Happy Birthday, Jimmy

  • Mama sat in the kitchen, twisting her hair into tight coils, singing Anita Baker’s, “They don’t bother me, so i’m gonna keep on…” softly to herself.

    The evening sun poured through our little window in East St. Louis, washing the room in honey and highlighting the bronze in her skin. I paused in the doorway, clutching the worn paperback copy of Giovanni's Room, its edges frayed. I’d done so much research after reading this book, this story that a boy my age wasn’t supposed to be reading. The author was also poor as a child. He, too, was a child preacher. He was the oldest child with an unstable stepfather. He was called ugly, too. I was him. He was me. He was with me while I cried too close to mirrors, between the stacks, as I slid the book into my backpack, as I marked over the library stickers, to hide my stolen treasure.

    I walked over slowly. "Mama," I called, my voice cracking slightly. She looked up, startled, then smiled.

    "What's that you got, baby?" Her eyes squinted a bit as she read the title. "James Baldwin?" She raised an eyebrow. "Who is James Baldwin?"

    I flipped the book over to Baldwin's photograph on the back, handing it to her carefully, like it was a fragile treasure.

    "Mama," I said softly, staring hard at Baldwin's stern, searching eyes. "He is so ugly, he is beautiful. Maybe, because I'm just as ugly, I can be just as beautiful too."

    She held the book gently, her eyes drifting between Baldwin's photograph and my face. For a moment, the kitchen filled with a silence so thick I thought maybe I'd said something wrong. But then Mama took a deep breath and nodded slowly, her eyes warm and thoughtful.

    "Baby," she whispered, reaching out to cup my face, her fingers warm against my skin. "You've always been beautiful and always will be. Just like him."

    I felt something release inside my chest, a tightness I hadn't known I carried, a knot untying itself slowly, one strand at a time. Mama handed me back the book, and I held it close. Later that night, I curled up in the top bunk with the book. Baldwin spoke in the way I wanted to talk to black folks and the world, with audacity, truthfully, and beautifully. I imagined my own words someday breaking free like his, carving paths toward understanding, love, and the ability to have conversations with all the things that scared me. And as I lay back slowly, feeling the coolness of sheets beneath my bare shoulders, the book resting gently on my chest, I knew somehow that if Mr. James Baldwin could be beautiful in his love and openness toward and for us, I could too.

    Happy Birthday, dear James.

    #hbdjamesbaldwin #jamesbaldwin

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