The First Time by Mario Davidson
“…as engulfing as a canyon is to a lizard. I discovered that delirium”
Personal Essay by Mario Davidson
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“Mario, you know I don’t like sleepovers,” Mama exasperatingly said. “I don’t know if you need to go. Who’s going to be there and when is it?” What her mouth didn’t say, the deepened forehead wrinkles and inverted eyebrows expressed clearly. She X-rayed me seeking my innermost nature in the same way that the dentist does when asking, “Have you been flossing regularly?”
As a teenager, my older sister, Raquel, had to endure questions years ago when she wanted to attend a sleepover at the house of her friend, Dawn. My mother finally gave in, perhaps because she knew Dawn’s mother. The mothers had worked together for years in the church office as finance and benevolence committee members. Their husbands were former schoolmates. They occasionally met to play checkers with one another, and Dawn’s parents were upstanding educators in the community: a principal and a teacher.
At Dawn’s sleepover, Raquel and her friends stayed up all night gossiping. Who was sleeping with whom? Who had a crush on the boy at church? Who was a fake? Discussions of proms, field trips, and colleges were covered with the precision needed to fix a grandfather clock. By the time my mother and I picked up Raquel, “Entertainment Tonight” had proven effective in placing her into a sedated state.
When Raquel arose, she told my mother about some of the stories from the sleepover; the ones with just enough red pepper to singe but not ravage the taste buds. Top secret information was saved for me, her confidant. In my mother’s eyes, no one was harmed at the sleepover, it was supervised, nothing was broken, and no wild behavior or extremely distasteful conversations took place. Thus, the sleepover was successful.
The Battle of Sleepover was won as decisively as the victory at the Battle of Waterloo, and now I would reap the rewards of General Raquel’s strategic maneuvering. My mother couldn’t deny me the chance to fraternize. Sure, I had not proven to be as trustworthy as Raquel, but a denial of my request to attend would be a precedential decision with far-reaching consequences on my mother and my future; my sister and my relationship. Not only would such a verdict have denied my personal interests, but it would have validated what parents around the world have refuted: “You like my sibling better than me!”
When the rare sleep invitation occurred, my mother became a hen to her chicks. While growing up, my sister only attended one and I, none. “Where is this sleepover? Who are his parents and what do they do? Will they be there? Why do you want to go so badly, and is there going to be a party? Who will be there!?” she asked me.
I guess her interrogation made sense given my slight history of tangling with the truth and developing outcomes in my favor. To my defense though, I had matured and almost understood the meaning of “A hard head, makes a soft behind.” Nonetheless, my mother was aware of movies that showed hormone driven teens, partying with drugs and alcohol. She was determined to protect me from the follies of youth.
“Just me, Ed, and Jarrett will be there,” I replied. “My classmates. It’s Friday and we won’t be doing anything. Just hangin’ out, and you know his mother. She’ll be there; she’s cool.” Doing my best to instill the confidence of an innocent gathering amongst friends who had known each other for years, I waited anxiously while projecting positive thoughts telepathically to my mother in hopes of elucidating the correct response as she pondered with a tight lip.
“OK,” she eventually said, “but make sure that you behave yourself. I don’t want to hear that you are goofing around. You better not embarrass me and your father. You don’t just represent yourself. If I hear that you’re actin’ up, you definitely will not be going to another. Do I make myself clear?” she said with a stern voice and blazing eyes.
Friday came and the guys and I were excited to play video games. Ed had some of the best games: Punch Out, Zelda II, and Mega Man 2. He had fighting and sports games. “Dude, you suck! You need to practice with yo’ sorry behind,” we jived on each other. “Shut up, ol’ stupid idiot! Your turn to play.” Talking trash was as much the national pastime as baseball, and we all enjoyed the banter. To call each other stupid was akin to saying, “I love you bruh.” Ed also had board games, a ping-pong table, and a pinball machine. He had all the coolest things.
Ed's mother was a local politician, the treasurer of my hometown, East St. Louis, IL, but she lived on the outskirts in a city named Belleville. While these cities neighbored one another in the same county, the differences were stark in my eyes. Belleville was predominantly White. East St. Louis, 99% African American. Belleville had thriving businesses. East St. Louis was poverty stricken. Belleville had nice suburban homes while East St. Louis had multiple project homes. Belleville lacked crime. East St. Louis had rampant crime catalyzed by an infestation of gangs. It was the murder capital of the United States with its rate dwarfing the likes of Chicago, St. Louis, and Baltimore. The Belleville high school gyms had better lighting and their parking lot was much bigger, with nicer cars. Their elementary schools had playground sets with swings, monkey bars, seesaws, and obstacle courses all surrounded by fresh green grass while East St. Louis’ playground sometimes consisted of a broken merry-go-round and monkey bar sitting on a grass-patched dirt field.
History had taught East St. Louis’ citizens that Belleville was not to be trusted. In our opinion, high school referees and field judges would steal the game when the rival teams played in Belleville — especially in the playoffs. Belleville politicians served Belleville; not us. The law was on their side, and under no circumstance should an East St. Louis boy have dated a Belleville girl! He was asking for trouble if he did.
After the three of us played video games, someone suggested that we go outside and ride Edward’s bikes. The weather was beautiful; sunny with blue skies and a nice breeze. We rode down the major street enjoying each other's company on a Friday evening. There’d be no school tomorrow; no homework. We’d stay up late, play more games, and relax. This was a vacation.
“Bruh, y’all need to speed up,” Ed said as we took a break from trailing him on the sidewalk against the traffic. “Y’all riding like my grandmama.”
“Well, yo’ grandmama must be fast. I always figured she was. That’s why I’ma call her fast butt when I go back to the house. You know yo’ granddaddy too old for her anyway. What is she? Forty-five? He gots to be eighty! She need a real man like me with her fine tail,” a retort was made. We all laughed at the sexualized humor. I couldn’t beat this feeling: joking with my boys, riding the bikes, not having a care in the world.
Unfortunately, when we began riding again, Jarrett’s bike chain came off. We stopped and tried to fix it but were unable. We were not mechanically inclined, and the chain seemed too small to fit around the ring. Cars continued to pass; viewing us as the neutral paint color of my uncle’s dining room. If we were unable to fix the chain, the walk back to Ed’s house would be relatively lengthy, and without cell phones at the time, Ed’s mother may have worried.
As we struggled, the evening sun began to fall. The temperature dropped slightly, and the music of a dying rush hour disturbed the air. Beeeeeep, three teenage boys driving a blue, four-door sedan startled us with their horn. Two of them in the front and back passenger’s side were hanging out of their windows to attract our attention with the one in the back being shirtless. Beeeeeep! Were these our guardian angels? Oh my gosh, help is on the way; Ed must be covered by AAA.
Beeeeeep! “Niggerrrrrs! Stupid niggers!” These Bellville boys shouted from their car while slowly driving and banging on it; laughing and mocking us. The third-wheel kid in the backseat with his blonde, shoulder-length, straight hair was excessively loud as his eyes suggested that we were his favorite comedian who had told the most humorous joke. They shouted again, “Niggers,” laughed, and sped away as if they were attempting to splatter mud on us from the dry asphalt road.
“What…? What…!?” I thought almost in tears. Delirium must have felt like this. It must have. I was blindsided by a bat to the head - an infected bat. A bat of ignorance caused this onset. I was unable to focus, unable to respond to my environment. I was disoriented; unable to see or hear clearly. Shock…sadness…anxiety, fear, anger, rage…shame…. The wave of emotions was as engulfing as a canyon is to a lizard. I discovered that delirium was as contagious as any other disease caused by a virus. This had to be true, because Ed and Jarrett were experiencing the same symptoms.
I had heard such language on the popular television series, Roots, and other shows like it. I remembered my disgust and anger. How could they have called us disrespectful vulgarities? Defecated us with turds of their tongues? Was that actor who portrayed a cruel, slave master like this in real life? He certainly portrayed his character convincingly. Derogatory scenes lasted relatively short periods as there was only so much pain and discomfort that the audience would take before they turned their heads or switched the channel, but this…this was not true. This…this was no motion picture.… No…there were no…thespians. Hollywood was wrong because this felt worse than Roots. It lasted less than thirty seconds, but it lasted a lifetime, and we were unable to stop watching.
These young punks who we had never met, hurt and embarrassed us. Why…? Wh'-why…!? We hadn’t busted their window with a ball. We hadn’t taken their girlfriends or jobs. We hadn’t threatened, criticized, or hurt them. We…were “Stupid!” Were we? We were showing characteristics as none of us could talk. None of us...could comprehend what had just happened. We were unable to channel our feelings, control our emotions; ignorant to the carnage that a tornado could create. We. Didn’t. Understand. The school system said that we belonged in the honor’s track with the high performers. Had they misplaced us? This...was the first time.
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Header photograph courtesy of Devin N. Morris. To view his Photographer Feature, go here.
Mario Davidson is a Biostatistics Assistant Professor at Vanderbilt University Medical Center in Nashville, TN. The First Time is his first creative non-fiction story. He is currently writing a collection of stories based on his personal experiences as a boy who grew up in a poverty-stricken city, East Saint Louis, IL. His intention is to induce reflection on moral, racial, social, and cultural issues. He and his peer, Regina Russell have begun a blog, Same Place Different Location, on edgeforscholars.org. The first post, Would You Work for a Racist, has garnered good attention. Mario Davidson has a wife and two boys and is a musician and baseball coach.