DRAFT: This module has unpublished changes.

Basketball Ancestors

 

The first assignment for ENG 101 at Elmwood Community College was simple enough: write about your identity.  My identity, however, was rather complicated.  I had an Irish American, English American, and Native American background.  My father was Irish and English, while my mother was Irish and Native American.  Just by looking at me you could tell I was a mess of a melting pot: I had freckles along my cheeks, my hair was dirty blonde, and my cheekbones were high.

 

Thinking of my background always made me feel like watching old movies, because I could relate to the idea of things being black and white, of things being one way or the other.  Whenever I wrote down information for school papers, I always went through it in my head first.  I sat down in the middle of my bedroom with a bowl of rocky road ice cream in front of me, ready to come up with something to write about.   I thought, as I bit into a walnut, my mother’s grandparents immigrated to the United States from Limerick, in southern Ireland.  My great grandfather became a cook at a small restaurant that is still in business today.  My great-grandmother was a housewife who knit scarves and sweaters in her spare time, some of which my mother still kept in sealed plastic bags in the basement closet.  Last year, my mother gave me a sweater that my great grandmother had knit, an “Irish sweater.”  My mother said that Irish fisherman used to wear them so that if they drowned at sea and their bodies were found, they would able to be identified by the patterns of their sweater.  I cringed at the thought of this, though I accepted the sweater. 

 

My mother’s mother was Native American.  She was adopted.  My mom tried to do some digging through online search engines and through old documents, and she thinks that she’s Cherokee, that her family lived on a reservation in Oklahoma.  One of the only things that kept me with the heart of this culture is the dream catcher above my bed.  I made it when I was in third grade, when I thought that being a Native American was just about bows and arrows and wild injins.

 

My father’s parents immigrated to the United States from Sussex, England. My grandmother was from Donegal, Ireland.  Sometimes as a child my father would go on vacation with his parents and his two brothers and two sisters to Donegal, and they would buy postcards in bulk with beautiful pictures of green rolling fields and animals grazing.  My mother made a scrapbook out of these that we kept under the television in the family room. 

 

I spooned the last of the mess of the ice cream soup in my mouth before I hoisted myself up off of the plush carpet and walked the ten feet to the kitchen sink. 

 

Tonight I was supposed to meet up with Shannon, Ann and James.  I’d known Shannon since kindergarten.  She was Native American, also, the only one I knew outside of my family.  We used to go to after school care together.  I had a picture hanging up on the bulletin board of my bedroom of the two of us in our Halloween costumes.  We had our arms around each other’s shoulders.  There were orange and yellow feathers sticking out of the back of our heads.  We both had innocent, toothless smiles and red eyes. 

 

After putting the bowl in the sink, I considered going upstairs to see what my Great Aunt Theresa was up to.  She was staying with me while my parents were taking an Alaskan cruise, since my parents didn’t trust me to be alone at the house for so long.  It was something they had wanted to do since they got married.  They met with a travel agent who suggested Hawaii or Florida, but both of my parents preferred cold weather over hot weather, so the idea of being able to cruise through forty or fifty degree weather really pleased them.  Bring me back something nice, I told them, like a snow globe, or an Alaskan t-shirt.

 

Aunt Theresa and I didn’t have a good history.  The last time I tried to talk to her I ended up in tears. I told her that I would be attending community college for a few years and then transferring to a university, and she glared at me with strained eyes and told me that I was a failure.  She was my mother’s aunt, a woman that demanded reverence and respect.  She was someone who reeked of tradition and righteousness and of strong perfume.  She wore glasses so thick that her eyes looked like marbles.  Her day-to-day outfit consisted of Keds, a pair of slacks and a blouse, your average senior citizen fashion exemplified. 

 

I walked up the stairs, careful not to make too much noise, in case she was sleeping.  The door creaked as I opened it.  I scanned the kitchen but found no one. I was about to head downstairs to get ready to go out when I heard a rhythmic creaking coming from the front of the house.   I thought to check my grandmother’s old rocking chair in the rec room.  I found her in the corner of the room, wearing curlers, with a copy of some decomposing book lying open in her lap.

 

“Hey, Aunt Theresa,” I said, “What’s up?”

 

“Nothing’s up, Danielle.

 

“What are you reading?” I asked.

 

“Gulliver’s Travels,” she said.  “What are you reading?  You should always be reading something.”

 

“Nothing right now,” I said, looking up to the lock on the wall.  “I have to ask you something.  I have to write a paper for my English class at school, about my identity.  I know a little bit about my Mom and Dad’s background, but not that much.  Could you tell me about our family?”

 

Aunt Theresa paused for a minute, blinked, and then went back to her book.

 

“Aunt Theresa?” I said.

 

“What?” she said, “I couldn’t tell you anything.”

 

“What do you mean,” I said, “You know all about Ireland.”

 

“Exactly, I know all about Ireland,” she said, “You’re not from Ireland, you’re a mutt.  You’re a bad mix.”

 

She slid her glasses to the tip of her nose and looked at me.

 

“It’s well known that the English and the Irish don’t get along,” she said. “It’s like that now, and it’s been like that for centuries.  One’s soul isn’t at rest if its parts are fighting each other the whole time.  And you are an Indian- someone who lives in the place where they were forced out of.  How can that be?  How can anything- or anyone- good come from such a situation?”

 

She shut her book, looked me in the eyes, and said, “You’re a mutt.  Write about that. Now can you help me out of this chair?”

 

I left my aunt alone sitting on the rocking chair when I rushed out of the room.  I put one foot in front of the other down the cold steps.  I swung open my bedroom door and rummaged through the clothes on my bed to find my wallet and keys.  I turned the television off and threw the remote across the room as I walked back up the stairs.  I shoved my arms into my sweater before swinging open the back door that led to the porch.  I was almost free when Aunt Theresa’s voice bounced through the alley: “Danielle, come back here! I never said you could go out! I need help with some chores!”

 

That Saturday my friends and I had planned to enjoy one of the last summer nights.  Since we all lived very close to each other, I would walk up to Shannon’s house first, and then we would walk to James’ house, where James and Ann would be waiting for us.  There we would either walk on the neighborhood’s stoned pathways, or drive to the mall in James’ old lemon-yellow convertible.  This being the first week of September, I decided to encourage everyone to go for a walk with me, to take in the velvety red sunset and the hum of the cicadas.  Our neighborhood was close to the lake.  The lifeguards went home at seven at night.  We usually hung out there afterwards.  Otherwise we would go to the park, and kick a soccer ball around or play HORSE.

 

I walked to Shannon’s house quickly with red eyes.  I couldn’t help but crack my knuckles.  I tried not to cry anymore.  I felt like if I cried my friends might get worried, and I didn’t want them to be worried, because that would spoil our night.  Shannon’s house looked like one big antique.  Sometimes Shannon would joke that there was an old Indian graveyard underneath it, because it is the oldest house in the neighborhood.  The front porch was tall and made of wood.  There were ten steps leading to the front door. There was an old swinging chair on the right side where sometimes I found Shannon sitting when I come to visit. 

Shannon’s Grandma was sitting on the swing.  Her thin brown hair was pulled up into a bun.  She wore a heavy sweater and a long skirt.  She was staring ahead, so that I didn’t know if she was ignoring my presence or just oblivious to it. 

 

“Hi, Grandma Jane!” I said as I walked up the porch stairs.

 

“Hello, Danielle,” she said, snapping out of whatever daze she had been in.

 

“Is Shannon here?” I asked.

 

“Sure, she’s inside,” she said. “Let yourself in.”

 

I turned the knob of the wooden door and set foot on the welcome mat that read “The Wilkenses.”  The living room was filled with old china stacked and displayed in glass cases.  Paintings rich with color and energy lined the hall leading into the kitchen.  The most intriguing parts of the house to me were the old black and white pictures hanging up next to the china.  There were four portraits of Native Americans, of the Wilkenses’ family.  My attention diverted from the portraits to Shannon as she walked down the stairs. 

 

“Ready?” Shannon asked, as she opened up the front door.  “Bye, Grandma Jane!” she said as we started on our way to James’ house. 

 

“I can’t believe school is starting already,” she said. “How are your classes?”

 

Shannon pulled her hair back into a ponytail and looked me in the face.

 

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

 

“It’s nothing---let me tel you about it.  My Aunt Theresa, she completely insulted me.  She said I’m not a good person because I’m Irish, English and Native American,” I said. “She said that I can’t be a good person because I am a walking contradiction.”

 

“What?” she said.

 

“I know, it’s bullshit,” I said.

 

“Well, whenever someone says something like that to you, you know, you always have me!!” she said, as she wrapped her left hand around my shoulder.

 

“Thanks, Shannon,” I said.

 

“Just ignore her ignorance- she’s jealous of your individuality,” said Shannon.

 

“If you say so,” I said.

 

James’ house was four blocks away from Shannon’s.  His was even more extravagant than Shannon’s.  James and his family were from Belfast, Ireland.  He had two younger sisters and a younger brother.  His backyard went on forever, and it was filled with tennis rackets and basketballs.  When we got to the front of his house, his cat, Maura, was stretching her tail and claws out on the turquoise banister.  James’ brother’s soccer bag was next to the front door.  The front of the house was painted in turquoise and aqua blue.  There were several banisters that lined the porch and a Celtic cross for a doorknocker. 

 

Shannon and I walked up the few steps to the front door and knocked.  Lucy, one of James’ sisters, opened the door.

 

“Hi, come in,” Lucy said. “James and Ann, Shannon and Danielle are here!”

Shannon and I waited by the front door for our friends.  The room in front of us was furnished with a huge sofa and two recliners, family photos, house plants, a Celtic cross and some other pottery sitting on a table. 

 

“Are you guys going to come see me Irish dance next week at the heritage center?” Lucy asked. 

 

Before Shannon or I could answer, James and Ann came plodding down the stairs, James carrying a basketball, Ann following him.  Ann was carrying the latest People magazine with the royal baby and Prince William and Princess Kate on the cover.  Ann had wanted the baby to be named Thomas, because this was her favorite boy name.  She said her parents, whose parents were from London, had wanted to name her Thomas if she had been a boy.  Ann was so in love with the royal couple she had bought some of the memorabilia from Kate and William’s wedding: china and shirts with the royal couple’s pictures on them and Kate and William dolls.  When Ann was younger she and I both had a huge crush on Prince William.  We collaborated to form a Prince William fan club, of which many of the girls in our seventh grade class were members.

 

“Let’s get out of here,” James said, just as Lucy turned up the television’s volume so that it was too loud to ignore.  On the news an anchorwoman spoke urgently:

 

“We are advising all citizens of Greyland Park to be on the lookout for these two men, who have burglarized a home in the Greyland park area twice in the past two weeks.  They are said to be about five foot eleven and six feet tall, and thirty years of age.  These are their pictures.”

 

The television showed the picture of two men, one with brown hair and blue eyes and freckles, the other with blonde hair and brown eyes and a mole on his chin.

 

“You guys aren’t going out with those burglars on the loose, are you?” Lucy asked.

 

“We’ll be careful,” Shannon said, pulling James by the hand.

 

“Let’s go,” Ann said.

 

 

“Why were you crying?” Ann asked. James was bouncing the basketball.  “Your face is all red.”

 

“Her aunt called her a mutt,” said Shannon.

 

“Don’t listen to her,” Ann said. Her blue eyes were gleaming and her freckles were framing her dimpled cheeks.  “You know that I’m English, and I couldn’t care less who your great-grandparents or your great-great grandparents were.  All that matters is that you are our friend.”

 

“Yeah, right,” I said.  I could feel my face start to warm up again. 

 

“No, really,” James said, “Remember that time last year when I needed to bulk up to move up a weight class in wrestling?  Who ran with me every day?”

 

“And remember the time when Brendon dumped me the night before the winter formal?” Shannon asked. “Who skipped it to stay home with me?”

 

“What about last year when my parents got divorced?” Ann said.  “Who stayed up on the phone with me all night crying?”

 

We walked down the sidewalk in silence.  I twisted around the ring on my finger while my friends’ words ran through my head. The echo of the bouncing basketball filled the neighborhood, along with the singing cicadas, but besides that, everything was quiet and at peace. 

 

“What do you guys want to do?” asked James.

 

“Let’s walk to the park by the beach,” I said.

 

The park was ten minutes away.  The court there was bare except for some broken glass bottles in the corner.  The basketball hoop had no net and the square of the backboard was almost completely faded out.  We came there pretty often, but not often enough to put it in its present condition.  The maturity of the court gave it a certain timelessness that attracted my friends and I to it.  Only a short distance away was the beach, and next to it was a big green field.  We usually played basketball until it was too dark to see the net, and then we hung out at the beach. 

 

We played HORSE that night, and James won, as he always did.  After James won, the sun had set and the moon was out.  We decided to sit on the grass and relax for a while.  We sat down on the grass in a circle.  I looked above me up to the sky.  The stars were out because most of the city lights were far away.  I looked around the circle to the faces of my friends.  With them I felt complete. 

 

“What sparked the conversation that upset you, Danielle?” asked Shannon.

 

“I have a paper for ENG 101 at school.” I said, “About my identity.  So I asked my Aunt Theresa if she knew anything about my heritage.  That’s when she said that to me.”

 

Ann shook her head as she pulled up some dandelions from the ground.  James dug into the grass and pulled out a clover.

 

“Here,” he said, “Take this.”

 

“What is it?” I asked.

 

“It’s three leaf-clover,” he said.

 

“What am I supposed to do with a three-leaf clover,” I said. “I thought four-leaf clovers were supposed to bring good luck.”

 

“This could be your culture,” he said, “If anyone asks you what you are, just tell them you are Shannon-James-Ann-ish-American.”

 

I happily took the clover from James’s hand and carefully placed it in my pocket.  We sat there for a few more moments, taking in the sound of the waves crashing to the shore.  I looked up to the sky to get another look at the stars, and I saw the moon peaking over the basketball backboard.  It was a large yellow moon, the kind where you could almost see the craters. 

 

“Let’s go to back to my house,” Shannon said.

 

We all got up and walked from the grass to the path along the beach.  Shannon’s house was about a fifteen or twenty minute walk away, if we took the short cut down some side streets.  The pictures of the burglars kept on popping up in my mind, but our neighborhood was a pretty safe one, and I had never been in any kind of danger before, so I told myself not to worry.  Ann was talking something about school, when I saw them.

 

“So, my counselor said in my senior year I’ll be able to travel abroad to London.” 

 

“Shhhh,” I whispered, “Quiet.”

 

On the other side of the street were the two burglars we’d seen on TV.  Everyone else looked up to see the two burglars we had just seen on television.  They were carrying large bags over their shoulders and were walking towards a truck parked on our side of the street. 

 

Ann took my hand.  James walked in front of us until we were out of the burglars’ sight.  It’s amazing, the clarity that came to me during the sweep of terror I felt in those few minutes.  I could feel the gravel underneath my feet as we walked away safely.  During those moments, I thought: did it matter what I looked like or where I came from when my vitality was questioned?  No, all that mattered was that I was with people who loved me because I was a good person at heart, and I deserved to be ok because of who I was, not what I was.  I realized that my friends cared about me and I should be grateful for that, and that I shouldn’t worry about what others think.  I squeezed Ann’s hand as we turned the corner. 

 

We walked in silence for another block until we were safe.  We hiked back to Shannon’s house and sat on her porch.  Her grandma was still swinging on the porch swing.  While Shannon called the police to tell them that we had seen the burglars, her grandma told us of some Native American folklore.  The swing made the same Crrrk, Crrrrrrk, Crrrk, as the rocking chair at my house.  Shannon, James, Ann, and I sat on Shannon’s bench for a few hours, mostly in silence, until I had to go home and face my great aunt.  Shannon’s Mom drove everyone home.  I hugged my friends in the car and told them that I would see them next Saturday. 

 

I walked up the pathway to the front door, frightened of how my Aunt Theresa would react to having left without her permission.  I looked through my keys to find the right one and opened the front door.  I walked through the living room to the kitchen to find my Aunt Theresa at the kitchen table.  She was drinking a cup of tea.

 

I was ready to ignore whatever harsh words she might say to me until she said,

 

“What did you do tonight?”

 

“I just went out with some friends,” I said.

 

“You can help me with some chores tomorrow,” she said.  “Now what were you asking me about, a homework assignment?”

 

“I was asking you for help for a paper I have to write for school, about my identity,” I said.

 

“You know as much about your identity as I do,” she said.

 

“You’re right,” I said.  “I’m going to bed.  Goodnight.”

 

“Goodnight,” she said.

 

Before I went to bed I took the three leaf clover out of my pocket and put it on my nightstand.  Different titles for the paper drifted through my mind before I fell asleep, the last one: Basketball Ancestors.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DRAFT: This module has unpublished changes.