I live in a compact, single-story house in an all-Black neighborhood in Charleston, on a street bordering the projects. I will spend my childhood through high school in that house. The house shakes with sound—folks talking, laughing, shouting, crying, my mother and grandmother laughing and singing while they cook and bake. The smells from meat and garlic crackling in frying pans, sauces simmering on the stove while bread dough rises, riding waves of heat from the oven, the scents rolling through the kitchen, reaching the far ends of the house, into the bedrooms, all these smells and voices, punctuated with music from the radio and hi-fi, our constant soundtrack. Always music. The house feels alive, a breathing being, a character itself with different personalities, never belonging to me alone.
My aunts—my mother’s sisters—and their kids, my cousins, often crash with us. People entering, leaving, bodies everywhere. At times fifteen human beings share three bedrooms and one bathroom. The bathroom feels like a mini hotel lobby, with people coming in and out constantly. Folks frequently forget to lock the door. I’ll step out of the shower and find one of my sisters or cousins brushing their teeth, or applying makeup, or even sitting on the toilet, oblivious to me as I frantically reach for a towel. The phone-booth-sized bathroom becomes emblematic of the house itself, a tiny rectangle where kids and adults negotiate, even fight, for an absolute minimum of space to maintain a semblance of basic hygiene. Today, whenever my kids complain about a lack of privacy, I laugh. Privacy? What is that? Growing up in my house, I never knew with whom I’d be sharing a bedroom and sometimes a bed—my younger brother, my cousin, my mother, my grandmother.
Don’t get me wrong. I loved my childhood. Those days informed me. I learned to achieve a kind of quiet equilibrium, to grasp and establish my own space amid chaos. I could have complained or acted out, but what would have been the point? Nothing would’ve changed. You either accepted the lack of privacy and other inconveniences or you’d go crazy. Deal with it. So, I did. Truth is, if I could enter a time machine and I had an opportunity to relive my life, I would choose the exact same childhood, all over again.
My mom is my hero. She approaches life with uncommon spirit and strength. She roars with laughter, her laugh huge and infectious. When she isn’t laughing, she sings. She has a stunning voice, clear and strong and emotional, a voice that would fit seamlessly into any gospel choir. She sings along to any song that plays in our house, booming from the hi-fi in the living room or, when I get older, from my boom box, my prized possession, which my mother buys for me the year I turn eleven with money she earns working overtime. I close my eyes right now, drop my head, and after a moment, I evoke my mom’s spirit. I can hear her voice. Sweet. Soaring. Rocking me. Lifting me.
Yes, music fills our house all the time, from the living room into the kitchen. I don’t know quiet. We are a loud, boisterous, joyful house, punctuated by my mom’s gospel music and R&B, and when I get old enough to take over the hi-fi by age five, my music. I put a record on the turntable or turn on the radio and listen to artists whose sounds fill most Black households in the early and mid-1970s—Marvin Gaye singing all his early hits, especially “Let’s Get It On,” Gladys Knight & the Pips wailing “Midnight Train to Georgia,” Stevie Wonder, Barry White, all their hits, songs that my mother sings to, her eyes closed, her body in slow, rhythmic time to the music. But as I get older, I go rogue and fill the house with music that I doubt you’d find in any Black household—KISS blasting “Rock and Roll All Nite,” Cheap Trick pleading “I Want You to Want Me,” Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones screeching “Angie.” Then I tune into a classic country station and turn up Buck Owens and his irresistible twang from the 1960s, crooning “Hello Trouble” and “I’ve Got a Tiger By the Tail.” Then if I think my mother’s out of earshot, I jump off the country music station and put on a Barry Manilow record. Yes. Barry Manilow. Give my mom props. She gets into Barry—a little. She even sings along to some of the songs. Well, maybe she tolerates the music because I love it so much. I really do love Barry—the crack and emotion of his voice, his dramatic lyrics—and I sing along to him, especially his song “Ships.” My mom gives it her best shot, until she finally gives up and shouts into the living room, “Darius, turn off that Manilow, I can’t take it anymore!” The rest of my family, give them credit, my sisters in particular, go along with my eclectic musical taste, except for KISS. They give me such shit about those Detroit rockers that they get physical. They attack me at the hi-fi, shoving me aside, blocking me so they can remove the KISS record and put on something else, anything else. My mother, though, takes my side, at least at first. She must sense something. She seems to know that my musical obsession—even about KISS—is more than a phase.
“You leave him alone,” she shouts. “Let him listen to whatever he wants.”
I grin at my mother, my protector, and glare at my sisters and cousins, my tormentors, and then I triumphantly play the next KISS cut on the album Detroit Rock City. I move to the beat and nod to the jangling, head-banging guitar playing, and then I begin singing along to Paul Stanley. My mother hangs in there with me for about twenty seconds, her forehead furrowed in either fierce concentration or intense pain. Finally, she leans over the hi-fi and says with a grimace, “Darius, honey, I can’t. I just can’t. I love you but I can’t.” Then, without looking at my cousins, my sisters, or me, she shuts down KISS, slides the record off the turntable, and with a sigh of relief, puts on Al Green.
One day, rummaging in the drawer beneath the hi-fi, I come upon two 45s I hadn’t seen before—“I Want to Hold Your Hand” and “She Loves You” by The Beatles. I’m not sure who bought these records—one of my sisters, or maybe my older brother, Ricky, but I can’t wait to play them. I put them on the hi-fi, drop the needle on one, then the other, and then I play them both again, and then flip them over and play the B-sides, “This Boy” and “I’ll Get You,” again, and again—for an hour, or two, I can’t tell. Time evaporates. I’m completely transported, lost in this music. The music enters me like an infusion. It pulsates through me. I can’t listen to The Beatles enough. Another hour passes. Then another. Not only am I not sick of these songs, of these voices, the melodies, the harmonies, I want more. Thus begins a lifelong obsession—and fascination—with The Beatles.
What is it about a song? I think. What is it about a song that connects to me so deeply? The lyrics? The melody? The beat? The singer’s voice?
All of it. All those things.
And one more thing.
The key thing.
When a song finishes, I want to hear it again.
That’s the defining thing.
I want to hear the song again. No. I have to hear it again.
Not just once. Over and over. Repeatedly. Dozens and dozens of times. I listen to a song I love not for hours, but for days.
I listen until the song inserts itself into me, until it becomes a part of my soul.
* * *
In To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee writes that you can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your family.
I have an incredibly tight group of friends. We are ridiculously close. We are thrown together by circumstance, but then we choose each other, friends for life.
We are babies when we meet, all of us in diapers, living in the same neighborhood, a few houses apart. I am six months old when I meet two of the guys and a year and a half when I meet the others. Our moms or grandmothers or aunts or older sisters babysit us. We learn to walk and talk together. We grow up together, from babies and toddlers through elementary school, junior high, and high school. We become inseparable and remain close to this day. Our secret? We’re into having as much fun as possible, at all times. And we share. Thoughts. Feelings. Very un-guy like. No subject is off-limits. The six of us can ask for anything, anytime. It is honestly easier for me to be friends with these guys than to be friends with myself.
The group:
Sheldon Simmons.
We call him Glob.
One day, in high school, we sneak beers for lunch. Lazing in the cafeteria, probably tipsy, Sheldon says, “I got no dick, got no balls, just got one big glob.”
So, from then on—Glob.
David Campbell.
He goes by Squirt.
Rick Johannes.
The only white guy in our group.
We call him White Boy Rick. Obviously.
Sheldon Snipe.
No nickname.
Yes. We have two Sheldons. We call this one Sheldon Snipe to avoid confusion with Glob.
Juan Ferguson.
He’s Juan. Just Juan.
I love my family. I’m close with my sisters and my brother, Jamar. But in many ways, I’m even closer with these guys. We actually bleed together, more than once. Playing superheroes, my cape a towel tied around my shoulders, I, a five-year-old Superman, launch myself off Snipe’s front porch, expecting—what—to fly? I land chin-first on the concrete sidewalk. Blood gushes from my split and mangled chin. Screams, chaos. Then I’m in the back seat of the Snipe family’s car, my towel-cape now pressed against my chin, soaked in blood, Snipe’s sister driving me to the ER at the hospital where my mother works. She stops at a stop sign and sees my mom on the other side, driving home. Snipe’s sister waves, we frantically switch cars, and my mom turns around, heading back to the ER. After that I remember my mom handing me off to the staff at the ER, leaning over me, smiling reassuringly: “You’ll be fine. I’m gonna go hang out with my friends.”
Our group of six. Brothers. Closer than brothers. Certainly closer than I am or ever will be to my brother Ricky.
* * *
I am the youngest of five children. I assume I always will be. I’m counting on it. Being the baby comes with perks. Mom and I have a special bond, with my being her youngest little boy. And then, when I’m eleven, Jamar shows up. My new little brother. What an unexpected bundle of joy. Yeah. Right. Now Mom gives all her attention to this needy, squawking infant. Suddenly, I’m no longer her baby—he is. Kind of pisses me off.
I get over it quickly. Got no choice. Mom goes back to work as soon as she can because she has to. The rest of us kids, me and my three sisters, take over running the house, which includes caring for Jamar. We operate well together, despite or maybe because of our differences.
Before me comes Bonnie, two years older. We’re fighters, the two of us, against everyone else and sometimes against each other. Bonnie’s an athlete, a basketball star, and she will take you on. We go at each other hard. She’s a girl, which means nothing. She’s a powerhouse. She plays sports like a guy, and she punches like a guy. Trust me.
Before Bonnie, a year older, comes Valerie. Val is petite and quiet. Val has a huge heart and an ocean-sized amount of patience. She doesn’t say much, but when she does, she speaks with wisdom and care. I can always count on Val—to talk to, to hear me out, especially when Mom is at work, or when she’s so tired from working that she collapses on the couch right after dinner.
L’Corine—French for “beautiful maiden”—is my oldest sister, a year older than Val. L’Corine was born with a high-octane engine roaring inside her. She moves. Always in motion. She’s Mom 2.0, assertive, motivated, a go-getter. When Mom’s not at home, L’Corine takes over. No-nonsense. The boss. L’Corine is in charge.
I ease into my role with them. It’s not hard. We connect, all of us, in different ways, and we always figure it out. We work well together, parceling out the chores, sharing the responsibilities. We make the family work. I love them all.
And then there’s Ricky.
The oldest sibling.
My older brother. Seven years older.
Rail thin. Hyper. On edge. Frenetic.
Ricky is an epileptic, prone to seizures.
His seizures ruin my mom. I get that she has to care for him when the seizures come, but she babies him before, during, and after. The way I see it, she always gives Ricky whatever he wants. Money’s tight, but she manages to give in to him, finding something extra, in her purse, in a pocket, in a drawer. He asks, she gives. Ricky is not helpless. Not at all. Despite his epilepsy, he’s a good athlete. He’s smart as a whip, too.
He also bullies me, terrorizes me, belittles me.
Ricky never gives anything to anyone, not to me, our sisters, nobody. Ricky only takes. Our family has very little to give. He doesn’t care. He takes whatever he can, whatever he sees, whatever he can get his hands on, whether it belongs to him or not. Ricky gets into drugs. I’m eleven and I don’t know what Ricky’s using, but I know Ricky can’t hold a job. He has offers. Boeing recruits him. They come after him, invite him to a six-month training program in Seattle. The morning he’s supposed to leave for Seattle, he refuses to get out of bed. He decides he’s not going. Too far. Too much trouble. He’s not into it. The excuses fly out of his mouth like darts. He’d rather stay here, live off Mom and my sisters, be responsible to no one, hit the streets, get high, get beaten up, which happens frequently, and end up in the hospital or in jail, which happens constantly.
“Where’s Ricky?” we ask.
He’s high again. He got beat up again. No, he’s in jail again.
We breathe a sigh of relief. We feel safer. A least he’s not on the streets getting the shit kicked out of him, or doing drugs, passed out in some doorway. Or, honestly, at home, where Ricky’s neediness takes over every inch of space in the house. As soon as he walks into a room, you feel stifled. Ricky sucks the air and energy out of every room he enters. He’s a human Hoover.
“He can’t help himself,” my mother says.
I wonder. I’m eleven but I’m not sure what she says is right. On some level, I understand. And I do sympathize. He’s her firstborn, her first son, and watching Ricky self-destruct day after day must be destroying her. He can’t figure anything out. He can’t figure himself out.
But I feel that Ricky takes advantage of my mom’s loving heart and generous spirit, and he uses her. I believe he can help himself. He could have worked for Boeing, begun a career, made his own money, become—something. But no, he just takes and takes and takes, knowing that my mom—and my sisters—will always be there for him, enabling him, providing for him, taking care of him, no matter how many times he gets high on the streets, gets the crap kicked out of him, or lands in jail.
* * *
My boom box becomes an appendage of my arm, attached to my head and shoulders. I keep it with me always. I put it down only to change cassettes. I bring it with me everywhere. At night, because I know Ricky, I bring my boom box to bed with me. I would never leave it within ten feet of Ricky. I know he’ll steal it, bring it out on the streets, and sell it for money to buy drugs, any drugs. He’s that addicted and that desperate. So, I sleep with my boom box. Every night.
Except one night I forget.
I come home from hanging with my guys and I leave my boom box on the dining room table.
I wake up the next morning, feel for my boom box in my bed, remember where I left it, bolt out of bed, burst out of my room in my pajamas, sprint into the dining room, and skid to a stop in front of the dining room table.
The bare dining room table.
My boom box is gone.
Later, when Ricky wakes up, I confront him.
I tell him I know that he took my boom box.
He makes a dismissive sound and turns away from me.
I don’t let up. I tell him I know he took my boom box. I’m seven years younger but I get into his face.
He screams at me. Swears he never saw my boom box.
I tell him I know he’s lying. He screams at me again. Comes at me.
My mother intervenes. My sisters appear. They all know what happened. They know Ricky stole my boom box.
I fight back tears. I will not cry. I won’t give him that satisfaction.
He denies he stole my boom box—he lies again—and then he storms off, indignant, as if he’s the victim.
I look at my mom and my sisters. They know the truth. But what can they do? I really don’t know. I feel helpless. I suppose it’s my fault for leaving my boom box on the dining room table, in plain sight of Ricky.
The next day arrives like any other day. School, homework, hanging with my friends. Small talk around the dinner table. Nobody mentions the boom box. It’s like it never existed. I say nothing to Ricky. I don’t want to speak to him. But my mother talks to him as if nothing has happened. Like everything else in this house, I think, it’s all about Ricky. Always about Ricky. I look over at him, at my older brother, and I can almost hear my mom’s thoughts.
At least he’s not having a seizure. At least he’s not on the streets. At least he’s not in the hospital. At least he’s not in jail.
* * *
Once I get to college, I find myself wanting to stay away from home, mainly because I don’t want to deal with Ricky, his neediness, his drug abuse, his constant begging for money. When I do come home, he no longer bullies me. He can’t. I’m bigger, stronger, and he knows if he pushes me, I’ll kick the crap out of him. Instead, he looks at me like I’m an ATM. Press my buttons and I’ll hand him some cash. I do. I admit it. But only for a while.
Years later, as I predict, my good-hearted sister L’Corine takes him in. Her husband, Marvin, a saint, puts up with him, but I can see that Ricky is taking a toll on them both. I can’t stand to see Ricky manipulating my sister for a place to live, and for money to live on. At one point, I hit the road with the band. I keep track of my siblings from the road. Ricky’s manipulations anger me. He still uses, he still ends up in the hospital, he still ends up in jail. I can hear my mother’s voice. What can you do? Poor Ricky.
A few years later, I have Thanksgiving at my house. My career has gone well, but I’ve had several knee operations. After a while, my knees finally work like normal knees following a series of painful recoveries. Agonizing, debilitating pain. Needed pills to get me through.
For the holiday, I have the whole family over. Aunts, uncles, cousins. Everyone. Including Ricky. The next morning, bleary-eyed, hungover from too much turkey and too many shots of bourbon, I open a drawer in my bathroom cabinet to get some aspirin, and I immediately know something is off. Usually when I open the drawer, I hear the rattle of the bottle of leftover Oxy pills I keep inside. This time, no rattle. I pick up the bottle and see that it’s empty.
Ricky.
He’s stolen the Oxy.
I remember that I have other bottles of Oxy lying around, unused, no longer needed.
I find the bottles.
All empty.
Ricky has stolen all of the Oxy in the house.
I am pissed, not just at him, but at myself for being so careless. But the anger at myself passes. Ricky. I’ve cut you so much slack. Given you so much. Including money. Even more than that. Time and time again I’ve given you my attention. My energy. My concern. My worry.
I know he can’t help himself, but as long as he lives with my sister and Marvin, I think, Ricky will always just take and my other sisters and I will always enable him.
Until now.
This moment.
This morning after Thanksgiving.
The last straw.
For my own mental health, I decide to let him go. Fend for himself. I will accept whatever happens. I decide to keep my distance from him. I refuse to allow him to squeeze me dry anymore—mentally, emotionally, financially. He’s a grown man. He has to start acting like one.
Except I know in my heart that he can’t.
One night, smashed, fucked up, a seizure coming on, Ricky falls, hits his head, and bleeds to death.
I feel overcome by sadness. But I also feel relief. Ricky’s sad, repetitive loop of a life wasted has come to its inevitable end.
I think of my mother. I see her sitting in the living room, her head down, her shoulders heaving, sobbing because Ricky, once again, is in jail. I imagine her voice wailing through her tears. “I don’t know what to do. What can I do?”
Even at age eleven, I remember thinking during one of those nights—those many nights when Ricky was locked up—I will never do that to her. I will never make her cry like that. I will make something of myself. I will make her proud of me.
So, maybe, in some way, Ricky did serve a purpose for me.
Motivation.
A reason to succeed.
To be nothing like him.
Ricky.
Poor Ricky.
All he wanted was to get high.
All I wanted was an older brother.