One of my oldest memories is of when I was a toddler, in some long-forgotten apartment, in some long-forgotten project building in Springfield, Illinois. Without question, my favorite day of the week was Saturday, and my favorite passtime was sitting in the front room watching Saturday morning cartoons. I also remember, however, that more-often-than-not, I was afraid. The enjoyment of watching Saturday morning cartoons often competed with constantly being mindful never to allow my legs to dangle over the edge of the couch. From the corner of my eye, I would always catch these tiny streaks of grey, flitting alongside the wall, and across the linoleum floor. I was still very young, and had yet to know and overstand exactly what mice were, and that we, apparently, shared our apartment, and our food, with them. I did know, however, that I didn’t want any of them to get ahold of what I knew, even then, to be very tiny legs. I had no clue of what might happen, if they did – but my very young, very active imagination, pictured very vile things! But, on one particular snow-laden Saturday, while preoccupied with trying to avoid these unknown specters, and still be able to enjoy my cartoons, I remember something else happening that would forever alter my life. It started with what sounded like glass shattering in my mother’s bedroom. I remember wanting to go see if what I thought I had heard was actually just that, but I was afraid to leave the safety of the couch. The sound was followed by an eery silence. Moments later, there was a knock on the front door, and the sound of my mother’s voice calling-out to me, to let her in. I remember being slightly confused. Afterall, last I knew, my mother was in her bedroom. I had heard no yelling. I had heard no screaming. No furniture being forcefully moved around. But when I opened the door, there she was, half-naked, bleeding from her head and mouth. I remember, directly after I had opened the door and let her back in she gave me a hug and kissed me on the cheek. Then she headed right back into her bedroom. Although it was the first time, that I can remember, it would not be the last time, in one way or another, that violence would be visited upon my mother. And, though it would not be immediate, and well after my two younger brothers are born -eventually, my loving mother whom every Winter, without fail, and like magic, would make us this extraordinary dish of ice-cream from pure snow, would come to visit violence upon me. Not so frequent – but frequent enough – to the point where I remember spending a great deal of time sequestered in my room, reading, playing with toys; not just because I didn’t have any friends, but mostly because I feared my mother’s volatility.
Sometime later, I remember my mother’s oldest sister, my Aunt Carrie Mae, coming to visit. I’m not so sure why – memory may not serve me very well on that – but I think it was to tell her that her favorite brother, my Uncle, whom I only knew as “Uncle Pee-Wee,” had died. I was much too young to overstand what was going on, or even the context of the conversation, for the most part – especially, since it was sporadically loud, then hushed, and behind closed doors. But I remember that my mother was in tears when her sister left. My aunt is a very stern, but loving woman. If “Big Mama” told you to do something – you did it. So, my mom disappeared for awhile. I assume to pave the way to move us back to the city of Peoria, where I was born. And while she was away, she left me in the care of her neighbor, Joanne, whom had a son and a set of 12-year-old twin daughters. For the most part, they were sweet girls – and very civil to me. I enjoyed spending time with them, even though I was barely past being a toddler, and it was very hard not to get on the nerves of young girls on the verge of becoming teenagers. So, everything was fine, until one day – as gangs were also very prevalent in the projects – the Vicelords decided to just walk into their apartment (well, by threatening their brother, whom was older than them, with violence if he didn’t open the door) – and gang-raped the girls while we were all in bed together. Their mother had, apparently, gone out that night. I just laid there, helpless, after one of the boys choked me until I almost went unconscious because I had tried my best to push him off of one of the girls as she lay there, crying, afraid to fight back.
To this day, as a grown man, I still feel the pain, and the shame, of being unable to do anything to help them.
No one had ever explained to me what death was. Or what a funeral – or wake – was. So, after witnessing the procession to my Uncle Pee-Wee’s wake, I asked a cousin if we would be playing Follow-the-Leader again when everyone was prepping to head to his funeral from Big Mama’s house. In her cruelty, my cousin directed me to “Ask Big Mama,” who promptly slapped the shit out of me.
As a young man, I became very familiar with violence – and the look in peoples’ eyes whom are capable of committing it. It is very distinctive. Often accompanied by the furrowing of the brow – and the flaring of the nostrils – but that usually occurs before the actual act, itself. It once frightened me. And, even to this day, it still makes me anxious. I’ve seen it in the eyes of children, even, whom bullied me for the simple fact that I was smart. I have seen it during my captivity as a juvenile delinquent committed to the Illinois Department of Corrections where I woke-up in the middle of the night handcuffed to the bed and beaten by grown men who felt slighted because I was a 13-year-old kid who didn’t know when to shut up, after some judge had grown tired of seeing me destroying my own potential, not knowing, or caring to know, that my delinquent activity was, mostly, me demonstrating to my mother that I needed her love, her affection – her attention – and the only time that that seemed to happen was when I got into trouble. So, if negative attention was all that I could get – I was okay with it – as it was much better, in my mind, than no attention at all. I had no idea that a mindset like that could very well lead me to prison. And I would learn, much later in life, of course – that a person cannot give you what they do not have. I mean, what did she know .. ? My mother was addicted to drugs, and her upbringing was not conducive to being equipped to provide me with what I wanted AND needed from her. I knew, deep-down, that she loved me. But I wanted action. I wanted hugs. I wanted kisses. Yet, no one taught her how to be effectionate. By the time she was 12-years-old, she was out of the home, fending for herself. When she had me, she had no idea how to raise a child. It would’ve been easier for her to pull a rabbit out of her ass, than for her to be able to give me what I wanted as a teenager. However, despite it all, my mother is the most resilient person I know, and she was still able to figure-out how to give me, if only tangibly, the things that I needed – irrespective of the things that I wanted. Instead of taking the easy way out, she chose to struggle with the weight of raising three boys, by herself. I witnessed her choose her children over men who could provide for her, but wanted nothing to do with us – and she would even learn that she was better off alone than with an abusive man. I remember us all, at one time, having to live in her car because we had no place to go – and she didn’t want family members telling her, “I told you so.”
It was not easy for her. And as I grew older, I searched for – and learned – to substitute what I needed from her with the things, and the people, that I encountered in the streets. But a life in the streets carried its own kind of violence; and the willingness to use it, to obtain and/or keep what you gain, is the prevalent characteristic of the culture. It is accepted, and overstood by all participants, because they know that the streets mostly generate two types of people – predators or prey – perpetrators or victims. It is a culture of hostility. In fact, if one hasn’t done any violence, there will come a point in time where someone will challenge your credibility – your worthiness of the culture (i.e., your preparedness to do violence).
It was easy for me to accept because I had grown used to seeing violence, in its many different stages and degrees. And, because of that, I learned to deceive people; I got involved in shoot-outs; I robbed people; I willingly hurt people (physically and mentally); and vice-versa. I learned to justify what I did by allowing the streets – the culture – to dictate to me that violence was necessary to survive.
But, one day, I looked up and realized that I was tired of merely existing – and of going back-and-forth to jail – and, in the midst of unquantifiable obstacles, decided to change my life. It had taken me decades to even truly begin to try to unlearn things that I had been conditioned to believe. But, amongst other things, I went to college, got married, and started my own family. I even started my own business. Yet, somehow, I still managed to lose focus and find my way back into prison, where accepting, and being willing to deal violence, is par the course.
What burns me to the core, is that I still find it very easy to accept, and deal violence, if necessary. What soothes me, however, is that, though I have refused to give up hope for a better tomorrow, I have given up all hope for a better past.
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