A Man Finds His Way - Hardcover
With his critically acclaimed first novel, Bittersweet, Freddie Lee Johnson III defied the stereotype that black men are willingly detached from their families. This debut also heralded the arrival of a powerful and passionate new voice in fiction. Now this talented author has written A Man Finds His Way, in which a college professor sets out to rebuild his world after a series of bitter blows and shattering events.
Lately, Professor Darius Collins’s life has been as tumultuous as the history he teaches in his university class. His girlfriend left him for another dude, his ex-wife’s screwing the mayor and going down in political flames along with him, and his son Jarrod has been accused of a vicious crime. And adding insult to the injury, several of his black colleagues are calling him an Uncle Tom for opposing a university visit by the controversial black activist and anti-semite Osmani Bornu.
But if history has taught Darius anything, it’s that bringing down one minority group at the expense of another is no solution–and he won’t be bullied into submission. Nor will he let the system take down yet another innocent black youth. But he’s got more than a small battle ahead of him, for his son Jarrod, he soon realizes, is a pawn in a dirty game of politics linked to his ex-wife. Can Darius fight the system and win–but even more importantly, can he salvage the spirit of the son who’s learning just what life can deal a black American man?
A gripping novel that plunges into the depths of conflicts within the black community and the system that fuels them, A Man Finds His Way brings home real issues under the guise of a genuinely heartfelt story: a family struggling to keep itself intact despite all that rails against it.
Lately, Professor Darius Collins’s life has been as tumultuous as the history he teaches in his university class. His girlfriend left him for another dude, his ex-wife’s screwing the mayor and going down in political flames along with him, and his son Jarrod has been accused of a vicious crime. And adding insult to the injury, several of his black colleagues are calling him an Uncle Tom for opposing a university visit by the controversial black activist and anti-semite Osmani Bornu.
But if history has taught Darius anything, it’s that bringing down one minority group at the expense of another is no solution–and he won’t be bullied into submission. Nor will he let the system take down yet another innocent black youth. But he’s got more than a small battle ahead of him, for his son Jarrod, he soon realizes, is a pawn in a dirty game of politics linked to his ex-wife. Can Darius fight the system and win–but even more importantly, can he salvage the spirit of the son who’s learning just what life can deal a black American man?
A gripping novel that plunges into the depths of conflicts within the black community and the system that fuels them, A Man Finds His Way brings home real issues under the guise of a genuinely heartfelt story: a family struggling to keep itself intact despite all that rails against it.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author:
Freddie Lee Johnson III is the author of Bittersweet. He grew up in the Washington, D.C., metro area. He attended Bowie State College, earning a bachelor of science degree in history and teacher education before going on to serve in the United States Marine Corps as a communications-electronics officer and infantry officer with the reserves. He later received masters and doctorate degrees in history at Kent State University. He now lives in Holland, Michigan and teaches history at Hope College.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
IT'S BEEN ALMOST SIX MONTHS SINCE MARCY AND I started seeing each other, and it's time to take our relationship to the next level. So tonight I'm going to tell her. She needs to know that she's the best thing to come into my life in a long while. She deserves to hear that she's the sun that shines on my face. In her lies the promise of my better, brighter future. She's becoming the center of my world, the joy in my laughter, the sweet contentment filling my heart. And I want to be with her only.
Once we've finished dinner, slipped into our comfy clothes, and snuggled together on the couch to kill the last of that gallon of chocolate chip ice cream, I'm going to cut off the TV, look straight into her eyes, and confess the truth of what I'm feeling.
I carefully position a small portion of parsley next to the salmon fillet on Marcy's plate, sprinkle some chives onto the steaming red potatoes, smooth a thin coat of butter onto the asparagus, and set the plate down in front of her.
"My goodness, Darius," she says, looking beautiful behind the burning candle. "Your culinary skills are enough to make a woman swoon."
I place my finger beneath her chin, gently lift her face upward, and brush my lips across hers. "Not just any woman," I say softly. "But you."
Right on cue, the DJ on the jazz radio station puts on a classic cut by the late great saxophonist Junior Walker, who belts out a sexy tune that adds more steam to the moment's building romance. I hurry and fix my plate, sit down across from Marcy at the small dinette table, and take hold of her hand. She squeezes mine tenderly and I kiss her palm.
"This is the highlight of my week," I say. "I'm really glad to be here with you."
Marcy half smiles, then looks away. I'm disappointed that she doesn't affirm my statement with a similar response of her own, but she said she'd had a rough day at work and is probably just tired. Today was an overloaded Thursday, so I know how she feels.
After giving two lectures at Erie Pointe University this morning, chairing a panel discussion this afternoon, and making a presentation to the Cleveland Black Historical Society this evening, I was whipped. But I wanted to see, smell, and feel Marcy so bad, I persevered through my exhaustion. I sent out an e-mail canceling Friday's classes, fought through the construction forever clogging Ohio's lousy highways, got frisked three times at Cleveland-Hopkins Airport, and endured a claustrophobic sixty-five-minute flight, sitting between a fat man, a bulkhead, and a screaming starboard engine. Minutes after landing at Baltimore-Washington International I plowed through the meandering human herd, rented a car, and tore down 95 South to Marcy's home in Fort Washington.
It was a hectic, stressful journey, but the sensual tigress staring out at me from Marcy's eyes offers strong hope that my efforts will be rewarded with lots of rambunctious lovemaking. I pour us some more wine, and we start eating. Marcy picks at her food, sighing every now and then.
"Is everything all right?" I ask.
She looks up and smiles. "Yes and no," she answers, shrugging.
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
She shrugs again. "Not really. I've just got a lot on my mind. It'll be all right."
I take a swig of wine, dab the corners of my mouth with the cloth napkin, get up, and step quickly over to her stack of CDs. I search through them, find one filled with the smooth, sultry tunes of balladeer Peabo Bryson, put it on, and hurry over to Marcy. I wait till the music begins and extend my hand to her.
"What's this all about?" Marcy asks.
"It's about me trying to bring a smile to your face." I bow slightly and say, "Can I have this dance?"
Marcy's eyes glisten as she smiles. "Yes, Darius. You most certainly can."
I wrap my arms around her and we start moving in slow love circles toward the center of the darkened living room. The two table candles are like distant stars, their pinpricks of light casting our long, willowy shadows onto the walls. Peabo's voice soars as he pleads with heaven to help him resolve his heart's dilemma. Marcy hugs me tight and grinds her pelvis hard into mine, refocusing the desires of my stomach onto the mounting hunger in my crotch.
"Darius, I care so much about you," Marcy says, kissing my neck. "And I never, ever would hurt you on purpose."
"I feel the same way about you, baby." I hug her tight and whisper directly into her ear, "I have a lot to tell you. I was going to wait, but now's as good a time as any."
"I have something to tell you also."
"Okay," I say. "Go ahead."
Marcy stiffens slightly. "No, Darius. You first."
"Okay," I agree, gulping down a knot of fear. "Marcy, you're fast becoming the most important person in my life."
She turns her face into my shoulder and cries softly. I stroke her hair, savoring the warmth slowly spreading through me as my baby cries her tears of joy.
"Go ahead, baby," I say, patting her back. "Just let it flow. I'm right here with you."
She turns her head to the side and speaks in a soggy voice. "Oh, my God," she laments. "I had no idea it would be this hard."
I laugh softly and squeeze her tight. "There's nothing hard about caring for you, Marcy. If anything, it's wonderfully sweet and easy."
"Darius, please don't talk like that."
I hold her shoulders and gaze into her eyes. "But I have to, baby. Don't you understand? For the first time in a long time, I'm feeling alive again. I'm not just lurching from one day to the next, but looking forward to the future. I'm cherishing every breath I take as another moment to be with you."
She shoves me away and bursts into tears. "Why do you have to make this so difficult?" she demands.
"Difficult? What're you talking about?"
"Breaking up!"
For a long moment, I imagine myself being sucked into the whirling blades of a jet turbine and spit in pieces from the exhaust.
"Marcy, I, I don't understand. I'm not breaking up with you."
She stomps over to the CD player, cuts it off, and turns on the lights. "It's not about you, Darius. This concerns me. I'm breaking up with you!"
I shuffle back to the table, grab the bottle of wine, fill my glass to the brim, and slosh it down. Marcy crosses her arms tight over her chest as she sobs and paces back and forth in the living room.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I've been trying to find a decent way of telling you, but there just isn't one."
I plop down in my chair, shove aside the now-cold salmon, and try to shake the disbelief from my head. "Marcy, would you mind telling me what's going on?"
"I'm sorry," she offers. "But I just can't do this anymore."
"Can't do what?" I nearly shout.
Marcy stops pacing and looks directly at me. "There's no need to raise your voice, Darius. I didn't want it to be this way, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't figure out how to let you down easy."
My jaw falls open. "Let me down easy!"
The multiple indignities of my sudden has-been status, realizing that I've been floating in a dreamworld, and angry embarrassment for having stupidly exposed my feelings spin my emotions into a tornado.
"Darius, please don't be mad," Marcy implores. "I tried. I really did. But I can't go on living a lie. I care about you, but I love Stan."
"Stan!" I blurt, springing up and knocking the chair backwards. " 'Just a friend Stan'? The one who I wasn't supposed to worry about? The one who was just a fun colleague?"
She grabs a tissue off her coffee table and honks into it. "Make fun all you want, Darius. No matter what you think, I tried really hard to fight these feelings. But Stan kept persisting. He just wouldn't take no for an answer."
"So what!" I snap. "Did his refusing to accept 'No!' mean that you had to give him a 'Yes!' "
"It's not that simple. He was our most important client. I spent hours working with him. We got to know each other, and then . . ."
"You knew me too, Marcy!" I shout. "Or didn't that matter?"
She starts to answer, but I cut her off. "Why am I asking that stupid question?" I growl, throwing my hands up in frustration. "If it had mattered, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
I kick aside the toppled chair and storm past Marcy into her bedroom.
"What are you doing?" she asks, her voice tentative and worried.
"Gathering up my stuff so I can leave."
Marcy eases over toward the door and wisely stands off to the side. "Darius, please don't do this. We should at least talk about it."
I stop packing and glare at her so hard, my eyes burn. "You must be out of your mind. There's nothing to discuss."
"I'm sorry," she says, sounding more frustrated than remorseful. "I know you won't believe me, but I sincerely thought you'd appreciate being told in person."
"What I'd have appreciated is not having wasted my money on a plane ticket, stressed myself out to get here, and walked into an ambush!"
"Ambush! I resent that!"
"Good!"
"Darius, I'm trying to be up front with you. Doesn't that matter?"
"The only thing that matters to me right now is getting back to Cleveland."
I zip up my garment bag, throw it into the living room, snatch up the phone, and start dialing for a cab.
"I knew you wouldn't unde...
Once we've finished dinner, slipped into our comfy clothes, and snuggled together on the couch to kill the last of that gallon of chocolate chip ice cream, I'm going to cut off the TV, look straight into her eyes, and confess the truth of what I'm feeling.
I carefully position a small portion of parsley next to the salmon fillet on Marcy's plate, sprinkle some chives onto the steaming red potatoes, smooth a thin coat of butter onto the asparagus, and set the plate down in front of her.
"My goodness, Darius," she says, looking beautiful behind the burning candle. "Your culinary skills are enough to make a woman swoon."
I place my finger beneath her chin, gently lift her face upward, and brush my lips across hers. "Not just any woman," I say softly. "But you."
Right on cue, the DJ on the jazz radio station puts on a classic cut by the late great saxophonist Junior Walker, who belts out a sexy tune that adds more steam to the moment's building romance. I hurry and fix my plate, sit down across from Marcy at the small dinette table, and take hold of her hand. She squeezes mine tenderly and I kiss her palm.
"This is the highlight of my week," I say. "I'm really glad to be here with you."
Marcy half smiles, then looks away. I'm disappointed that she doesn't affirm my statement with a similar response of her own, but she said she'd had a rough day at work and is probably just tired. Today was an overloaded Thursday, so I know how she feels.
After giving two lectures at Erie Pointe University this morning, chairing a panel discussion this afternoon, and making a presentation to the Cleveland Black Historical Society this evening, I was whipped. But I wanted to see, smell, and feel Marcy so bad, I persevered through my exhaustion. I sent out an e-mail canceling Friday's classes, fought through the construction forever clogging Ohio's lousy highways, got frisked three times at Cleveland-Hopkins Airport, and endured a claustrophobic sixty-five-minute flight, sitting between a fat man, a bulkhead, and a screaming starboard engine. Minutes after landing at Baltimore-Washington International I plowed through the meandering human herd, rented a car, and tore down 95 South to Marcy's home in Fort Washington.
It was a hectic, stressful journey, but the sensual tigress staring out at me from Marcy's eyes offers strong hope that my efforts will be rewarded with lots of rambunctious lovemaking. I pour us some more wine, and we start eating. Marcy picks at her food, sighing every now and then.
"Is everything all right?" I ask.
She looks up and smiles. "Yes and no," she answers, shrugging.
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
She shrugs again. "Not really. I've just got a lot on my mind. It'll be all right."
I take a swig of wine, dab the corners of my mouth with the cloth napkin, get up, and step quickly over to her stack of CDs. I search through them, find one filled with the smooth, sultry tunes of balladeer Peabo Bryson, put it on, and hurry over to Marcy. I wait till the music begins and extend my hand to her.
"What's this all about?" Marcy asks.
"It's about me trying to bring a smile to your face." I bow slightly and say, "Can I have this dance?"
Marcy's eyes glisten as she smiles. "Yes, Darius. You most certainly can."
I wrap my arms around her and we start moving in slow love circles toward the center of the darkened living room. The two table candles are like distant stars, their pinpricks of light casting our long, willowy shadows onto the walls. Peabo's voice soars as he pleads with heaven to help him resolve his heart's dilemma. Marcy hugs me tight and grinds her pelvis hard into mine, refocusing the desires of my stomach onto the mounting hunger in my crotch.
"Darius, I care so much about you," Marcy says, kissing my neck. "And I never, ever would hurt you on purpose."
"I feel the same way about you, baby." I hug her tight and whisper directly into her ear, "I have a lot to tell you. I was going to wait, but now's as good a time as any."
"I have something to tell you also."
"Okay," I say. "Go ahead."
Marcy stiffens slightly. "No, Darius. You first."
"Okay," I agree, gulping down a knot of fear. "Marcy, you're fast becoming the most important person in my life."
She turns her face into my shoulder and cries softly. I stroke her hair, savoring the warmth slowly spreading through me as my baby cries her tears of joy.
"Go ahead, baby," I say, patting her back. "Just let it flow. I'm right here with you."
She turns her head to the side and speaks in a soggy voice. "Oh, my God," she laments. "I had no idea it would be this hard."
I laugh softly and squeeze her tight. "There's nothing hard about caring for you, Marcy. If anything, it's wonderfully sweet and easy."
"Darius, please don't talk like that."
I hold her shoulders and gaze into her eyes. "But I have to, baby. Don't you understand? For the first time in a long time, I'm feeling alive again. I'm not just lurching from one day to the next, but looking forward to the future. I'm cherishing every breath I take as another moment to be with you."
She shoves me away and bursts into tears. "Why do you have to make this so difficult?" she demands.
"Difficult? What're you talking about?"
"Breaking up!"
For a long moment, I imagine myself being sucked into the whirling blades of a jet turbine and spit in pieces from the exhaust.
"Marcy, I, I don't understand. I'm not breaking up with you."
She stomps over to the CD player, cuts it off, and turns on the lights. "It's not about you, Darius. This concerns me. I'm breaking up with you!"
I shuffle back to the table, grab the bottle of wine, fill my glass to the brim, and slosh it down. Marcy crosses her arms tight over her chest as she sobs and paces back and forth in the living room.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I've been trying to find a decent way of telling you, but there just isn't one."
I plop down in my chair, shove aside the now-cold salmon, and try to shake the disbelief from my head. "Marcy, would you mind telling me what's going on?"
"I'm sorry," she offers. "But I just can't do this anymore."
"Can't do what?" I nearly shout.
Marcy stops pacing and looks directly at me. "There's no need to raise your voice, Darius. I didn't want it to be this way, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't figure out how to let you down easy."
My jaw falls open. "Let me down easy!"
The multiple indignities of my sudden has-been status, realizing that I've been floating in a dreamworld, and angry embarrassment for having stupidly exposed my feelings spin my emotions into a tornado.
"Darius, please don't be mad," Marcy implores. "I tried. I really did. But I can't go on living a lie. I care about you, but I love Stan."
"Stan!" I blurt, springing up and knocking the chair backwards. " 'Just a friend Stan'? The one who I wasn't supposed to worry about? The one who was just a fun colleague?"
She grabs a tissue off her coffee table and honks into it. "Make fun all you want, Darius. No matter what you think, I tried really hard to fight these feelings. But Stan kept persisting. He just wouldn't take no for an answer."
"So what!" I snap. "Did his refusing to accept 'No!' mean that you had to give him a 'Yes!' "
"It's not that simple. He was our most important client. I spent hours working with him. We got to know each other, and then . . ."
"You knew me too, Marcy!" I shout. "Or didn't that matter?"
She starts to answer, but I cut her off. "Why am I asking that stupid question?" I growl, throwing my hands up in frustration. "If it had mattered, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
I kick aside the toppled chair and storm past Marcy into her bedroom.
"What are you doing?" she asks, her voice tentative and worried.
"Gathering up my stuff so I can leave."
Marcy eases over toward the door and wisely stands off to the side. "Darius, please don't do this. We should at least talk about it."
I stop packing and glare at her so hard, my eyes burn. "You must be out of your mind. There's nothing to discuss."
"I'm sorry," she says, sounding more frustrated than remorseful. "I know you won't believe me, but I sincerely thought you'd appreciate being told in person."
"What I'd have appreciated is not having wasted my money on a plane ticket, stressed myself out to get here, and walked into an ambush!"
"Ambush! I resent that!"
"Good!"
"Darius, I'm trying to be up front with you. Doesn't that matter?"
"The only thing that matters to me right now is getting back to Cleveland."
I zip up my garment bag, throw it into the living room, snatch up the phone, and start dialing for a cab.
"I knew you wouldn't unde...
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
- PublisherOne World/Ballantine
- Publication date2003
- ISBN 10 0345445988
- ISBN 13 9780345445988
- BindingHardcover
- Edition number1
- Number of pages352
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Book Description Hardcover. Condition: Fine. Dust Jacket Condition: Fine. First Edition. First printing. Mustard boards, black textured spine wrap, red stamped spine titles, fine. Pages fine. Dj fine; unclipped 23.95, protected in new, clear sleeve. With his critically acclaimed first novel, Bittersweet, Freddie Lee Johnson III defied the stereotype that black men are willingly detached from their families. This debut also heralded the arrival of a powerful and passionate new voice in fiction. Now this talented author has written A Man Finds His Way, in which a college professor sets out to rebuild his world after a series of bitter blows and shattering events. 344 pages. Size: 8vo - over 7¾" - 9¾" tall. Book. Seller Inventory # 016409
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