The bell over the door jingled as my final client left. After hours of coloring hair, applying relaxers, and trimming split ends, I was beat, but my work still wasn’t done. I picked up a broom and swept my station as my mom walked over from her booth and flopped down in my chair.
This had been our routine since the day she opened the beauty shop. I never wanted to be a hair stylist. I was working construction and loving every minute of it when my mom asked me to go to beauty school. She had always wanted to own a salon, but she wasn’t going to do it without me and my five sisters. I was nearly forty years old—the last thing I wanted to do was go to school with a bunch of girls half my age. But I don’t say no to my mom. Now, years later, here I was working in her salon.
“What you got going on this weekend?” she asked me.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said absently, placing combs and scissors in the Barbicide jar sterilizer. “I think I might take Aisha and her friends somewhere. Maybe go fishing.”
My youngest daughter, thirteen-year-old Aisha, was always running around with nine of her friends. They’d be outside all day running the streets, playing tag, and doing who knows what when school was out for the summer. I took them to ball games, swimming pools, or bowling alleys whenever I could—mostly to keep my eye on Aisha. I liked knowing what she was up to.
My mom looked at me and nodded seriously. “Yeah, you should do that. You should stay close to those kids.”
I stopped wiping my counter. “Huh?”
“No, really,” she said. “You should do something with those kids, Diane. They respect you.”
“Ma, no they don’t.” I rolled my eyes. “You oughtta be with them. The whole time we’re out somewhere, they be acting up. Even Aisha is acting up. All they do is complain when we go fishing: ‘Miss Diane, this is so boring. Why you making us do this?’” I said, imitating that teenage whine.
My mom laughed. “Oh, I know they fuss at you. But they really do respect you. You should pay attention sometime.”
“I already have, Ma. Those kids don’t listen to me. They don’t listen to nobody.”
My tone said that was that, like her words hadn’t weaseled their way into my brain. But my mom knew better. She raised her eyebrows at me as if to say, “Mm-hmm.”
When Aisha and her friends ran in and out of my house the next day, I took a hard look at them. What did Ma mean by all that? I thought. Why did she say, “Do something with those kids”? I already do plenty. What else is there?
My mom pushed the barbecue into the backyard as I stood back watching Aisha. It was a beautiful July night, perfect for a cookout. We spent most summer nights sitting in the backyard with my husband, James, just talking and grilling burgers or chicken on the barbecue. But tonight I didn’t have much to say. My mind was in a different place. I hoped that my mom wouldn’t bring up yesterday’s conversation.
“Did you think about what I said?” my mom asked.
I braced myself. So much for not bringing it up. “No, I didn’t think about it,” I said, avoiding her eyes. “But I will.”
There was that look again, the same look as the day before.
“Okay then,” she said slowly. “I hope you do.”
I dumped charcoal into the barbecue and lit a match, grateful she didn’t say anything else. Why did she have to bring that up again? I thought. I don’t have time to do anything else with these kids. I don’t want to do this. Aisha’s four years away from graduation. I’m supposed to be free, not running around with somebody else’s kids.
I hoped she would let it go this time, but I knew she wouldn’t. She never lets anything go when she’s serious. And for some reason she was serious about this.
Aisha’s friends had been yelling, “Hey, Miss Diane!” while running in and out of my house since they were kids. We never said much beyond small talk, but Aisha filled me in on the basics. I knew more than a few of them were in gangs. Some of them were selling drugs. Some of them might have been using. Ain’t nothing I can do for those kids, I thought. They got bigger problems than I can handle.
My mom always believed that my sisters and I could change the world—with or without any evidence to back that up. It didn’t matter if we told her we were going to ride a cow down the middle of Michigan Avenue. She’d just say, “You ride that cow good because I know you can do it.” Usually her belief gave me confidence but not this time. I knew how to take the kids fishing or to a show and send them home. That’s it. Ma’s wrong, I thought. This is too much. I’m supposed to be fishing, not trying to fix these kids.
The next day, my mom and I were in the backyard again. My aunt Pearl was there watering the backyard with a hose when my mom broke the silence.
“Pearl,” she hollered over the noise of the hose. “You know, I told Diane she needed to do something with the kids.”
Aunt Pearl nodded, a hand on her hip, the hose still spraying water. “You know what, I done thought the same thing. Diane’s got a way with them kids. She really should do something.”
I threw my hands in the air. Here we go, I thought. This was Mom’s classic move. If I don’t do what she wants, she gets everyone else in the family on her side until I have no choice.
“We all been talking about it,” my mom said.
“Hold up, who’s we?”
“Diane,” my mom said, ignoring the question. “You need to do something. I know you know it too.”
I didn’t protest. I couldn’t get the thought out of my head, even though I couldn’t understand why. But I just couldn’t say yes.
“Ma, I don’t know what to do,” I admitted.
“Well, just do something,” she said. “Think about it.”
I wasn’t going to get away from this. These thoughts that kept running through my head, keeping me awake when I was supposed to be asleep, they were all from the Lord. He wanted me to do something. And He wouldn’t let me off the hook.
I spent the next three days on my knees. God, I don’t want to do this, I prayed. I’m just a mom. I got problems with my own kids. I don’t know what to do. I’m not a role model.
I had my first baby when I was just sixteen. I married the guy, because that’s what everyone said you’re supposed to do. I was too young to know better. Ten years later, I was divorced with six kids. I didn’t even have a high school diploma to help me. I had a few wild years after that. I thought God had forgotten about me, and I was tired of being the good girl—I wanted to know what it was like to be bad. I tried every drug and drink I could get my hands on and even had another baby in the process. But I still didn’t feel satisfied. So I found myself at church again, asking Jesus to give me another chance. That’s when I met James. He was loud and had more hair than I’d ever seen on a man—but he sure was cute. One wink and that was it for me. We were married two weeks later. I wouldn’t recommend that to any of my daughters, but it worked for us. We had Aisha, we settled into Roseland, and life was good. But now I was forty-six. All but one of my kids were grown, and I was just a few years away from freedom. Hadn’t the time for a new calling passed?
God, please ask someone else to do whatever it is You’re telling me to do, I prayed. If for some reason You really do want me to do this, give me a sign. I need some real proof that it’s You before I jump. I need to know You’re going to catch me.
I didn’t get a sign. But I also couldn’t shake the feeling that this was His plan. On the third day—July 15, 2003—I stood at my front window watching Aisha and her friends playing and lifted up one last prayer. God, what could I possibly do with them?
And there it was. His answer: Just listen, Diane. I heard the words in my head clear as day. Find out what they need. You’ll know what to do.
My eyes snapped open suddenly at the sound of Aisha’s laughter. She and her friends were running all over the block playing tag. Most of them were thirteen or fourteen years old—not kids anymore but still not grown. I took a deep breath. I’m going to go out there and ask them what they want to be when they grow up, I thought. I’m not sure where that question had come from. These kids might laugh at me. But before I could stop myself, I had one foot in front of the other, out the door and down the front steps.
“Aisha!” I hollered. I waited for her to come running, but she didn’t look at me. Those kids were carrying on so loud they couldn’t hear me.
I tried again. “Aisha!”
She jerked her head in my direction. “What?”
“Y’all come over here a minute.”
All ten of them shuffled over, forming a half circle around me. They stared, waiting for me to say something.
“What y’all think I’m fixing to do, make a speech?” I joked. I always make jokes when I’m nervous. Luckily, the kids didn’t notice my motive and laid out laughing.
“Oooh, Miss Diane, you bad,” said Senneca, one of Aisha’s friends.
This was my chance. “I was just wondering, what do you guys want to be when you grow up?”
I barely finished my sentence before they all started interrupting each other, calling out at least five occupations each. They jumped up and down like five- and six-year-olds, carrying on like anything was possible. They wanted to be singers and rappers, teachers and lawyers, doctors and nurses. Aisha wanted to be a child psychologist, singer, therapist, and masseuse.
They hollered over one another until I held my hand up. “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” I said, laughing. “Could you maybe choose just one?” These kids still have dreams in them. These streets haven’t taken that away.
After they quieted down a minute, I spoke up again. “If I invited y’all into my house, would y’all come?”
They looked at one another, confused. “Miss Diane, we always come to your house,” Aisha’s friend Jamal said.
“No, I mean like come to my house, get off the street, that kind of thing,” I stuttered.
But they all acted like they understood. “Yeah, Miss Diane, we’d come.”
“Good, good.” I tried not to smile too big. “I’m gonna get y’all off the block.”
DaJuan, one of the boys, laughed. “Yeah, we gonna be the kids off the block.”
We all froze. “That’s it!” I cried. “You’re the Kids Off the Block!”
I herded all ten of them into my living room. They flopped down on my sofas and chairs, barely fitting in that ten-by-twelve room. My mind was a complete blank. They all leaned forward in their seats, some of them drumming their fingers on the arms of my furniture. I couldn’t tell if Aisha was confused or embarrassed.
These kids think I’m fixing to do something big or amazing, I thought. But I have no clue what I’m even going to say.
“Well,” I said, “do y’all want to talk?”
They nodded halfheartedly.
“About what?” Jamal chimed in.
“I just want to know what’s going on with y’all,” I said.
Now they were confused again. “But Miss Diane, Aisha grew up with me!” a girl named Lisa said.
“Yeah,” Richard chimed in. “You know my mom and dad. You know our people.”
“Yeah, you know me!” a few others joined in.
The room buzzed as the kids talked over one another again. Aisha’s loyalty to her mama overruled her embarrassment. “Hey!” she yelled. “My mom’s talking!”
Everyone stared at their shoes, looking embarrassed.
“You right, I’ve heard some things,” I said carefully. “But I want to hear from y’all what y’all are doing. What’s going on at school? What’s going on at home?”
For a few minutes we all sat in silence. Finally, I heard DaJuan’s deep voice. “I’ll go.”
DaJuan had been following Aisha around like a little puppy for weeks. That boy thought the sun shined out of her toes or something. Now was his chance to impress her. I didn’t know much about DaJuan, but I did know he was a talker. Catch him on the right subject and he could yak your ear off. Not only that, but this boy was big for his age and strong as a mule. None of the boys would play around boxing with DaJuan. DaJuan would knock them out cold. If I could get him to be vulnerable, I knew the rest would follow.
DaJuan looked down, avoiding eye contact with the other kids. “I guess most of y’all know my dad is locked up,” he said, fidgeting with the couch cushion. “My mom, she’s working at Burger King or Wendy’s—one of those places over there. But she don’t even make enough to keep the lights on. So . . .” DaJuan shrugged. “I got five brothers and sisters. I got to help.”
He didn’t tell us how he helped his mom but he didn’t have to. Everybody knew he wasn’t out flipping burgers or calling out orders. I’d seen him on the corner at night myself more times than I could count. Only one reason anybody stands on a Roseland street corner after dark. I fought to keep the words from bubbling out of my mouth. Boy, you got to stop selling them drugs! I thought. You find another way to help your mama, but this ain’t it! But this was my time to listen.
“My mom needs help,” DaJuan continued, his voice cracking. “But there’s nobody. Ain’t nobody gonna help us. I got to bring money home somehow. I don’t want to do it that way. But nobody’s giving me a real job. So I do what I gotta do. We gotta survive.”
No one made a sound as DaJuan fought back tears. Jamal put his hand on DaJuan’s shoulder, while Aisha and the girls sat next to him in support.
DaJuan finally took a deep breath. “I guess that’s it. That’s all I got.”
“Thank you for sharing that,” I said. Before I could ask if anyone wanted to go next, Jamal jumped in.
“Yeah, my dad ain’t around either,” Jamal said, trying his best to act like he didn’t care. “Sometimes I see him. Most of the time I don’t. We ain’t got no money and no food. I gotta swipe food sometimes just to keep us going. We so hungry some nights I make my sisters ketchup and mayonnaise sandwiches.”
The other kids laughed and pretended to gag. They thought he was making a joke but quickly stopped when they realized he wasn’t.
“My mom don’t care,” he said. “Shoot, we don’t even see her half the time either. She’ll just up and disappear, not even telling us where she’s going. Probably because my mom hates me.”
“Jamal!” I shouted, but I stopped myself. Don’t you talk about your mama like that, I thought. No mama hates her child. But I held my tongue.
Jamal just shook his head sadly. “No, Miss Diane. She tell me all the time.”
My jaw dropped—I couldn’t help it. I knew Jamal had a flair for the dramatic. Maybe this was one of his tall tales.
“You mean she gets mad sometimes? Yells at you?”
Jamal shrugged. “She says, ‘I hate the day I had you.’”
No one knew how to take those awful words. The girls moved to Jamal now, patting his back even though they weren’t so sure he was telling the truth.
He sighed. “I got to keep whiskey in my room just to survive in that house. That’s the honest-to-God truth. It’s the only way I can stay there.”
I could nearly feel my heart break inside my chest as I watched him burst into tears.
“I think about it all the time—what did I do?” Jamal continued between sobs. “Why can’t my own mom love me? Isn’t that what moms are supposed to do?”
No one had ever heard Jamal share like that.
I was about to ask someone else to share when I heard Aisha pipe up. “I’ll go,” she said, looking at me pointedly. Oh boy. I wonder what horror story this child is about to dredge up about me.
Aisha’s lip quivered as she began her tragic tale of being pulled out of her neighborhood elementary school to attend a well-respected Catholic school. I had to close my eyes to keep them from rolling into the back of my head. Here we go, I thought. Throwing it in my face that I wanted my daughter to get a good education. Go complain about it to Oprah someday!
I just knew the other kids would be on my side and back me up. But instead, as I looked around the room, I saw understanding nods.
“Yeah, I can see why you would be mad about that,” one boy said.
By this point steam was pouring out of my ears. All these kids were turning me into the villain just for sending my kid to a better school. But I couldn’t say a word. I had to listen to Aisha, just like I did to all the other kids.
One by one, the kids went around the circle sharing their stories. Hours passed and no one left, not even to get a snack or a glass of water. They stayed even when my husband burst through the door, hollering, “Hey! What are y’all doing in here?” They laughed for a minute at how loud he was, but they kept right on talking.
I didn’t ask a single one of them to volunteer—they did it on their own. The only boy who didn’t speak up when it was his turn was Isiah. But after everyone else had a chance to speak, Isiah took a deep breath.
“Y’all pick on me,” he said calmly, making eye contact with each kid around the circle.
My eyes widened as I looked at each kid, horrified. I shot Aisha a look that made it very clear he better not be talking about her.
A few of them protested or laughed off his accusation. “Aw, nah, we don’t pick on you,” another boy said, trying to play it cool. Isiah would have none of it.
“Yes. You do,” he said with the same steady tone. “Y’all think I’m dumb. But I’m not.”
He turned to me. “I’m gonna be somebody great one day, Miss Diane. And they all gonna talk about me.”
“Yes you are, Isiah,” I said, choking back tears.
Suddenly I glanced at a clock—it was 8:30 p.m., more than four hours since they had first sat down in my living room.
“Oh, it’s late!” I said, startled. “Everybody’s got to go on home. It’s getting dark.”
I was interrupted by a chorus of protests. “It’s summertime, Miss Diane!” Jamal said. “I ain’t gotta be in till ten o’clock.”
I shook my head. “We can talk more tomorrow. You all got to get home to your families.”
When my living room was empty I collapsed on the couch. The long list of problems I’d just heard played through my head like a movie. How am I going to get DaJuan off the street corner? What on earth am I going to do with what Jamal said? And when am I going to have a talk with Aisha?
None of these kids looked perfect from the outside, but I had no idea how very grown-up their problems were. I was smack in the middle of an emergency, trying to save kids who had very urgent needs. Their problems were too big. Too big for me to handle anyway.
Oh, Lord, I prayed. What in the world have I gotten myself into? What if I can’t help them? I don’t have super powers. I can’t rush in and fix everything.
In that quiet living room, I felt God speak. You’re right, I sensed Him saying. You can’t. But you don’t have to. Just trust Me.
I did the only thing I could. I picked up my phone.
“Ma!” I cried. “You won’t believe what these kids just said!”