Practicing What You Preach. Vanessa Davis Griggs
a closetful. Most of her clothes still have tags on them. I believe that child has more clothes than me, and you know how I am about clothes. So, can I bring her over right now? I’m sort of short on time.”
“Sure, Sasha. You can bring her over now.”
“Thanks, Marc,” Sasha said, calling him by the name she used when she was feeling in friendlier spirits.
Marcus hung up the phone and went to his study, that special place in his home where he usually went to pray, study, or just be alone with God. He sat down in the chair and looked up. “God, please help me. You know I’m trying hard down here. I just don’t understand. I’m doing what You said to do in Your Word. I’m doing what You say right now, acknowledging You in all my ways. I know You never promised this road would be easy, but I really don’t understand sometimes. Lord, if I’m wrong or doing something wrong, please help me to see that. Please order my steps in Your Word. Teach me. Lead me. Guide me, O thou great Jehovah. I desire to walk in Your will. And God, please touch Sasha’s heart so she will be the woman You have called her to be. Not the woman I think she should be, but what You have called her to be. Help me to be more patient and forgiving. This I pray, in Jesus’ name. Amen.”
Marcus thought back to the beginning. How happy he and Sasha had been once upon a time. He reflected on all that had happened, and how much things had changed.
Chapter 8
Then said I, Wisdom is better than strength: nevertheless the poor man’s wisdom is despised, and his words are not heard.
—Ecclesiastes 9:16
1993
Marcus was seventeen and beginning his junior year in high school. He was never one to be mistaken for the athletic type. Unbeknownst to most people at his school, Marcus was really great at shooting a basketball. It was defending the ball from an opponent that caused him the most trouble.
“Here’s what I don’t understand,” Brother Man said, his comment directed at Marcus after he and five other friends finished playing a spirited game of basketball at the park. It was a community park that served as the official dividing line between the rich section of the neighborhood and the middle class. The four of them from the middle-class section were walking back to their side of the divide to go home.
Brother Man’s real name was Darrell, but everybody (with the exception of a few of his teachers) called him Brother Man. “Here’s what I don’t understand. How come you can shoot the ball and hit the goal almost every time, but you don’t seem to be able to dribble the ball and chew gum at the same time, forget about dribbling the ball and walking. Why exactly is that?”
“I keep trying to tell y’all that shooting the ball is mathematical,” Marcus said. He understood math better than anyone in school, which was why he could hit the basket almost every time he shot the ball. “It’s the same thing with shooting pool. Both are a lot of geometry and mathematical principles with touches and flashes of science mixed in.”
“Ah, man, you keep trying to sell us that brain stuff,” Brother Man said. “I know my moms is telling you to try and push that junk on us just so we’ll do better in school. I’m telling you, I don’t need to know math or English or science, and I especially don’t need to know no world history. Not where I’m headed. ’Cause in case you haven’t heard, the Brother Man has got mad skills.” Brother Man pretended to shoot a basketball, then acted like it had hit nothing but net, with the appropriate hand follow-through and the required hamming it up afterward. “Brother Man is headed for the NBA and slated to become the next Michael Jordan, y’all mark my word. I’m telling y’all, watch and see what I say.”
“Well, you still need to know math and English,” Marcus said. “You still need to know how to read and to count. How else are you going to know when you’re being cheated out of your money or signing away your best interest?”
Brother Man started laughing along with Slim Jim and Pretty Ricky, the two other guys with them from the neighborhood. “That’s what you hire accountants and lawyers for,” Brother Man said. “Geez, and here I thought you were supposed to be the smart one out of all of us.”
“Well, let me give you your word for the day: embezzlement,” Marcus said as he proceeded to walk away from them, headed toward his house.
“Embezzlement? So what does embezzlement mean?” Brother Man asked.
Marcus stopped and turned, flashing Brother Man his signature smile, the one he used when he knew he had the upper hand. He then said, “Look it up in the dictionary.”
“He can’t,” Slim Jim said as he began to laugh uncontrollably. “That would require him knowing how to spell.”
Brother Man threw a sharp look Slim Jim’s way. “I know how to spell. I just don’t know what some of these stupid words mean off the top of my head.”
Marcus grinned as he walked backward while talking to and facing his friends. “That’s good! When you get home, look that word up,” he said, directing his comment to Brother Man. “Embezzlement, a form of the word embezzle.”
“Fine. If you won’t tell me, I’ll go home, look in the m’s and find what the word means myself.”
Marcus shook his head. “You might want to check in the e’s.”
Brother Man frowned. “E’s? Where does an e come from?”
“The e is silent. The same way you’re going to be if you don’t do better in school and get serious about your education,” Marcus said. “Because all this noise you’re making is going to go straight out the window when you find out you’re not going to be able to get into a college unless you pass the high school exit exam, graduate from high school, and get a certain score on an ACT or SAT test.”
“I keep telling you, I’m going to be so good I won’t need to waste my time in college.” Brother Man started pretending that he was dribbling a basketball again. “The scouts are going to be flocking to snag me. Coach Nick told me some people are already taking note of me. I’m going straight from high school to the NBA. Forget college. None of these colleges pay you to play. And I ain’t about to let some college make all that money off of me and my skills, everybody including the coach getting rich, while I don’t end up with a dime in my pocket. Paying my room, board, books, and classes, but I won’t have enough to take a girl out because I don’t have a car or the money to buy gas or to buy me or even her a Happy Meal. Nope, not going out like that. Then if I get injured while playing in college, what am I left with? No money and no chance at the NBA.”
“What you’ll end up with is an education that no one can take away from you. They’ll give you a scholarship to further your education, and that education belongs to you,” Marcus said. “And you’re going to need that college degree even if you do plan on going to the NBA. That way, if things don’t work out with your NBA dreams or if they do and you end up getting injured and can’t play, you’ll have your degree to fall back on.”
Brother Man shook his head, then shot his imaginary basketball at Marcus. “Not going to happen. Look at me.” He held his hands out as he drew attention to his body by beating his chest a few times. “I’m in great shape. I’m not lanky or a geek like you.”
Marcus smiled. “You still need your education. I’m not going to say you won’t make it to the NBA. But it sure would be bad to make all that money and have some geek like me come along and embezzle it because you can’t read or you can’t count. That’s all I’m saying. Trust me: there are plenty of folks out there waiting, praying, and looking for people just like you to take to the cleaners.” Marcus pretended to throw the imaginary ball back at Brother Man. “And you can take that to the bank.” Marcus walked up to his house, unlocked the front door, and walked inside.
Fifteen minutes later, his doorbell rang. Marcus couldn’t hide his surprise when, thinking it was one of the guys he’d just left, he opened the door.
“Sasha?”