"Get In": A Colfax Qids Story

When I was in 2nd grade, I lived off Colfax and Raleigh, around two blocks away from my elementary school, Colfax Elementary. Living in that neighborhood taught me a lot. I honestly attribute much of my trauma to the area. But even though there were a lot of difficulties in living there, there were some pretty great people there too. Like Ms. Condon, my 2nd grade teacher.

One day after school, I was more excited than usual. I couldn’t remember why in particular, but I remember I began running home excited. Not something I did often. While I was running, I watched a bee go from distant to up close. My mouth was open and, oddly enough, it “bee lined” right into my mouth. I stopped immediately, startled by it and concerned it was going to sting me from the inside, but I felt it fly down into my stomach and then stop moving.

I thought, “What the fuck was that about?” and began walking slowly while contemplating my confusion.

As I was walking, a black Suburban pulled up next to me… my initial instinct was to look up and see who it was because they’d crept to a slow crawl, but I didn’t recognize the car at any capacity out of my peripheral and it felt… ominous…

One thing I learned in that area was to not make eye contact as best as you could. Eye contact asserted the follow-up expectation, which was interaction. Generally a negative one at that…

I maintained the same pace. I didn’t want to run because I didn’t want them to chase me, and I didn’t want them to know which apartment I lived in either, out of fear they’d come back around.

I remember it taking all of my strength not to turn my head left and look at them. The natural reaction I wanted to do, probably out of some sort of primal survival urge. I kept trying to see in my peripheral without going so far as to invite the unwanted interaction. I remember my heart beating so hard I could hear it, and doing whatever I could to suppress my breathing. My neck almost ached trying to keep it forward…

Just when I decided to alleviate the tension and look, as I felt all hope was lost and what would happen next was inevitable (and terrifying), another Suburban sped up, seemingly from out of nowhere. The black Suburban peeled off and I felt a combination of relief, terror, and confusion flush through my body from the tip of the highest point of my afro to the lowest crease in my foot. Tears welled up in my eyes, but I immediately suppressed the urge to cry as I wasn’t sure if I was safe or not yet, and Back then, I’d learned that you didn’t let anyone see you cry, and boys didn’t cry in general.

With the window rolled down, I saw Ms. Condon, my 2nd grade teacher. She was a much older woman, although nobody knew quite how old because if you asked her she’d tell you she’d rip your arm off and beat you with the bloody stump. Stern, but kind. She had systems and structures in place and they worked. After lunch she made us brush our teeth. At the end of the day she’d make us pick up the room while reciting the times tables for a specific number she’d provide. Her hair was a combination of gray and white. Her skin reminded me of worn-in leather, and to that notion her personality was that of a coat that had kept families warm and protected for generations.

She reached over to open the door from the inside and said, “Get in.”

My apartment complex was so close you could break a window with a light lob of a baseball. I told her, “That’s okay, Ms. Condon, my apartment is right there.”

“Get in,” she said with more authority and assertion than before. Not in a way to scare me, but in a way that said, “this is for your protection.”

I climbed in. She drove all of eight feet and let me out to go into my apartment, staying until I made it through the second door of the entrance and was fully inside the locked building.

I don’t know what happened to her, but I never got to properly thank her for protecting me that day.

Thanks, Ms. Condon.

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