Cracked Roots & Roses 9: Hope Deferred Makes the Heart Sick

When I was a kid, I had an aunt who would come over and tell us she was coming to get us for a sleepover on the weekend. She would talk about all the fun things she had planned for my sister and I. She promised to pick us up after work that Friday at 5. Friday would come, and she wouldn’t call to cancel, answer the phone, or show up. That was the worst. You just don’t do that to kids. When you tell a child you’re going to do something, they believe you.

My sister and I would alternate between looking out the window whenever we heard a car and trying to call her house—for hours. We would get our hopes up all week and have our clothes packed in plastic bags at the door, ready for her to come but she never did. We were kids, so we believed her—just like we believed our uncle when he promised to paint our bedroom. My father had put up drywall to fix the holes in the walls but never finished the job. Every wall in our bedroom was gray drywall with white sanded patches. All we wanted was normal walls. We believed these adults in our lives, but none followed through.

I was no stranger to dashed hopes, so waiting for Gino to be released felt like that.

I expected him to come home. I expected us to pick up where we left off and be closer than ever—but that never happened. With every court date, I got my hopes up, just like I had with my aunt and uncle. Each time, I left the courthouse more disillusioned than before. I would go in expecting them to set a trial date, but within five minutes, the judge would continue the case another 30 to 60 days. After two years of this, my heart was growing sick.

I was young, and my life was passing me by. During that time, I didn’t make friends. I didn’t attend school dances, functions, sports, or extracurricular activities. My life was consumed with Gino’s collect calls, love letters, jail visits, and court dates. Looking back, I now see this as God’s way of protecting me. Because I wasn’t doing all those things, I stayed out of trouble. I wasn’t sexually active, and I had no physical contact with boys after Gino was arrested at the beginning of my sophomore year.

I didn’t consider breaking up with Gino until three months before my graduation, at the end of my senior year. I was almost 18, and my young heart wanted to run free. I was loyal because I felt indebted to him for what he did. The problem was, I didn’t even know if what his nephew said was true, nobody ever elaborated and his nephew would never mention it again. I also didn’t know if he was in jail for the right person. He said he was innocent and hadn’t done anything. I had no evidence—no pictures, not even a full name to ask around. There was no Google in 1992. So I held on, waiting for the trial. I needed to know what had happened and why. I wanted him to take the stand and tell his side. I wanted to hear the prosecution’s case and make an informed decision. Unfortunately, the trial didn’t happen until two years after I had stopped talking to him.

I originally planned to go the distance but couldn’t bear another year of waiting or another phone call full of pipe dreams. Even though I had lost the majority of my high school years, I still had prom and graduation left. I decided to live those last three months to the fullest by taking my life back.

I began to float the idea of going to prom to Gino. He was, of course, upset and said prom wasn’t a big deal and that I shouldn’t go. I gently reminded him of what had happened when he was first incarcerated—how, every other week, there was a different girl visiting him.

Those visits were traumatic to say the least. I would sign my name on the visitor list, scan it for other girls’ names, and see new ones every other week. I reminded him that he now had two children, one conceived while we were together. He tried to defend himself, saying the second baby wasn’t his and that he couldn’t stop girls from visiting him. But even if the baby wasn’t his, something had happened between them for her to make the claim! Those situations tarnished him in my eyes.

I believe he loved me, but those sleepy eyes with long lashes weren’t just for me. He was the type of guy who wanted a quiet “main chick” at home but partook in side dishes from time to time. They were the ones hanging out at his drug spot, at the parties, and on the corners. I wasn’t allowed to do any of that. I was only allowed to be with his mom and sister. I was simply tired of being a pet.

After the prom conversation, I stopped taking as many of his calls. With that one conversation, I realized I would never have a voice with him. He would always see me as some doll to be told what to do. I respected him and his authority, but he wasn’t there, and I was growing up.

I think I respected him because I was so young and he was kind of taking care of me. He was gentle when talking to me. He shielded me from ugly things and had a strong, masculine presence. Times have changed—I still haven’t met a man quite like him. Anyway, I began limiting my time on the phone with him as a way to detach. I started to be friendlier with the boys in my class at school. Unfortunately, it was kind of too late.

Everyone already knew me as the girl with the boyfriend in jail for murder. They even called me “Gino Jr.” as a joke. My newfound independence enraged him. He once sternly said, “Kim, just do what you think you need to do, but you better have it out of your system before I get out.” That was a lightbulb moment. This man expected to control my life. He thought I would remain the same girl when he got out. He imagined me sitting at home all day while he ran the streets. I’d probably have a few kids and lose my voice, just like his mom had for his father.

But I wouldn’t.

I knew then I wasn’t meant to be a caged bird, so I stopped him from clipping my wings.

During this time, my art teacher entered two of my pieces into a citywide art competition without telling me. One day after class, he asked me to stay back and shared the news: both of my pieces had won. My mixed-media abstract of Arsenio Hall took third place, and my Afrocentric watercolor won first place. First place—for the entire city of Chicago!

I was elated. The first-place prize was a $1,000 savings bond. The next morning, it was announced over the intercom. The banquet and award ceremony were held the following week.

I decided to attend, even though it was way up north, and after school. Determined to reclaim some of my life, I took the bus to the ceremony. I got there early, received my ribbons, certificate, and savings bond, then mingled with the other winners. As I moved to another room, I was surprised to see my art teacher walking toward me. I hadn’t known he would be there!

I was the only one from my school who won, so he didn’t have to come. That touched me deeply. My mother wasn’t the type to attend these kinds of things, and I had no one else. The other winners were surrounded by family while I stood there holding my awards alone. So when I saw him, my heart broke a little. I gave him a “church hug” and thanked him for everything. They took pictures of us together, and he stayed until it was over. He even offered to give me a ride home since it was late, and he knew I lived on the West Side. That offer worried me a little. I was still afraid of men, but I trusted him, so I shut down my fear and accepted. Being in his car was far better than taking the L train in the dark.

I told him to take me back to the school, where I’d catch the bus home. I was too embarrassed for him to see my neighborhood, with its people hanging out on corners, vacant lots, and abandoned buildings. He reluctantly agreed but parked nearby and waited until I got on the bus. I felt like he knew something had happened in my life but understood I wasn’t ready to talk about it.

The following week, I struck up a friendship with a girl at school who had a steady boyfriend. You know that Siamese couple—they’re joined at the lip, always kissing in the hallway and leaning on each other. She asked if I was going to prom, and I told her probably not.

“Why not?” she asked.

I told her, “Well, Gino is still locked up, and I don’t want to go alone.”

She suggested going with a group of girls, but I wasn’t interested. I didn’t have any close girlfriends. I was an art major and spent 90% of my time around boys at school. A few days later, she saw me in the hall, ran up to me, and said, “Guess what?!”

“What?” I asked.

“John has a friend who wants to go to our prom!”

I raised an eyebrow. “Okay, how does he look?” I wanted a date but I still wanted to be able to look at him without squinting. 

“I’ve never met him,” she said, “but I’m sure he’s fine.”

Later that day, her boyfriend, John, found me in the lunchroom and asked for my address. He said, “We’ll come by this weekend so you can meet my boy. His name is Derrick. He just finished his first year at Alabama State and is home for the summer.”

I agreed but told him to bring his girl with him. That weekend, they all showed up. Derrick was tall, handsome, and polite, with a bald fade, dimples and hazel eyes. We chatted briefly, and he said, “Girl, I don’t know why you didn’t have a date for prom, but you do now!” I laughed and gave him my number to coordinate prom details, like pickup and colors.

I wasn’t expecting him to call for anything else, but I was wrong.

Derrick began to call every day. We went on two dates before the prom. He had a blue Chevy Blazer with blue lights under the car. That was all the rage in ’93. I told him I wanted to wear peach, so he rented a black tux with a peach tie and cummerbund. He gave me the money for my ticket and his, and with that, I was going to prom; WITH A DATE. 

One day I got home from school, and Gino’s sister, the gambler, was waiting for me in her mom’s car. She said her mom had been missing me. They wanted to know how I was doing and why I hadn’t been over. I told her I was fine, that I was busy with school stuff, and that I was going to prom. She looked surprised.

She said, “Oh my God, are you going with a boy? Does Gino know?”

I said, “I told him I was thinking about going, but we haven’t talked about it again.”

She said, “Good for you Kim, you can’t wait forever. Let my cousin Rina make your dress. She made mine. I’ll pay for it.”

This was a relief because I didn’t have a job and it felt like she understood. That weekend, I went over there to talk to Rina about my dress. I purchased the fabric and told her when I needed it done. She took my measurements and assured me she would have it done before that date.

This was all last minute, so I didn’t hound her. I would call to check on things, but that was it. The week of prom, I hadn’t heard from her. I was now getting nervous. I hadn’t even had one fitting.