Holiday

I found this short story I had written a few years back - during my seminary days in Pasadena. It was a common thing then, as it is still now, to do a lot of my processing on concrete with definite lines and the clear reality of misses and makes.

The story is an exaggerated experience I truly had. Pardon the language in it, but for anyone who has spent time around a basketball court in the city, you know I could have made it more raw and rough. The story is titled "Holiday." The setting is a bright and sunny Martin Luther King Jr. day when our society is in half-motion, not knowing whether to celebrate, mourn, speak of the good achieved or criticize the ongoing realities of racism.

I hope you won't find this story condemning of anyone but myself. Truly. I wrote it as an indictment of my own smug indifference to the reality of inner city struggles and injustice. It tries to deal with the irony and tragedy of how King's dream for civil liberties and equality of race has born a holiday that has perhaps caused deeper division and isolation between blacks and whites.

It's also about the great tension I felt throughout my time in California regarding individuality and public space. No space in Los Angeles is ever truly private, which means people have to work hard to carve out their own identities. And communal places - like parks - are rarely truly communal (except for pockets of community ... the Latino gathering celebrating a birthday, the two young artists riding their bikes).

And, like I said, this is a story that still convicts me. It convicts me of the stereotypes from my own story. It convicts me of my own indifference to King's legacy and the way I used public parks as personal therapy rather than community awareness. It makes me realize how much I feel entitled to my own space and time - and woe be it if anyone or any social situation troubles those spaces or times. 'Nough said. I hope it speaks to you.

Holiday
by Wes Kendall

I went to shoot baskets at a park this past Monday. Actually, it is not so much a park as a collection of recreation – two playgrounds, some open ground, benches for parties, nice tennis courts and a decent basketball court complete with lights. I went in the early afternoon on Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Day, and I was hoping to find a game going – to ease my mind by running my body down. I wanted to reduce time down to simple actions: dribble, pivot, run, shoot.

No luck. There were two groups of kids and two fathers– split evenly by family on the two goals. Not only was there no game, there was no place for me to shoot: the worst of all scenarios.

Just off the court kids were playing on the playground and a homeless man sat upright on a bench about thirty yards away from the basketball court – apparently he was drying off his clothes while the sun was out in splendor.

I walked over towards the homeless man, stopping three benches short to lock up my bike and await the first departure from the court. It was clear I might be waiting for a few minutes, so I began to dribble up and down a slab of concrete. I dribbled down towards the homeless man. He was shirtless, and he reeked of concentrated body odor. But that was the only sign of life; he was silent and motionless. He could care less about the brief dribbling exhibition I was providing. The only person who noticed was the father of two boys who were playing a game of one on two: father vs. sons. “We’re about done here,” he called out to me as I dribbled nearer to the court. “Oh, that’s okay, I’m just having fun watching you play your kids,” I said with a smile of hospitality. I dribbled away, growing anxious to get my shots in, and then I started dribbling back towards the court.

It was then I noticed a young woman approaching. She was young, a light skinned African-American woman with short afro hair, a white tank top and denim jeans. Out in front of her, two young boys of similar skin tone came running off the sidewalk of Del Mar. They were delighted to be at the park, and I figured this mother was also excited to take her boys to the swings or maybe to the slide. The thought also crossed my mind, “Ah, it’s the mother of this man and two other boys. That’s quite a family.” I overestimated. She wasn’t connected with this man; nor did she have any desire to be maternal at this moment.

She came suspiciously towards myself and the homeless man – seeming to seek out company in this unoccupied space. “Hey, lady, I’m just here to shoot some baskets,” I said to her subconsciously as she approached. She ignored my body language and sat directly behind me. I was seated now – dribbling methodically between my legs. I was itching for the man and his boys to leave – to give me an escape before I had to talk to this woman.

She must not have been up for conversation either, though. She took out a brown bag – hiding a treasure of malt liquor. “You boys go play,” she commanded, “I didn’t bring you to the park to sit. Go and play over there,” pointing to the playground. She had come to cast her children off and to seek comfort in a bottle. Occasionally, she would pull out her cell phone and make a call only to get no response. She left a message. She drank some more.

By this time, I had begun to think of the tragedy of this woman ducking her social responsibilities as a mother. I grew even more disgusted by some anonymous black man – leaving his bastard children underprivileged from the start. And finally, I grew leery. I feared this woman was going to latch onto me as a life preserver in her drowning world. She haunted me as a manifestation of both pity and plight – especially since she seemed to make direct efforts to plant herself in my vicinity.

When the two boys and their father stopped shooting, I thankfully took their spot on the court. I took the opportunity to focus my attention on ten jump shots from each elbow. Then ten free throws. I was out of shape, and my initial efforts immediately fatigued me, and I tried to muster up the determination to make eighty percent or perhaps ninety – trying to figure out the right balance between will and grace.

Just as I finished my ten free throws – only going six out ten – this woman walked over towards the courts. She passed behind me as I blew two easy lay-ups. My legs were shaky, and her encroachment made my fingers lose their control. She finally came to a rest at a bench just off the court. She was now facing me – bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

All that I could figure was she had something to ask me. I wished she would and get it over with. I had just missed five more shots – each looking more cautious and jittery than the last. Finally her two boys broke the silence. They were yelling at each other, and then I heard one boy cry out, “MOOOMMM! He said f--- you!”

“Darriel, you stop that right now or were going home,” she said in a harsh tone but her body was indifferent. I couldn’t believe my ears, and a mother and son nearby stopped in unbelief as well. The woman went on to look at her cell phone when the boy went off again, this time even louder, “MOOOOMMM! He said f--- you again!!”

“Darriel,” she shot back,” “that’s it. Next time we’re outta here.” But she made no movement all the while. She sat lazily staring into space, sometimes resting her eyes on me or the mother and her son.

The first time Darriel shouted I was too shocked to respond. After the second time, I needed no further proof. My mind was made up and ready to cast judgment.

Little did I know these boys who bounced so gleefully into the park were already filled with profanity, but sure enough. And what did the mother care? She only cared that they broke some public ethic. People like me might be offended so she had to speak with some severity, but it was clear her chastising ultimately would have to fall back into her own lap. It was all just an act. She could care less about what her boys did – to scold them would be the same as scolding herself. This wasn't a day to teach. Her boys were just some menace – some nuisance – to her holiday. She had come to the park to forget her problems and unload her responsibility. She wasn’t going to leave that park until her bottle was empty.

“Deadbeat,” I thought. I missed two more shots. “Damn.” It wasn’t worth it anymore. Her presence irked me. I wanted to yell out at her – tell her to throw the bottle away. “Lady, I know you’ve probably been dealt a lousy hand, but you’ve got to take care of your own. What are your boys going to think if they see you drinking your problems away?

"And you’ve got to watch your mouth around them; they’re what five and six years old? And don’t even get me started about doing all this on Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Day. Lord knows what he would think, but I know what I think: you’ve got to have more self-respect. Pick yourself up.”

In reality I didn’t say a word. I was just shooting baskets one after another from all around the perimeter. Made one. Missed two. My legs remained cemented to the ground; sweat began dripping into my eyes. Missed another badly. I usually like to end on a make, but not today. That was it. I was ready to go. So I went over to the bench with my bag, put my ball up and unlocked my bike. I took a long drink from my water bottle, put it back onto the bike and climbed up into the bike seat. I started to peddle away, but I had to pass her to leave. I had one more chance to tell her how I felt. “What a waste,” I thought. But I said nothing. It was my holiday, too, you know; I didn’t need her problems.