This Is My America(6)

Tasha’s already out front. “You know I’m not one to judge, but damn, why’d you go off like that?”

My face droops. “Nice to see you, too.”

“I’m surprised your mama didn’t skin you alive on television.”

“It wasn’t that bad, was it?”



“Train wreck.” Tasha slams her palm and fist together. “Full-on collision.”

Damn.

“If I take you to Polunsky, I’m not aiding and abetting, am I?”

“She didn’t answer when I asked.” I shake my head. “I didn’t want to stick around for her to stop me.”

“Come here.” Tasha leans in to give me a hug. “Are you grounded?”

“Probably.”

“Jamal pissed?”

“He won’t talk to me.” I put my head down. “Didn’t even come home with us, so I haven’t seen him since this morning.”

“Jamal’s not the type to hold grudges.” Tasha lets me in, and I enter her living room. “Remember when you washed his white jersey with your red pants?”

“Yeah,” I say, and chuckle. “He rocked that pink for weeks.”

“He’ll forgive you. Just don’t hold your breath if he ever gets another interview. No way he’ll let you in the building.”

“I know.” I let out a small smile that hurts, holding on to hope that Jamal won’t be mad forever.

I follow her down the hallway, passing two tiny bedrooms on the way to the kitchen that’s placed in the back of the house. Tasha only has two window units for air-conditioning, but the long shotgun shape of the house lets cool air flow throughout.

When we get to the kitchen, Tasha’s sister, Monica, is practicing on her keyboard while her mom washes dishes. They all have the same long, thin braids, same flawless dark brown skin and high cheekbones. Folks easily confuse mother and daughters for sisters when they’re out shopping. Only thing her mom’s missing is the large gold hoop earrings.



“Need any help?” I ask Tasha’s mom, Ms. Candice.

“Hey, Tracy.” She gives me a hug. “I’m good. I know you rushing. Tasha, get your daddy’s keys.”

“Daddy Greg! Tracy’s here.” She yells out the kitchen window instead of going out back.

She calls him Daddy Greg because she grew up not knowing what to call him, since he was in prison. She wanted to call him Greg, but calling him Daddy was a requirement. Say it with respect, her mama always said to her. So Tasha did what she do, calling him Daddy, but making it a point to add in Greg.

We used to be on the same page about getting our dads back. The first time Daddy Greg was out, Tasha was excited, but he barely stayed in the house and disappeared days at a time. He had a hard time adjusting, especially when he couldn’t land a job, part of his parole. So back in jail he went. Three more years. Now he’s done all his time, and Tasha don’t trust he won’t mess it all up again. Her tone stays sharp with him. Unyielding. Unforgiving. He spent his time in prison only to come home to a new prison, where he’s free, but serving his own penance through harsh glances and judging looks.



Tasha pounces on Monica’s keyboard and starts singing off-key.

“Stop.” Monica pulls it back toward her, then gives me a nod. “Hey, Tracy.”

I nod back.

“Tasha, quit playing around,” Ms. Candice says. “You know you can’t hold no tune, so just leave it for your sister.”

“Damn, Mama, why you gotta say it with your chest like that? Can’t a girl dream? Be the next superstar. Try out for one of those talent shows.”

“You love to sing, baby. Got a real nice voice.”

Tasha smiles.

“But you ain’t no Whitney Houston.”

“Ain’t nobody trying to be Whitney, Mama.”

“What you want me to say. Beyoncé? Come on now. You best focus on school. Be a business major. Accountant, I say, because you always up in my business. Checking my wallet.”

I let out my first hearty laugh since before the Susan Touric interview. Glad I chose to come see Tasha and not lock myself in my room, holding my breath every time someone comes up the stairs.

“That’s the problem with this generation, going on these reality shows because someone didn’t knock some sense into them before they get on the screen and have their dream snatched on live television.”

“That’s cold, Ma.” Tasha crosses her arms. Then scowls at Daddy Greg as he enters, joining in naming all the careers she should try that require no musical talent.



When things finally die down, Daddy Greg hands over his keys and turns to me. “How’s ‘Tracy’s Corner’?”

“Good,” I say. “The column is getting popular. Readers are up.”

“Most popular with Black folks,” Tasha says. “The rest hate-read. You know them white kids don’t like hearing about Black Lives Matter each week.”

“That’s their problem. And they’re about to be big mad next year when I’m setting up feature stories.”

“Let me guess,” Tasha says. “Court cases and police brutality on every page?”

“Don’t let Tasha give you a hard time,” her mom says. “She stays reading ‘Tracy’s Corner.’?”