Un-Broken, To Hell and Back

By De Angelo R. Moody

A 5-year old, weak and insecure on the streets of D.C. enters The School of Hard Knocks. There he learns to trust no one, except the truth and pain, need and rejection. Submerged deep in the darkness of sorrow he thinks himself to be the Anti-Christ. Later he matures and graduates to The School of Excellence where he earns a Ph.D. in trying and failing.

Wise beyond his years, he confronts the question: What if all of the pain, destruction, rage, disappointments, setbacks, humiliation, abuse, and tears were all a part of the process of becoming?

• Language: English
• Publisher: De Angelo R. Moody
• Release date: May 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9780989112604

De Angelo R. Moody

I am De Angelo R. Moody “A problem solver and a transformer of people overcome by anger and despair”. I am currently preparing our first book series on equipping youth with the transferable disciplines of success and cognitive skills of life. The series encourages open forums and solution driven debate based on current events and the misadventures of real life individuals like the main little guy in our first book that learned as a child living in horrific circumstances how to make the impossible possible in , “Un-Broken, To Hell and Back”. Whether it’s the formal settings like universities or less formal settings like community learning centers, the needs are the same; improved fundamental and practical disciplines of understanding and implementation of knowledge.We’re not reinventing the wheel here. We just want to do our part in making it roll smoother and faster.Educators, curriculum designers, and organizations it is my hope that you will allow some time to share of your experiences, concerns, and solutions. You can either be quoted or anonymous.“Children that are looking forward to the future aren’t looking forward to jail.”

Book preview

Un-Broken

To Hell and Back

Un-Broken, To Hell and Back. Copyright © 2011 by

De Angelo R. Moody. All rights reserved.

In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at DMD Group, LLC 15210 Dino Drive #322, Burtonsville, Maryland, 20866. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

The author is represented by DMD Group, LLC Educational development & Publishing

15210 Dino Drive #322

Burtonsville, MD 20866 Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 978-0-9891126-3-5 (Paperback)

In order to maintain their anonymity, the names in this book and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.

The events in this memoir that are described are according to my memory and recollection of the events. Some details such as physical properties and places of residence have been changed.

Table of Contents

4 & 5 Years is Rough

Granddaddy

Crystal’s Not Invited

There’s Something Odd About the Babysitter

Kill the Bad Man

Living in an Ice Cream Truck

Before the Movie Home Alone There Was Me

Long Walk Home

Death is Chasing Me

Mama’s Dead

Passing Along

Junior High Self-Discovery

Misguidance

15 and On the Run

Care of A Stranger

One Point For De

Baby Daddy

Keystone Job Corps

A Brother’s Love

Career Moves

Family Matters

Mischelle

Afterward

FOOTPRINTS IN THE SAND

One night I dreamed I was walking along the beach with the Lord.

Many scenes from my life flashed across the sky. In each scene I noticed footprints in the sand. Sometimes there were two sets of footprints, other times there were one set of footprints.

This bothered me because I noticed that during the low periods of my life, when I was suffering from anguish, sorrow or defeat, I could see only one set of footprints.

So I said to the Lord, "You promised me Lord, that if I followed you, you would walk with me always.

But I have noticed that during the most trying periods of my life there have only been one set of footprints in the sand. Why, when I needed you most, you have not been there for me?"

The Lord replied, The times when you have seen only one set of footprints in the sand, is when I carried you.

-Author Unknown

4 & 5 Years is Rough

A thunderous sound radiated from the front of Big Al’s house. Out of a cloud of smoke, sporadic rays of white light shined through the opened doorway, revealing a SWAT team moving in single formation fast and hard. Anybody that wasn’t already down, they put down, moving like a monstrous centipede. My ears rang from the explosion, and the screaming and yelling as I sat on the wicker couch with my knees tucked under me. A barrage of commands blared over a bullhorn outside and inside the house, all at the same time.

Everyone was held at point blank range with flash lights beaming in our faces. I found myself looking into the business end of a 12 gauge assault pump – the first time I almost got shot in the face.

Cats had been falling through to welcome my Uncle Top back from beating some really heavy charges and getting put on paper (parole) after doing some time. Big fancy rides lined the streets around Al’s big, old Victorian row house on 16th Street, a wide thoroughfare that started at the White House and ended outside the DC city limits.

Al, himself, owned two deuces and a quarter , both two toned. One was gold and champagne, the other silver and grey. He bought both on the same day. I guess he couldn’t decide what color he liked best. The cars had 455 horsepower V8 engines, were fully loaded with leather, power windows, the works. Both cars had big gangster white wall tires and TV antennas.

Everyone always went over to Big Al’s house. I was surrounded by a lot of people that I was told were my blood, later I learned they were not. Uncle Al was a boss of bosses on the streets. He always had plenty of fine looking women, guns, and money lying around his house. He had five or six refrigerators, and they were always full.

Other uncles sat around comparing jewelry, gear, women, cars, shoes, guns, and wads of money. You want cash in your pocket, a nasty whip (automobile), ‘bad bitches’, and a four fifth (gun)? This was how my uncles came at me. They figured me for a future soldier in The Life.

Al’s visitors were all decked out in what you’d call their Sunday best. The men were all suited up, especially my uncles. They wore those seventies’ shiny double breasted or three piece suits with custom brims (hats) that cost thousands of dollars. Their jewelry was gleaming and sparkling everywhere. I was dressed up just like them in a three piece shiny suit, a little brim with a black band and some small cut feathers in it, and a pair of three quarter zip up Florsheims. Aside from the old man dress shoes, I was sharp as a tack, a miniature gangster.

The day was bright and sunny. All the front windows on the house were open, and the women had on flowery dresses that you could almost see through in the sun light. They were dressed to kill, and they smelled wonderful. I got hugs and kisses from all of them; I guess they couldn’t resist my one dimple and little fat cheeks. Or maybe, they just felt sorry for me because Crystal, the woman who birthed me, was off somewhere getting high.

Most of these cats had come and gone before Uncle Smoke arrived with Top late that afternoon, but my uncles, some family, and friends were still on hand to welcome him. They had a full spread of food, blow, smoke, and a rack of women. The party kicked into high gear.

I observed one of Big Al’s neighbors in the alley with some squares in flat two piece suits pointing into our direction. Within moments, the battering ram hit Al’s reinforced front door. It sounded like a bomb being detonated. The music stopped, and the lights just shut off.

Later, I learned that Big Al and some others in the back thought it was a hit and prepared to greet the robbers as they entered the hallway. Fortunately, SWAT identified themselves fast enough for my uncles to realize that it was not a hit. It would have been a blood bath. Just like SWAT, my uncles had body armor and heavy firepower.

Blues were all over the place. When they started bringing us out, it was like a circus. About fifteen people were lined up face down on the ground. Others were kneeling up against the porch wall with their hands cuffed behind their heads. SWAT had me stand to the side with a Barney Fife watching me. All the women were crying and looked a mess; their pretty make-up and hair dos were no more. I didn’t understand why they were crying, and I was worried about my uncles who hadn’t been brought out.

My Aunt Victoria came to get me. A pompom girl at her high school, Victoria was like a chihuahua, real skinny, and she moved fast. People thought I was hers because I was with her so much. She pleaded for them to release me to her, but SWAT wouldn’t allow it because she was just a teenager. She stood by my side on the sidewalk, holding my hand. My fists were balled as tight as I could squeeze. Victoria rubbed my back and shoulders, and for a minute, I just cried.

Just as quickly, I stopped. I kept thinking I should be doing something to help my family. I wanted to fuck someone up. The cops were enjoying roughing up people and treating them like they were dogs. I would have been happy to return the favor.

I do not remember my specific age – six maybe – when that raid took place. Things around me were always changing at a rapid pace and the mind seems to block out traumatic times instinctively as a coping mechanism. I do remember that by then I had already stopped being a boy. The paddy wagons showed up in late afternoon.

The first three wagons were loaded with the people who were face down in the street and the people on the front porch – the nobodies. The men were separated from the women. Get your ass across the street or get your ass arrested with the others, the Blues told all of us who were watching. They were all like Barney Fife, a bunch of rookie cops dressed in uniform itching to get it on: adrenaline junkies.

By the time the fourth and fifth wagons arrived, it was dusk.SWAT escorted all of my uncles out of the house and into the fourth paddy wagon. Unlike everyone else that was brought out rough, my uncles came walking out handcuffed and very cordial.

Big Al was brought down last, by himself; he and the commanding officer went way back. The fire department had to carry him out because his leg was broken at the time. As the firemen struggled with him, SWAT had him covered on all sides. Big Al told the SWAT to help themselves to the food and refreshments while they searched his place. And they did just that.

A pushy, white lady reporter squeezed between the cops and fire to stick a big microphone in Big Al’s face and ask him questions. He was featured in the paper the next day in a big center photo being loaded into the patty wagon, and all of my uncles names and rankings were listed. The newspaper referred to my Uncle Top as a young sergeant. They all became superstars in The Life after that. Every single one of them was released either late that evening or the following day.

About the time Al was being carried out like pharaoh on his throne, Crystal was sailing up 16th Street. First to come into view was a huge reddish-brown afro. The woman who birthed me didn’t really have afro hair; she had to work really hard with some kit, I remember her having, and tons of hairspray to produce something that size. Crystal was a green eyed, average height, well built female. She would have been a shoe in for Angelina Jolie. She had beautiful olive skin.

Victoria called her over and told her what was going on. The cops must have thought De was a midget, she wound up, because one of them had a gun to his head and another had a pistol aimed straight at him.

Crystal was wearing a white and gold mini dress that flared like a small tent from her shoulders, and black Wonder Woman type boots all the way up to her mid thigh. They were as tall as me. It didn’t take long for her to build up a head of steam. Snatching my hand from Victoria, she headed straight for the suits and Barney Fifes who were covering the front door of the house. Which one of you punk muthafuckas put a gun to my son’s head? I wish one of you muthafuckas would try that shit now that I’m here.

Victoria, who wanted to be just like her big sister, came over. In unison, they started in on the cops who moved in position to ball Crystal up and take her down hard. The commanding officer ordered them to stand down. Not nare one of you muthafuckas are going to put your hands on me or arrest me, Crystal taunted them. You know who the fuck we are, don’t get cute. This caught the attention of the reporter who came over, mic in hand. All of the focus was now on Crystal and she rose to the occasion.

She started yelling What kinda bullshit entrapment game is this? Top just came home and half of y’all prolly followed him in. They were just partying to celebrate his coming home and here come you bitches tryin to put a feather in your hat. All the time she was yelling, she still had my hand and was swinging me around like a Raggedy Andy doll.

Between jerks, I could see the blue veins in her forehead and neck poking out, and it looked like someone had thrown red paint in her hair. Her eyes were dark green with anger. She looked possessed, like a demon. I pulled myself away from her.

Crystal turned her full attention to the reporter, who she had referred to as a bitch moments before, and started her famous crocodile tears, woman to woman. Look at these jive ass cops sitting around and eating Al’s food and talking while these Barney Fife bitches think they are untouchables putting guns in babies’ faces and shit. In true Crystal form, she had managed to take over and solidify the chaos of the raid.

As she continued her act, Victoria and I walked off unnoticed and went home to my grandmother’s house which was right off of the 14th Street Strip on Parkwood. People in the neighborhood called the two-story, slate- roofed row house the candy striped house because it had red and white striped metal awnings over the windows in the front and back – and red and white shutters. It was a side hall house so, when you walked in the pocket doors to the living room was on the left and the staircase to the second floor was on the right. Crystal and I lived there with my Uncle Top and all my aunts except for Diana.

My grandmother had died from cancer when I was two, but it was still her house. The living room was full of her Victorian furniture with claw feet and cream-colored brocade upholstery that was kept clean with plastic covers. She had separated from my grandfather about the time I was born in the early 1970’s and when she died, my grandfather had to move back from King George, VA. He literally told this woman he met down Colonial Beach that he would marry her if she helped him take care of his younger children. He brought her to live with us in my grandma’s house. Damn was she mean.

Crystal was twenty-one at the time, the second of my grandparents’ six children. A year older than Crystal was Aunt Diana, who everyone thought was the pretty one. After Crystal, came Val who passed away around the time I was born. Then came Top, Victoria, and finally the baby girl, Joanie, the Mini-Me of my grandmother. She looked exactly like her: short and shapely with olive skin like those ladies who sang Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B. My uncle Top and Crystal were the Mini- Me’s of my grandfather.

When I was young, I thought that everyone on my mother’s side was white…except me. I did not have what you would call dark skin. I was a handsome tan with fat cheeks. Hookers and honeyies always told me that I was going to be a hottie when I grew up like my uncle Top. People have mistaken me for Cuban.

But the rest of the family was light, bright, and damn near white. They were all passing, some more than others. A few of them actually used this to feel more special than the others and to get ahead in the world. Crystal and her sisters were highly sought after by the cats in our neighborhood, a neighborhood that was mostly black at this time. Later, I learned that my grandfather was Native American and my grandmother was Italian American. They were called mulatto or white on the census.

The fourteen hundred block of Parkwood was one of those typical NW DC blocks lined with brick row houses that date from the 1920’s. Many of them were painted in bright colors but my grandmother’s house was plain brick. By today’s standards our block was a rarity. Every house was owner occupied and they prided themselves on upkeep. It was customary to pass homes on to the next generation to start and raise their families.

The culture was of support and looking out for one another. Several heavy hitters on the 14th Street strip had family living on our block. If you came looking for trouble around my way, the police would only be coming to pick up what was left of you.

It was nothing to go to five or six houses in a row and gather up my little buddies and play, especially the only best friend I ever had, Rude Boy. About three years older than me, Rude Boy was half Jamaican and half black. Anything we did or got into, he always pushed it to the limit. Rude Boy lived about five houses up from me on the same side of the street. If his folks got him something cool to play with or a tasty treat from the corner store, best believe I got the same.

Our street was lined with trees on both sides. Some were mulberry trees but most of them were the funk bomb trees. During fall, they would drop rubbery yellow leaves over everything. The street and sidewalks looked liked the yellow brick road. Then, these berries that looked just like rotten cherries fell off the trees in two’s. We used to have a fall version of a snow ball fight with them. You’d rather be sprayed by a skunk than to get hit by these things. They stung and stunk like hell. We chased each other from one end of the block to the other, dodging parked cars and zinging those nasty, funky things at each other.

Life was simpler back then. I don’t recall having routine family dinners and gatherings around the television. And I didn’t have my own bedroom; I slept wherever I wanted to in the house, sometimes with my grandfather, more often in Victoria’s and Joanie’s room. But back then, I went to elementary school on a regular basis. Someone was always around to take me to school and to pick me up every day. Aunt Victoria and Aunt Joanie went to school up the street from me. When my aunts came to pick me up, I got to hang out with them and their friends and eat all kinds of candy. When Uncle Top picked me up – I don’t think he went to school much – I would do everything under the sun, from being told to squeeze a girl on her butt, to stealing someone in the mouth, to smoking a joint or sipping on a bumper, usually Colt 45, which was my second favorite drink, after pina coladas, because it made my eyes water and my nose burn.

I wanted to be just like my Uncle Top who was a full out soldier in The Life doing little odds and ends for my uncles. A career in The Life – like slinging, stealing, or killing – was the quickest way to get money and Top, who was set on becoming a boss, was making the most of his opportunities. Prison had been one of those opportunities because Top proved he was willing to do time and not mouth off about anything.

Top never developed a gift of gab because he was so handsome he didn’t need it to get attention from women. He just wanted to be as big and as bad as he could be. And he was bringing me along by exposing me to what he thought were survival skills: hustling, stealing, dealing, and pimping. He showed me how to fire a double barrel shotgun when I was only four or five years old.

He pointed the shotgun out of a high-up window in my grandfather’s basement into the alley. The shotgun was so long, I had to kneel down in the dirt to reach the trigger. Soot was on everything in that unfinished basement. The cinderblock walls were streaked with water and rust stains. The only light came from this old white porcelain light fixture, mounted to a ceiling joist. Even the bare bulb was covered in soot. This giant oil tank, milk crates, and some of Granddaddy’s five gallon paint buckets were about all that was down there except for the oil burner and hot water heater that sounded like fire breathing dragons. When they ignited, I’d get my little tail back up stairs as quick as I could. There was no way I