A photo legacy project.
I might not be a serious community organizer or a change-the-world type of girl like Imani and Toya, but this I can do, this I want to do.
Tye replies to my text: That sounds amazing. And then: I want to be a part of this. Let me know how I can help.
I’m trying to think of a way to tell him that I don’t need his help. I don’t want to drag him into this fake-but-kind-of-real project. I text back: Okay.
After I leave Sugar Hill Senior Living, I walk over to 135th and Lenox and meet Tye at the halal food truck that parks right outside the Schomburg Center. When he sees me walking down the street, he smiles, and I don’t care what Imani says, this smile is not a friend smile. He hugs me, tight, and when he lets go he says, “Every time I see you, your hair is different.”
I laugh because if only he knew the story behind my hair.
“I like it,” he says. “You’re so beautiful.”
“Thanks,” I tell him. I’m beautiful to Tye. I let the words sink in.
“Do you know what you want?” Tye asks. We’re up next. He pulls out his wallet.
“Um, whatever you’re getting,” I say.
He steps up to the truck and orders. “I’ll have two falafel gyros, please.”
“Oh, and a bottled water,” I say.
Tye looks at me. “Um, you don’t have water?”
“No, I . . . no.” I think he’s going to lecture me like Imani does. She thinks I should carry around a reusable water bottle, but those things get heavy when they’re filled with water and I don’t want to lug that around in my bag all day. Plus, on every block you can get ice-cold water for a dollar and I always put the plastic bottle in the recycling bin, so what’s the big deal?
Tye orders the water without saying anything, but I can tell he is bothered. Once our order is called, Tye says, “Where to?”
“Let’s just walk and see,” I say.
We walk slow because we are eating and talking, making our way down 135th toward St. Nicholas Park. We’re not saying a whole lot, mostly talking about how good our gyros are and how we should have got an order of fries to share. Once we get to the park, we climb the stairs and I hope I am not out of all the breath I have by the time we reach the top. We find a bench to sit on, and now that I am finished with my food, I am thirsty but I feel awkward bringing out my bottled water. I do it anyway because it is too hot out here and after walking up the steps, my throat is dry. I drink my water, trying not to guzzle it down like I really want to.
Tye says, “I’m so glad we’re doing this. I wanted to talk more about your photo legacy project.”
“Is that all you want to talk about?” I say that with an attitude. I can’t help it. But I did not come out here to see Tye today to only talk about old people and pictures.
“Well, I don’t only want to talk about that, but—”
“Tye, what is this? What are we doing? Is there a we?”
Tye looks at me, smiles. “Do you want there to be a we?”
“I do, honestly, but I don’t know how you feel. And I don’t know how you feel about Toya.”
“Toya?” Tye’s eyebrows frown. “What does she have to do with any of this?”
“It’s obvious that she likes you. Do you have feelings for her too?”
“I don’t think Toya likes me, and I definitely don’t like her. Not like that. I mean, we’re just friends.”
“Yeah, but you said we were just friends.” We even toasted to it.
“Oh, but no—when I said you were my friend, I meant, you know, like . . . well, my friend that hopefully becomes more than that.”
“That’s not what you said.”
“That’s what I meant.” Tye takes my hand. “I don’t like Toya. Toya likes Toya. A lot.”
I laugh. Tye laughs too.
“Well, I just want to make sure. I needed to know. I mean, you two have a lot in common.”
“So do we,” Tye says. “I love that you volunteer at Sugar Hill Senior Living; you’re focused and know what you want to do as far as college. Oh, and you and I like the same kind of food.”
Maybe Imani was right. Tye likes the fake me, not the real me.
I tell Tye, “I want us to get to know each other. Like, actually talk about more than Inspire Harlem or Sugar Hill Senior Living.”
“Well, tell me something I don’t know about you.”
You don’t know anything, honestly. “Um . . .” This is harder than I thought it would be.
“Okay, well, I know you and Imani are cousins. Tell me about your family—your parents.”
“There’s not much to know,” I say. “My dad lives in Jamaica, so I don’t see him too much. My mom? Well, we do better when we don’t live together. I love her, but she’s not good at being a mother.” I don’t know if that sounded mean, so I just turn the question to him. “What about you? Are you close to your parents?”
“My mom. Yes. She’s my everything. My dad—not so much. Now we’re good, but when I was younger, it was rough. My parents divorced when I was eight. Back then, my dad was not good at being a father at all. Or a husband. But now, he’s remarried and he’s a better man.” Tye sounds sad when he says this, and then he says, “I’m proud of him for getting his life together, but I hate that he couldn’t do it for my mom. He has a whole other family. They get the best version of him.”
We stand and start walking through the park. There are families out sitting on blankets, a cyclist riding his bike, couples strolling hand in hand, and down the path I see a little girl chasing bubbles and popping them with her hands as the woman with her blows gently through a wand.
Tye keeps talking, and I’m so glad I am finally getting to know him and not just what he does for Inspire Harlem. “My dad lives in Connecticut and has a whole new family—two other children with his new wife. My uncle kind of stepped in and helped my mom. He’s like my dad. So I get what you mean about not being close to your mom and having a stronger relationship with your aunt.”
I notice that Tye said “new wife” and not “stepmom.”
“My dad and I would probably get along better if he didn’t lie so much.”
“What do you mean?”
“He just doesn’t keep his word. He’s always making plans with me and then canceling them at the last minute.” Tye shakes his head, lets out a long sigh. “I can’t stand when people don’t follow through. Make a plan, stick to it. Say what you mean and mean what you say.”
9
It’s the Fourth of July, and the whole family is gathering at Aunt Liz’s. Her rooftop is the perfect place to view fireworks. Every time I come over to Aunt Liz’s I see the kind of future I want for myself. She’s a regular kind of fancy, nothing too over the top, but she is not simple by any means. Today, she has catered a feast. Jerk wings, pork ribs, curry shrimp skewers, rice and peas, mac and cheese, Jamaican festival—the best fried dumplings in the world—fried plantains, and serrano lime slaw. And the dessert table is full too. I’m already eyeing out my three favorites: rum cake, gizzada, and sweet potato pudding. Before we begin eating, we dig into the platter of mango, pineapple, and strawberries.