Through a housing program called Section 8 my mother was able to move us to suburban Schaumburg, Ill. In the early ’80s the city had only a handful of black residents.
The night after we moved in, my mom sent me to the store to buy cigarettes. On my way home a police officer stopped me, searched me and said, “We don’t like you city n-----s in our town, so you be careful, boy.” I thought of the stories my granny used to tell of black boys and men being lynched. I went home scared and humiliated.
One night my sister Kim and I got into a loud argument. Some concerned neighbor must have called the police, who kicked in our front door with guns drawn and shouted for me, and a relative who was visiting, to lie facedown on the ground. Hearing the commotion from her wheelchair upstairs, my mother demanded to know what they were doing to her son.
When my mom objected to the officers’ threats to search the house, the younger cop barked, “We’re gonna search this house even if I have to go through you to do it.”
All fear left me at those words, and I stepped between the police and my mom and said, “If you put your hands on my mother, you’re gonna need more than just a nightstick.”
In the end, the sergeant arrived and said, “There’s no reason for us to get involved. Let the n-----s handle their own problems.”
The next day I was arrested while going to the store. They claimed I fit the description of a “black boy” who attempted to rape a white girl. I was beaten, choked and denied counsel until I signed a typed confession. At a hearing the judge ruled that I had “no proof to substantiate my claim” of innocence and that the confession was coerced. I could go to trial, but my public defender advised me to take four years for burglary and attempted rape and I’d be out in less than nine months. If convicted, I would face
30 years. I took the plea!
An 18-year-old has no business being confined with seasoned criminals. But there I was, and if I wanted to survive I’d better learn the art of war. I learned too well. By the time I was paroled, I was a sociopath.
In prison it is mandatory that you carry a weapon. To be caught without a weapon can lead to certain death, or worse. Even on the outside, I could not shake the habit of being armed. One day while commuting to Chicago on a bus to go to school to become a medical assistant, I stabbed a white man after he called me a n----r! He caught all the rage from the injustice I felt I’d been afflicted with by whites in power. I went back to prison for 18 months, and when I came home this time, my soul was completely devoid of light. I began using drugs heavily; it was the only way I could numb the incessant pain in my heart. I took to burglarizing homes to get money for drugs. One such excursion would end in my vicious killing of another human being.
Reader Responses
I am and always will be so proud of you, my love. I have always known what was inside of you was far more beautiful than this blinded system could see. I praise God for these opportunities for you to express it. There is even more to be discovered!
—Rev. Elena Calloway Chicago
Your ability to create pictures in not so many words made this story so emotionally sincere that I was sorry it ended. Please write more nonfiction or fiction. I would like to read more.
—Steve Levine Los Angeles
Wonderful! I totally understand and wish you luck on all your endeavors.
—Cecil Stewart Madison, Wis., via Northwestern Magazine
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