Page 10 of Lost In London

In the darkest of night, I hold those tears up to the moon. Hoping she’d harness its power, a connection so deep that yesterday’s sorrows, she’d become immune.

I hear her heart screaming in pain.

There’s going to be a day when her heart loves again.

But until then I hope that she finds the joy in her smile to keep believing and know that with every tear she lost, heaven will restore and she’ll gain.”

He cleared his throat. “What do you think? I put it together last night.”

My chest constricted and my throat burned from the weighty emotions lingering from his words. I remember two months ago when he came to me asking for help writing a poem. He had to make up his own for his English class but he didn’t want it to be plain. There was also a girl in his class that he crushed on and he wanted it to be about her. Being a lover of poetry myself, I introduced him to some of my favorites – Reyna Biddy and Rupi Kaur.

Wanting to expand his mind more I played episodes from Def-Jam Poetry on Hulu, and he was amazed by the raw and authenticity of the artists. He’s watched all six seasons twice already. If he’s not playing the game with his dad he’s on YouTube watching poetry videos. To know and hear that his old soul liked to create poetry, I’m still blown away.

“I love it, Cash. That was amazing.” It was, though I knew it was about me.

While my relationship with God couldn’t be defined, He was using young Cash and his creativity of rhyme to speak to me. It was hard to process and digest often, but this was our thing. A shared experience between just us two.

“Thank you.” His smile was so addicting. He went from not doing so for a while to now doing it all the time. “Have a good day, London.” He hugged me.

“Lolo, are you ready to kill this city council meeting?” Massey came over skipping.

Since it was her senior year and most of her classes had been completed, she was able to get the assistant principal to sign off on her on-the-job training program which consisted of her shadowing me during the day or working at the family’s clinic. In a few short months, she’d be graduating and she had one hell of an academic resume.

“I surely am but first let’s go get breakfast. Got a taste for First Watch?” I asked, hopping in the passenger seat and letting her drive.

“Ooouuu yes. I want some of their million-dollar bacon.”

Giggling to her going on about her love for bacon, I checked my phone and read texts that made me smile.

My Hope: I want to see you.

My Hope: I miss you.

My Hope: Tacos, drinks, & us?

My Hope: Happy Hour?

Me: I miss you more

Me: I’ll be there. Send me the location.

I prided myself on being an educator to our youth. They indeed were our future. My mother often tells me my intelligence and wisdom came from God because no one else in our family thought on the levels I did. When I was in the sixth grade my American History teacher, Mr. Henry Oliver compared slavery to his grandmother’s afternoon lunch soap operas – boring and irrelevant. My young twelve-year-old mind was disturbed and borderline traumatized.

It was the first time I encountered a racist person.

Never one to hold my tongue or keep my questions to myself, I challenged him on his words. Debated him, bringing in how his pale colonizing ancestors not only robbed the Indigenous people of their land but also did so to other countries. That year I spent more time in the principal’s office than in class. It wasn’t my fault I had parents who fed my reading addiction starting as a toddler with books that ranged from comics to history books, especially Black history.

By the time I ended my middle years and went on to high school I knew I wanted to become a teacher. A history teacher. One thing I hated was how each year that passed the creators of these academic books tried to remove the history of Blacks and the violent crimes done against them. I refused for the struggles of my people to be a drowned memory like the city of Lake Lanier.

“I think you should let us go home early, Mr. Reid. You already know ain’t nobody going to be able to recite no long paragraph after all the food they just ate.” Kamora Banks, one of my favorite students, leaned against my desk smacking on her third or fourth slice of pizza.

“And where exactly would you go, Miss. Banks?” Leaning back in my chair, I tilted my head back to look up at the clock. “The buses won’t start pulling in for another twenty minutes. Am I supposed to let you walk around with no adult supervision?”

The way she looked at me as if to say that’s exactly what I was supposed to do, I could only laugh. “Duh, Mr. Reid. We ain’t gon’ get in trouble. I mean it is a party so half the security guards are on this side of the building.” She had too much sense for her own good.

“Hey, Mr. Reid. Another gift was dropped off for you.” Natalie, my teaching assistant placed a black gift bag on the table near my desk with the other gifts. They were all going to stay right here too. I wasn’t taking anything these people brought me home.

“Ms. Gordon, tell Mr. Reid to let us go home early.” Kamora wasn’t going to stop at all. I wished she put in that much effort when it came to her grades.

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