“Fucked up? Who can use a better, more detailed explanation than the words ‘fucked up,’ to be sure all of my students understand?” There was a murmur of laughter. I thought it was good and unique the way he didn’t knock the youth for saying “fucked up,” but challenged us to choose other words. I like words, the way they are spoken, the manner in which they are used, and even the way they are heard and interpreted.
Mathematics answered, “ ‘Fucked up’ is like when we standing down in front of the building that we living in, and the cops come rolling up and asking us questions, and telling us to turn our music down, or off. Then, making us put our hands on the police car and searching us for no reason except ’cause they want to. Even more fucked up is when they order us to lay facedown on the ground, or take the money in our pockets just ’cause they rather have it even though they didn’t earn it. That’s that fucked-up shit.”
“Does everybody understand?” the teacher asked. The class broke out in reserved laughter.
“Who gon’ understand ‘fucked up’ better than us?” Imperial asked, and the seriousness returned swiftly. “Fucked up is being in the box through the summer months feeling like your body is a piece of pork sizzling on a grill, can’t hardly breathe, can’t hardly think, can’t hardly move.”
“Can’t get no visits from your old Earth or your wisdom,” Jamar added.
“How can we describe that condition that the last three students spoke so well about? Condense it into a simple short sentence that every brother can understand?”
“A complete loss of freedom and control over your life,” I answered.
“Beautiful,” Teacher Ali remarked. “That’s it. The brother hit the nail on the head. In the American Revolution, who was the enemy?” Teacher Ali questioned.
“The British empire, their army of soldiers,” a student answered.
“And who were the victims?” Teacher Ali asked.
“The Americans, also known as the colonists,” another student replied.
“And what were the specific conditions?” Teacher Ali asked. The class fell quiet. “What were the roots of the American colonists’ complaints?”
“Strangers in the house,” Lavidicus said oddly.
“Break it down for us, Lavidicus,” Teacher Ali pressed.
“The British government took advantage because they had the power and the weapons. They would send soldiers out to certain areas and force the people to allow the soldiers to stay in their private houses, even though the people didn’t know the soldiers, didn’t invite them in, and didn’t want them there,” Lavidicus explained.
“Very good. Is that justified? Is it okay to force your way into another man’s home and to take lodging in there?” Teacher Ali asked.
“Hell no. He comes into my house uninvited, he gon’ get blown back out the door,” Slaughter said.
“Word, let him try and eat my meat, put his legs up on my chair, or put his hands on my mother,” Craig Ambush said, and his words unleashed a chorus of grunts.
“That’s when there’s gon’ be some bodies, some hostages, and shit like what we locked up in here for in the first place,” Bobby Ransom said.
“Well, hold up. Are the roots of the American Revolution the same roots as the conditions you students have described as being fucked up in your neighborhoods?” Teacher Ali asked, peering into each student’s eyes one by one. It was silent in the room.
“Hell yeah it the same,” Nino Narcotic said. “The cops be rushing up into our apartments, breaking down the door, destroying all our property, stealing our stash, cuffing us up, executing some of us, roughing up our moms, disrespecting our sisters. That’s the same thing,” he said. The class nodded, and some clapped two claps in agreement.
“So you are claiming that the cops are the same as the British soldiers and you are the same as the revolutionaries?” Teacher Ali asked. “By the way, what is a revolutionary? Could a man claim to be a revolutionary when if the cops weren’t disrespecting the people, your momma and sisters, you yourself would be doing it? Is there any standard or firm definition for what a revolutionary man should and should not do?”
“A revolutionary is the man who gets the guns into the hands of the people so they can fire back and eliminate their enemies,” DeSean said.
“What if I accepted your definition, DeSean? If the people in your neighborhood were all given guns to eliminate their enemies, who would they murder? Would it be the British soldiers, a.k.a. the police? Or would they rob, rape, and murder one another? And what is revolution really about? Is revolution the same thing as murder? And if enough people are murdered, would that mean the revolution was successful?” He looked around again.
“That’s the assignment. Think about the American Revolution and the roots and conditions that caused it and compare it to your own lives and actions, and let’s discuss it further tomorrow. There’s no writing assignment on this topic for now. I’ll give you a study sheet with the conditions for the American Revolution outlined on it. Make sure you read it. If you can’t read, ask one of the brothers here to read it to you, and be sure to sign up for the reading course so you can learn to read. You know who you are. Take it seriously.”
* * *
Walking to the right of the line down the corridor. “I don’t know why, but every time I go to Ali’s class I get heated, and want to hurt something,” DeSean said. I was quiet and thinking. Teacher Ali was skillful with his words. He spoke them calmly, but they had a force behind them. I was weighing it out. What was that force behind his words? I had felt that kind of force before. But was it politics or was it Islam? A lot of African Americans talking politics say that it is the same as Islam and the people take them for Muslims. But politics is not the criteria for Islam. Islam is a straight path that is clear, that sets limits, guidelines, and requirements for the believers. Strong talk without prayer is not Islam, in my opinion. Heated truths, without submission to Allah, is not Islam. Even men who are legitimate victims of injustices, who do not humble themselves and restrain from the forbidden, are not Islamic, not striving, and not Muslim in my opinion. But I know it is not my place to say who is and who is not Muslim. It is my place, though, to make these judgments within myself so I can navigate myself around properly, as a man.
On the yard I’m facing the sky. Got my Jordans on my feet. I’m breathing in the open air, completely different than the stagnant air of confined men. Breathing first, then working out. That’s the plan.
“Never thought I’d see you in here.” Lavidicus walked up. “You was like my hero a couple of years back.” I didn’t respond. “I used to wish your mother was my mother,” he said, and I dropped him.
Dinner, I chose a new table, sat, and began eating. DeSean walked up seconds later and sat across from me. Two Jamaicans rolled up, looked around like they was reminding themselves that it was their table. DeSean’s M3s rolled up behind them. More Jamaicans rolled up behind DeSean’s crew. They were all standing with their trays except DeSean and me. DeSean didn’t turn or say nothing. The Jamaicans fell back. The M3s filed in and sat in the same order that they sat, no matter which table.
“The kid you knocked out on the yard, you don’t get no points for that. He’s sweet meat,” DeSean said. “You remember him from the block? You might not remember him. I know you remember his moms. She was the stunt that was fucking with Mighty. Now Mighty upstate at Clinton. She works for us.”
“His moms?” I asked automatically, when usually I wouldn’t.
“Yeah, we told her we was gonna turn her son into her daughter. Now she’s a mule, carries in our packages during visits. That kid so soft and so dumb, he don’t even know his moms visits a bunch of us up in here. I can get you whatever you need. Just say it. She’s only one of our mules. We run this money thing up in here,” he said confidentially.
“Dude was already a girl anyway. DeQuan once caught him on the steps with Lance’s dick in his mouth. You remember Lance, right?” he said without making eye contact with
me. “Ha, if you don’t remember him, I’m sure he remembers you. See what I mean? Lavidicus and you is opposites. He had Lance’s dick in his mouth and you had your nine in Lance’s mouth.”
As I got ready to raise up, DeSean said to me, “There’s no secrets up in here. We know who’s constipated, who got diarrhea, who sucks dick, and who butt fucks, no matter if it’s an inmate or a CO. We know what products are coming in, which ones are going out, and which COs are on our payroll and which COs know to look the other way. In here there’s no secrets, just men powerful enough, or who got people and allies who are powerful enough, to make men do whatever they want whenever they want it done, keep their mouths shut, and mind their motherfucking business.”
Lights out and I was sitting on my cot, deep in thought about new words I had learned, things I had experienced in one day, not as an isolated man, but as someone mixed into a strange environment. It was like the atmosphere of my Brooklyn block, but just that one block. I couldn’t walk off and into a whole wide world, or learn and build anything elsewhere. I couldn’t converse with anyone who had ever traveled off the block, or recline or interact with friends a few train stops away. I had to deal with and face the team that I wasn’t interested in being on or contributing to or talking with or fighting for. In a full day of no prayer, a wide range of topics I didn’t normally consider were racing through my head at the same time, like revolution and American history. Then there were the familiar thoughts about good and evil, right and wrong. Suddenly I heard the movement.
Rory got rolled, literally. Bobby Ransom pushed him off his bed and into a sheet held by Paul One Punch and Imperial. The white sheet rolled tight around his body turned bloody red as Slaughter and DeSean stabbed him up with sharpened wooden Popsicle sticks from the dinner dessert.
I’m sure everybody saw what happened. Rory, “Short Story,” was either too hurt or too embarrassed or too frightened to try to fight back or get up. No one helped him, either. Either it was because the inmates had hated him already and wanted to see him suffer, or because they were paralyzed by their fear of helping out someone the M3s pegged as a snitch.
The ones who were supposed to help Rory the inmate didn’t see what they get paid to see and not ignore. His body was lying there for almost an hour before the CO “discovered,” and “rescued,” and then moved him to the infirmary.
Once the body in the bloody sheet was cleared away, every youth who pretended to be asleep was wide-eyed and checking out three photos that were circulating around the room. All three were individual shots of girls our age in their tiny panties, ass cheeks facing the camera and a profile peek of their face and one breast and nipple.
“We gon’ get up a game of hoops on the yard in a couple of days. Give y’all some time to get ready. Top three scorers on the winning or losing team gets a visit from one of these three. Highest score gets first pick and one option,” Narcotic announced. The inmates were low-key on the offer but steady passing around the photos.
“You gotta tell ’em that none of these girls is your girls. Otherwise, they gon’ be scared to fuck with them even though you offering,” DeSean said to Nino.
“Nah, nah, nah, none of these is my girls. They just some good-looking bored ’hood chicks looking for some live niggas to talk to. They’ll come up one time for the three high scorers of the game. If they like you, you got the option to see ’em again.” Nino’s laid-back explanation broke the ice and cats started looking eager about the possibilities. “It’s a friendly service I provide,” Nino added. “To keep the peace.”
A mule is the offspring of a horse and a donkey fucking. A mule is a strong-bodied animal shaped like a horse. And of course a donkey is a jackass. DeSean said that Lavidicus’s mother is just one of his mules carrying “whatever you need,” in and out of Rikers. In my estimation, the three “fuckable” ’hood girls in the photos were part of Nino’s stable. “Winning,” a date with them was a setup for some gullible inmates who probably never got visits from pretty girls our age. Next thing you know, the gullible ones are caught up in the network, pawns in the M3s’ import-export game.
Whatever the case, I was sorting out my thoughts and my movements from here forward. I knew my actions, reactions, or even inaction and any, and all of my choices and decisions in this particular circumstance, would tell and show me, and anybody watching, who I am.
25. LAVIDICUS
Seven hours later, I was awakened by a dream that I could feel but could not remember. My memory tried to chase down threads of blurred images that melted into nothing but a stream of colors. I heard only breathing interrupting the silence of the sixty-six sleepers. I sat up. Although my mind’s eye now drew a black blank, my soul somehow recalled the instructions it had received through the dream. I stood up.
Looking through the glass of the COs’ command center, I saw the one in charge of watching, asleep on the job. That meant the second officer was somewhere roaming. My eyes scanned the room. I counted two sleepers missing. Probably, they got picked up and moved in the middle of the night for stabbing up Rory, I speculated.
When I walked around to the only toilet washroom area in my section, I ran right into Slaughter hiding behind the wall. I kept moving like he wasn’t there, but could not miss that the CO was standing there with him. I ignored them, peed, and washed up.
* * *
“What up, Black?” DeSean called out to me as I walked back to my cot. I nodded my acknowledgment. “We got a quick cypher before the count,” he said, and I checked that a lot of heads that were down before were now up. I heard him but kept moving. In the slim space between my cot and the next one nearby, I spread my towel on the floor and stood for prayer. Closing my eyes, I eliminated my concern for my own security and my mental blueprint of where each youth was situated in my surroundings. I rested in my intention to submit my prayer and raised both of my hands to my ears, my palms facing forward. I began . . . Bismillah, in the name of Allah.
The noise of the movement to the count didn’t reach my ears until my forehead was raised from the floor, my knees no longer on the ground, my feet now firmly in the standing position and my eyes wide open. I removed my towel, folded it, then stepped into my kicks and fell into the start of the count, very aware of the authorities’ wasted menacing glares, the youths’ curious eyes, and the M3s’ looks moving from deciding if I’m crazy or “right and exact.”
I was solid and sure. In my soul was the message for me to no longer conceal my Muslim identity in population. I would continue using the false name, but I am forbidden from false behavior or taking any action that doesn’t line up with what a true Muslim man would do, as guided by the Holy Quran. In my soul was the message to make my prayers to Allah out in the open without concern for intervention or interruption by the lions, wolves, hyenas, or even the snakes. I thought it was a dangerous idea in an explosive environment. But, my duty to Allah is higher than any thought or fear that my mind might manufacture. The message in the dream was that if all of the other males were living foul and in chaos, naïvely and boldly and out in the open, and the Muslim males were concealing our Muslim demeanor, there would be no light in the darkness. The message was for me to be a light, a reminder, a warning to them and even a warning to myself. And to do it without fear. Allah is your only protection. So I’m doing it.
* * *
“I’m glad you chose our regular table this morning,” DeSean said. “If you would’ve moved one table over from the one you chose last night, we would’ve ran head up with the Dominicanos. We been to war with them before, but it’s bad for business.”
“Fuck being boxed for the winter,” Slaughter said. “Word,” the other M3s’ agreement with him came in a chorus.
“Where’s Ditch?” I asked. DeSean smiled.
“Good looking out,” he said. “But they snatched him in the middle of the night, sent him upstate. That’s how they do it in here. The body snatchers grab a convicted ‘yo’ in the middle of the night and move them anyw
here in America they want to move ’em to. But wherever it is, it’s a fucked-up place. Jail and prison both fucked up but two different things, that’s the word,” DeSean said.
Ditch’s rhyme in class yesterday had me thinking. I could feel his heart woven in the words of his story and thumping in his cadence and delivery. That was different. Wasn’t used to feeling shit from these types of niggas. The whole day yesterday had my head bombed. Were these youth all sons of bitches? ‘Bitch or bitches,’ that’s how they referred to their mothers and pretend wives and girlfriends and to all women. Is that what they really think and feel about them? Are their women just to be used as their workers and mules, fucked and abandoned? Are they familiar with the feeling and power of love? Are their women all scandalous, disloyal bitches, and their fathers, either unknown and absent or present and untrustworthy, motherfuckers that fucked the bitches they lusted after and then left them in the lurch? Maybe it’s both. Their fathers are motherfuckers. Their mothers are bitches. Meanwhile they are the sons of bitches, the miserable bastards that resulted from sex, without marriage, love, or faith or any real and true intent or tight bond.
It is not that I was surprised. I grew up in it. However, if I wasn’t forced to face it now, concentrate on it, study it, then I wouldn’t. I was busy building my own world, loving my wives, enjoying my family, and handling my business guided by faith.
I learned from the few classes we shared that these cats had talents and were not dumb. They were clever with their words. At the same time, they were not smart, either. Same as in mathematics class, we are challenged to show our work and solve the problems with accurate precision. These cats could not do the math of life or solve their own problems. They were calculating, but performing the wrong functions, using the wrong formula, and coming up with the wrong answers. The fact that I’m in here same as them, interacting with them, is my hard reality.
Yesterday I looked up the word revolution. I realized I liked going to class from listening to the reasoning of Teacher Ali and the skillful way he dragged the cats into a convo they probably would normally not give a fuck about. I have good, strong, clear, warm, and useful memories of love of my friends, my teachers, my family, my women, my life. What happens, though, to young heads who have no memories or feelings or bonds or an uncorrupted sense of real love? Could men really be bonded by murder, money, and mayhem without anything else like love or truth mixed in and holding it together? When I was in the box, I realized the reason that isolation was torture to them and preferred by me. They were left in the box without memories of true love. What was revolving in their minds? Did they have only memories of the crimes they committed, or fucked-up families and dirty living? When they thought of their women did they only recall arguments, fights, and betrayals? Did only images of their disappointing and disappointed mothers flash through their thoughts? Did they only think of hate? Hatred of their mother’s boyfriends or their disappeared deadbeat dads or hatred for themselves? What would I be like, what condition would I be in, if when boxed for three months, I could only recall the faces of dirty cops and detectives and racist judges and the abuses I had done and the abuses I had suffered?