This Is My America(3)

The camera loves him. My stomach twists because I need the interview to bring attention to Daddy’s case, but it’ll take away from Jamal. I hope he’ll forgive me once he realizes what I’m trying to do.

Bring Daddy home.

Alive.

“When did you first start running?” Susan leans forward and rests her hand on her chin. The same way she begins every interview.

“You’re going to have to ask my mama, because I swear I came out running.”

Mama laughs, nudging me, then mouths, It’s true. It’s true.

I chuckle. Mama’s loving every second of this.

“When you’re not running, you’re also working at a local radio station and have your own show Thursday evenings.”

“Yes. I love it. I’m planning to major in communications and media.”

“One day you could be interviewing me.”

“That’s my sister’s thing. I’m more behind the scenes. Audio engineering.”

“Brains and brawn, huh?”

He gives her a modest smile. Susan eats it up.

“Do track stars run in the family? There’s usually more than one. Am I right?”



Jamal swallows, stopping for a millisecond, but I’m sure only Mama and I notice.

“The men in the family have those genes for sure.”

Jamal’s talking about Daddy. Before we moved to Texas, Daddy had his own track glory days in New Orleans. His name kept his hometown business afloat in tough times, with customers wanting to help him out. After the flood, all that was lost. People left, and the local history was forgotten. Life was still hard a decade after Hurricane Katrina, so when Hurricane Veronica hit, we also left for good.

We evacuated to Texas, but Daddy never ran again. During his trial, they said it was his speed that got him all the way across town so quick. Daddy’s fast, but he’s not Superman fast.

I watch Jamal, nervous with how he’ll handle this.

“Well, they must be proud,” Susan says.

“He is.” Jamal hesitates after he says “he.” He looks directly into the camera, and I smile at his secret way of acknowledging Daddy, and his ability to sidestep additional questions is impressive. Jamal’s not going to let this interview go down like that.

I’m both proud and nervous. I bite my lip, regretting that I tried all week to persuade him to use this as an opportunity to talk about Daddy’s appeal. Now Jamal’s guarded, each word carefully crafted to avoid Daddy coming up.

“One thing I love about highlighting you, Jamal, is that you could have chosen to go anywhere in the country, but you chose Baylor. Everyone thought you were going to Track Town, Oregon, or North Carolina. Why Baylor?”



“I’m a mama’s boy. Plain and simple. Got my two sisters over there.” Jamal points to us. “And I can be home in less than four hours if I need to. What can I say?”

“I’m sure your family loves that you’ll be close. Let’s bring them out now.”

Angela leads Mama to the stage, where she sits next to Jamal. Corinne squishes in, and I end up at the edge of the couch.

The hot lights beam down on me. I’m dizzy now, with one thing on my mind.

The thing everyone here is thinking about, the thing that hasn’t been said but that’s boiling near the surface.

“Let’s meet your sister Corinne.”

Corinne’s round face immediately goes blank; her eyes bulge, like they’re about to pop.

“How old are you, Corinne?”

“Seven.”

“You love your brother?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m gonna be real sad when he goes off to college.”

“I bet you are. What’s special about your brother?”

“He’s fast. And…when he packs my lunch, he always leaves me notes. I’m gonna miss that.”

“What kind of notes?”

“Nice stuff.” Corinne pauses. “Like if he knows I’m worried about something or trying to be funny. Like, ‘Smile. I’m watching you, Bighead.’?”



Susan laughs awkwardly.

“It’s okay if he says Bighead.” Corinne shoots me a warning. “Only he can say it, though.”

I chuckle, because she’s told the world her nickname from Jamal, and now he’ll have to triple his notes to her.

“Or on Mondays when I’m real sad, he always leaves me a note like, ‘I love you more than the sun.’ I keep all those.”

Her voice has a heaviness to it no seven-year-old’s should have. The thing that goes unsaid in our family. That missing piece of us that keeps us down because we only see Daddy an hour on Saturday or Monday.

“Tracy.” Susan tries to stay upbeat. “You’re a year behind Jamal. Are you also an athlete? College plans?”

“I used to do track.” I pause, looking at Corinne, and then go for it. “I’m a school journalist and organize Know Your Rights workshops in the community.”

Mama digs her finger into my side. I have to grind my jaws together to keep a smile.

Susan’s face is expressionless before she turns to Mama.

“Mrs. Beaumont, what do you think about your son?”

“I’m so proud of Jamal. Anyone would be lucky to have him. He’s respectful. Dedicated. Charming. There’s no one like him.”