CHAPTER 10 A LESSON BEFORE DYING

This is likely the hardest chapter I’ll ever write. And frankly, I’m not even sure if it fits with the themes of Blackness or queerness or critical race theory in this book—nor do I really care. This chapter is the most important one because there is no solution. There is no happy ending. It’s the hardest lesson we all have to learn about love and loss. No one’s days are infinite, and I can’t keep anyone here forever.

Nanny was never too shy to say what was on her mind. She got to a place in her life where she was simply unfiltered—and knowing her life story, she had rightfully earned that spot. As I’ve said, Nanny grew up as the youngest of thirteen children. When she was a baby, she lost two brothers and a sister to a house fire. Throughout the years, she would lose more brothers and sisters. And although she was the baby, she was always the leader of the group. She didn’t know how not to lead and did a damn good job holding that position down.

By the start of this particular story, we were all teenagers. Well, at least Little Rall, Rasul, and my cousin Thomas were. Thomas was my uncle Bobby’s son that lived in Jersey City who used to visit us from time to time when we were growing up. Thomas was always a joy to be around, and always had some crazy story about what was going on in the projects of Jersey City. He had now moved to Plainfield and stayed with Nanny. I was either twelve or thirteen and Garrett was nearly ten years old at the time.

By now we had left the “Big House” and Nanny had moved to the other side of town, living with my aunt Sarah and aunt Munch again in a split-level house on Lewis Avenue—still in Plainfield, though. The house wasn’t as big as the Big House but it worked just as well. It had a big backyard and side yard and was in a very quiet neighborhood.

We all used to congregate there after school, just like we used to do at the Big House. The teen years were interesting for us because it meant we had no real adult supervision most days. Little Rall and Thomas were put in charge of the house, which meant that no one was really in charge of the house. We would sneak and drink liquor from the liquor cart and refill the bottles with water. My aunts didn’t often drink the old stuff sitting in the cabinet, so they never noticed. We would watch the inappropriate channels on the cable box, curse, and do everything we had no business doing. It was a house of puberty. There were high fives and praise from one another when we started growing pubic hair, the first sign that we were “becoming men.”

Of course, it wasn’t like this all the time, since my aunts and Nanny did live there. We just knew their schedules well enough to find gaps where the shenanigans could take place. This became our home away from home, and I thought it was great that we all got the chance to grow up as brothers rather than just cousins.

My favorite moment at the new house was also one of the most important life lessons I ever learned and continue to practice until this day: how to take care of my elders. It’s something that I wished more of us learned as children—especially Black children, who will inevitably take on the responsibility as their parents and grandparents begin to age.

We were downstairs in the den area toward the back of the house. There was a hallway from that room that led to Nanny’s room. All the cousins were there watching TV, and Nanny yelled, “Thomas, come in here really quick.” Thomas got up and started walking down the hallway to Nanny’s room. He opened Nanny’s door and let out the biggest scream—not one of fear but more along the lines of “OMG!”

Of course, we all being nosy ran down the hallway and saw Nanny standing there in her girdle with her stockings on, needing help to get undressed. I started to laugh at Thomas’s over-the-top reaction while Rall also turned away laughing. But I was used to Nanny like this.

You see, Little Rall and Thomas had just recently started staying with Nanny again, so they weren’t familiar with helping her out like I was. I had assisted my grandmother in getting dressed and undressed for years already, so it was nothing to me. For them, though, it was a shock.

Helping Nanny get ready required a few things. She couldn’t always snap her girdle in the back, so you would sometimes have to help her do it. She was also a survivor of breast cancer—twice—and had to have a double mastectomy, which meant the removal of both breasts. She was a warrior, though, and her battle scars just made her a more confident person. She had these cones that she would use to fill out her bra. I would help her put them on, too, sometimes.

So, we all stood there, and Thomas goes, “Nanny, put some clothes on. I don’t want to see you in your draws!” She responded, “You better get used to it. You might have to wipe my ass one day.”

We all lost it at this point. She was laughing, and we were screaming with laughter. That’s how it always was with us. This was family, and although she was our matriarch, at times she was just one of the boys. “Having fun with her grands,” as she would say. Eventually, the laughter subsided, and I walked into the room and helped her get adjusted. I grabbed her coverall that she would wear once she got home. I believe most call them muumuus.

She thanked me and then got in the bed to watch some TV, and I went back into the other room to hang with my cousins. We all laughed about it some more as the two of them talked about how they were going to have to get used to living with her.

“You might have to wipe my ass one day.”

This was a sermon. These words turned out to be greater than anything I had ever heard from her by this point in my life, and I have been carrying them with me since. There is a lot of truth in those nine words, and I’m not really sure when a family should start talking to kids and grandkids about how one day “the child becomes the parent.” But for us, that was lesson number one, and I don’t think any of us ever forgot it.

It made me reflect on a similar moment when I wasn’t ready for that role. When I was ten, my mother had to have her first brain surgery. I remember that surgery and the months leading up to it and after it very well. She survived the surgery, but the adults didn’t want us to see her like that after the procedure, so we stayed with my grandmother while she recovered. We finally got to see her a few weeks later, when she came home. I remember her having staples in the side of her head and my eyes getting big as quarters when I saw them.

She could see from our faces that we were so scared, but she assured us that she was fine. It was great to have my mother back. But what would my responsibilities be moving forward? What did a ten-year-old know about taking care of a parent? Hell, at that time, I wasn’t really doing much of anything for myself besides pouring my own cereal and a few chores around the house. It wasn’t time for me or my brother as children to take up that role.

My family made the decision that it wasn’t the right time for the child to become the adult. My mother would be out of commission for more than six months and my grandmother and her church friends took it upon themselves to care for her. They cooked and cleaned and made sure that we got to school every day. Nanny practically moved into the guest room to take care of her. My family always seemed to make a way out of no way. Thankfully, my family ensured that us kids got to remain kids.

However, by the time I was fifteen, I would have to take up more of this caretaking role. Nanny’s sister Auntie Evelyn would call on me to help her with her husband—Uncle Lester—who had a stroke and was unable to really do much for himself anymore. She would need me to run errands from time to time and would call me to come and watch him.

It was interesting at first because my aunts and uncles would all suggest that they could watch him, but she didn’t want them to do it. She specifically asked me to help, and I was glad to. I remember my mom checking in with me the first time, like, “You sure you want to do this?” I told her, “Yeah, it’s my uncle. I should want to help take care of him.” She would drop me off over there and I would watch him for a few hours. Auntie Evelyn would pay me, and I would go back home.

It never dawned on me at the time how big a responsibility it actually was. Caring for older human beings is truly a blessing. They are our living ancestors and something they did paved a way for us to exist. It’s the least that we can do to care for them.

Nanny really meant that we may have to wipe her ass one day.

On July 23, 2018, we all sat in the waiting room of Overlook Hospital in Summit, New Jersey. Just days before this, the doctors had said they found a mass on your brain, Nanny. It was a rare form of cancer known as glioblastoma, and they would need to do surgery to remove it. There I was, having just turned in this book with the end of this chapter written so differently. The saying you coined in jest so many years ago was now coming to fruition.

I took a week off in August to come and watch you while my mom and aunts went out of town. I was there to take you to your first round of radiation and chemotherapy treatment. I cooked your breakfast and helped you get dressed every day. Measured out your insulin and gave you your shots three times a day. I even helped you shower and I changed the potty you had by your bed. There wasn’t a single time when I didn’t want to do those things for you. Here was the lesson you taught twenty years ago playing out.

And in this moment, I know why this chapter defines the entire book. There would be no book without you. There would be no stories, and I wouldn’t have turned out to be this person telling this story if you weren’t there to guide my ship. To protect me on my journey from childhood, to adolescence, right on up to being an adult. Even in your darkest and most fearful time, you told me that your only regret was leaving us behind.

If the rest of the world could learn anything from you and this story, it is that love is an unconditional thing. That taking care of someone who took care of you is one of the most powerful and transformative things you could do on this earth. Your saving me will allow me, my words, and our story to save others, because at the end of the day, this is all about storytelling.

I remember when I signed the book deal, I kept imagining this image at the book launch event of me reading a chapter about you and you sitting there in your Sunday best, smiling like you always do. I don’t know if you’re going to even see the finished product.

The lesson before dying still holds true, though. Despite all I’ve been through on this journey as a Black queer person, I still need to find a way to leave here with no true regrets, just as you have decided to do. Although there are still more memories to make, I know our final chapter will one day come.

I sat with you right after Christmas 2018, and we planned your funeral together. There were no tears, though. It was you. In your element. Controlling the things you could still control. Your words that day were, “I’ve accepted that this cancer is going to take me one day. I’m not saying I’m leaving tomorrow, but I just want all my business handled.”

Cancer went to one breast in the ’80s and you beat it. Cancer then went to your second breast in the ’90s, and you beat it again. Cancer then went to your lung in the 2000s and you beat it then. Now it’s in your brain. A place where you can’t fight it. But little does cancer know that you are a godly woman. So the joke is on cancer because one day you will be in a place where it can never get to you again.

I’m controlling the things in my power. I’m putting energy into the things I can change and praying about the rest. And as you said, living my life with no regrets. We still have time left here together. And we will have the memories forever. Thank you.