Too Short for a Blog Post, Too Long for a Tweet 322

 

 

Here are a few excerpts from a book I recently read, "On the Come Up," by Angie C. Thomas.

Nothing’s been the same since Nas told me the world was mine. Old as that album was back then, it was like waking up after being asleep my whole life. It was damn near spiritual. 

I fiend for that feeling. It’s the reason I rap.

Yeah, my mom and dad were those stereotypical teen parents. They were grown when I came along, but Trey made them grow up way before that. Granddaddy says my dad had two jobs at sixteen and still pursued rapping. He was determined that . . . 

Well, that we wouldn’t end up like this.

She keeps her head in the freezer as she stuffs another pack of frozen meat inside. “I got my EBT card in the mail today.” 

EBT? “You got food stamps? But you said we weren’t gonna—” 

“You can say a whole lot before things happen,” she says. “You never truly know what you will or won’t do until you’re going through it. We needed food. Welfare could help us get food.” 

“But I thought you said they don’t give college students food stamps unless they have a job.” 

“I withdrew from school.” She says it as casually as if I asked her about the weather. 

“You what?” I’m so loud, nosy Ms. Gladys next door probably heard me. “But you were so close to finishing! You can’t quit school for some food stamps!” 

Jay moves around me and gets a box of cereal from a bag. “I can quit to make sure you and your brother don’t starve.” 

This . . . 

This hurts. 

This physically f**king hurts. I feel it in my chest, I swear. It burns and aches all at once. “You shouldn’t have to do that.” 

She crosses over to me, but I watch the glimmer of sunlight that’s shining through the window and lighting up the tile on the floor. Granddaddy used to say, look for the bright spots. I know he didn’t mean literally, but that’s all I’ve got. 

“Hey, look at me,” Jay says. She takes my chin to make sure that I do. “I’m fine. This is temporary, okay?” 

“But becoming a social worker is your dream. You need a degree for that.” 

“You and your brother are my first dream. That other one can wait to make sure you two are okay. That’s what parents do sometimes.” 

“You shouldn’t have to,” I say. 

“But I want to.” 

That makes this harder. Having to is a responsibility. Wanting to is love.

There’s so much I wanna say but don’t know how to say. I mean, how do you tell your mom that you’re scared you’re losing her again? How selfish is it to say, “I need you to be okay so that I’ll be okay”? 

Jay cups my cheek. “I’m okay.” 

I swear, moms are equipped with mind-reading abilities.