Rashaun J. Allen's Blog, page 3

7 Generations – A Pink House

Several weeks ago I hit a genealogy milestone.

I decided to ZR to Mount Standfast and essentially walk around and take pictures of the area where I was aware my Great-Grandma Irene lived. But as I was asking for directions (Google only gets you in the range of where you’re going out here in Barbados) I also asked a few people if they knew any Depeizas. Two of the people I asked pointed out a pink house behind a church.

But I questioned whether I should even look for this pink house. For the last couple of weeks, I’ve been calling every DePeiza I could find in the phonebook and interviewing them about their family history to see if and how we could be related. (I had been planning to meet some of them but had been unsuccessful up to this point). And I didn’t want to show up at one of their homes unannounced.

I decided to ignore the directions to the pink house and instead continue walking straight ahead up on highway 1 until I came across “The Garden” street sign. I had to turn and walk it. More than half of the baptism, marriage and death records I’ve found of ancestors of yesteryear in the Barbados National Archives stated the abode was “The Garden.” So, I follow this road imagining so much. Mount Standfast was once a plantation. Where exactly on this road could my Great-great-grandparents have raised their children? But I snap out of it once I realized the Garden road had left me standing in front of the pink house.

Once I get there, I call out for a Depeiza. A lady answered from the window, “I am a DePeiza” and I told her how I was one too. “My great-grandma is Irene DePeiza who left for Brooklyn and married a Trumpet.”

“Do you know a Gladys?”

“Yes, that is my great-grandma’s sister.”

“Oh okay. Hold on.”

She called a person or two (I now know they were cousins from Canada) and then asked me if I knew someone else. “You know a Grace?

“Yes, Grace Hunnicutt is my aunt and I’m the son of her baby sister, Christine.”

“I could smell it in the blood but now I’m sure you’re family.”

Ann, my 2nd cousin once removed, let me inside her pink house and by finding her I was able to connect to some of my Bajan family.

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Rashaun J. Allen (@rashaunjallen) received his MFA in Creative Writing and Literature from SUNY Stony Brook. He’s eyeing agents to help publish his coming of age story, Christine’s Dream – A Memoir of Love, Loss & Life. He is the author of A Walk Through Brooklyn & In The Moment and has been published in TSR: The South Hampton Review and is forthcoming in The Tishman Review. When not writing he runs for the thrill of crossing the finish line. Find more of his work at www.rashaunjallen.com.

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“Rashaunjallen.com is not an official Fulbright Program site. The views expressed on this site are entirely those of its author and do not represent the views of the Fulbright Program, the U.S. Department of State or any of its partner organizations.”

Book Review – Drown

            Reading Drown has completed my trifecta of all of Junot Diaz’s published books. His Dominican perspective, flawed characters and descriptive images written in short strokes of the pen are as prevalent in Drown, his 1st published book as his other two. But in Drown, I found myself consistently asking, how much of these stories are based on Diaz’s personal experience?

Drown has 10 short stories in this collection. My favorite was “Negocios.” It was about the protagonist Junior’s father Ramon coming as a new immigrant to the United States. Beyond the language barrier and culture struggle, one could expect the reader witnesses what happens to a flawed man who abandons his wife (whose father gave Ramon the money to buy a ticket to the United States) and kids in the Dominican Republic. Instead of Ramon establishing himself then bringing his family over to the states he starts a new life marrying another woman and having additional children. My least favorite short story was “How to date a Brown girl, Black girl, white girl, or Halfie.” This one felt unfinished and didn’t quite deliver from the buildup of Junior preparing for a date that never happened when it finally occurred. “Ysrael” lands somewhere in the muddy middle of taste. The reader is engulfed in the relationship between Junior and his big brother, Rafa. But the story pivots from Junior’s admiration of his brother sway over girls once they team up to jump and unmask Ysrael, a Dominican kid around their age whose face was eaten by a pig.

The Drown short stories are well done. I found myself laughing at moments and then taken aback by other scenes. In the book’s titled chapter “Drown” Junior described the two times his best-friend-drug-selling-partner had molested him. An eerie occurrence that left Junior frozen and me shaking my head.

But without a doubt the language in Drown is Dominican. I’m reminded of childhood Dominican friends I grew up around who would naturally switch between English and Spanish. His writing has encouraged me to just go for it when describing situations as natural as I would chat with friends.  I don’t think one would be disappointed if time is taken to read Drown.

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Rashaun J. Allen (@rashaunjallen) received his MFA in Creative Writing and Literature from SUNY Stony Brook. He’s eyeing agents to help publish his coming of age story, Christine’s Dream – A Memoir of Love, Loss & Life. He is the author of A Walk Through Brooklyn & In The Moment and has been published in TSR: The South Hampton Review, Rigorous, Tishman Review and is forthcoming in Fourth GenreT. When not writing he runs for the thrill of crossing the finish line. Find more of his work at www.rashaunjallen.com.

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“Rashaunjallen.com is not an official Fulbright Program site. The views expressed on this site are entirely those of its author and do not represent the views of the Fulbright Program, the U.S. Department of State or any of its partner organizations.”

Short Story – A Student Loan

Sallie Mae. 70,000 dollars?

Please let this student loan be some kind of cruel joke.

Like turning my studio apartment upside down looking for my keys just for them to be in my pocket. My left pocket. The same pocket as my IPhone without leaving a scratch. But then my IPhone drops and the screen cracks.

Or like getting a number at a party. I dial the number to give her mine in return. Your phone isn’t ringing I say. Oh, I forgot I gave you my old number she says as she walks away.

Perhaps I should count my blessings. I do have a bachelor and a master. I can read an annual report and mimic gumboot dancing I saw in South Africa. And its nothing wrong with dancing. I play music when I’m cleaning up. I would kill to clean up one, two, no three zeroes in that number.

See this loan has infiltrated my thoughts. For example:

Living below my means. Eating cereal with a fork. Reusing plastic cups and plates and eating pasta with everything. Who knew pasta and jerk chicken was called Rasta Pasta – I made it to survive.

Breaking up with my girlfriend. This was hard to do. But after crunching a budget on excel. I found out by skipping Valentine’s Day, Birthday, Date-a-versary, Christmas, and random days of affection, I could save 18 months in repayments.

Extreme thrift shopping. I stopped shopping.

I refuse to apologize, Sallie Mae, I refute the terms of our arrangement. How dare you declare even in bankruptcy I still have to pay? Like the Lannisters in Game of Thrones, I always pay my debts. But a lopsided deal is a deal breaker.

This interest is like seven percent. Seven is also the amount of times I called the owner of this company I work for before he hired me. Every time I hear seven its misleading. My job doesn’t match the description. And seven percent of my income is all I could afford to pay a year. Seven isn’t a lucky number.

What I want is a full review of my loan for any inconsistencies between the contract and what’s happening. There’s a lot! I demand a deferment of payment with interest being paid by you guys until this issue is resolved.

Hello. Are you there? Please press one for an operator? I hate you, Sallie Mae. (Hangs up phone).

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Rashaun J. Allen (@rashaunjallen) received his MFA in Creative Writing and Literature from SUNY Stony Brook. He’s eyeing agents to help publish his coming of age story, Christine’s Dream – A Memoir of Love, Loss & Life. He is the author of A Walk Through Brooklyn & In The Moment and has been published in TSR: The South Hampton Review, Rigorous, Tishman Review and is forthcoming in Fourth GenreT. When not writing he runs for the thrill of crossing the finish line. Find more of his work at www.rashaunjallen.com.

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“Rashaunjallen.com is not an official Fulbright Program site. The views expressed on this site are entirely those of its author and do not represent the views of the Fulbright Program, the U.S. Department of State or any of its partner organizations.”

Book Review – Half of a Yellow Sun

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Half of a Yellow Sun is a compelling and heartbreaking story of Biafra’s struggle for independence from Nigeria in the mid-1960s. On one hand, it is the story of discontent between Igbo and Yoruba people forced to co-exist born out of Europe’s carving up of Africa. On the other hand, the reader closely follows Ugwu, a village boy given a new life working for a professor; Olanna and Kainene twin daughters of a wealthy Igbo father; Richard, a white guy who lived in Nigeria as a writer and journalist and Odenigbo the professor who believed in Biafra and helped it emancipate but his personal life was far less noble having a had a child outside of his relationship with Olanna. These characters are essential to the story allowing the reader to experience multiple perspectives of Biafra’s struggle.

Right and wrong has no straight path in the book. Ugwu was conscripted into fighting in the Biafra war. Then he was coerced but still chose to rape a girl after she had been raped by his conscripted friend. Adichie’s detailed description horrifies when she writes about the girl who, “hated him with silent eyes.” For the rest of the story, I look forward to Ugwu demise as a soldier only to be jived.

The drama is enticing. When Kainene and Olanna reconnected after Olanna slept with Richard, Kainene goes across the Biafra/Nigeria border to never return. The reader nor Olanna never know how and if Kainene is killed. The more Kainene was revealed in the novel the easier it became to love her character and hurt over this scene. She was the unattractive sister who went against her parents’ wishes to date a white man and yet ran their business while she tended to the orphaned children of war.

Adichie’s characters come alive in her story. Each one was whole and flawed the moment the reader meets them. Even some of the side characters were well constructed. Odenigbo’s village Mom did the most to ruin the marriage between her son and Olanna. It was heartbreaking to figure out like Olanna did, she couldn’t have children. Then to find out Odenigbo got a village girl (brought by his Mom around him) pregnant the first time. Finally, Olanna (the pretty daughter) adopts this child and loves her like her own after the village girl abandons the child. This kind of love is rare in life and on the page.

Then the reader also gets a picture of how politics in Nigeria work. Kainene and Olanna’s parents try to pawn Kainene off to a minister (a high-ranking official) in order to get a contract beyond an already trifling 10% kickback that is an accepted and standard practice. The father is described as someone from a low social standing that rose up. Their Mom is described as superficial. The reader is allowed a glimpse of their life when the Mom confesses that her husband has a mistress and is flaunting her publicly. It’s never made given who is right or wrong as the cards fall. To find Olanna talking to her father about the situation is a complex moment.

I read a comment online describing Half of a Yellow Sun’s as being as dramatic as a Nigerian soap opera. I’ve never seen one. But what I can say is while the plot twists and turns it doesn’t leave the realm of plausibility—a foundation of incredible fiction. Although none of these characters existed in real life, I imagine versions of these people during the Biafra war were in fact real.

Adichie’s writing style is vastly different than what I am familiar with. But from reading her story I was forced to become a sharper reader to understand which I believe will help me be a sincerer writer. The time magazine summed this book up best when it said, “a gorgeous pitiless account of love, violence, and betrayal.” Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche now can count me in as a fan.

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Rashaun J. Allen (@rashaunjallen) received his MFA in Creative Writing and Literature from SUNY Stony Brook. He’s eyeing agents to help publish his coming of age story, Christine’s Dream – A Memoir of Love, Loss & Life. He is the author of A Walk Through Brooklyn & In The Moment and has been published in TSR: The South Hampton Review, Rigorous, Tishman Review and is forthcoming in Fourth Genre. When not writing he runs for the thrill of crossing the finish line. Find more of his work at www.rashaunjallen.com.

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“Rashaunjallen.com is not an official Fulbright Program site. The views expressed on this site are entirely those of its author and do not represent the views of the Fulbright Program, the U.S. Department of State or any of its partner organizations.”

 

Short Story – The Break Room

No matter where you are bathroom time is the best moment to question the existence of God. You think God must have felt like shitting on you, since you hate your co-workers: Kiss Ass Dave, Never Do Shit Derek and Big Booty Felicia – who runs game on you but probably does more than flirt with the managers.

You go to the last stole in the bathroom because customers find the first is ripe for a quick response. You don’t get upset after the toilet flushes the sink never runs. Shaking hands with customers only happens at an office. You shrug your shoulders when you notice there is no toilet tissue. Wiping your ass is secondary to hiding it.

Staring at the schedule that crinkled in your pocket does nothing for your enthusiasm. It disappeared weeks ago ever since you learned that Big Booty Felicia always gets the schedule she wants. You think about flushing the schedule down the toilet. But showing up for the wrong shift can only be pulled off once.

Your last fifteen-minute break was your only. Being scheduled just enough hours not to have lunch is Jerk Jake, your supervisor’s way of managing hours. “Keith, time is money,” he said an hour ago when he handed you a copy of the weekly schedule. Yet he assigns you a full shift of tasks on a four-hour shift. Your smile hides your disdain. To add further deception, you crack a joke, “I’ll get it done quicker than an express line can check out.” But he doesn’t laugh. His back has been turned since he stopped giving directions. The last time he spoke to you and not at you was the first day you started.

According to the five customers that have come in and out the bathroom only ten minutes has gone by, the bathroom door opens and closes about a customer every other minute. You’re glad a Dad with a crying baby hasn’t entered (they always throw your timing off). And instead of counting customers to guestimate time, you hope the dirty diaper doesn’t force you to leave.

You reach for your cell phone only to remember it’s in your locker. The Assistant Store Manager, Jamel, has a hard about having cell phones on the sales floor. You let it go because calling corporate over the hypocrisy isn’t big enough. Ever since he showed up you can’t claim the managers’ actions are racially motivated. But how they operate still makes your stomach turn.

You wonder how close you can get to the end of your shift without getting caught. February 9th will forever be the standard – three hours on a five-hour shift!  All the previous fucks-ups were one long learning curve. But you never forget the close call the day Jerk Jake claimed you abandoned your job since he couldn’t find you for over an hour. But your excuse, going to the maintenance closet to pick up a caution sign saved your job. You crossed your chest and kissed the sky for the spilled milk in diary.

You remember Kiss Ass Dave had wanted you to help him take out boxes from the compressor at one. He won’t waste a minute looking for you and page your name again and again and again over the loudspeaker until you appear. It’s five minutes to one and you decide to flush the toilet before your cover is blown. You pour water on your face and back to advertise the journey.

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Rashaun J. Allen (@rashaunjallen) received his MFA in Creative Writing and Literature from SUNY Stony Brook. He’s eyeing agents to help publish his coming of age story, Christine’s Dream – A Memoir of Love, Loss & Life. He is the author of A Walk Through Brooklyn & In The Moment and has been published in TSR: The South Hampton Review, Rigorous, Tishman Review and is forthcoming in Fourth GenreT. When not writing he runs for the thrill of crossing the finish line. Find more of his work at www.rashaunjallen.com.

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“Rashaunjallen.com is not an official Fulbright Program site. The views expressed on this site are entirely those of its author and do not represent the views of the Fulbright Program, the U.S. Department of State or any of its partner organizations.”

Dominican Republic

Delicate women among palm trees.

Overt locking eyes in Susho.

Movin’ motorbikes to get across town.

Irregular prices for tourists

Nuisances selling anything palmed in hands.

Instant gratification from a blazing sun.

Corrupt government. Is this America too?

Ain’t nobody focused on a brown foreigner.

Never get used to cold showers.

Radiant pride; flags waves like beating hearts.

Exquisite food, Italian, American, and Russian. But hardly any Dominican food serving restaurants.

People chatting in Spanish, my ears wish they understood.

Urgency of work is forgotten inside a pool bar. Another round. Another round. Another

Bachelors at the festival woo white women.

Lovely looking ladies everywhere.

Ice cream and a beach. What more can you ask for?

Clamoring to memories now that time here is spent.

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Rashaun J. Allen (@rashaunjallen) received his MFA in Creative Writing and Literature from SUNY Stony Brook. He’s eyeing agents to help publish his coming of age story, Christine’s Dream – A Memoir of Love, Loss & Life. He is the author of A Walk Through Brooklyn & In The Moment and has been published in TSR: The South Hampton Review, Rigorous, Tishman Review and is forthcoming in Fourth GenreT. When not writing he runs for the thrill of crossing the finish line. Find more of his work at www.rashaunjallen.com.

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“Rashaunjallen.com is not an official Fulbright Program site. The views expressed on this site are entirely those of its author and do not represent the views of the Fulbright Program, the U.S. Department of State or any of its partner organizations.”

Book Review – Parable of the Talents

Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Talents was as masterfully written as Parable of the Sower. Her ability to write a plausible heart-wrenching story about an unlivable not so distant future is a rare talent. To write a story, no two book series about, “Earthseed,” a religion pushed by Lauren, a black woman and the series’ protagonist about, “God is change,” and keep my attention is remarkable. The story is much more than sprinkled poems throughout each chapter in reference to its philosophy. The series gives a personal journal view of Lauren’s struggle and savior like rise in Los Angeles in 2024.

Lauren was a sharer. Someone who had a mutated sense of empathy making her able to feel the pleasure and pain of anyone she personally witnessed. A powerful concept. One it didn’t create more sympathy in the world but made it worse. Sharers hid their ability as much as possible. And enslavers made use of sharers to control groups. In a world full of greed and selfishness could someone who was forced to feel humane exist?

Going into the second Earthseed novel, I was curious how Octavia would find a way to continue what seemed a completed story. In the end of book one, Lauren managed to find and create Acorn, a community based on Earthseed principles to grow and prosper. But Parable of the Talents throws that fairy tale ending into complete chaos when a radical Christian group enslaved her and her Earthseed followers for almost two years.

This novel is more Asha Vere’s story, Lauren and Bankole’s daughter during the years 2032-2035. The reader has Lauren, Asha Vere, Bankole and Lauren’s brother Marcus give their perspectives of the circumstances surrounding their lives. Asha has collected most of their journal entries to better understand her mother’s life and choices.

Parable of the Talents isn’t the kind of Science Fiction novel to speed read. Octavia has built a world revving up religion, technology, and humanity to their catalysts. Three-dimensional characters—from different hues and sexual orientation—that tug at the reader’s emotions. I found myself reading only a few chapters a day. Then taking the time to decompress the information.

The power relationship between Lauren and Marcus was as important as their sibling kinship. Lauren on a quest to buy an Earthseed’s sibling from an enslaver ends up buying her brother, whoever since the beginning of book one the reader and Lauren believed is dead. Now we can stay here for a moment. The idea of enslavers being able to attach a technology advanced collar with the ability to give pleasure or pain from a button on another human being is frightening.

Marcus had been a sex worker for his enslaver. We find out later that he is gay. The ironic twist is he is a strict believer and preacher of Christianity for a radical group of Christians that would never accept him if they knew. But after Lauren buys his freedom, he is given a home at Acorn, but is unhappy. He attempts to preach for the Acorn community but failed. Years later he becomes a world renown preacher whose inaction keeps Lauren’s daughter from her. An unchristian and inhumane move.

Despite how terrible the world became under Jarrett’s “Make America Great Again,” slogan and reviving Earthseed after Acorn had been physically demolished what caused Lauren the most pain is Marcus. Lauren’s temporary enslavement where she was forced to work from sun up and sun down then get raped by radicals was horrible. But the broken bond Marcus orchestrated between Lauren and her daughter lasted a lifetime. It doesn’t matter that Marcus made sure Asha had a safe secure life and received a college education. Marcus took the choice of Lauren and Asha having a relationship away. He found Asha when she was three or four years old and held this secret for over twenty years.

Asha sides with Marcus because she doesn’t like how Lauren treats her uncle after discovering the truth. Lauren by the time she meets her daughter is well off and Earthseed is a major religion in the world. But Lauren and her daughter never have the mother daughter relationship one would hope. For some writers this part of the story would be a gold mine mined to its last drop. But for Octavia, it is one of many plots.

Parable of the Talents is a modern day classic that writers would be foolish to skip over. It is enlightening and entertaining enough to be a good addition to any syllabus to teach style or narrative. A reader can read Parabale of the Talents without first reading Parable of the Sower but it is more rewarding to read both. This is the third book of Octavia Butler’s I’ve read and none thus far has left me unsatisfied.

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Rashaun J. Allen (@rashaunjallen) received his MFA in Creative Writing and Literature from SUNY Stony Brook. He’s eyeing agents to help publish his coming of age story, Christine’s Dream – A Memoir of Love, Loss & Life. He is the author of A Walk Through Brooklyn & In The Moment and has been published in TSR: The South Hampton Review, Rigorous, Tishman Review and is forthcoming in Fourth GenreT. When not writing he runs for the thrill of crossing the finish line. Find more of his work at www.rashaunjallen.com.

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“Rashaunjallen.com is not an official Fulbright Program site. The views expressed on this site are entirely those of its author and do not represent the views of the Fulbright Program, the U.S. Department of State or any of its partner organizations.”

7 Generations – Going to Barbados

When I was seven years old my aunt said to me, “De berry don’ drop too far from de tree.” She saw my puzzled face over her makeshift Caribbean accent. She used that moment, us eating in her backyard, to give me a piece of family history. “You have African roots that go through the Caribbean,” she continued.

My Great-Grandma Irene Trumpet left the twenty-one-mile-long island of Barbados for a new life in the United States. That new life brought the birth of my Grandma Carmen Trumpet, who out of six siblings was one of two born a United States citizen. But 31 years later, Grandma Carmen died two weeks after giving birth to my mother, Christine Hunnicutt. And with that death, my Caribbean roots was reduced to those numbers.

One day I learned my Great-Grandma Irene’s secret—her birth date. I saved up for a year to go to Barbados. I thought I could go there and order a birth certificate or get a baptism record. But instead of finding information about my family, I found a handful of people trying to reconnect with Barbados. This flipped what I thought was a personal struggle of identity into a collective one. A collective struggle from the “African Diaspora,” communities throughout the world that resulted from Africans who were enslaved and shipped in historic times from Africa predominately to the Americas and the Caribbean. This has sparked questions: How have our lives been shaped by the Barbadian Diaspora? And what stories have been lost?

Born and raised in Breukelen projects in Brooklyn, New York, my imagination brewed from stories I read like, The Autobiography of Malcolm X and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn; Stories told to me orally like, “Barbadian women lied about their age to avoid school in America,”; and stories that I have written like, “Fourteen” published by the South Hampton Review. All have shaped me into who I am today—a writer whose personal mission is to “give voice and perspective to black people whose stories have been overlooked and underwritten.”

I found in my own family tree there are countless stories to discover and write about. A month or so ago SUNY Stony Brook asked me to take part in a Graduate School Profile to share one and give insight on being a Fulbright Scholar. I was hesitant. The process was exciting yet taxing. But I believe it’s a rare opportunity that shows what pursuing a passion is all about. Enjoy!

 

 

 

 

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Rashaun J. Allen (@rashaunjallen) received his MFA in Creative Writing and Literature from SUNY Stony Brook. He’s eyeing agents to help publish his coming of age story, Christine’s Dream – A Memoir of Love, Loss & Life. He is the author of A Walk Through Brooklyn & In The Moment and has been published in TSR: The South Hampton Review and is forth coming in The Tishman Review. When not writing he runs for the thrill of crossing the finish line. Find more of his work at www.rashaunjallen.com.

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“Rashaunjallen.com is not an official Fulbright Program site. The views expressed on this site are entirely those of its author and do not represent the views of the Fulbright Program, the U.S. Department of State or any of its partner organizations.”

Framed In Excellence – Dear Colin Kaepernick

Dear Colin Kaepernick,

            Thank you for taking a stand against injustice that happens to black and brown folks across the United States of America. It is unfortunate that your peaceful action has been met with such villainous hate and malicious. On one hand the reaction from mainstream media up to the 45th President makes clear your message couldn’t be more timely. On the the other, it is sad that NFL owners, General Managers and whoever else has sway to add players to team rosters would rather draft people who have been accused of sexual assault than take you on for taking a knee an entire NFL season to silently protest injustice. It has been proven by countless new stories and researched and written about in works like The New Jim Crow by Michelle Alexander.

You’re the type of person who I would want on my team. Unfortunately, I can’t offer you a check and sign you myself. Instead, I offer my words. When I saw you take a stand for the 2016 season I was left inspired. For me your decision was like a modern day Muhammad Ali in that you were willing to risk it all. This is the quintessential difference between so many of us who accept micro aggression to full blatant oppression in our lives. Most don’t know how to find an outlet and others fear the blow back will leave them unable to provide for their loved ones. But you my friend prove that there is another reality we need to march towards.

It makes me think about countless times at various jobs, I couldn’t help but feel the unwritten rule was to accept a lesser reality just to ensure I eat good for another day. I recall doing a survey for a fortune 500 company about diversity. The organization got whiter, maler and straighter the further up with few exceptions. When I opened my mouth to state, “We need more diversity in our leadership ranks,” what to me was obvious—not insightful—clear as day, I was told “diversity of thought” is what was preferred. Diversity for example at best was an item one could check off by simply finding someone who fit multiple demographics. Then one could brand themselves liberal and progressive.

You have inspired countless people to find that little extra strength to stand up for themselves. Your charity work, the know your rights campaign looks like it has helped many young adults understand and better navigate the difficult situation of surviving the United States while black.

But what I like more than anything is your actions to shatter the false bubble of post racism in sports and in America—everybody still ain’t treated equal and more importantly equitable. There are more black boys and girls and adults getting killed or railroaded into the jail system than there are Lebron James’ and Serena Williams’. They are like 1 in 10 million and there are over 80 million African Americans in the states.

I’ve worked side by side white folks who have lived in trailers and black folks like myself who have come out of the hood. And fundamentally both want the same thing. But I get it. After working hard everyday and seeing green do less and less it’s frustrating to see you a black man, who is a millionaire address systematic racism.

I agree with Shaun King’s boycott of the NFL and I plan to boycott the NFL for the entire 2017-2018 season. Unlike many other celebrities, you took the position you earned and made a decision that went beyond throwing a football. I only hope to channel that same fearless spirit when I find myself in between a rock and a hard place. Whether I’m ready or not I can move forward boldly.

I wish you much success in the future. If you do not have the fortune to play again I wish you success in your next endeavor and whatever you do please continue not to compromise in the face of oppression.

Thank You,

Rashaun J. Allen

 

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Rashaun J. Allen (@rashaunjallen) received his MFA in Creative Writing and Literature from SUNY Stony Brook. He’s eyeing agents to help publish his coming of age story, Christine’s Dream—A Memoir of Love, Loss & Life. He is the author of A Walk Through Brooklyn & In The Moment and has been published in TSR: The South Hampton Review and is forthcoming in The Tishman Review. When not writing he runs for the thrill of crossing the finish line. Find more of his work at www.rashaunjallen.com.

7 Generations – Pulling Off the Plaster

It always irked me that Granddad Charles who I lived with once my single parent Mom died advocated for my father. He often said, “Give Jamel a chance.” You know let him be involved in my life. Jamel was only around the corner of Breukelen projects between his mother, Grandma Arlene’s home and Glenwood Road. But my fourteen-year-old outlook had been a nonchalant, “I’m good.” Now I think what Granddad Charles was aiming to get across was the difference between a broken home and a destroyed one. My proximity to Jamel created an opportunity to mold a father and son relationship Granddad Charles never had.

Between Granddad Charles and his sister, Grandaunt Lucillie their father was taboo. The 6 years living with Granddad Charles, stories of growing up poor never included him. Then when curiosity led me to ask an aunt to ask a cousin to ask Grandaunt Lucillie she cursed her father’s name until her last breath. Great-Granddad Eugene August Hunnicutt’s narrative from beginning to end was summed up with one central conflict: abandonment.

Curious to uncover more about him, I ordered his birth certificate. Even followed up with the D.C. vital records three months pass my patience just to hear it could take up to six months to locate. But it was Granddad Charles Hunnicutt’s death certificate that opened a door into his father’s life.

Searching through Ancestry.com I found out Great-Granddad Eugene was born July 31st, 1888 in Bennings, District of Columbia to Mary E. Johnson and John S. Hunnicutt. But there are discrepancies in the paper trail. According to the 1900 U.S. Federal Census 11-year-old Eugene is mislabeled as William Brent’s son. And his mother has been married to William for 15 years, which would mean she had to have gotten married at 16 before Eugene was born. Then in the 1910 U.S. Federal Census 21-year-old Eugene is correctly labeled as the step son of the head of the house alongside his two half siblings: Martha and Catherine. Finally, in the 1920 U. S. Census he is rooming on G Street in the household of Louis and Martha Allen and his marital status is single. But this is a sharp contrast to being married to Grace M. Johnson since November 24th, 1910. Yet they go on to have Grandaunt Lucille in 1927 and Granddad Charles in 1929.

If only his relationship with his family was as clear as his plastering career. One could just look in the U.S. City Directory in 1915 and 1932 to find his family story alongside his occupation. Then corroborate it with every found census he was of working age. But just like his relationship with his kin I have yet to discover a source that reveals he had a relationship with his father John Hunnicutt.

Great-Granddad Eugene had been drafted in World War 1 at 28 when his Draft Registration Card describes him as medium physical build, tall, black hair and dark brown eyes and listed as married. From this perspective he’s 7 years into his marriage when it reads he has a, “dependent wife.” It’s on the same card that I discover he was not only a plasterer but an entrepreneur who, “Works for himself.” According to a Lists of Men Ordered to report to Local Board for Military Duty, he was inducted into the military service on August 14th, 1918 and entrained at Hampton Institute, Hampton VA. The list doesn’t acknowledge race only the occupations of the men. Nor am I aware of his position during the war.

The years after WWI are a mystery until he has to register for WWII at 53 years old. At this point in his life, he works for the U.S. government Navy yard in Washington D.C. A federal job which suggests he had a livable salary. But when asked to name a person who will always know his address he lists his mother. He writes, “Mary Hunnicutt” (the only source that references them both with the same last name) living at 722 13th St N.W. Washington D.C. which is also the last place he lived. The year was 1941 when he was 53 years old. He died 25 years later and he was buried in Arlington National Cemetery on February 1966 at the rank of private. None of these years seem to indicate any contact with his children or his once wife.

Great-Granddad Eugene left them before either reached double digits in age and his wife, Great-Grandma Grace, of at least nineteen years. Why? One could argue it doesn’t matter he did. But your guess is as good as mine. Another woman? Maybe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from World War 1? Maybe one day he simply said, “They’re better off without me.”

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Rashaun J. Allen (@rashaunjallen) received his MFA in Creative Writing and Literature from SUNY Stony Brook. He’s eyeing agents to help publish his coming of age story, Christine’s Dream—A Memoir of Love, Loss & Life. He is the author of A Walk Through Brooklyn & In The Moment and has been published in TSR: The South Hampton Review and is forthcoming in The Tishman Review. When not writing he runs for the thrill of crossing the finish line. Find more of his work at www.rashaunjallen.com.