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This was life for the Brooks children: Michael, the eldest; his sister Ri Ri, a year-and-a-half younger; and Aleta, eight years younger, the baby of the family. They didn’t like it, Aleta said, but they didn’t grapple with it. Any suggestion otherwise practically offended them. After their parents divorced and their father moved out, the three children watched their mother work her way up from teller to assistant manager at a local bank, saving what she could to put them through Catholic school, instilling in them the parallel beliefs that they would always look for the best in people while they lived under her roof and that they could make their own judgments and choices once they were old enough.Besides, if the cruel words of outsiders cut Michael too deeply, there was always that decaying hoop and backboard nailed to a light pole at the corner of 58th and Willows Avenue.“And I have one that’s on behalf of myself,” he said.
More than anyone else, she had provided depth, dimension, and color to Johnson-Brooks’ image of his father.She explained her brother, accounted for him, excused him, protected him, devoted herself to the preservation of his good name. to understand his father and, ultimately, to forgive him.