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Read an excerpt from rave grabbing Novel, "My First Love," by Author/Poet Tanease Cromwell.

One

It was a mild afternoon just before summer, a couple of days before school let out. The air stank of sulfur or something, like it usually does when summer approaches. My best homie, Foodstamp (never understood why he called himself Foodstamp, but he seemed to be rather proud of it.) and I were sitting on my Mama's raggedly ass porch. He was looking through the holes the termites had made in it. I watched as a butterfly floated away into the rapidly receding horizon, its wings seemed to scrap the sky as it shrank into nothingness. He was rambling on about something I wasn't particularly interested in, but since he was my homie I put up with his shit.

"What are we doing here?" I looked at him confused then his facial expression let me off the hook. Sometimes he would say some shit that let me peek inside his soul. He would crack open the door that most niggas kept welded shut.

"Nigga I'm telling you, it ain't shit goin' on here." He paused for a minute to watch a bug crawl through one of the cracks in the wood, stuff like that interest him. Foodstamp was a curious nigga; some times he would sit and get lost in the most trivial situations. And he'd come up with some strange shit, like one day he asked me the difference between a peacock and a peafowl (all are peafowl, only the male with its splendid feather display is called a peacock). That's the kinda shit they don't teach you in school, so Foodstamp picked it up to use on me to make himself look smart. But he didn't need to front with me, I knew what he was about. "And I damn sure ain't trying to hear that bullshit yo' pops talkin' 'bout the military."

He knew he pissed me off, "That not my pops, man. That's my mamma's husband." I said through my teeth. He laughed knowing he had gotten under my skin, further incensing me, "I feel you though, I'm not trying to be one of those few good men."

"Well whatcha going do then, Jay." He propped his folded arms onto the wooden handrail on the porch. It objected to the additional weight, shifting forward to relieve itself of the stress. For the last month, or so Foodstamp had been trying to convince me to move out to Seattle with him and some more homies after school let out. It was a plan, but not one I was interested in.

"I don't know yet, but I have a few options." I saw out of the corner of my eye the doubtful expression on his face. He had reason to doubt, I had one choice, one that I hadn't embraced so far.

"Wat?" He looked at me as if I was about to confess about the Tupac murder.

I never really felt comfortable talking about academics with Foodstamp, not that he was dumb or any thing like that, but he never showed any interest in anything that wasn't street. As a matter of fact, I did not talk about my academic plans with anyone, except my high school counselor Mrs. Brown. Although my grades were just OK, based on my performance on the SAT, I could get into most of the state universities, and even some of the private colleges. I was really sick of school after twelve years of it, but she convinced me to apply to a few of them, ones she probably knew would accept me (see affirmative action). Then after some favorable replies, her plan went into high gear. Some how she was able to get me some scholarships (see affirmative action), student loans, and grants. It was enough to pay for the full ride without bothering my mamma for the money or having to get a job. She probably went out of her way to help me, someone who was going to graduate in the middle of my class, but she said I had potential and she did not want me to be another smart black man working in a warehouse. (Although at the time I did not see what was so terrible about working in a warehouse.) I kept it all on the hush hush until I made up my mind.

I stared off into the sunset for a while; knowing Foodstamp was waiting for me to continue. We always played these tit-for-tat games, and I wanted to get even with him for calling my mamma's husband my pops. He knew I was messing with his head, but if there was one thing I could count on, it was Foodstamp's impatience.

"Well, nigga?" he said visibly frustrated.

I flashed him a look of innocence. "Well, what?" I said clearly enjoying the exchange.

"Yo' options nigga, azz you call 'em. Wat the hell ya goin to do?" he said unusually curious. "I hope it ain't that college shit, Miz Brown been filling yo' head with. Nigga you know we ain't no college material." Damn, he knew. I knew he did not mean any harm by his comments, in fact he probably meant them as a compliment. Nevertheless they stung.

The last thing I wanted to do was to get into an argument with him about the merits of higher education, since I wasn't sold on its merits myself. My only escape was to throw him off. I slipped into my 'patois', "Nigga I got some prospects, ya know what I'm sayin'. All types of shit, you know how we do it." I looked over at him and saw that he was satisfied, even though I had not in the least divulged my plans to him. I guess by me talking street he felt reassured of my legitimacy, which was all-important to niggas like us.

Foodstamp and I were friends for longer than I could remember. He was a tall, fair skinned brother, with what Negroes call good hair. He had a square chin and rich eyebrows. He keep his hair cut in a fade, but always sported a Raiders cap. Over the years we had been through a lot of stuff together, most of it bad.

We started rapping about some other shit when that gang banging nigga Tray Rock came walking up the street. Tray was the worst type of nigga, I wanna be gansta, the kind most other gees don't even let kick it. Tray and I never got along too well together, even though we had known each other since we were children. Actually we had got in to it many times over the years, with the record being about even (though he'll tell you other wise). He claims to be a third generation gangster, because his two older brothers were also banging (I once tried to explain to his dumb ass that he and his brothers were all of the same generation, but it was useless.) He and Foodstamp were cool though, which kept us from getting into even more squabbles, or killing each other.

I didn't really hate the nigga, but he was the kid of person that just seemed to irritate me. "Here comes that nigga Travon with that same dirty T-shirt and those raggedly khakis," I said in a voice low enough that only Foodstamp and I could hear. Foodstamp and I both started laughing, though my laugh was more exaggerated than natural.

"Wat ya'll bitch niggas laughin' at," he said, with more than a hint of insecurity. He tried to mad dog me, but it was more humorous than any thing else. Travon knew I was not scared of him, even if he did consider me a little square. His snarl was mostly for show.

"You nigga," I said challenging him, "Who else." He pointed the middle figure in my direction and proceeded to try to ignore me.

"Foodstamp watz up wit him? He all of a sudden O.G. now?" I guess he thought he was disrespecting me. Most of the gangster niggas I knew had this misconception about respect. They thought it was something innate, that they were born with, something bestowed to them by the Almighty. I was not one of those niggas so it did not bother me; rather it was quite humorous to see this so-called tough nigga reduced to displaying his bitch side.

"Awh, he just trippin', cuz," he said not completely free of laughter. Foodstamp was always trying to be peacemaker between us, probably to keep from beating him himself. "Wat you doing over here, homie." This wasn't his hood and gee's never ventured out of their hood unless they were deep.

"Aey nigga heard y'all were going out to Washington, Watz up? I heard that niggas from out here can go and put in some work out there 'mongst them white people." Foodstamp smiled and Travon gave him pound. He looked at me like he had stolen my girl.

"That's what I have been trying to tell this, bitch ass nigga, cuz." he jabbed his thumb in my direction as if he was hitchhiking. Then he turned to me, "There is money to be made playa," giving me a pound.

I reluctantly accepted, unsure of his allegiance. I found it interesting he had not mentioned the drug part before. I have always suspected niggas eased their conscience by referring to their illegal activities as everyday stuff like, work, money or business. "I ain't trying to move out to Seattle, cuz. I'm working on some thangs out here." They did not look convinced.

Foodstamp grew frustrated, "Nigga it ain't nothing out here, but cops and preachers. I know you don't like cops, so whatcha goin' do?" He looked down the street, "Go to church!" This elicited an exaggerated belly laugh from Travon, who was clearly delighted to see me him put me on Front Street.

"Naw nigga," was all I could muster as my blood started to boil, as I watched that idiot Tray laugh his butt off.

Foodstamp looked at me clearly feeding off his audience, "Well what then?" he queried. Sometimes Foodstamp was a funny nigga, like a black Jerry Lewis.

"Don't worry about it, nigga." I said hoping he would drop the subject, but knowing he had no intention of doing any thing of the kind. Sometimes I got tired of his shit, using me to get a laugh.

"What is it? A secret." He prodded. He turned to Tray and started laughing again. "This nigga got secrets, cuz!" He blurted out between chuckles. I was rapidly reaching kindling point.

"Maybe its that bitch, he's kicking it wit." Travon added between giggles.

Instantly Foodstamp sobered up. That 'bitch' he was referring to was his cousin. Now I did not really have any feeling for her but it was an opportunity to get off into this punk's ass. He flashed me a look, and I new it meant I'd better protect the honor of his cousin. This was strange cause I heard him call her a bitch myself.

"Nigga what did you say? I'll beat your ass, nigga." Tray looked confused, but \ not scared. Foodstamp remained silent, focused. I knew as soon as I swing on Tray, Foodstamp was going to get into the action. He never let me get down by myself. Sometimes I wished he didn't, I didn't have a problem fighting my own battles.

"Why you trippin' nigga," He looked at Foodstamp for support. "You sprung or somethin', nigga" By this time I was already off the porch. As I moved closer to him I got into my fighting stance, "What's happnin', nigga!" I said through my teeth, "You don't know me!" (Among niggas 'You don't know me' is considered a considerable insult.)

Tray stepped back and got into his stance as well, "What you want, Jehran." He called me by my first name, mocking me. "Baby boy, you want me to give you another boxing lesson?" He was a big man with his mouth.

I wasn't worried; I had grown considerably since our last confrontation, I was anxious to prove he was no longer in my league. I waved my arms as we circled each other, begging him to jump. But it was not to be, My mamma must of heard the commotion and stuck her head, full of rollers, out the door, "Baby Boy get yo' ass in this house, yo' daddy wants to talk to you." I hated when she called me Baby boy.

My adrenaline surge was replaced by a wash of embarrassment.

"Go head and take your punk ass in the house Baby Boy." The words came of his tongue like cheap cough syrup.

I didn't dare drop my guard. I stared him down for a moment, still intent on squabbing, until Foodstamp came between us. He always had a way of looking good in front of my mamma. He spoke low, almost in a whisper, so only I could here, "Go head nigga, do what your mamma says. We'll handle this shit another time."

I dropped my guard and headed back toward the porch. When I reached the top, I turned around and gave Tray another hard look. He seemed amused by it, like I did earlier.

He pointed his finger, "One day, it goin happen."

My mamma tugged on my clothes, "One day," I returned. I gave him the obligatory fuck you stare and walked in the house. As I walked in I heard her thank Foodstamp for keeping me out of trouble.

*******

I was nearly asleep, when I heard my mamma and her man, Joseph, knocking at my room door. I knew it was them knocking because my little sister, Tiffany, was never that polite. Plus, I saw two sets of shadows underneath the door. When they first knocked I tried to ignore them by pretending I was sleep, it rarely worked but it was worth a try. The last thing I wanted was I conversation with either if them (It was not always that way, before 'Slick' Joe came to stay with us, my mamma and I had a pretty good relationship. When this cat entered the picture, we didn't get along from the start. At first my mamma use to try to ask me what it was about the nigga that I didn't like. The problem was this SOB was so repulsive to me I did not know where to begin. All I knew was he was bad news. She eventually gave up trying to please me to accommodate her husband. Since She chose to stand by her man, I chose to stand alone, in theory at least.).

When they knocked a second time, the fair warning knock, I ducked my head under the blanket, one last effort to avoid trouble. She walked through the door accompanied by her sidekick. They flipped on the light switch burning my eyes. "Baby Boy, why didn't you answer damned that doe," she said, partially clueless as usual.

I ducked my head from under the sheets, trying not to expose the rest of my body. The bare bulb that hung from my ceiling seemed to shine unusually bright, causing me to squint my eyes, which helped my performance. "What? Mamma? Did you call me?" I cut a glance at Joe, whose eyes always saw the guilt in me. He wasn't buying my innocence.

Neither was she, "Baby boy you heard me knocking on this gawd damn doe," she insisted. She was in full Mamma mode, pissed as usual, so what ever they wanted to talk about must have been serious. I didn't bother to answer; instead I just eyed each of them. She took my silence for what it meant, 'get to the point.' She looked over me in an admiring mother way, with soft eyes that conveyed warmth, and a curt smile of endearment. And for and instant, I appreciated it, even if it was only for a second. Her serious demeanor quickly returned. "Now baby boy, you damn near grown now, you got any plans after school lets out?" Her forehead grew wrinkled, like she always did when she was uncomfortable. So I knew they had something in store for me. And I knew the idea was not her own.

Often our engagements were like a game bones so I had to be careful, especially with Slick. "Uh, Clancy and was thinking about going to Seattle. His peoples out there, says there are a lot jobs out there. A lot of entry level stuff." Seeing I was lying well, I added, "Mr. Smith, said it too." Mr. Smith was a deacon at the church she made me to on Sundays. I felt good about my response, giving them a satisfactory explanation without tipping my hand.

But there was a problem, one of credibility on my part. I was not known for my foresight, and to them, it must have sounded too much like right. Slick who was always critical of me was the first to question me. "Boy what type of bullshit are you trying to pull," he said smiling. He always seemed to get satisfaction out of cursing me. He was a man of slight build, not more than a buck thirty and about five and a half feet tall. His body was well toned, probably from his work as a custodian. He was black as a spook, with inset eyes. His skinned was taut to his face clearly outlining his bone structure. He wore short cropped hair that was nappy more times than not. An ugly fella, I did not see what my mamma saw in this diminutive owl man.

"Man, what are you talking about," I said, curling up my lip as I spoke. I sat up; to remind him I was a good half a foot taller than him and sixty pounds heavier. The blanket fell to my lap exposing the results of the weight training Foodstamp had encouraged me to do.

My mamma, reading my gestures, bristled, probably as she thought of the consequences. My father was a violent man, and that is why he was not here now, she would remind me any time she felt I was getting out of control. I guess she felt I was tempted to follow in his footsteps. "Baby boy, show yo' daddy some respect, befo' I take a stick to yo' ass," she said.

I smiled, amused by the threat, knowing she was just grandstanding for Slick. He looked at me, probably wishing he had beaten my ass when I was younger. I flashed him a smirk to boot.

"I told you honey, he ain't worth yo' time or mine." She flashed him a cursed look, clearly not appreciating the remark. He gently tugging on her clothes, but she pulled away. It was clear that I had frustrated them. This pissed my mamma off, because I think she wanted him to check me, but he didn't have the interest or the heart. He turned to walk out of the room but stopped when he saw she was not following. She studied my for a few minutes, probably wishing she'd been on the pill when I was conceived. My mamma was always a beautiful person, now she had elegance that only came with age. She was fair complexion with baby smooth skin. Her eyes were the lightest brown, and she always kept her eyebrows arched. She had an inconspicuous nose and full lips. She kept herself well groomed, rarely removing makeup until she was going to bed. She was not fat or chubby, but she was not skinny either. She was what niggas called 'big boned.' She stood about the same size as Slick. She sat on my bed next to me and grabbed me by the chin, looking me straight in the eyes, "Baby boy, do yo dumb ass want to end up like your father."

I did not try to pull a way from her, I tried to keep a serious face, but inside I wanted to laugh my head off. I purposely muffled my words, "Mamma how the hell, am I suppose to talk, if you keep holding my face?" She squeezed tighter before pushing my face and letting go. "That's child abuse you know," I said rubbing my chin for effect. She was not impressed with my knowledge of child welfare laws, "Little nigga, wat you goin' do? Call the people on me?" She spoke with a laugh that was more full of contempt than humor. "You are my son, and I'd beat your ass any time I feel you need it."

I knew my comments were stroking her ego, which was part of my game. I felt the need to cut her down a little bit, "I don't need to call nobody." I said and let out a long held toothy smile.

Common sense should have led me to expect what happened next, but I was impaired in the moment. Before I had a chance to raise my guard, she stood up, and took an open hand left, then right to either side of my face. My face burned and bolts of white lights danced before my eyes. I felt water forming in my eyes, but I blinked to avoid them from seeing running down my face.

My mamma had a fierce temper, especially when it came to me. Sometimes I wondered why she wasn't locked up.

I sprang up standing toe to toe with my mamma. Slick had got into a flanker position, not too far behind her. I noticed he didn't try to restrain her like he usually did. I spent plenty of time on the streets, and this reeked of a set up. "You threatenin' me, Baby Boy, I'll kill yo' ass. You my son, nigga. I'll kill yo' young ass." She was out of control. She looked at me hard and cold, and so did Slick. I knew his bitch ass was trying to find an opportunity to sneak me.

I did not dare take my eyes off of either of them. Instead I tried to see if they had any weapons. If this was a set up, they had to know that the two of them without weapons was no match for me. My mamma had on a long cotton nightgown; she could have easily concealed a knife or something under it. Slick was standing closest to the closet where I kept my Louisville. His eagerness to get into the fray; let me know his position between me and the closet was by design. I looked at the window, as possible means of escape, but it was shut and locked. Inside I was proud of them, even though it was a foul raw dog type twist. I was trapped like a punk ass bitch. I had no choice but to recant, but with face. "Mamma what you tripping for? You know I would never do anything to you." Which was the truth, but I shouted it to sound tough. I rubbed my face knowing it would help my cause. "I was just saying."

My mamma, now in control, promptly cut me off, "You were just saying what." I knew that was my cue to shut up if I wanted to end this skirmish without further altercation. I took a seat on the bed. Slick looked disappointed. Seeing that I had submitted she said, "Now we came in here, to try to help yo' ass out. You goin' be done with school, in a minute Joe and I had something in line for you."

Fuck Joe.

She paused, casting me an evil eye, "though yo' dumb as probably don't deserve it." She had succeeded in piquing my curiosity, though I tried to fiend disinterest. "Oh by the way, you ain't going to no Seattle, so get that out yo' head right now." Another unenforceable threat, I thought.

As I leaned back on my elbows, trying to look relaxed, Slick walked forward sticking out his bird chest, after figuring it was safe. We both knew this whole scenario, was his idea, he wanted to get me out of the picture, one-way or the other. "Boy, they got some positions opening up at my job for apprentices, I know you ain't never had no real job befo', but I talked to some people and they are willing to help yo' ass out." he seemed rather pleased with himself.

This nigga must be crazy. I tried to keep my facial expression blank, knowing my mamma was intently staring at me trying to gage my reaction. Internally I though, a janitor's apprentice! Who made this shit up? I wanted to chuckle, but it wouldn't have been wise, since I could tell my mamma thought this was a pretty good idea. They had shown their cards. Now it was time for me to show mine. I flashed a big uncontrollable smile, which they undoubtedly took for my acceptance. It warmed her, to see the smile, because she also grinned widely. I almost didn't want to burst her bubble. I calmly reached for my blue khakis and grabbed a bundle of rolled up papers out of my back pocket. I handed them to her, not bothering to unravel them. Her forehead began to wrinkle, a response that indicated she was expecting the worse. But, Slick had been through this before and somehow figured I had trumped him and turned away as she silently read the papers. First I think, she thought it was a joke, she seem to look over the papers for signs of tampering. Once satisfied that they were real, She looked as if she was going to faint. Slick finally turned around, probably wandering what had struck her. She looked at me incredulously, then at Slick with the same bewilderment. Her mouth opened but nothing came out. She took a deep breath, then tried again, but all she could muster was, "Oh Lord."

Slick could not hide his curiosity any longer and snatch the papers from her hands, which offended me. My revenge was watching his face drop as he read them. He studied them a bit, probably doing the same thing my mamma did, but in his case hoping they were fake. He looked at me much the same way my mamma had, "Who the hell let you in college," he said before storming out of the room, dropping the acceptance notice and financial aid papers on the floor. I didn't really disagree with them. My mamma still partially incoherent instinctually picked the papers off the floor. She handed them to me without saying a word.

As she turned to walk out the room I couldn't help but gloat. "Mamma." She stopped and her shoulders rose as she prepared herself. Before she could turn around I said, "Turn off the light."

She sighed, turned off the light, and sighed again before closing the door. again before closing the door.

Terrell James is the webmaster and founder of Jetblack.com and a contributing author to "Day to Day."

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