Saved and SAINTified (53 page)

“Bomb, you weren’t perfect, but you were good to me, okay? I can’t speak on any other shit you did
, the shit we’ve been talking about, but to
me
, you treated me like I
really
was your little brother.”

Bomb nodded half-heartedly,
unconvinced.

“If you knew some serious shit was about to jump off, you made me stay away, just like you said. You never took me into those big brawls. I’d hear you guys screaming and cursing down a block or two
, but you refused to have me there, no matter how much I begged. You were protective over me. Yeah, you let me sip your beer sometimes.” Saint shook his head and laughed. “And I blew trees with you once, but you didn’t know any better, you were just a kid yourself, man. That was your way of showin’ love, to share the things you enjoyed most.”

Bomb rewarded Saint
with a proud smile.

“Gave me money for candy
’nd shit when you had it. Made sure my boy Raphael and I didn’t get into any big time trouble .You even kept some of your boys away from me that tried to get me to do runs. You told them I was off limits. I remember all that shit, Bomb. I know you don’t think highly of yourself right now. I know you think you’re a loser, but to me, Bomb,” Saint pointed at his chest for emphasis, “To me you were the coolest mothafucka walkin’, and I still have mass respect for you, man. You survived, man!”

“And I don’t know how.”

Saint felt like he’d been hit in the gut. He could taste this man’s emotions as if they were his own. Pent-up sentiments that were conceived in the past grew into full-grown nightmares right before his beating heart.

“There is a reason. You still have work to do, soldier!”

He grabbed Bomb and hugged him tightly. In that embrace, they both became clouded and huddled in their
‘once was’
. In Bomb’s thick and large clothing, deep inside, behind the worn, 1970s leather, double down cotton, was tired Puerto Rican flesh ... there was a Savage Skull, hated or loved by many. No gray areas existed. He had once been a slender but muscular teenager, strong as an ox, who had forty-year-old men fearing for their lives if he’d cut his dark eyes their way. No one would ever get full confessions of his crimes—not even he could sleep with the horrendous violent concoctions he’d brewed with his comrades, for survival and at times, mere entertainment. He ran the streets with his gang, flying his colors proudly. And a little half Korean, half Egyptian boy with choppy pitch black hair, a missing front baby tooth and big, strange golden eyes chased him in the New York Winter landscape, nipping at Bomb’s heels every chance he got—wishing, hoping and praying that one day, he could be just like him...

Bomb
trembled in his grip. Now, here was the second man, a seemingly emotionless entity, a stone-cold shell, falling apart in his arms like broken glass within the last two days. First his father, now Bomb. Two men who, he would have bet money on, would never shed a tear—and they’d shown just how human they were in the last forty-eight hours.

Bomb was
not
a monster. He’d bought into the hype. All the articles written by the media, some of which were true some of which were not, had been devastating as he matured. He was from a lost town that had been in ruins—a place no one cared about—and somehow, he’d come out alive, without ever leaving the place. He’d lived through more hardship than most, had seen people he loved to the depths of his soul gunned down, sentenced to three life sentences in prison, stabbed to death or found dead with a needle in their arm. Some had taken their own lives or fell victim to AIDS. No one even knew what the hell that was when it first burst onto the scene. People were just getting sick. Bomb dodged all of those bullets, and the reason why, to him, it still remained a mystery. Saint continued to stand there and read him, go through all of his thoughts, and it made him just want to curl into a ball and cry.

He
knew that Bomb sometimes felt that him being still alive was a slap in the face to his boys. That he believed they deserved to be alive, more than he did. He didn’t know how to be a father. He didn’t know how to be an employee, boyfriend or husband. All he knew how to do was survive and beat the streets, and he’d mastered it for several lifetimes. He had no idea that one of the reasons he was still here was to do what he
was
good at—to be a big brother and give Saint exactly what he needed, when he needed it.

Saint
fought his own emotions as he continued to embrace him. He was worried about Bomb. He knew the man couldn’t last another stint in prison. He knew that he needed to get clean and more than anything, he needed counseling for all the horrors he’d seen as a young boy, teenager and adult. He needed to ask for forgiveness from others, and most importantly, to forgive his own self. This is what happens when little boys and girls raise themselves. This is what is created—a black abyss of confusion, swirling out of control until it crashes on some unsuspecting victim.

T
his is what happens, when no one loves you when you’re born and hates you because you lived.

But
Saint also knew no one had told Bomb what to do. You couldn’t force him into anything, or he’d come back at you swinging. He just knew that whatever happened to Bomb, he hoped it was a step in a positive direction, because he
needed
this man.

H
e was, after all, the big brother Saint had never had...

Three Weeks later...

Saint
sat on the panel and looked at the big flag above him in the auditorium. It read, ‘Houston, Texas Rainbeau Conference’. The entire hall seemed to be made of cherry wood, lustrous and glossy. It reminded him of his old high school in Brooklyn.

The audience was a
sea of Rainbeaus, dressed in their Saturday night best, waiting impatiently for him to approach the podium. The host continued to rattle off acknowledgements. Saint tried desperately to shove Xenia out of his mind to no avail. She’d practically pushed him out the door, demanding that he attend the conference. Jagger and Lawrence continued to watch over her, and in his heart, he knew she was safe. Nizsm was still dancing with ignorant bliss, but the human side of him, the protector, refused to completely settle down.

He never wanted to be caught off guard
—not with matters as dire as this. He could feel his Queen drawing him closer, and warning him to stay on his course. Even after he was shot, she warned him to not allow that vicious attack to stop him. She’d always been supportive and refused to allow him to not do what he was destined to do—and that was to continue the romantic nurturing of Queens and Rainbeaus. To be the superhero, the spokesperson and the cloak of comfort that they needed.

“And without further ado, we welcome Dr.
Saint Aknaten to the stage!”

The crowd thundered with applause.
Saint stood, straightened his charcoal Valentino Newman suit jacket and took a sip of the water at the podium. He smiled and waited for the applause to simmer.

“What’s up,
mothafuckas!” he cracked, welcoming the laughter that burst forth at his greeting. He clicked his tongue against his teeth, grinning mischievously as he surveyed the audience.

“Some of you have heard me speak before. You must’ve because this is not the right conference to get an introduction about
Saint, about me.” He put his hand over his chest. “Why? We are going to discuss the black Queen, spirituality and sex, addictions and manifestations.” He held onto the last syllable for an extended period of time as he gripped the sides of the podium. “So, let’s talk about the shit ... but if by chance, this is your first time hearing me speak, well, I hope you read a book or two beforehand because it’s going to be a bumpy ass ride.”

Loud snickering
and clapping followed the statement. Saint rested his chin on his hand, then looked contemplatively at the audience.

“
Let’s jump right in. You’ve already been warmed up for the night, so I won’t waste any additional time.” The spotlight caught him just right, making him look alone on a poorly lit road.

“
Racial attraction bleeds into our sexuality,” he said thoughtfully. “Our attraction to dark skin, does color, pardon the pun, our sexuality. Sexuality bleeds into our spirituality, because sexual encounters always have spiritual components. You can’t go inside of a woman without connecting to her core. It’s impossible. Even with condom use, you are still mixing DNA. Saliva, skin cells, hair, dragging your fingers up and down each other’s bodies ... your pubic bone bumping into her stomach, her pelvis, while you hump the shit out of her.”

Bursts of laughter came through
as he ended the sentence.

“When we talk about love making, for us, as Rainbeaus, we have to talk about race and spirituality. We sometimes even have to discuss politics. We have complicated sexuality. Sexuality is complicated within itself
, but we’ve added extra components that make it even more so. When you push your dick inside of her, you’re connecting worlds. You’re bringing your culture and hers together. This has nothing to do with procreation. I’m talking just the two of you, yoked as one.”

His voice slowly rose as he began to emphasize the seriousness of the discussion.

“Imagine one red bucket of paint and one blue bucket of paint. Let’s say, we, the Rainbeaus, are the blue buckets of paint. We spill a bit inside the red. Does the red paint stay exactly the same as it was before?”

Several people shook their head while some verbally shouted,
“No.”

“No is the correct answer. It may have been just a drop, but it doesn’t matter, you’ve changed that red p
aint forever. Its color will never be completely the same. It may not be detectable with the naked eye, but it truly has changed and the female body and spirit will come and grab that tiny dot of paint, and mix it within her. Once it is mixed inside of her, it cannot be retrieved! That’s you—that is her spirit acknowledging your presence and the difference you’ve made in her life. Whether she acknowledged it verbally or on a knowing level is beside the point. You then gain admittance into a part of her that you previously had no access to.”

He paused and let his words sink in.

“You are literally in her circuitry at that point. Men, you are head of her heart. You are the mothafuckin’ King. Kings rule. Kings destroy. Kings create. Kings annihilate. You have to make sure your dick game, head game and heart game are on point. You don’t want to destroy her as a person. You want to destroy the walls she has built around her. You want to destroy the past pain, the residual energy left from that shit. How you destroy it is bringing it to her attention, lovingly.  The black woman, the African American woman in particular, due to her history in this country and with her male counterpart, is more times than not going to have some residual energy. We just have to be real about this shit. All women are complicated,” He smiled at the audience’s animated reaction to that statement. “But the black woman, as far as how she sees herself, may have more complications, depending on what she personally endured in her lifetime due to racism and prejudice. Now, let me explain that last point.”

Saint
let go of the podium and began to pace. He put his finger above his top lip as he deliberated, then resumed his speech.

“The black woman is told she is not beautiful
more than any other woman on the planet, and this is purposeful, it is planned. Her own peers sometimes tell her this and when she steps outside of her race to date, she hears it more because now her actions are seen as threatening. She is the only kind of woman on the planet that is told in the media how ugly she is. Does that statement confuse you? It shouldn’t.” He sucked his teeth and paused.

“When she cracks open an
everyday women’s magazine, she sees mostly white women even though some of the biggest consumers of make-up and hair products are in fact black women, which also points to a wish to look different … but we’ll talk more about that in a moment. Back on point here.” He began to pace again. “Unless she is reading a magazine geared toward her ethnic make-up, Essence and Ebony just to name a couple, she will not see herself represented equally. What that says, nonverbally, is, “You aren’t pretty enough to be in
our
magazine.” Women think about this shit and the marketers know it! The best way to get back at a woman, men, is to do what?”

“I
gnore her!” someone screamed.

“That’s right!
Pretend like her ass doesn’t even exist, like she isn’t even a thought in your mothafuckin’ mind! That is what the modeling world does to black women, who already, quite honestly, holistically, have self-esteem issues. This is how you control your woman—you control her goddamn mind! Media driven pimping. This is your first lesson, fellas, into the mind of a black woman. Why do you think pimping works so well? You dive deep into that woman’s circuitry, get inside of her, and re-wire her ass! Your dick changes her; these magazines fuck her brains out by showing her over a hundred images that she looks absolutely nothing like! Let’s spin off for just a second, excuse my ADHD.”