LESPRI
Jard Lerebours
MO
Mo was always larger than life.
6 feet 2 inches
300 Pounds
Baldhead
Haitian
Man
Face pulled back in laughter
Deep bravado voice
Brimming wih charisma
Lover of God
He taught me how to make a grandiose impression even when your skin crawled away from you. He taught me how to fill the room with laughter. He taught me how to make a paper house appear solid enough to be brick.
I copied his motions. I learned to be larger than life (hide the truth). I crafted a mask to match his. We attended balls together.
During the day, Mo worked for the white man, crunching big numbers. He wore a suit and tie with cologne that came in bottles shaped like Cuban cigars. He wore tag watches. He made six figures. He was profoundly unhappy.
Beat Switch.
At night, Mo worked as a bouncer at Gentlemen's clubs. He defended their establishments with iron palm and tiger fist. He wore a shirt and tie with cologne that came in bottles shaped like Cuban cigars. He wore Tag watches. He worked for cash. He was profoundly unhappy.
During his night shifts, I would lie awake in the room, unable to sleep without him. Sometimes I’d sleep with my Aunt Ketsia. Other nights, it was just me and the pastel gray sheets. I stared up at the sheetrock ceiling.
I found Mo’s black binders. I found Mo’s magazines. They were filled with porn.
I didn’t know what I was looking at and barely knew how to read but I consumed as much as I could.
My stomach would lie full with the vulgarities.
I didn't know what I was eating.
I hadn't learned the taste of poison yet. I didn’t know what sex was yet. I didn’t know what love was yet.
My mind would rot with the vulgarities.
I found Mo’s black binders. I found Mo’s magazines. They were filled with porn.
Mo showed me the importance of brotherhood. Growing up, there was always some far off figure signaling for his attention, followed by the eponymous Black man head nod and ended by a loving dap.
In hard times, he turned to his niggas.
In good times, he laughed with his niggas.
And with Mo, it was always a good time.
I was lucky to tag along with him.
Mo taught me to fear God.
His relationship to the heavenly father was strained to say the least.
It was one retained by fear, a duplicate of his relationship with his earthly father.
Rigid fear didn't work on me. I had known supple love.
He taught me Psalm 23. I never wanted to be a sheep in the pasture.
Mo told me that he loved God more than he loved me.
I experienced jealousy.
Mo taught me to show love. He was never afraid to bestow a kiss on the cheek, a compliment, a proud embrace. I always knew how handsome and smart I was. I always knew how much potential I had. I always knew that he’d lay his life down to protect me.
But in these passing years I’ve wondered, why won’t he live for me?
Mo taught me anger. A bout of flying words, a tithing of anger, an emotional dump.
It was usually followed by a kiss on the forehead and crying.
He would say how much he loved me and I believed him, I always knew the love was real
but so was his anxiety.
He learned anger from his father Joseph. Joseph threatened him with a butcher knife to the throat. Joseph was an alcoholic. Joseph demeaned him. Joseph was saved by the word of God. Joseph was a pastor. Joseph demeaned him. He learned anxiety from his father Joseph.
I recycled his emotions. I learned to make anger myself.
First, I would charge forward with a flurry of vitriol then storm out the room.
Returning in a haze of apology and self-deprecation. Returning with a bouquet of poems. Returning without a solid plan of atonement. Returning with a face wringed out of tears.
I learned to make anger, my own.
I had so much anger.
I recycled his emotions. I learned to show love.
First, I attended to my loved ones closely.
I hugged them and dapped them up, securing warmth from life’s tundra.
I allowed myself to be filled by their sufferings and joys.
I learned to make love, my own.
Mo learned to fight.
He taught me the horse stance for balance.
He’d place my hands in his and move my fingers into a proper fist.
He was a Black Belt.
He had a wall of spears, swords, nunchaku and kunai.
Mo had to fight.
I didn’t. He made sure of that. I just wanted to be like him.
Moise was his given name, after the prophet. He was named Moise by colonized parents who were named Paulette and Joseph by colonized parents who were named Victor and Mary by colonized parents who were named Samuel and Esther.
But everyone called him Mo. Besides me, I called him Dad.
JARD
I am smaller than life.
5 Feet 10 Inches
205 Pounds
Dreadhead
Jamaitian
Man [adjacent]
Face pulled back pensive
Deep bravado voice
Ruins of charisma
Follower of Buddha
My Mom tells me I was announced to the Lerebours clan when she stumbled pregnant onto his doorstep. My father hadn’t told anyone. I was welcomed with open arms. I was well liked and even weller loved.
I had Two Mommy’s caring heart, Aunt Ketsia’s kindness, my Father’s pain and my Mother’s words to articulate it.
I had a happy childhood. I didn’t want for much.
I was spoiled and doted on. Everyone played their part, sometimes even more than their part to make up for him. I was more than well taken care of.
I had a happy adolescence. I wanted answers. Everyone watched me fly and flail, they carried me so my wings didn’t melt in the sun. I kept my nose in the books and my mouth on the blunt. I was more than well taken care of.
I am still happy, for the most part.
But still…
I’ve taken up swimming. There’s an ocean of pure consciousness inside each one of us. Sometimes I hold myself steady in a thought, let it rise above my shoulders. I let the shame swallow me and try to drown myself in it.
I learned to meditate.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Center yourself.
Name three things in the room: Painting of Carnations by Joseph Lerebours. A basket of fake fruit. A painting of Jesus at the Last Supper.
I had to befriend Jard, Joseph, Mo and Julianne’s anxiety.
I learned to apologize. First, I would name the harm. Then, I would listen with beginner’s mind.
Last, I would vow to change. I had to apologize.
I learned how to be honest with myself. I felt my wrongdoings and analyzed them. I saw my flaws and rebuilt myself around them. I heard my heartbeat. I let it ring, cascade and drum in my chest. I tasted the bitter recollection of times when my patterns were new to me. I had to be honest with myself.
I am still learning to love you Jard.
Portrait of a young Jard Lerebours and his father, Mo. Commissioned through The International African Arts Festival
JUDAS
He slowly clamored into the house. His large frame pirouetted silently. His smell wafted through the house. It was the faint smell of freshly accrued shame.
He went out on a binge.
He didn’t come home for three days.
He stole all my money.
He stole my aunt’s money.
He went out on a binge.
I cried the first time he told me. It was ugly, the kind you can’t control. It came bubbling from my stomach. I couldn’t handle the betrayal. I remembered years spent building a case of empathy for him, brick by brick defending his actions. It all crumbled.
His lies were incessant.
Money leaving our joint account. Certificates of Deposits. Bad investments. Borrowed money.
Stolen valor. AA meetings. Days and nights spent locked away in his room. Lack of presence.
His lies were incessant.
I cried when I saw him, dwindled down to about my size, a vein throbbing on his forehead, his teeth sharp and jaded. He smiled at me.
He smiled at me.
DAD
“I want to die partying” - Dad
As I write this, my father lies in a hospital bed undergoing psychological evaluation. The muscles that defined him have melted away, the crack pipe burning his calloused martial arts hands. The smoke, now a permanent fixture in flesh once made sweet by the smell of cheap cologne. He sports a patchy salt and pepper beard.
He is for all intents and purposes, a dead man. He feels distant, halfway between Earth and Heaven, his feet dredging up mud trying to escape Hell.
In these last few days, I’ve had to prepare for the worst. I’ve been waiting on the call that his body is gone. With the loss of the body comes the cessation of possibilities. There is no coming back this time.
I lie still under the Atlanta sun, baking in the sense of impending doom.
In these moments, he turns to God.
I turn to nothing.
I have neither faith nor shoulder to lean on.
I turn to nothing.
I lie still under the Atlanta sun, basking in the sense of impending doom.
I’ve mourned him for years with typing finger, frayed vocal chord and dying pen. I’ve mourned him for years now.
I watch his slow march towards death. I chart his slow march towards death. I plot his slow march towards death. Where is he trodding off to?
I’m more tired than anything else. With teary eyes, I stare past into the future where his promise no longer haunts me, when the allure is gone.
I bolster my grief up with one arm and sink with the rest. I wait for the hollowness to approach.
I mourn.
Mourning him punching the trees in our backyard.
Mourning the smell of him dressing his wounds with Chinese medicine.
Mourning our games of chess.
Mourning the warmness of his massive body.
Mourning his sleep apnea snore calming me at night.
Mourning him humming and singing Buju Banton.
Mourning his hearty laugh contorting his whole face into a jolting smile.
This is my grief to carry. So I bolster it up with one arm and sink with the rest. I wait for the hollowness to approach.
I’ve wanted him dead for years with typing finger, frayed vocal chord and dying pen.
I miss you Dad.
LESPRI
I spoke to him today, bitter and standoffish as I was. He was off to another Christian rehab program, this time in Kentucky for men prone to sexual sin.
It was one of those programs run by white Christians that prayed and preyed upon people at their lowest. It was one of those programs that made you want to disavow white Jesus Christ and never look back again. It was one of those programs that stole the profit of their laborers, they called it work ministry. It was one of those programs that put a bandaid on the stub of an amputated arm. It was one of those programs run by white Christians that prayed and preyed upon people at their lowest.
But still, I wished him the best.
At the height of his addiction, I’d found comfort in his death. I always loved a good redemption arc. I wasn’t one for church but I did watch Star Wars. I remembered Anakin Skywalker returning, triumphant in his jedi garb after his hollowed out suit had been reduced to ashes.
I wondered if my father would return as his old shining self? Would his death be a resurrection? Would he return with the jovial smile he once had?
My naivete disallowed for all the versions of my father that might follow in his fight against addiction. It needed a perfectly healed version of him. It needed someone who would never smoke crack ever again. It needed him to shrug off the trauma of his upbringing. It needed him to apologize for the years of quiet resignation. But, there is rarely a full circle moment in the grips of Saṃsāra. His addiction was never brief and wondrous, it had become mundane and cyclical.
My naivete was wrong. I was just happy to give him a call, scarred, bleeding and calloused as he was. As I inched to hang up, he said “A new chapter in my life…”. I cut him off by accident. I asked him to repeat it. He said “A new chapter in my life has begun”. I wished him luck and sadly smiled.
He said “I love you”. I said “I love you too Dad”. I really do.