Black Boy Joy

INTRODUCTION

Here’s a secret: I don’t like watching the news. Is that weird? It’s because for a long time, when I would come into the kitchen for my fifth snack in thirty minutes and my parents had the television on, the news was always reporting on some local shooting or some death or some other tragedy that made my mother shake her head and my father scowl at the screen. Because nine times out of ten, a face like mine was on the screen.

Here’s another secret: when I’m happy I cry. Happy for myself, happy for my friends, happy for some stranger who just won a lifetime supply of string cheese-it doesn’t matter; I will tear up as I’m jumping up and down in excitement.

One more secret: I want you to be happy.

Okay, that one wasn’t really a secret but it had to be said, so just pretend with me, okay? And as long as we’re pretending, imagine me dumping those three secrets into a giant bowl, inviting sixteen Black author friends to help me stir while they add in a dollop of magic and a sprinkle of swag, and what do we get? Black Boy Joy.

The term was coined back in 2016 by Danielle Young and has grown to encompass the revelry, the excitement, the sheer fun of growing up as boys in and out of the hood. Their stories our stories deserve to be highlighted on the afternoon news. Explored. Seen and celebrated. I am thrilled that this book brings together so many different types of these stories from so many incredible authors.

So sit back. Grab your string cheese. Prepare to laugh, cry, and maybe even dance, but most of all, prepare to feel joyful.

PART ONE

HOMEGOING. That’s what Fort’s mother and Aunt Jess and Mimi called it. Homegoing. Sounded fun, actually, like returning to your own bedroom after sleeping over your cousin’s house for a week. Or a party at three p.m. every day when school let out to celebrate being done with classes. That would’ve been cool. But homegoing meant something different.

It meant a funeral.

The church marquee read ANTOINETTE ROBINSON’S HOMEGOING, FRIDAY 5:30 P.M., and it was wrong. No- body knew an Antoinette Robinson-they called her Aunt Netta. She had the warmest hugs, the biggest smiles, and the sweetest apple turnovers Fort Jones had ever tasted, which she dusted with sugar and served after church services at the repast.

Fort would miss the turnovers, not because they were delicious (they were) or because she made one special for him when he couldn’t sit still during the sermon and got sent to the kitchen to help (she always had one set aside), but because as he sat there kicking his feet and eating the hot, sticky dessert, Aunt Netta would sing.

He’d miss the singing too.

That’s what Fort was thinking about when the strange old man appeared in front of him like magic. There Fort was, running out the Grover Street Church’s double doors into the Carolina sun, sprinting through the parking lot to the grassy field on the other side, cuff- ing the tears out his eyes, when the man materialized out of nowhere. Fort almost managed to pull up and sidestep to the left.

CRASH

Suddenly down was up, left was right, his knee throbbed painfully, and Fort tasted the delightful flavor of dirt. Crunchy dirt. He was going to have to brush his teeth for an hour to get the taste out. But as he lay on his back staring up at the sky thinking of the amount of mouthwash he’d need, he heard the strangest thing. Words, yes, but strung together like he’d never heard before.

“The lightning! Spilled the lightning! And the fireflies, oh, they’ll be angry. Hmm, is that-Oh, biscuits! The chuckle-snorts!”

Fort sat up to find the strange old man on his knees, digging through an overturned wagon with the saddest expression. And if that wasn’t weird enough, the man’s outfit was. He wore a long cape-black on the outside, purple on the inside-silver pants, mismatched flip- flops with the tag still attached, and, to top it all off, a yellow derby hat with a white feather, the words “Gary the Griot” stenciled on the brim.
Fort gawked at him, but when the man finally looked up and their eyes met, the boy hurried to help.

“Sorry!” Fort said. “I didn’t see you. I was… well, I wasn’t paying attention.” He didn’t want to mention the tears or the reason behind them. Why did there have to be so much sadness in the world? But before the corners of his eyes could prickle all over again, Fort spotted a humongous glass jar tilted on its side and frowned.

“Happens to the best of us at the worst of times,” the old man said. “Apology accepted. I’m sure you didn’t— OH, BISCUITS, THE JOY IS GONE!” He reached down and grunted and heaved the jar into the air, studying a giant crack that ran along the bottom.

Actually, maybe humongous was an understatement.

The jar came up to Fort’s waist, and he was tall for his eleven years. And not only was it big, it was wide as well, so wide that Fort struggled to understand how it could have fit inside the wagon with the rest of the stuff in the first place. The glass was stained blue, so much so that it looked like it used to hold blue raspberry Kool-Aid.

“The joy, the joy! It’s gone! My last delivery, gone!” The man waved his arms in the air-which should’ve been impossible because he still held the jar in dismay.

Fort went to dust himself off, then tried not to groan as his hands came away wet and stained. He was going to be in so much trouble. Bad enough he’d left the church in the middle of the service, crying like a toddler, but now this. His one good suit (he was getting too big for it; his ankles were peeking out from under his cuffs) was covered in that blue stuff, and… what was it?
“I’m so sorry. This is all my fault,” Fort apologized. “I was-”

“FORTITUDE JONES, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
Uh-oh.

Mama’s voice was so sharp it could cut glass. As Fort turned to see her marching down the stairs her black dress and black shawl fluttering in the summer breeze, one hand on her back, one hand on her rounded stomach, one week away from her due date-he braced for the tongue lashing sure to come. This wasn’t the first time he’d gotten in trouble at church, and it wouldn’t be the last.

So when she stepped past him to help the strange man, Fort was confused.

“Are you okay, Mr. G?” Mama asked. Did she know this guy?

The strange old man, still struggling under the weight of the giant cracked jar, waddled around to face her and tried to bow. “Of course, Madam Jones, it was but an accident.”

At least, that’s what Fort thought he tried to say. But the man, Mr. G, had his face smushed against the bottom of the jar, so what it sounded like was “Offacoursh, bagabones, lizard butt dragon lint.” It was so preposterous that Fort started to smile, which of course was the exact moment when Mama whirled around and laid into him.

“Fortitude Jones, how many times have I told you to watch where you’re going? You get so excited you don’t look but two feet in front of you. Did you apologize?”

“Yes, Mama,” Fort said, but for good measure he turned to Mr. G and did so again. “Sorry for knocking over all your stuff.”

Mr. G sighed and flapped a hand (nearly dropping the jar-Fort was starting to get concerned). “No worries, young man, provided, of course”-Mr. G waddled over and peered at the boy from beneath a pair of impressively bushy eyebrows, which looked like a cater- pillar doing the worm when they moved “you help me refill the jar.”

Wait. Fort started to shake his head. “I don’t think-”

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Mama said. “Fortitude, you go on and help Mr. G. I gotta get back inside and help out. Go on, now! Aunt Netta wouldn’t have wanted you ’round outside anyway.”

Mama’s tone left no room for argument, and if he was being honest-she was right. Aunt Netta always told him moping and a quarter could buy him a soda.

The world is harsh. Find your joy, Fortitude, and it’ll
be your night-light when everything is dark.

So, before Mama’s eyes could narrow, he dusted off his pants and stood. “Yes, Mama.”

She nodded, kissed his forehead, and went inside. It was hard on her, being not quite nine months pregnant and losing one of her closest friends in Aunt Netta. Fort tried to help out, tried to do as much as he could for her, but getting in trouble was definitely not making things easier.

“Well then, young Fortitude.”

Fort turned to find Mr. G studying him, before the man handed him a butterfly net, two nickels, and a broken bubble wand. Fort held all the items, confused, but the old man had already twirled around (yes, twirled, with more agility than seemed possible) and pranced over (yes, pranced, is this going to be a thing?) to the wagon before Fort could ask any questions-like what, exactly, they were meant to be collecting. Mr. G tucked the jar inside, then pulled out a bright blue nylon roll. He yanked a cord, skipped backward, then clapped his hands together and laughed.

Fort stared in amazement. Where there had been nothing but painted yellow lines in the church parking lot there now stood a large inflatable door.

A door.

Fort rubbed his eyes, blinked, then squinted.

Mr. G was already lugging the wagon and whistling as he unzipped the air-filled entrance and pulled it open. Instead of revealing the other side of the parking lot, bright and sweltering in the midday sun, Fort saw cool darkness and silver stars dangling at ground level on the other side.

“Come on, young man, come on! The final delivery of joy must be collected if balance is to be found!” And the strange old man danced through the doorway, the wagon disappearing behind him.

Fort stepped closer to the door. It shimmered as he approached, and… was it growing bigger? He could smell something delicious coming from inside like… apple turnovers. Fort looked back at the church. He couldn’t go back there-if Mama didn’t catch him, someone else would and he’d still get in trouble. It takes a village to ground a child, apparently.

“Well?”
Fort startled out of his thoughts.

Mr. G stuck his head out the doorway and frowned. “Aren’t you coming to help?”

Find your joy, Fortitude.
Fort took a deep breath, nodded, and stepped into wonder.

 

Imagine walking through the stars. An interactive plan- etarium where you can reach out and touch worlds. Galaxies. Nebulas. Clusters of suns that appear and disappear with every step. Imagine trailing your fingers through the tail of a comet that burns through space right beside you. Fort saw all this and more.

Mama would flip if she was here. Did she know about it? She always did love to look at the stars, point out meteors, and just sit and hum under the light of the moon. As Fort turned in wonder, a planet the size of a beach ball with two marble-sized moons floated toward him.

“What is this place?” he whispered.
“The Between.” Mr. G’s voice came from somewhere ahead. “The realm between worlds.”

“A different realm?”

“And a shortcut.” The old man appeared to Fort’s left. As he pulled his wagon, he was sprinkling what looked like sparks into the air above his head. When he reached Fort he stopped, turned around, and blew out a strong puff of air. The sparks scattered, speckling the dark and twinkling.

They’re stars, Fort realized.

Mr. G dusted his hands and nodded thoughtfully. “Traveling from world to world would be terribly inefficient if not for the Between. Could you imagine the fuel costs? Astronomical. Not to mention all the rest stops. No, no, simply impossible. But we have the Between, and thus the joy can be collected like that!” He snapped a finger. “Now, where’s that net?”

“What do you mean, joy?” Fort asked as he handed over the butterfly net. “How did you find this place?”

Mr. G laughed. “Find? Ha! No one finds the Between, young one. They are shown. Led. Taught. My teacher showed me, and now I show you. This will be your responsibility soon.”

“Me? Why?”

The old man reached forward, his hand disappearing behind Fort’s head, then reappearing with one of the nickels he’d given the boy. “Balance. You wondered why there had to be so much sadness, my boy. Oh, don’t make that face, I know you were thinking it. And where there’s a question, there must be an answer. Besides, you broke the collecting jar, so now you have to replenish the joy. Your mother said so.”

The words whizzed around Fort’s head like moons around a planet. Nothing made sense. Maybe he could sneak back and find the weird inflatable door, and then he could go back to…

To what? To Aunt Netta’s homegoing? To be alone with the sadness again? No. He might as well help the strange old man. Maybe if he spent enough time here, the pain he felt would go away.

Besides, the Between was pretty cool.
“Okay,” Fort said, taking a deep breath. “So we have to collect joy, whatever that means. How can I help?”

Mr. G grinned, held out a tiny bottle labeled Gary the Griot’s Splendiferous Story Solution and the bubble wand (now taped back together), then brandished the butterfly net like a baseball bat. “Looks like there’s a story of joy ready to be told.”

He nodded at the planet that bobbed waist-high next to Fort. “Blow the bubbles at that world, my young Fortitude.”

“But…” Fort hesitated. “Why bubbles?”
“Joy is a fragile thing, my boy, and must be treated as such. Too harsh and it disintegrates. Rush, and it disappears. So we coax it forth. Feed it, like kindling to a fire.”

“So… you’re saying we should do something fun in order to draw it out?”

Mr. G snapped his fingers and pointed. “That’s it! And what’s more fun than blowing bubbles? Nothing. Unless you’re blowing one of my patented splendiferous bubbles.”

O…kaaaay.

Fort opened his mouth, then closed it and shook his head. Whatever. He turned, dipped the wand into the jar, then pulled it out and blew a gentle stream of air through the circles at the planet. Rainbow-colored bub- bles collided with the tiny clouds. Dozens. Hundreds. Soon the planet was covered and the bubbles began to multiply. They combined, split, then joined again, forming one giant bubble that engulfed the world, and on its surface…

“I see something!” Fort shouted.
“Excellent!” Mr. G said. “What do you see?”

Fort leaned in. “Well, there’s a boy with a list…” Mr. G deftly snagged the giant bubble, now heavy with shimmering, smaller bubbles inside. Fort saw faces, grins, celebrations dance across their surface.

“Is that joy?” he asked.

The bubble wobbled into the giant jar, where it promptly burst. Fort placed a hand on the jar, then jerked back. The glass felt warm. And there was a pulsing, rhythmic hum running along it as if something, or someone, was singing.

Mr. G leaned on the net and wiped his brow. “Requires a lot of concentration, making the transfer. Not as young as I was a hundred years ago. Now, what did you ask? Joy? Yes! That’s the joy. But no time to dawdle, young Fortitude. We’ve more worlds to visit, more joy to find! Forthwith!”

THERE’S GOING TO BE A FIGHT IN THE CAFETERIA ON FRIDAY AND YOU BETTER NOT BRING BATMAN
BY LAMAR GILES
**Batman (perma- banned)**
Spider-Man
Wonder Woman

Thor
The Flash
Wolverine
Doctor Strange
Iron Man
Captain America
The Hulk
Thanos
Supefinan
The Winter
War Machine
Soldier
Black Panther
The school bus squealed to a stop at the corner by Cornell’s house. Other kids from the neighborhood got off, but he was too busy rereading that stupid list to notice. Black Panther gone. Superman gone. The Hulk-

“Cornell!” Mr. Jeffries shouted from the driver’s seat. “You ain’t about to have me doubling back because you missed your stop again. Pay attention!”

“Sorry. Sorry.” Cornell scooted from his seat and brushed past his laughing schoolmates, including Amaya Arnold. Amaya was more giggling than laughing, and Cornell could tell she wasn’t being mean. Actually, her giggle was kind of pretty. Almost as pretty as her.

But he wasn’t brave enough to look her way too long, so his eyes wandered… to Tobin Pitts. Who was staring at him. Hard.

Tobin swiped his red bangs away from his eyes and freckled forehead. “Hope you’re ready.”

Cornell shook his head and exited the bus with that stupid list taking up the space in his head he’d rather reserve for Amaya.

But, unless she got superpowers before lunch tomorrow, she wasn’t going to be much help.

The cars in the driveway told Cornell everyone was home except Mom, who was still on the West Coast for her business trip. He weaved between Carter’s beat-up burgundy Chevy “starter car,” Dad’s might-be-time-for- an-upgrade-if-he-can-convince-Mom black Audi, and Pop-Pop’s classics-are-the-way-to-go baby blue Cadillac until he reached the side door. He removed the lanyard from his neck where his single silver key dangled and jiggled it in the knob.

Before she left, Mom had told them all, “Don’t think because I’m away it’s supposed to be Bruhs Gone Wild. I want this house looking like humans live here when I get back.”

Inside, the funky-ripe smell of the overfull kitchen trash can suggested they had work to do.

First things first, though. “Carter! Hey, Carter! I need your help.”

Cornell’s brother wasn’t in the kitchen, and the house wasn’t shaking from rap bass, so he probably wasn’t in his bedroom. Cornell rushed through the dining room, scooted by Mom’s home office, cut through the foyer, kicked his shoes off before stepping into the living room no one ever sat in, and came to a skidding stop at the den, where he found his brother on the wraparound couch with a guest.

“Hi,” Cornell said, surprised.

The girl gushed. “Oh, you must be Carter’s brother!”

She had dark brown skin, supercool red-framed glasses, and an Afro puff on each side of her head. She reminded Cornell of Amaya. Her jean jacket had a bunch of buttons pinned to the collar and pockets.