One of stories that I've written that I am most proud of is 'My Baby Has No Name'. Teachers have told me that even though it's a micro-story, the students were really moved by it. So yesterday, I received an email from a young woman who came across the story online and said she had to let me know how she felt after she read it. She opened the email by saying "You Made Me Cry In 3 Pages!".
One of the greatest compliments I ever received as a writer. Here is "My Baby Has No Name'.
I am
eighteen years old, so young to have gone through so much.
The
good nurse peeks her head into my room and tells me it’s time to feed my baby.
I die inside—again. Reliving the pain. Not just the hell pain of giving birth,
but the terrible pain of the vast hurting and emptiness that clutches at my
internal organs. The pain that keeps reminding me—I’ll never see him again.
They
bring my tiny infant son in and place him in front of me. As if in a dream, I
bring the bottle of formula to his little mouth that opens like it’s a small
coin—a dime. I have to force myself to look at his face because he looks just
like him. While feeding, the bad nurse comes in again with her paperwork and
sternly tells me that I am taking the baby home tomorrow and I must give my
little son a name. She has already been in twice before to put his name into
the books. To add him to all the other infants that were born yesterday and now
will go home with their mothers. Go home—to what?
I
look up at her and tell her again what I told her before: my baby has no name.
Then
I become hysterical and yell at her to leave. I am a prisoner of my memories of
him.
I
first saw him at a house party. I asked about him and found out he rolled with
the Central Avenue Boys—The Cabs. I hated gang-bangers. They were always truer
to their flags than their girls and never knew how to express any emotion but
anger. If you found one that was halfway cool like my girl Sonia did, by the
time you got into a serious relationship, he was either shot dead or doing life
for homicide.
But
I noticed a fleeting tenderness in this guy’s eyes when I got up close to him.
A look that he tried to hide by playing the role he was handed from
birth—acting hard, thuggish and down with it. It was as though he really didn’t
go for all the shooting, killing and fighting that the Cabs do, but did it
because all the other nineteen year old alpha males in the city had to. Your
gang was your family—your family was your gang. If he wasn’t down, he would be
labeled a soft punk and that was a fate worse than death.
No,
he was different.
I
finally got him to notice me and he asked me to dance. I looked around and saw
a lot of the other girls checking him out. He was really cute and smelled real
nice. He asked my name and then stayed silent for the rest of the dance. At the
end, I whispered my name again in his ear.
I
came home real late and got into an argument with my mother. So what if it was
five in the morning when I got home, all the other girls I know can stay out.
I
found out there was another party he would be at on the west side. I bought a
new outfit and fixed my hair a little extra special. Mom gave me a hard time,
but I promised I’d be back earlier. When I got to the set, I scanned the room
for him. I didn’t see him and I panicked. Guys paid a lot of attention to me
and complimented me on how fine I was. I danced a few times, but my heart
wasn’t in it. The reason I was there was just for him.
My
heart leaped when I saw him walk in with his crew. They all wore the same
colors, and had this pseudo bravado. There was an air of swaggering tragedy
about them. We caught each other’s eye and he came right over to me and called
me by my name. He remembered.
I’m
in love, but I try not to get stupid and fawn all over him because I know he’s
used to having his way with girls. The best way to make an impression is to
show that you have a mind as well as a figure, so I talk to him about
Shakespeare. He doesn’t surprise me when he knows about the plays and famous
lines—I knew he was different.
We
talked through the night and after the party, he walked me home. Before I went
inside, I gave him my home phone number because I didn’t have a cell phone. He
promised to call me the next day.
The
day after, I was walking on air and waited impatiently for him to call. He
didn’t. Or the next day, or the next. I did my best to not think about him
anymore and kept myself busy with this thing and that. But a week later, on
Sunday afternoon, the phone rang. It was him.
He
gave me a vague apology for not calling sooner and tells me to meet him at the
entrance of Lincoln Park in an hour.
I
got there before he did, so I waited in front of the park. It was warm and sunny
and I felt real tingly inside; anticipating his arrival.
He
came up behind me, put his arms around my waist and kissed me lightly on the
neck. I froze because I didn’t like him being so bold and thinking I was like
the other shorties he was used to. I pulled away and told him to chill. Before
he could say anything, I grabbed his hand and led him into the park.
We
spent the day in a bubble—away from our separate realities. Away from the Cabs,
my dysfunctional home life and all the other stresses that we both were going
through. Away from his crew, he seemed to let his guard down a little; he
smiled and laughed a lot more. He talked about his two older brothers who were
doing time in the pen. And he talked about how he lost his father when he was
four years old.
I
was really feeling him, and when he kissed me, yo, it was over. I had to make
him mine.
Later
that evening, we stopped at Dairy Queen for some ice cream. At the counter, his
cell phone went off and when he saw the ID, he told me he had to take the call.
He listened, then told the person he’d be right there, and left me holding a
dripping vanilla cone.
A
few days later he called and asked me to come over his place the next day—a
Saturday. He said he’d meet me at the train station at 2 o’clock. I agreed.
After I hung up, I thought about all the possibilities and rationalized that he
probably wanted me to meet his people. After all, we’re talking 2 o’clock in
the afternoon.
I
guess I was naïve. When we got to his house, it was empty. He said everyone had
errands to run and gone out.
I
felt uncomfortable and when we sat on his couch, I folded my arms and crossed
my legs. He asked if I wanted some beer or soda. I told him no thanks. He tried
putting his arm around me, but I moved away from him to the other side. I
wanted to know him better, and asked him about the Cabs—why he joined; would he
ever leave?
He
told me his father and older brothers were bangers and he just naturally
followed them in. He said he would never leave the gang, because it had been
his life since he was a young boy. He didn’t like how everything was turning
out; how there was so much hatred and mistrust among all the gangs and how so
many kids were getting killed on the streets. He told me he had gone to
thirteen funerals already this year, and how they had to take turns standing
guard so rival gangs couldn’t shoot up the casket. He said he wished the gangs
could all come together and see about having some kind of truce.
There
were tears in his eyes when he told me how his best friend died in his arms
when he was shot on a downtown bus. He tried to sound brave, but by the look on
his face, I knew he knew he could be next. He was in so much pain and I saw
that he really needed someone to love.
So
when he kissed me and led me to his room, I gave him all the love he wanted,
and he gave me all the love I never had.
We
saw each other every day after that day. He was spending more time with me than
his homies and things were getting tense because of it. He told me he loved me
and I was his special girl. He even gave up his gun for me. His boys told him
he was crazy walking around without protection, but he never carried it when he
was with me.
When
I found out I was pregnant, I was scared to tell him. I waited a week before I
got the courage. We were in Lincoln Park, sitting on a bench near the lake. I
thought he would scream and curse, but he was happy. He said he wanted to get
married.
We
went home and told my mother that we wanted to get married. She said I was
eighteen and didn’t need her consent. She said she hoped I’d be happy and we
both started crying.
We
got married at City Hall and I moved in with his family. We were happy.
Yesterday,
the day my child was born, my husband caught a bullet in a drive-by on the way
to see his new son. He died in this same hospital. Before they took his body
away, I pleaded with them to let me spend five minutes alone with him. As I
held his chillingly cold hand, I told him that he was the father of a beautiful
baby boy and I would never stop loving him. It was so hard for me to let his
hand go, but they made me. But before I did, I kissed his lips and made a
promise to him.
Your
son will have no name. He won’t be called Cab, or Crip, or Blood. He won't be
called Disciple, or King, or Cobra. Nobody will call him spick, or nigger, or
chink or wop.
By
me not naming him, no one on Earth will be able to put any label on him. Our
son will break the cycle.
He
will be free.
