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PLAYING TENNIS AT THE REC CENTER WHERE THEY MURDERED TAMIR RICE
PLAYING TENNIS AT THE REC CENTER WHERE THEY MURDERED TAMIR RICE
It
went:
Your
service. No. Your serve. No. You first.
Thirsty.
We're
all thirsty. You're thirsty? I'm thirsty. Biked here from
one-thirtieth.
My
uncle's family stays in the Boulevard Terrace housing projects down
the block. Yeah, Mother told me to stop there for water and to let
someone know I made it here
alive,
but
they're drug addicts who refuse to take their dog out of the
apartment
to
shit. Most people can't imagine the type of shit
that
smells and stains your clothes. Plastic bags from the dollar store
tossed in the corner meant to be
someone
else's problem.
Instead,
I call from the payphone that used to be across the street. I'm not
going to make it
home.
I'm going to be someone else's
problem.
The
guy that teaches us tennis just graduated college. They were either
volunteer hours
or
something to look good on the resume.
We
were those kinds of kids. The kind of kids everyone wants to help.
The kind of kids you brag about helping on your resume. The kind of
kids you swear you made an impact on;
you
didn't. The kind of kids you swear will end up different; we don't
want to. The coded language sometimes needs explaining to those not
versed in it. They say the right things, but it is surface-level at
best.
One
summer you spent an hour a day, three days a week in the ghetto and
survived. You make a rich liberal blush with pride. You make a rich
liberal mother cry. You proved that high school lacrosse and apple
pie can turn you into the right kind of guy.
It
went:
No
one teaches me anything about tennis. They were either volunteer
hours or just something to look good on a resume. I wake up early on
Saturdays and watch the tennis match on channel 03. I try to learn
the rules. I mimic their movements in the living room behind our
couch.
I
can't make noise. Not too much noise; any noise. If I wake up my
father, I might as well daydream
about
being one of those kids who gets to visit my neighborhood three hours
a week for one summer and then call it quits. When he hits me, I
imagine I toss the tennis racket into the trunk of my blue Nissan
before heading for the highway.
For
the rest of his life, he gets to tell people he taught tennis at the
rec center where they killed Tamir Rice. He is not going to help us
destroy the system, and he is not going to help us bury the bodies it
took.
After
fighting my father, I lay on the floor and stared at the popcorn
ceiling, waiting for the blood to dry and listening to the tennis pro
on the television argue with an unnamed authority about the
importance of
consistency.
I
never learned how to play tennis. My cousins in the housing projects
overdosed on opiates while my uncle did twenty years in prison. They
got the bunk heroin from my aunt.
I
can't describe all the shit I had to do just to be able to tell you
I
survived
the
rec center, the housing projects,
and
another summer in the city they're always trying to improve.
View all episodes
By Mathew SerbackPLAYING TENNIS AT THE REC CENTER WHERE THEY MURDERED TAMIR RICE
It
went:
Your
service. No. Your serve. No. You first.
Thirsty.
We're
all thirsty. You're thirsty? I'm thirsty. Biked here from
one-thirtieth.
My
uncle's family stays in the Boulevard Terrace housing projects down
the block. Yeah, Mother told me to stop there for water and to let
someone know I made it here
alive,
but
they're drug addicts who refuse to take their dog out of the
apartment
to
shit. Most people can't imagine the type of shit
that
smells and stains your clothes. Plastic bags from the dollar store
tossed in the corner meant to be
someone
else's problem.
Instead,
I call from the payphone that used to be across the street. I'm not
going to make it
home.
I'm going to be someone else's
problem.
The
guy that teaches us tennis just graduated college. They were either
volunteer hours
or
something to look good on the resume.
We
were those kinds of kids. The kind of kids everyone wants to help.
The kind of kids you brag about helping on your resume. The kind of
kids you swear you made an impact on;
you
didn't. The kind of kids you swear will end up different; we don't
want to. The coded language sometimes needs explaining to those not
versed in it. They say the right things, but it is surface-level at
best.
One
summer you spent an hour a day, three days a week in the ghetto and
survived. You make a rich liberal blush with pride. You make a rich
liberal mother cry. You proved that high school lacrosse and apple
pie can turn you into the right kind of guy.
It
went:
No
one teaches me anything about tennis. They were either volunteer
hours or just something to look good on a resume. I wake up early on
Saturdays and watch the tennis match on channel 03. I try to learn
the rules. I mimic their movements in the living room behind our
couch.
I
can't make noise. Not too much noise; any noise. If I wake up my
father, I might as well daydream
about
being one of those kids who gets to visit my neighborhood three hours
a week for one summer and then call it quits. When he hits me, I
imagine I toss the tennis racket into the trunk of my blue Nissan
before heading for the highway.
For
the rest of his life, he gets to tell people he taught tennis at the
rec center where they killed Tamir Rice. He is not going to help us
destroy the system, and he is not going to help us bury the bodies it
took.
After
fighting my father, I lay on the floor and stared at the popcorn
ceiling, waiting for the blood to dry and listening to the tennis pro
on the television argue with an unnamed authority about the
importance of
consistency.
I
never learned how to play tennis. My cousins in the housing projects
overdosed on opiates while my uncle did twenty years in prison. They
got the bunk heroin from my aunt.
I
can't describe all the shit I had to do just to be able to tell you
I
survived
the
rec center, the housing projects,
and
another summer in the city they're always trying to improve.