from?" the man asked. He wore an elegant black suit and black tie, and his demeanor was irresistibly cheerful, which put my grandfather at ease. His accent wasn't American, but my grandfather couldn't quite place it.
"Jamaica," my grandfather proudly responded.
"I knew you were not from here. We need to get you some appropriate clothes. Don't worry. When I first came here, I did the same thing."
The man took my grandfather to the store to buy him some warm clothes to wear until he could properly equip himself for the winter. The shopping excursion was the first of many encounters between my grandfather and this man, who would become a mentor, teacher, and friend to him. They spent many hours talking together about the changing world and the dawning of independence and liberation movements across the African Diaspora. He tried to convince my grandfather to go into politics, as he hoped to, and change the world through that means. But my grandfather insisted that God was calling him to serve through the ministry.
The two men's paths diverged over time. The man who mentored--and clothed--my grandfather followed his dreams and made history. That man, Kwame Nkrumah, became the president of Ghana, the first black African president of an independent African nation.
After completing his education, my grandfather moved to the South Bronx and brought his wife and kids with him. In 1952, my grandfather, son of a Presbyterian minister and now a Presbyterian minister himself, became the first black minister in the history of the Dutch Reformed Church. The Dutch Reformed Church, born in the Netherlands during the Reformation, had spread throughout Europe and around the world, and even eventually became the official religion of apartheid South Africa. My grandfather's pioneering ascent to the ministry was met with many cheers but some threats as well. He battled through them and made history.
Thirty-two years later, he hadn't changed. He sat across from my mother and told her that the changes in the neighborhood had not diminished his belief in the community. He was determined to stick it out and do his part to heal what was broken in the Bronx.
I continued to spin the ball on my finger.
The first few days after the move, I became antsy. I missed my old friends and my old neighborhood. I had thought my mother's rules were strict but soon realized that my grandparents' were many times worse. They made it very clear that Paulding Avenue was their home and their rules would apply. When the streetlights went on, we had to be back home. All chores had to be done before we even thought about going outside to play. If we heard any gunfire or, as my grandmother called it, "foolishness," outside, we were to immediately return home, no matter when it was. These were not Bronx rules, these were West Indian rules. And my grandparents figured if these rules had helped their children successfully navigate the world, they would work on their grandkids too.
My restlessness was cured only by heading out into these new streets. After completing my chores one day, I got permission to play basketball at a park five blocks from our house.
"Go, play, and come right back!" were the orders I heard as I began to dribble my basketball up the concrete sidewalks toward the courts. I took my time getting to the courts, practicing dribbling the ball between my legs, but I also tried my best to absorb the new neighborhood. There were many more people on the streets, sitting on the stoops, hanging out, than I was used to. The boom-bap of early hip-hop, still young and close to its Bronx roots, tumbled out of the apartment buildings, mixed with Spanish music blaring from boom boxes. The Bronx was in its postapocalyptic phase. Whole blocks were abandoned, buildings blackened and hollowed out by fires set by arsonists--many of whom were in the employ of landlords looking to cash out of the deteriorating ghetto. I didn't have much of a frame of reference back then,
"Jamaica," my grandfather proudly responded.
"I knew you were not from here. We need to get you some appropriate clothes. Don't worry. When I first came here, I did the same thing."
The man took my grandfather to the store to buy him some warm clothes to wear until he could properly equip himself for the winter. The shopping excursion was the first of many encounters between my grandfather and this man, who would become a mentor, teacher, and friend to him. They spent many hours talking together about the changing world and the dawning of independence and liberation movements across the African Diaspora. He tried to convince my grandfather to go into politics, as he hoped to, and change the world through that means. But my grandfather insisted that God was calling him to serve through the ministry.
The two men's paths diverged over time. The man who mentored--and clothed--my grandfather followed his dreams and made history. That man, Kwame Nkrumah, became the president of Ghana, the first black African president of an independent African nation.
After completing his education, my grandfather moved to the South Bronx and brought his wife and kids with him. In 1952, my grandfather, son of a Presbyterian minister and now a Presbyterian minister himself, became the first black minister in the history of the Dutch Reformed Church. The Dutch Reformed Church, born in the Netherlands during the Reformation, had spread throughout Europe and around the world, and even eventually became the official religion of apartheid South Africa. My grandfather's pioneering ascent to the ministry was met with many cheers but some threats as well. He battled through them and made history.
Thirty-two years later, he hadn't changed. He sat across from my mother and told her that the changes in the neighborhood had not diminished his belief in the community. He was determined to stick it out and do his part to heal what was broken in the Bronx.
I continued to spin the ball on my finger.
The first few days after the move, I became antsy. I missed my old friends and my old neighborhood. I had thought my mother's rules were strict but soon realized that my grandparents' were many times worse. They made it very clear that Paulding Avenue was their home and their rules would apply. When the streetlights went on, we had to be back home. All chores had to be done before we even thought about going outside to play. If we heard any gunfire or, as my grandmother called it, "foolishness," outside, we were to immediately return home, no matter when it was. These were not Bronx rules, these were West Indian rules. And my grandparents figured if these rules had helped their children successfully navigate the world, they would work on their grandkids too.
My restlessness was cured only by heading out into these new streets. After completing my chores one day, I got permission to play basketball at a park five blocks from our house.
"Go, play, and come right back!" were the orders I heard as I began to dribble my basketball up the concrete sidewalks toward the courts. I took my time getting to the courts, practicing dribbling the ball between my legs, but I also tried my best to absorb the new neighborhood. There were many more people on the streets, sitting on the stoops, hanging out, than I was used to. The boom-bap of early hip-hop, still young and close to its Bronx roots, tumbled out of the apartment buildings, mixed with Spanish music blaring from boom boxes. The Bronx was in its postapocalyptic phase. Whole blocks were abandoned, buildings blackened and hollowed out by fires set by arsonists--many of whom were in the employ of landlords looking to cash out of the deteriorating ghetto. I didn't have much of a frame of reference back then,
Similar Books
