Epiphany on the Milk Crate

By Damon Holmes

There are so many children you pass everyday taken your own children to school in the morning that are extremely mistreated behind closed doors. Sometimes we can point them out like a sore thumb; this book is about one of those children that were never thought to become the person he is today. Children that are subjected to a harsh childhood surrounded with domestic violence, drugs, death, and prostitution under the same roof a child sleep, abuse and neglect openly ignored. All combined in a raw dysfunctional setting that can force any child to the streets as a form of relief from the current hell known as home. We blame young teenagers across the country for the massive destruction to our communities, but we as the parents have a percentage of ownership to that fact due to our own inherited cycle that must be broken. However very few kids make it out the ghetto or become assets to local funeral homes in the neighborhood

Which one of these is going to be your kid?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 20, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452083469

Damon Holmes

This is a story about my past, and how I have learned a great deal on how to survive as a man today. Starting with the removal of those that are obviously toxic in your life, most of the time its dear friends that turn sour, on a complex note sometimes its close relatives. If you read this book and you run across issues in your own life, then of course this material was well worth it. The main objective is to change yourself and everything else will follow your leadthough, once you reach your goals jealousy will always be apart of lifethe sad addition to that fact is those individuals dont really know why they are bothered by you. That answer is? Neither do they. Mr. Damon R. Holmes is the President\CEO of Damons Independent Service Incorporated located in the heart of midtown in New York City. It is a small company providing a service to enormous corporations with a specialized skill that only comes with experience. For the past eleven years, Mr. Holmes has proven to himself and many others from his terrible past life that any person regardless of color or hindering circumstances, can not only overcome the cruel world we live in but it is a true fact we all can change. Mr. Holmes is a father of two beautiful girls and has acquired his own home without a college education and made a life for his family. This book is highly recommended for every home across the nation to understand the reasons why kids go astray, but coming back is the question? www.facebook.com/epiphanyonthemilkcrate

Book preview

Epiphany on the

Milk Crate

Damon Holmes

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2010 Damon Holmes. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 10/18/2010

ISBN: 978-1-4520-8346-9 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-8345-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-8344-5 (hc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010914346

Printed in the United States of America

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Dedications

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Four

Fifty-Five

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Seven

Fifty-Eight

Fifty-Nine

Sixty

Sixty-One

Sixty-Two

Sixty-Three

Sixty-Four

Sixty-Five

Dedications

To my dearest sister Stephanie that gave her life so I could have life.

For I know the plans I have for you, declares the lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and future Jeremiah 29:11

Prologue

To begin this story of my life and character namely my past conduct in transition through this journey called life - as a young African American male introduced to, and trying to survive in, the mean streets of New York City, it is important to acknowledge that this is not a part of my existence that I will glorify or wish for anyone else to endure, although I am fully aware of its undeniable presence as part of my life.

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Patrina, Momma and me 1974 –

always observing Momma.

When I look back at the time of my life that I am going to relate to you in the following pages, I can only be ashamed of my past now that I sit here as a productive citizen, an adult, and a father. I don’t possess any type of degree in psychology, I’m not a criminologist nor have I ever practice in any branches of sociology. Today I am successful in my own right through determination, diligence, and persistence. I am writing these words to affirm to myself and others, something that seemed quite impossible at the time, which is that we all can change no matter what the circumstances are. Remember, it is not where you come from, but, where you are going that truly matters.

One

A few mornings ago I was working in my home office, checking my email and paying a few small bills, when I heard the laughter of my beautiful four year old daughter De’Juana Holmes enjoying her favorite cartoon in her bed room just one level below me. She sang along with the cartoon, and that made me smile to hear her lovely voice. I was eager to get downstairs to see her face happy in her own little world. As I began to shut the computer down she called out for me with her famous line, Daddy, Daddy, what are you doing? To hear those words is always like the first time. When I got downstairs, she was standing in the doorway to the attic with her pink nightgown with little faces all over it of her cartoon characters, wearing a pair of socks and playing with my watch on her wrist. Daddy, I want to go to I-hop, she informed me I grinned and said I feel like the same thing too, baby. Of course it brought joy to her face for me to agree. She dashed with a few skips to her bedroom, We’re going to I-hop. We’re going to I-hop. I just looked and listened, just shaking my head with my secret smile. I know she is one of a kind. From the hallway I could hear my daughter talking to herself about the many buttermilk pancakes she would have with strawberry topping, and then changing her mind to just settling with whipped cream and bananas. This dialogue made me wonder what I would order for myself. I moved closer to another door at the end of my bedroom to enter my walk-in closet and decide what to wear. It was a wonderful peaceful Saturday morning hearing the birds chirp at my window.

As we both were looking in the mirror in my bedroom she already had her hair barrettes in her hands and pants over her shoulder, her shoes were on halfway. She crinkled her nose at the scent of my cologne. We walked out together through the side door to the driveway. I placed her in my black SUV. She buckled herself in and told me, It clicked, Daddy! Good, sweetie, I answered. Sit back. I flipped on the DVD player with the cartoon that she loved so much. Every Saturday was a learning process for me and my daughter because it seemed like this famous place filled with pancakes and very good breakfast was our domain to share thoughts. I looked forward during these outings to answer the many questions of just about anything she could think of. I would ask just as many only to hear her feed back, as I sat listening in complete amazement of how I had helped to create this little person sitting right in front of me.

On the way home we enjoyed the serene tree lined blocks, watching familiar faces in the community walking with their furry friends as we exchanged greetings with a wave. Coming home was always wonderful, even if we were out for a short while.

Momma was standing with Macey, our own furry friend who has become part of our family. Momma stood on the porch wearing two bright yellow oven mittens, cradling a silver pan of mouth watering, homemade cookies. De’Juana loved her grandma dearly, with her big hugs without warning, and the loud kisses on the cheek as she grabbed those delicious cookies with both hands and ran to the yard with Macey, her very first puppy.

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De’Jhana and her pup Macey.

He playfully jumped at a passing butterfly and she laughed. I just watched Momma observing her granddaughter, as we both smiled to the barks of Macey. I began to think how fortunate my daughter is and how she probably wouldn’t believe me if I told her, as a child myself, I wasn’t so lucky.

Two

As I reflect through the eyes of a young black male growing up in Harlem 1980, I can only remember how much I didn’t have - being raised by a young single mother on public assistance to provide for her three children. This is one ordeal I will never forget. Having to watch my mother behave emotionally imbalanced, constantly angry due to her inability to provide the bare necessities for her kids, was a tremendous heartbreak for me. Her reaction was more information, without words, that I can never attempt to explain. I made a mental note that one day I would take away the burden of worries and her survival on her own with three observant children — my sister, little brother and I. I grew up having two father figures, but only allowed myself to love one due to the pain I experienced from the other. I quickly felt even more pressure being the oldest male in an underdeveloped home, or what society would consider a dysfunctional, broken place known as home to me.

Momma was a beautiful dark shade appealing to any man that laid eyes on her. She was short, about five feet two inches without shoes, big breasts with a thick build, and a huge perfectly rounded Afro that sparkled in the night from the Afro Sheen hairdressing that she used. Her pants were always tightly fitted at the top as the bell bottoms swung loose at her ankles. She carried her purse with a sense of class strapped beneath her arm, walking as if she floated on the sidewalk, allowing her free hand to swing in the cool air. Her darting eyes would only watch the many faces watching her put on her performance as she stepped along the scene. Her big brown eyes would glow, grabbing the attention of guys curious to know her name. "Hello sweet momma,’’ is all she heard with every step, if they caught her fancy, her unique grin would break across her face, giving all access for the man to proceed as he intended. Even those family men walking with their children holding hands would take a hard look from the corner of their eyes at the shiny lip gloss spread on her lips and long silver earrings that dangled on either side of her face. But what pleased her most was the complete attention of the iconic street guys that spelt trouble and fun at the same time, the fast street dudes who talked faster than they could think, amazed with their own material possessions, walking in long mink coats hanging off their shoulders, almost carelessly, as if they didn’t really want it, as they played with a large rubber band roll of money that would catch the eyes of anyone.

The excitement was high when they approached Momma, looking her up and down from her white platform shoes to her permanent press polyester pants that hugged her hips with each step. Her spaghetti strap blouse would work hard to show more than enough cleavage, revealing her need for attention in abundance. One afternoon on our way home from the welfare office we were stopped by a tall gentleman dressed real slick; ‘’So where yo man at,’’ he said. Momma replied, I might be talking to him.’’ The gentleman laughed, then said, ‘’That’s yo little nigga.’’ My Momma replied, ‘That’s right’’, but don’t get to thinking we out here lookin fo no daddy.’’ He smiled, then said, ‘’I understand sweet thing.’’ He continued, ‘’I can definitely be a good friend if you let me.’’ Momma paused, moving her eyes down to his pointy tip shoes, then replied, ‘’I don’t have no phone so maybe you can meet me at the bar tonight.’’ He said, ‘’And where might that be, sugar?’’ She replied, ‘’Over on 1-4-9, the Pine Tree Lounge.’’ He replied, ‘’so what time shou … ? But before he could finish his sentence Momma cut him off, saying,’ You heard me nigga.’’

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Momma’s birthday party at Pine Tree Lounge.

Momma had a name for herself handed down like stripes, ‘’BIG SHORTY’’ that came from her big boned physique and short size. At times I would hear her acknowledge herself as such, unless we had to appear at the welfare office, at a face to face appointment where Momma put on her best screen play of a struggling black single mom, caring for three children without the option to obtain gainful employment. This was a familiar occurrence in the hood, how parents perform the unusual acts assigning their kids to the job of convincing. So we were not just deprived children, but more so performers as well, working for the masters of the game, our parents.

What was so deceitful to the agency that assists with funds for the soul purpose of feeding your household was how nearly everyone did have some sort of employment collecting more money than the agency can legally provide. The sad addition to that is how each job was illegal in the eyes of society, but deeply understood and protected in the hood. These jobs required no experience what so ever to earn a small portion, though for a selective few was able to reveal there growth from the underworld of organized crime, but for most, just getting by was enough.

1) For those that participated in high school, even without graduating, running numbers was an opportunity, especially for men to provide for his family, as a woman her job in this financial field would never be on the streets, always behind close doors collecting paid slips, counting the losers and the amounts to all the winners as another woman kept the books in order seven days a week.

2) The small dwelling of families with a reputation to cook the best food around inside their homes on overworked stoves provided a hot plate to the street for the small price of $3.50 which the drug dealers took full advantage of during their continuous assault on the community, this field of work open another door for young kids my age to sit around observing drug dealers all day in a specific location that was visible to show their availability to the dealer.

{Example}: Little man, I need you to run down the block to Judy’s and get me a plate of smothered turkey wings with rice and pinto beans, side order of collared greens and one potato salad for my man, you got it. For a young kid to do this from day to night was more money than he could possibly get anywhere else, plus the status of being a personal errand boy for a well known dealer give him a false sense of invincibility.

3) A needy family with more than enough children piled up in one apartment would dedicate a section of that same home to the street for payment, operating simply for illegal purposes among their kids.

4) Across the street in another tenement building where a single mom that wasn’t brave as the first would only sell space for storage providing a safe place for the dealer’s weapons that left someone dead every few days.

5) So many other families kept food on their table by simply allowing their front doors to stay unlocked at all times to support the drug trade if interrupted by the police that would chase you in the dark buildings only to lose you not knowing what apartment you ran into awaiting his escape.

6) The pure shame of employment that pulled so many women out of their crowded tenement buildings leaving their kids alone for a night of work, were the bars and lounges that flooded the community and provide jobs specifically for women with assets, not to only serve drinks, but other details were anticipated. Their loyalty to that domain was vital to show their appreciation for their new livelihood, other than the normal prostitution for a pimp on the street with high exposure. Most would enjoy the dim lit atmosphere of the bar that always kept pack with sexual driven men to remain discreet from the many eyes in the community. The benefits in the bar weren’t that bad, the kitchen in the back of these joints always had food going around the bar that also kept their children fed at night, if work was slow.

7)Narcotics was the biggest line of work with a large variety of positions, it was like its own entity, higher than anything else to make a fast buck, it required only the brave with sense for the streets, understanding that violence and murder is mandatory to ensure employment. Postings for these positions was word of mouth on the street, lookouts, packers, transporters, security, pitchers, gun slingers, cookers, weight testers, baggers, cleaners, car washers, counters, to as low as nine years old walking the streets with their book bags filled with money and drugs to a certain destination to be received on the other end. But what was worse was the single mother pushing a stroller with a baby resting unknowingly on large amounts of illegal narcotics. This was the society of which I lived in that surrounded me daily. Welfare was the main objective because the difference between the many hustles on those Harlem streets couldn’t compare to the definite reassurance of a hot meal on your table that didn’t require much other than you to believe poverty stricken is your current condition, and to accept there offering of free money as public assistance.

Three

It became a pattern in my house to hear voices before the door even opened. I began to note and realize exactly what I had to do when I saw Momma at home with company for the night, in the same spot, doing the same thing. I grew up in a way so hard between those walls surrounding me and my little brother Aubrey in that tiny apartment. As we began to slowly see Momma less around the house, I noticed that she was beginning to stay out more often, and longer, at the bar. She spent so many hours away from us, leaving us home alone. If she was actually home with us, it would be with one of the many faces I had seen in the street, looking out from my sixth floor window, of the guys with pretty Cadillac’s who were always gambling, rolling dice across the street, or the number runner guy with the yellow and pink slips of paper in his hand, or the cool cat that sat in his car on the corner all day as if he lived in it because he rarely would get out. Everyone would just constantly lean on the passenger side to talk with him as they reached in and put things in their pockets as they walked away. If they came to our apartment, they all used to call me little nigga as they sat on the couch. Momma never seemed to want to correct them and tell them that wasn’t my name. She would just smile as if they said something nice.

As we began our day, Momma would be making something in the kitchen which was a sight I rarely witnessed growing up. It was so overwhelming, as if waking up to see not her but a stranger in our kitchen. She was really cooking something that smelled so good for breakfast. Finally, I thought with a half smile on my face as I moved closer in my dirty underwear and white socks that became black from the un-swept and un-mopped floor, covered with just about everything in the house. She turned and looked at me and quickly made a stone face that said something negative, but in the same instance, she put on a huge smile for the voice I didn’t see in the corner by the window. That same tall no good dude we met on 145th Street that day, his name was Julius, with his slick talk that seemed to tickle my Momma. He looked at me, placing his hands across his beard as if to show me his worth, of all the shiny jewelry on his fingers combined with bracelets on both wrists. He said, Hey little nigga. You want some fish, grits and gravy? Momma look confused saying, I made this for you, and besides, they eat breakfast in school. It wasn’t the notion of the particular food she was cooking that upset me, because I couldn’t have any, but the very thought of actually sitting at the table with Momma to enjoy something to eat with my little brother before school was