The Walk

A True Walk

A poem or short story by Daniel Bailey (aka) The Danman258

True story;

    We were in our band class at the middle school, 8th grade waiting on our band teacher. He, the band master was practicing his saxophone and had lost track of time. We were enjoying it and some had pulled out their instruments to play along and I think that’s what bought him out to the classroom.

    As he went to the podium, silence embraced the room and his control had our full attention. He called out to everyone, “Did everyone practice last night?” The room stayed silent, as he turned pages on his stand and then he asked, “Did anyone have problems last night?” Still silence, now he looks at every eye and starts his count and then magic.

    The sound had flowed through hallways to ears causing bodies to lean and capture more of the sound. Beautiful is not the word to describe a motion of air for air can’t be seen. The best way to describe this wonder of sound was to just listen. 

    We were playing one of Mozart’s lighter pieces and we nailed it. Our music teacher rarely smiled, but the higher his head floated meant higher praise. And for me an 8th grader playing in the high school Orchestra at the fourth chair trumpet was a high honor.

    Our intensity and love for music passed to all the other students giving pride and self-worth throughout the school.  But on this day a change will come. As we finished one of the songs a new student entered our little world. A young white boy with trumpet in hand and eyes widen with eagerness.

    As students of the band we knew we could not speak out unless spoken too. We had to stay in control, at all times, so no matter what our thoughts were it would have to wait till grownups were not around.

     Our teacher kept the class in tack with a soft vibrant voice that seems to break through any problem. And yet there was an unspoken love for the man.

    Our band master spoke, "Band, we have a new student and his name is Michael. He has excellent grades and was forth chair trumpeter from our rival school. Then he looked to Michael giving him the band master stare and spoke, “Band, let’s hear it for Michael’s academic accomplishments!” And in one voice we all shouted, “Three cheers for Michael!” One could see that Michael’s eyes were full with happy.

    We knew that the only way an 8th grader could play in our senior orchestra was pure commitment and us 4 of 60ty, struggled every day to keep our seat. The band master tapped his stand and started to give our group night assignments.  One day a week the band master would give us group home work, pairing sections. We rotate whose house we would rehearse at.

    I don’t know the reasoning, but the band master looked at me and said that I would be paired with Michael. As I can recall the room started to spin and surprise had captured me. OK, let me explain to those who don’t remember the late 60tys in Kansas City Mo. Anything on the west side of Trust Ave was white and anything on the east side of Trust Ave was black, let no man cross the path.

    The bell rung and class was dismissed and I felt weak as Michael ran straight to me with words flying out his shining, grinning mouth. I moved slowly trying to understand my circumstance and it seemed like I was chosen to go where no man would go and I’m a child. And as we made it down the hallway Michael said, “Man, everyone talks about how good you are and I can’t wait to work together tonight.”

    Me still in a daze wondering does he know about where he lives kicked my locker and shouted, “Dude, do you know where you live, tonight might be my last night on earth. If I step one foot on the west side of Trust Ave I will be killed. Do you understand?” Mike, with his ignorance of race fighting in the cities ranted, “The neighborhood I live in is very nice and I know no harm will come to you and to make you feel safe I’ll meet you half way.” That sounded like stupid talk to me and I think Mike was from Dakota.

    When I got home, my stepfather was sleep and my mother was still at the grade school she taught at. All my brothers and sisters that could help with the matter were gone and nerves sweat, and plain I’m not going to do it, was flowing up and down my body. I was to meet Mike at 4:00pm on 41st and Trust Ave.

    As I got to the east side of 41st there were white men at the gas station on the west side and I could see Mike walking down in my direction waving his hand saying come on. For me to cross that street with those white men watching would be insanity, but Mike kept shouting for me to come. And as I forced my foot to step out on the street, I saw the white men start to move in my direction.

    Mike yelling out to me with impatience and started to cross the street to reach me and I pointed to the white men who were now moving faster.  I could see other white men joining as Mike grabbed my hand and screamed run. I could see now there was no turning back and I had to follow Mike, and as we ran people started yelling and running, I could even hear dogs chasing us.

    I yelled out to Mike, “How far?” He never answered and my heart felt like it would burst as we ran. Moments later I could see Mike running to a doorway as I felt a dog nipping my pants and thank God the door was open as he flew through it with me right behind him. Mike started screaming for his dad as I locked the door behind me.

    Quickly I heard the handling of a shotgun and a white man came from the kitchen holding the gun as Mike grabbed his dad screaming, “Dad they’re chasing me and my friend and I don’t know why.” His father looked at me and nodded his head as I was trying to catch my breath. He then knelled down and placed his hands on my shoulders and said, “I’m sorry for what you had to go through to come help my son. And I promise this won’t happen again.” Then he went to the door with shotgun in hand and walked out on his pouch. There had to be at least 20 to 30 men plus 2 to 3 dogs standing on Mike’s father’s property wanting to know why a black boy was on the west side of Trust Ave.

    You could see that Mike’s father already knew most of the men standing on his land and as he viewed their faces he rested the shotgun on his shoulder and said slowly, “Why in the name of Jesus are yawls chasing my boy?” And as they started to answer Mike’s father shot in the air and said, “I don’t need yawls to speak, I need yawls to listen. The school my boy goes to is a black school because he wants to be in a better school for music. My boy has the right to have a choice, and if the school wants my boy to practice with the other kids in his school, then so be it.

    Now I want yawls to apologize to these boys and promise that yawls want ever let this happen again. Yawls hear me?” We came out and the crowd of white men not only apologized, but told us that if we ever needed help to let them know. I was amazed. Years of ignorance gone in a moment.

    I’m not saying that a gun did anything; I’m saying that when a man makes a stand others will follow.