A Moment of Silence: Midnight III

by Sister Souljah

  “Only God is perfect. Men are not. Women are not. Praise God, not your self. Not your woman. Not your man. Fight your enemies. Not your friends. Not your family. Not your people.

  “Handle your business! Every man knows that every man has to do that. Where my hustlers at?” she asked, and most of the men acknowledged, “We right here!” Then she stripped them. “You are loved. You got the right skills but the wrong product. You got the right look, young, fine, and fashionable. You got the cars, the jewels, and the women. You got the strong team, but the wrong target, made the wrong investment and created the wrong results. Men must build more than they destroy,” and the Five Percent were cheering, even the ones who hustled.

  “Where my pimps at?” she suddenly said, and the men who were normally good at game and sharp and slick failed to peep her next setup. They acknowledged, “We right here!” She turned a little and leaned forward. “You pimping her. Whose pimping you? You dress her up and throw her out on the block or the club or behind the building to spread her legs for paper. Now, whose dressing you up and forcing you to spread your legs for paper? The prison system in America, cheap forced labor. They dress you up in these odd striped jumpers, green jumpers, orange jumpers and orange hats. They make you spread your legs and raise your hands and shut your mouth and spread your cheeks and get out there and work the whole day for them every day. You earn less than a ho on the stroll.” And the place exploded. Some COs broke their stance and laughed.

  “The real pimps are in the government and the corporations. Sometimes, they’re one in the same. They’re collecting the money you earned and not giving you your cut. Check the labels. At least know whose getting paid off of you. Who got the contract to build these prisons? Who got the contract for the heavy machinery, the prison vehicles, the prison weapons, the prison furniture, the prison inventory? Who made those prison jumpers you’re forced to wear? Who got the contract for the horrible food they serve you? Who made your bedsheets? Check the labels! See if I am lying to you.

  “You were supposed to be our army! But the only ones you fighting is yourselves. Men divided by race, culture, faith, and language, all getting pimped by the same politicians, the same entities. All cooperating with the same scam. Look around the room.” The men began checking their surroundings. “All blacks and Latinos, Latinos and blacks. All Africans and Latinos, Latinos and Africans. All African men!”

  “Even the African and Latino COs are caught up in the color scheme,” she said, and the room went to a hush. “They think you’re the enemy. You think they’re the enemy. They got the same problems you got. They think you’re the product. They got the wrong product. But both groups are getting pimped by the same true pimps. CO can’t pay his rent same as you.” And the crowd cheered. “CO can’t handle his women, same as you. CO can’t afford his child support, same as you. CO can’t afford the car he’s driving, same as you. You’re locked up now. CO is locked up in here, right with you!” It was fire on top of fire and it was spreading across the room, igniting everything. Then she softened her tone and dropped her convo back into the realm of the personal.

  “I am nothing but a warner. I am nothing but a reminder, a woman. The same woman who will care for your babies. The same babies, not born from my womb. The same woman who will raise your daughters and sons to be better men and women than any of us have ever been. I don’t hate your women. But I can teach them how to love you. How to get their minds and hearts right. How to see you in a better light. But, in order to do that, you have to be a better man. I love the black man, but I need a better product, a purer cut, a finer grain.”

  At that point, I observed cold-blooded killers, niggas who had two, three, four bodies on their charges. Men who got nabbed with kilos of cocaine and a truckload of weed. Men who ran guns and pimped women and committed armed robberies and even raped were on their feet with fists pumping in the air, with total loss of composure, and cheering like they were at the horse track or an auction or the strip club, but louder and stronger, and not from the groin but from their hearts.

  “I’m calling for a complete humbling of every man and every woman. I am even calling for the humbling of myself. I am not your bitch! But, if I was, and even if I ever used to be, I am not anymore. And, I wouldn’t be dumb enough to be bragging about it if I was. Arrogant and proud and flaunting it. I wouldn’t be parading around standing in front of audiences, acting like I didn’t know better, didn’t plot and scheme to do it, and didn’t get nothing out of it. Lying bitches. Fake bitches,” and I saw a hard rock cry. “If I was your bitch before, I’d be correcting myself now.

  “Work hard! Strive hard! Fight hard! Love hard! Man and woman, woman and man, let’s build a nation where we can thrive. Where the police don’t reign supreme and the slaughter of our children isn’t sport. Where white is just one shade of skin without melanin, not to be worshipped or imitated or served.

  “In the words of Marcus Garvey, ‘One God, One Aim, One Destiny.’ In the words of Malcolm X, ‘By Any Means Necessary.’ In the words of Harriet Tubman, ‘Freedom or death.’ Peace.” She took a bow.

  She tried to catch her breath as she and every man in the room recovered from something that couldn’t be described. A bond that couldn’t be broken. A woman who could never be forgotten. Words that would revolve around the minds of the oldest men, and even around the brains of the most ignorant men, and even within the youngest and darkest of souls. Young, I knew her words would stay with me. I felt I would somehow see her again, in another time, in a better place.

  From the back row where I stood, I remained calm and still, even though I was moved. I see these men every day. I watched her instead. She was wearing jeans and a long-sleeve “in the summer” T-shirt that said LOVE. She was covered. It didn’t matter, though. Her shape was crazy. She wore pumps, not kicks. She was camouflaged so well, she looked like she wasn’t. She looked like a pretty ’hood chick without the glaze or glamour or attitude. Feminine feeling, without any confusion, she looked soft. Her teeth were white and her smile was warm, like she meant it.

  Bold, her mouth was a machine gun. Her tongue, a machete. There was nothing about her physical look or her ordinary fashion that would give anyone a warning of what she would say or do. She’s a powerful bomb, I thought. A bomb with a silencer, no tick or buzz or boom, no red light or alarm to alert people to stay away, don’t touch or tease or insult her. She would detonate.

  I asked myself, what exactly is the feeling she caused me to feel? It wasn’t sexual, although she was lovely enough. It wasn’t danger, although she was deadly enough. I wasn’t challenged, although she was sharp enough. It was that even though she said she was not naïve, and even though she spoke as though she was not innocent, and even though she said she was a fighter, she was naïve enough to enter a filthy place, be surrounded by hundreds of men, and feel no fear or sense of personal threat. She wore those tight jeans as though she wasn’t standing before a herd of hungry, starved beasts, and as though she would not possibly be looked upon as food or prey. She was still a woman to me, ruled by emotion. And I felt a strong feeling, and the urge to protect her.

  They ushered her out. She looked like she wanted to stay. She reached her hand through the guards and touched the hand of every prisoner who was close enough to reach in. Soon as she was gone, all masks came off. The guards turned back into hate and the inmates turned back into the hated and vice versa.

  In our darkened cells, men hugged and held the bars. Through the open spaces and the vents, the conversation began.

  “Word to mother, I’m speechless.”

  “Yo, DeQuan, thanks for the hookup.”

  “We should have her speak at the Parliament.”

  “Nix that, she might influence the Earths.”

  “I hope she does.”

  “Might be better to leave it the way it is.”

  “Y’all scared of her.”

  “Non cypher.”

  “Yo, god Understanding, I seen you shed a
tear.”

  “Who got her address? I’m ’bout to write her a letter.”

  “She got no time for that.”

  “Man, shut the fuck up.”

  “I’m ’bout to wife her.”

  “She don’t want you.”

  “She got high standards.”

  “Yeah, but she ain’t no gold digger. She’s low maintenance.”

  “She’s a soldier,” DeQuan said. “The Minister put out a word of protection on her so the streets don’t touch her. Go at her the wrong way, you lose your life.”

  “That’s how it should be,” I said.

  “What minister?”

  “You know, the only one who matters.”

  * * *

  By the end of the week, the vibe flipped. The topic changed. Lavidicus’s wedding in the youth house happened smoothly. However, his mom got arrested trying to bring in contraband. Now she’s locked up in the Rose M. Singer Center, the Rikers maximum security jail for women. DeQuan lost a mule. Lavidicus lost a mother.

  Bryan Jones, the Community Relations counselor who allowed DeQuan to plan events and host speakers, was gone. Word was he was fired, but no explanation was offered to the inmates he counseled or the community relations he formed. I believed he got fired for bringing that bomb into the jail and letting her detonate. Same as Teacher Karim Ali, mysteriously disappeared for teaching American history in a manner where students were actually interested and participating. Same as I was boxed for praying. It’s crazy once you realize that even when you are trying to do good and be true, even when you are walking within the legal limits, you are still being stalked and hunted and fired upon. A number of COs got transferred to different houses and had to start all over again. Inmates got shifted and shipped out and cells changed. It was a shake-up that no one admitted was happening. The unspoken truth: no one wanted us to learn or grow or change. They needed us to remain in physical stagnation and bondage and in a criminal state of mind.

  31. THE UNKNOWN

  “Pack your things,” an unfamiliar CO ordered me. Then he handed me a Department of Corrections–issued heavy coat, hat, and boots. So I knew I was going to a very cold place. It wasn’t charity or concern for me that caused them to make it possible for me to dress warmly. I knew by now that to them, I am just a body, a number in their cheap labor system, which they fronted off as a network of facilities where men are “corrected.” They need me to stay alive and healthy enough for them to capitalize off of me. The DOC uniform and winter wear was just a means to an end.

  I was handed some folded paperwork. Just as I opened it to read, the unfamiliar CO said, “You have to move now. You will have plenty of time to read in the truck.” He stood in my cell as I got dressed in the outerwear items he gave me.

  I was suspicious, though. The maximum amount of time an inmate could remain at Rikers was two years. I had served seventeen months, seven of which was no longer as an accused youth offender, but as a convict. I was told that I’d be shipped, flown, or trucked out as soon as there was a bed available for me in the prison system. I wasn’t in a hurry, but did notice that DeQuan and many of the men in his crew were moved out swiftly, immediately following their convictions.

  Why were they moving me now, on New Year’s Eve in 1987? In less than twenty-four hours, it would be 1988, Insha’Allah. Everyone in the world knows that New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day is a huge holiday. Even the COs I was used to seeing on a daily basis were not working their usual evening shift. They were replaced by unfamiliar faces, COs who probably signed up to grab that overtime holiday paper, and do a double or double triple like the she-officer used to do.

  I checked myself. No need to get suddenly sentimental. No reason to say goodbye to CO Williams, who made an effort to treat us decently or the other COs who would normally be cuffing and uncuffing us, escorting us around, rationing out small items we needed like towels and toilet paper, or forcing us down to the floor, spraying us with mace and then placing a heavy boot on our backs.

  As I packed my few items, my mind switched. Tomorrow is my first wife’s birthday. She will be eighteen years young. I began imagining and desiring and wondering. I shut it all down swiftly. I knew thoughts of the future are forbidden to me while incarcerated. For the sake of my sanity, I am only allowed memories, past or present tense. Thoughts of the future were a form of self-torture. I avoid it. I refuse it.

  My few things were dropped into a cheap sack and tied at the top, including my heavy boots, I walked out wearing my Jordans, the same way I had arrived at Rikers at first. The fact that I still had them on my feet was a sign to every man locked and a sign to me also. I was cuffed and controlled, confined and commanded. However, no man could snatch me out of my kicks. In that Brooklyn way, I was undefeated.

  My cell door slammed shut. The guy I shared the tiny space with said, “Fuck you, nigga. I hope your next cell mate is a six-hundred-pound faggot.” I smiled. It was the first time he had the audacity to speak directly to me. Coward knew I wasn’t ever coming back.

  CO cuffed my wrists, cuffed my ankles, and dropped the chain that connected my hands to my feet. As I walked the tier, it felt like a trail of tears. Men who I was forced to know, who were forced to know me, men who I had made the prayer with before dawn and before the count, and during the holy month of Ramadan. Men who I had pumped weights with, worked out and shot hoops with, read books with, taught or learned from, shared words with, were at their locked cell doors calling through the slot.

  “A’ight Black, stay strong!”

  “See you on the other side.”

  “Respect.”

  “Mantente fuerte.”

  “Happy New Year.”

  “Let us know where you at.”

  “No dejes que te vengas abajo.”

  “Drop a line.”

  “Float a kite.”

  “Watch your back.”

  “Protect your neck.”

  “Allah uh Akbar.”

  “Hasta que nos encontremos de nuevo, mi amigo.”

  “A luta continua.”

  “Brooklyn all day, motherfucker!”

  * * *

  A blast of cold air rushed my face when the heavy doors drew open. There were only twelve steps in between where I stood and the DOC truck. Still I was able to steal a glance into the night sky, which I had not seen from outdoors since being jailed. In the darkness of the winter early sunsets and long nights, the razor wire raised up high on the fencing was the only thing shining. Instead of stars, there was only the momentary sweeping of the searchlight surveilling any unauthorized movement. Snipers were in their towers. It seemed even the moon was hiding out. After a series of baby steps, I got in. On a steel bench I was chained and seated in the dark. The truck door slammed shut and was bolted, no windows. Yeah right, plenty of time to read my paperwork. It was pitch-black. I couldn’t even see my own hand. I was the only man besides the driver who was gated up front in the vehicle. On the bus that first brought me up to Rikers, we were like a herd of cattle beefed up for slaughter. There had been many men, and windows we could see out of so that we were clear what we were missing, leaving behind and losing. I didn’t trust the fact that now there was only me. If anything went wrong, there would be no witness. Or at least there would be no one to explain from my perspective. Whatever the driver alleged would be considered law. It didn’t matter, I told myself. I’m not planning to assault him or to escape. I had no interest in becoming a man permanently on the run, a fugitive. Someone they gunned down on some deserted highway or tracked through some wooded area or swamp. I’d serve my time and be done with it. Just then, I heard the passenger door of the truck open and then slam shut. When the guard slid the slot open to check on me, I checked also, and confirmed that a second DOC driver was now riding shotgun. Two of them, one of me, I noted.

  Riding off of the Rikers jail complex property, I could feel the truck pull over the bridge and the truck engine moan. What lay ahead was unknown to me.

 
Butch Broadcast’s words began streaming through my mind. “They gon’ do what they do regardless. Once they ship you out of Rikers, you gon’ encounter some big, ugly, hateful white boys. They gone be everywhere, their arms as big as your legs. They Ku Klux Klan. They hate the black man. You gon’ feel that hatred instantly. So thick you can choke on it. They don’t only hate the blacks. They hate anybody with a drop of melanin, any kind of color in them. They shave your head with hatred. They’ll grab your balls, shove their fingers in your mouth, choking you with hatred. Say they looking for something they ain’t really looking for. They nasty. You gon’ find out. They’ll spread your cheeks and drill in your asshole with fingers, with mop sticks, with erect dicks ’cause they can, and ’cause they want to, and ’cause they hateful and jealous of you.”

  In a one-on-one conversation with him once on the yard, I asked him if he minded if I asked him a question. He replied, “Go ahead. You so quiet, I thought maybe you knew everything already.”

  “Nah, that’s not it. But I see from your jail number that you first got knocked a long time ago. I’m not asking you what they accused you of or convicted you for. I’m just curious, if a man does time in all of the prisons you say you done time in, what makes that man keep coming back?” He just looked at me.

  “Every time I got arrested and tried and convicted, then served my time and got released, I said to myself and to anybody who would listen, ‘I’m never coming back. Never gonna do time, never gonna get locked up again. But, turned out, everything I do is illegal. If I’m just sitting on my porch, cops roll by eyeballing me like there’s something wrong with that. I’m like damn, this is my mother’s house! Fuck it, if I stand up, they watching me ’cause according to them, I must be ’bout to do something wrong. If I walk down the street, the cruiser’s slowly rolling up behind me. They lower the window, ask me a stupid question like, ‘Butch, what you doing out here?’ I turns arounds slowly, knowing if I turn too quick they gon’ gun me down. I gives them the answer they already know: ‘I live right there.’ Seems my answer was illegal cause they calling me a smart-ass, jumping out the cop car telling me to spread my legs and put my hands on the car. Next thing I know, I’m in the back of the car with my hands cuffed behind my back for resisting arrest. I gets to the station, they booking and beating me. They release me after a while. I goes back home. My mother say, ‘Butch, where you been?’ She looking at me all suspicious. I calls my old lady, figure she’ll help me to relax. She starts giving me the third degree. I hangs up. I go to sit in the garage. My father’s already setting in there. He tells me, ‘Boy when you gon’ get a job?’ But he ain’t got no job and ain’t had one in years. I wants to get a job, but I figure soon as I walk outside, the whole story starts at the beginning again, and it does. Small town works that way. I gets a job at the car wash, or washing and buffing cars at the local car dealer or the gas station. Here comes the police rolling through asking my boss, ‘What you got Butch up here for?’ Boss starts looking at me sideways. I ain’t done nothing but been wiping down cars all day for little tips. Couple of days later he finds a reason to fire me. I’m walking back home. Cops rolling up behind me, asking, ‘What you got in your hand?’ I don’t say nothing. They could see it’s my beer. ‘You supposed to have that in a brown bag,’ they says. ‘It is in a brown bag,’ I tell ’em. ‘Then how come we can see it’s a Colt 45 that you drinking?’ Then I says, if you could see dat, why you ask me what I got in my hand?’ ” Butch threw his hands in the air. “That’s how I became Butch Broadcast. Now instead of me waiting to be questioned by my mother, questioned by my old lady, my pops, the police, the judge, the parole officer, I just always say out loud what I’m doing, what I see, where I’m going, where I been, what’s happening and what happened. People think I’m doing it for them. Really, I’m just reminding myself. I gotta remind myself. Otherwise, everybody will have me thinking and believing that I actually am a criminal, who did something wrong.”