Little Lost Leeza
Monifa and Leeza jumped into the rope at the same time. They were the best double-dutch jumpers in the fourth grade, although no one told them so. Both girls’ parents were from Trinidad, something the girls’ themselves felt bound them in some sort of secret sisterhood. Tracy and Makeba turned, and they were all today—as they were yesterday and probably would not be tomorrow, the best of friends. Tracy always wore her hair in the neatest of cornrows and today wore her white and black suede pumas with her black Lees. The crease she ironed herself. On the ends of her cornrows were black beads that sat atop white ones, held in place by gold strips that were clamped to the ends of her hair. Tracy hung out with Leeza cause Leeza’s brother was in the sixth grade and she thought he was fine. He looked like Magic Johnson. Makeba wore the usual tattered hang-me-downs from her older sisters. Her mother was a Jehovah’s Witness and that seemed somehow to have something to do with the fact that she never bought her youngest girl anything. Well, that’s how Makeba tended to use her mother’s religion anyway. Whenever she needed to explain something she could not, like why she didn’t do her homework, or why she didn’t celebrate Christmas or even her birthday or why she didn’t know any of the latest dances, Makeba would throw out her mother’s religion which somehow made everyone understand. Makeba’s hair was braided, but not very well. Her braids had been done over a month ago and let’s just say she wasn’t too good with tying her head up every night. That probably had something to do with her mother’s religion too.
Monifa looked like the nerd she was—with big fat pigtails bound tightly with bright translucent bubbles. She wore lavender slacks and a white t-shirt with roller skates on it. The t-shirt matched the plastic transparent jacket that also sported a pair of white roller skates. Although Monifa and Leeza’s paretents came from Trinidad the similiarity stopped there. Leeza wore the same thing she wore yesterday and the day before that. But no one expected differently from someone who brought her lunch in an old Wonder bread bag.
It was recess and all around kids were running, playing stickball, handball, hopscotch and tag. Kenyatta and Armandito ruled the handball court while Dexter Morris—the object of every girls’ crush was the fastest runner. The Puerto Rican and Black kids mixed as easily and complimentary like a bowl of assorted jelly beans and Jose, Carmen’s cousin, even had a crush on Leeza who was Black. Jessie, the only white girl poor enough to remain at 152 was one of Mark’s six girlfriends and Dionne, the guy with the crooked lips had declared that Leeza was his wife. Many of the guys liked Leeza, despite her poor appearance, because even though she was flat-chested and had no butt, she was smart and had long hair. It was the beginning of the 80s and although you grew up saying things like “Fight, Fight, a nigger and a white. If the Black don’t win, we all jump in!” and although you knew you stayed among your own, there were always exapts, those who ended up on the other side because of economics or geography. So although by this time most of the white kids had already fled to private school, Jessie remained, her washed-out denims and old-school leather cowboy boots that screamed that she didn’t have a mother. There was even a Turkish girl Hella, who got along with everyone—besides speaking perfect English she knew all the words to Toni Basil’s “Micky”. That made her popular with the Puerto Ricans, so that even she belonged.
The playground was huge and behind the school. 152 sat on Glenwood Avenue, on a tree-lined street with islands of grass dividing the traffic. Houses with well-maintained gardens surrounded. Although most of its tenants were Jewish, the school now mostly catered to the upper and lower-middle class Blacks that were now beginning to dominate the buildings around Flatbush and Ocean Avenue. But although most of the white and Jewish kids left the school, many of the teachers remained. And no matter what was to become of the neighborhood in years to come, the teachers of 152, well, most of them at least, were dedicated. They saw past the changing nuances of their pupils and trudged on with taking their classes to Coney Island to collect tadpoles or past the comfortable boundaries of Brooklyn into the foreignness of Manhattan to remind their students that there was another world outside of Flatbush Av’. But what they didn’t realize was, Flatbush Av’ was all the world that many of these kids would ever want. It didn’t matter where you lived, Flatbush Av’ was the meeting place. It was where you could get Sicilian slices with thick, melted mozerralla for 75 cents. Little girls could go with their mothers or big sisters to Joyce Leslie’s and run their hands over the new, colorful 80s style mini-skirts. You could save your pennies and buy pocket books from Value City for 1.99. There was a large fence around it that made it resemble a prison yard, but Brooklyn College’s regal campus across the street lightened things up a bit by providing an alternate universe, an alternate possibility for some of the children’s future.
After a hearty jump, Leeza desperately needed some water. She breathed heavily, her mouth open, the air drying her already arid mouth. “But we’re not supposed to go to the gym,” Monifa protested Leeza’s suggestion. Leeza was impatient with Monifa’s nerdiness. “It’s just a drink of water,” She said, her arms akimbo and flat chest sticking out. Although she was skinny and small she had viciousness behind her that many feared, because Leeza didn’t have much to lose. This ferocity had yet to be challenged so no one knew that in reality she couldn’t fight. But knowing to fight didn’t interest Leeza because as far as she was concerned she was prepared to do anything to defend herself.
Monifa reluctantly followed while Tracy and Makeba wrapped the telephone wire up. It was Leeza’s—she had gotten it from a New York Telephone van. They had the best wires for double dutch and some of the young white technicians were actually happy to give the neighborhood children something they could use. Leeza pushed the heavy doors to the gym open. It was empty and quiet and the two girls walked towards the white, porcelain fountain. Makeba walked close to Leeza as one does in a horror movie, too near and with much nervousness. Leeza pushed her away a couple of times and finally gave up when it became evident that she wouldn’t give. The fountain in the gym had the best water—it was cold and it didn’t taste like metal.
The walls were tiled in red, the wooden floors shiny. The basketball hoops loomed high above the girls as Leeza drank and Monifa, terrified that they’d get caught, waited anxiously.
In retrospect Leeza would never really be able to recall just how it all happened but suddenly a group of boys had barged in the gym. There were about five of them, all a bit shorter than the girls. Leeza remembered two of them holding Monifa back while the other three held her down—two of them her arms, the other straddling her from above. He began to unbuckle his jeans. “Let’s give these bitches what they deserve”, said the one who was atop Leeza as she struggled hard against them, but no fight seemed good enough. He proceeded to take her pants off. Funnily, the only thing Leeza could remember thinking at the time was that they had seen this somewhere else. That the boys had all seen this being done to someone else. Leeza passed out, as she was wont to do when situations got too out of hand.
The next morning Leeza hid herself under her covers as her mother impatiently threw some stiff from soap clothes on Leeza’s already cluttered bed. “Leeza, you going to be late for school.” Leeza shut her eyes close and groaned.
“Leeza, wake up!” She heard the door to her bedroom close and she peeped to find that her older brother and sister had already left for school.
Suddenly the door opened again and her mother stood there with pink curlers in her hair and a faded lavender satin night gown. She stood, pigeon toed, her arms on her hips, “Leeza man, you have to wake up, you have to go to school.” She sucked her teeth.
“I don’t want to go, I’m feeling sick.”
“What new? You always sick.” Leeza sat up in bed and before she could stop herself she told her mother everything. “They attacked me mommy. Me and Monifa in the gym. They held us down, and he took his pants off—“
“Who?” The mother looked confused.
“Some boys…”
“What?” Her face held the expression as if she had trouble hearing.
“At School, some boys, they held me down.” Something crossed Leeza’s mother’s face. She straightened up and her face became calm. “You have to forget about it and go to school now.” And she left her daughter’s room. Leeza couldn’t believe it. She felt defeated and betrayed. But it wasn’t the first time her mother had inspired such feelings within the nine year old. Leeza rolled out of bed wearing the same thing she wore the day before. She felt sore and bruised as she slipped into her sneakers. She grabbed her green sweater from the bed and her never opened book bag. She locked the door behind her without eating her usual sugary cereal or bake and butter her mother had made. She would have taken the stairs down, but was now afraid of empty spaces. Instead she risked the shaky elevator the six flights down. She made her way up Glenwood Avenue towards her school. The bell had already rung and their was an almost funeral quiet about the school.
Leeza continued walking, past the school, along the tree-lined street, past the cigarette-smoking high-schoolers of Midwood High. She kept on walking and walking, not quite sure where she was headed. She knew truant officers abounded and she risked being caught. But perhaps that would have been a good thing rather than continue this loss of self that had come crashing down on her the day before.
Monifa looked like the nerd she was—with big fat pigtails bound tightly with bright translucent bubbles. She wore lavender slacks and a white t-shirt with roller skates on it. The t-shirt matched the plastic transparent jacket that also sported a pair of white roller skates. Although Monifa and Leeza’s paretents came from Trinidad the similiarity stopped there. Leeza wore the same thing she wore yesterday and the day before that. But no one expected differently from someone who brought her lunch in an old Wonder bread bag.
It was recess and all around kids were running, playing stickball, handball, hopscotch and tag. Kenyatta and Armandito ruled the handball court while Dexter Morris—the object of every girls’ crush was the fastest runner. The Puerto Rican and Black kids mixed as easily and complimentary like a bowl of assorted jelly beans and Jose, Carmen’s cousin, even had a crush on Leeza who was Black. Jessie, the only white girl poor enough to remain at 152 was one of Mark’s six girlfriends and Dionne, the guy with the crooked lips had declared that Leeza was his wife. Many of the guys liked Leeza, despite her poor appearance, because even though she was flat-chested and had no butt, she was smart and had long hair. It was the beginning of the 80s and although you grew up saying things like “Fight, Fight, a nigger and a white. If the Black don’t win, we all jump in!” and although you knew you stayed among your own, there were always exapts, those who ended up on the other side because of economics or geography. So although by this time most of the white kids had already fled to private school, Jessie remained, her washed-out denims and old-school leather cowboy boots that screamed that she didn’t have a mother. There was even a Turkish girl Hella, who got along with everyone—besides speaking perfect English she knew all the words to Toni Basil’s “Micky”. That made her popular with the Puerto Ricans, so that even she belonged.
The playground was huge and behind the school. 152 sat on Glenwood Avenue, on a tree-lined street with islands of grass dividing the traffic. Houses with well-maintained gardens surrounded. Although most of its tenants were Jewish, the school now mostly catered to the upper and lower-middle class Blacks that were now beginning to dominate the buildings around Flatbush and Ocean Avenue. But although most of the white and Jewish kids left the school, many of the teachers remained. And no matter what was to become of the neighborhood in years to come, the teachers of 152, well, most of them at least, were dedicated. They saw past the changing nuances of their pupils and trudged on with taking their classes to Coney Island to collect tadpoles or past the comfortable boundaries of Brooklyn into the foreignness of Manhattan to remind their students that there was another world outside of Flatbush Av’. But what they didn’t realize was, Flatbush Av’ was all the world that many of these kids would ever want. It didn’t matter where you lived, Flatbush Av’ was the meeting place. It was where you could get Sicilian slices with thick, melted mozerralla for 75 cents. Little girls could go with their mothers or big sisters to Joyce Leslie’s and run their hands over the new, colorful 80s style mini-skirts. You could save your pennies and buy pocket books from Value City for 1.99. There was a large fence around it that made it resemble a prison yard, but Brooklyn College’s regal campus across the street lightened things up a bit by providing an alternate universe, an alternate possibility for some of the children’s future.
After a hearty jump, Leeza desperately needed some water. She breathed heavily, her mouth open, the air drying her already arid mouth. “But we’re not supposed to go to the gym,” Monifa protested Leeza’s suggestion. Leeza was impatient with Monifa’s nerdiness. “It’s just a drink of water,” She said, her arms akimbo and flat chest sticking out. Although she was skinny and small she had viciousness behind her that many feared, because Leeza didn’t have much to lose. This ferocity had yet to be challenged so no one knew that in reality she couldn’t fight. But knowing to fight didn’t interest Leeza because as far as she was concerned she was prepared to do anything to defend herself.
Monifa reluctantly followed while Tracy and Makeba wrapped the telephone wire up. It was Leeza’s—she had gotten it from a New York Telephone van. They had the best wires for double dutch and some of the young white technicians were actually happy to give the neighborhood children something they could use. Leeza pushed the heavy doors to the gym open. It was empty and quiet and the two girls walked towards the white, porcelain fountain. Makeba walked close to Leeza as one does in a horror movie, too near and with much nervousness. Leeza pushed her away a couple of times and finally gave up when it became evident that she wouldn’t give. The fountain in the gym had the best water—it was cold and it didn’t taste like metal.
The walls were tiled in red, the wooden floors shiny. The basketball hoops loomed high above the girls as Leeza drank and Monifa, terrified that they’d get caught, waited anxiously.
In retrospect Leeza would never really be able to recall just how it all happened but suddenly a group of boys had barged in the gym. There were about five of them, all a bit shorter than the girls. Leeza remembered two of them holding Monifa back while the other three held her down—two of them her arms, the other straddling her from above. He began to unbuckle his jeans. “Let’s give these bitches what they deserve”, said the one who was atop Leeza as she struggled hard against them, but no fight seemed good enough. He proceeded to take her pants off. Funnily, the only thing Leeza could remember thinking at the time was that they had seen this somewhere else. That the boys had all seen this being done to someone else. Leeza passed out, as she was wont to do when situations got too out of hand.
The next morning Leeza hid herself under her covers as her mother impatiently threw some stiff from soap clothes on Leeza’s already cluttered bed. “Leeza, you going to be late for school.” Leeza shut her eyes close and groaned.
“Leeza, wake up!” She heard the door to her bedroom close and she peeped to find that her older brother and sister had already left for school.
Suddenly the door opened again and her mother stood there with pink curlers in her hair and a faded lavender satin night gown. She stood, pigeon toed, her arms on her hips, “Leeza man, you have to wake up, you have to go to school.” She sucked her teeth.
“I don’t want to go, I’m feeling sick.”
“What new? You always sick.” Leeza sat up in bed and before she could stop herself she told her mother everything. “They attacked me mommy. Me and Monifa in the gym. They held us down, and he took his pants off—“
“Who?” The mother looked confused.
“Some boys…”
“What?” Her face held the expression as if she had trouble hearing.
“At School, some boys, they held me down.” Something crossed Leeza’s mother’s face. She straightened up and her face became calm. “You have to forget about it and go to school now.” And she left her daughter’s room. Leeza couldn’t believe it. She felt defeated and betrayed. But it wasn’t the first time her mother had inspired such feelings within the nine year old. Leeza rolled out of bed wearing the same thing she wore the day before. She felt sore and bruised as she slipped into her sneakers. She grabbed her green sweater from the bed and her never opened book bag. She locked the door behind her without eating her usual sugary cereal or bake and butter her mother had made. She would have taken the stairs down, but was now afraid of empty spaces. Instead she risked the shaky elevator the six flights down. She made her way up Glenwood Avenue towards her school. The bell had already rung and their was an almost funeral quiet about the school.
Leeza continued walking, past the school, along the tree-lined street, past the cigarette-smoking high-schoolers of Midwood High. She kept on walking and walking, not quite sure where she was headed. She knew truant officers abounded and she risked being caught. But perhaps that would have been a good thing rather than continue this loss of self that had come crashing down on her the day before.
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