“Why did the General hand you his son?” I had to ask.
“Because Marcus was a mistake he made with a good-time girl. The girl showed up at our house one afternoon, nine months pregnant and had the baby on our front lawn before she could even reach the doorbell. My wife and the General are biological brother and sister. And, emotionally and in every possible way, they are closer than twins. My wife loved baby Marcus because he was her brother’s son. And believe me, she verified it first. She’s a doctor.
“I love my wife. She wanted to keep the baby. The General wanted a clean slate, a do-over. My wife wanted to make that possible for him. Soon as Tasha got attached to Marcus, his mother came and snatched him back, not because of love but because she needed to hold on to him to get that pitiful welfare check. But when Marcus turned ten years old, he put himself on a bus and showed up at our house looking for his father. We took him in and raised him as our son. He’s had the same luxuries as our boys, but different DNA and personality. Even military school failed to change that. He’s hot-tempered and short-sighted like his senseless mother. And he’s got a heavy chip on his shoulder.”
He knows who his real father is. His mother told him. The fact that the General didn’t claim him and doesn’t interact with him has been a thorn in his heart. Every crazy thing he ever did or may ever do in the future is just him acting out over his father.
A son who is a “mistake” is unheard of for me. A man grown enough to spill his seed in a womb, who wants a “do-over,” oh Allah.
* * *
I washed and made a prayer on the deck of that yacht before leaving. As Muslims, we do not pray to be seen. At the onset of prayer, after we have cleansed ourselves, we clear our minds to set ourselves straight and to purify our intent. I’ll admit, though, I wanted Clementine Moody to see the prayer. To see a man who makes the sajdah, brings his knees to the ground and presses his forehead to the earth in complete submission to Allah. I thought that perhaps if a man could understand that true-believing Muslim men submit only to Allah, they might rethink mistaking the way we carry ourselves, limit ourselves and what exactly we feel entitled to, as arrogance.
“Take a cab. The stand is to your right once you walk out. You never saw me today,” Clementine Moody said as I left. “And you never rode with me on any yacht.”
30. THE MEN
Criminal-minded I’m not, but the times were getting more-rougher. The projects were pouring into the prisons and the men were getting more-tougher. The crowded streets emptied the street crowd into the cells. Hotter than July, even the heat was getting more-meaner. More felons now than misdemeanors, and the mood was intensely tense in this city of men.
“You have a visitor,” the CO called out, his gaze fell on me.
“Not me,” I said, seated in the god ’s cypher.
“Ricky Santiaga,” the CO said, and the locked-up looked up, stood up, and paid close attention to the name of the man even the CO seemed to know. Paused in a squatting position, only my mind was moving swiftly.
“Do-or-Die Ricky Santiaga,” one of DeQuan’s captains named Walkie-Talkie said slyly. “Black, you better take that.” I raised up for my own reasons, after reaching my own conclusions. I took my walk for the first time to visitation.
“My first time up here,” Santiaga said.
“Mine too,” I replied, my natural smile breaking out naturally. “What can I do for you?” I asked him. He smiled, then laughed a reluctant restricted but real laugh.
“What can you do for me?” he said, and we both sat in silence for some seconds.
“Did one of your machines break? You came all the way here looking for a handyman? Couldn’t find nobody else? The repair kit was in each box with the instruction manual,” I joked purposely to lighten up what was already a heavy feeling in a tense atmosphere.
“Damn, that’s more words right there than I ever heard you say,” he said coolly.
“I must’ve been in here too long,” I said.
“Two days in there is two days too long,” he said.
“That’s word,” I agreed, the “locked lingo” all in me now.
“Less is more. What had to be done had to be done, I know,” he said, and gave me a serious look. I read it. He wanted me to know that he knew I was no fool. I appreciated his words, the words he spoke and the ones he discreetly insinuated. He was the first one, the only man not to question my motives or my murder or whatever action had led me here. The first one to know, without knowing any of the details of my imprisonment, that a man who had all that I had earned, and that Allah had allowed me, would never just throw it all away without reason. I felt in my soul that more than any man, Ricky Santiaga knew I had murdered a lesser man, for the right reasons. At the same time, his facial expression expressed his regret that a lesser man had not pulled the trigger on my behalf, so that the deed that had to be done was done without getting any blood or dirt on my hands. However, when it is as personal as it was, I would have to be the only one to pull the trigger. Never would’ve handed that murder over to any other man.
“Did you come up here to check?” I asked him, and he smiled.
“Anything, anyone, any jewel that I want, choose, or that I plan to purchase, I pick it out myself. I test it myself. I pick it up myself. I verify myself. My man said it was you. Me, I had to see for myself,” he said.
“How’s the basketball going?” I said, purposely not to give any words or info away to any authority listening in.
“It’s good as always, man, but no charm,” he said.
“No charm,” I repeated.
“Nothing to go all in on with complete confidence. Just something to watch.” There was a pause. “How long?” was all he asked.
I had purposely not been counting time. Yet I knew in two weeks’ time it would be my second birthday of being cuffed and confined. Then I reminded myself that I had been in the bullpen for my last birthday, which meant in two weeks it would mark one year of time served.
“Two years,” I said, “if it goes well.”
“Good man in a bad situation. So he never knows what he or they will do, right?” he stated. I didn’t say nothing. There was no need. “I’ll put money on your books. Check your commissary,” he said.
“You know I don’t like debt,” I said. He didn’t answer nothing back. There was no need to.
“Two years, drop me a line ’round release time. I’ll have the limo down front,” he pledged.
“Forget the limo. Park my Maserati and leave my key in the ignition. I’ll drive myself.”
“My man,” he said, and left.
DeQuan, the Five Percenters, and their underlings all had their eyes plastered on my pace and my face when I walked back into the day room. It looked like they expected me to report back on my VIP visitor, “Do-or-Die” Ricky Santiaga. They had been huddled watching Murder She Wrote, like they usually did. They’d each try to solve the crime first. It was just one of DeQuan’s several competitions, the kind that could be held and managed in a jail setting.
“Don’t watch me,” I told them. “Watch the TV.”
* * *
The guy in the top bunk, I never referred to him as my cell mate or as my “celly,” as many men do. The same way that Chris and Ameer and I built a nine-foot wall around my Queens home, I built an invisible but solid wall between me and him, even though we were both forced to share a sink, a toilet, and a very small space. He was a few years older than me, but in lockup, my solid-steel physique, reputation, and confidence outdistanced and outweighed his age. Soon as he arrived at my cell, after the last guy was evacuated, I read him my rules. “Don’t look at me. Don’t ask me any questions. Don’t touch my things. Don’t talk. Stay out of my way. Clean up behind yourself immediately.” He obeyed.
* * *
“Check out your soldier.” DeQuan handed me a copy of his newsletter, “Each One Teach One.” It was only one page, with stories printed at the printshop on both front and back sides. I flipped it
, scanning the two photos as well as the article titles.
“What am I looking for?” I asked him.
“Back page, bottom right-hand corner,” he told me. I read it:
“Sixteen-year-old adolescent petitions the Rikers Island jail administration for permission to marry and wins. For the first time ever, a youth in the Rikers Island, Robert Donovan Adolescent Jail, has gained permission to host a wedding and marry his eighteen-year-old girlfriend in a jail ceremony. The inmate, who is a minor and therefore cannot be named or photographed, waged a nine-month campaign to marry his girlfriend. His first hurdle was to win the permission from his mom, his legal guardian. Her signature was a requirement on the marriage license. “That was the part of the process that took the longest,” according to Community Relations counselor Bryan Jones. The small ceremony will be hosted on Saturday, August 1, 1987.
I looked up. DeQuan had his arms folded in front of him.
“My soldier?” I repeated.
“The soft dude who you gave the knowledge, wisdom, and understanding. My brother said he did a one-eighty. You know DeSean don’t respect or acknowledge a man who can’t master himself.”
“You taught him that,” I said. Then, I was thinking about Lavidicus.
“Kid owe you his life. You’re the father to his style,” DeQuan declared.
Alhamdulillah, was all I thought. If a man strives with a good intent and all of his heart and mind to overcome his trauma and his challenges, there is a reward in it. Then I thought of how the article said the first “hurdle” was his mother. I could not imagine that she would have been against her son taking a wife, when before that ever happened, he was being abused and conquered and disrespected by men she brought around. I wondered if she preferred her son the way he was before, or if she admired the outcome of his efforts to overcome a very difficult situation and circumstance.
“Tell DeSean I said ‘good looking out.’ ” I handed him back the newsletter.
“You keep it. Hand it to the next man,” DeSean said. As I folded it, I noticed a black-and-white photo of a pretty female. Of course I would notice. She had clear eyes that shined and nice brown skin without cosmetics.
“Sister Lisa,” DeQuan said. “She’s coming up here to speak.”
“Speak to who?” I asked.
“All of us, whoever signs up for the program. This is my joint. I got the Community Relations counselor to invite her up.”
“For what?” I asked, not believing there was any reason to invite women into this filthy city of men.
“ ’Cause she’s bad. She’s young. She’s smart. She’s a poor righteous teacher and civilizer of the eighty-five. But most importantly, she runs these camps for the babies. Ask any god up here who got seeds. They all know her,” he said.
“She’s an Earth?” I asked. Earth was what “the gods” called their women. They called their mothers their “Old Earth,” and their women their “Earth.”
“Non cypher, she’s not in the Five Percent, not in the Nation of Islam, not even a Muslim. I heard she works for the church. But she ain’t no nun and she ain’t no joke or nothing like that. Sign up, check her out. You’ll only understand once you see her in person and hear her speak.” I took a second look at the photo and read the article. I was curious. Besides, it broke up the regular rhythm and routine and I was part of a captive audience.
* * *
The mentioning, murmuring, maneuvering, and movement of men around the arrival of this one girl to Rikers Island was extraordinary to me. It was an unexpected, powerful momentum. Men jockeyed to be included, but the number of inmates who could attend topped off at 300. They raised it to 350. When an inmate got suddenly bailed out or moved out or had court appearances and trial dates, the next man would jump for the ticket that he vacated. I was calm and cool. Thought it was somehow funny. Couldn’t guess what she would say or do that appealed to the beasts of the jungle.
Saturday finally arrived. Us prisoners were filed in and lined up, no chairs. I don’t know what the authorities were expecting but I knew from experience, they get agitated whenever large groups of men are moving. Whenever large groups of men are united around anything, even if it is harmless and good for them. Whenever large groups of men are excited. In the gym were all of the COs we were accustomed to seeing, but doubled. Ones that usually worked the shift after the others were all here at the same time. Then there was the special forces all riot-geared up, their shields and chemical sprays and sticks and heavy boots and their fucked-up attitudes, postures, and dispositions. I was leery watching them watching us, and even more so, hearing 350 men speaking in hushed tones all at once.
The doors swung open. She was blocked from being seen by the COs who walked her in. Men were stretching their necks, inching sideways, trying to get a look. Then she walked out and away from the COs guarding her, in a manner like she didn’t want them guarding her in the first place. She stood directly in the front, placed herself right in the center of the men where the aisle divided the crowd into halves. We were all looking at her. At the same time, she began looking at us, it seemed one by one, without skipping anyone. She surveyed until her eyes filled with tears. Watching her fill with natural emotion made some of the men emotional. They began clapping for her tears and stomping their feet. CO blew a whistle that was drowned by the sounds of applause. Then the thunder fell to absolute silence. She looked calm and comfortable. In her eyes was a force. They contained the calm of water and the fury of fire. I wondered how they occupied the same space. Her skin was pretty and clear. She was the opposite of “ran through.” Her energy was clean. She looked eighteen years young and innocent. Either she was, or she was a fox with ninety-nine tails. That’s more than Aunt Tasha has. I smiled at the thought.
“I love you,” she said, and the men cheered as though it was their first time ever either hearing or believing those words, maybe both.
“I love you. Not because I am naïve. Not because I lack intelligence. Not because I am unaware that some of you have done wrong on purpose, and others of you have done wrong by mistake. And still some have been wrongly accused. I love you because my soul has been missing you. My eyes have been searching for you. My heart has been wanting you, the fathers, the brothers, the sons of our hearts. We need you to be home,” and the men went crazy cheering.
“We need you to be strong. We need you to be capable and above all to be true. We need you to be loving us, the women, as we work together with you, side by side.
“A person should always know who they are and what purpose they serve. A person should also know who they are not, and what they will and will not do or allow to be done with them or to them. So, I’ll start off by telling you who I am not.
“I am not your bitch!” And the men threw their hands in the air, jumped up and down, and hollered like an unseen, unheard of exorcism.
“I am not a bitch. I am not that naked chick posed and pasted or taped or pinned to your wall while you jerk off.” The men were high-fiving, some shocked, some shaking.
“I am not disrespectful. I am not disloyal. I am not the one who will disgrace you or who you will disgrace, slapping me in my face, punching me in my ribs, or shoving me down the stairs. I am not your bitch, your ho, your piece, your skeezer, or your baby’s momma who called the police on you, dimed you out, fucked your friends, or aborted your seeds.” The volume of the men’s expression became so wild the riot guards eased off of their post and stood on either side of the girl facing the inmates with their shields raised up high.
“I am not the bitch who had your children, then hid them from you, placed a restraining order on you, dragged you into court, and sat silently while the judge ran your pockets. I am not your bitch who lied on you, who stole your money, or pawned your jewels. I am not that bitch you met in the dark, or fucked in your car or in the back of your building or on the stairwell.” The men reacted as though the riot guards were absent, no threat at all.
“I am not the bitch who su
cked your dick, without having your heart in my hand, your diamond on my ring finger, and my heart in your soul,” she said, and the guards stepped up to the crowd.
“Calm down or we will shut it down,” they threatened. She ignored them.
“I’m not your psychiatrist or your private eye. I am not your mother. I am not the police. I am not your parole officer. And you are not my hostage, my prisoner, or my slave. So don’t be doing the running man when you see me. Look at me with love and affection,” she said, placing her hands on her hips and twisted left, then right. Slight gestures that caused a frenzy among the caged.
“I am your sister. We are family. If someone fucks with you, they fuck with me.” The crowd roared.
“I am a young woman. I am a fighter. I am known for four words, ‘We are at war!’ ” The stomping began again. “Not because we want to be. Not because we ain’t got nuthin’ better to do. But just because we are. We have been set up! We’ve been sucker-punched! We’ve been southpawed. We’ve been stabbed from behind. We’ve been blindfolded. We’ve been gagged. We’ve been wronged. We’ve been wrong. We’ve been held down too low for too long.” Now she was covered in a light sheen of summer sweat. She inhaled, then exhaled. She clenched her fingers and her face filled with ache.
“Brothers and sisters, we gotta get our hearts right. Love the right things. Hate the wrong things. Brothers, we gotta get our minds right. Read the right books. Write the right words. Rhyme the right lyrics. Sing the right songs. Speak the truth, Brothers! We gotta get our souls right. Praise the right God . . . ’Cause if you are telling me that you are God, you better be the solution and not the problem.” That was it. Her words tore the house down. No bodies were still. Even the guards looked shocked and somehow pleased with her and what she was saying and what she was evoking from the men, which they had never before seen.