Passing

Starting my day with green tea was always a necessity in New York. Green tea gave me the slight energy I needed to get through the day, but it also relaxed me and grounded me. Living in Brooklyn, not knowing what to expect was a daily occurrence.

I worked at the Baskin-Robbins in Atlantic Station at the time. One day, during my subway commute, I vividly remember being chased by a group of teenagers who wanted free ice cream. They knew where I worked because of my obvious uniform.

While chasing me, they screamed, “I know you got that discount white ass muhfucka!”

That day, I just remembered being so bothered by my life. So yes, green tea was needed always!

Of course, every day is not a wild adventure. One day, I remember treating myself to a double chocolate ice cream cone on the way back home. It was so hot that the ice cream dripped down my arms. It was a scorching NYC summer day. I took the C train home that day. During heat waves, the Subway always felt like 100+ degrees, so I needed that treat to uplift my spirits.

When I arrived home, my roommates were in their rooms. I was the only person who worked an actual job. Four people living in an apartment seems like a lot, but it really was like a dysfunctional family.

Josh was a creative who got paid somehow. Martin definitely dealt drugs. I asked no questions. And Jessica was an actress with wealthy parents who paid for her room. Jessica only wanted roommates because she wanted the real NYC experience...whatever that means. And I worked at the Baskin-Robbins. We really were one big family.

BUZZ…

BUZZ...

I was sitting on our collapsed couch watching The Office reruns when the apartment buzzer went off. Whenever the buzzer went off, it usually meant someone in the apartment was about to hookup, eat, or receive a package. In this case, it was a package.

The only person in that apartment who received packages was Jessica because she was the one who had the income to order the most random items. One time, she ordered a slipper warmer. Yes, a slipper warmer! Apparently, she liked her slippers to be warm during the frigid NYC winters. I guess her delicate feet could not handle the cold, wood-panelled flooring in the morning.

I went downstairs to retrieve the package from the Fedex worker. This was a fancy delivery that required a signature. Oddly, it was addressed to Ryan Bernstein. That’s me! In all my years of living in NYC, I had never signed for a delivery. It was a large envelope that was sent to me via Fedex Priority Overnight. Who would want to pay those shipping charges for me? Trust, I was not that important. Whoever sent it, they really wanted to make sure I received this package.

I ran back upstairs. We lived four flights up in a walkup, so I was out of breath by the time I reached my unit. I hurriedly opened the package. Enclosed there was another smaller white envelope, a guitar pick, a small brass key, a locked black notebook, and a piece of paper that read: Call 478.515.3267. Do not open the black notebook until you call.

Before calling the number, I decided to open the smaller envelope. To my surprise, it was a cashier’s check for $20,000. It was addressed to me! In complete shock, my knees buckled so much that I almost fell over our living room table. I ran to my room, collected the check, and hid it away in a shoebox under my bed like I stole something. So many thoughts ran through my bewildered brain!

THIS MUST BE A MISTAKE!

WHO IN THE HELL WOULD SEND THIS MUCH MONEY TO ME!

AM I BEING PRANKED?

THIS IS GREAT, RIGHT?! I HAVE MONEY!

NOT GREAT! IS THIS A SCAM? Can’t be, I had to sign for it.

RYAN, CALM DOWN!

I slowly calmed down. I Googled the mysterious phone number. Apparently, the area code was for Macon, GA. There were no additional details. I remember reading about Macon, GA as a student at Brooklyn Technical High School. I remember reading about segregation in Macon and the many music artists who came from there. Otis Redding, James Brown, Little Richard, and the Allman Brothers all came from Macon. It was a music city. Did the guitar pick have anything to do with Macon’s connection to music?

The only way I could find out was to collect my shattered pieces of courage and call the number. I grabbed my iPhone with shaking hands, and I dialed slowly 4-7-8-5-1-5-3-2-6-9. I called, and it said the number did not exist. I looked back at the paper and then realized...



AH SHIT! I dialed the wrong number. RYAN, CONTROL YOURSELF!



I dialed a second time: 4-7-8-5-1-5-3-2-6-7. There were three dial tones. I then heard breathing on the other end. I said, “Hello, this is..um...um...Ryan speaking.”

A woman on the other end exclaimed, “Hey, baby! Oh my goodness, I can’t believe it’s you! Lawd have mercy!”

Her voice sounded distinctively like a black woman with a heavy southern accent. I tried my best to not assume and then responded, “Excuse me, who is this?”

She said, “I am your Great-Aunt Mary, baby.”

“Hold on, say what? I’m confused.”

“I know this is a surprise honey. You have a whole family in Jo-jah [Georgia]. We have been trying for years to get in contact witcha.”

I said, “Ma’am, I believe you have the wrong person. I live in Brooklyn...born and raised. The only family I know lives in Williamsburg.”

“No baby...you were born in Jo-jah [Georgia], and yo’ Mama moved ya away from us because of her crazy ass, backwoods family! Oh lawd, where’re my manners? Let’s just say yo’ family was difficult. They made it hard on ya mama.”



THIS WOMAN MUST BE OUT HER MIND. THERE’S NO WAY!



I exclaimed, “This is all confusing to me. I am a white Jewish man raised in Brooklyn. My family has been in Williamsburg for years.”

“Honey, I know this must be hard fo’ ya, but there’s something else I must tell ya.”

I replied, “Please do share. But just know that this is a lot for me.”

“Well here it goes. Yo’ daddy was a black man. He was a high yella’ son-of-a-bitch who talked too damn much, but he knew how to play that guitar. Ooooweee, lawd! Yo’ daddy was a genius on that guitar.”

“So you’re telling me my father is black? So that means I’m…I’m...ummm…”

In a high pitched voice, she exclaimed, “Yes baby, ya BLACK! Yo daddy and mama met in a jazz club called the Grant’s Lounge in Macon. Yo’ mama was always lovely and such a beauty. Whenever yo daddy and mama used to visit, I always gave yo mama a slice of red velvet cake and some sweet tea. Lawd, she could eat and was as skinny as a toothpick! She was fast though; I know you were prolly conceived in my basement. Oh lawd, I’m talking too much!”

I just burst out laughing. This woman was hilarious!

I responded, “Well, do you by any chance know anything about this check I received?”

“Ah yes, I almost forgot about that, baby. Yo’ daddy was Curtis Riley.”

“Who?”

“Unfortunately, he has passed away. Curt was something else..he was famous ya know. He played jazz guitar all around the world, and he did quite well for himself. That money was from his trust.”

“So you’re telling me that my alleged father left me some money from his...”

“Hold on nah, let me stop ya right there! ALLEGED! Curt was yo’ daddy. I swear on my Uncle Bobby’s grave! Bless yo’ little heart, lawd.”

She continued, “Yo’ father loved ya mother honey, but yo’ mama’s family threatened to kill Curt once they found out that she was pregnant with you. Yo' grandaddy even threatened to kill ya once you were born.”

I interrupted, “Kill Me! WHAT?”

“They wanted her to have an abortion because they did not want your mother to have a black baby...especially by a black jazz musician. This is the South, baby. Blacks and whites stay to themselves and ya shole' nuff don’t lie with a white woman if you’re a black man. Yo’ mama left for New Yoke [York] and never looked back.”

While crying, I stuttered, “But my Mom said that both of her parents died in a car accident.”

She responded, “No baby, your grandaddy is now dead, but your grandmother is still alive. Anyways, that $20,000 is only a small portion of the full amount Curt left ya. The lawyers said that Curt wrote in his will that you must visit home so that you can get the rest of the estate. Also, ya can’t open that notebook until ya come home to Macon. That key is for ya to open it up when you land. And that guitar pick was ya father’s. He wanted you to have it. He always wanted to be in ya life, baby.”



ESTATE! WHAT? MY FATHER LEFT ME AN ESTATE!



While trembling, I stuttered, “I...um...really need to think about this. This is a lot.”

Aunt Mary said, “Chile, take ya time. Yo’ daddy wanted you to visit on yo’ own terms. I will always be here for ya. I know it’s a lot right now, but do know that you have a family waiting for your arrival. Just pass through, and we will be thankful. Call me anytime ya rich son-of-a-bitch! Love ya baby.”

When the phone call ended, I sat there looking at the black notebook and brass key on my table. I gawked for about 30 minutes. I wanted to call my mother because I needed clarity. But if I had called her that day, I would have said something I would’ve regretted. I waited.

The next day, I called out of work. Technically, I was rich, so fuck that! I decided to have some green tea to settle myself. I then nervously called my mother.

She answered, “Ryan, is that you, stranger? You never have time for your mother.”

I said, “Mom, I’ve been busy. I got something to tell you.”

“Go on son. What is it?”

“I received a check for $20,000 and spoke with a woman who claimed she was my Great-Aunt Mary. This woman said my father was black. What is all of this crap about?”

My mother’s trembling voice said, “Ryan...um...I was young, terrified, and alone. It’s all true son.”

I shouted, “So you’re telling me all this time I thought my family was Jewish, and you kept an entire half of my identity away from me!”

She exclaimed, “Hold up! Everything I did for you was for your protection. I could no longer be in Georgia! No one was going to hurt you. I had to leave. I could not tell you because I did not want you to go searching and then risk your life! So yes, I raised you as a white Jewish boy.”

“Mom, I understand, but this is a lot for me. Apparently, Curtis passed away and wants me to go down South to receive the rest of my inheritance.”

While crying, my mother said, “Oh my! Curtis! That’s a name I have not heard in a long time. Your father was a good man. Curt treated me well. I loved him. I wish I could’ve told him about you, but I could not risk my family finding us. It was just you and me, and we were at peace.”

“But Mom, what should I do?”

“Ryan, that is up to you.”