Before Rameck and I left to begin medical school, the two of us and George visited Carla at her office to give her some pictures we had taken during our college graduation ceremony. She opened her purse and stuck the photos inside without paying much attention to where they landed. When she made it home, she took out her purse to look at the pictures again. She realized then that she had placed them inside the small burgundy leather Bible she carries with her. The pictures had landed on the Thirty-first Psalm, which ends this way:
O love the Lord, all ye his saints: for the Lord preserveth the faithful, and plentifully rewardeth the proud doer.
Be of good courage, and he shall strengthen your heart, all ye that hope in the Lord.
She took that as a sign. The good Lord would protect and keep us the rest of the way. Then, as my mother had done so many years earlier with the curly black braids she retrieved from the barber’s floor after my first haircut, Carla placed the graduation photos back inside her Bible and closed it.
She has kept us in there ever since.
10
A DIFFERENT WORLD
Rameck
MY FRESHMAN YEAR at Seton Hall was like living in a foreign country where few people looked like me or spoke my language. And the trouble started right away.
I had been on campus just half a semester when I invited my stepbrother Michael to visit me. I called him my stepbrother, but he was really the son of my father’s longtime girlfriend. Michael had dropped out of high school, and I hoped that exposing him to college life would encourage him to return. In elementary school he had been a smart kid who made straight A’s, wore glasses, and loved to read. The kids at school, in his neighborhood, and even in his family had called him a nerd and teased him mercilessly. I teased him, too. But as we got older, I felt bad for him. I knew he was a good guy, and I could see the teasing was really bothering him. His grades fell. He began hanging out with troublemakers and eventually just stopped going to school. He began working out in the gym and transformed his once-scrawny frame into muscles and mass. Before long, he was getting into trouble, too.
He accepted the invitation to visit me at Seton Hall, and he brought one of his cousins and another friend with him. They ran wild on campus all day. About one o’clock the next morning they were still at it, making too much noise in Bolden Hall, the freshman dormitory where I lived. I was afraid they would get us all into trouble, so I confronted Michael in the hall outside my room on the third floor. He accused me of making a big deal out of nothing. My temper blew, and we began arguing loudly, as though we were about to fight. A crowd of students gathered around us, ready to watch some kind of showdown. All of a sudden, I looked up and saw a bunch of white faces staring at us. I felt ashamed. We were a spectacle, confirming white folks’ worst stereotypes.
Most of my encounters with white folks at that point in my life had been negative: white sales clerks following me through stores on shopping trips to the mall, white police officers stopping and harassing me on the streets of my neighborhood, white passengers holding on to their purses a bit tighter on the train when I passed them. To the average white stranger, I was an instant security threat, a thug, an object to be loathed or feared, not a human being with a heart and dreams and family and fears. I resented the stereotype.
But instead of calming myself down, I turned my anger on the crowd.
“Why don’t y’all get away from here,” I shouted. “We’re just having a little disagreement. This ain’t nothing for y’all. We ain’t no spectacle.”
The crowd dispersed, all but two white guys, who continued to stare. One of them wore an arrogant smirk.
“Y’all didn’t hear what I said,” I yelled. “I said, ‘Leave’!”
The one with the smirk stood his ground.
“Well, we live on this floor, too. We pay tuition, too, and we don’t have to go anywhere.”
My anger rose another notch.
“What did you say?” I asked, feigning disbelief, staring him dead in his eyes, trying to intimidate him to back down.
He repeated himself, full of that righteous, white-boy attitude.
Now my stepbrother and his boys were looking at me as if to say, “Man, this white boy is getting the best of you. What you gonna do?” If I did nothing, I’d look like a punk.
I walked over to him and stood chest to chest.
“Look, I’m counting to three. If you don’t leave, you gonna wish you had.”
The white boy chuckled a bit in my face, then turned to his partner.
“He’s trying to threaten us. Humph, like I really care.”
I couldn’t believe this white boy was disrespecting me. Mind you, he was right. He had as much claim to the hallway space as I had, and I had no business ordering him to his room. But my mind was too filled with anger to accept a rational thought. All I saw was an arrogant white boy trying to put me in my place.
I slowly counted to three. The white boy didn’t move.
With a strength that belied my small frame, I grabbed him simultaneously by his collar and his crotch, raised him over my head, and dropped him. He slammed to the floor, head first. His neck bent in an odd way, and his body fell limp.
Fear replaced my anger. For a few seconds, all I could hear was my heart thumping wildly. I thought I had paralyzed or killed the guy.
Suddenly, he moved.
I exhaled.
But with my stepbrother and his boys watching, I couldn’t drop my tough-guy demeanor.
“Now, get up,” I commanded.
The boy was silent. His friend helped him up, and he limped away.
I turned and walked past my stepbrother and his boys to my room. I fell on my bed. Sam was out that night, and George was across the hall in his suite. I lay in my room alone, thinking to myself over and over: Man, what have you done? What have you gotten yourself into now?
About four A.M., loud banging on the door of my suite broke my sleep.
“South Orange Police,” a voice yelled from the other side.
They had come for me. I resigned myself to what was sure to happen next. The white boy would press charges against me. I would get kicked out of school. And for what? Because the white boy didn’t leave when I told him to leave? I was wrong, and I knew it. I just hadn’t been thinking about the consequences. On the streets where I grew up, you didn’t worry about consequences. If someone disrespected you, you beat his ass. Period.
From the time I was a little boy, my mother had warned me never to come home crying because I was scared to fight back when someone picked on me.
“If you don’t beat his ass, don’t come home crying,” she said. “If you do, I’m gonna beat your ass. Either way, you get an ass-whuppin’. So, who do you want it from?”
I opened the door to my suite and followed the officers to a small room downstairs. The dormitory director was there with the boy and his parents.
“Is this the guy?” the officer asked, pointing at me.
“Yes, that’s him,” the boy responded.
“Do you want to press charges?” the officer asked, seeming much too eager.
The boy didn’t respond. His mother looked at me. I expected anger, but there was none.
“No, we don’t want to press charges against him,” she said softly. “That’s okay.”
I looked at her with eyes that asked: “You don’t?” I figured that’s what they had come to do. Maybe she knew I would get kicked out of school if she pressed charges, and she didn’t want to ruin my life. I don’t know. But now the officer was telling me I was free to go. I wanted to thank her, but I was too shocked to speak.
Her decision didn’t end the matter, though. Because the incident had occurred on campus, I was summoned to appear before a board of university administrators who would decide my fate.
The next day, my two white suitemates approached me. Sam and I had been cordial to them, but we mostly kept our distance. They said they had heard what happened and wanted to know if there was anyth
ing they could do to help. One of them said his father was a lawyer and could represent me if I needed help. I thanked him for such a kind gesture, but I didn’t really need an attorney.
On the day of the hearing, I walked into the room, and about a half dozen administrators, mostly white men, sat around a long wooden table. One of them, a priest with deep blue eyes and white hair, looked particularly sinister. The white boy was there with his foot in a cast. His foot had slammed to the ground with such force that a bone had snapped. I was sure the administrators, after taking one look at him, would kick me out of school no matter what I had to say.
They called me to testify. I explained what had happened and apologized to the guy I had hurt. I truly regretted what I had done. I presented supportive letters from one of my professors and Carla Dickson, who pleaded for mercy on my behalf. The administrators conferred with one another and announced their decision. They would give me another chance. They put me on probation for six months. If I got into any more trouble during that time, I would be expelled immediately.
Silently, I thanked God.
The mother’s decision not to press charges against me had probably influenced the board. The compassion she displayed touches me still. It challenged the deep distrust I felt at the time toward white folks. How could I continue to feel that way when this mother, who had every right to be angry that I had hurt her son, chose compassion instead? And when the administrators, who would have been justified in kicking me out, chose mercy? And when my suitemates, whom I had avoided most of the time, offered their help? I was, like, “Wow, there are some really cool white people in the world.”
I recognized that I needed to change. If I let my best friends down and blew this opportunity to get a college education, I could blame no one but myself. I prayed to God:
“Lord, I know I got to get my act together ’cause sooner or later you’re gonna stop looking out for me.”
I’m glad God is patient, because before the end of my freshman year, I wound up in trouble again.
Sam and I were in the room studying one day when some guys I knew stopped by for a visit. They were all dressed in Seton Hall sweatshirts and pants, and they bragged about how easy it was to steal them from the campus bookstore. I knew security in the store was lax, because earlier that year I had stolen a textbook I needed for class. I had run out of money, couldn’t call home for help, and was feeling desperate. This time, greed was the motivation.
I walked alone to the bookstore in the basement of one of the lecture halls and went straight to the rack where the sweatshirts were hanging. The store was empty except for the sales clerk behind the counter. There were a bunch of empty hangers, and one large sweatshirt left. I scanned the store quickly with my eyes to make sure no one was watching me. Then I slipped the sweatshirt off the rack, stuck it under my shirt, and casually browsed around the store for several minutes. I thought about buying a pen or something cheap to lessen any possible suspicion, but I changed my mind at the last minute. As I passed the front counter on my way out, I felt the eyes of the sales clerk on me.
“Excuse me,” he said in the most nasal, annoying tone. “What do you have under your shirt?”
“What are you talking about?” I responded, trying to sound offended.
“You have to come with me,” he said.
I couldn’t believe that this sales clerk, just another student, was challenging me. I took off running.
“Hey, come back here,” I thought I heard him say.
I dashed up the basement steps and toward an open field. I was sure I had gotten away. But when I glanced behind me, I was shocked to see the clerk, a tall guy with long, lanky legs, following my trail. I pumped my legs harder, but I was quickly running out of breath. I made it to President’s Hall, the administration building, pulled out the sweatshirt, and stashed it behind some bushes. At least if I got caught, I wouldn’t have the stolen merchandise on me.
I took off running again toward Bolden Hall. I glanced back, and the clerk was still chasing me. After about ten minutes of running at full speed, I made it to my dorm. Another student was swiping his identification card to open the electronic doors. I rushed in behind him and ran down the hall to a friend’s room. When she opened her door, I burst in and closed the door quickly behind me.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, startled.
I said I’d tell her later and asked if I could just sit for a while.
I was too scared even to talk anymore. Sweat dripped from my face like rain. I sat at my friend’s desk, closed my eyes, and cradled my head in my hands. My conscience whipped me. I was still on probation. If the sales clerk found me, I would be kicked out of Seton Hall for sure. I had gambled with my future for a lousy sweatshirt. How could I be so stupid? There would be no more chances. Sam and George would have to go on without me.
I kept waiting for the knock on the door. The clerk had chased me this far, I didn’t think he would give up until he nabbed me. Surely someone had seen me slip into my friend’s room.
Forty-five minutes passed. I sent my friend into the hall to see if anyone was searching for me. Several people told her that a guy from the bookstore had been walking up and down the halls asking residents if they had seen anyone who fit my description. But he was gone. The hall was quiet.
I needed some fresh air. I also still wanted that sweatshirt. Part of me felt—crazily—justified in trying to keep it since I had gone through such trouble to get it. I walked outside and headed back across the field to President’s Hall. My stash was gone. The sales clerk must have found it and taken it back to the store.
As I walked back to my dorm, I got the feeling that I had just used my last chance. My mind quickly crowded with thoughts. I couldn’t keep risking everything. College was different from anything I had ever known, but I could get so much out of it if I just tried. I was making good grades, which meant I was smart enough to be here. All I had to do was stay out of trouble. If I got kicked out of college, where would I go? Back to Ma’s house? That would surely break her heart. And what would happen to Sam and George?
I thought about my old friends in Plainfield. Of the ten of us, only three had even graduated from high school. And I was the only one in college. The walk back to my dorm seemed to take forever. But I’m certain I grew up that day.
I finally realized that if I wanted to change my life, I had to act differently. I stopped stealing. I worked extra hours. One summer I even got a second job to help buy my books, school supplies, and personal items. Sam, George, and I borrowed from one another. And when that still wasn’t enough, I just did without things I needed or wanted.
When I told Sam and George what had happened, we laughed it off. Sam never said, “I told you so,” though he had chosen to stay in the room when I left for the bookstore. By watching him and George, I began to see that I didn’t have to act so tough to be cool, and I tried harder to control my temper.
I can’t say I was successful right away. I got into more fights, and I blew up more times than I would have liked. But with time and a conscious effort to think about the consequences before I responded, I slowly evolved into a different person.
I rarely took time to read anything other than books assigned for class. But at a book sale my freshman year, one provocative title caught my eye: Countering the Conspiracy to Destroy Black Boys.
I bought the book. When I read it, I saw myself for the first time.
I didn’t realize then that the same book had inspired Carla, my college counselor. In it, Jawanza Kunjufu explains that many black boys turn to the streets to learn how to become men because they don’t have fathers at home and no one steps in to fill the void. He discusses the importance of reaching black boys before they are hardened by the ways of the street and build a rap sheet the length of a football field.
I knew firsthand that he was right, and I immediately wanted to help.
All my life I had been taught that black folks have a responsibility to help one another
out. I heard it when I followed my uncles to gatherings of the Nation of Islam. And Bill, the owner of the barbershop where I worked as a teenager, preached the same message.
Bill owned a small, three-chair shop that sat on Front Street, across from the Anchor Bar, the corner store, and Steve’s Record Shop. He was in his forties when I worked for him, and he fit the mold of the stereotypical barber: opinionated and quick to dispense advice. He and the other barbers kept the place packed with men of all ages who seemed to enjoy sitting around debating the issues of the day as much as getting a haircut. The men engaged in typical barbershop banter about sports, women, and politics. But when the crowd left and Bill and I prepared the shop for closing, I’d sweep up puddles of hair while Bill sat in his chair and pitched questions my way: Why did I think people in the neighborhood were so poor? What could I do to help? What did I think about God? What did the schools teach me about George Washington? Did I know he owned slaves?
I was just thirteen, but Bill pushed me to question things and to think about issues I hadn’t considered before. In high school I even envisioned myself as an activist. But I never saw the dichotomy of that side of myself and the other side that stayed in trouble and did harmful things to people. I didn’t think I was a bad person, but I kept doing bad things.
When I read Kunjufu’s book, I began to see myself more clearly, and I tried harder to change. I’ve always been a hyper, energetic person, so as soon as I read the book I immediately wanted to act. I came up with an idea to start a mentoring program for kids in poor neighborhoods. I went to Sam and George. The three of us started brainstorming. We could recruit other volunteers, identify schools in Newark, and become mentors to the students there. We could even sponsor bus trips to bring students to Seton Hall so they could see a college campus, perhaps for the first time.
The Pact Page 11
