“Hi Mr. Jamison, this is Mrs. Johnson from Lake Lacroix Elementary calling regarding Carter. He tore apart the classroom again. We had a fire drill, and Carter lost it. Cursing and screaming. We need you to come pick him up now. We should also discuss school placement options for the future.”
“Yes. Okay. Yes,” Khalil spoke robotically on the phone. He did a U-turn in his police car, heading toward Carter’s school.
Khalil banged his hand on the steering wheel as he drove.
It is all her fault. Everything is her fault, he moped. Khalil had been thinking about his life and where things went wrong. Phoenix was the common denominator here. Khalil stewed, but he knew that wasn’t entirely fair or even true. He wiped his face with his hand and glimpsed at himself in the rearview mirror. He was just at the school last week for a community event, and now he was back, picking up Carter after they kicked him out.
My, how things change, he lamented.
Khalil thought about his own parents and childhood—the abuse. His parents refused to give up, and they stayed together no matter what. There was a lot of whats. Not for love, but because they shared the same toxic behaviors. Domestic violence was okay if the kids didn’t see. The lights and gas would get shut off, and that too was okay.
Khalil’s parents shared the same scarcity mentalities that held Black people back for so long. The man gets abused at work by the boss-man, comes home, and takes it out on his wife, then she takes it out on the kids. They grew up in dysfunction, and Khalil knew right from the beginning it was no way to grow up. His parents were never there for him.
Co-Co and I didn’t stand a chance, he mused.
Phoenix pretended this part of her life didn’t happen, but he vividly remembered her having a full-time relationship with Jack Daniels. And Courtney did his best to discipline the kids so the bruises wouldn’t show.
I got out, Khalil thought. I left. He loved his family, but he knew it wasn’t healthy for him to keep them in his life.
When he left home, Cocina was only twelve. He turned eighteen and put as much distance between him and his family as he could. He and Cocina spoke every now and then when he checked in. His mom would be drunk, and his dad sounded miserable.
“What now, Boy? Don’t call here begging for no money. You a big-time college boy, you don’t need us,” Courtney spewed. After a while, his dad wouldn’t greet him when he called. He handed the mounted walk phone off to Cocina.
“Yes. School is fine. Mom is fine too. Dad is fine,” Cocina sounded mechanical, almost programmed. Having lived in that household, he knew that feeling all too well. Khalil felt their distance physically and emotionally. Eventually, he stopped calling all together. He heard from CPS a few years later. Cocina was in foster care.
“Physical abuse allegations — substantiated,” a woman read a file over the phone to him. She munched on potato chips when she told Khalil his baby sister was in foster care, light years away. He knew what that meant without knowing what it meant. He had a dorm room, and although he couldn’t take her in, he still felt guilty. This was a cross he would bear the rest of their lives. Cocina reminded him of their past. Harder times. Pain, tears, and strength he didn’t know he needed to have at five years old, then ten years old, then fifteen.
Khalil thought about his wife. Had he isolated himself? Pushed her away and inadvertently made her the default parent? So many questions ran through his mind while comparing himself to Courtney. Khalil didn’t have any good memories of his dad. He wasn’t sure if he blocked them out or if the simple answer was there was no good memories to recount. Going away to college was the best thing that happened to him at that time. He met many people, but he didn’t see enough to keep him there. College hadn’t been some grand, life-changing experience for him like it was for other people. No one told him how to be a college student or taught him about financial aid. There was no career counselor to walk him through the experience. So, he struggled there too, and eventually dropped out. He didn’t see himself as a college, career type of guy, anyway. He wanted to speak up for the little guy, so that’s what he did. He left Tulane University and never looked back. He knew his place in life would not be confined to those four years, so he did the next best thing.
Khalil joined the police academy, where he was proud. Established. He enjoyed making connections with the community and going to Raven’s school when they needed to do “Coffee with a Cop” events. He wore his uniform with a sense of fulfillment. Lake Lacroix’s police department was predominantly Black, and to him, that meant everything. Patrolling and protecting his own community was a tall order, which he intended to manage to the best of his abilities. But look at what was left behind, another voice countered in his head.
Cocina.
When Khalil’s trusted colleagues whispered about his family and made jokes about Cocina, his blood boiled. He didn’t like confrontation, but he also wasn’t there to be disrespected. Khalil would address those who had the most to say in their own time, but first, he had to make changes within himself.
Why did Cocina have so many issues, which made her the talk of the town? Had he helped her the best he could, or did he turn a blind eye to save himself? Khalil understood it at that moment. It was as if something clicked. Blair was killing herself to hold things together while he ran. He laughed it off.
Carter affected the entire household, and while they committed everyone to doing their part—Khalil skipped out, hiding behind work. He intended to be a different man, a better man than his father, but now he saw that he was just running. He was so angry for so long.
It wasn’t like Phoenix didn’t try to make amends. Khalil was short-tempered whenever the topic of their childhood came up. She tried a few times to have that conversation, but he shut it down. They didn’t need to talk about it; they had gotten through it and survived. The conversation wasn’t needed.
Oh, but it was needed.
Phoenix dropped the conversation and didn’t broach the subject again with Khalil. He tried to be strong and take on anything, but somewhere deep in him needed a hug from his mom. And yet, here they were. Years later, Carter experienced some of the same things that Khalil experienced as a child. This made his chest tight.
Khalil felt a sense of urgency. This time was different, and they all knew it. Khalil had to step up more and not idly sit back like Courtney had. He stared at himself once more in the mirror before walking in to get Carter.
* * *
They drove home in silence, both deep in thought. Khalil watched so many families at the station. Older generations of terrible parents, paying the price for their younger choices by having to raise their grandchildren. So many aunts, uncles, cousins, stepping up and fulfilling roles they never intended. Stepping up when others walked out. This was his role now. Stepping up when Cocina ran out. Stepping up when Cocina couldn’t be bothered to parent.
Khalil’s disappointment was heavy. It clung to him like his police uniform he so proudly wore. Now it felt tight.
Khalil swallowed. “Carter, I’m at a loss here. I-I-don’t know what to d—”
“Why do you hate me?” Carter interrupted. His hands cradled in his lap. He didn’t look up as he spoke. Khalil’s eyes widened.
“I don’t hate you,” Khalil’s voice cracked. “I’m just worried. About you. Your mom. . . I’ve failed you, I’m so sorry, Carter.” Khalil found it so easy to talk to the kids at the station. But why did he struggle to find the words with Carter? “You know, when me and your mom were kids, she was always beefing with someone. Even at a young age, we always caught her in some drama.”
Carter’s eyes twinkled. He never heard family stories of his mom’s childhood.
“She used to pick fights with people and then run all the way home. She never got into a fight, but damned if she didn’t start every single one. I mean, you think Usain Bolt is fast, you should’ve seen your mama with three or four people chasing her down the streets-sometimes dogs too! I mean knees to chest, booking it down the street. She would run all the way home and get me. I was young. . .” Khalil chuckled. He remembered it vividly.
“I had to come outside and fight. Every week, it would be someone new or some issue that she had, and every week I had to fight to defend her.”
“Did you win the fights?” Carter’s eyes were wide.
“I sure did. Every single one.” Khalil grinned. “Your mom used to call me a Black RoboCop.” Khalil and Carter laughed in unison, surprising each other. “Then she would just call me her cop. You know, it was her who made me believe I could be a cop in real life.” Khalil chose his words carefully. “Carter, you will win all the fights too. Every single one. You’ve got a cop on your side too. But you have to tell me what you need, so I know how to help. I don’t hate you. You’re my nephew, and I love you. I’ll always love you.”
Carter sat quietly for a while and then looked at his Uncle Lil. “Nah, I don’t mess with Twelve. But I hear you. I hear you, Uncle Lil.”
They sat with wet eyes, relaxed shoulders, and minds open, staring into the front windshield as they drove home together.