Pushing Past Phobias

I am terrified of heights. I wasn't always. When I was younger, one of my favorite things was going to Six Flags Great Adventure in Vernon, New Jersey and riding the scariest rides available. I remember Free Fall and Lightnin' Loops. I also remember riding the Loch Ness Monster at Busch Gardens in Virginia. The only thing that could really keep me from getting on a ride is that amount of time it would take to wait in line.  I'm not really sure when that changed for me. I used to think it was almost being dropped off of the Statue of Liberty, but that can't be it. I was fearless at amusement parks for years after that incident.

After my freshman year at Ambassador College, I returned home to find that my parents had moved from a second floor apartment on Linden Boulevard in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn to an apartment on the 17th floor of a 17 story building on Adams Street in the Brooklyn Heights section of Brooklyn. I was impressed. We now had a doorman (moving on up like The Jeffersons) and were across the street from the Brooklyn Bridge. We could see the Manhattan skyline from the roof. The Twin Towers were still around then. 

Something very strange happened when I went to the edge of the roof that first night and looked out over the gorgeous city. My legs felt jittery and weak. I became very aware of how high up we were, and I felt like if I were to move, a strong wind could pick me up and carry me over the edge. Logically, I understood that wouldn't happen, but the logical part of my mind became a faint whisper, and the illogical part that had convinced me of my impending violent death was screaming in my ear. When my parents headed toward the door, they noticed that I wasn't moving. I can still hear my dad's laughter as I got down on all fours and crawled off of the roof. I crack up a little myself at that memory. I guess I felt like I really needed to be as low as possible to the ground. 

What's interesting is that despite my fear of heights, I had some really special moments on that roof. Dishon and I shared our first kiss there Side note: Until I was 20, the ligament that tethers my tongue to the bottom of my mouth was so thick that it pretty much attached my tongue to bottom of my mouth, and I wasn't able to stick my tongue out. That made it hard to . . . lick ice cream cones. Yes, that's it. So that summer, I had a minor surgical procedure performed where the doctor cut that ligament so I could finally . . . lick ice cream cones like everyone else. My father was curious about why I was so insistent on having that procedure. I have always been a planner, and I wasn't trying to have us return to our respective colleges that summer without properly kissing that young man. I think my stitches weren't even fully dissolved when we first kissed 😂. I couldn't tell my father about any of that, though. Not about that, or how grateful I was to the doctor who performed that minor surgery for the very, very romantic evening Dishon and I subsequently spent on the promenade after dinner at India House before we went back to school. My apologies to all the parents of the little children who passed by us that night 😮. But I digress . . .

Where was I? Yes - so many special moments on that roof, including our wedding three years later. I think I'm good with heights as long as I can't look down and see how high up I am, so if I stay away from the edges, I'm good.  Dishon is the director of a week-long over night camp in Connecticut called New Heights (appropriately named), and every summer, our family goes to New Heights together - Dishon to run the camp, the kids as campers, and I go to help out with camp administration and to lead Praise and Worship. Just before the beginning of the summer of 2014, I lost a second sister as a result of a violent murder (another sister and her unborn child were murdered in 1993), and I realized that I wanted to be fully present in my life - in part as a tribute to those who no longer had that choice in this life. I got my first tattoo (Joy) about a month after Dee Dee died (I'll tell my tattoo story in another post). I didn't want fear to control me, so the following summer, I decided to go on the zip line at camp.  

I was SO scared! Strapping in, and climbing up to the platform . . . the whole time, I was like, "What am I thinking?" The climb was long and really hard. I didn't know it at the time, but climbing up to the zip line was extra challenging because I was severely anemic, and regularly not getting enough oxygen (this was due to heavy menstrual cycles). I had been having dizzy spells, and having a hard time breathing when exercising, but I didn't find out that it was caused by severe anemia until much later. I'm so glad I didn't pass out while climbing up there, which was a real possibility). I strongly considered giving up several times, but the thought of climbing back down was also pretty scary, so I kept going.

When I reached the top, I would like to say that I enjoyed the view. I did momentarily, but then I noticed how much higher we were than the trees, and I looked down. Jittery legs. Terror . . . but our wonderful COPE (Challenging Outdoor Personal Experiences) leader was so encouraging. I don't know why I thought he was going to push me off of the landing. It was all on me to launch myself. I sat there for a minute trying to work up the nerve, but I realized that if I didn't just do it, I'd be sitting there all day. Instead of waiting to not be afraid, I decided to do it while afraid. 

For the first few seconds after I pushed myself off the landing, I felt like I was going to die . . . but then I
started to feel like I was flying, and I felt so free! I was able to enjoy the view around me, the wind in my hair, and the fact that I hadn't let my fear control me. I still get that jittery feeling in my legs when I encounter heights, but now I know that I'm stronger than my fear, and that's a very important thing to know about myself.  

I had another occasion to push through a phobia - arachnophobia. I didn't really have a choice, though. Dishon was in Rwanda, and there were a ton of baby spiders descending toward my bed from the ceiling. The fear of having a bunch of baby spiders (and the two significantly larger spiders that were also on my ceiling) all over my bed gave me the strength I needed to address that fear. I still cringe when I think about that. Sometimes you face fears, not because you're brave or ready, but because the alternative is far worse.

When I'm building the characters in my novel, I want to be mindful of the things they're afraid of, and how and why they'll go about addressing those fears. What are you afraid of? Whatever it is, just do it, like Nike. You'll be okay. 

Speak Up So You Can See

It was during the late fall of 2001. Serena was a newborn (a preemie, actually, since I was induced at 36 weeks), and my mom came up from New York to help us with our new baby. I had always planned to breastfeed. Aside from learning about the health benefits for me and Serena, it would also be good for us financially, since I was going to be a stay-at-home mom and we'd be living on one income. That was the plan. 

*Warning for the squeamish/prudish - I'm about to write about breasts/nipples, so if that offends your sensibilities, feel free to stop reading now* 

I read about breastfeeding while I was pregnant, and I took the breastfeeding class . . . but there is nothing that can quite prepare you for actual breastfeeding. "Naughty" alert - Babies are nowhere near as gentle as your lover with your breasts. Their suction power is off the charts. All I remember hearing about was the wonderful, positive aspects of breastfeeding, and not how much it will hurt, or what to do when things go wrong. The well-intentioned nurse who tried to help me in the hospital gave me the wrong advice, and I ended up with cracked, scabbed nipples. This was before the time of Googling "relief for cracked, scabbed nipples," finding nipple guards on Amazon, and receiving them two days later. Nope. The only relief I could imagine? Similac and/or Enfamil. I had longed for Serena for such a long time, but when it was time for her to eat, I crrrrrrrrringed!!!! I cried . . . I didn't want her anywhere near me! She was so adorable, but when it was time for her to nurse, she looked to me like a glass-tongued demon! Without saying too much, I started to fear that she was ruining me for . . . other things. No one tells you about that. 

My mom meant well. She had nursed me and received support from the La Leche League when nursing was challenging. She was trying to provide me with that same support and encouragement. I didn't want that, though. I wanted my Mommy to feel sorry for my pain and my tears, not Serena's grandmother making sure she was breastfed. As far as I could tell, my mom was a La Leche League representative who was in cahoots with that evil, sandpaper-mouthed baby! So I was feeling some type of way toward my mom, but I didn't tell her how I was feeling. In retrospect, I wish I would have had the presence of mind and confidence to say, "While I do believe that breastmilk is best for Serena, I am hurting terribly, and I want to enjoy my child, so she's going to drink formula, and it's going to be okay." But I didn't. I kept it inside. But what we try to suppress always finds its way to the surface, doesn't it?

I've never been skilled at makeup application, so as a postpartum treat, I went to the mall for a makeover, and I bought some makeup. We were heading out for our first date night after Serena's birth, and I thought I did a good job applying my new foundation. When my alarmed mom saw me, she BEGGED me to let her fix the foundation, but I was all like, "No! I'm grown! I'm married! I have my own baby! You can't tell me what to do!" Translation = suppressed feelings finding their way to the surface.

I went out like this, and I had NO IDEA that I looked so crazy! We went to a restaurant and movie (I'm sure many chuckles were had at my expense all night, and rightly so). For those of you who are tempted to blame Dishon for not saying something, resist the urge. He was sleep-deprived, and not trying to pick a fight before date night. It's okay to laugh. I crack up every time I see this!!! 😂😂😂 SO embarrassing, yet SO hilarious!!

When I'm working on my novel and crafting my character's personalities, I want to be sure to include the consequences when they don't say how they really feel.  Take a lesson from me. If you don't speak up, it may keep you from seeing yourself clearly. No need to go outside like Ghostface Killah. Just say what you need to say. 

*Side note: Breastfeeding can be weird, and we need to be more honest with new moms about this. I tried, unsuccessfully, to nurse Cairo, too. Same cracks. Same scabs. Only that time, I developed mastitis, and the milk got stuck in my feverish, engorged boobs.  What finally helped? Putting cabbage leaves in my bra. I didn't think it would work, but no joke, the milk came spewing out like I was a daggone fire hydrant. I don't fully understand it to this day, but it worked. Go figure. 

People Editors

There are few things that irk me more than when people are quick to correct other people's spelling, grammar, pronunciation, and/or sentence structure (I feel the same way about people who take pictures of other people in public and post them on social media to make fun of them, but I digress . . .). If someone has been hired as an editor, or has been asked to help someone prep for a job interview, that makes sense. There's an expectation of feedback and correction, but I'm talking about folks who just volunteer to correct others without invitation. I am very suspicious of people who seem to get a thrill out of correcting how other people speak and write when it hasn't been requested. What is that about? Do they care about how it makes other people feel? What makes people nominate themselves to edit other people? Are they just projecting their own insecurities? Why do they seem to care more about spelling than people and ideas?

I don't care if someone says ax instead of ask. I know what they mean. I don't care if someone says breffix instead of breakfast. I know what they mean. I don't care if someone writes their instead of they're or there. I know what they mean. I don't care if someone writes your instead of you're. I know what they mean. I do care that they feel comfortable sharing their thoughts, and that they know that I honor their stories and ideas. Spelling, grammar, and pronunciation are small things. People's stories and ideas are of such great value.

When people say things like irregardless and conversate, I cringe a bit, not because I think that it means that someone is unintelligent - far from it - but I know that there are those who will take out their red pens and write all over their thoughts and feelings, and my ISFJ Defender personality doesn't like seeing anyone being made to feel silenced.

As a teacher, I have been especially sensitive to this, because the English language is complicated. If someone dares to share their thoughts and feelings, it's a big deal. "Improper" spelling and grammar are easy to amend at the right time and for the right reasons - but not while someone is just comfortably sharing their thoughts, feelings and ideas.

I thought about this yesterday while I was preparing coaching clips to share at an upcoming team meeting. I work for one of the most considerate companies I've ever heard of, and yet there is a clip that I'm sharing where I say to a teacher, "I was gon' say . . . " Do I know that the proper way to say that would have been, "I was going to say?" Yes. I graduated from high school when I was just turning 16, and graduated first in my class with an M.Ed. from a top school . . . and Ebonics is comfortable for me - even desirable when I have connected with someone. It has nothing to do with my intelligence . . . I hate that I even wondered about whether or not to share such a great coaching moment. I know it's because I'm constantly on the lookout for the people editors who will suddenly emerge from the bushes waving their red pens like a weapon - those who can't (or won't) see the forest for the trees. Those who may smile and laugh in your face, but in their minds they question your intelligence - or worse - your right to share your thoughts and ideas because it didn't look or sound a certain way.

After spending that wonderful week in Vermont, I'm searching for a local writing group, and I've signed up for a mini-writers' retreat at a local community arts center and a writers' group that meets at a local Barnes and Noble. When I first go, I'll be on the lookout for those who want to contribute to the development of ideas (the hard stuff) or edit the writing (the easy stuff).

Here's what I want to do as a member of a writing group, but also in life in general: Be quiet. Listen. Embrace someone else's story without feeling like taking out a red pen and silencing the telling in order to focus on minutiae (I should have written it as minoosha just for kicks). When it's time to talk, I want to ask questions instead of making statements, and let those questions be meaningful. Questions that help to deepen the telling of the story.  I want to know what people are trying to say. I want to long to be informed instead of trying to inform. I want to watch people dance with their words, even if the steps are not what I was expecting. Maybe I'll learn something. Maybe it'll help me to create a new dance with my words, too. 

Gratitude

I'm going back home today! I miss my Boo, the Mills Teens and my fur baby. I can't wait to see them all later! One of my most favorite things is sitting down for dinner as a family, and it'll be just about dinner time when I get home. I already bought our tickets to see The Shack tomorrow, too. As Serena and Cairo would say, it's going to be lit! 💥😊

At the same time, this week was amazing. It has been so wonderful to focus on creating, connecting with other writers (one woman in our group left yesterday, and then we were joined by two more delightful young ladies last night), and getting to hang out with Laura every day. I can't say I won't miss the leisurely pace and enjoying a glass of wine and good conversation by the fireplace.

I experienced so much through the stories of my retreat tribe members this week . . .  An Italian love affair (Lawd, Lawd!), an exploration of motherhood and the stages of grief, young sisters facing the end of life together (or so it seems), the consequences of narrow interpretations ("untouched by man" Hmm . . . ), a resentful merman, the book-loving niece of a priest facing danger, finding purpose and identity after caring for a parent with Alzheimer's, corporate caste systems, the journey of a man from bystander to abolitionist, surviving September 11th (one of my retreat tribe members was working for Port Authority on the 43rd floor of One WTC when the plane hit). . . and I will absolutely never look at a snowflake the same again because of Erika :).  I am forever changed by these stories, and I'm so thankful that our FB group will keep us connected. I can't wait to see all of their books in print. 

So . . . what's next for Afrika the Writer? I'd like to find a local writers' group (though it's hard for me to imagine a group more special than the one I was part of this past week). Being a part of a writing community will keep me motivated, I think. These past several weeks of blogging every day provided me with clarity, enjoyment, laughter, frustration, surprise, exhaustion and delight. My love for writing has been reawakened, and I'm grateful for that. I want to keep it going. 

I have decided to transition to blogging weekly instead of daily - probably on Saturday mornings. Thanks so much to all of you who've traveled with me on this journey. See you next week!

As Sick as Your Secrets

It was really refreshing to receive such positive feedback from my retreat tribe last night. The consensus was that Steven's flashback should stay, so I'll make it work.

*Spoiler alert*

I spent this morning reading through chapters 2 and 3, and at tonight's hash session, I'll share the scene where Steven comes out of the drug spot and Subria is not where he left her outside.

 From Chapter 2 - As Sick as Your Secrets

Steven didn't realize how long he had been inside the building.  It wasn't until he opened the door of the apartment building and felt the cold hit him in his face that he remembered Subria.  He sprinted over to where he left her.  There was now at least an inch of snow on the ground.  Had it really been snowing when they got off the train?  He couldn't imagine that he'd leave her in the snow.  She wasn't there.  Had he even brought her with him?  Maybe she was still at the party with Renee.  That would make sense.  No – she had been with him.  He faintly remembered the look on Subria's face when she told him that she was cold.  Steven figured that he must have come back to the wrong place.  That was the only explanation – or at least the only one that he could really consider.  The alternatives were too much for him to even imagine.  His high was gone and the reality of what he had done began to choke him.

Steven ran toward the corner.  There was a coffee shop there, and maybe Subria was safe inside, keeping warm.  Then he realized that he hadn't left her with a plan.  If he was in his right mind, he would have told her what to do if she couldn't find him.  What was he talking about?  If he was in his right mind, he never would have brought her here in the first place.  Steven had become careless.  All those times he brought Subria here, nothing had ever happened to her.  She had been fine – or was she?  Had something happened to her then, too, and she just never said anything? 

There were two young men standing on the corner near the coffee shop watching as the blue and red swirling lights faded down the street. 

"Excuse me," Steven said.  "Have you seen a little girl?  She had on a pink jacket, I – I think?"

"Nah, man," the lighter skinned young man replied, as he drew from his cigarette.  "I saw that dude shootin' at that kid, though.  I even caught the license plate number, but I ain't sayin' nothin' to the 5-0."

So there had been a shooting.  Steven kept moving frantically toward the coffee shop, hoping against hope that Subria was inside.  He threw open the door and quickly approached a man waiting at the counter.

"Excuse me, sir, have you . . ." Steven began.

"You must be Steven.  Don't worry.  She's safe," the man replied before Steven could really ask.

"You saw my little girl?" Steven said, wondering how the man knew his name.

"Yes, I saw her.  A little girl, two ponytails, pink jacket, white shoes."

"Where is she?" Steven implored.

"I called Renee, and she came to pick her up."

"Renee?  How do you know my wife?"

"Subria gave me your number."

Steven's stomach knotted at the thought of facing Renee, and pushed the thought from his mind.

"Is Subria okay?"

"Well," the stranger replied, as he took his coffee from the counter, thanked the cashier and started toward the door.  Steven followed.  "It depends on how you define 'okay'.  Is she physically hurt?  No.  Perhaps a little frostbitten, but that will heal.  If you mean emotionally – well, that's another matter entirely."

"How did you find her?" Steven inquired.

"She was standing near the sidewalk in the snow, shivering, and as I walked up to her to make sure she was okay, there was gunfire."

Steven lowered his head and had a hard time making eye contact with the stranger.  "Was she scared?"

"She put on a brave front, and she covered for you."

Steven looked at the stranger with his mouth hanging open.  "What do you mean?"  Steven followed the stranger outside and stood in front of the store waiting to hear the stranger's answer.  In any other circumstance, Steven would have wanted to fight this guy, but he felt so guilty about what he had done, and he seemed to have a lot of answers.

"She told me that she didn't know what building you had gone into, but I know that's not true.  As a matter of fact, I saw her a little earlier.  And I saw you too.  I saw you leave her, and I saw what building you went into.  I saw how scared she was.  I saw her waiting outside, and I decided to keep an eye on her.  It didn't seem safe for her to be out there by herself."

Steven covered his face with his hands.  "God, help me!"  Steven bit his bottom lip to keep from crying in front of this stranger, but he wasn't successful.

"Look, my name is Phillip, and it seems like you need some help.  Thankfully, I was the one who found your daughter, but it could have gone another way.  You and I both know what's in that building."  If you ever need someone to talk to, here's my number.

Phillip handed a piece of paper to Steven, and there was an uncomfortable silence between the two until Phillip patted Steven on the back and said goodbye.  Steven knew that he should go home to see about Subria, but the shame he felt kept his feet moving away from home and toward his brother's place in Brooklyn Heights, leaving Renee to clean up his mess yet again. 

Steven found his way back to the train station and boarded the F train out to the York Street station near where his brother Junior lived in Brooklyn Heights.  Thankfully, Steven had keys to Junior’s apartment, so although Junior had taken his wife up to Lake George to spend some time alone before the holidays, Steven still had someplace to hide.  He had fallen asleep on the living room couch and woke up to the sunlight filtering in through the plants hanging in the window.  Steven went over and looked closely at the decorations on the Christmas tree.  Junior and his wife had great traditions – each of them had special ornaments to hang on the tree each year, and as he searched through the tinsel and candy canes, he came across a New York Knicks ornament.  That had to be Junior's. At the top of the tree below the star was an old gingerbread man ornament with the name Joy spelled out in golden glitter across the middle. Steven backed away suddenly, bumping into and almost falling over the arm of the couch.

Steven went to the kitchen to see if there was something he could eat for breakfast, and next to his keys, he found the paper that Phillip had handed him last night.  He unfolded the paper, and underneath the phone number, it said, "There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, who do not walk according to the flesh, but according to the Spirit." Romans 8:1.  No condemnation.  He couldn't imagine feeling no condemnation – from Renee, the kids, his family, himself, and definitely not from God.  He had made so many mistakes and caused so much hurt.  Did he even deserve to feel no condemnation?  He was intrigued, so he picked up the phone and dialed the number. 

"Without Cost Ministries.  How may I help you?"  Without cost and no condemnation?  His intrigue turned into hunger.

"Yes, is there a Phillip working there?  He said I could reach him at this number."

"I'm sorry.  We don't have a Phillip here," the woman replied.

"Are you sure?" Steven asked, placing his hand on his forehead. "I just met him last night, and he gave me this number."

"I'm positive.  This extension is actually for our rehabilitation outreach program.  Maybe your friend didn't make a mistake in giving you this number."

Although he was embarrassed by the operator's comment, his hunger turned into desperation.  "No, actually, I don't think he did, but . . . uh, I'll call back later, okay?"

"Sir . . ." the voice pleaded, but Steven hung the phone up before she could continue.

Steven's Flashback

 *Spoiler alert* If you're going to read the book, and don't want to know the backstory for Subria's father, you should probably stop reading now. Still reading? Okay - you've been fairly warned ;).

Although Subria suspects that there's something not quite right with her father (Steven), she doesn't find out until she's older that her father is battling a drug addiction stemming from a traumatic incident in his past. Initially, I didn't want to just have him tell her about this incident, though. I wanted the reader to be on the scene when it happens. Originally, I was looking for a place to put this incident pretty early in the story so the reader understood the source of his need for self-medication.

After reading more about plot development, however, and the importance of maintaining mystery for the reader, I want to include it much later in the story (toward the end). I don't want Subria's transformation to be dependent or piggyback on her father's struggle. Her transformation has to belong to her. I also feel like I was letting him off the hook. Regardless of the trauma from his past, he still has to take responsibility for hurting his daughter with his addiction (a vital component of so many of the 12 steps he will need to work through as a part of his recovery), and it's okay for Subria to be angry with him. 

I'm not sure yet if this story should be part of the novel, where this will appear if it should, how it should appear, or even if his flashback is an appropriate part of the story, but here it is:

July, 1961

Prospect Park in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn, New York

Steven sat down on the grass with his arms outstretched behind him, leaned his head back, and looked up at the sky.  The sun was too bright, so his eyes closed involuntarily.  He inhaled the perfume of the cut grass and reluctantly exhaled it.

He had just spent a miserable year in fourth grade, and he was so glad to be out for the summer.  Steven’s father could always find the perfect spot in the park, so even though it was a mild summer day, there weren’t many other families picnicking where they were.  As he breathed in, he could smell the charcoal from the grill coming from the left where his father was setting up. 

Steven lay back with his hands interlaced behind his head and felt perfectly at ease . . . and then he felt the splash of ice water on his face, and his reverie was destroyed.  There’s only one person that would do something so crazy.  His little sister Joy was 6-years-old, missing her middle two teeth on top, and the most annoying kid on earth.  She was famous for messing things up, and every time Steven tried to complain to his mom, she never really took him seriously.  Every time Joy misbehaved, his mom would pinch her cheeks and talk about how cute she was.  Steven thought that his baby brother James, Jr. was way cuter than Joy.  Besides, it wasn’t fair how Joy never bothered their older sister, Esther.  The more he thought about it, though, he was scared to bother Esther, too, so Steven knew he was the best target for Joy’s "affection." 

"MA!!"

"What’s the matter?"

"Did you see what she just did?"

"No, but it couldn’t have been that bad.  Calm down."

Steven chased Joy around the trees, and the whole area echoed with her laughter.

"Steven, stop chasing your sister."

When Steven stopped running, so did Joy.  She came over slowly and sheepishly, and tried to hug him, but he pulled away.  "I’m sorry, Stevie," she said, smiling.

"That wasn’t funny, Joy.  Look at my shirt!"  The collar of Steven’s bright red shirt was now dark red and sticking to his skin. 

"I said I was sorry!" Joy shouted, as she continued to giggle. 

"Yeah, right."  Steven sighed and walked away with his hands tucked in his pockets.  He looked over to his dad to see if he could get some support, but James, Sr. just flipped burgers and hummed, looking toward, and then quickly away from, his wife, Carol.  Steven looked over by the trees nearest to their picnic spot, and Esther was sitting on a blanket writing in her journal as usual.  James, Jr. was rolling his favorite truck on top of the picnic table while Carol unpacked the plates, cups, and napkins. 

"I’m going for a walk, mom.  I’ll be right back."

"Where are you going?"

"I don’t know.  Exploring or something.  I won’t go far."

"Mommy can I go, too?" Joy asked.

"Sure.  Steven, take your sister with you."

"Mom, please.  That’s the whole reason I’m going for a walk in the first place.  I just want some peace and quiet for a little while.  She can stay here and play with Junior.  Don’t you want to play with Joy, Junior?"  Junior looked up at Steven, shrugged, and went back to playing with his truck. 

"I don’t want to play with Junior.  I want to go exploring with you, Stevie.  Please?"

"This is so unfair.  I hate my life!"

"Steven, please, you don’t even know what it’s like to have a rough life."

"Come on, Joy," Steven huffed, kicking at the dirt as he started walking away.

Joy squealed gleefully, and grabbed Steven’s hand.

"Let go.  Your hands are all sticky," Steven said, lying.

After they walked across the grass for about five minutes, Steven looked up at his favorite hill and smiled.  Even having Joy with him couldn’t take the pleasure out of climbing up this hill.  It was one of the steepest hills in Prospect Park, and it gave him such a sense of accomplishment every time he reached the top.  He looked back over at Joy.  She had hidden a bunch of raisins and breadcrumbs in the little pocket of her sundress.  Steven watched her as she put some of the crumbs and raisins at the base of a tree.  She backed away from the tree slowly, and they both watched in wonder as a couple of squirrels scurried down from a branch and ate.  Steven smiled when he saw her giggle, but he quickly fixed his face back to a frown so she wouldn’t look over at him and see him smiling at her.  He started to walk away as she went to the edge of the lake, and threw breadcrumbs out to the ducks. 

"I’m leaving, Joy!"

"Where are you going?" Joy asked as he started to climb up.

"Where does it look like I’m going?  I’m climbing up the hill!"

"I – I’m scared to climb up there."

"Well, I’m not coming back down here to get you, so you better start climbing."

"Is it safe?  I mean, it looks a little slippery, and look at all these sharp rocks!"

"Joy, you’re the one who asked to go with me, now come on!"  Steven looked around, and the dirt was a little muddy from when it rained the day before.  The cautious part of him felt like he shouldn’t take her up the hill since she was scared.  After all, he was her big brother, and that meant looking out for her.  But then he thought about how much she had already ruined his day.  She was always ruining stuff for him.

Steven started climbing the hill without her.  Joy climbed as fast as she could to catch up with him, but she started slipping.  "Stevie?!  Stevie – I’m falling!"

"Joy, just come on!"

"I’m serious, Stevie."  He looked back and saw the terror on her face. 

"Okay, Joy.  Take it easy, okay?  Just grab my hand."  Steven started to creep back down the hill toward her, and when he planted his feet in a sturdy spot, he stretched his arm out toward her.  "Grab my hand, Joy."

Joy stepped toward him and reached out her hand, but she stepped down on a moist rock, and

lost her footing.  Before Steven knew it, Joy was airborne, falling back toward the bottom of the hill where the sharp rocks were waiting.  The scream that came out of her mouth seemed too big for her little body.  Forgetting about his own safety, Steven ran down the hill to try to help Joy.  She had fallen backward, and head first.  Her head hit the rocks with a sickening thud.  By the time Steven reached the bottom of the hill, her body was twitching, and her eyes stared around wildly.  Her mouth was open like she was trying to scream, but no sound came out. 

"Joy?  It’s okay Joy," Steven cried, hot tears falling heavy and fast from his eyes on to his little sister as he leaned over her.  He didn’t know what to do.  He didn’t want to leave her there by herself, but if he tried to carry her, he wouldn’t get back to where his family was fast enough.  He looked around frantically to see if there was someone to help, but what he loved most about this spot was how private it was. 

"Joy, I need to go get you some help, okay?"

"Stevie, please don’t leave me," she cried.  She reached out for his hand, and this time he let her hold it. 

"I have to go get you some help, Joy.  I’ll go as fast as I can, okay?"

She took a deep breath and looked at him one last time before closing her eyes.  Suddenly, her body became very still, and her hand fell out of his. 

"Joy?"  She didn’t respond.

"Joy, please say something."  Still, nothing.  He picked her up, laid her down on the grass, and he bent down to put his ear near her mouth.  She wasn’t breathing anymore, and when he looked over at the bottom of the hill, the rock where she hit her head was covered with blood.

***

I really wanted to call this post When Joy Died, but I knew that would give too much away. If I do include this in the novel, I need to do more research about what Prospect Park was like in the early 60s, especially for an African-American family.

What do you think? Would including his backstory take away from Subria's story as the main character? When/how should the reader learn about this incident? Should the reader find out before Subria does? I don't want the readers to be too sympathetic toward Steven. Would it be better for him to just tell her this story himself instead of having it appear for the reader? Share your thoughts, if you're so moved :).