You are Zero

by Sherell Barbee

Honorable Mention, Neutrino Short-Short Prize,
selected by Krys Malcolm Belc

You are zero. You are placental kick-kicks. You are “I have a feeling it’s gonna be a girl.” Your brother hopes you’ll be a little brother to play with. You are trips to the doctor and ultrasound gelled belly rubs. You are mama’s late night pickle cravings. You are conversations about moving from the city to the suburbs. This is your embryonic home.

Mama calls it her mansion.

You are four. You are Sunday after church rides downtown in dad’s car. You are

“I’d rather sleep on my brother’s bunk bed than in my own room.” You have a Fisher Price bike that you race him in. He has a big-kid bike with two wheels that he balances on. He always wins. You are “mama says we gotta stay on this side of the street.” Your neighbor is a widow and bakes cookies for you. You live in a big house.

Mama calls it a ranch-style.

You are eight. You are “my mama said we can stay out until the street lights come on.” You are bubblegum-bubblegum in a ditch. You are “not it.” You are better at swinging the ropes for the other girls to play double-dutch than you are at jumping long enough for it to count as a turn. You are walls so thin you can hear the neighbors next door arguing again. You are “my brother told me to tell your brother...” You are here. In this place that’s filled with other little black kids with hair just like yours and mamas who slave over little gas stoves while y’all rake leaves and jump in and re-rake those leaves and re-jump in and—that’s your neighborhood.

Mama calls it a complex.

You are twelve. You are bus rides to the middle school with people who say that you should act more like your brother. He is the cool kid in the neighborhood now. He is the “my mama said don’t be hanging round him when the street lights turn on.” You are “did you hear what Tiana told Chanel about your new haircut?” You are “I have a crush on Jeremy in Algebra.” You are a house at the end of a culde-sac. Your neighbor is a widower who pays you to shovel his driveway and rake his leaves. You are summer afternoons in Tiana’s backyard because her parents bought her a trampoline for Christmas.

Mama calls it a waste of money.

You are sixteen. Gage moves into the neighborhood and lets you borrow his old longboard after school. Sometimes during school. You are “don’t be getting too caught up with that lil boy, now.” You are “you better keep your hands off my little sister, man.” You are rides to the park. You are pebbles caught in the wheels and knee-capped skids onto the pavement. You are sips from his grandmother’s unsweetened tea. You are afternoons wasted on his front porch.

Mama calls it a stoop.

You are twenty. You are “I know you’re busy with school, so just give me a call when you get a chance.” You are “stay celibate. I don’t wanna have to fight some lil boy for getting my sister pregnant.” You are late nights studying in the undergrad library. You are utilities and furniture not included. You are “I think my roommate is eating my cereal.” You are neighbors with names you’ve never known and faces you’ve never seen. The stench of their smoking habits seep through the floor. And the walls. You are on your own, but people are all around.

Mama calls it your new home.

Mama says don’t forget about the other ones.

Sherell Barbee is a Midwesterner currently living in Boston. She explores the Black bildungsroman through poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, audio stories, and songs. Her writing can be found in The Boston Globe, Hippocampus Magazine, Lit Pub, The Missouri Review blog, and more. She is a 2021 artist-in-residence at the Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art. She is also a winner of the 2020 Boston in 100 Words competition, judged by Gish Jen, Callie Crossley, and Porsha Olayiwola, Boston’s Poet Laureate. Find her on Twitter and Instagram @sherellbee.