For When The Sun Shines. (Part I)
“I’m fortified by long listening sessions with the sanctified music of John Coltrane. Trane: another celestial genius whose sacred voice gives me hope. And by hope I mean blues-inflicted hope that is morally sound; hope learned and earned in the harsh realities of daily struggle; hope that remains on intimate terms with death; hope that is life-renewing…” — Cornel West.
It’s the barbershop, y’all know the rules…
Murs & Rapper Big Pooh, Produced by 9th Wonder.
I
No longer in protest; everything must be in celebration. In these days and times when newsfeeds and timelines oscillate between Black death and white silencing, it can be hard to find your balance. It can be difficult to recognize the sunshine, downright impossible to remind ourselves that the sun still rises every morning. Yet, it does. A personal challenge becomes to savor those rare glimpses, the eclipses when one’s lived experience and one’s heavenly imaginary align themselves. To use those eternally temporary joys to envision a world where they are anchored beyond the times. What does your heaven feel like? When was the last time you felt it?
II
I spend whole days at the barbershop. Partly because its a place of refuge as a Black male who daily is slaying the dragons of the white man’s world in order to bring home a check. Partly because there is nothing more entertaining than sharing memories from way back when, only interrupted by debates over the who-did-it-betters whether that be Kobe or Lebron, Goodfellas or Casino, Janet or Sade, Jay or Nas. Probably the most telling part is because my brother/cousin is the barber and the family/business line been gone since the first time I traded my car’s gas tank for a haircut. Head to the barbershop at 2pm. Probably won’t leave until 12. Sometimes 2am before a hood holiday (ex. a warm weather Saturday).
One summer weekday, we sat together (I sat, he worked) on my flex time from managing summer youth programming. A young Latino brother, couldn’t have been no more than 15, came to sit down in one of the chairs near the always occupied microwave. He was holding a folded piece of paper in his hand and seemed pretty somber for the summertime freedom he enjoyed.
“What’s up with you?” My cousin acknowledged his presence, greeting him in the midst of a sideburn shaping.
“Oh I’m not here for a haircut, I’m trying to get a tattoo.” (NOTE: yes, this might seem odd, but at the time there was a tattoo parlor operating out of the back end of the barbershop. I mean, he ran a clean operation and the foot traffic from the barbershop probably helps to build clientele. Black barbershops are open marketplaces, you know.)
“Word. He back there with somebody right now. Should be out in a minute. What you tryna get?” My cousin eyed the folded up piece of paper in his hand. “Let me check it out,” as his hand extended to look at the artwork that the young brother brought with him. I tried to look from my seat as I was already hesitant to embrace a young man jumping into what seemed to me his first tattoo. The white gaze upon black body artwork has long been used to signal the scars of hood life, the promise of disorder, bad personal politics, and a lack of self-control. Getting tattoos means easier surveillance, an easier tell, a lifetime mark against you. They taught me in pews that God co-signed this through scripture. If I can see beyond that now, I still have remained tattoo-free, better just in case my time comes.
My cousin opened the paper, gave it a quick-look, shared the youngin a nod and told him it was cool. “Who’s that?” he asked.
“My brother. You see the paper the other day?”
“You talking about that thing that happened over the East Side?”
“Yeah, that was my older brother.”
Damn.
Sitting there quiet the entire time during the exchange, I now moved from not speaking into silent reflection. He can’t be no more than 15. There’s no way his mother told him to come here. She’ll probably be questioning him if she was to find out. Still, that hand-drawn artwork was made with all intention of coming to the barbershop/tattoo parlor to get this self-fashioned portrait inked onto his adolescent body. This was his affordable eternal revival service for his brother not more than a week after he had left his side. This was his sincere, heartfelt communion to inscribe his brother’s life into his own. A longing to always remember what his brother had meant to him. A yearning to take him everywhere he might have went, even if it that journey was just back home. He didn’t want to walk another day on this earth without his brother, determined to live for him. His brother’s life lived through his own. He can’t be no more than 15. I sat there, somber like he was, yet easing into a smile. I had seen love-in-action, alive, and to be written in the flesh.
And then, we went back to the bullshit.
