“I did not want to write to you. I wanted to write a lie. I did not want to write honestly about black lies, black thighs, black loves, black laughs, black foods, black addictions, black stretch marks, black dollars, black words, black abuses, black blues, black belly buttons, black wins, black beens, black bends, black consent, black parents or black children. I did not want to write about us. I wanted to write an American memoir.

I wanted to write a lie.” 

The first lines of Heavy lay out Laymon’s problem. The memoir he knows he can’t write bears some resemblance to the body of the “handsome, fine, together brother” he’ll later starve himself into resembling: a palatable facade founded on lies, secrets, and pain (161). The heaviness of Heavy will be in its relationship between the body and truth.

“My body knew things my mouth and my mind couldn’t, or maybe wouldn’t, express. It knew that all over my neighborhood, boys were trained to harm girls in ways girls could never harm boys, straight kids were trained to harm queer kids in ways queer kids could never harm straight kids, men were trained to harm women in ways women could never harm men, parents were trained to harm children in ways children would never harm parents, babysitters were trained to harm kids in ways kids could never harm babysitters. My body knew white folk were trained to harm us in ways we could never harm them. I didn’t know how to tell you or anyone else the stories my body told me, but, like you, I knew how to run, deflect, and duck.” 

Body-knowledge will be a recurring idea in Heavy: the body understanding or admitting what the mind doesn’t want to. Here, Laymon can feel the rules of an oppressive culture before he can articulate them. It’s in part because this knowledge lives in Laymon’s body that the body is the place where he will later play out his shame and self-hatred.

“I don’t know why but beating you felt harmful. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. Knowing, or accepting I could beat you was enough for me. We both knew that game would be the last game we ever played no matter the score because we both knew, without saying it, you needed to not lose much more than I needed to win. When you made the last shot of the game, you celebrated, hugged my neck, told me good game, and held my hand.” 

Even as a child, Laymon understands the dynamics of his relationship with his mother. Here, he takes on a parental role, understanding that it’s his job to keep his mother safe from even the small indignity of losing a game to her child. The two of them collude to maintain a lie, but that lie is also founded on genuine love for each other.