Quiet Mountain Essays
Copyright©, 2004
Desired Strength
by
Gracious Robertson
“Suspect in custody,” rang from the t.v. set displaying the six o’clock news. Too much make-up
was plastered on the face of the news anchor. I had once drawn a woman like her in my earlier
years. As a child, I proclaimed to be an expert of many talents, namely drawing. I was an average
protégé of Picasso, creating extravagant features. Tainting the paper with attempts to impress my
mama, receiving a "well done" even when I purposely made mistakes, I rarely ever desired to ask
for the eraser. “All ways of man are clean in his own eyes” (Proverbs 16.2).
The evening of March 7th ushered in a ruckus on Harken Court. Lights flashed; the area
residents traded whispers. I disregarded the restrictions enforced by the yellow tape as I walked
onto my street. Confusion controlled me, gravity no longer applied. My mind became motionless
as I walked toward the blinding lights. SMACK! Cold concrete stabilized me as I lay in the street,
numbness invading my body. The rookie cop shook me, but I remained unresponsive to his
question: “Miss, are you okay?”
Nauseating moths produced in the pit of my stomach lifted me from the pavement. “I’m fine. I
just, I just...I think that I just...”
I allowed my legs to move in the direction of home. Twenty feet of distance between me and my
front door felt like ten minutes to reach nowhere. Mind-boggled, I staggered toward the house.
Messages between police walkie-talkies tackled one another. I passed an enormous white truck
that was parked sideways, blocking the view of the nosey neighborhood. My attention was
immediately directed to the investigative men wearing latex gloves, squatting over a red stain in
the street. The moths were disturbed.
Several copper-colored objects were framed by orange spray-paint. The gloved men began to
spray black paint around the red stain. Another man began taking photos of my brother’s rusted
blue El Camino that had new tiny holes in the windshield. I heard a faint, familiar cry, and I ran
around the backside of the truck. My cousins stood at the corner embracing each other. The
moths let me down. SMACK! My dad lifted me from the ground. I needed to reach home.
My mama stood alone in the driveway in a soiled, laundry-faded blue t-shirt. I turned toward the
street and began to cry, “No, Mama!”
She put her arms around me and whispered, “They killed your uncle Ernie.”
Who did it? How could they? My mama, the oldest child of six, had for ten years been the
backbone of our family since my grandmother died in 1992. I thought that 2002 would not be
different. I tasted disappointment now and it sickened me.
The next day, my brother re-enacted the tragic scenario that had occurred the night before:
“Three guys approached us; we exchanged words; I was punched in the face; I blanked out. I
don’t even remember hearing shots. When I got back my senses, I was cradling Ernie, and trying
to stop his neck from bleeding. He whispered, ‘I’ve been hit.’ I screamed for Mama, and gave him
to her. I promised that I was going to kill the niggas that did this. I ran. I looked for them for
hours...”
I could not be a comfort to my mama. I could not ease the pain for my brother and sister. I was
lost. I was defenseless. I was angry. “Behold, the Lord’s hand is not shortened, that it cannot
save, neither his ear heavy, that it cannot hear” (Isaiah 59.1).
Each day that passed afterwards, more people questioned their faith, and questioned my brother
about why and how my uncle had died. People needed closure. My young cousins needed to
know the truth about the tragedy leading to their father’s death. Many people had a personal
eulogy in their heart for this man with whom they had once worked; with whom they had once
loved and conceived children. However, I continued to be empty in my heart because I was too
afraid to grieve again. Grief had lead me before in the direction of destruction. In the past, I had
slowly destroyed my mind and my body by doing drugs and alcohol, because it set my mind at
ease. “Hell and destruction are never full; so the eyes of man are never satisfied” (Proverbs 27.20).
On the evening of the funeral, the family continued to gather at my mother’s house to exchange
memories and encourage faith in one another’s lives. They proposed toasts of my uncle’s favorite
beer on his behalf and reminisced about the times that they had each spent with him. While I was
drunk in selfish sorrow, the door bell rang. Fearing more condolences from people that I barely
knew, I ran to my room and closed the door. I needed to feel my emptiness, because I was tired of
crying and hearing, “Everything will be all right.” What was right had been wronged too many
times in my life for me to be truly, altogether right. “When thou liest down, thou shall not be
afraid: yea, thou shalt lie down, and thy sleep shall be sweet” (3.24).
After countless hours of allowing sleep to comfort the pain in my heart, I got up and turned on the
t.v., in time to catch the eleven o’clock news. As I turned up the volume, I heard the news anchor
say, “Suspect in custody.”
I was tired of hearing about the endless crime that continued to occur in the city, but as I lifted the
remote to change the channel, a mug-shot of my brother appeared on the screen. The make-up
plastered woman proceeded to say, “Young, black male arrested for the shooting death of
Lexington’s latest homicide. Sources say that the victim was the uncle of the suspect. We were
unable to contact the police for further information...”
I needed to right all of the wrongs. I could not bear to grieve. The moths failed me again.
Contributor's Notes...
This writing is my first publication. I do not wish to glory in the writing, but I seek to share
understanding and empowerment in every piece of work that I submit. My intentions are to
encourage strength and love in all of my readers, this opportunity is truly a blessing.
