by Jason Lee
My mind drifted back to that night and I thought of all the ways that Rodney could have still been here. What if I just stayed with him when all the shooting happened? What if I had just talked with him while he drank his Sprite? Shit, what if we had gone somewhere different altogether? I was overwhelmed again and felt like I needed to get myself together. I couldn’t change the past, but I could impact the future. I was going to testify and recall every minute detail in order to put Samima away.
As I entered the courtroom, I saw what seemed to be everyone I had ever known. Community leaders, pastors, gangstas, niggas who fucked with Rodney—niggas who didn’t. I didn’t know if people were there to get justice for Rodney or if they were there to be nosy and get all the tea on the trial. Then I saw my brothers and my nerves calmed a little. We were going to get through this, and we had each other. My father was there, but I didn’t really acknowledge him. He had been shitting on Rodney since he died, so I really didn’t want to fuck with him. I sat in the area where I would be called up to testify, and in any other situation, I would have felt like a snitch. Had it been anyone else who was murdered, I probably would have been deemed one by the hood, but because of the clout and respect that Rodney had, we all wanted everyone who was responsible for his death to get their just due.
As a matter of fact, people were taking justice into their own hands. Rodney was so important to our community and so well-respected that people were really angry. People wanted to kill Samima and were attempting to put hits out on her in prison. I was really cool with Samima’s boyfriend, Filthy Phil, who, by the way, was one of the first people I took down to “Living Single” to meet Queen Latifah. Because it was his gun that Samima used to kill Rodney, the whole community was trying to kill him, too. They were beating him—someone stomped his face until his eye popped out of the socket. He had a rough time after Rodney died just because of his association with Samima.
***
Samima entered the courtroom shackled and dejected. People started to yell and curse at her, but the judge was quick to restore order and begin the hearing. They read off a bunch of charges and legal disclaimers—it wasn’t how I thought court was going to go. I thought it was going to be like TV when the prosecutor would get super emotional, point at the defendant, and accuse him or her of being guilty of every crime of which they had been charged. It was very humdrum: there were no outbursts and no inflated voices. It was straight to the point. I don’t know what type of deal Samima’s attorney arranged, but she pleaded guilty. That wasn’t a surprise though: everybody had witnessed her kill Rodney. How could she say otherwise?
There were some other testimonies and other speeches given by people, but I was finding it hard to follow and I was becoming restless. I zoned out and found myself going back to happier times and better circumstances.
***
Aye, Jason, Rodney called out. You a pretty ass nigga—long curly hair and shit. I know them hoes be after you!
I would laugh and change the subject every time he would ask about my sex life. I wasn’t ready for him to know that I liked boys, too. I knew that he would still love me, but I was still uncomfortable with who I was at the time.
If you need me to help you find some bitches, just let me know!
I didn’t need his help, but it was funny that he would offer. Every time we went out, girls would go out of their way to let me know that they thought I was fine.
Just don’t be out here getting these hoes pregnant and shit. You too smart for that.
***
“The prosecution now calls Jason Lee to the stand.”
It was my turn to testify. I felt my heart jump into my stomach and my pulse began to increase. I didn’t think I would be strong enough to go back to that night. I didn’t want to fall apart on the witness stand in front of my entire community. I took a couple of breaths, stood up, and approached the stand. I felt like a million eyes were on me, and that made me so uneasy—but I was here to do a job. I wasn’t going to let my brother down.
The prosecuting attorney walked over to me and asked me the same questions that we talked about during our briefing a few days prior.
“Did you see the defendant shooting a weapon on the night of Rodney’s death?”
“Yes,” I confirmed.
“What was everyone else doing when that was happening?”
“We were all running and trying to find a way out of the bowling alley. I had to escape out the back and hop the fence. Then someone told me that my brother got shot so I went back in.”
They asked me more questions about the night of Rodney’s murder, and I answered them in great detail. Then the prosecutors asked me something I wasn’t prepared for.
“Is there anything that you want to say to the defendant about losing your brother?”
I froze and my jaw tightened. The whole time, I had been trying to keep it together and let the proceedings go on peacefully. But the lump I maintained in my throat was strong and I couldn’t hold back any longer.
I looked Samima in the eye and said, “When you killed Rodney, you killed me, too. I have had nothing but anger towards you since he died. You took my brother—the one who loved me, protected me, provided for me…you took my niece’s daddy away from her.” I felt my face begin to flush, but I continued. “I don’t know what beef you had that night with whoever, and it doesn’t even matter now. You made a decision that forever changed my life, and no amount of time you get today will fix what you did. I wish you would have killed me, too. That’s the only way that I could get past what happened.”
She didn’t look at me.
After all the proceedings, witnesses and testifying, Samima was sentenced to 22 years in prison. At the time, I felt that the criminal justice system did Rodney a disservice. I thought that she deserved to spend her entire life locked up. When she got out, I was truly conflicted. I spoke to the DA to explore whether I wanted to go through a program where I would get to meet her and speak to her again. I told them that I would only meet with her if my niece would, too. I do think this is important because I need to be able to get to a place where I can close that chapter. It would give me the closure that I had been seeking for so long, but then what if it doesn’t? What if I met with her and it re-opened every wound? I can’t forgive her. More than me, I think it’s important that Samima explains her actions to my niece. She should see how she left a young woman to grow up without a father. She needs to own that, and she needs to hear whatever my niece has to say to her.
***
I didn't leave for LA like I had dreamed. When my brother died, and after all the subsequent deaths, I stayed home and got a job at the group home where I had graduated from just a few years back. I was in a deep state of depression, but somehow I was on my old counselor’s, Ed Fleming, mind.
“Hey, how you doing, pretty boy?”
I chuckled, “Chillin.’ Doin’ me.”
“Ok, I see. I ain’t mad at that. Listen, I heard about your brother…I just want to give my condolences to you.”
“I appreciate that, Ed,” I mustered up a little gratitude, but my response was still dry as hell.
“How you holding up these days?”
“I been doing pretty good,” I lied.
“Well, that’s good to hear. I want to meet with you and talk to you about being a counselor back at the ranch.”
I was reluctant about the whole “counselor thing,” but I met with him anyway.
“I think you'd be a good counselor because you've been through what these kids have been through,” he elaborated. “You know this program. You know how it is to be in it, and you know how it is to come out of it. I think you could be a good role model and example.”
I never thought of myself as the role model type, but somehow, hearing it from Ed made me think that maybe he was right.
Edwin Fleming had spent a large part of his life dedicated to helping at-risk youth. He was one of the few who was really passionate about his work and really
had a heart for kids. I admired him a lot because he looked a lot like me: curly hair, light skin…fly. He looked like he could have been my father. He had a ruby and diamond Playboy Bunny earring, and he always drove a nice car. He used to always tout me around as his son, and I secretly enjoyed it so much. I continued to be rejected by my own father, so having Ed claim me meant everything.
I ended up getting the job. The ranch where I worked was owned by Edwin and his family, and it housed about 18 boys. I was only like 20, and those kids were fucking 14 to 18—not much younger than me. Prior to this job, I had worked at my old high school, so I was pretty used to having to be the “adult” even though I was surrounded by kids not too far from my own age.
Wilma, Ed’s mother, was an evil woman. She smoked cigarettes with her dogs and had a little raspy voice. And then Pat, her sister, was a little overweight. They were the quintessential black woman: they were tough, they had strong personalities, and they were revered.
After Ed gave me the job, he said, “I want to get a picture of you.” He went and got a camera, and he started taking pictures of me—which was kind of weird. I didn’t understand why Ed wanted pictures of me. He was taking pictures of me and with me.
“You grew up to be a really amazing young man,” Ed admitted. “I'm so proud of you.”
I really did love Edwin. In spite of all the fucked up shit I had done in my life, Edwin was proud? He knew me when I was a motherless child angry at the system and angry at myself for who I was. On this journey of mine, I’ve made some horrible decisions and had been reckless, but Edwin saw…me. He looked past what I had done and saw me for who I was and what I could become. He took a chance on me, and I needed him to do that for me.
One night, I needed to talk to Edwin about something, so I called him. He had given me his personal number, and he never had a problem with me kicking it with him when I needed to. The first call just rang and rang until it went to voicemail, and that was odd for him. I called again, and he didn’t answer, so I kept calling and calling. He still wasn’t responding to any of my calls. I was really attached to Edwin, so I immediately started to get nervous. I was trying to figure out what was going on and why he wasn’t calling me back, or why he didn't come down to see me. After my tenth or so call, his mother picked up the phone. Wilma was matter-of-fact. Not cold-hearted, but she wasn't an emotional person at all. She was really dry.
“Wilma, why is Edwin not calling me back? I've been trying to meet with him. I need to talk to him about something.”
Wilma responded blankly, “Honey, Edwin is sick. He's just sick and he can't come to see you right now. You need to be patient with him, and he'll get around to it."
“What do you mean he's sick? I've been trying to get in touch with him all this time,” I complained.
“Baby, Edwin has AIDS.”
It was the most shocking thing I had heard. This took me all the way back to my brother again. I knew that this meant Edwin was going to die. After I spoke to Wilma, I quit my job and never came back. I never called Edwin back. When he died, some people from the ranch called me, but I didn't go to his funeral. I couldn’t do it again. It was something that I regretted because he was someone who really cared about me. He was a role model, and he gave me something to look up to. I owed him the respect of honoring his life.
All these important people in my life were just dying left and right, so I developed a real fear of death. I felt that God must have forgotten about me because he allowed me to love and lose the few people who loved me back. I had to admit to myself that I was angry with God. He let drugs take my mother from me. He never gave me my dad. He took my brother for no reason. Randomly, some girl who had a problem with another girl shoots him accidentally. My best friend, Filthy Phil, was the boyfriend of the girl who shot my brother, so I couldn’t be his friend anymore. My friends were dying, and God took my pastor—my foster father. Now Edwin, my mentor.
There's no way the God that I was taught in church is the same God that allowed me to go through all this bullshit. [47][48]I stopped going to church and I didn’t pray anymore. I didn’t see the point.
***
I reverted back to how I dealt with tragedy best: callousness and anger. “I don’t give a fuck” remained my personal mantra, and I was known for it. Calvin never really went away, and we always had a special connection. This time when I saw Calvin, nothing was the same, and our relationship was strained.
One night, we were driving in the car, and out of the blue, Calvin said, “Yo, I got some good news.”
“Well, what news is that?” I was open to hearing some good news, but I was really suspicious.
He smiled and said, “I'm expecting a baby with Jasmine, and I want you to be the godfather.”
I looked at him coldly, and I exploded. “Nigga, fuck your baby! How could you disrespect me and ask me to be your baby's godfather? You know what I just went through with my brother! You know how much I love you!”
My mouth continued to say more foul things, but my heart was saying, “I really don’t want to love anything else. I didn't want to get too close to anything else that would make me feel the internal anguish and misery that I carry with me daily.” I felt like I could lose anyone at any point. My heart couldn’t take it.
In the past, Calvin would never argue with me. I would be extra, selfish, or full of myself, but he always fell back. Sometimes I would be sharp with him or say something smart, but Calvin was always cool and never allowed me to take him off his square. He would check me in a nice way, but never would really stand up for himself. While we were riding down Hammer Lane that night, Calvin slammed on the breaks. He started crying, but he was cussing me the fuck out. I can't remember everything he said, but he was so hurt by what I said because he wanted his best friend to share the love he had for his child. In my mind, that child represented a lifelong connection to the woman who was preventing him from being mine.
There was no way I could. I just couldn't do it. I shattered him. That really cemented the fact that we were never going to be the same again.
Calvin calmed down and brought his voice to a faint whisper. “You know, you said a lot of things in the past. You said a lot of ill shit. You've done a lot of hurtful things. I've let you talk crazy to me. I get that you are going through things, but how the fuck could you disrespect me like that?”
He really was coming from the heart. His desire for me to be his daughter’s godfather came from a place of genuine love, but I was numb. He poured out all his feelings and every ounce of admiration and love he had for me. I was still statuesque. He started crying and screaming at me again, and my response to him pierced his gut.
“Nigga, I don't give a fuck. Drop me off.”
9 An Iconic Connection
It had been years since I’d spoken to my mother, and to be honest, I was thriving without her constant negativity and toxic behavior. I had gained other meaningful relationships, and I struggled with the fact that my mother would not be among the people who I truly cherished. I often wondered what it would have felt like if my mother tried a little harder to be a good mother. Where would I be? What would it feel like to be like one of those kids who get drafted into the NBA and NFL and be brought to tears with gratefulness because of the impact their mothers had on their lives? If I could have done all the great things I’ve done without her, how much more could I have become with her in my corner and depositing love into my life? Or maybe I wouldn’t have developed what I needed to be a hardworking go-getter, and I’m only who I am today because I was forced to thrive on my own.
Later in my life, my mother did show that she was proud of me. When I became friends with Queen Latifah, and when I started to get on TV, I would get on the bus, and everybody knew who I was because she had talked about me to everyone. She would always pull out pictures of me and show people. I didn’t know how to feel about this at first because her pride in me was a foreign experience. I didn’t know if she was showing me off so that
people would think she was responsible for my success or if she was just proud of me. I suspected that she was using what I’d become to validate her as a mother in the eyes of those around her.
There were different breakthroughs in our relationship. When she started to get really sick, she lived in a convalescent home; I would visit her there. It wasn’t all bad. One time, after I left, I sent her some flowers and a card that said, “These are long overdue.” That was my way of showing some sort of tenderness and appreciation to her. I remembered what Mrs. Easter told me about always honoring her. I still could never say the words “I love you” to her. It was the hardest thing. I couldn’t do anything else because I hated her so much.
About a week later, I got a call from one of my cousins that my mother was in the hospital and that her condition had gotten worse. My cousin was the nurse manager at the hospital and she emphasized that I needed to come and see her. When I got there, my brother and sister, Paul and Tamica, were there, and they told me that she was dying. We were all in the ICU making awkward conversation, and my mother looked like she could have taken her last breath at any moment. She was crying and struggling to cling to life, but she mustered up enough energy to speak.
“I just want you guys to forgive me because I did the best that I could.”
Immediately, I thought about when I was a 10-year-old kid in foster care begging for my mother to bring me home. It dawned on me that when she said she was doing the best she could, her best had nothing to do with me. She was admitting her own inabilities. She was telling me what she was unable to do based on her addiction. It took a long time for me to understand that, and I forgave her. She passed away the next day. I didn't have a feeling. I had previously established a rule that I don't mourn anything for more than three weeks—Rodney being the exception. I was at peace with her passing, and I was happy that she wasn't in pain anymore. She was chased by her own demons: she was raped by her father, she gave up her kids, she was a drug addict, and she felt worthless. It always came out in her behavior. Not to mention she was bi-polar and had issues with her liver due to drug usage.
