And I was right.
Until I was wrong.
Bram. London. December. 1979.
Poetry has saved me time and time again. The verses themselves have been a big part of my salvation. The human ability to transform the mess of life into beauty has never ceased to amaze me. But poetryphysicallysaves me in this moment. Specifically: Audre Lorde’s collectionFrom a Land Where Other People Live. I thank the heavens that this particular book is visible in my pocket. I feel grateful my attempts to shield its pages from the December rain are unsuccessful. Lily may never have taken notice of me without the Lorde as our point of connection. And she did. She does. She has. She’s here.
She’s like a guardian angel as she lies to save me. “My name is Lily Summers and that’s my son.” A subtle accent in her cadence. Rhythmic hints of a Jamaican childhood that mirror the syncopated beat of my heart. No woman has ever called me her son.
The two police officers who threaten to arrest me for loitering don’t exactly look convinced. “Yourson?” Venom on the cop’s tongue. He’s a snake. Just one more member of law enforcement who breaks laws to bash queers like me. Their slithering hatred of us was always there. But it’s become worse since that wretched IronLady took power. Margaret Thatcher hates everyone and everything I hold dear. Queerness. Hair that moves. Bodies that sway. Clothes with style. Human decency. And most especially: working people.
I’ve been a working person since I was seventeen years old. And I’ve been seventeen for eighty-four years. That’s a lot of toil. I suppose my early years of thieving might not be classified as work by some. But they required planning. Strategy. Expertise. Long hours. The drudgery of labor.
“Your son?” I sound just as confused as the officers.
I don’t know why she bothers trying to save me. Until she points to the book in my pocket. “Of course you are. Isn’t that the book you borrowed from me? Audre Lorde.”
“Who?” The second officer clearly doesn’t want an answer.
She answers anyway. “Audre Lorde. A genius. A radical. A lesbian. A feminist. A warrior for Black people.” The way she says the last part tells me she too is a warrior.
“So she’s a criminal like your...sonhere.” Officer number one’s evil eyes look like they’re boiling. The spite in his tone speaks volumes. It says he doesn’t think a person like her can have a son.
I defend myself feebly. “I’m not a criminal. I just fell asleep.”
“You can’t sleep on the street.” Officer number two slaps his baton into his hand threateningly.
“Well, he can’t help it. My boy is a narcoleptic.” Lily comes up with this falsehood quickly. Speaks it with confident assurance. Something tells me this is a woman who has gotten herself out of plenty a jam with police.
“A what now?”
“It’s a medical condition. He can’t control when, where, or how he sleeps. Would you like the phone number for our familydoctor?” She remains relaxed. Nonchalant. Her eyes dare them to call her on the bluff.
The baton-hitting cop approaches her threateningly. “You’re telling me that you, with your black skin and your man’s voice—”
“I am a woman. My name is Lily Summers and my address is—”
“You’re telling me you are the mother of this brown boy who looks nothing like you.”
She has an answer for this too. “You haven’t heard of narcolepsyoradoption, I see.” I’m in awe of how fast her mind works.
The cops get an alert on their police radios. Just in time to save us. They’re off to terrorize some other deviant.
Lily holds her hand out to me and lifts me up. I accept it gratefully. “Why did you do that?”
She pulls some lipstick from her purse. Reapplies the cherry red of her mouth. “Do I have lipstick on my teeth?” She smiles. It’s luminous. I shake my head. “You ever slept in jail?”
“No. Never.”
“Once they lock you up, they try to keep you there.”
I ponder what would happen if I ever ended up in prison. What would they do once they realized I wasn’t aging? Nothing good, I’m sure. “I—I don’t know how to thank you.”
She eyes me curiously. “What’s a kid who reads Audre Lorde doing sleeping in a rat-infested alley?” Most of the city’s grimy and rat-infested these days. Not Mayfair of course. Not Sloane Square. Not wherever the hell the Iron Lady lives. I’m certain she’s cozy and warm as she devises legislation to make our kind extinct.
“I—I don’t know. But thanks for saving me. I’ll be back on my feet soon. I work as a tutor, I just... I just came back to London and—”
“Backto London? You look like a child. Where are your parents?” She seems genuinely concerned. No one has beengenuinelyconcerned about me since Oliver.
