“I love you.”
“I—” A contraction came that was so powerful, I felt as if I was going to fall off of the bed. “Ahhh,” I hollered, and I don’t believe I even recognized the voice. It felt as if I was suddenly hit with the worst menstrual cramp I’d ever felt, a swift kick in the belly. I sucked in deeply and then released, this seemed to make the other contractions stop, but it just came back and this time it was harder.
“Jamison,” I hollered after what seemed like ten minutes but must’ve been a second because Jamison still hadn’t said a word.
“I know, and I’m sorry, but I—” he tried.
“No, get the nurse,” I managed.
“Oh,” Jamison said. He hustled out the door and the next thing I knew the nurses had wheeled me into delivery and I was giving birth. I always thought birth would be the most painful part, but the birth had nothing on those last, awful contractions. I felt as if everything inside of me was trying to get out and tear me wide open, so by the time the doctor announced that I was crowning, I felt at peace and ready for the whole thing to be done. I was so hot and sweating, and every five seconds it seemed like my doctor was telling me to push harder and again and then harder and two more times. I wanted the pressure to stop and when the last push came, I grabbed Jamison’s hand so tight. He looked into my eyes and for that second, time stood still. I saw fear and happiness, confusion and clarity. We were beginning something. Someone was joining us. A part of both of us. It was arresting, baptismal, and I was so happy to share that moment with him.
“This is it,” my doctor said. “One more push and he’s here.”
Jamison nodded his head and I pushed and our son came into the world.
I’d imagined having so many beautiful things to say about my son when the nurse placed him in my arms for the first time, but nothing came out. I just kept crying and laughing. I was so happy to see his little wrinkly face, his questioning eyes that seemed to ask the inevitable, “Where am I and who are you?”
“He’s ours,” I said to Jamison, who was standing beside me and crying.
He bent over and kissed him on the forehead.
> “Tyrian,” he said and then kissed me on the forehead too.
“Tyrian,” I said too.
PART TWO
Life
“I know our love will never be the same
But I can’t stand the growing pains”
—Erykah Badu,
“Green Eyes”
Jamison’s Wedding Day
Like most men I know, I have to admit that I hate weddings. But unlike most men I know, this isn’t because of the frills and forced intimacy in front of hundreds of sappy spectators—most of whom you don’t know. When I fell in love with Tanya Tolliver in fifth grade and spent every red cent in my piggy bank to buy her a dozen pink roses (she was always wearing this pink sweater and I knew she would like them), I accepted that I was a hopeless romantic when it came to the woman who had my eye, so romance never bothered me, much less public displays of it. What bothered me about weddings was the crying. Rows and rows of wet eyes and cheeks, falling back like dominoes from the person who likely started the whole thing—the groom. I noticed at every wedding I went to that the tears in the church always seemed to start with stormy tears gushing from some brother’s eyes. Now, this too, in light of the situation (seeing the woman that was supposed to be the love of his life giving her life to him) wasn’t completely deplorable. But even with my sensitive side, I’m still a boy from southwest Atlanta, and seeing some otherwise strong brother standing in front of a room full of people crying just wasn’t my idea of a good time. Was he happy? Was he sad? Was he a damn punk? Come on, brother! Love was deep for me; the love I had for Kerry was the deepest thing I’d ever experienced. But on our wedding day, I was determined that I wasn’t going to be that dude crying.
That morning, during Damien’s “Bros Only Pre-Wedding Chat,” he broke it down for me and gave me some “dry eye,” man-up advice.
“No way out of this crying thing?” I asked.
“Nah, dog,” he said frankly. “The whole damn thing really is set up to make you cry. See, when Kerry comes walking down that aisle, she’s gonna be wearing this white dress. Now, I know you’re thinking you’ve seen her in white, so who cares? But you haven’t seen her in that white dress. And that white dress is real white. It’s gonna look big, huge, flowing and glowing and shit in the church like you’re hallucinating and seeing an angel. So already then, you’re gonna think you’re having a dream like in some alternate reality where brothers are supposed to cry. But it doesn’t stop there. That’s not what takes you out the game.”
“No?”
“No, because then she’s gonna start floating and gliding straight to you like you’re rolling down the street in a Spike Lee movie, and everybody’s eyes are going to be moving from her to you to see your reaction. Now, you’re gonna try to control your reaction because of the eyes on you, but then you’re all proud and shit, because that’s your woman. So you might smile a little. Let folks know you’re impressed and happy. Cool. Nobody likes a scared groom. And you got that. No tears yet. You’re smiling. Proud. You got it. Right?”
“Hell, yeah,” I agreed. I got it.
“Hell, nah! Because then, man, they’re gonna move that veil from Kerry’s face. And while you’re trying to be strong, when you see her face, man, how nervous and innocent and happy she looks, that’s it. She’s gonna take your breath away from you . . . then you’re ass is gonna cry.”
“Damn,” I said. “Take my breath away?”
“Like a fucking cat,” he said. “That’s what they do.”