Under, Over or Through It

By Dirk Young

This is a story of heartache, and the adopted teachings in life we all absorb as part of our character. Be warned, its honesty is rare and shocking.

Mr. Young takes you on an emotional rollercoaster that will leave you for him or against him. Why do we do the things we do, act the way we act? And above all, who shapes our morals, our beliefs, and our principles?

This story explores life's struggles, losses, the adventures of poor choices and especially how the actions of a single moment can change a person's reality forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Nov 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9780228838111

Dirk Young

Dirk Young was born in Newcastle, England on May 15th, 1980. He was raised by his mother and father until they separated. His father was deported from Canada while dating his Canadian mother prior to his birth. She left her family and friends to relocate to England with his father. Dirk was 7 years old when his father left. He grew up as an only child of a single parent and they both struggled, surviving on government assistance. When Dirk turned 14 years old, he and his mother decided to start a new life in Canada. In December 1994, they moved to Canada. After his 15th birthday, he ran away from home. By his 17th birthday, he was a member of a gang.Five days after his 21st birthday, a killing occurred that sent a shock wave through his community. By his 23rd birthday he was charged with first-degree murder and 3 years later, in 2006, he was convicted. Mr. Young served 15 years in several Canadian penitentiaries. In 2017, at the age of 37, Dirk was released on parole and must remain on parole for the remainder of his natural life.Dirk Young is the author of the book named Under, Over or Through it. His book does not glorify the gang life or violence. A killing, a murder trial, and his incarceration are only pieces of the whole picture he paints for the reader.

Book preview

Under, Over or Through It

Dirk Young

Under, Over or Through It

Copyright © 2020 by Dirk Young

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Book Cover Design

Demolition of old ‘Burn Closes Bridge’ in Wallsend 2008

cc-by-sa/2.0 - © Andrew Tryon - geograph.org.uk/p/4110762

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-22883-810-4 (Paperback)

978-0-22883-811-1 (eBook)

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 3½

Chapter 4

Chapter 4½

Chapter 5

Chapter 5½

Chapter 6

Chapter 6½

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 8½

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 11½

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 13½

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 16½

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 30½

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Acknowledgements

This is a form of impressionable writing. It’s to invoke emotion through honesty and experience. It’s to create a glimpse without all the details and to tell a story within a story utilizing real letters from my life.

While brainstorming my ideas for this story, I wrestled with how to go about it.

I struggled with the concept of this story. Should I tell a story about a city, about friendships, about the street life I lived, about prison, about the story of two friends, about a gang or about parenting? There are many different directions and forms this story could have gone.

I decided it was best to not use real names other than my own. This may cause the reader slight confusion and for that, I apologize.

There are many people I wanted to write about, and include in this story; however, I couldn’t tie them in. You know who you are. xo

I realize everybody has a story and here’s pieces of mine.

All parents damage their children. … Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair.

—Mitch Albom, The Five People You Meet in Heaven

This story is dedicated to my mother, the only constant in my life.

Straight there and straight back, and don’t talk to any strangers.

And now, somebody’s mom never gets to hug their kid ever again ’cause of me.

Dirk you should write a book, a friend says as they line up to receive their prison canteen.

Naw.

Why not?

Everybody has a story, dawg, Dirk states as he takes a step forward in the line.

Yeah, but I’d actually read yours!

And what would it be about? This life in here? The streets? My friends? Best just to watch a movie, it’s easier. Plus, I’m still awaiting my trial. My story isn’t over yet; it’s just begun, Dirk says as he takes another step forward to collect his canteen order of fourteen stamps, two birthday cards, one pad of writing paper, a single package of envelopes, three small bags of potato chips, a tube of toothpaste, one bottle of shampoo and two chocolate bars.

CHAPTER 1

Everything is frozen, stuck … The moment is on pause; it just freezes. There’s no movement except for my own! There’s a black dot suspended in midair, hovering … inches above my head. If I stare at it long enough, hard enough, I’ll be able to notice that its tiny wings are actually moving, barely …

I blink but nothin’ changes. Everythin’ remains motionless. It’s still … I close my eyes even tighter, rubbin’ them with the tips of my fingers, and yet it’s all the same. Nothin’ has fuckin’ changed.

The room suddenly turns, spinning … My head feels heavy and water is startin’ to form in my eyes, tears … My throat is itchy and tight. I can’t seem to swallow. A knot … My stomach hurts, butterflies …

I’m confused; there’s a thudding noise. Oh, it’s just my heart beating in my chest. At least I know I’m alive. Blurred vision … things come into focus and there’s movement again, but it’s ever so slow.

The black dot stranded in the realm of time begins to glide through the air, but I know its intended destination before it does, empty beer bottles …

I start to recognize my surroundings—the place, the time, their faces, the when and where—but who, what and why are missin’, lost …

Their mouths are movin’, but I can’t hear a fuckin’ sound. Tryin’ to listen and wondering …

There’s one face that stands out; the face of the person I once missed the most. I can’t hear you … I can’t hear her!

Everything shakes and trembles, the room and my body too. The walls expand in and out, breathin’ in sync with every one of my own breaths. Stop …

A sickenin’ feelin’ creeps over me.

He’s dead Dirk!

Who said that?

I awake … wishin’ to be able to tear out a page of my memories.

Now I’m surrounded by four walls. It appears calm. I can no longer see their faces or hear their voices. A dream …

But a single word remains, lingering … as I struggle to fall back to sleep … Sorry.

Excerpt from Dirk’s personal journal: The Realness We Hide

CHAPTER 2

Growing up in Newcastle, England, was a lot different from the experiences I later endured living in Canada. I was born and raised in Wallsend, Upon Tyne and Wear. Where I grew up, the neighbourhoods were small and loyal. The personalities, humour, and attitudes of the people aren’t the same as Canadians; a friend’s father may have once dated your mother in high school, brothers are best friends, fathers have been friends or enemies their whole lives, and continue to drink a pint or two at the same pub. We grew up together knowing each other’s families, playing together on the same sports teams, attending the same schools since childhood, and we would fight, shake hands and do it all over again. I fought most of my friends during my childhood and most of my friends after I moved to Canada. There was a local bond amongst those who raised us in Newcastle, and the tradition continued from generation to generation.

My mother, unlike me, was born and raised in Canada, in the city of Kitchener, Ontario. She was a teenager during the 1970s and grew up in a family with eleven brothers and sisters and both her parents. She adored her mother and disliked her father, yet she loved him. She quit high school in grade ten and stayed home to look after her little brother who was mentally disabled. His name was Kirk, and she named me after him.

After dropping out of high school, she met my father who was seven years older than she was. He was a street guy: not a thug but definitely a criminal. He was a tough man, yet sensitive and loving, not one to shy away from a fistfight and humble enough not to start them. He spent a little time behind bars, incarcerated for petty crimes. He played the drums from a very young age and had talent. He’d play the drums in the prison bands.

My mother asked him why others called him Zimba. He explained that it was in reference to a lion. (This, of course, was many years before the movie The Lion King.) She asked how he came to have such a nickname, and when she discovered he had given it to himself, she laughed and made fun of him. She always called him by his real name and soon thereafter, so did everybody else.

He adored my mother, more than what she reciprocated to him at the beginning of their relationship. Many years later, my mother would explain to me why he did what he did, why he was the way he was. She had every right to bad mouth him to me, to anyone for that matter, but she never did. She never attempted to distort my love for him. Instead, she often explained to me about my father’s demons. She wanted me to understand him and not hate him.

She’d elaborate on his upbringing, his terrible childhood, his promiscuous mother, whom I never met, and everyone disliked. She’d tell me stories about my father—I’d listen to every word—and they all intrigued me. (Maybe a small part of me idolized his toughness, and self-consciously I gravitated towards that image to emulate him.)

When my father was deported to England, my mother left everything she’s ever known and everybody she’s ever cared about and loved to stand by my father. She wasn’t in love with him during that time of their relationship; however, she loved him enough to go, and it was also for her to escape her life, her father, and a deep yearning for change. She was eighteen years old.

My father was raised in foster homes from a young age. He could have stayed in England as a child and been raised by his mother’s side of the family. His mother decided to bring him to Canada and soon thereafter abandoned him.

I was born in May 1980. My mother wanted a baby girl. That’s probably why she let me grow my hair long and put me in pink pyjamas.

When I was approximately eight months old, she brought me to Canada for a visit with her family. I’m sure she was tempted to stay, yet she returned to England so I wouldn’t be without a father and he wouldn’t be without his son. They don’t make women like that anymore!

I was too young to grasp the concept of family. I was not raised around a family setting, birthday presents from other family members, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, godparents, and going to Grandma’s house for the holidays. That concept was an imaginary and wonderful story my mother would tell me, similar to a fairy tale. I knew they existed, that I had family in Canada and England, yet they were complete strangers to me.

My mother had several friends throughout our life in England. A few came and left while others remained. I grew up with her best friend’s children and two other families were the equivalent of cousins and aunts, etc. I was very close to one family in particular, and I loved them all very much. When I was thirteen years old, I was informed that the son of my mother’s best friend was molesting his sisters. It was the family I was the closest with.

A good man adopted my father. I knew him as my grandfather despite us being an ocean apart. He had remarried a beautiful woman whom I know as my grandmother. They’d visit us in England every four to five years. My father took my grandfather’s name as his middle name and I took my father’s name as my middle name. He’s the man to give my father his first set of drums, made with rawhide. My grandfather passed away several years back, so did my father.

I remember, during one of my grandparents’ visits I was very excited to have a rugby game scheduled. I was really good at rugby. It would have been the only rugby game that my mom ever saw me play, and I was planning on showing off for all of them. I couldn’t even sleep because I was so excited about it, but the game got cancelled. Therefore, they took my mom and me out and bought me a Lego fire station.

In the first few years living in England, we all lived in an area amongst low-income families known as the flats. My father burnt down a lot of these run-down apartments to help everybody get into government housing. We were one of the last families to be relocated. The police knew it was my father destroying the flats but could not prove it.

One of my earliest memories is moving into the house that we lived in up to the day we left to move to Canada. I recall being about two years old and in a baby stroller near our front gate when a black dog approached me. As a young lad, I’d often hear a rumour about my dad. He was working as a door-to-door sales representative and a dog had bitten him. His response was to wrestle the animal down to the ground and bite it back.

When I was a baby my parents got a dog. He was protective and loving, the neighbourhood watchdog. He would come and go as he pleased, never wore a collar or dog tags and he fought other dogs quite often. He killed many of the neighbours’ cats, which caused a lot of drama. My mother was forced to put him down because he bit a child. My father wasn’t around, and it broke her heart.

My mom fought the woman who called the police, rolling around in the front yard and then throwing her into a thorn bush. I’ve witnessed my mom fight a few times, mostly because of me. I jumped in on one of her fistfights. It started over a lady’s two sons throwing rocks at me while I played in my yard. Another woman my mother had previously fought jumped in on my mom. I kicked her in the buttocks. I was eleven years old. I often fought with her son, and a few years later, I dated her daughter.

I don’t remember my father being employed. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized he was a middleman or a wheeler and dealer; he always got his fingers into something to turn over a profit. It wasn’t always illegal. I’m sure that most of the time it was legal stuff, but he went for the quick money grabs. I wasn’t raised around parents who had jobs. I never witnessed a work ethic and earning money through employment. I did, however, know the power of a dollar when you were hungry.

My father was extremely abusive to my mother, and he struggled with alcoholism, yet for some fucked up reason I don’t recall him being drunk. He put his hands on her and beat her up, but he never hit me. He squashed her behind a living room chair, jamming her between the wall and the piece of furniture. I think he stopped when I screamed at him. I recall a car tire coming through the kitchen window in one of his fits of rage. I remember going to the neighbour’s house for a few nights while my mom tried to help him face his demons by refusing to let him leave the house (to get high on drugs, etc.), and I’d return home to a trashed house, a smashed front door, and a broken television.

I also remember sitting in my mother’s lap while she sat on a single bar stool as he poured milk over us both and squished a tomato on her head. Maybe it was my head; I can’t recollect correctly. She just glared at him with defiance, refusing to give him the satisfaction that he was bothering her. Instead, it appeared that no matter what he did, it wouldn’t faze her and not being able to get a reaction out of her infuriated him even more.

I have memories of my mom throwing his belongings out onto the front lawn from the second-storey window of our home while he looked up at her, pleading for her to relax. I threw a teddy bear at him that hit him directly on the head, but I don’t recall being afraid or angry at the time; instead, I think my mom and I giggled at the whole situation.

Many years after he was no longer living with us, I’d discover stupid little messages about my mother written on the walls of the shed attached to our house where he’d sleep some nights.

The thing is that my mom I have a good laugh at most of these memories because, well—just ’cause—it must be the British in us!

He wasn’t an evil man, and he seriously adored my mom; she stuck it out for as long as she could but eventually the inevitable occurred and he had to move out, I was six turning seven years old. I never realized how difficult it must have been for her to let him go; instead, I would fight with her, blaming her for the times he never showed up to hang out with me on the weekends. It hurt him too much to be without us. Sometimes he’d show up and they’d argue to the point that he’d leave but I’d be upset because it was supposed to be my day with him. I’d be left alone to play with my toys in my room with my mom attempting to comfort me.

It wasn’t all bad times and bad memories; I have plenty of fond memories of my father. I don’t feel the abuse traumatized me. It’s bizarre to say this, but it felt normal, just a way of life and not much different than other people’s lives.

He’d take me for a walk to a place known as the Burn. It was where the gypsies would set up their summer fairs. There was a long stream and hundreds of bushes and trees. It went on for miles, under the Burn bridge next to my middle school, all the way around to the back of a cemetery and then continued farther. He’d create a makeshift net from my mom’s leg stockings attached to a stick. We’d catch little fish, and he’d play around with the wild animals, ferrets and hedgehogs. He feared no animal; they seemed to like him.

His friends all had their own animated personalities—like characters from a cartoon. They had cartoon-like names too. One of them was actually named Popeye. Some of them would stay with us from time to time. Well, actually, I only remember one guy. I really liked how he cooked my sausages (well done) with crispy skin. My mom would take the piss out of me (make fun of