growing up - Joe Barry Carroll Home

GROWING UP
. . . I N WOR D S A N D I M AG E S
GROWING UP
. . . I N WO R D S A N D I M AG E S
By Joe Barry Carroll
Joe Barry Carroll Publishing
Joe Barry Carroll Publishing, Atlanta, Georgia
© 2013
All rights reserved. Published 2014
ISBN: 978-0-9898373-2-3 (CLOTH)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013948695
The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the
American National Standard for Information Sciences—permanence of paper
for printed library materials. ANSI Z39.48-1992
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SOME PEOPLE WILL CHOOSE
nostalgia and their aspirations. They refer to a time gone by in fond recollections as “the
good old days.” That would not be me.
I do not believe in “the good old days,” that there was once a time that was perfect in
every way. A life can appear perfect only when you view it narrowly, when you carefully
omit the painful and imperfect parts. I agree with the songwriter who suggested that
in the face of our neat and shiny narrative. If life is to be viewed in truth, then it should
be viewed in the balance that accepts life’s joys as they lie beside its complications. When
I look back at my own life, I am quite clear that my story is a collage of the good, the
bad, and the ugly.
Life is complicated everywhere; no life is perfect and without care and complication.
circumstance, you need only draw closer. As you examine the greater detail, the grit and
grime that is present the world over comes into view.
My own story is similar to the stories of many people I meet along my way—we are
all a mixed bag of stuff—the precise details may vary, but the general thrust of other
folks’ stories is the same as mine. If it is not the same, then it certainly rhymes. There is
little that separates any of us, and we are all managing life from where we stand. Each of
us has our very own beginning, middle, and end, as we are center stage to our drama—
some of our own making and some that fell upon us.
Nikki Giovanni’s elegant narrative in the poem, “Nikki Rosa,” touched upon the
complexities and dysfunctions of experiences within her life and culture growing up in
poverty as a child. In her closing, Giovanni counsels the reader to not feel sorry for her,
for the story that she offered was what she knew as love.
Much of what I share within my historical narrative may sound harsh, because some
of it was. However, I encourage the reader to hold into view that the best parts of my
in that place called Pine Bluff. The gumbo of humanity that I know as my family and the
foundation of my life requires no defense or apology, so I offer none.
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I WAS BORN on July 24th, 1958, in Pine Bluff, Arkansas. While Pine Bluff is
much like many other small Southern towns, it remains special to me because it is where
Arkansas River, this little town was, at one time, an important settlement for trappers,
the time I came along, Pine Bluff was long past its glory days of the 1800s and was no
longer a popular center of cotton and timber production. Despite the mixture of maladies that spring from poverty and decay—poor healthcare, under-education, race and
class tension—my hometown remains as much a part of me as any achievement that I
when some view their hometown and their family culture as something to get out of and
away from. I feel naturally obliged to embrace my hometown as part of what shaped my
best parts.
Throughout the east end of town were a series of oddly constructed houses in a variety of colors and shapes, which all smacked of poor habitation. These structures were
mostly composed of cinder blocks, plywood, and tar-shingle siding. The lack of proper
irrigation and storm drainage demanded that houses were often built on blocks, like
trailer homes. They served only to shelter and were not concerned with the quality of
that shelter. They always seemed to lean in some way, as though each house was releasing a deep sigh. After the original construction there commenced this slide into decay;
nothing was ever fully repaired—it was just propped up or patched. These houses had
poor or no insulation and were warmed by small gas-fueled heaters that were probably better suited for a weenie roast than for heating a home. The open-faced feature of
these devices delivered the maximum amount of warmth, but it also guaranteed house
always appeared the same: a burning house and a family standing across the road from
it, watching their humble worldly possessions reduce to ash.
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I know only a few details about his early life. He had a family in his younger life and
it is the second time around and the parent is a man looking into the face of his only boy
child. Daddy poured all the emotional effort he had left into me. Perhaps a man’s desire
is to transfer all the hopes he once held for himself to his son, because that male child
may represent the father’s quest for redemption.
I was told that my father was somewhat of a journeyman throughout his work career,
but he had caught on at the Cotton Belt Railroad as the last in a line of professions he
held during his lifetime. I am not sure exactly what he did there, but I generally like the
idea of his being a railroad man. The concept of a railroad man always smacked of something special for me. Maybe it was because they lift heavy things and are steel-driving
men, but whenever I hear that train whistle blow (near or far), I think of my father.
Daddy never called me by my birth name, never Joe, Barry, or Joseph. It was always
“Sunny.” Because “S-u-n-n-y” and “S-o-n-n-y” both sound the same, no one could be
sure if my father was saying Sonny, as in Sonny Boy, or Sunny, as in the sun that shines.
Because of the way he treated me, I grew to accept that he was referring to me as Sunny—a descriptive, a sentiment, an emotion. I was the sunshine of his life, which is just
always so proud of me, just because.
My father introduced me to tenderness and caring. I remain grateful for those times
as a very young child that he would allow me to help him shave, and then encourage
me to kiss the side of his freshly shaven face to be sure we had removed all his stubble.
Sometimes he told me these long Brer Rabbit and slap-stick type stories that were so
the saucer that held my big boy coffee cup, while I waited for the too-hot coffee in the
cup to cool. I remember he always asked how my day at school was and patiently lis29
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into athletics was simply doing the things little boys do the
world over—sometimes my friends and I would just run from one place to the next. I
am not sure why we ran, but we did. There certainly was no hurry because when we got
to where we were running, we would only move to the next place, running yet again.
Larry Burrell was the leader of this crazy-ass pony express madness that my friends—
Michael, his cousin Michael, Norris Dean Jarmon—and I were party to. I really do
think something was wrong with Larry, because he would stare off into space as though
panting and heaving as I tried to keep up, always bringing up the rear because I was
painfully slow and not gifted athletically. (That would come later.) Even then as now, I
leaned more toward walking and conversation than to most things aerobic.
If the older boys were not there before us, my friends and I would play pickup foot-
on with me. I was happy to discover that
and touch football allowed the same opportunity to play, without blood and bruises. Better still, maybe I was just a good old catchthe-ball-while-we-talk kind of fellow. During that time, children in Pine Bluff played
pickup football year-round, and would move in and out of the other sports of basketball
and track as the seasons changed. I did not have the physical ability to be competitive
in sports at an early age, although I was always big for my age. The other boys always
expected a lot from me because of my size, but there was a disconnection between the
enough for football; tall, but lacking the skill and coordination for basketball; and forget
about track and anything that had to do with running fast.
I began to play basketball as a ten-year-old there in my backyard on Harding Street
in Pine Bluff. At that time, there were no outdoor basketball courts available in my
immediate community, so I made my own by removing the spokes from an old bicycle
tire rim to create the hoop I needed to play basketball. I nailed that rim against the shed
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I have loved women from my very beginning.
I love
The scent of a woman
Her form
Her grace
The song in her movement
Her laughter
Her substance
The taste of her mouth
The warmth of her body
The texture of her skin
The sound of her voice
I remain fascinated that women folk are so different from men folk,
yet all the women elements and men elements can come together
in such an incredible alchemy.
Except for when they do not.
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WHEN WE LIVE LONG ENOUGH, someone is destined to enter our
lives and be forever known as “the one,” that person who “has your number,” the one
husband, Jerome Carroll.
My mother grew up possessing that standard of beauty Black folks know well and
most value deeply: yellah complexion with olive highlights and long, black, “good” hair.
As they say—some wanted to be her and others wanted to be with her. Every culture
has a standard (for better or worse) and this was ours. Even as a young girl, she was freJerome and Mama began their journey with each other while they were attending
church. My mother was thirteen and Jerome Carroll was a man twelve years her senior,
but their uneven union lay properly within the time and the mores of a 1940s rural culture. He had come to her little country home area while visiting his family. Jerome’s
older sister was married to Mama’s mother’s brother. As confusing as this blood linking
communities often appeared to come close to crossing the kinfolk’s bloodline, until you
unpacked the detail and discovered that everybody was well within legal guidelines.
beyond what she referred to as “the fancy hat” he wore that Sunday he walked into
church and entered her life forever. She did say she was attracted to him because she had
heard “older men would treat a girl better,” but she quickly added that she “lived long
They would soon marry and begin a life together that only my mother can fully make
sense of, but is unable to explain. She said Jerome had talked about them “liking” each
well go on and do this (marriage).’” Their combination of immaturity, family interfer-
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PLAYING BASKETBALL in my backyard on the dirt was just something to
do. My only objective at that time was to pass the ball through the hoop. Absolutely no
one could have convinced me that an eleven-year professional basketball career lay on
my life path, but it did, and I am forever grateful for that. The sheer improbability of
anyone having a career in professional basketball is staggering; it is almost like winning
the lottery. Never would I have guessed that events would line up so that I would visit
the stars of my generation. Some players rant and rave that they are more than a basketball player, as if perhaps basketball is crowding out the other wonderful aspects of
their person. Or maybe they resist pledging allegiance to something destined to dismiss
them someday, but that would not be me. My jock legacy is a wonderful achievement
I lay beside all the other things I am proud of. I especially enjoy being a member of the
small fraternity of NBA players and having played with and against some of the greatest
athletes the world has ever seen.
As a member of this fraternity, I have often been asked over the years about other
players. This is a short list of my reply.
Prior to my rookie year, Kareem had completed only half his
professional career, yet had achieved a lifetime of NBA League MVPs, scoring titles and
championships. I grew up admiring this enormous star and was too excited just to meet
him, let alone compete against him.
There is a fundamental instruction for shooting a hook shot that speaks to foot position, arm extension, release, and the proper loft and trajectory of the ball. Kareem followed that instruction step-by-step each and every time. I never saw him deviate from
it, as most of us other hook shooters so often do in our eagerness to get a shot off. After
38,347 points, Kareem showed us you can’t just shoot the ball; it has to be done properly,
every time. If it can’t be done properly, it shouldn’t be done. If ever there was an example
That discipline led him to become the greatest scorer of all time.
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