Davon Loeb
1. THE DISPATCHTodd
Leaning his body against his desk, he was at me, again—asking me why did my elbows look so ashy, if I could read the words in our textbook, if I knew who my father was, if I could talk Black and those brackets, the colorful bands, the glint of his metal smile, the success of another dig, another slice, as if his words were a sword drawn from a sheath that pierced me, again and again, and in my classroom chair, I slouched my shoulders, and a cool sweat trickled down my back, and those other kids, who looked like him, gawked at their desks as if watching a bird fly with one wing, and they laughed until the skin around their eyes creased, until their bellies hurt, until they laughed together, all of them—as if passing on some dirty joke, from one kid to the next, and it didn’t stop because it never stopped there, but it moved to the hallways at the end of class—when he followed me out—followed me into the hallways: the bustle and squeaks of sneakers on linoleum, the pangs of slammed lockers, the varied pitches of middle school voices, the deafening chatter about things that seemed important—things like homework, substitute teachers, who was assigned detention, the kid who farted in class—and through all that chaos, all that middle school prattle, I could hear him shouting my name louder than the warning bell—Daaay-Von, Dee-Von, Dee-Vone, Dah-Vonte, following me still and saying my name differently every time, repeating himself—Do-Von—and then he was on me, pressing himself on my locker, our faces nearly touching—What’s up with these names, homie? Why not call your kid Jim or John, but y’all are named—and he listed: Moesha, Tahkesha, Laquesha, Shaniqua, Taquaan, Tavon, Trayvon—saying it with cadence, a poem, and he continued: DeShawn, DaQuaan, and Davon, and he chuckled, nasally, and gave me more—my name is Toddddd—pronouncing each syllable with jest—not so hard, is it—and immediately, his blue eyes searched in me, as if a finding a ship alone and lost in a dark sea, and its flag was up, and it was capsizing, and its mast was on fire—and someone was drowning, someone was looking for help, but my response to him was no response, just my feet shifting, just looking for some solid ground that was always getting washed away because this is what it always felt like, on any given day, to get bullied as a Black kid in school with no Black kids.
2. BUREAU INVENTORYUnderwood Typewriter, circa 1930s
Hunt for Wolverine 1, Marvel Comics
Crystal Apple Award from High School Student
Christmas Family Photos
Daughter School Photo
Engagement Mug for Pens
A Few Books
Birthday Llama
Laptop
"Mr. and Mrs." Photo Engagement Gift
3. BIOGRAPHYDavon Loeb is the author of the memoir The In-Betweens (West Virginia University Press, 2023). He earned an MFA in creative writing from Rutgers University-Camden. Davon is an assistant features editor at The Rumpus. His work is featured at The Sun Magazine, Joyland Magazine, The Rumpus, Catapult, Ploughshares, Pleiades Magazine, and elsewhere. Davon is represented by Eric Smith of P.S. Literary Agency. Besides writing, Davon is a high school English teacher, husband, and father living in New Jersey. He can be reached on Twitter at @LoebDavon.