How to Slowly Kill Yourself and Others in America: Essays(37)

“It’s a book I’m proud of,” you wrote in the letter attached to the manuscript. “It’s something I needed to read when I was a teenager in Mississippi. Shit, it’s something I need to read now. I’m willing to work on it. Just let me know if you get the vision.”

Brandon responded the same day that he would check it out over the weekend and get back to you with his thoughts.

Four months later, he finally sent an email: “Ultimately, the same problems exist in this draft that were in the other drafts.” Brandon ended the email, “We need more traditional adventure. We need to know less about the relationships between the characters, less racial politics, and more about the adventure. You need to explain how the science fiction works, bro. No one is going to believe black kids from Mississippi traveling through time talking about institutional racism. It’s way too meandering. Kill the metafictive angle. You haven’t earned the right to pull that off. This is still painful. I’m convinced you really do not want to be a real black writer, bro. The success of your book will be partially dependent on readers who have a different sensibility than your intended audience…”

Still too ashamed to really reckon with your disease or your failures, and too cowardly to own your decisions, you stretched your legs out on the floor of your living room and cried your eyes out. After crying, laughing, and wondering if love really could save all the people public policy forgot, you grabbed a pad and scribbled, “Alone, you sit on the floor…”

After writing for about two hours, you wondered why you started the piece with “Alone, you…” You are the “I” to no one in the world, not even yourself.

You’ve eviscerated people who loved you when they made you the second person in their lives, when they put the relationship’s needs ahead of your wants. And you’ve been eviscerated for the same thing.

You’re not a monster. You’re not innocent.

You look down at the browning “s” key on your keyboard. You don’t know how long you’ll live. No one does. You don’t know how long you’ll have two legs. You know that it’s time to stop letting your anger and hate toward Brandon Farley and your publishing failure be more important than the art of being human and healthy. You know it’s time to admit to yourself, your writing, and folks who love you that you’re at least the second person to feel like you’re really good at slowly killing yourself and others in America.

“Sorry your reads have been so painful, Brandon,” you start typing. “I want to get healthy. That means not only that I need to be honest, but also that I’ve got to take my life back and move to a place where I no longer blame you for failure. I’ve thought and said some terrible things about you. I’ve blamed you for the breaking of my body and the breaking of my heart. I really believed that you and your approval would determine whether I was a real black writer, worthy of real self-respect and real dignity.

“There was something in my work, something in me that resonated with your work and something in you. We are connected. I’m not sure what happens next. No young writer, real or not, leaves an iconic press before their first book comes, right? Whatever. I can’t put my name on the book that you want written and it’s apparent that you won’t put your company’s name on the book I want read. We tried, Brandon, but life is long and short. I’ve written my way out of death and destruction before. I’m trying to do it again. I think I’m done with the New York publishing thing for a while. I’m through with the editors, the agents, and all that stress. No hate at all. It’s just not for me. I can’t be healthy dealing with all of that. I’ve been cooking up a lot of stuff. I’ll get my work out to my folks and if they want more, I’ll show them. If not, that’s fine. I’m a writer. I write.

“I’m sorry and sorrier that sorry is rarely enough. God gave me senses and a little bit of health. It’s time for me to use them the best that I can. Thanks for the shot. Good luck. I hope you like the work I’m doing. Not sure if it’s good, but I know it’s black, blue, Mississippi, and honest. I’m a not a bro, Brandon. You ain’t either. Thanks again for everything.”

You look up.

You close your eyes.

You breathe.

You look down and you keep on writing, revising, and imagining, because that’s what real black writers do.





Epilogue


My First Teachers—A Dialogue

DEAR KIESE,

I thank God for you. I thank him for the boy you were, the man you are, and the teacher you are becoming.

You have been a good son to your parents; you have been a great grandson and a wonderful nephew to me. What I love the most about you is that you have been a role model for young black men and black women. You have always had the courage to step over, look over, and at the same time, address with courage the wrongs in your life.

I know you have great faith in God. I love it when you call me and ask me to pray for you. It reminds me that your faith in God has not faded because of the evilness of the adversary. Always remember that what the enemy sent for bad, God will turn it for your good if you believe and keep the faith.

I have challenged you to not use profanity because you have such a reign of the English language. I know you can articulate your thoughts without cursing. In this season, you must be a voice of clarity and truth. Never be afraid to share your heart, but I want you to always guard your heart, too. Never be afraid to tell your story, but remember to tell it with grace. Never be afraid to share your pains and struggles, but share them first with God in prayer. Let him guide you as to who is entitled to the most intimate parts of you. I worry that you share with people who do not have your best interest at heart. Please be more deliberate. You will understand one day.