Tyler Johnson Was Here(5)

Writing to him helps me see past it, past the shame, even past his absence sometimes. That helps me stop crying, because one thing I still remember from him—one thing I still replay in my head—is that men don’t cry, and every day I try to remember that. But, man, sometimes that’s just too hard to live by.

He’s five hours away, in a rusty, moldy building halfway across the state, a place that exists in the shadows and mist and ash of the world called Montgomery Correctional Facility, and I haven’t been able to visit him yet. Because Mama doesn’t want me to see him. And on top of that, we can’t even afford the trip. To Mama, the trip to Montgomery Correctional Facility is the distance of Sterling Point to, like, Russia or some shit because it’s a few hours away.

He should be here with us. He didn’t do what they say he did. But because he hung around the men who did, he got the same fate.


DATE: SEPTEMBER 19, 2018

TO: MARVIN D. JOHNSON (MY SON)

FROM: JAMAL P. JOHNSON

PRISON NUMBER: 2076-14-5555

MESSAGE:

Son,

Yo-yo-yo. It’s Daddy.

I miss you more than the stars miss hanging in the sky after nightfall. I hope this letter finds you in a good place, my boy. I take back what I told you about not crying. Crying can free you, son. Crying can make you see past it, past the pain that hurts your growing heart.

The best time to cry is, weird enough, at nighttime—when all the lights are out, and it’s dark, when no one is around to see.

I don’t like it where I am—duh. Haha! Every morning I wake, I’m shocked to be here and saddened that I’m not there… with you and Moms and Ty-Ty. But they say you get used to it by your ninth year. Maybe they’re right. I’ll be in here for at least ten more years, and I can’t wait to see your smile again, son.

I won’t ever get used to the names, the words, the hitting, or the fact that they call me a bad man, a monster. I’ll stain this paper with a tear, so you’ll know I’m there with you, even when we can’t see each other.

Keep writing to me, sonny.

Daddy loves you. Always.

Jamal D. Johnson

Montgomery Correctional Facility

Montgomery, AL



I change into my I DIDN’T CHOOSE THE HOOD LIFE; THE HOOD LIFE CHOSE ME polo and some joggers, and I go to do my chores before it’s time for school. And, man, I’m just too excited to have heard from him to cry right now, but I know I will later. At nighttime.





? 3 ?


Tyler is my somewhat troubled, somewhat gullible twin brother. We were born on June 16 (a day that broke the record as the hottest day of the year), just two minutes apart from each other—Tyler being first. It was a sticky and miserable Saturday, Mama tells us. Dad was there for Tyler’s birth, but he got sick and left before it was my turn. And sometimes, I think maybe that’s just a metaphor for my entire life.

There are two types of twins in the world: identical and fraternal. Tyler and I are in the middle. We look alike in the face but are not identical. I’m slim; he’s not. I’m on the darker side of the spectrum; he’s not as dark. I look a lot like Dwayne Wayne from my favorite show, A Different World, except he had a box cut and I have a low fade, but I even own a replica of Dwayne’s sunglasses; Tyler does not. Tyler and I are synonyms and we go together like salt and pepper, but we’re not at all the same.

Really, though, out of all the shades of black, I got one of the darkest of the family. Tyler got a medium-brown complexion, like Dad and G-mo. But everybody always says we look more like Mama. We got her long, curly eyelashes and her hair that always curls up after a shower. Only thing we got from our dad was his nose. It’s a curse that we used to make fun of each other about over Thanksgiving and other holiday dinners.

Mama’s 1990 Volvo station wagon smells like a blend of cigarette ash, Tyler’s gym socks from intramural sports, and mildewy leather. The seats are ripped from years of wear and tear, holes coughing for oxygen in the roof. And the windows don’t even roll down. All of this and then some is why Tyler and I never look forward to rides from Mama. Especially not to Sojourner Truth High School. It sucks there’s no school bus that comes to our neighborhood.

The ride is about fifteen minutes long, and we’re listening to a local radio station that plays a lot of R&B oldies—Mama’s favorite type of music—and she’s on the phone with her older sister, Auntie Nicola.

Auntie Nicola lives all the way in Indiana, where she used to be a cop before becoming a stay-at-home mom. She was about to be recruited by the FBI, too. That’s how good of a cop she was in corn land. Auntie Nicola just goes to show that not every cop is bad, which can be hard to see sometimes. Mama says Auntie Nicola made enough money to quit and marry some rich black business owner, who’s supporting her and her kids—she real boujee like that.

They change convos, and now they’re talking about the cops around Sterling Point and what happened to Tyler, G-mo, Ivy, and me on our way home from the store. Auntie Nicola is on speakerphone, so we hear everything. “You need to have ‘the talk’ with them again, girl,” she says.

After she clicks off the phone, Mama goes, “When y’all get home today, I’m gonna need to talk to y’all. So best get ready.” And by the sound of her voice, I already know what she and Auntie Nicola are referring to. The talk is not gonna be about the Birds and the Bees. No. This talk is going to be THE talk. The talk that happens far too many times but somehow isn’t enough. The talk that all decent black mothers and fathers give to their children at least once a month. The You-Live-in-a-White-Man’s-World-So-Be-Careful talk. I know she wants to have this talk now more than ever because of what happened last night.