Black Enough: Stories of Being Young & Black in America

When I hear this, I think of Grandma’s gospel records and how she is always humming along with Mahalia Jackson:

There is a balm in Gilead,

there is a balm in Gilead.

The botany teacher says, “There was a time when there was no hospital to go to and people knew how to rely on the earth to supply what they needed, how to mend themselves.”

There is a balm in Gilead

to make the wounded whole.

Natasha says, “You listening to me?”

I say yes, even though I am not because she is just talking about her boyfriend again, asking (but not really asking) if she should break up with him.

There is a balm in Gilead

to save a sin-sick soul.

DAY THREE: TUESDAY

For the rest of the day yesterday and all day today, at the campfire, and even as I lie in bed, all I can think about is how black cottonwoods bring healing. All I keep hearing is that song Grandma hums over and over, over and over.

Sometimes I feel discouraged,

you know and I feel like I can’t go on.

Oh, but then the Holy Spirit revives my soul again.

Revives my soul, my soul again.

There is a balm in Gilead

to save a sin-sick soul.

Grandma believes God can heal anything. But I wonder.

DAY FOUR: WEDNESDAY

Every year of camp, day four is the day campers start getting homesick, so all of us counselors have planned a late-night talent show to get everyone laughing and having a good time. There’s been stand-up comedy, Beyoncé lip syncs, and spoken-word poems. And now, Mrs. Thompson is getting the Soul Train line started. She sashays down the middle of the makeshift aisle as we clap and rock side to side. Each of us has a turn, all of us Black and brown girls dancing in a cabin in the middle of the woods. I imagine that underneath this cabin, the roots from trees are trembling from the bass and that leaves are swaying and dancing with us.

Mrs. Thompson thrives on nights like this. She is twirling and shake, shake, shaking, yelling, “This. Is. My. Song.” Marvin Gaye’s “Got to Give It Up” is the song that sets off our dance party every year. We usually play old-school music, because Mrs. Thompson says the music we are listening to these days isn’t really music. “Come on now, I’m older than all of you in here. Don’t tell me you can’t keep up. Come on now.” Mrs. Thompson grabs Brooke and tries to dance with her down the Soul Train line. “Come on, now, child,” Mrs. Thompson says.

Brooke doesn’t move.

Cat whispers to Mercy, “She don’t look like she dance at all.”

Mercy laughs and says, “Living all the way out there in Lake Oswego, she probably never even seen a Soul Train line.”

Mrs. Thompson is so into her dancing, she doesn’t even notice the tension between the Blue and Green Campers. “Natasha? Raven? One of you come help me out.”

Mrs. Thompson grabs me and we dance together down the aisle doing old-school dances (that I only know because Dad taught them to me). I get to the end of the line and I am out of breath and sweating and laughing. I look back at Brooke, who is standing in the same place, like a stone.

DAY FIVE: THURSDAY

The sun has said good night and now we are sitting under an ocean of stars. They shimmer like the glitter I once used on a Father’s Day card. It was after Dad left us. I never sent it.

If it weren’t for the fire, it would be darker than dark out. The rain starts and stops, but we are not going inside without at least one campfire story. Kyle, one of the other teen counselors, taught everyone the best method for roasting marshmallows. We squish the white sponge between graham crackers and squares of chocolate and feast while she whispers tales of the Oak Creek Monster.

“The spirit of a little girl who died a long time ago haunts these woods,” Kyle tells them.

Mercy breaks in, “How did she die?”

Kyle rolls her eyes—she hates being interrupted and prefers to pace out the story for dramatic effect. “Well, there are many theories. Some say the girl was walking with her friends by the creek and slipped in by accident and drowned. But others say her friends pushed her in. For months, everyone mourned the little girl and shunned the friends accused of murdering her. But one year later, on the anniversary of her death, the little girl was seen walking around the woods. People believe the girl faked her death to escape her evil stepmother and that she lives in the wilderness, surviving off the land. Many visitors have spotted her hiding in the tree house at the end of Willow Road.”

“There’s no tree house down the road!” Mercy says.

“There is, too,” Hannah tells her.

Other campers agree.

“I saw it when we got dropped off, right at the bottom of the road!” Brooke says.

Robin agrees. “Me too.” Robin scoots closer to me. Brooke scoots closer to her.

Kyle looks at all of us teen counselors and asks, “Should I let them know the rest?”

This hasn’t been rehearsed, so we all give different answers, nodding and shaking our heads, saying yes and no all at once.

Kyle continues, “Well, be careful, because the Oak Creek Monster gets lonely and likes to take campers to keep her company so she’s not living out here alone.”

Mercy stuffs the rest of the s’more in her mouth and blurts out, “This is stupid. There’s no such thing.” She stands and motions for Cat to come with her. “Let’s go back to the cabin. These stories are boring and you’re all a bunch of scaredy-cats.”

“I’m not scared,” Brooke mumbles.

Mercy says, “Well, you should be. You won’t be able to outrun the Oak Creek Monster. If it runs after us, you’ll be the first to be captured.”

The girls laugh and laugh. I stand up and Brooke’s eyes turn hopeful, like she thinks I am coming to tell them to stop. I wish our eyes didn’t meet, that I didn’t see how disappointed she looks as I walk past her, into the cabin, to get out of the heavy rain.

I hear Brooke say, “I’m not afraid.”

Mercy says, “Prove it.”

DAY SIX: FRIDAY

It’s six o’clock in the morning and Natasha is shaking me awake, whisper-yelling, “I can’t find Brooke! I can’t find Brooke! Mercy dared her to find the Oak Creek Monster.”

I get out of bed, put on my shoes, grab a flashlight and my phone, and throw my arms into my rain jacket. I run outside, heading to the path that winds around the back of the campus.