished specifically for street peddling was a tried-and-true skill he’d managed to develop for survival’s sake. Depending on the time of day, the tactic helped shorten the period of time required to reach his daily quota. An offering of a dollar, or two, or twenty was contingent upon his ability to incite compassion. Prospering by means of begging was a path he’d chosen when the eight-month bout of unemployment became intolerable. It was only through sheer luck that he’d managed to avoid hardship and hunger by befriending a group of professional peddlers who were kind enough to take him under their wings. In light of all he’d been taught, Rick maintains a disposition of vagrancy. Making a slight adjustment in the curve of his shoulders added to the illusion of being downtrodden. A portrayal he’d mastered over the year he’d spent in the streets.
Briefly disrupting his captivating performance, Rick commences shifting from one foot to the other to keep them from completely numbing. Softly, he chuckles with disbelief at the sight of his holey Adidas, now caked and stained with Atlanta’s red clay, peaking from beneath his frayed, bell-bottomed pants legs.
Never, ever would I have imagined…
The devil, who’d insisted upon lingering about the finer details of Rick’s life, makes its presence felt. The task of flicking the tiny, wicked figment from his proverbial shoulder proves to be an onerous one. As reality begins to over-power his ability to stay in character, emotions laden with both guilt and regret threaten to besiege him. To suppress them, Rick makes a desperate attempt to center his thoughts on several nuggets of sagacity shared by his elder peddlers:
You are what you attract.
The profundity of the phrase was always inescapable. Even now, they were too deep to explore. Yet, whenever recalled, the simplicity of the principle made it easier to temporarily wave away dillydallying ghosts of senseless decisions made in the past. Many of which resulted in hurt feelings or a wounded heart, or two, or three...none of which included his own. Lacking care, concern, and compassion for others had governed the tumultuous path he’d traversed, leading him straight to this very moment. No matter how hard he tried to deny it, deep inside, Rick knew that an aptitude for focusing on positive thoughts was not the way to pay off his debt to society, to loved ones, or even to himself. What weighed most heavily upon Rick's spirit were the many calamitous choices made on account of narcissistic intentions over the past two decades. Former years were spent chasing women, indulging in late-night drinking binges, and sniffing coke with friends. Repentance was not enough to undo the pain he’d inflicted on the hundreds – yes, hundreds – of women who’d suffered from his wrath. And, those who refused to be discarded like day-old trash were often bumped out of his reality with an open hand. Women – his daughter, sister, and ex-wife were no exception – were the punching bags he’d used to quiet the mounting sense of inadequacy and frustrations. Washing away the self-loathing thoughts and emotions that arose when recalling how often he’d used women as emotionless objects to satisfy his own selfish desires was now impossible. Just beneath the surface of his abusive tendencies was an utter disdain for failing to reap the rewards of hard work and talent. Back then, an inflated sense of entitlement had made it extremely difficult for him to recognize his own contribution to the way his life was unfolding.
For years, Rick repressed the shame he harbored consequent to his deplorable habit of taking the presence of his loved ones for granted. Pushing away his daughter and his sister, Laiya - the two women he’d considered to be the most beautiful in the world – due to his poor choices, has haunted him every single day of his life. There was no escaping the fact that his daughter was the light of his life. His heart. His soul. His everything. And, for a while, he was hers. Yet, slowly her sentiments began to deteriorate as his womanizing and self-centered dream-chasing grew more intense as the years progressed. Too often she’d witnessed the hair-raising disputes and physical altercations he’d had with her mother, many from which her mother walked away bruised and swollen. Eventually, she found her right mind and left the relationship with him holding a broken heart, closing the door to any possibility of making amends. Since the day she vanished from his life, Rick has lived with the weight of forfeiting the opportunity to see his child grow into the amazing woman he knew she’d become.
Lord, you know how much I miss her. Please grant me another chance to be a better father.
Now, his sister Laiya, another beautiful light he’d managed to dim, was a mirror, a reflection of everything he was supposed to be, everything he seemed incapable of being, or maybe even becoming. Not only did she resemble the type of woman he’d really wanted in a life partner, but she had also found success traveling around the world as a backup singer for Jill Scott, Erykah Badu, and Marsha Ambrosius. Unlike Rick, Laiya evacuated her mother’s womb with abiding gumption to follow her dreams. Their mother, Deja, had taken the same risk years prior to meeting Rick Sr., when she’d elected to migrate clear across the country, from Atlanta to Los Angeles, to pursue the dreams of being an actress and finding her husband. Instead of a dream realized, she found herself in an emotionally turbulent relationship with a man who’d developed an impulsion for mental, emotional, and physical abuse. Rather than fame, she’d magnetized a semblance of her father, who had treated her mother the same way. For Laiya, fulfilling the dream Deja never got a chance to realize was a way to break the cycle of dysfunction. Singing around the world may have been an escape, but it was also a way of leaving behind remedying breadcrumbs for the upcoming generations to follow. Rick was most certainly proud of his beloved sister, but the envy boiling inside blinded him from seeing an opportunity to fulfill the same prophecy in his own life.
For the majority of his life, his most cherished vision of success always seemed to evade Rick. Though he’d come very close to fruition on many occasions, not once had he taken a moment to truly contemplate the uncanny reasoning behind why things never quite worked out in his favor. The possibility that karma had been a factor in the way his life was unfolding never crossed his mind. He was tragically awakened on the indelible night of October 30th, when his hopes of recording his first album were abruptly deferred. He’d been cruising unsuspectingly down the winding bends of Mulholland Drive, making a downtown delivery as a favor for a music producer in exchange for free studio time. Blinded by opportunity, he’d paid a heavy price for neglecting to inquire about the specifics of his cargo. Black skin. Black rims. Black tinted windows. Black guns, unregistered and unconcealed. A black bag containing narcotics is secured in the trunk of a black BMW. Though none of the possessions, including the vehicle, belonged to Rick, they wound up being random pieces of his jig-sawed journey that altered the trajectory of his black reality, all in a matter of seven minutes.
Risking his freedom, let alone his life, for the sake of an impassioned determination to follow in Rick Sr.’s footsteps and become a musical legend in his own right had proven to be a momentary lapse in judgment. Earning his father’s pride was of little concern to the LAPD, especially in an urgent, racially motivated desire to fulfill a month-end quota. Growing up in Baldwin Hills, a hop and a skip away from Compton, increased his exposure to gangs and police brutality. It was a part of the culture. There wasn’t a male friend, cousin, uncle, or member of the Power lineage that hadn’t experienced a run-in with the police. As much as it angered Rick, police brutality never scared him, at least not more than it roused to anger. The idea of being hauled to prison in handcuffs, on the other hand, was something he did his best to avoid. True, there had been an ineludible cause for arrest that evening, yet there was no denying the fact that Rick’s black skin was the accelerant to an already blazing flame. For the white man who owned the BMW, the offense of driving while in possession of a gun and kilo of coke would cost him a citation and a fine. For a man with skin of Rick’s darker hue, this resulted in a brutal beating and a 10-year prison sentence.
Stay focused.
(This is an excerpt from one of Naje’s upcoming book project titled, Risen: An Anthology)
STAY CONNECTED:
Naje Badu Love is the author of Let Go of Your But! A Woman’s Guide to Loving Herself to Full Potential and Possibility (purchase here). As an artist and illustrator, Naje founded Journal Up! (an organization designed to support people in their quest for true potential through journaling). to align her passion for writing, journaling and illustration as a means of connecting with and inspiring people around the globe. You are invited to reach out to her via Facebook and LinkedIn by following the social media details below:
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