Peter Rambo (author photo)
One of my earliest memories is of my father losing me in a JCPenney and me spending what I thought was an eternity crying underneath what seemed to me like a revolving door of coats. My eyes wide with fear, I hid there under the rack until I spotted a large white woman who looked like my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Lobster. I ran to her with my arms flapping over my head and my little legs frantically kicking across the bright white marble floors.
I took in all the fluorescent light of the whole store; I was just 6 years old. My eyes were burning with tears. Snot was dribbling from my nose. The large woman looked at me with radiant eyes bright with disappointment, as if I were fulfilling a stereotype I was too naive to understand. Using Mrs. Lobster’s training I articulately told her, “My name is Blank Blank, I live at Blank Blank Circle, and I lost my father.” The white lady sighed and then kindly helped me to safety. After I calmed down, my father came to pick me up from guest services.
He explained to me that he’d lost me on purpose. “This happens when you’re Black! You have to react. You always have to be prepared. One day you’ll face a situation that you’re not prepared to deal with. You gotta be ready, son.”
A few years later when my favorite teacher, Mrs. Kelly, found me a scholarship to join the Boy Scouts, I jumped at the opportunity to be a Webelos scout. Mrs. Kelly was my hero. She was my Black Hermione, who figured out the only reason I couldn’t read was because I needed glasses. She waved her wand and got me an eye exam and a free pair of specs. And then when she figured out I couldn’t get my homework done because I was watching myself alone at home, with a sleight of hand she found me transportation to the Boys and Girls Club and a tutor. Mrs. Kelly was the main reason I wanted to join the Scouts. I loved the fact that she said the word Webelos stood for loyal, and I wanted to be loyal to her. Plus the Boy Scout motto was to always be prepared and my dad always said I wasn’t.
All was going well at first. I got a few badges, sold some popcorn, and tied several knots.
Then my father and I were invited to the annual Boy Scout camping trip in the thumb of Michigan. I was scared about this trip. One, because my dad was coming, and two, I didn’t want to undress in front of my pack because I was afraid someone would see my undies. I was horrified at the thought of the other Scouts seeing what my father crudely called granny panties. And, I kid you not, on the first day, the Scout leader’s son immediately flew someone’s dirty drawers up our camp flagpole.
What was I going to do? My tighty whities were so off-white they could be confused for training pants. And, yeah, I was not ready for the world to see I wasn’t the cleanest. So when offered, I made a pact with the Scout leader’s son. His word that he wouldn’t fly our underwear if we slept nude. I took it, because how could sleeping naked go badly?
I slept soundly through the night knowing that my secret was safe. But when I woke up from my peaceful night of sleep, I was nowhere near scout camp. I was freezing, naked and covered in fallen oak leaves and I knew I was in trouble. So, I sat there curled up in a ball wondering how in the world did I get here? What was I going to do?
Looking around, through the woods, I spotted a giant wooden door, worn, and painted red.
The scoutmaster’s cabin, I thought I struck gold. I rushed to this blood red door like a bull, then banged on it like my life depended on it. I could feel the warmth at the doorway. I knew it would lead me to greener pastures. But much to my surprise a large white woman wearing knee high socks opened the door. I could see her eyes were so bright with disappointment. Then I heard a bunch of girls scream and then giggle.
Ten minutes later, I was talking to the police just like Mrs. Lobster taught me. “My name is Blank Blank, I live at Blank Blank Circle, and I lost my Boy Scout troop.” The policeman gave me a blanket and drove me back to my troop.
Everyone was still asleep including my father. He didn’t even know I had been missing. Turns out I sleepwalk, and my father would have put that on my permission slip if he hadn’t forgotten. I guess he just wanted me to be prepared for predicaments I had yet to imagine.
A few months ago, on May 14, I had a breakdown at work after watching a Facebook Live of what looked like a mass shooting at a supermarket in Buffalo, New York. I immediately began to panic after witnessing someone’s kid swarm across the TV screen like a deadly soldier in the popular video game Call Of Duty. I was shaking and crying because I saw my face in each headshot of his 10 victims. Black folxs whose stories would become lost. Like me in the woods. Running towards whatever door they could find, hoping to find safety in the arms of a trusted community that won’t protect them.
My father passed away a few years ago but I can still hear him say in his baritone voice: “This is what happens when you’re Black! You must react. You always must be prepared. One day you’ll face a situation that you’re not prepared to deal with. You got to be ready, son.”
Sadly, I still don’t feel ready, Dad! I still don’t feel ready.
Charles Payne is a Madison transplant, certified teacher, and self-taught social artist from Michigan. He has a master’s degree in education.
