Dragonflies in the Swamp

By Nicholas Brown

Dragonflies in the Swamp is a collection of short stories and what I call "Anecdotal Prose Poems". These tales and anecdotes illustrate how people from Miami's rough survive, thrive and die in the struggle of living in questionable and even dangerous territory.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pip N Pens
• Release date: Mar 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781500390020

Nicholas Brown

Nicholas Brown is a senior research fellow in the History Program, Research School of Social Sciences, Australian National University, working in part with The Australian Dictionary of Biography and the National Museum of Australia. His publications include Governing Prosperity: Social Analysis and Social Change in Australia in the 1950s and Richard Downing: Economics, Advocacy and Social Reform.

Book preview

I dedicate this book to everyone who’s supported me from when I first began promoting on facebook, and those who told me that books don’t sell these days because people don’t read.

***Upon Purchasing This Book***

This book contains stories and anecdotes directly from the author’s life. Certain events, occurrences, locations, names, and dates, etc., mentioned in this literary work have been altered to protect the lives and identities of those the author knows and respects. Please don’t attempt any illegal activities contained in this book. Once again, events where misdeeds are explained must never be done in any shape or form. If misdeeds are done or tried, regardless of this warning, then it is on the fault of the reader, and not the author or the people of Pip N Pens Publishing Company. Enjoy your copy. Thank you and God speed. 

Contents

Preface  8

Introduction: The Dragonfly    9

The Whip  11

As It Goes By  17

The Ho-lice Keeping It Gangsta  20

Blessing  35

At Times  48

Quis  55

The Fam  62

To Whom You Praise Bless  70

Zombies of Miami   81

Train     84

Head Crack  108

That’s My Dog!  114

Presidential Reactions  120

Why M.I.A.M.I  127

By Ya Damn Self  135

Telling  143

No Mas  148

Wild Out on May 25th  156

Feeling Bigger  164

Late Night  169

Running  178

Gun Fu  184

Pink & Grays  200

Ig’nant Nigger Shit  207

Hey...Asshole!  212

The Color of U  219

Handcuffs & Popcorn  229

High I.Q & A  238

Janitors without Pay  249

My Last Halloween  259

Not Him? Wrong Person  265

Suited, Booted & Ready to Man Up  280

Females, Love & Lust  286

Teachers Suck  303

Transport  315

We Feel You  321

Flame Thrower Dick  328

Mr. Athlete  334

Bullets & Bullshit  344

Comic Relief  355

Furious  362

Lost in Space  367

Hey kid!  383

Special Thanks Page  398

Preface

In 2011, I was in Dothan, Alabama. I was part of a 3 man Rap group, headed to a Hip-Hop conference that got cancelled. As we walked back to the hotel room, my ex-band mate expressed his disappointment. That same Sunday morning, I heard what sounded like a woman’s voice say to me keep going. This voice spoke as my friend Skoot spoke. When we got back to Miami, I continued my pursuit of being a Hip-Hop Renaissance man. This pursuit has led to a small amount of recognition, but enough to continue with some confidence.

I see now lack of confidence in myself led to my long delay into where I’m needed. This realization makes me feel foolish for not asserting myself earlier in life. But then again, the delay was needed. For without the stumbles, obstacles and falls, I wouldn’t be the man I am today.

I’ve failed with others more than I’ve succeeded with others. But from it all, I learned. I learned that my family and close friends deserve more because they are good people. And I learned, though cheated out of things such as a decent grade school education, I’m still one of, if not the smartest man in the room. I just need to show it better than I can tell it.

I must own it, and never go against my better judgment to avoid stepping on toes. I must relieve altruistic actions. I am accepting my egoist. And avoiding the overly confident, the overtly arrogant, the egotistical and the depressed for these were members of every failed attempt in my life.

A glorious life is available to us all. I’m following my path to glory. The lovable loser stigma won’t be synonymous with my name. I’ve lost enough battles. I’ll be damned if I keep losing. For this time, as it’s been these last couple of years prior to the creation of this book, everything is on my shoulders.

Thank God I see that now. And so far, this solo act is going great.

Introduction: The Dragonfly

Engineers designed aircrafts from its body's mechanics and movements in the form of helicopters like the ones hovering over America’s hoods and ghettos.

Ghettos and hoods which are same in thoughts and actions with Miami not being 

any exception to the rule for many wish to be the hood’s top predator.

The dragonfly like many of us so-called Black people come in many sizes, shades and colors with wing variation represented by our potential and opportunities to launch. From darkest to brownish-cinnamon to the fairest skinned are spread out around the world for there are but a few places like dragonflies where we aren't found.

Like the dragonfly, us so-called Black people’s ancestors been on Earth

millions of years. And like the dragonfly we who are so-called Blacks found in

The ghettos of America are seen to many and even themselves as apex predators

catching in mid flight or mid hustle our pray needed to live.

Even as nymphs, dragonflies hunt mosquito larva, tad poles and small 

fish. Powerful bodies thrust through the water, then out of the bog, stream,

And other swampy marsh for the final transformation into adulthood

where they mate and die in a life span lasting a brief moment in time.

As fearsome as the dragonfly looks to grown people and kids who run away from

the big scary bug, it is vulnerable to things such as frogs, spiders, lizards, and anything else that see insects as food., violent crimes and homicide, diabetes, stress, STD's such as HIV and even the police play the parallel with us so-called Blacks.

And here in South Florida, most of where homes are built was either forest, swamp forest or wet swamp area. If human beings disappeared, in maybe two centuries time, nature would reclaim what man has altered. Alligators, snakes and dragonflies especially would roam free to hunt or be hunted.

The dragonfly is a natural marvel. All people in different flights of life are marvels as well. But the so-called Black in Miami is like that of a dragonfly in the swamp. For our appearance in any setting, situation or scenario is seen as majestic or something to fear that may die soon. Yet we still live on, hunting while hunted.    

The Whip

I take a quote from Menace 'look at the wheels!' - Cutmaster C Shit, 50 Cent

You need to put a check with a check, with a check...Stack up on ya grip, get ya shit sprayed wet – Just Like Candy, MJG

Some say people of means don't show their wealth. This humors me for many wealthy people own a luxury car. It might be the first luxury car they ever purchased when they got rich, but they still bought a luxury car.  

Certain folks from the places I’ve dwelled become seasonal ballers in order to feel good about them selves. Seasonal ballers are people who get new cars, and other things they can’t afford, with their income tax return. They’ll get their checks in January, early February. Make big ticket purchases in March. Then by late May to late June, what they made down payments on, get repossessed. 

It’s always funny seeing at least 4 tow trucks every day, between May and June, repo tricked out luxury cars, from the Carol Mart and USA Flea Market parking lots. All while the seasonal baller is buying more things or getting their hair did.

A nice set of the right set of wheels can make women turn their heads’. It can have other men want those wheels for that same satisfaction. Everybody wants to feel like a boss. So for most people, men especially, this perceived status symbol says I'm the shit...And hey player, I know you see me...Now get on my level!

Old school & newer non-luxury cars, with trunks that rattled from the base produced by big speakers, roaring engines with loud vroom producing exhaust pipes, and the feeling of competition amongst us fellows, were things my older cousin embraced. He also rode up and down the street at the Goombay Festivals, or the Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. parades, letting fools know that the candy paint, on his ’87 Chevy Caprice ain’t orange, its tangerine.

In most hoods, big rims on old cars, with eye popping panty dropping paints, leather interior, exotic fur carpet, sound system, and other electronic upgrades, that gave the impression one is compensating for something elsewhere, made those of us who never had much of anything, feel like a star.

Mr. Local Celebrity, hated by ex-friends turned enemies, but you're not sweating all that negative energy. Young kids in the ghettos of Miami, and across America, play a game called That's My Car. We often played this in hopes of getting a nice whip when we got older.

I had a busted '89 Mercury Grand Marquis, with faded plum rose color paint, broken A/C, no Power Steering, so I used a lot of muscle when turning the wheel of the car for a few years. I drove it to a T.S.A job interview in June 2005.

Fifteen minutes before I walked into the hotel where interviews were conducted, the car’s water pump broke. Smoke and steam came from under the hood, as streams of water escaped the engine onto the ground underneath the car. Luckily I was 3 blocks away from the interview site.

I drove home distraught. I wasn’t hired. At the time, I wasn’t a U.S Citizen. I headed home extra slow from Northwest 21st Street, down Northwest 22nd Avenue, in order to reach Northwest 175th Street and 17th Court. I traveled under fifteen miles per hour in mid-summer's heat with the hazard lights blinking.

I entered a school zone by Olinda Elementary on Northwest 22nd Avenue and 54th Street. Kids were playing That's My Car. Since I had no radio and traffic moved at a snails pace, I heard every word those ghetto kids belted. Two cars in front of mine was, new at the time, a 2005 Silver Mercedes-Benz. The kids shouted that's my car as it rode by.

The car in front of me put those munchkins into a shouting match. The car’s sound system blasted something hot in Hip-Hop then. The glossy apple red candy paint, and 24" inch rims, hugged by fresh Sumitomo tires, made the car sweet enough to eat. 

When my car came up into the contest I heard: Hey Marlin...That's yo car followed by the children laughing at the boy. That ain't funny he said with an upset look and tears from his eyes. My hooptie made a kid cry ya'll. I felt so bad. Sorry Marlin. 

Cars depreciate in value with time’s passing. But after twenty-five years, any rust bucket is considered a classic car. So if you fix your car up, or maintain its condition, then it can be sold as a collectors’ item at classic car auctions. But few people go that route with their cars. Some only want to show off for that moment in time. Holding onto memories of when their car caught attention, until it broke down, was sold, repossessed or stolen. 

I'm a car enthusiast of sorts. I really want a few nice cars before my time is up on Earth. I shall have a sports car for fun. I want a family vehicle, but no punk ass soccer mom mini-van. I want a vehicle that's great on gas, for long road trips. And a big truck, preferably the Ford F-650, with a freaking train horn, that’ll put the fear of God in pedestrians. Any other car purchases will be classic restorations, for auction or direct sales because if I can make money from a hobby, then I’ll do it.

I worked at a car auction through a temp agency from mid to late 2007. It was one of the more fun jobs I’ve had. The temp service shut down that December. So in a sense, I got laid off from the car auction. But before I left, I drove about every car imaginable at the time, both old and new. I got a strong feel for which luxury vehicles to get, and which not to purchase, if I had the money then.

I learned, in my opinion, a 2005 Bentley Continental GT drove like a 2005 Benz SLK55. I’d never buy a Porsche, let alone name my daughter that. And I’d never get a Cadillac Escalade or Lincoln Continental because the Range and Land Rovers were a smoother ride.

Mini Coopers were better than the Jaguar S-Types, produced between the years 2001 – 2005. Rolls-Royce Phantoms, BMW 745s & 650s are awesome. The 2005 Dodge SRT-10, with the Viper engine was one of the sexiest looking, and sounding machines I’ve encountered. And I also learned the hard way that the 2005 Chevy Corvette z06, ain’t to be fucked with in a race.

My co-worker and a cool associate of mine, Big Smiley, raced in two cars from the auction. The company used to send us to their Palm Beach location. It was across the street from Cruzan Amphitheatre. Toward the end of our shifts, we placed the cars in an empty field, beside the amphitheatre for pick up the next day.

The amphitheatre’s parking section, when empty, had a portion of the back lot that was at least a quarter mile. Once we found this out, we took advantage by racing those beautiful machines.

My nigga...That new 350 Z Nissan quick sun...I’m telling you, that start off time is mean I said. I made buddy from West Palm look dumb when he raced me in that Jag with one of them Zs

Nick...I’m gonna jump in that ‘vette...Go and get a Z...And I’m gonna learn ya

I jumped in a Coral Orange 350 Z. Smiley got a Corvette z06. It was the same shade of blue as the G in Google’s logo. We drove to the back lot. A co-worker of ours went down to the end of the lot, in another car to signal.

As he drove slowly, we remained on what we deemed the start line. Our co-worker got to the end of the lot. He flashed the brake lights. The first flash of brakes was ready. The second flash meant set. And the blinking hazard lights for gooo!

I put pedal to metal and got the jump on Big Smiley. I looked in the wing mirror of the car. He didn’t pull off. What’s up with his car sun? After 4 seconds, Smiley took off. I thought I got this here. After that thought, Smiley was alongside of me.

I looked to my left halfway through the race. Big Smiley was right beside me. I remembered the smile on his face being as wide as the sky. He made the peace sign with his right hand. He then placed that same hand onto the gear shift. Smiley shifted the gears up once. He left me in the dust. The only thing I saw was taillights and a Corvette symbol. 

I told ya...I warned ya didn’t I?

I see...You got me...Lesson learned 

We all want the finer things in life. Most men want a beautiful wife, a way to put food on the table, and a man cave where we can collect our thoughts, or watch the game in peace. Having a nice whip is one of those things every man, and lately women, wish to have. I guess we’re all suckers for that new car smell.  

As It Goes By

Because I recognize it's all about timing from 100 Bars by Canibus

Money, gold, and jewels mean nothing, if one hasn’t time to attain these. Time is the most important commodity of every person on Earth. But many never utilize it until they're older, warning the youth how they’ve grossly mismanaged theirs. 

I waited for the number 11 Metro Bus on Flagler Street, in the more Latino side of Miami. I was on a long ass 3 hour commute to F.I.U’s South Campus. I conversed with an old Black dude dressed in a Publix Supermarket uniform. He noticed me reading a book I purchased Think Big and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill, a book he read in prison. 

After we got on the bus, he told me how he earned a football scholarship playing for Northwestern High School. I forgot which state college gave him a shot. But he later pursued his first shot at selling cocaine, during the 1970's in Miami’s Overtown. This landed him in prison for eighteen years.

When he finished his woeful tale, the bus arrived at his stop, seconds later as if scripted. The funny thing was I never saw that old dude ever again. I rode the same number 17 bus, to the number 11 bus, at that same time during the semester, from Miami Gardens. He was like the ghost of Christmas Past.   

That old guy's story resembled other older guys from around my way. With most repeating this phrase: I finally took the time to think. Meaning they realized the potential they squandered, on cheap thrills en route to ghetto fabulousness. 

I'll never say disconnect fully from your old hood. If you can, share your wisdom, and some of your time, with those coming up behind you. But know that those who dropped the ball gave a look of warning. Along with stay in school, or find something positive to do, that look said you too will have gray hair, a family and responsibilities. They never quoted scriptures from any religious texts. But that look by each old man was my version of the Burning Bush. 

I took time to read and focus on things that interested me. I can never be happy punching a clock then witness the seconds tick away. You can quit, be fired or laid off at any time. But it's almost like a prison, just minus the bars. For like a prison you're told when to wake up, when you can eat, when you have a break, and when you can sleep, so you can get up to do it all over again. 

You're given deadlines for assignments that fuel someone else’s dream. They worked on their dream, until they can handout small chunks of money, for your time. I know you’re given a day or two off for activities that kill stress. But this you even do, just to get back to work.

And those days off aren't enough. You still got errands to run, food to cook, bills to pay, kids to pickup, and other life stuff you gripe on the phone to someone, or social media about. 

I took time to formulate plans A, B, C, D, and even down to the second Z. Meaning, I came up with over fifty things I wanted to do. I narrowed them down through trial and error. With each plan, I focused fully on how to spend my time. I suggest this method to the disenfranchised. You don’t have to feed the evil, and corporate, Prison Industrial Complex.

Time is something you can't purchase online or at the mall. It isn’t extended with every achievement one earns. No check points or extra lives in this game. Where you slip is where you slide like sand in an hour glass. You don't know when it's your time to pass on. So please, be smart with your time.

The Ho-lice Keeping It Gangsta

I said what the fuck are you lookin 4? Can't a young man make money anymore? – Redman What U Lookin' 4, Muddy Waters, 1997

Crooked cops. Do they come in any other way? If I'd been just a little dumber, I could have joined the force myself – Mel Gibson as Porter, Payback, 1999

What the fuck does this doughnut eating motherfucker want? Surfaced in my mind as the Hollywood Police car followed me. Look like he reading my tag. I'm straight. I got my insurance and all that. I was on my way to pick up Lucus. We landed a gig at a car auction during the summer of 2007.

It was dawn on that Monday. I took the then familiar route north on 441 (pronounced four-forty-one), State Road 7. I normally turned left on Johnson Street in Broward County to pick him up.

I had minor run-ins with police up there. Miami Gardens is one of the last municipalities of Miami-Dade before entering Broward. Cracker Town is what some of my friends called Broward. Those of us with sense knew better.

In South Florida, from the top of North Palm Beach, down to the Florida Keys live people from different parts of the globe. But for one reason or another, some black folks in Miami made Broward synonymous with white people. They see it like Mayberry on the Andy Griffith Show.  

Broward also has a rep for having the rudest police force: The Broward Sheriff's Office or B.S.O. I used to call B.S.O Bull Shit Officers. For they locked you up for anything they could think of. I once got a ticket for putting flyers on car windshields. I was in the night club’s parking lot the flyers promoted on Pines Boulevard and University Drive when this happened.   

One time Lucus and I rode out with 3 others. We were in a pimped out '87 Box Chevy Caprice my cousin sold our friend Pierre. It was a beautiful car. It was candy painted tangerine, and had 20 inch rims in Pirelli tires. In 2002, trust me, this car turned heads. It was stolen about ten months later. But for the moment we rode ghetto fabulous.

Pierre had an empty container of beer he drank on his side. We were heading to a place on Sunrise Boulevard near the Swap Shop. My cousin told Pierre where he could get gold teeth done for cheap. In Lauderhill, on State Road 7, was where we got pulled over.

We didn't break the speed limit. The car’s registration and insurance was up to date. And the rear lights weren't broken. Pierre had recently bought the car, and didn't have a chance to add the sound system yet. He didn’t add tints on the windows yet neither. So why did this B.S.O pull 5 black guys in a nice ride over?

The officer walked over. He asked for everyone’s I.D. While my friend Rawlo, who sat in the back with me to my left, reached for his I.D, the cop saw the empty beer can. 

We remained quiet in the back while Pierre asked in his deep New York City accent What seems to be the problem officer?

I pulled ya'll cause I saw one of you toss an empty bag of chips out the car 

I know this puss-ass cop didn't pull us for no damn bag of chips T.Y said to my right in a whisper.

Just imagine if we tossed a box of Kripsy Kreme...That bitch would give us ten years per doughnut like crack or something I said.

I see the container son. You guys might want to step out the car.

We followed as instructed. We looked like a basketball team with Pierre at center. Lucus, as the front passenger, was power forward. Rawlo was small forward, with T.Y and I as the shooting and point guards. The cop was surprised with our heights because he barely reached my shoulder. I was the shortest of the bunch, standing a smidge under six feet.  

You know I can bring all of you guys down for this one container

We all stood silent as the cop searched the car for weapons or drugs. At the end of the ordeal, Lucus was the only one arrested. He left his I.D home, and gave a fake name to the copper. The rest of us were free to go.

If Lucus had warned us about his I.D situation, we would've played along with the fake name. But since no communication was established before hand, he spent that whole week in Broward County jail. We helped him forget the whole thing by taking him to the strip club upon release.

The white police car with HOLLYWOOD in red, and POLICE in blue stayed on my tail. Let me turn left on Hollywood boulevard, then bust a right on 62nd avenue. Take this back street to see if this cop gonna stop me or what.

At the light on Hollywood Boulevard, I was in the left turning lane. I looked in my rear view mirror. I wondered if the officer would turn on the red and blues, followed by the quick alarm sound that signaled stop.

The turn signal hit green. I made the turn. No lights flashed, but the cop still followed. Northwest 62nd Avenue wasn't far from 441. I quickly arrived to it. I turned right then headed up 62nd Avenue. I only took this back street when 441 got congested in the mornings.  

While going up the street I thought I hope that ain't two cops down to beat a nigga like he stole something...Lord God, get me to work minus an ass whooping and a ticket.

I had good reason why I prayed for such a thing. About 8 years prior, when I first began high school, a cop left a memory that still angers me to this day.

It was a Saturday night. Rawlo just got off work. I was with 2 other friends who were brothers, Jonah and Hemmit. We came from Carol Mart, and ran into him behind North Dade Regional Library, near his job. He was extremely enthusiastic about getting off work.  

Dog...I'm suppose to meet Lana with the long legs in front of the library...I'm gonna see if I can get some head he said. She was saying how she want to hook up with me and shit...And you know how she get down

We walked with him to see if it were true. She stood in the front of the library, where the book drop box was located. Since we all knew each other, she didn’t care that we showed up with Rawlo.

We escorted her up Northwest 24th Avenue. Rawlo, in his Eckerd’s work uniform, really wanted Lana to orally pleasure him. But we couldn't take her to any of our houses due to families being home. Behind the portables at Crestview Elementary was the only place to go. 

It was an hour away from mid-night. Jonah, Hemmit and I jumped the fence in to the school. Where we stood gave us a clear of the two. In the middle of them cuddling up, a concerned neighbor called the police.

I respect the person who called the cops. If the cops had taken us in for trespassing, I would’ve respect that as well. But what that pig motherfucker did to me was wrong. The Metro-Dade police showed up then surrounded the school. Running away would’ve been foolish.

Get on the ground. Get on your knees, on the ground. We complied and did what was said.

Lay face down with your hands stretched out above you. And we did so nervously.

Now with your left hands, empty your left pocket. he said. Is that everything? Good...Now keep your left hands stretched out while you empty the right pocket with your right hand.

After we emptied our pockets, they handcuffed the 3 of us. The commanding officer told us sit in a cross-legged position. When I looked up to see their faces, I swear, all I saw were silhouettes. This was because the moon and street lights shone on the officer's backs. 

One cop who appeared tall, slim and fair skinned was to my left. The middle two were plain brown figures in uniform, average in body size. The one I’ll never forget was far right. He was as tall as the fair skinned one, but wide in body size. He looked like an ex-defensive tackle banned from the NFL for bull steroid usage. 

What you boys doing here...We got two other people around the portables...They with ya'll?

We acknowledge that we knew them. But then Hemmit, on my left side started lying. He told the officers we came from a high school football game. It made no sense to lie like that. So I gave an explanation that was more believable. 

Sir we're coming from my house. My peoples are tripping so we came here to drink some water...You see we ain't got no weapons or tools to break in, so you can just let us go for being dumb

You see little nigga you're lying said one of the middle silhouettes. Both of ya'll lying

Ya'll ain't trying to break in so what ya'll in here for? said the fair skinned silhouette.

Officer...Check my I.D...You see my address is that house behind the school. We came here for water that's it I said.

I swear we ought to arrest ya'll for lying like this said the big pig.

Look man...You ain't gotta call me no liar...I ain't no mother fucking liar...Why I got to lie for...My address is right there, you can check

You know what...Come here said the large silhouette who was a person of color like me.

By my right arm, he pulled me up. He walked me around the corner where we peered from earlier. At first, I thought he was going to tell me be quiet. When we stopped walking, I turned to face him.

That corner was darker than where we sat. He lifted his shadowy hand. He balled it into a fist. He then threw a powerful right cross. It landed on the right side of my chest. That blow knocked my body limp. He then shoved me up against the wall.

Got something else to say little ass nigga?

A tear rolled down my eye as I leaned against that wall. My friends remained extra silent. They heard that gorilla man’s fist thump against my chest. And they heard my pain filled groan after the impact. 

Sit yo little ass down and shut the fuck up

I sat down angry and upset. Upset that a brother hit me in the chest. He was a brother like me. My brother, who prior to joining the force, was susceptible to the same police harassment, overstepped his boundary. He did me like the officer who bullied Tre and Ricky in the movie Boyz n the Hood.

He could've told me to just chill. But instead he used physical might as an attempt to silence me. After I sat down, the cops tried to scare us. 

Ya'll gonna go down for attempted burglary   

Yep...I say these boys are gonna do some time in juvie...May be community service

Yeah, especially you...Hope ya'll have fun on the side of the road picking up trash

Man, when ya'll gone let us go?! I said.

"You still talking