It Is What It Is: Systematic Incarceration / Disguised Racism - The Autobiography of Gerald H. Duffy, Jr.

By Gerald Duffy, Jr

The most explosive, dynamic, and compelling autobiography ever written from behind the walls of the United States Federal Penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas. Now, after continuously serving more than 20 years inside some of the most violent, dangerous, and drug infested Federal penitentiaries throughout this nation, Gerald Hawthorne Duffy, Jr. finally tells his story. As an African-American, Duffy was raised in Southern Mississippi (by far one of the most racist and poverty stricken regions in this nation); reared in private Catholic institutions; ran away from home at the age of 15 after experiencing child abuse and domestic violence; was an elite high school football and track athlete; went on to attend college and was awarded one of the highest academic honors as a freshman; yet became a central figure in the largest and most profitable Federal cocaine conspiracies to originate from Southern Mississippi in the late 80s through the early 90s whose networking centers extended as far as Miami, New York, and Houston. This story depicts Duffy’s childhood years, takes a glimpse into the struggles of college life, and a look into the vicious “underworlds” of America. It is intertwined with statistical facts and professional analysis concerning African Americans financial, social, educational, and political conditions in the United States. Duffy exposes the so-called “War on Drugs,” unveils who that war is actually being waged against, and reveals the true hidden agenda behind the White Power Structure in America. The book explains that by targeting black men through the War on Drugs, and decimating communities of color, the U.S. criminal justice system functions as a contemporary system of racial control. He exposes this new racial caste system, and suggests the solution for which it is to be dismantled. The book finally shows that with knowledge of self, along with a sound education, we can all change and become productive leaders and pillars of our communities. Very inspirational, educational, and a must read for anyone seeking change.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gerald Duffy, Jr
• Release date: Jun 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476030159

Gerald Duffy, Jr

For all that preambles, this is not just a book that outlines my experiences and adventures in life, another dope-boy story, or even a lengthy prison saga. Instead, I’ve tried to make this book a learning and growing experience for anyone who might take the time to read it. “IT IS WHAT IT IS: SYSTEMATIC INCARCERATION / DISGUISED RACISM” is a movement for others to learn from the bad decisions I’ve made throughout my lifetime and specifically a wake-up call for all African-America youth. It’s time for us to wake up and see what is happening to our beautiful race of people. If at the end of the day this book helps one person, (African-American or otherwise) become a better person, and contribute to the solution, and not to the problem, then my mission for writing was accomplished. Thank you again for all who took the time to read this book, and as the old saying goes, “IT IS WHAT IT IS.” In closing, I would like to leave the reader with these few thoughts: My mother taught me how to love and keep positive plans; Universities and colleges taught my mind to expand; The streets taught me how to survive and live off the land; However, Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary changed me from a boy to a man. Gerald Hawthorne Duffy, Jr.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

I was inspired and motivated to write this autobiography from behind the wall of United States Federal Penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas, simply because I truly believe that I have a unique and compelling story that needs to be shared with the African-American youths of today.

Each and every year throughout this nation hundreds of thousands of African American youths (males and females) are captured from off the streets of America, incarcerated and justified up under a national policy which has tricked this nation into believing that we are fighting a so-called war on drugs.

In order for us as Blacks to break this repeated cycle of incarceration, first we must instill into our youths, that without hard work, struggle and sacrifice, there is no true progress in life. Everything that was easily obtainable and freely given away in this country are gone. Black youths today must become educated and knowledgeable of the real ‘system’ in which we live, so they can better understand the daily conditions we all face as a people.

I was also inspired to write this book because I was sick and tired of witnessing African-American youths being under represented, uneducated, unemployed, and exploited on a daily basis throughout this nation. Enough has been said in regards to high unemployment rates, high school drop outs, teenage pregnancies, extreme poverty levels and high incarceration rates. Now is the time for us to take action.

The White Power Structure of America today has portrayed an image to the world that African-Americans are mostly lazy and largely criminals; then they enact laws and policies that discriminate against us, deny us decent jobs, basic education and equal justice. We all can bare witness that traps have been set for us to fail as a people, and we are the only ones who can change that course of action.

In order for us to survive today within the current system in which we live, African-Americans must first become knowledgeable of who we are as a people. With that knowledge we become empowered. Without it we continue to be weak, divided and often times misled.

Once we become knowledgeable of who we are, that knowledge will give each of us the newfound strength to deal with the power imbalances that promote racism in our courts, educational, welfare and health care systems; as well as everyday walks of life. When we fail to understand how the White Power Structure functions and operates, we become helpless victims and easy targets to be exploited.

When I speak of becoming knowledgeable of the system in which we live, I don’t simply mean being able to quote and recite statistics that effect African-Americans. As you read my autobiography you will discover and become knowledgeable of countless numbers of statistical facts which all have direct effects on us as a people. However, if we fail to understand and comprehend the root causes to our problems we can never adequately resolve these issues. For the constant laws of physics tells us that nothing in this universe happens by chance or coincidence, and therefore, those very same laws apply to our conditions as a people.

For example: The African-American high school dropout rate isn’t the highest in this country simply because our youths are not interested or willing to educate themselves, or they just refuse to attend school. African-American youths must first be taught at home the benefits and advantages of having a sound education, and be made aware of the emphasis that White America places upon education throughout this nation. The moment that Black youths become educated, they immediately become threats to the system in which we live, and less of a hazard to our Black communities. No one can clearly predict the actions of an educated person. They have too many available options. However, an uneducated individual can easily be predicted, their choices are limited and they will always be led by their foolish ways.

By telling my life story I sincerely hope and pray that I never offend or mischaracterize anyone throughout the course of this book. That was never my intentions or my sole purpose for writing this autobiography. Instead, what I wish to accomplish is to enlighten the youths concerning the conditions we all face here in America. Hopefully, with that knowledge they can learn from some of my bad decisions throughout my lifetime, and never have to travel the path I took. I also pray that this book be a wakeup call for youths who constantly struggle day in and day out—and really try to do the right thing—but seem to get nowhere. Believe me there’s light at the end of the tunnel. Never give up on your dreams. Everything in life will happen in due time.

The sad fact is that in this country today education alone won’t be enough to balance the playing field against White America. Still in the year 2011, African-Americans who have earned Bachelor’s degrees and higher now have a higher unemployment rate than Whites who’d only obtained a two year college degree. African-Americans with college degrees earn substantially less than White college graduates, and the overall unemployment rate for Blacks in 2011 is now approaching 16%—almost doubling the national average. The average income of African Americans with a four year college degree is surprisingly more than $13,000 less than Whites with the same level of education. What’s even more troubling is Blacks today who’d received Master’s Degrees earn approximately $2,000 a year less than Whites with a simple Bachelor.

After serving nearly two decades inside federal penitentiaries I’ve had a chance to analyze my surroundings, and concluded Change will never come from the outside in, but instead will only take place from the inside out. The problems and issues we face today throughout this nation is not just a Black thing, but instead are problems we all face as a nation.

The United States, once a world leader for decades in proportion of adults ages 25-34 with college credentials now rank 12th among industrialized nations. Each and every year America invests more into its prison systems than it does into its educational systems, and the White Power Structures enjoys the benefits of that injustice today. Yet, as a nation we’ll all lose in the end. About a third of United States’ students today don’t graduate from high school says a 2010 report by Education Week. Yet, for African-American and Latino boys that rate jumps to nearly 50%.

The White Power Structure has officially formed and established their own social, economical, and political structures, which benefits and caters strictly to upper-class White Americans. The White Power Structure is strictly motivated by the desire to acquire wealth and power at any cost. It has been seen throughout generations that a house divided from within will soon self destruct. Once the sleeping giant within the African-American families awakes, and the mind-set is triggered that we can succeed in America by playing by their rules, we will then and only then rise to the top as a people. The White Power Structure benefits daily from a system that has been set up and put into motion through causes and effects, and now automatically runs itself.

After analyzing my surroundings for close to two decades inside federal prison, I’ve come to realize that African-Americans cannot continue to blame and point the finger at White Americans for tilting the scales of power in their favor. Wouldn’t we as people do the very same if we were in dominant positions of power? Surely we would if we could. Wouldn’t it be wise to assume the majority of all African-American leaders in position of power and authority evaluate the consequences from decisions they make concerning African-Americans? Surely they do. And any logical and realistic thinking person would have to assume the same. Humans by nature are instinctively programmed to be self-centered, and place self-interest above all others. Remember the old saying, Self-Preservation is the first law of nature. Self-interest and self love automatically leads to competition and division among individuals and competing ethnic groups.

It has become too easy for African-Americans to just sit back and point the finger at White America and blame them for the majority of our problems and misfortunes today. The White Power Structure is demonstrating exactly what they’ve been taught and raised to do, which is to devise strategies to stay on top and remain in power as a people. In my opinion African-Americans give Whites extremely too much credit in regard to being dominant and truly successful. Whites are no better than what we perceive or allow them to be. After taking into consideration as a race of people they’ve received more than 400 years of free labor; built the strongest and most powerful political, social and financial structures in the world from manipulating and oppressing helpless Blacks.

African-Americans were never taught to hate Whites; yet, how can we eventually not come to despise and mistrust a system that has constantly oppressed, incarcerated, and denied us fundamental education, basic health care and essentially all major necessities needed for survival. Whites have reaped hundreds of years of free labor, senseless killings, and are now currently engaging in modern day genocide with its prison system, all in the name of an issue so minute as the level of pigmentation in one’s skin.

Until we as African-Americans educate ourselves to understand the system in which we live, learn the mind-set and thought patterns of the White Power Structure that controls America, and realize to the full extent in which racism and White supremacy are intertwined into the fabric of the American minds and souls, any and everything else that we try to understand will only mislead and confuse us. I know I haven’t been perfect; however, once I made a true commitment to Change (contribute to the real solutions and not to the false problems) at that moment I viewed the world through a different set of eyes. My name is Gerald Hawthorne Duffy, Jr. and I could find no better title for this book and also describe what I’ve been through in my lifetime, besides IT IS WHAT IT IS.

CHAPTER 1

I spit the truth in every noun and every verb/ I never exaggerated one line one dime/ never lied to the people not one time.

Album: Let’s Get It—Thug Motivation 101

Famous Rap Artist: Young Jezzy

Lock-Down! Lock-Down! Lock-Down! All inmates inside the housing units report to your assigned cells immediately! All inmates on the recreational yard get face down on the ground! I repeat! Lock-Down! Lock-Down! Lock-Down! All inmates inside the housing units report to your assigned cells immediately! All inmates on the recreational yard get face down on the ground! The urgent sounds of the guard’s voices repeatedly echoed across the loudspeakers inside Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary. I repeat! Lock-Down! Lock-Down! Lock-Down! The institution is now officially on Lock-Down!

In a matter of seconds Leavenworth transformed from being a calm and peaceful environment—into an all out war zone. Immediately after the stress call came across the prison staff two way radios, ten to fifteen correctional officers all charged out the Lieutenant’s office running and screaming for all inmates in the hallways and corridors to hit the floor. While another ten to fifteen officers simultaneously stormed from various entrances of department buildings running and screaming the same—as they all raced towards the recreational yard.

Multiple fights took place on the yard—as one on ones, two on ones, and three on twos all jumped off. As the blood bath took place, I repeatedly heard the urgent sounds of the guard’s voices shouting in both English and Spanish for all inmates to hit the ground. I could also hear the constant crackling from the high power rifles, which repeatedly shot from the gun towers. The bullets ricocheted throughout the recreational yard in close proximity towards the fights.

Tension had been building all night since the Mexican Mafia and Black Gangsta Disciples squared off inside B-Housing Unit. It was the third time this week that prison officials had to come between the two groups. Everyone inside Leavenworth knew sooner or later the yard would explode. Inmates had heard the rumors and knew it was coming; yet, few knew the time and place.

While I lay on the ground in the middle of the recreational yard observing all the guards break up the various altercations, in a matter of seconds my whole life flashed before my eyes and I wondered where did it all go wrong for me. I’ve been here inside Leavenworth for the past six years and contemplated that very same question time and time again. I’m 42 years old; yet, I’ve already served the last twenty years of my life inside federal prisons. At times my journey has taken me on an emotional roller coaster ride—from extreme highs to all times lows. The sad fact is that I still have more tha five years remaining before I’ll ever see the streets again. No! I haven’t killed or injured anyone to have served more than two decades inside federal prison. My most severe crime as of today is being born Black in White America during the height of the so-called war on drugs.

While laying face down with my hands behind my back and periodically staring up at the 50 foot wall which surrounds the nation’s oldest maximum security federal penitentiary, I realized that my journey could never be complete until I finally tell my story.

With the incident on the yard being so severe I assumed the penitentiary would probably be on lock-down for the next couple of weeks. Twenty-four hours a day. Now was the perfect time for me to tell the world my story—raw, uncut, and lay it all on the table.

The officers quickly regained control of the recreational yard, and then separated all inmates by units. I live in A-Housing Unit, the first unit to be escorted off the yard.

After being pat searched, we all slowly walked in a single file line back to our assigned units. We passed through multiple metal detectors which led to the main buildings. I couldn’t wait to get back to my cell so I could tell the world my story.

As we approached the front entrance to A-House, more guards huddled in the staircase, as they escorted us up to the sixth floor. Once arriving on the sixth floor, more guards stood around everywhere, as they quickly locked inmates inside their cells.

What number Old School? The guard yelled from the control booth.

621, I replied.

The guard clicked the button, as the cell-house door slowly rolled open. Immediately after I stepped inside, the cell-house door closed. I stood looking out the window of the door for a few minutes observing the scene. While I gazed out the window I thought to myself. Now was the perfect time to let the world know how I felt, and say what was really on my mind. I turned and grabbed a pencil from the desktop, then clicked on my radio. As I sat on the side of my bed, I thought to myself, and knew it was time for me to man up and tell the whole world, IT IS WHAT IT IS.

***

I was born on a Friday morning June 14, 1968 at Fort Bragg military base in Fayetteville, North Carolina, to the union of Gerald and Beverly Duffy. My parents had recently married on July 10, 1966, several years before I was born. My father had enlisted into the United States Army and was stationed at Fort Bragg. He quickly became a member of the 82nd Airborne, who were known throughout the military as the Screaming Eagles.

Shortly after enlisting my father was scheduled to be deployed to help fight the war in Vietnam. He would serve in Vietnam for the next eighteen months jumping out of 130 aircrafts, fighting throughout the jungles and rice paddies in Southern Vietnam on the rugged terrains on the continent of Asia, faithfully putting his life on the line for a war that could never be won.

During the time my father fought the war my mother patiently waited in Mississippi for him to return, and wrote him every single day he was gone. My parents are originally from Pascagoula, Mississippi, and had met while still in high school. Pascagoula is located in the far most southeastern corner of the state of Mississippi; population approximately 28,000. Pascagoula sits about twenty-two miles west of Mobile, Alabama, and ninety miles east of New Orleans, Louisiana, along Interstate-10.

Pascagoula is famous along the Mississippi Coast for its many shipbuilding yards and chemical plants, which employ tens of thousands of workers throughout the Coast. Pascagoula is also home to one of Northrop Grumman’s shipbuilding sites. Northrop Grumman is one of the largest shipbuilding contractors for the United States Department of Defense, and also one of the largest shipbuilding companies in the world. The Northrop Grumman’s site in Pascagoula became famous for repairing the USS COLE BATTLESHIP, which was bombed on October 12, 2000 in a terrorist attack which killed 17 Sailors off the Coast of Yemen.

After fighting the wars, my father returned to Pascagoula and reunited with my mother. He briefly worked for the City of Pascagoula before finding a job at Thiokol, a well known chemical plant located in Moss-Point, Mississippi. Moss-Point is a small industrial town adjacent to Pascagoula; population approximately 20,000. After being hired at Thiokol, my father worked there for the next thirty-five years before he retired.

Growing up down South was extremely challenging and very difficult back in the late 60s and early 70s. Mississippi has always been ‘Ground Zero’ to the Civil Rights movement, and basically to all movements which positively affect African-Americans. One could never imagine the racial tension which occurred throughout Mississippi during those times. Hearing about it on the news, or reading about it in the newspapers are totally different than living through it on a daily basis.

I can still remember countless numbers of stores and restaurants along the Mississippi Coast that had ‘Colored’ or ‘Blacks’ only signs which hung at the side windows and doors of established businesses well into the mid ‘90s. I vividly remember one restaurant along Market Street in Pascagoula named Edd’s Drive Inn, which had a ‘Colored Only’ sign that hung around at the side window. Edd’s had some of the best homemade hamburgers in town, and nobody cared about the signs that hung. Throughout the years African-Americans have given that racist family tons of money, and nobody was conscious or seemed to care about its racist past.

***

My father’s mother’s name was Geraldine Robinson, yet, everyone in town simply referred to her as Maw-maw. Maw-maw also lived in Pascagoula and owned a nice size brick house on the corner of Convent Avenue and Market Street. She lived right in the heart of the neighborhood. Maw-maw was short and brown skinned. She stood around 5’0," and was extremely obese for her height. She was born in 1918 and knew firsthand the struggles and sacrifices that came along with being Black while living down South during the height of the Civil Rights and Jim Crow eras.

Maw-maw was one of the sweetest women in the world, and when conversing with her I quickly realized she’d seen and been through it all in her days. I would sometimes sit and listen to her lecture me for hours about how easy we had it now- compared to back in the days. She would go out her way to instill in me how important it was to do the right thing, and to always treat people fair and with respect. She strongly preached and taught the power of the dollar bill, and firmly believed that if you didn’t have any money you were worthless.

Maw-maw had two children: My father and my Aunt Edna. My father was the oldest; yet, my Aunt Edna was only twelve years older than me. My father was raised by Maw-maw’s older sister Emma. When Emma died she left my father her house, which was located several houses down from where Maw-maw lived. My father settled our family into Emma’s old house, and we were no different than any other Black family in Pascagoula during those days.

My mother parent’s names were Andrew and Augustine Elly. They were married and lived on the North side of town, which everyone referred to as Cross Town. Cross Town was different than where my parents lived, whereas, nothing really happened Cross Town.

My grandparent’s nicknames were Pop-pee and Mau. Since I was the oldest and only grandchild at that time, I would have to be accredited with giving them those names. Pop-pee and Mau were two of the nicest people in the world, and I spent a lot of time with them when I was young.

Pop-pee and Mau had a total of five children: My Aunt Maria, my Mother Beverly, Aunt Ester, Uncle Jackie and Aunt Angela. My Aunt Maria was the oldest. It’s sad to say she died early one morning in a tragic car accident while trying to make it home before her 12:00 a.m. curfew. I never had a chance to see Maria. She died before I was born. However, Mau kept pictures of Maria in the living room and throughout the house, and she was such a beautiful woman.

Several years after I was born my parents had another son, and named him Marlowe after my father’s Drill Sergeant at Fort Bragg. Marlowe and I were really close, and shared the same bedroom at home. When we were young we would stay up into the middle of the night and fantasized about what we wanted to become later in life. We shared both good and bad memories growing up at home. I’ll never forget some of those days as long as I live.

Across the street from home was the local hang-out and party spot named Jakes. Jakes consisted of approximately five to six hole in the wall clubs, which were all connected to one another, with a run-down cedar block rooming house around back. All the local playas and hustles from out the neighborhood hung out at Jakes. They shot pool, got high, and talked shit to each other all day.

When I was young, I would stare out the front window at home for hours and watch different women walk back and forth in front of Jakes. They all wore long weave hair, short mini-skirts, high heels, and jumped in and out of cars turning tricks all day. For some crazy reason that fast pace life seemed to amaze me at such an early age.

***

My mother was a Catholic. She was raised in the Catholic Church and regularly attended Mass. She believed in doing the right thing, and believed in going to church every Sunday morning.

Marlowe and I attended St. Peters Elementary from first through sixth grade, and also attended St. Peters Church every Sunday morning. I can’t remember missing a single Sunday of church while growing up at home, and the Catholic faith was a way of life around the house.

St. Peters Catholic Church and School were all Black institutions that were basically managed and operated by Whites. When I attended St. Peters Elementary every student in class was Black; yet, were taught by considerably older White women, who were nuns in the Catholic Church. Few, if any of these nuns had recognizable degrees in teaching, and the majority had never even been to college.

These White women had committed and dedicated their lives to the Catholic Church, and in return were designated to various churches and schools to spread the Catholic faith. St. Peters Elementary was occupied by young impressionable Black kids, who were taught the Catholic faith daily by these women.

St. Peters Elementary also displayed pictures, statues, and sculptures of skinny pale White men and women throughout the classrooms and hallways who were supposedly God, his disciples, and his mother Mary. As a kid one could never imagine the psychological impact the church could have on one’s way of thinking. Growing up attending Catholic school I learned more about religion, than the basic knowledge which is needed to survive in the real world. St. Peters Elementary began each day off by praying. We went to Mass three times a week, and during the times in class we still read from the Bible.

When I was young, I had a bad speech impediment, but was still de-termined to ask questions during class when I didn’t understand what was being taught.

My father would lecture me and Marlowe almost every morning before school. He would tell us to try and learn something every day. When we came home after school our father would sometimes quiz us on what we’d learned. Marlowe and I would make up anything to say. We knew our father only wanted to know was he getting his money worth by sending us to private school. St. Peters wasn’t cheap by any means, but ultimately turned out to be a great learning experience.

While attending St. Peters Elementary it became extremely difficult for me to relate to Catholic Nuns. When it came to teaching, in my opinion, these women didn’t have a clue as to how to teach a room full of young energetic Black kids from inner city neighborhoods. When I came to understand the lifestyles of these women, I understood then that there was no way they could relate to Black kids.

Nuns were required to live strict and stringent lifestyles. They prayed all day and lived in a house called the convent, that was connected to the school and short walking distance from the church. They weren’t allowed to marry, couldn’t have sex, or become intimate with men in any way. When they weren’t teaching they were in church, or either in the convent. Later in life I realized why these women were always so upset. They were all celibate, or at least pretended to be, and lived lives against the laws of nature.

Since my parents attended St. Peters Church every Sunday morning they developed relationships with some of these nuns. My parents knew all the nuns who taught me during the week. They always had something negative to say concerning my conduct at school. They went out of their way to tell my father little things that didn’t amount to nothing—but pissed him off. They would tell him that they couldn’t get me to keep my mouth closed during class, and he really needed to have a long talk with me. He instantly related what the nuns had told him to me being disrespectful or disobedient in class. He never took the time to inquire what really happened, and automatically concluded I misbehaved. Those nuns knew exactly what they were doing—knew my father was a damn fool—and knew he would believe them over me. All they wanted was for me to keep quiet during class so I could make their jobs that much easier.

Some of my best days were at St. Peters Elementary, and after graduating I appreciated the years I’d spent there. My mind was trapped inside a box during those years, and the world took on a different meaning. At St. Peters Elementary learning became a focal point in my life, and it was there I learned and questioned in my mind the concept behind religion.

When someone is young and questions the doctrines of religion no one seems to care, or really think twice about it. Nevertheless, when that same person becomes older and much wiser then questions the dogmas of religion, society automatically assumes that individual has doubts concerning their faith. I repeatedly question the things in life I don’t fully understand—including religion and God. You can’t just tell me anything and expect me to go about my day like the masses of the people in this world. I’ve always wondered if the concept of a God is just a myth, could religion still somehow exist? Or, if the church and the idea of religion were never formed, could there still be a God?

We read from the Bible daily at St. Peters Elementary. When we read I would wonder was the Bible really the literal words spoken from God, or a historical compilation written by various individuals over an extended period of time.

One day while in the sixth grade, the head nun, Sister Mildred, was having students read verses from the Bible. We were always taught that the words in the Bible printed in black came directly from the disciples, or followers of God. While the words printed in red came directly from God himself. The thought process and mental capacity that have to be developed before fully understanding the Bible were new and amazing to me.

Were we actually reading what God had said over two thousand years ago? Or was this book one of the biggest conspiracies in the history of mankind, and simply one of the greatest love and hate stories ever wrote. I was just beginning to be exposed to the real world. The way things actually worked, verses the way they were suppose to work. The nuns at St. Peters taught us not to question or second guess the Bible, the Catholic Church, or anything associated with the Catholic faith.

I’ve always wondered if the Bible was the literal words spoken from God—how could the word be so inconsistent on so many details large and small. For example, as Jesus was dying on the cross was he in deep agony and questioning why God had forsaken him? Or was he serene and praying for his executioners for they do not know what they are doing? That all depends on whether you’re reading the Gospel of Mark 15:34 or the Gospel of Luke 23:34. Did Jesus ever speak of himself as being God? In the Gospel of Matthews 22:32 he did; yet, in the Gospel of John 14:1-31 Jesus specifically said he wasn’t. How could it be possible that two closely associated disciples (Matthew and John) misunderstood Jesus’ teachings so broadly? Were those disciples confused as to who Jesus really was, or have we all intentionally been misled?

The more I read, studied, and really tried to understand the Bible, the more questions it seemed I had pertaining to the scriptures. I’ve found out the hard way on too many different occasions that when it came to debating the Bible I usually developed more enemies than a better understanding in regards to religion.

I would have to be naive to believe this universe was an act of pure luck somehow designed and formed by chance. Yet, on the other hand I would really have to be shallow to believe someone came down from out the heavens and died for all our sins, and that same person will come again one day to judge us all. The truth in the matter is that the beauty and secrets of this universe, the complexity of life, the magnitude of space and geological time are extremely too vast for our limited minds to comprehend. And the true purpose behind religion is more about controlling the masses of the people and less to do with facts concerning how and why we exist.

CHAPTER 2

After graduating from St. Peters Elementary I attended Pascagoula Junior High. Pascagoula Junior High was recently renamed after Trent Lott, the former United States Republican Senator for the state of Mississippi and Senate Majority Leader during the Bill Clinton and George W. Bush years in Washington. This is the same Trent Lott who was forced to relinquish his Senate Majority Leadership post after attending a 2002 birthday party for fellow Republican Senator Strom Thurmond. At that time Thurmond was the longest serving Senator from the state of South Carolina.

While attending Thurmond’s party, Lott publicly made a comment praising Thurmond’s 1948 segregationist campaign, suggesting, Had Thurmond won the ‘48 presidential election, we wouldn’t have had all these problems over all these years. What problems could Lott had possibly been referring to? Could it had been problems with African-Americans wanting equal opportunities throughout this country? Wanting equal access to the voting booths in a so-called democratic society? Or wanting decent jobs at a decent pay?

Lott’s comment supported his views in regards to segregation and how could anyone interpret that comment any different? Lott was well aware of the racist issues surrounding Thurmond, and was conscious of