Fire Ants

Thwaaack!

I feel the bang of Ryan’s fastball ball hot against my back. I’m thankful it’s just a tennis ball this time. Last week we used a racquetball and it would have been just as well if we played with a rock.

“Gotcha!” I hear from behind. He’d made good on the free hit, but I’m ready to play again, scooting back in anticipation of the next throw. I am not scared of fourth graders.

“Sorry guys, I gotta get home. Soccer practice,” Brandon says, throwing his Jansport backpack over his shoulder.

“I gotta go too,” Ryan says, dropping the ball at his feet. Hopefully, it will be there tomorrow.

I shrug and set off towards home. Straight down Delany, a right on Westover and then another on Kamisha Way. It’s early and if I go straight home, I will still be able to watch my favorite Batman cartoon before Mom comes home and makes me start on my homework. I’m halfway down Delaney, the new fall air crisp against my skin, when I hear it.

“Hey porch monkey!”

At first it doesn’t seem real, but when I look up, there it is. A white Chevrolet truck with its windows rolled down, driving menacingly slow beside me. Two middle-aged white men are glaring at me from the front seat. I stop and the truck stops too. They continue to stare like I’m food. Devilish grins and searing eyes focused all on me.

“Yea you, little nigger! We talkin’ to you.”

The realization hits violently, another Thwaack! This time from the inside. I look around and realize it’s only the three of us. The usually busy street is dead around me, lonely and cold. An eruption of laughter spills from the car and I catapult forward into a desperate sprint.

Two houses up I pivot right, bounding through Mrs. Hoyle’s front yard and through her back gate. I climb up her back fence and throw my body over the side, rolling down the embankment but catching myself before I get to the small creek that separates our two yards. I run straight through the water, my jeans soaking and heavy as I drive my knees up and take two large strides over the hill. I climb up our back fence, run across our lawn and swing open the sliding glass screen door, which I slam shut and quickly bolt.

No one is supposed to be home. My parents both work; Mom teaches high school Chemistry and Dad is a computer programmer. But for some reason when I look up, my eyes stinging with tears and my breath all but gone, I see my dad sitting in his favorite leather chair.

“Son,” he says, “you know not to come in this house slamming doors. Now, I expect,” he pauses, noticing something is wrong, “What is it?” I remain silent at first. I drop my bag to the floor and sit down on the floor next to him. He’s watching the Ranger game and I try my best to turn the focus to the TV, but his eyes remain transfixed on me, and he says it again, “What is it?” I look up and his eyes catch mine.

“I was walking home,” I stammer, “and a truck pulled up next to me. They yelled at me. At first, I didn’t think they were even talking to me,” I pause, before releasing it.

“They called me a nigger and I ran,” the words hang in the air before dropping like a dagger. My father’s eyes narrow and he turns the game off.

“Listen to me son,” he says, pausing as he collects his words, “What happened to you today happens to every black man in this country at some point. It’s something you’re never going to forget. The feeling you felt touches us all,” he lets the thought sink in.

I consider what he said carefully, “I feel like I did the wrong thing by running,” I say, shaking my head. “Like they won,” I say, disgusted at the idea. I was never one to back down from a challenge, but I suddenly felt embarrassed at my reaction.

“Let me tell you a story,” he says patiently. “I grew up in East Texas and out there we had fire ants. Not like the ones ’round here. No, these were monsters and when they bit you, they left welts that itched for weeks.”

I nod. I’m grateful for my dad’s kind voice and calming eyes.

“Something to know about fire ants is that they are strong. Some even say they can carry ten times their weight. They’re also loyal. Always going back to their mound. Making it stronger, building up their families.

“Now, back then we didn’t have extra money for toys and things like that, so we had to make our own fun. Anyway, one day, I was out in the yard and got to watching some of those ants. Now mind you, back then, white folks called us niggers all the time,” he pauses thoughtfully as I shake my head at the thought.

“But I’ll tell you, those ants, they lived with purpose. They worked in lines, gathering their food and following after one another to make sure the job got done. They went back and forth, back and forth, working hard together for the common good of the whole.

“Now after a while, I got bored, as kids do, and I took a cup I’d been drinking from and poured out a stream that traveled across some of those lines the ants had been traveling. So, what do you suppose those ants did?”

I shook my head, “I dunno, went around the water?” I reason.

“You’d think that wouldn’t you? But no, those ants got confused, crazed even. They were running around as if they were completely lost, unable to get back to their mound and too upset to figure out another path home. They kept at it too, going around and around, unable to calm down enough to reason their way back. Some would eventually wander off, others would get lost trying to find another way. And of course, that’s what I’d wanted. For some reason, something in me wanted to disrupt the order they’d created.

“But there were a few of those fire ants that decided to wait it out. Eventually they even mustered the courage to cross over the water as it began to dry out. It was Texas after all,” he smiles.

“The point is that I cut those ants off from their family that day just like they used to do to our people during slavery. They took us from our families, they told us we weren’t good enough, that we weren’t people. And I’ll tell you son, when I think about it, even now, I could understand why a slave would have gone crazy. Can you imagine? Cut off from everyone you ever loved or cared for, then taken to a strange place where you were treated like an animal?”

I look down at the thought. My dad places his hand firmly on my shoulder and draws me into his eyes.

“But son, our people, yours and mine, they found their way. Even though everything they ever knew or ever loved was cut off from them, they survived. Our ancestors made it because they remembered their strength. They didn’t give up and because of that, you and I are sitting here today. We are the best of an already strong people.”

He leans forward in his chair and crosses his arms on his knees, his face inches above mine. “I want you to learn something from today, son.”

“Yes, dad,” I say, focused on his words.

“Some of the people out there,” he motions his arms in a large circle as if making a tornado, “they still want to cut you off, to stop you from accomplishing what you were made to do in this world, to make you feel like you are lost, like you don’t belong, to distract you. They want to make you crazy and they do it with that word. We owe it our ancestors to not let that word affect us when they say it,” he says, sitting up proudly in his chair. “We are the survivors and we find our way back home to love and to family no matter what they do to us,” he pauses thoughtfully, “Just like you did today.”