Autobiography of My Dead Brother

The thing was that me and Rise were blood brothers, but sometimes I really didn't know him. . . . As Jesse fills his sketchbook with drawings and portraits of Rise, he tries to make sense of the complexities of friendship, loyalty, and loss in a neighborhood plagued by drive-bys, vicious gangs, and abusive cops.

Autobiography of My Dead Brother

Chapter One

Precious Lord, take my hand
Lead me on, let me stand
Lord, I am so tired
Yes, I'm weak
And yes, I'm worn . . .

Lord knows we are tired today as we gather here in fellowship and sorrow, in brotherhood and despair, for the going-home ceremony of fourteen-year-old Bobby Green." Pastor Loving rocked forward as he spoke. "Lord knows we are tired of burying our young men, of driving behind hearses and seeing the painted letters of remembrance on the walls of our neighborhoods.

"As we close this chapter of young Bobby's life, let us send our prayers with him to the other side." Pastor Loving, a big, dark man, wiped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. "Let us send our prayers with him so that maybe one day those left behind will finally be able to do what we hope for him—to rest in peace without the violence that blows through our community like the winds of winter. This loss chills the heart and challenges the soul, and yet we must keep on. To young Bobby's parents I extend my hand and the promise of a just God who will heal the heavy heart and rest the weary soul. As you leave the church today, stop and pass a word to Bobby's grieving mother, Louise, and his grieving father, John. Let them know that in the middle of darkness there is and will always be the everlasting light of Christian faith. Amen."

The gospel choir started singing softly, and row by row they left their seats. Bobby's mother was crying and leaning against an older man I didn't know. It was all the same, the gentle whirring of the fans, the familiar scent of the flowers, the hymns that filled the spaces between the people mourning Bobby. I looked over to where C.J. was still sitting at the organ. He looked small in front of the dark mahogany instrument. The people in the first row had started filing past the casket. My mom took my hand and squeezed it.

"I don't think . . ."

"It's okay," she said softly.

I slid out of the pew and made my way toward the back of St. Philip's Episcopal.

On the steps the cool evening breeze carried barbecue smells from the Avenue. I watched as some young kids ran down the street to an ice-cream truck. It had been hot all day, and the few drops of rain that fell didn't cool things off at all.

"It's a shame for a child to go so young like that," Miss Essie Lassiter was saying. "It should have been somebody old, like me. Jesse, do the police have any idea who it was who shot him?"

"No, ma'am."

"That's the terrible thing about it," Miss Lassiter said. "First there's one shooting, and then there's a shooting getting even with that one, and people don't know when to stop."

"Yes, ma'am."

Bobby had a big family and they could afford only one official funeral car, so not too many people were going out to the cemetery. I watched as Miss Lassiter, who went to everybody's funeral, got in one of the cars. A moment later they were pulling away from the church.

C.J. came up to me and he was looking teary-eyed. "You want to go over to the park?" he asked.

I said I'd go, and just then Rise came over. We told him where we were going and he said he'd come along. We walked the first part of the distance to the park in silence, and then Rise started kidding C.J. about not playing any jazz at Bobby G.'s funeral.

"You should have played like they used to down in New Orleans," Rise said. "Everybody would have talked about it."

"And my moms would have been all over my head," C.J. said. "I asked her about playing some jazz, but she said that Bobby's parents might not like it."

"Yeah, well, he went out like a man," Rise said.

"Yo, Rise, the brother got wasted in a drive-by," I said. "He was chilling on his stoop when some dudes lit up the sidewalk. I don't even think they knew who they shot."

We got to the park and sat on a bench. C.J. was talking about how Bobby was worried about getting into a good high school.

"We were just talking about that the other day," C.J. said. "He was saying that if he got into a good high school, he was going to bust his chops so he could go on to college. Bobby was cool."

"When your time comes, you got to go," Rise said. "That's all sad and everything, but that's the word, straight up."

"Maybe I should have played something special," C.J. said.

C.J. is the same age as me, fifteen. He was raised in the church and had been playing piano and organ for as long as I knew him. He wanted to play jazz, but his moms said he should stick to classical and gospel. We had talked about him sticking in a little jazz at Bobby's funeral, and I thought it would have been cool. I really didn't know Bobby's parents, though. Maybe they wouldn't have liked it. But there were so many funerals going on, it almost seemed you needed something to make them different.

"Y'all hear there's going to be a meeting of the Counts tomorrow?" Rise asked."For what?" C.J. had fished half of a candy bar from his pocket and was taking the paper off of it.

"It should be about Bobby G.," Rise said. "But Calvin is calling it, so I don't think it's going to be about anything, really. Dude is just swimming upstream and don't know where he's going."

On the far side of the park some guys had set up steel drums. They started playing some reggae, but real soft and it sounded good, almost like a pulse coming out of the darkness.

"You know, it's hard when somebody gets wasted," Rise went on. "Bobby G. was good people and everything, but that's why you have to make your life special every day. You never know when your time is up. Ain't no use in being down about it."

Precious Lord, take my hand
Lead me on, let me stand
Lord, I am so tired
Yes, I'm weak
And yes, I'm worn . . .

Lord knows we are tired today as we gather here in fellowship and sorrow, in brotherhood and despair, for the going-home ceremony of fourteen-year-old Bobby Green." Pastor Loving rocked forward as he spoke. "Lord knows we are tired of burying our young men, of driving behind hearses and seeing the painted letters of remembrance on the walls of our neighborhoods.

"As we close this chapter of young Bobby's life, let us send our prayers with him to the other side." Pastor Loving, a big, dark man, wiped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. "Let us send our prayers with him so that maybe one day those left behind will finally be able to do what we hope for him—to rest in peace without the violence that blows through our community like the winds of winter. This loss chills the heart and challenges the soul, and yet we must keep on. To young Bobby's parents I extend my hand and the promise of a just God who will heal the heavy heart and rest the weary soul. As you leave the church today, stop and pass a word to Bobby's grieving mother, Louise, and his grieving father, John. Let them know that in the middle of darkness there is and will always be the everlasting light of Christian faith. Amen."

The gospel choir started singing softly, and row by row they left their seats. Bobby's mother was crying and leaning against an older man I didn't know. It was all the same, the gentle whirring of the fans, the familiar scent of the flowers, the hymns that filled the spaces between the people mourning Bobby. I looked over to where C.J. was still sitting at the organ. He looked small in front of the dark mahogany instrument. The people in the first row had started filing past the casket. My mom took my hand and squeezed it.

"I don't think . . ."

"It's okay," she said softly.

I slid out of the pew and made my way toward the back of St. Philip's Episcopal.

On the steps the cool evening breeze carried barbecue smells from the Avenue. I watched as some young kids ran down the street to an ice-cream truck. It had been hot all day, and the few drops of rain that fell didn't cool things off at all.

"It's a shame for a child to go so young like that," Miss Essie Lassiter was saying. "It should have been somebody old, like me. Jesse, do the police have any idea who it was who shot him?"

"No, ma'am."

"That's the terrible thing about it," Miss Lassiter said. "First there's one shooting, and then there's a shooting getting even with that one, and people don't know when to stop."

"Yes, ma'am."

Bobby had a big family and they could afford only one official funeral car, so not too many people were going out to the cemetery. I watched as Miss Lassiter, who went to everybody's funeral, got in one of the cars. A moment later they were pulling away from the church.

C.J. came up to me and he was looking teary-eyed. "You want to go over to the park?" he asked.

I said I'd go, and just then Rise came over. We told him where we were going and he said he'd come along. We walked the first part of the distance to the park in silence, and then Rise started kidding C.J. about not playing any jazz at Bobby G.'s funeral.

"You should have played like they used to down in New Orleans," Rise said. "Everybody would have talked about it."

"And my moms would have been all over my head," C.J. said. "I asked her about playing some jazz, but she said that Bobby's parents might not like it."

"Yeah, well, he went out like a man," Rise said.

"Yo, Rise, the brother got wasted in a drive-by," I said. "He was chilling on his stoop when some dudes lit up the sidewalk. I don't even think they knew who they shot."

We got to the park and sat on a bench. C.J. was talking about how Bobby was worried about getting into a good high school.

"We were just talking about that the other day," C.J. said. "He was saying that if he got into a good high school, he was going to bust his chops so he could go on to college. Bobby was cool."

"When your time comes, you got to go," Rise said. "That's all sad and everything, but that's the word, straight up."

"Maybe I should have played something special," C.J. said.

C.J. is the same age as me, fifteen. He was raised in the church and had been playing piano and organ for as long as I knew him. He wanted to play jazz, but his moms said he should stick to classical and gospel. We had talked about him sticking in a little jazz at Bobby's funeral, and I thought it would have been cool. I really didn't know Bobby's parents, though. Maybe they wouldn't have liked it. But there were so many funerals going on, it almost seemed you needed something to make them different.

"Y'all hear there's going to be a meeting of the Counts tomorrow?" Rise asked."For what?" C.J. had fished half of a candy bar from his pocket and was taking the paper off of it.

"It should be about Bobby G.," Rise said. "But Calvin is calling it, so I don't think it's going to be about anything, really. Dude is just swimming upstream and don't know where he's going."

On the far side of the park some guys had set up steel drums. They started playing some reggae, but real soft and it sounded good, almost like a pulse coming out of the darkness.

"You know, it's hard when somebody gets wasted," Rise went on. "Bobby G. was good people and everything, but that's why you have to make your life special every day. You never know when your time is up. Ain't no use in being down about it."

Autobiography of My Dead Brother. Copyright © by Walter Myers. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

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Excerpted from Autobiography of My Dead Brother by Walter Dean Myers
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