I’ll always remember those times when a group of us went to visit a fellow classmate, Carmen. Her mother often told us stories about spirits and people coming back to life; this was way before we’d ever heard of zombies. Unbeknownst to us at the time, her culture celebrated death and spirits, and her kin worshiped their ancestors. To us teens, we thought ‘Mama Devilme’ was a voodoo priestess or something, but dared not to ask or get on her bad side – none of us wanted her to curse us for life. To us, everything she told us was plausible and made sense! After all, who could make up stories like this?
Carmen’s great-grandparents originally came from Haiti and settled in Louisiana; most of her relatives also lived there. When the families visited, much of their conversations revolved around Voodoo and messages from Baron Samedi or other spirit Barons who ruled the dead. Years later, the 1973 James Bond movie “Live and Let Die” popularized a villain who took on the role of this Baron to scare the locals. That culture held the Barons in high regard, and evenings on Carmen’s porch were our first introduction to Haitian mythology.
We’d all get together at Carmen’s house at least weekly during the summer months before our junior year in high school, listening intently to her mom’s tales. The sun had set and the heat of the day had dissipated. Sometimes a breeze washed over the group, giving us a chill that sent goosebumps up and down our arms and legs or made neck hairs stand on end. She spoke slowly, in almost a whispering tone; the attention to detail created clear pictures in our heads, making it easy for us to follow along. Carmen’s mother spoke reverently of the spirits and sometimes warned us of things not to do. She appeared fearless and sometimes seemed to lapse into a trance. We were in awe, but felt safe and protected in her presence.
For the life of me, I can’t recall any of the stories Mama Devilme told, but I remember being on high alert while walking home. Her tales continued to play out in our heads; both the quiet darkness and fear forced our imaginations into overdrive. Every parked car, tree, and bush served as possible hiding places for demons, spirits and ghosts, so we made a point of scrutinizing them when passing.
The girls in our group lived nearby and split away from us guys within the first two blocks. We then had to cross over the expressway bridge and walk an additional several blocks to get to our homes.
It was usually close to midnight when we left Carmen’s house, and since storytime normally occurred on a weekday, the streets were mostly bare, silent and dark. Only a few porch lights provided a hint of illumination, overtaking the shadows on the sidewalk. The street lights directed a sphere of light downward onto the pavement, providing a brief respite from the dark.
During our walk home, we’d all be deep in thought about Mama Devilme’s stories. Initially, there ‘d be some light chatter when the girls were still with us, but now – fifteen minutes later – one only heard sneakers shuffling on the sidewalk.
I can’t explain it, but this happened every time: one person in our group would think they heard something ominous or saw something hiding in the nearby bushes and would suddenly sprint away. Those remaining had absolutely no idea of what spooked our friend, but within a single heartbeat, we were all following and running for our lives with heads turned every which way, looking for the threat. We’d all run fast and hard, with nobody saying a word. Finally, we’d stop at the end of the block to catch our breath. Each of us gasped for air, bent over with hands on our kneecaps to keep us from collapsing. As we tried to slow our rapid breathing, our heads would turn, looking deep within the shadows behind us for an answer. Once it came, we never questioned each other. If one person thought he heard or saw something alarming, that was good enough for the rest of us. Later – once we felt secure and were thankful that we were still whole – we all laughed about the incident and then poked fun at each other, mimicking the contorted faces of terror we made during the run for our lives. After we calmed down, the trek home continued without further incident.
We followed the same route home every week; guys peeled off as they reached their homes and the rest of us continued onward. It was funny watching them quickly scamper up the stairs and exhibit an exaggerated sigh of relief when reaching the porch.
As it turned out, Wayne and I were always the last two remaining because we lived the farthest away. As close friends in the neighborhood, we made a pact some time ago and agreed to split the difference, so I wouldn’t have to walk so far by myself. We passed Wayne’s house, continuing together for another block to the halfway point between our houses. On a silent signal and nod, we’d split up and run in two different directions to reach home, not stopping until we were inside the front door.
I may have scared my mother on occasion when I barged through the front door, bent over and breathing hard. She’d jump up from her chair with a confused look on her face. “What’s wrong?” she’d ask, the expression slowly changing to one of worry. She’d push past me, then lift the side of the shade and peek out. “Who’s chasing you?”
“Nobody, Mom!” I replied between gasps. “I just left Wayne and wanted to get home quickly.” She frequently didn’t believe me and would continue to look out the window, searching the street for several more seconds.
“You kids are going to kill me,” she scolded, then settled back into her chair, refocusing her attention on the television.
One of those times when I was racing home, I spotted my younger sister and some of her friends chatting on our front porch. I stopped suddenly and sidestepped into the shadows of our neighbors’ lawn where they couldn’t see me. Standing there in the darkness, I attempted to catch my breath and slow down the rapid beating of my heart. My pride wouldn’t allow them to see me in my state of panic. When I got myself together, I stepped back onto the sidewalk and began walking like a great pimp in the night. None of the girls saw me approaching until I was on the walkway leading to the porch; the nearest girl yelped in fright, which visibly startled the others.
“Oh, it’s only my brother,” my sister dismissed. Relieved, the others started giggling.
“Where are you coming from?” she demanded. Four pairs of eyes pierced through the darkness awaiting my response. I recognized their faces from earlier visits to the house. My sister, Christine, was having another sleepover with her twelve year-old friends. All wore shortie pajamas and snuggled up together on the glider. A folding snack table in front of them held a large bowl of Better Made potato chips and four chilled glasses of Vernors “pop” – Detroit’s nickname for soda.
“A bunch of us were at Carmen’s listening to her mom tell stories,” I told her nonchalantly.
“And you walked all the way from her house?” she gasped incredulously.
“Yeah, it’s not far.” I reached into the bowl of chips and grabbed a handful before turning to the door.
“Yes, it is!” Christine declared emphatically. Looking at her friends, she continued, “She lives way on the other side of the expressway, more than a mile away,” she explained and pointed to the west. Christine turned back toward me. “It’s late! Weren’t you scared out there by yourself?” she asked.
I chuckled at the question. “Of what? The boogeyman?” I mused, as the girls looked at one another with saucer-sized eyes.
“Not funny! Somebody could have jumped you!” Christine scolded. “Guys from that street gang, the LaGrand Boys, have been driving up and down the street and have jumped whites for no reason at all. I heard it’s part of their initiation into the gang or something! Just the other day, my friend’s brother got beat with a baseball bat and got hurt real bad!”
“Yeah, I heard about him. He was a dumbass for walking through their territory. At least I know better to stay a couple of blocks this side of their street.”
“I know you can’t outrun a car!” Sis challenged.
“No, but I can jump fences and get away from a car. Remember, this is our neighborhood, and I know some pretty clever hiding places if I’m chased. Besides, if they tried to jump me, I can take care of myself,” I bragged, puffing out my chest and opening the screen door.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Christine called as I walked into the house. Through my peripheral vision, I could see the other girls becoming animated and begin talking all at once. I couldn’t quite make out their conversation and only caught a word here and there: “... brave... wow... I couldn’t...” Thankfully, my act was successful. Had I not seen them when I did, I would have surely been embarrassed by my fear and would never hear the end of it.
On the way to my bedroom, I thought about the gang comment Christine made and shuddered. Who was I fooling? It IS dangerous out on the streets. Along with the LaGrand Boys, street gangs like the Bishops and Chene Gang routinely sought out one another. The Harper Recreation Bowling Alley was only a couple blocks from my home; gang fights erupted periodically in the parking lot on Saturday nights. Handguns were rare at that time, so combatants fought with fists, bats, pipes, chains and knives; blood splotches were often visible on the pavement the following morning. Motorcycle gangs such as the Highwaymen and Renegades regularly scuffled in the parking lots of both the Top Hat and White Castle restaurants on Eight Mile and Gratiot Roads. These were older guys in their 20’s, and once the fights started, an exodus of cars left quickly for fear of damage to their cars or person. Word on the street was that the Purple Gang was still active, but their members were much older and supported other causes.
In hindsight, looking back at my youth, running was always the immediate response to fear. I wondered at what age that would finally stop. My sister and her friends never did find out the truth about “Christine’s brave big brother, John” ... that is, until now.