For What I Hate I Do

Chapter 1

Run, Miguel, Run

For America, it was a bicentennial milestone as the nation celebrated its 200th year of freedom. Even though some citizens werestill living in economic bondage and segregation in 1976, many had managed to look beyond their circumstances toward a future of prosperity and fulfillment. It was also an era when I, Miguel Morris, faced a host of new challenges and ventures – an indication that I was definitely coming of age. I would eventually confront forces of evil lurkingin the realm of my mind.And those same spirits made unconscionableacts appear normal.

My transformation began in high school with a quest to become more sociable,assertive and competitive.I needed an avenue to display my physical prowess and to start charting my goals. I was a 6-foot, 2-inch tall brother with a dark-chocolate complexion – perhaps to my advantage because of the unforgiving sun that would beat down perpetually onto the Texas landscape. Like a sleek gazelle in the African Serengeti, my structure and athleticism commanded respect. I was a bit vain, but so are many others.

When I had reached age 16, I knew my time for making a decision aboutcollege was winding down.With an interest in track-and-field, I mused that sports could be my best ticket to gaining peer status and earning a scholarship to assist me with college expenses. I was determined to become the second among four siblings to get a formal education, following in my sister Dee’s footsteps. She was the older of two girls and attended one of the largest black academic institutions in the South – Texas Southern University, located in my hometown of Houston. I respected my sister,Dee,a young,striking robust woman with a cocoa-butter complexion, a sensual voice and lips like legendary singer Lola Folana, a diva known to dazzle the stage in Las Vegas. Dee might not have been as talented as Lola, but she was just as attractive.And she was a good role model.

Going to college also would be my chance to prove to my brothers that I, like them, could attain success and glory in athletics. Troy, my youngestbrother, played football; and David, my eldest sibling, was on thevarsity basketball team. They took pride in their athletic successes and often would rub it in my face just to irritate me. But all that was about to change.I wasn’t about to be punked by my brothers or anyone else for that matter. So I ventured to squash their bragging. My time had come.

*****

Despite the fall heat in September, I was excited and full of anticipation about my tryout for the track team. I convinced myself that this decision would have a profound affect on my future. I grew up in an area called Southpark, which once was occupied by a large Jewish community. Gradually, it became a working-class African-American neighborhood. With white flight, the dynamics of the ’hood changed with an infestation of narcotics.It wasn’t a ghetto hood,but oftentimes the media portrayed the predominantly black community as crime-infested. It was also where I attended Ross S. Sterling High School.

The prospect of entering athletics consumed my thoughts, but I still was focused on my other coursework,too.As I left school one late afternoon, I reflected on the turbulent semester involving my drafting class. On one hand, I was happy to have a new teacher, but I bemoaned the circumstances that led to his replacement. The newcomer had arrived to take over for Mr.Weatherbee,a flamboyant instructor who would put the television cast of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy to shame. He practically lived his life as a woman, with an obvious overabundance of estrogen and very little testosterone. He decorated his classroom with floral curtains and wallpaper and accentuated the windows with fresh flowers, trinkets and colorful doodads. He was well-liked by most of the staff and students but hated by some. Even though his eccentric tastes created a fantasyland ambiance in the classroom, he was way out there.Too feminine.Too gay. The bold acceptance of his sexuality caused discomfort for some of his detractors, which might explain his heinous execution-style murder. His bullet-riddled body was found facedown, nude in his backyard pool on the southeast side of town. His assailants showed no mercy.A bullet had also penetrated his skull and a cob of corn had been inserted into his rectum in a vile, barbaric hate-crime act that remains unsolved. While deep in thought, a voice called out my name in the hallway.

Say, Miguel! You heard the news? asked Caleb, my best friend. Caleb was a stout, muscular 16-year-old, high-yellow fellow with a medium Afro. He would always meet me in the

hall after our last class. Oftentimes pushy, he was still my dawg. Almost too pretty for a boy, he definitely was not soft or a coward. He had an ownership attitude about people, places and things. Matter of fact, he was very deliberate in action and in speech and usually a little too abrasive and reactive to situations not in his control.

Nah, man.What’s up? I responded.

It’s Willie, man! he said in a high-pitched voice.

What about Willie? I asked puzzled, unable to discern Caleb’s expression.

He finally did it man! I couldn’t believe it, but he did it! Caleb’s eyes were teary but still difficult to interpret.

Did what, man? I stood in the middle of the hallway irritated at Caleb’s vagueness,but his outburst concerned me.He already knew my patience was short and temper explosive.

He shot him, man! He shot and killed his dad! His neighbor told us in homeroom class this morning how it went down.

By now, I was mortified, simply speechless. I had hoped that my previous thoughts about my slain drafting teacher didn’t portend this latest tragedy.

Even so, Caleb seemed to be more concerned for Willie than for the death of Willie’s dad.

He actually shot him? I said stunned by the news.

Willie was going through some issues with his dad, but I never thought things were that serious, so serious that he would murder his dad – especially after the death last year of his mother, who was killed in a car accident on her way to work by some fool-ass drunken driver.

You know about the rumor, man. I guess he couldn’t take it no more,Caleb said,shaking his head in disgust.Could you blame him? I couldn’t imagine being in that position. Living with a niggah like that.

But that’s all it was, Caleb, just a rumor. We don’t know if that shit is true or not, I said, feeling deep in my gut that Willie likely had been sexually molested by his stepfather. Willie previously had hinted about his father’s abuse but never went into details.

By now I was feeling heavily burdened.

After we vented for a while over the tragedy, we put our emotions aside and began to focus on the rest of the day.

Are we still gonna meet after our last class or what?a subdued Caleb asked, clearly still affected by the tragic news.

Maybe I didn’t tell you,but I’m gonna try out for the track team today, I said coolly, trying not to sound insensitive after hearing about the ordeal with Willie.

"You told me, man.Why do you think I’m here?

I ignored his acerbic remark and proceeded walking down the hallway toward the back exit.

Say, man, he said,Do you want me to hold the bucket at the end of the race for you? he asked, suggesting that I likely will vomit from heat and exhaustion during the running trials.

Ha! Ha! Ha! I said in a patronizing tone.Why don’t you come out there and see me whip some ass!

Caleb snickered.When we reached the track, he apologetically put his left arm around my shoulders and said, You know I was just playing with you, right?

Yeah, I know, man. I’m just a little nervous.That’s all.

As we walked shoulder to shoulder in the muggy weather, I took a vengeful yet friendly swipe at Caleb’s right ear before making a getaway. We often played like that to solidify our friendship and as a way to pacify each other in trying times.

Caleb laughed at my juvenile behavior, then slowly walked toward the track to assist me – without a challenge.

That was a first.

So, you really gonna do this, huh? Caleb asked as I sifted through my bag for practice gear. Yeah,man.I told you I was serious about this.I could not have been more serious in my life.I felt it was time that I took control of my life.

The clothes I had worn in the scorching sun made me sweat profusely, so I quickly undressed to put on my nylon running shorts and matching sleeveless T-shirt, both of which soon became saturated, too. Even though I was uncomfortable, I came to realize that this was only the beginning of the pains of competitive track and field.

Say, Caleb Thibodeaux. If you really want to help, man, take out my running shoes and spikes from my backpack.

Because of my determination to succeed, I had worked over the past summer to save money to purchase the gear. Unlike some other guys from the ’hood, I had to work hard for my earnings. My mom and dad were not as financially secure as the other kids’ parents.

As we hastened to prepare for my trials, Caleb and I noticed a middle-age white-haired man plodding toward us. The gravel on the cinder track that was crunched by the stranger’s shoes caught my attention as I sat nearby. I glanced up curiously toward him.

Hi, fellows! I’m Coach Bill Turney. Are you boys here to try out for the track team today? he asked.

With an impish stare,Caleb took offense to the wordboy and responded abrasively.

NO! But he is,Caleb stated bluntly,pointing quickly at me with his right thumb.

He was clearly pissed off at the brazenfaced coach.

Here, Miguel.These the shoes you wanted? Caleb asked.

Yeah, thanks. I attempted to ignore my best friend’s anger.

After changing into my running shoes, I stood to formally greet the coach and extended my right hand. As odd as it may seem, I could not recall the last time I had shaken hands with a white man.

My name is Miguel Morris. I heard you were having tryouts here today for the track team. At least that’s what Zac told me.

Zac, tall and dark-skinned with coarse short hair, was a classmate who ran for the Sterling Raiders. He was the top sprinter in the 110- and 220-yard dash. He, too, was a sophomore hoping to earn an athletic scholarship. I sensed that he was insincere when he had challenged me to try out for the team. It was probably just his way to display his machismo.

Yes, that’s true, Coach Turney said, answering my question about tryouts.I take it you are interested in joining the track team?

Yes, sir.

What event? the coach asked.

The sprints.

Fine.We’ll begin in about 45 minutes. So, why don’t you get warmed up and stretched. We’ll meet at the end of the long-jump pit.

Caleb was still bitter about the coach’s greeting.It was odd though. He and I often called each other the N word, but when someone else of a different racial or ethnic background used the word or even called us boywe’d puff up like an old toad threatening to piss everywhere.

Man, can you believe that white mothafucker calling us ‘boy?’ I bet that old bastard don’t know nothing about track and field.He’s only here because this school used to be white, but now the brothers are taking over. Mothafucker! Caleb blared.

You’re probably right, Caleb, but why worry about small crap like that, man? He’s old school and probably don’t realize he’s being an asshole.Anyway,I gotta start warming up if I’m gonna make the track team. I had hoped that the red-faced coach didn’t hear Caleb’s tirade.

Yep! You’re right, man. But anyway, I’ll be here pushing you to break that world record when you cross that finish line, Caleb said.

Yeah, right! I said as I began my warm-up laps.

While rounding the track, I noticed Coach Turney and observed him rather closely. He was a middle-age man about 55 years old with a potbelly. His skin was pale and as dry as the dirt track beneath my feet.

I continued to run pass the coach, drifting into thought.

Caleb was probably right.There’s no way this white dude can possibly know anything about sprinting, let alone track and field.

Run, Miguel, run! Caleb shouted hysterically at me as I neared the end of my first warm-up lap.

You’re crazy! I said as I approached him, grinning slightly. Since time was running short, I had to limit my small talk with Caleb in order to focus on the 110-yard sprint that awaited me.

After I completed about seven sprints, I heard a whistle blow. It was time to prove my worth.

I walked swiftly toward the long-jump area,using body language to express my compe-titiveness. Drenched in sweat, I wondered if I had exhausted myself doing warm-ups in the unrelenting heat.

OK, Morris, looks like you’re gonna be the only tryout today. Is Morris OK, or should I call you Miguel? the coach asked.

Miguel is fine, Coach. I then began to experience butterflies in my stomach because I wasn’t prepared to run against myself. Hell, I didn’t even know how to run competitively. Was this bastard setting me up for failure? Perhaps Caleb was right.Maybe this so-called coach was a fraud. Was he just here for the paycheck and nothing more?

Regardless of what I thought, Coach Turney – with a stopwatch in his right hand – instructed me to prepare for my test.

OK, Miguel, the start is located a few feet in front of us. Today, all you have to do is run a 440-yard dash, and we will determine your future from there. OK?

OK, I answered in a puzzled tone. A 440-yard dash? I thought it would be a 110-yard dash. Anyway, this mothafucker is crazy! He didn’t even give me any pointers on how to run this crap, and he expects me to make the team? Maybe he doesn’t want me to make the track team, so I won’t show up those white runners already on the squad.

The psychological warfare was tearing at me. I had to quickly put aside those thoughts and proceed to the marked area on the red dirt track.As I got into position, I again heard a familiar voice beckoning me.

Hey, Miguel! You forgot your spikes, Caleb shouted as he ran toward me with his once-neatly groomed Afro thrashing in the hot air under brutal, dry conditions. Hoisting the blue and white adidas footgear with his right hand, he wished me good luck.

I thanked him and quickly replaced my shoes with the spikes, then waited for Coach Turney’s cue. I stepped into a pair of running blocks, unsure how to run the 440-yard dash. And no thanks to the coach, who didn’t bother to offer any pointers. Nevertheless, I had to give it my best.

OK, Miguel.On your mark. Coach said, then held the starting gun high above his head. He continued. Get set. He hesitated.

POW!" (The gun blasted).

The sound ripped throughout the field, causing a piercing ring in my ears as I began my mad dash. I powered my way through the course trying to establish a rhythm while relaxing through every stride with controlled breathing. I continued to zip through the course until I was now halfway in the run.With only about 100 yards to go, fatigue began to plague me, but I muscled on.That’s when I noticed Caleb jumping and screaming like an eager cheerleader.

C’mon, Miguel! You can do it, man! Caleb assured me.

Feeling as if I were on my last breath, I shot across the finish line, gasping and looking for a place of refuge – a mission impossible because of the ubiquitous and pulverizing sun. The heat only added to my desperation for relief, not to mention the pain I was experiencing in the middle of my ass. It felt as if I had been kicked in the butt by a horse. My throbbing hamstrings were tight and my head light from the dizzying solo run.

Fifty-point-five-seconds! Coach Turney shouted incredulously as I crossed the finish.

Unaware of what the time meant, I collapsed onto the infield near the long-jump pit. Despite the grueling task, I experienced a euphoric rush of adrenaline.Was this the runners’ high I had heard about? I didn’t know for sure. But what I did know was I wanted the glory of the sport.

Fifty-point-five-seconds? Fifty-point-five-seconds? Caleb screamed in excitement as he ran toward my weary body to celebrate. He bear-hugged me with Herculean force. I was practically blown away because I didn’t know he was so strong. Soon both of us rolled into the infield, frolicking like children. Pure exhilaration! I loved it when he handled me roughly, and I assumed he felt the same.

OK! OK! OK!I pleaded while simultaneously being overcome by laughter. C’mon, Man! Let me catch my breath. Damn!

Caleb released his potent grip. Shortly thereafter we both stood, staggering to regain our balance – only to collapse to the ground once more.We lie side by side with our backs to the grassy field and our legs spread-eagle.

Good job! Good job!said Coach Turney,interrupting our celebration.

Thanks, Coach, I replied, looking up toward him and the clear blue sky.

After regaining my strength and acknowledging the adulation from my best friend and the coach, I asked a question with perhaps an obvious answer:Is 50.5 a good time?

It was a good time,man.A fucking good time,answered Caleb.

Well, Miguel, I’ll put it this way.You have run the fastest time among my entire squad from last season. An outstanding performance, young man. Oh! And by the way, practice starts Monday at 3:30 p.m.

Coach Turney then turned and walked away.

I knew I was an amateur,but I welcomed the accolades.Of course, I wondered if this was just a stroke of luck for my would-be ego.Amid the jubilation,I also wondered about my future with the Sterling track team.

Caleb? How did you know 50.5 was a good time?I asked curiously. I had no idea what I had just done.

Damn, Miguel! You never been to a track meet before? Caleb asked surprised.

Nope.

Caleb appeared surprised.It also seemed he wanted to ask me a personal question, but then he recoiled. Instead, he stood and pulled me from the field. His grip was strong, his eyes sharply focused. He decided to just savor the moment and abandoned his initial thought.

I felt indebted to him for my success during the time trial because he stayed the course and cheered me on from start to finish.This was a bittersweet moment though because we both knew things were about to change between the two of us.I was about to become an official member of Sterling’s varsity track team, and my social time would be limited.

But on this day, as victory underscored our long journey home, we relished the time we spent together. And once again we walked shoulder to shoulder.

****

The weekend was nearly over, and I still hadn’t shared the news of making the track team with my parents and siblings.I figured after church on Sunday would be an ideal time.That’s when the family would be gathered to devour mother’s feast: a mouth-watering dish of candied yams, spicy green bean salad, smothered pork chops, creamed mashed potatoes with brown gravy, homemade buttered sourdough rolls, and a deep chocolate rum cake. The dessert was mom’s favorite. After swallowing my last forkful and gulping the remainder of my iced lemon tea,I shared the news about my accomplishment with mom and my two brothers. Dad, grandmother (known as Big Momma), and my two sisters weren’t present.

Hey, mom, I said, meekly.

Yes, Miguel, she responded graciously.

I made the track team on Friday. I was careful to use as few words as possible in the presence of my brothers.They were often brutish and close-minded.

Well, congratulations! Why are you now just telling us? she asked curiously, as they all raked through their dinner plates in synchronized cadence.

Not surprisingly,our conversation grabbed the attention of Troy and David, who sat across from me.

I explained that I originally had wanted to wait until the entire family was together, but I decided not to put it off any longer.

Well, you know, Dee and Fay are still at church helping Sister Lewis and your grandmother with that Sunday school stuff for next week. And I’m not sure where your daddy is, she said.

Mom,rising from the kitchen table to dispose of her scraps and wash her plate, was an imposing figure. Her red tailored dress, smoky-almond skin and jet-black hair that cascaded over her shoulders accentuated her inner beauty.

As she walked toward the sink, mom unnerved us with an abrupt sneeze, breaking the mealtime silence and catching everyone off guard. After momentarily excusing herself to regain her composure, she returned to the dinner table – her light-almond eyes glistening under the lights. She then glanced toward Troy and David, who were still sitting at the table with me.

David,Troy. Aren’t y’all going to congratulate your brother for making thetrack team? she said.

Mom,graceful even when she sneezed,seemed to be wishing that someday her three sons eventually would become closer.

Oh, yeah. Congratulations, Miguel, they both said, sounding insincere and indifferent – almost envious.

I hesitantly thanked them for their acknowledgement, then left the table, leaving my brothers and their temperament behind.

****

As morning arrived, Big Momma had the responsibility of rustling my siblings and me from bed. Her booming voice would call out to us on school days two hours after our parents had left for work. Big Momma was our maternal grandmother. At 5-foot, 11-inches tall, the 70-year-old matriarch with steely gray hair commanded respect. She suffered from a mild case of glaucoma that she often tried to ignore. Because of her illness and concern for her safety and health, my parents moved Big Momma in with us when they purchased our new home in 1970.

OK, children! It’s six o’clock, yelled Big Momma, knocking at our doors.It’s six o’clock. Get up! she repeated.

There was no missing school in this household. She made sure we were out of the house by 7:45 a.m.

On this day, I was the first to get up.

Good morning, I said as I quickly trudged down the hallway toward the bathroom to relieve my bladder.

Good morning, baby, replied Big Momma, unsure who I was because of my morning hoarseness and her compromised vision.

After removing the cobwebs from my eyes and freshening up, my siblings began to follow my lead. Soon thereafter I received my ritual phone call at 7:15 a.m.

Good morning, Mrs. Bee, the caller said politely to Big Momma.Can I speak to Miguel?

Sure, Caleb, Big Momma said after recognizing his distinctive voice.Hold on for a moment, baby. Miguel! Caleb’s on the phone, baby.

I anxiously picked up the call and told Caleb I would see him in front of my house where we normally met to begin our journey to school. I gathered my books and practice gear and stuffed them in my backpack.

Goodbye, Big Momma, I yelled as I left the house.

****

While waiting outside before Caleb arrived I had a few minutes to reflect on the track team and my accomplishment. The entire experience left me dazed but spirited. Then Caleb startled me when he suddenly crept from behind during my meditation. There was something different about Caleb today. Oddly, he was much taller. I then looked down at his feet and discovered he was sporting platform shoes. He was now almost two inches taller than me. His lime-green shirt and heavily starched bell-bottom designer blue jeans made him more alluring and debonair. We shared similar styles, particularly when we would hit weekend garage parties decked out in our finest under strobe lights. We sometimes coordinated our attire to project an image of distinction and uphold our best-dressed reputations. Today, though, I wore a lavender and white nylon shirt, along with bell-bottom blue jeans and high-top white Chuck Taylor converse tennis shoes.

I complimented Caleb on his platforms before veering the conversation to track and field. I reminded him not to meet me after school because of practice.

Speaking of practice, Caleb said, Did Troy and David tease you about making the track team?

Nah, Man! They just gave me a funny look. You don’t remember me telling you that yesterday after church? I said hastily – not really wanting to talk about my brothers.

Man, you were saying so much yesterday I guess I forgot.

Before heading into our homeroom classes, we noticed Caleb’s cousin, Tammy, puffing hurriedly on a cigarette. Her high-yellow complexion was similar to Caleb’s.She was wearing a pleated skirt that revealed her long seductive legs. Her black shoulder-length hair was perfectly groomed and hung flawlessly even as she leaned over to extinguish her cigarette. For a smoker, her white teeth showed no signs of stain and accented her beautiful smile. At that moment, I developed an infatuation so badly that I imagined myself salivating and yelping like a dog in heat. My virginity was on the verge