I wanted someone in that restaurant to stand up and rescue me from the streets. I wanted someone to see a lovable, smart little boy who was hurting inside. I wanted to cry out, but I knew I couldn’t because I had vowed never to allow anyone to make or see me cry again. Deep down, I was ashamed of my own fear.
I left the restaurant and walked a couple of blocks, stopping at a phone booth on Kercherval. By the time I dialed my boss’s pager, I had convinced myself that anger was the only emotion I felt. There was no way I was going to tell Miko I was scared. I couldn’t let anyone in our crew know that the prospect of dying in a urine-soaked hallway didn’t sit well with my young mind.
Death wasn’t something I had bargained for when I decided to sell dope. I had thought about other things: the money I would make, and all of the clothes I could buy with it. I thought about being able to buy a Honda Elite 150 with a state-of-the-art stereo system. I thought about being able to buy happiness, love, and a safe place to lay my head, but I hadn’t thought about the other side of the bargain—the possibility that I could die or forfeit my freedom over a thousand-dollar bag of rocks.
Miko returned my call and told me to meet him back at the original spot on Marlborough and Jefferson, the large white house I had come to loathe. When I got there, the front door was ajar and the smell of decay poured out of every crack. The house had always made me uncomfortable, not in the least because the narcotics unit had made a daily routine of parking a couple of houses down. Some days, they were bold enough to pull directly in front of the spot.
The other reason I didn’t like the house on Marlborough was that it was unfit for human habitation. The paint was peeling, and the roof sagged as though it was ready to cave in. The bathtub was full of shit, piss, and dirty clothes. The toilet overflowed with wrappers from the nearby Coney Island, and roaches crawled across the floors and walls in droves. The whole scene was depressing, and the thick stench made me nauseous. In many ways, the house on Marlborough reflected the mentality of the people in the streets. Little did I know, this same sickness was soaking into my pores.
I was nervous as I sat on the porch waiting for Miko to arrive. The sound of rustling came from an overgrown grass lot next door, and I jumped up, ready to fight. But when I turned around, I saw that it was only a stray mutt foraging through the garbage for something to eat. As I calmed my nerves, my thoughts turned to the day I left my mother’s house and the chain of events that had brought me here.
—
MY PARENTS’ MARRIAGE deteriorated piece by piece, like an arthritic knee. They would separate and get back together, then separate and get back together again, each reunion giving me a glimmer of hope that things would go back to how they used to be. Their marriage had never been perfect, but our house had always been full of family, food, and great music, and I yearned for those days when my parents were together and happy.
The first time my mom and dad separated, they called me and my three sisters into the kitchen of our nicely kept brick home on Camden Street. I knew something was amiss, but my eleven-year-old mind was not prepared for the devastating news that would come.
When I was growing up, my parents argued like I imagined any other couple did. But they never berated each other, and their fights never turned physical. So when they announced that they were separating, it stunned us into silence.
“You know things haven’t been going that good between me and your father,” I recall my mother saying, her voice cracking as she spoke. “So we have decided that it’s best for us to separate.”
I looked at my father for an answer. The corner of his mouth trembled, and his eyes watered as he looked back at me. Then he spoke.
“Even though things aren’t working out between me and your mother, I will always be y’all father,” he said, fighting back tears.
I didn’t understand what they were talking about. Did separation mean that he would be sleeping on the couch like he did sometimes after they argued? Did it mean he would go and spend a couple of nights at his best friend Clark’s house, or come to live upstairs with us? Never did I consider the alternative: my father living in a house that wasn’t ours.
When he finally explained that he would be moving to a place in Highland Park that coming weekend, all kinds of thoughts began flowing through my young mind—thoughts about my father and all that he meant to our household. I thought about the holidays and how he would organize us kids to put up the Christmas tree. I thought about how he would give us an allowance every other Saturday so that we could go skating at Royal Skateland. I thought about the sound of him pulling into the driveway each night at approximately 11:45 p.m. when he got off of work.
I was scared. It was as though everything that symbolized family stability had been sucked out of the room. My mother explained that my sisters and I would spend the summer, winter break, holiday vacations, and weekends at my father’s, and we would go to school from her house. The words “her house” stuck in my mind, driving home the reality that our house was no longer “ours.” And without my father residing with us full-time, her house could never be the warm, loving home we had once shared.
My father called me to join him downstairs in the basement. As I walked down the steps, my thoughts turned to the many ways our home had changed over the years. I remembered watching my father and uncles hang paneling on the walls while my mother and aunts painted each room, the sounds of Parliament Funkadelic blaring throughout the house. Our home was family central, and every one of my aunts, uncles, and cousins had lived with us at some point. But after that day, our family would never be the same again.
We began packing, and my father outlined what my responsibilities would be, now that he was leaving. He told me that I would have to cut the grass and wash the car for my mother. He told me that I was responsible for my younger sisters, who were three and eight years old at the time, and that I had to maintain my honor-roll status at school. We packed some of his records into orange and blue milk crates, each album cover conjuring up visions of the house parties that my parents had thrown in our basement. As he rifled through records by the Isley Brothers, the Ohio Players, the O’Jays, and Marvin Gaye, I took in the images of Afros, platform shoes, and scantily clad women. I thought about my uncle John rousing me from my sleep so that I could come and dance to the sounds of seventies funk while my aunts and uncles cheered me on. The taste of Schlitz Malt Liquor came creeping back as I remembered how my uncle Chris or uncle Keith would sneak me a li’l sip to make sure I went right back to sleep when the dancing was over.
I looked at my father as he stared absently at one of the albums. I could sense that he was experiencing the same, deep feeling of sadness. When he looked back up, his eyes were red, and the tears began flowing freely. He hugged me tight and sobbed quietly. His beard scratched my face, the smell of his cologne drifting up my nose as his body heaved with the pain of seeing his family torn apart. We both cried, clinging tightly to each other.
Thinking back, those tears might be the best gift my father has ever given me. He showed me that real men cry, especially when they love deeply.
We packed and cried, and packed and cried, until the crying gave way to laughter and joking. When we were done in the basement, he assured me that he would always be there for me no matter what. To this day, he has never let me down.
—
OVER THE COURSE of the weekend, we moved my father’s belongings to his new home on Pasadena Street in Highland Park. It felt like closure, but little did I know that that weekend would mark the beginning of an emotional roller-coaster ride for our family. After being separated for a little over a year, my parents decided to get back together.
When my parents told us they were reuniting, I was overjoyed. I imagined life returning to normal, and at first, it did. But after a few months, I noticed that my father had begun sleeping on the couch, like he had done before the first time he and my mother separated. They would go days without speaking to each other, and the tender
kisses and affection that they had once displayed were replaced with empty stares.
My nights became restless. I stayed up late, waiting for my father to come home from work. I would listen intently when he entered the house, sometimes crawling from my bedroom into the hallway to peek down the stairs into our living room. I held my breath, hoping that instead of looking down to see my father asleep on the couch, I would find the couch empty. But night after night, I was disappointed to see him there, curled up in a ball beneath a blanket. I sensed it was only a matter of time before my parents would be breaking the bad news.
One day, I was playing football in the street with friends when my mother stepped onto the porch and called my name. I took a two-step drop-back, hurled the ball into the air, and yelled, “Terry Bradshaw!” I watched in awe as the ball spiraled down into the outstretched hands of my best friend, Steve, who cradled the cracked leather hide to his chest, ignored the stinging in his hands, and hollered “Lynn Swann!” as he slammed the ball to the ground. Like other kids on the playground, Steve and I believed we were destined for NFL greatness, and we would summon the names of the greats in hopes that it would make us play like them.
But now my mother was calling, and I sulked back to my house. How was I supposed to make it to the NFL if my mother kept breaking up my games to make me run errands? Didn’t she realize I needed to practice? But a little smile crept across my face as I realized she had seen me throw a perfect spiral.
When I entered the house, my mother was on her way upstairs to my bedroom, and my focus immediately shifted from football to my mother’s movements. Something was off—what was it? Maybe I was in trouble for leaving my room in a mess, or maybe the bathroom I shared with my sisters hadn’t been cleaned to her liking.
Her voice cascaded down the stairs as she called my name again. This was the melodious tone of voice that she usually reserved for special occasions, like when we had a house full of company, or when I brought home a good report card.
When I reached my room, she was standing with her back to me, looking at the walls where pictures of my sports heroes and dream cars were taped haphazardly. For a brief moment, I thought she was about to tell me to take them down. I couldn’t bear the thought of having to remove my posters of Tony Dorsett or the ’69 Cutlass 442. But when my mother turned to face me, tears clung to the corners of her eyes. She pulled me close to her, embracing me in a warm hug, and then inhaled deeply before beginning to speak.
“Pumpkin,” she said, using the nickname that my aunt Bebe had given me. “I want you to know, I will always love you no matter what happens. As you know, me and your father have been going through some problems, and we have decided that it’s best for us to separate again.”
I nodded my head to let her know that I understood, but as her words sank in, my heart began to crumble. I couldn’t believe my parents were separating again. They’d promised us that they had fixed things. I had noticed signs of trouble, but that didn’t make it any less painful.
And the bad news didn’t stop there. “You will have to move in with your father this time,” she continued. “I can no longer raise you. You are a young man now, and you will be better off living with your father.” With that, she turned away from me.
Those words shredded my heart. How could a mother give up her child? What was wrong with me that made her not want to keep me?
In that moment, I began erecting an emotional wall to protect me from my parents and any other intruder. I was done listening to them, done spending time with them, and done with letting them touch or talk to me. I was tired of being hurt and confused by two people I loved more than anything in the world.
—
MY PARENTS RECONCILED a second time a year later, but by then, a chasm had opened up between me and my mother. While living with my father, I started smoking cigarettes and developed a keen interest in girls. Because he worked all day, I was used to being on my own and doing what I wanted. I was fourteen now—no way was I going back to conforming to my mother’s strict rules.
The first weekend I returned home, I stayed out late at a friend’s party. The following morning my mother cursed me out. “Don’t bring your ass in my house again that late,” she yelled. “I’m not your father, and if you don’t like my rules, you can pack your shit and leave.”
Every chance I got, I defied my mother’s authority. It was my way of punishing her for rejecting me. My father tried to rein me in and support her in her efforts to bring me under control, but it was too late. I had developed an “I don’t give a fuck” attitude. The way I saw it, if I didn’t care about anything, nothing could hurt me.
My mother responded to this behavior by beating me. I remember her calling me into the bathroom one day when I came home from hanging out with my friends. “Why didn’t you put up the dishes like I told you?” she asked—and before I could form a full sentence in reply, she slapped me in my face so hard I could hear ringing in my ears. She then made me strip naked and began beating me with a thick leather belt until my legs and back were full of welts. Her eyes were wild with anger as she swung the belt wildly up and down, tearing into my flesh.
On Sundays, when we went to church, my mother told me to pray to Jesus, and he would answer all of my prayers. Sometimes it gave me hope that she would change if I prayed, but she never did.
It wasn’t long before I reached my breaking point. At fourteen, I felt I was too old to accept another ass whopping, and having grown physically stronger, I knew that it wouldn’t be long before I lost it and returned the favor for one of my mother’s physical assaults. She made a habit of reminding me that I could leave if I didn’t want to abide by her rules, so one day, I took her up on that offer and left.
Even as I was leaving, I hoped that she would stay up worrying about me like mothers do. I wanted her to go around the neighborhood, searching for me with tears in her eyes. I wanted her to care for my safety and well-being; I wanted her to hurt in the way that I hurt.
But that never happened, so I turned to the streets.
4
WAYNE COUNTY JAIL
Detroit, Michigan
August 1991
“Man, you ain’t gonna believe this shit.” My bunky turned to me, rolling a cigarette.
“What happened?” I asked, watching his methodical movements.
“This nigga in the bullpen raped a white boy this morning,” he said. He had a puzzled expression on his face, as if he was still trying to make sense of what he had seen.
“Who got raped?” Gigolo asked, approaching our cell door.
“Come on, I’ll tell y’all what went down,” my bunky replied. He exited the cell and led us to the dayroom, where he lit up a cigarette and sat on the table out front. “This morning when we went down to the bullpen to transfer, this nigga named Seven gave this white boy his cereal and donut. We didn’t think nothing of it until we seen Seven talking to him in the back of the bullpen,” he explained as he took another drag of his cigarette.
“What happened, dog?” a guy named Twin asked as he walked up to the table.
“Nigga got fucked in the butt in the bullpen,” someone said. This sent a trickle of nervous laughter around the room.
It was the first time most of us had come face-to-face with one of the most brutal facts of prison life. We sat there in silence as my bunky continued.
“First, Seven asked the white boy how he was going to pay him back for the cereal and donut he had eaten. The white boy told him he thought he had given him the food because he wasn’t hungry and couldn’t take it with him. He said it half-jokingly, which seemed to give Seven some kind of thrill. He moved in close to the white boy, massaging his dick, and said that he knew how the white boy could repay him.”
I could see my bunky getting uncomfortable, but he continued telling us what happened. “A few motherfuckers started making jokes about how nothing in prison was free. But I don’t think they realized how serious Seven was until he put the white boy in a cho
kehold.”
My bunky took the last puff of his cigarette, then thumped the butt across the dayroom.
“He choked the white boy until his face turned blue and he passed out. I never thought he would take it further than that,” he said with a distant look in his eyes. “But he did. He dropped the white boy on the floor, rolled him onto his stomach, and pulled down his pants.
“He didn’t give a fuck that we were all sitting there,” my bunky said, shaking his head. “He pulled his pants down and started fucking the guy.”
“That’s fucked up,” Gigolo said.
“Why y’all ain’t stop the nigga?” someone asked.
“What the fuck you mean, why we didn’t stop him? Nigga, you know the rules to this shit,” my bunky responded angrily.
“Yeah, fool, you know the rules to this shit,” Gigolo said in my bunky’s defense. “Mind your motherfucking business.”
“What the deputies do?”
“I think they were as shocked as we were. They couldn’t believe he was raping the guy in front of us like there was nothing wrong with it. And the worst part is, the white boy was only going to boot camp.”
“That’s fucked up,” Twin said. “He should sue these slimy motherfuckers for putting him in the bullpen with that crazy nigga in the first place.”
I listened for a little while longer before returning to my cell to think. I had only been in the county jail for two weeks, but I had already learned a great deal. I thought about what it would be like to live the rest of my life around men who were capable of raping another human over something as insignificant as a bowl of cereal or a cigarette. I thought about the psychological breaking point that men in prison reach, and I wondered what kind of mental pressure it would take for me to become a savage, capable of the most reprehensible acts of violence and depravity.
Writing My Wrongs Page 3
