I Didn't Understand Why My Mom Wouldn't Let Me Go Out With Friends. Then She Told Me a Terrible Family Secret (Exclusive)
- - I Didn't Understand Why My Mom Wouldn't Let Me Go Out With Friends. Then She Told Me a Terrible Family Secret (Exclusive)
Lizz Schumer, Davon LoebNovember 8, 2025 at 10:00 PM
0
courtesy of Davon Loeb; West Virginia University Press
Davon Loeb Author Headshot; 'The In-Betweens' by Davon Loeb
In an exclusive excerpt from his memoir The In-Betweens, author Davon Loeb looks back at the moment he understood his mom's fear for his safety
"It’s not that she’s forgotten, but it hurts to tell it," he writes, about his mom sharing a devastating family story
The In-Betweens is on sale now, wherever books are sold
When my mom tells me this, I’m seventeen and impatient and yessing her for the car keys. She does this often. Holds me here, hostage, in the kitchen, between the dinner table and door, but I’m just trying to hang out with my friends, and my eyes are aimed on those keys, and her eyes are watching me, staring as if afraid to let go. A fear cements her like she knows what I don’t. Mom, an inquiry and an imperative, it’s just a couple friends, no drinking. She wears worry in her eyes, and it’s always there before I leave; it’s deep and distant, like she’s considering something she doesn’t want to. She can’t even sit there comfortably, uncrossing and recrossing her legs.
What’s wrong, Mom? I don’t think anything is actually wrong, but she wants to talk to me, so I sit, slouching like a scarecrow. The keys clank on the glass table. She says you know it’s different for you than your friends; you know that, right. She slumps her shoulders to match mine. Listen, honey. It’s different for you — I finish her statement: Because I’m Black, right. But not really, not like her. I’m just a brown kid with curly hair, and I confuse people. What are you, as often as a greeting. And my mom tells me what I am every day.
She’s tired and her scrubs are wrinkled, but her hair is neat, the color of dark licorice, and she smells of perfume and antiseptics. This is how I recognize my mom — beautiful and yet broken-off and somewhere else. She reaches her hand out to touch mine: Did you know your grandmother’s uncle was handsome like you? She dabs her finger in my chin dimple. He was a little older, but was funny and cute with your grandmother, teased her and bought her things. But on a Saturday in Alabama when he was walking downtown and doing nothing much but chatting and gossiping like young kids do, a group of men, police officers — she stops to find the story.
It’s not that she’s forgotten, but it hurts to tell it. I can see it in her face, how her brows shift, and her lips tighten. My mom is a strong woman, not physically, like muscle and brawn, but she’s resilient — a poor Black girl from Newark who joined the military at 19 and didn’t come back home; she eventually became a nurse, and after years of service was a major in the Air Force. But this story shakes her. He was so charismatic, she chokes on the words, and when she’s describing him, she looks like she’s describing me. Our hands are back together, and she rubs her thumbs hard on my knuckles. She releases her clasp. The police charged him with loitering because back then, if you were Black on a Saturday night and not home and were in the streets, you were breaking the law.
courtesy of Davon Loeb
The author and his mom when he was in high school
My mom has been telling me these stories all my life — about my history, my family. Pass-me-downs, from her mom and her mom and her mom, and sometime before that, a language that wasn’t ours. But these stories are how my family created people — how we buried them, how they were resurrected, how you could breathe life into someone just by remembering a name, making whole their body and then telling their story. She told me about my great-great grandfather, a slave in Mississippi, and my one uncle who marched in Selma, and about the sit-ins and protests and all the things my people did for me. But my hands were typically in my pockets wrestling with lint.
It’s summer now, and the cicadas and crickets are singing. There’s a break in the blinds and the moon slides in. I’m sitting at the table with my mom, and my friends are waiting, and I’m wondering if it was a night like this, if my grandmother’s uncle was just like me. So, I imagine him: his Black skin in a bright yellow open-collared shirt, showing his chest and his pants might have been rolled up, his ankles bare in brown oxfords.
I imagine him singing a song from the radio, and he sounds like Nat King Cole. His hair is parted, and he smells like sandalwood. He sees friends at their homes, on their porches, and calls out their names, smiles and strolls on. He can hear the cicadas and crickets too, but they sound different in Alabama. He’s happy, and plans to join the army soon, just after he makes his girl his wife. And in between the chorus and verse, a police car spotlights him.
courtesy of Davon Loeb
The author today
My mom is afraid as if she’s always afraid of what hasn’t happened. It’s frustrating because I think I know everything. To me, these are just stories, things of the past. And I say Mom, that was forever ago. It’s different now. Mom, Mom, look at me. No one even thinks I’m Black. She blows breath like smoke from her nose. We’re both resting on our chairs, studying each other. It doesn’t matter. You’re Black enough. And what about your friends. You think they’ll get in trouble too; you think they’ll have the same consequences? This is because my friends are white.
She pauses; the fan above the table is spinning. Even the insects outside break, and it’s almost silent, just an electrical hum. And then she continues. Your grandmother’s uncle was killed that night, in his holding cell. They beat him to death. She quickly covers her mouth, like she’s snagged her tongue. And this time when I imagine him in that daffodil-colored shirt, it’s bloodied with red dots and smears. His handsome face is bruised and broken and a black that is unrecognizable. His body is crumpled in the corner, and the suspended light bulb buzzes a bug and flickers, and those three men, whoever they were, are laughing in the distance.
My mom’s fear has surfaced. She’s the mother of a Black boy, and no matter how much lighter I am than her, I’m still Black and in danger. She believes it’s not a matter of if, but when. She knows she can’t protect me but hopes these stories will.
Davon Loeb's memoir, The In-Betweens, is available now, wherever books are sold.
on People
Source: “AOL Entertainment”
