Poetry

On a Bronx tale recently in the news – a poem

Joi Little used to live with her grandmother 

in a building near her mother's apartment.

Nine year old Joi got the large bed in the

only bedroom. Her grandmother slept on 

the pull out couch in the living room.

In the evenings, Joi would dance around 

(just like her mother), talk fast and write

up numbers on the new chalkboard and 

put them together excitedly shouting 'Granny, 

"Granny, I can add them! I love doing math"

When morning came, Phyllis would escort 

Joi to the bus stop, (on E 174 and Bryant Ave) 

shielding her from the South Bronx of 1988.

Every night, Joi would have a familiar ritual,

she would ask her grandmother if she could 

stay for just a little while at her mother's home.

Phyllis always said no.

Joi's mother grew up in Englewood NJ. 

Englewood was safe and proper (with family 

dinners every night and service three times a 

week at the Refuge Temple Church of God in 

Christ). That was before she met a city boy, a 

former Marine and small-time drug dealer at a 

Bronx disco. For some reason, the lights of the 

city always seemed to beckon her from across 

the Hudson... She moved in with him and secured 

low income housing on West Farms, Bronx. 

At 17, she gave birth to the city boy’s daughter

She named her Joi. The city boy disappeared 

soon afterward. Joi's mother would sometimes 

talk fast in short staccato bursts. She would discuss 

grandiose plans and embark on what seemed 

unachievable projects. Yes, she could do that 

when she was high on crack. Afterwards she 

would become irritable, easily angered and sleep 

through a night and a day. She did try though... 

Every once in a while, she enrolled for courses at 

Hunter College. The courses never seemed to 

result in a degree. She did not have a steady job, 

either. She lived on government assistance. 

She, however was an expert at heating rock 

crystal in just the right way and smoking its 

vapors. The soothing vapors that escaped her 

nostrils used to find their way into the nostrils 

of her new found lover.

Robert Fleming and Joi's mother would smoke 

together. Fleming would carry a boom-box and 

wear black clothes and silver jewelry of the Five 

Percenters, an offshoot of the Nation of Islam. 

He preached that God is black and that only 

his tribe know His true nature. They met at a 

local disco. "A mutual friend introduced us," he 

says. "We were both into crack, so I'd go over 

to her place. There'd be a bunch of other people, 

and we'd smoke together." To facilitate, Joi was 

dropped off at her grandmothers while they 

would smoke crack and have unprotected sex

though hazy smoke filled Bronx afternoons. 

As luck would have it, lover boy was HIV positive.

Finally Phyllis decided to take custody of Joi. 

That was about the time that Joi’s mother

decided to clean up her act. Like all drug addled 

promises this one also seemed to go by the wayside.

One day, Phyllis’ friends (she used to work as a 

case manager for the Rockland Psychiatric Center) 

were going skiing for the weekend. "They begged 

me to come, and to the last minute, I didn't want 

to go," she says. Finally she did relent, dropping 

Joi off at her mothers. Just this one time, she 

remembered thinking. She also remembered the 

apartment strangely smoke free and clean. 

"Maybe she was getting better. Maybe she had 

decided to clean up her act." Even better, Robert 

Fleming seemed to have disappeared. All told, it 

seemed like the perfect weekend to leave the 

little child in the care of her mother.

The weekend was a lot of fun, her first in many 

years and it felt good to get away. In between 

the ski trips, she had an anxious urge to call on  

little Joi and let her know that she will be back 

soon. In between the ski trip, she also remembered 

her husband – now long gone holding her hands as 

she steadied herself on skis for the first time. 

Of course, she could not call Joi's mother.

Joi's mother did not own a home phone - like many 

others living in the South Bronx in the 80’s.

Phyllis returned home on Sunday afternoon, 

February 28, 1998. She crossed over to Joi's 

mothers building, hiked up the four flights of 

stairs, and knocked on the door. Nobody was 

home. She walked back to her apartment. 

For an older woman without strong legs, hiking 

up the four flights of stairs was a trying task.  

The next morning, at 7 a.m., she climbed the 

stairs once again determined to see her little baby. 

The door was slightly ajar. Joi's 26-year-old 

mother was lying on the bed, strangled to death. 

Her hands and legs were tied behind her back. 

Joi's hands and legs were similarly hogtied. Joi's 

back was twisted at an impossible angle. It was 

actually broken. Both their panties were pulled 

down to their knees. There was a lot of blood 

on the sheets and between the little ones legs. 

Phyllis did not really hear herself slump to the 

floor. When she came to, she ran screaming 

down the stairway all the way out to the streets. 

21 years later, February 28, 2009, (to the day) 

the NYPD Cold Case squad announced that they 

were charging Robert Fleming with the murders. 

Joi lived nine years of her life on this earth and 

did not blame anyone. She did not blame

- Robert Fleming for doing the deed...

(she did know him well enough to call him by his 

Five Percenter nickname, Hakim)

- Joi's mother for pursuing the life she chose...

(every day she would ask if she were allowed 

to visit her mother even if it were for an hour)

- Phyllis for deciding to go to ski that weekend...

(she gave all she had, she worked weekends 

and double shifts to send the child to school).

Note: These lines were written after I had recently read a report of the conviction of Robert Fleming in this week’s edition of the newspaper Village Voice.