Some Places More Than Others: Chapters 13–21

“But don’t you fret. The girls will be here soon, and I’ve planned a little outing. There are some places I want to show you that aren’t on your list,” Grandpa Earl says.

We walk by a restaurant on 126th and Lenox that has a mural.

“Here we are,” Grandpa says when we get to 135th. “This is the Schomburg Center. This is a haven for black history.”

Grandpa Earl introduces me to his friend and then says, “Go ’head and give her the spiel. Act like we’ve never heard it before.”

The man stands, handing all three of us girls a brochure. “We're a research library, which means you can’t check out any books. But many people come here to do in-depth research on black culture. We have all sorts of materials about the African American, African diaspora, and African experiences—”

He points to the words engraved on the floor. “Langston’s poem, ‘The Negro Speaks of Rivers,’ was his first critically acclaimed poem, and this installation honors his life and the diaspora. His ashes are buried underneath.”

When we enter Aunt Tracey’s apartment, the first thing I notice is how compact everything is.

“You’re so rich you don’t even know how privileged you are. Your dad just throws money at you so you can splurge while you’re sightseeing—”
“It’s not my fault I have a dad who cares for me,” I say.

“This place is legendary for welcoming playwrights, poets, and musicians of color whose work isn’t always accepted by the mainstream industry,” he tells me.

“You’re smart like your mom. You have her discipline and courage to try new things. You’re caring like her, too.”

“But you’re creative like both of us, actually, and I hope you have my compassion and integrity. At least, that’s what I try to be in the world,” Dad says.

When the phone rings, Dad says, “She doesn’t know about your solo excursion,” and walks out of the room.

Dad says, “Okay, babe, one, two, three...” and they both serenade me with the “Happy Birthday” song.

Aunt Tracey asks the server for the Gabrielle Union—smothered pork chops.

We order dessert, and soon the table is covered with bowls of peach cobbler and plates with slices of sweet potato pie.

Then, she tells us stories of Dad breaking her dolls and all the shenanigans they’d get into.

I don’t want to ask formal questions, just want to get this candid moment of everyone laughing and talking.

Aunt Tracey says, “It will be fine. Leslie is at thirty-six weeks. That’s not full term, but it’s not dire. She’ll be okay, she’ll be okay.”

Mom takes Tadala from me, but holds her for a little while before putting her in her bassinet.

Grandpa’s southern drawl,
his slow walk and brown fedora.
A handful of caramel candies and always
peppermint, coffee beans, and cocoa powder.
Old records with jazz moans scratched in the vinyl.