Marquett Burton - The Black Box

MARQUETT DAVON BURTON

The Black Box

First published by SaSN 2020

Copyright 2020 by Marquett Davon BurtonAll rights reserved. No part of this publication may bereproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by anymeans, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording,scanning, or otherwise without written permission from thepublisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, ordistribute it by any other means without permission.

First edition

ISBN: 9780578745060

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Contents

v

vii

Foreword

The Black Box is not a tale of a great man. This story is about someone like you: a human being endeavoring to make tomorrow better than today. Each chapter recounts a formative experience and concludes with a Black Box: an explanation of how a given situation helped me develop the mindset required to thrive in that type of environment.

An airplanes black box records flight data as well as the voices and radio transmissions in the cockpit of the airliner. When an airplane crashes engineers look into the black box to learn about what went wrong. However, black boxes also have stories of success, but they are rarely referenced for those narratives.

Your black box is filled with helpful memories, but so often you fail to look into your black box to pull wisdom from it.

Sometimes we avoid looking into our black box because it means seeing our hardships replayed, seeing things that cause us fear and pain. As you peer into my black box, it will inspire you to look into your black box. Our black boxes are filled with explanations of why we crash as well as stories of how we have soared above turbulence.

Most of these chapters have been developed as self encapsu-lated stories from which a moral can be drawn without reference to previous chapters. I share the story of my life knowing that my achievements outstrip those of the average person only by a modest margin. The validity of this work lies in the distance v

between my starting point and where I stand today. This book is about you. It should drive you to consult your black box as you adventure through life.

vi

Acknowledgement

Professor Tate

Bridgette

Angela M

vii

You okay, Mama?

Iamafouryearoldonmybestbehaviorhopingtogo unnoticed and thereby enjoy another moment past my bedtime.

Returning from the restroom, my mother sits next to me and re-enters television induced hypnosis.

Mesmerized by the bright screen in this dim, small apartment, our host disappearing to the bathroom escaped our notice.

My mother is Kimera Lovell Burton, a slim, brown-skinned, thirty year old African-American. Her straightened black hair is curled toward her neck, sitting just above her shoulders. Coffee skin, slender legs, a flat stomach, faint eyebrows, lips thinner than those of most black women, and large, dark eyes.

You stealing my mothafucken toilet paper?! our host yells as he storms into his living room. He is a stranger to me, I have never seen this man before tonight. He is a thin man of caramel complexion in his early 50s. He has a narrow nose bridge with wavy gray hair that has brushed backward and covered with pomade to lay it down. My mothers young, fearful face looks up into his older, rageful face. His menacing eyes stare at my mother over his glasses which he wears low on his nose. After a 1

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tongue lashing, he dismisses us at the top of his lungs, Get yo ass out my goddamn house!

We hurry out walking three doors down to our unit. We also live on the second floor of this pale gray, two-story apartment building in east San Diego, California, USA. My mother unlocks the front door to the studio. We walk into the living room/dining room/bedroom. Aside from our clothes and the dishes, the apartment is empty and lifeless.

Turning to look at me, Its past your bedtime, buddy boy. We gon get you washed up and in bed, my mother assures.

Put ya otha foot in and sit down, my mother commands as though I am exaggerating about the temperature of the bath water. Aside from my freckles, my skin is the color of coffee with a touch of milk. I have a flat top haircut and eyebrows that grow naturally in the contours women pay to have theirs shaped into. My nose is small and my eyes are large and dark brown. I am four years old.

Sitting on our bed, I watch my mother take off her earrings.

Staring into space, she tilts her head, holding the front of the earring while she unclasps the back with her other hand.

Hearing an unexpected knock, the knock was not aggressive like the police, nor did its rhythm suggest that the person knows us. Our faces jerk toward the front door. We turn to look at one another. We have never had a visitor. My mothers eyes move to the door and then back to me. She puts her finger on her lips to express ssssshhhhh be silent.

Uneasiness churns in my tummy. Mama, pleeease leave thatdoor closed, I plead to her in my head. What do we gain from opening that door? My mother gets up from the bed to creep over to the door. Quickly, I scoot off the bed to block her path. I do not even want her to look through the peephole.

YOU OKAY, MAMA?

NOOOOOOOOO! I scream inside of my head, not verbalizing anything for fear of alerting whomever is outside that we are inside. I wrap my body around my mamas leg, holding on as tightly as I can. My heart pounds against her thigh. My mother has been looking through the peephole for five seconds too long.

Anxiousness flutters in my gut.

She begins to unfasten the top lock: one of those chain locks that would rip off anyways if the door is kicked with any amount of force.

No mama! I scream in my head.

I hear the deadbolt sliding out of the door frame.

Nooooo mama! I cry out in my head more emphatically.

My mother takes her hand and sweeps me behind her slender body. I relocate to the left, just the opposite of where she was seeking to position me. She slowly twists the small metal piece on the doorknob. Inch by inch, she pulls the door open exposing us to the unknown.

She does not see anyone.

I do.

My eyes go wide and my mouth falls open. I point at a muscular, black man wearing a red mask standing out of my mothers view to the side of the door frame. He is wearing a black sweatsuit and a mask that covers his face from cheeks to hairlinethe type of plastic red mask one would wear to a masquerade ball.

As my mother leans forward to look down the walkway, I see a flash of silver raise into the nights sky. Gathering my breath,

Mama! I scream.

A hammer comes racing down striking my mother in the face as I scream. The masked man flees to the stairs. My mother is laid out on our thin carpet. I am on the floor with her. She cries. I 3

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cry. She holds her hands to her face. I put my small hands on her hands. You ok, Mama? You ok? I repeat over and over again with deeper concern each time. Tears walk down my mothers cheeks. Pale moonlight lays over both of us as a cold wind chills our figures. Our door open to the night, we lay broken upon the floor. My mothers body trembles as she whimpers.

It felt like it took half an hour for my heart to stop racing. I wish you had not taken that toilet paper, Mama, I think as I look at her.