Bobby Hall - This Bright Future: A Memoir

This Bright Future

A Memoir by Bobby Hall

Supermarket

Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

www.SimonandSchuster.com

Copyright 2021 by Sir Robert Bryson Hall II

Epigraph quote taken from Lies (Through The 80s) by Manfred Manns Earth Band. Written by Denny Newman. Published by Scalehand Limited. manfredmann.com

All photos courtesy of the author.

Lyrics from Open Mic\\Aquarius III reprinted with permission.

Certain names have been changed, whether or not so noted in the text.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Simon & Schuster Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition September 2021

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Interior design by Lewelin Polanco

Jacket illustration and design by Sam Spratt

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN 978-1-9821-5824-8

ISBN 978-1-9821-5826-2 (ebook)

For Brittney and Little Bobby

I saw a kid with no smile on his face today.

Where is my place in this bright future, I heard him say.

Manfred Manns Earth Band, Lies (Through The 80s)

M y first memory is of me looking out a window, waiting. Its one of those super-early memories, the ones that are so distant and far away that theyre barely memories at all. More like a bunch of hazy, half-remembered images all jumbled up. But I can clearly recall standing at this window in a nice suburban townhouse. Im three years old, maybe, living with a family, a black father and a white mother and a girl and two boys. The other kids are older than I am, almost teenagers. Sometimes the two boys pick me up and swing me around by my ankles, and the girl teaches me how to put on my socks.

But which ones the right one and which ones the left one? I ask.

They dont have a right and a left, she says.

But the shoes have a right and a left, so which sock goes where?

It doesnt work like that, she says. Theyre socks.

The mom and dad are good parents. They make dinner every night. The house is nice and clean. Theyre strict, too. One night I want to watch The Simpsons, and the mother wont let me. She says it isnt a cartoon for kids, and I dont understand why theres a cartoon that isnt for kids.

But even though theyre good parents, I know theyre not my parents. The woman making me dinner and washing my clothes, shes not my mom, and I know shes not my mom because I want my mom. Which is less of a conscious thought and more like this primal feeling thats inside me all the time: I want my mom. Even though I have my own room with my own toys in it, I know Im not supposed to be here. Which is why Im at this window. I stand here every afternoon, looking out at the sidewalk that leads to the street, waiting for the woman who left me here to come back.

I dont know how long this goes on. It feels like months, a year, maybe. Then one day: She appears. This petite white woman with dark brown hair, walking up the driveway like an angel. My heart jumps. She comes inside and plays with me in the playroom, and shes cool. Ive got this wooden block thats shaped like a cigar at the end, and Im holding it up, going, Look at me! I can smoke this cigar! It makes her laugh, and making her laugh feels so good. We play for a while, and then the mother of the house comes in and says its time. The angel whos come to see me gets up, says goodbye, and leaves. Its only a visit. She doesnt take me with her. Then the next day Im back at the window, waiting and wanting her to come back again.

From there the record skips. Clearer memories start to form. Theyre still scattered fragments, but they begin to tell a story. In these memories, Im living with my mom. Shes not the woman who comes to visit anymore; shes actually my mom. Im four now, and were living in a little apartment in Germantown, a small town northwest of Washington, D.C., in Maryland.

When I reach back to the Germantown years, the first memories that come up are the good ones, the ones where my mom is super-creative and artistic and fun. Shes this bundle of energy bursting with ideas and working on little projects. She paints murals all over our apartment. One of them is a beautiful trail of bubbles on the ceiling and on the walls. If you follow the bubbles from the front door to the master bedroom, you find a giant fish, like the Jesus fish but with all this intricate detail in turquoise and purple, which I love.

My mom writes stories for me, too, about a character whos based on me, Little Bobby. Theres one where Little Bobby has this watch that lets him go on adventures in time. He can go back and see the dinosaurs or go visit the Wild West. But no matter where he is in time, Little Bobby has to come home every hour to check in with his mother, so she knows hes safe.

One year she sets up an Easter-egg hunt for me. She wakes me up on Easter morning and takes me down to the creek that runs between our complex and the next one across the way and I run around all excited, picking up these plastic Easter eggs with grape and strawberry jelly beans in them.

Probably the most fun we have is when The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air comes on. Every time the theme music starts, we jump on the bed and sing, In West Philadelphia born and raised, on the playground is where I spent most of my days. We do that, and I laugh and laugh.

I dont have too many memories of my dad being around. One of the few memories of him thats a good one is Halloween. My mom never lets me celebrate Halloween. Its the devils night, she says. But then one year my dads around, and she gives in and lets him take me to Target to get a costume. We get to the Halloween aisle and I look up and Im in kid heaven. Its like theyve got every cartoon character and superhero on the planet. My dad points down the aisle and says, You can be whatever you want! I cant believe it, because we never have money for stuff like this.

Listen here, he says, Im gonna be a ninja. Maybe we should go as ninjas together.

No way, I say. Im gonna be Superman.

So Im Superman, and for the next couple of years I wear the shit out of that costume because its the only costume I have. I put it on and run around outside. I go and jump on top of the big green power transformer behind our apartment building and stand there for like twenty minutes at a time, securing the neighborhood, my skinny five-year-old wrists and calves sticking out of this worn-out, skintight Superman outfit made for a toddler.

The thing about the good memories, though, is that when I reach back for them, there arent many to choose from. Theres the fish bubbles and the Little Bobby stories and the