She’d think about our mom as it happened. Wished that she’d come in to save the day. Each time it wasn’t just her father betraying her, but her mother abandoning her as well, off pursuing an affair while the forsaken husband snuck into her room, into her bed.
“Time for dinner,” my mom said. She went to the fridge and took out a bowl of marinated chicken. “This will be fast.”
My sister cleared the kitchen table while my mom tossed the chicken in a wok. Soon you’ll be in San Diego, Ga Jeh said to herself, a job near the beach. No friends, no family, the life of an unknown. Perhaps you should’ve moved further, to another state. How many miles does it take to escape your family?
the board
The chessboard contains 64 squares. Each square has a name, a coordinate, e4, d5. Columns are called files. Rows are ranks.
A city is a board. Its streets, files and ranks.
My sister thought she was leaving the board, but cities are also squares, the state a larger board. Highways are files and ranks.
A state is also a square, the country a board.
A country is also a square, the planet a board.
A planet is also a square, the solar system a board.
Everything is a square, everything a board. You can flee a square but not The Board.
Reverse it. Work backwards to the micro-level. A neighborhood is a square within the city, but a neighborhood is also a board, comprised of blocks, squares.
An apartment complex is a board, each unit a square. Inside each apartment unit, rooms are squares, the hallway a file, a rank.
Any square can be revisited, but not all squares are equal. The ones at the center of the board are most valued. Place your pieces here, and they’ll wield the most influence, controlling the most squares, but the center squares are also the most contested, the riskiest place for your pieces, exposed and vulnerable.
north beach place
I had a parent conference to attend, a home visit. The family of my advisee lived in my old neighborhood, North Beach. I wasn’t sure if you could still call them projects. The city had torn down the old North Beach and replaced it with a townhouse complex. Slapped a cute name on the property: North Beach Place. At least you could still claim NBP. Each unit now had a washer and dryer, an upstairs and a downstairs, a balcony or a patio.
The new NBP was a “mixed income, mixed-use complex.” Forget cracking down on hustling. In the new North Beach, a gated complex of townhouses, you couldn’t even dribble a basketball—too loud. Space was tight. From the balconies across from each other, you could hold a conversation without having to shout.
On the ground level facing the street, there were storefronts: Trader Joe’s, Starbucks, Edible Arrangements, a bike rental shop, a ballet school for kids—somebody was getting paid. Most of the original tenants hadn’t returned. Though the city had offered units in the new North Beach to all prior tenants, five years had passed since the first tenants had been asked to leave—kicked out, really. You had to settle elsewhere. It wasn’t a choice. The wrecking ball was on its way. Residents could’ve either rented an apartment in the city using the Section 8 voucher they were given, like my brother, or they could’ve moved into another housing project. Some said screw the city and left for the East Bay where rent was cheaper. By the time North Beach was rebuilt several years later, most prior tenants weren’t about to pack up and start over again. Rob was living in the new Army Street housing projects, also remade into townhouses, with his wife, a teacher at a private elementary school. They’d had a city hall wedding, and I’d been the lone witness. ’Dullah lived in a housing project in Hunter’s Point, but his folks had moved to West Oakland. Mansur, I’d heard, was regulating on the young cats on his block. None of that dope dealing here, son!
My brother returned to the new North Beach with his wife and his son, and now they had two additions to the household, a new baby girl, Alana, and Bah Ba. I’d stopped visiting after Bah Ba moved in. Wouldn’t even drive past North Beach. If I wanted to hang out with Jordan, I’d have to have my brother drop him off. My father would walk Jordan to kindergarten and back each day. Goh Goh, unlike me, could separate Bah Ba the grandfather from the Bah Ba that haunted my sister. She didn’t give him grief over this, so I didn’t either. Part of me felt relieved that my dad lived with family. If he had retired alone, I might feel sorry. I wanted to be free to dismiss him, not chained by pity.
Goh Goh’s apartment, fortunately, was not on the same block as the apartment of my advisee. My brother’s block was our old block. I called him as I approached North Beach to find out if Bah Ba was home. “He smokes on Francisco,” my brother said. “Just park on Bay.”
Doing a house visit for my advisee wasn’t my preference, but Lakida’s mother, due to work, couldn’t make it to June Jordan in the evening. And skipping a parent-teacher conference wasn’t an option. We’d made an agreement that we’d meet with all of our advisees’ families.
Lakida’s mom, Tanya, had invited me to eat dinner with them. I sat on the leather couch while music videos played on the television. Tanya handed me a strawberry margarita. She wore a velour tracksuit, and she couldn’t have been much older than me.
“Cheers,” I said.
We clinked glasses.
