Mitchell Jackson: The Residue Years

If you’ve seen this place once, you’ve seen it forever: a windowless room with beige walls and gray tile and new residents serving meals. Today’s menu is yesterday’s, the day before — Cream of Wheat, poached eggs, and fruit juice in cups the same size they use to test our urine. I grab a tray and find an empty table near a girl who was new when I left. She chatters at a girl who, by her face, is too young for these scars. Maybe they gossip of an expert released one day who stumbled back in the next, of fast friends who won’t be friends outside these walls. Or maybe her story is the story of what happened to me. I pick at my plate, dump most of it, and loaf back to my tiny box. I unpack my bag and square my tenny shoes against the wall and as might my eldest — what will happen to my eldest? — leave my laces loosened just so. I hang the picture of my boys, my beloveds, from Canaan’s first birthday in the corner of the mirror, trace the picture’s scalloped edges, press them flat against the glass. Then I lie on my bunk and listen for rain. Here, when doesn’t it rain? Times it could have been the rain. They slip a note under my door for me to report to the office. There’s no need to fix my face, but I fix my face, and lope down the hall.

The counselor is squaring portraits on the wall of champions. She turns to me and hikes her frames up the slope of her nose. Her hair is wound into a fall-red bun.

Good morning, she says.

Good morning, I say.

Well I called you down to welcome you back. So, welcome back and I mean it, she says. Grace, we come to know there are much worse fates than this.

We do, I say. I do.

She reaches out to me — both hands. You have to leave it, she says. Leave it be and push on. Because it’s this time. Not ever the last time but this time that counts.

Yes, I say. Yes. This time this is it.

A special note of gratitude to my readers: Marco F. Navarro, Robb Todd, A. Van. Jordan, Carla Edmon. Many thanks to the “straight shooter” Kathy Belden for not only agreeing to publish my novel but serving as a friend and mentor. Thank you to the team at Bloomsbury: George, Peter, Laura, Marie, Patti. Thank you to my agent, Liz Darhansoff, for taking the risk to represent me. Thank you to my wonderful publicist, Michelle Blankenship, for believing and pulling out her trumpet. Much appreciation to my fellow writers, teachers, and friends: Marcus Jackson, Cleyvis Natera, Tom Spanbauer, Gordon Lish, ZZ Packer, John Edgar Wideman, Marie Helene Bertino, Jesymn Ward, Amy Hempel, Michael Kimball, James Yeh, Freeway Rick Ross, Felicia Quaning, Denmark Reid, Ramon Blackburn, Ruth Danon, Barbara Adams, April Krassner, Kenny Warren Jr., and the rest of my 833 crew. Thank you to the Center for Fiction and in particular Noreen Tomassi and Kristin Henley. Thank you to my SEEK department family. Thank you to Self Enhancement Incorporated. Thank you to Bob Quillin and Vanessa for your grand support. Thank you to Sandy Vasceannie for years of opportunity. Thank you to John Ricard for all your assistance. Thank you to those who worked on the documentary: Todd Strickland, Nehemiah Booker, Chris and Erik Ewers, Dwight Myrick, P. Frank Williams, Josh Milowe. Thank you to my siblings: Adrian, Chris, Wesley, Romla, Monique, Jibri, Jesse, Latricia, De’Andre. Thank you to the family and friends who encouraged me to prosecute my dream: Rhonda, Myasha, Anthony, Jasmine A, Ladawn, Dr. Wallace, Almamia, Teresa, grand dad, Tanya. Thank you to my love, Juliette, for being everything. Thank you to my children: Justice Serene and Jaden Truth. And what would all of this be without my mother? Thank you, Mom. If I have left off anyone who played a role, I apologize, and thank you to you too.