A few houses down, a chubby brown-skinned boy emerged wearing a short-sleeved lime-green plaid button down shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers. Otherwise, all I could see were neat rowhouses and the sparkling white marble steps that the neighborhood folks pridefully kept clean, sending their kids out with buckets of soapy water and hard-bristled brushes on Saturday mornings.Īs sweat raced down my face and toward my peach fuzz chin, I was startled by the sudden slamming of a door. There was a bar/liquor store on the corner that also served as a candy shop and state lottery center. Arriving by Greyhound to their then Howard Street station, she picked me up and we took a city bus to our new home.Īfter unpacking my suitcase, I strolled outside, sat on the white marble stairs and surveyed the unfamiliar landscape. Pulling weeds and garbage every day at my summer gig, I chatted with my aspiring filmmaker shift partner and suffered in silence until it was time to join Mom at our Monroe Street rowhouse in West Baltimore.

In my case, it was already decided that I’d work a summer job at a Harlem-based senior citizen building that was managed by my biological father and meet Mom in Baltimore in mid-August.Īt fifteen, I was already a morose kid suffering from existential angst, and random thoughts of moving to a different city depressed me. In those medieval times, black parents rarely negotiated or explained the reasons why to their children they just barked orders and we did as we were told. In the spring of 1978, not long before summer recess from Rice High School in Harlem, I was told by my mom that we’d be moving to Baltimore in a few months. “Everything Guy did was founded on friendship. This is The Blacklist, a monthly column by Michael Gonzales exploring out-of-print books by African-American authors.

Ruby by rosa guy