EXPERIENCE: The Disconnected Remembrance of a Black Man

The Disconnected Remembrance of a Black Man

By Isaiah K. Jones

Apple fell pretty far from the tree.

Apple rolled down the hill, rolled away not free.

Apple was found, put back in the ground, and then it became its own trees.

I don’t remember when, and what parts, I stopped remembering. I do remember June 7th, 2008. DCS knocking at the door at god knows what hour. It was brisk outside, I could feel the breeze from when the cops first came in. My grandmother is standing to my right. The two officers, on my left, they’re weighing options.

 

“Mam we can report him for arson, but do you want to press charges?”

“I don’t know, I just want him out of my house!”

Pressure mounts on my chest.

“We could recommend DCS. Child services mam.”

At this point it begins to blur. I had heard those words before. A distant concept I’d not thought I have to worry about. I think that’s when I learned how to disassociate.

I disconnected from the situation for that moment until morning, I done already had my whoopin’.

———

Today I learned my mother isn’t coming to my baby sister’s baby shower. I’ve never been keen on flaunting birth for material gain, but all for the ritual of kinship I am compelled to participate. I’m too broke to contribute to it with a product, though I can perform my recently attained culinary finesse. Even I still feel guilty about not appearing to bring something to the table.

“What the fuck is wrong with her?”

I’m 25 and still do not understand my mother’s decision making.

———

The sun's up. A yellow Jeep is outside the front of the house that looks like the back of a house, but is still, most definitely, the front of the house. Two women sit in our living room, business casual. My tears are dried, but my snot is fresh. 

They’re formally checking if she’s sure about handing me over. Soon enough that became a discussion involving my sisters. It breaks my heart that they were mentioned. I was the only person playing horse shit upstairs as dumb boys do. I’d rather not blame myself, as often advised. But I blame myself. I’d rather be accountable for my actions than believing I wasn’t responsible for them.

I was 11.

———

I feel like being black is built on industrializing our identity. To be so honest and bold with our blackness is a performance done with the best intentions of preserving our heritage. The workers, builders, and broken people of our ancestry laid bare the path to our success. They bled for it. Anything to preserve their life so they could go on to bring on a lineage of perseverance.

As with any people, we have our disillusionments, shortcomings, and pride. Yet, there isn’t one black person I can’t look at and not think about their history.

            How did generational economic impacts generate their kin’s experience? Do you, as a black person, feel the thread that leads to the needle your ancestors used to sew their tarnished clothes back together? Have you felt the connection to the blood on the streets, that which isn’t visible yet heard?

Do you have a disembodied voice in your head that actively reminds you of your values and contributes to your decisions?

I do.

———

Turns out. DCS already had a file on me. My mother gave me up after I was born, and I was in the system until my grandmother heard from them after almost a year.

Interesting.

———

Whatever you heard, you didn’t hear it from me.

I don’t speak unless it’s to be free.

I’m not a slave to the chains of my identity.

Aiming to improve and provide serenity.

To all who will believe in honest energy.

———

I went to film school in Nashville. I’d say film wise, I was near top of my class. I enjoyed directing and writing with great favor. My paramour was sound design and editing. I dabbled with music and electric lettuce.

Dabbling tends to find its way into a hobby as often goes with my personality at that time. Surrounded by like minded artists, we blew smoke and more ways than one. I turned to selling smoke to fund my endeavors and film and the niceties of modern society: Taco Bell, Chik-fil-antigay, and those parties I learned to drink at. Still quite unaware during this time.

I was busted once with a little less than a gram in my dorm room by some narc ass RA. Known for walking through the hallways sniffing. At an art school in 2016. 

We were smoking, and I had an ounce. I was raised better than to be leaving that out.

I failed my psychology class despite it being one of my favorites. I buried myself under the work of several sound design and editing projects, as well as the weight of roles on mine self and my homie’s films. “Pancaked,” as I put it.

Corey Batelan, "The Hit" 2017, executed by many friends and I.

My teacher understood. She knew my history and knew I cared for the class. We had a repertoire, and I had discussed the contradictions in my personality at the time. 

She gave me this document to file for an “Incomplete” so I could retake the class in the summer and get the full grade as well as retain my scholarships. I had gained a full ride from my portfolio, and federal assistance, et al. The papers had to be signed by several faculty members of varying levels to confirm the Incomplete and secure my future. Everyone signed it, and expressed genuine support, except the Dean. 

Now, at this point I will come out and say I was very vocal about the shortcomings of the school. The lack of unity between departments, the underpayment of instructors by subsidizing their gracious work, how  some in educational society assume people who smoke trees are deadbeats, etcetera.

I loved the school and what it provided for me. The use of these tools increased my skills of the trade tenfold. I was honest and open to forum. I expressed remorse for my actions as a stoner given their blatant property policy. I was inclusive and was a leader among my peers as an artist.

And she told me:

“You do not represent the values of this school.”

And refused to sign it, ruining my chances of a third year without going into mounting debt. I dropped out after that semester, with high passing grades in all my classes…except one.

I won best directing for my class the year before and best script there after. I laid great foundations with friends in this establishment. Fuck.

I was 21.

Soon after she and the President were responsible for running it into the ground to sell off the building and lots to another local school. This school had history.

———

My case worker’s name was Anna. My sisters had a separate one. Most of our time was spent together on car rides. She was sweet but subtly unattached as some case workers have to be. Usually to a therapist, sometimes to an event for foster kids.

The third (technically 4th for reasons) home was with this white family. I think the mother’s name was Wendy, and her husband was Dave if I’m recalling correctly. They cared for an adopted adorable down syndrome girl and a girl, a bit younger than I, adopted from China. She took piano lessons and was sweet and a smart ass. The perception of a well to do family was evident. Dave laid linoleum floors and Wendy…well I can’t remember what Wendy did besides care for the house as mothers did. Their bio daughter was a vehement smoker, though she was trying to quit.

I got into a fight in middle school. My reasons were for defending a friend, though the bully in question very much had it coming. I had to sell my Six Flags ticket and lost the opportunity to walk at our “Graduation”. I was more than happy with these terms and was subsequently suspended. I had passed my classes so this was no skin off my back and I still had a cordial relationship with my principles.

I was punished at home. I was sent to the backyard to rake the mountains of leaves shaken from the forest in the backyard. Just southern things.

I had to use a plastic rake because it was all they had. I was no stranger to work so I got to work, enduring my punishment as any honest person would.

The leaves were heavy when they were wet, and I was sent outside any day they appeared dry. By myself I raked while entertaining myself with my thoughts.

Several days into this process the rake broke. They then told Anna I broke the rake on purpose, to get out of work and that I was being lazy. I refused, but my plea fell on deaf and suspicious ears.

I was reprimanded from all parties and therapy involving the subject of my laziness insued. They bought an electric leaf blower and sentenced me back to work on the ton of leaves that awaited me in the backyard.

A couple days, a couple weeks, I can’t remember, later they discovered cigarette butts in their daughter’s room, where I was stationed so I would have my own space. 

She told them it was me despite not having smoked since I was 10 when I tried it with some cool kids, or not being the legal age, much less the time, to buy a pack of cigarettes.

Discussions ensued, my case workers were called, and soon thereafter I was moved from the “home.”

In my next home, the family was given the perception I was lazy, that I didn’t like hard work, and held ill will towards women due to the matriarchs of my biological family appearing to consistently let me down.

I was 14

————-

I graduated as class president. I was also one the head captain’s for my forensics team, a competing acting after school program. I was also the co-founder and captain of the media club, and played several sports to moderate yet comparable ability.

During my senior year I was able to gain my intermediate certification in Adobe Premiere Pro with the help of an exemplary teacher and christian, Chris Holbrook, who got his certification for providing the course, and test, for myself as well as other students interested.

The same year a girl rejected me for the fourth time because their parents didn’t want them to date a black kid. What a pain I had become. Even if it were a lie, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from pondering the notion that they chose my race as an excuse, rather than my pure nerdiness, geekdom, and obscure candor. We did go to my one and only prom together.

Chris Lane taught me the ways of journalism as I invaded his classroom in my down time from online dual enrollment classes, and enduring my jives and assistance with the underclassmen when I occasionally skipped classes.

I was studious, yet whimsical, and the entire school was aware of this.

My foster parents, both white, and a pair I had decided on calling Mom and Dad due to my long stay and genuine development I had gained there, advised against my plans to attend an art school.

They warned I wouldn’t be able to find a stable career, and that struggle was inevitable. That I should get a degree in something more relevant to my local area. That by choosing to be an artist is to reject the knowledge and perceptions I gained in highschool, and I would forsake any future I had going for me. Fundings came to question, and I proceeded with confidence. I was told the work environment out in the world was hostile, I assured them that I was aware.

I stated I was unconcerned and aware of these plights. If I were to accept my passion for artistry, I too had to accept the grim realities of such a passion and the awareness that bares its teeth with it. I wanted to go to California where I also landed a full ride. Several arguments turned into discussions later, I compromised by deciding to attend school at my tertiary choice in Nashville. So I could be near if anything happened or I needed help.

One graduation and a few months soon after, I started attending Watkins College of Art, Design, and Film. I was making $4,000 plus to attend a 400 plus student college in Nashville, Tennessee in 2015.

I was 18.

—————

We’re cleaning this foreclosure. My foster brother and his friend are in attendance to the debacle of ripping up carpets, breaking down wooden furniture, and screaming profanities to music we had no business listening to.

This casual job was common to us and we had worked in the neighborhood a handful of times. I’m coming down the stairs and three steps in I see a flashlight, bright as the sun, pointed at my face, and what I immediately understood to be the barrel of a gun. Terror.

I fall down the stairs with the items I was carrying, being sure to scrape myself on the way down. I land on my ass and stare down the barrel that had been pointed at me.

At the same time as this occurrence, my brother’s friend was taking a deuce with a bucket in the bathroom. The toilet was out of order. His pants are ankle high and he’s squatting for the optimal amount of time for the drop. I believe he gets to  the wipe when an officer is pointing a gun in his face telling him to get down on the ground, dingler and all. Mind you, this is a foreclosure, some of the dirtiest floors in America are found in these places and this one in particular was no exception. He eventually complies after trying the case of pulling his pants up.

My brother was neatly escorted by a stern voice out of the room he was working in.

They were stood up and placed on a nearby wall. My officer takes the precious time to dig his knee into my back as he places my cuffs on and escorts me to the wall of shame as well. I am at this time, the only one in handcuffs.

When I fell down the stairs, I remember feeling the slight sensation of giving up, one I was quite familiar with personally. Once I’m back in my body we’re sitting on the front porch.

The officers have called several cruisers and a k-9 unit to the residence under the suspicion of trespassing. Our father’s number was on the door, with his work and cell phone number, yet they came in guns drawn to catch perps. It was a tip from a neighbor.

My brother explains our work and points him to our father’s numbers, to which they give a ring. He answers, and they explain the mixup. They ask to confirm who are his sons. He points to my brother and his friend, reasonably assuming. My dad says his son is black and the blonde haired blued eyed one is his as well. The officer glances to me, out to the cruisers, then focuses back on the call.

Shortly after they disbanded and we called it a day after getting our work organized for the next day.

I was 17.

______

I live with my Grandmother now. The days are similar and I commit myself to caring for her and her sister. In my idle times I write and jot down business plans.

I left my job in Nashville after they described my excitement of a litany of good news concerning my creative endeavors as an episode of mania. I will say at this time I did not express excitement that often about my personal life, and I knew I had dissociated from my state of life for some years leading up to my rediscovery of self. I walked out after a disagreement (and an agreement when I objectively look at it) and my boss pursued a meeting to discuss my sudden leave.

My former boss told me I would have five minutes to explain myself to him, and my manager who is sitting by as a witness. I get about 2 minutes in before I’m interrupted. At some point I had pointed out that a group of white men trying to describe an overtly excited black man as manic has some looks not well perceived and that I was hurt by it.

He was appalled that I would draw such a conclusion, something I explicitly resisted identifying this observation as. I did go on to explain, despite the numerous things he had “done for me”, he had given me a litany of anxiety, and previously had racist takes and tendencies early on in our professional relationship.

“How dare you! After everything I’ve done for you you say that fucking shit to me?!”

I went on to explain I find it more frightening his response to that statement was anger rather than remorse, to which he stood up and stormed out. Not before saying he would withhold my upcoming paycheck.

“I will make sure you will never see it!”

I slowly begin to cry despite all my efforts. My manager reassures me he can’t do that given it’s illegal and he will make sure I was paid. I said even as that were, the pure fact he’d resort to that statement is a gross overstep in authority, and that any case where I would allow him redemption would be slim. The boss and I also had a verbal agreement to bump my upcoming paycheck due to some hard work I performed practically by myself. This part was most definitely withheld, but given it was gonna be under the table, I had to eat that L.

I just wanted to come back to Knoxville and care for my grandmother who I never really got to know after she had a sickly spell. I don’t want to miss that opportunity and I wouldn’t let anything hold me back from that decision anymore. Everyone, including my own, tried to keep me from seeing my own kin. Little did they know love knows no bounds.

As I write this now, several months following this incident I am still technically unemployed, with no particular vision of working in the standard sense anytime soon. I have the full support of my immediate family members to do so, and I do so on my own time.

I’m thankful for everything people have given and offered to me in the past. Be it good or bad they made me into the man who chases black excellence. Who seeks the elevation of his peers and people.

This world is tough yet beautiful. Words have yet to fully explain my experience and I am learning them everyday.

I must learn them.

That way, I can tell our story.

My name is Isaiah, I’m 25, and I am a proud black man trying to make sense of what goes on in our world. I believe everyday is a new day and each day you can find something of value. You just have to look for it.

I say this despite the fact I still don’t have enough “experience” for the jobs I want.

My story is one of many.