I Believe to My Soul: Trials and Triumphs of an African American Male Growing up in America

By Dr. Jabali Zuberi Limbani

I Believe to My Soul: Trials and Triumphs of an African American Male Growing Up in America details chronological events about a young mans journey through adolescence and young adulthood and the daily struggles he encountered in his quest to become a man. Barely escaping death through drug addiction, shoot outs and going in and out of jail like they were mini vacations, Jabalis self esteem hit rock bottom when he came to realize in prison that his best friend was a rat!

Having endured a poverty stricken, plantation life in early childhood, a troubled urban ghetto life during adolescence, and a drug addicted, criminal lifestyle in his young adulthood, the author gives candid accounts of his experiences regarding the dramatic changes he has undergone in transitioning from a plantation to penitentiary to acquiring a Ph.D.

This book delivers a story about failure and success that is inspirational, motivational, confrontational, humorous and thought provoking. It is a story that has never been told a must read novel.

Jabali Zuberi Limbani holds an Associates degree in Business Administration, a Bachelors degree in Human Resources Development, a Masters degree in Social Work, a Specialists degree in Humanistic Psychology, and a Doctorates degree in Clinical Psychology. He maintains a clinical practice in Bloomfield Hills and a licensed residential treatment home for neglect, abused and adjudicated youth in Pontiac, Michigan. Founder of CALLING ALL BROTHERS, mentor program, the only non funded program working with troubled youth, Jabali has made a life long commitment to helping boys become responsible men and has conducted rites of passage programs and activities for the past 25 years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504974790

Dr. Jabali Zuberi Limbani

Jabali Zuberi Limbani grew up in a small southern town in a dysfunctional family with an abusive, alcoholic father and a co-dependent mother who became a single parent dependant on welfare when his parents were forced to separate. Moving to a northern city at age 15 with his mother and siblings, Jabali experienced a number of conflicts living in a broken home and struggling to adapt to a city life without a father. Undergoing a culture shock and identity crisis, Jabali was initiated into a street life of crime and gravitated to delinquent and criminal behavior, substance abuse and heroin addiction. As a petty thief and small time hustler, he dropped out of school in his senior year when the fast paced, gleam and glamour of street life, quick money, fine women and fast cars took precedent over the three “R’s, thinking this was his rites of passage to manhood. Barely escaping death through shoot outs and shooting up drugs and going in and out of jail like they were mini vacations for crimes ranging from misdemeanors to felony convictions, Jabali’s self esteem hit rock bottom in prison when he had to question his own insanity for having a rat as his best friend! I Believe to My Soul: Trials and Triumphs of an African Male Growing Up in America, details a chronology of events involving daily struggles for survival. Having endured a poverty stricken plantation life in early childhood, a troubled urban ghetto life during adolescence, and a drug addicted, criminal lifestyle in his young adulthood, Jabali gives candid accounts of his experiences regarding the dramatic changes he would undergo in transitioning from a plantation to penitentiary to acquiring a Ph.D. Dr. Limbani holds an Associate degree in Business Administration, a Bachelors degree in Human Resources Development, a Masters degree in Social Work, a Specialists degree in Humanistic Psychology, and a Doctorates degree in Clinical Psychology. Dr. Limbani maintains a private clinical practice, a licensed residential treatment facility, and a supervised independent living home for adjudicated youth. He founded a male mentor program, in 1991 and has devoted a part of his life to helping boys become responsible young men by mentoring young males through rites of passage activities for the past 25 years.

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2016 Dr. Jabali Zuberi Limbani. 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.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/30/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5049-7480-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-7478-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-7479-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016901172

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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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.

NIV

Scripture quotations marked NIV are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved. [Biblica

Contents

Dedication

Going To Be Somebody

Chapter 1 Black Man’s Pleasure, White Man’s Grief

Chapter 2 His-Story Ain’t My Story

Chapter 3 Cultural Values and Southern Traditions

Chapter 4 Troubling Times and Trying Adventures

Chapter 5 Life In the Fast Lane

Chapter 6 Living in Survival Mode

Chapter 7 Hustling, Crime and Doing Time

Chapter 8 Drugs, Devastation and Self Destruction

Chapter 9 Life Threatening Experiences

Chapter 10 School of Hard Knocks

Chapter 11 Rehabilitation: My Pathway to Freedom?

Chapter 12 Maintaining Sanity and Sobriety

Chapter 13 Steadying the Course

Chapter 14 My Convictions and My Beliefs

About the Author

Dedication

To my lovely wife, who showed a lot of patience and understanding, offered tremendous support and encouragement, and tolerated a great deal of inconvenience during my numerous absences from home while compiling data for this book.

I have come to understand the true meaning of the adage, "married men live longer," as I look back on the many sacrifices made, the long weary hours invested outside the home, and yet always a warm welcome and a hot meal waiting when I returned.

To my children, stepchildren, grandchildren and great grand children whom I have had to sacrifice quality time in undertaking this personal goal and life changing endeavor.

In loving memory of my parents, my father in law, my two oldest sisters who played a critical role in my life and to my uncles, aunts and other relatives who were instrumental in helping to shape my life and who all have transitioned to a spiritual world to take their rightful place among our Ancestors.

To my late daughter and stepson, whose troubled lives and untimely deaths gave birth to an inspiration to write about life’s many values, journeys and adventures.

To the mothers and fathers across the continent who share the depth of lingering grief for their slain sons and ravished daughters.

To all the young brothers who will die at the hands of another young brother.

To the newly born and yet to be born who will come into a calloused world with a heart full of spirit and eyes wide with wonder.

To Almighty God, Creator of all things great and small

Going To Be Somebody

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What will I do when I am free to go through life successfully?

Of all the things that I can do, what destiny will I pursue?

Will I be the same this time indulging in more vice and crime

Or will I be a different man and achieve the things I know I can?

I realize I have potential to do things essential and consequential

But I feel I might be rejected by a community I once disrespected

I still feel remorse for committing a crime but I owe nothing to society

Because I’ve paid my dues and I’ve done my time and I’ve earned the right to be free

But when I’m free I must still be strong and force myself to do no wrong

I must succeed and dare not fail because I’m tired of going to jail

The thought of knowing how hard I tried won’t serve to keep me satisfied

And should society hold me discontent I’ll find a better environment

For somewhere on this fruitful land is a place where people understand

Who will lend a hand to those in strife of making themselves a better life

Where respect is shown to all mankind and live can be lived with a peace of mind

I will search until this place I find and leave my past far behind

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Upon Release from Prison

November, 1976

Chapter 1

Black Man’s Pleasure, White Man’s Grief

I have believed in my convictions

and have been convicted for my beliefs

Conned by the constitution and harassed by the police.

Gil Scott Heron – My Conviction

I instinctively made a mad dash towards the shallow ditch that separated the main highway from the cotton fields when I heard tires screeching to a halt and felt glass shatter around my ankles. I hurled the tall, slanting grass that rested lazily in the warm, putrid stream of water in my desperate attempt to make it to the rows of thick, fluffy, white cotton that clung heavily to waist high cotton stalks waiting to engulf me and camouflage my body. As I dove to the ground and crawled frantically on elbows and knees, propelling my body further into the thick darkness, I could feel my heart beating faster and pounding louder against my chest.

Where dat nigger go? I heard a husky voice yell out threateningly in the darkness as I lay motionless on the soft, damp ground panting heavily; my entire body trembling profusely and my nostrils filled with the smell of freshly plowed dirt. Petrified with thoughts of imminent death left no time for me to even think about other potential dangers that surrounded me; like the large black spiders that would commonly weave their webs across cotton rows, setting death traps for insects and posing a serious threat to humans; or the possibility of being bitten by a dangerous water moccasin lurking underneath thick stalks of cotton, curled up waiting to prey on field mice, rodents and other critters that happened to cross its path. My mind was cued in on one thing: the impending danger at hand and a keen sense of wanting to stay alive.

Where you at nigger? another voice rang out loudly in the darkness; this one getting closer, appearing less than 50 feet away to the right of where I lay hidden breathless and motionless, nerves unraveling like a cheap sweater.

Here, nigger, nigger! Come on out, nigger boy; we ain’t gonna hurt ya. Jes wanna have a lil’ fun is all, another straggly voice taunted.

We bet’ not catch you, you black motherfucker! I heard another threatening voice yell out arousing an intense fear within me; then whimsical laughter pierced the dull, dark silence like a bolt of thunder. I counted the voices. It’s three, maybe four of them crackers. I could take them all if I had me a stick or something, I thought to myself. Then I reasoned, they probably got some type of weapons, too, I better not chance the risk.

I felt angry at myself for having to run from cocky white cowards whose only power rested in the color of their skin supported by Jim Crow laws that were heavily practiced and enforced in the south. I shuddered in fear at the thought of what these crackers would do to me, without any repercussions from the law. Lying there in the heat of night tainted with the foul air of cruelty and brutality, the horror and excitement carrying the endorsement of centuries of unjust malice and hatred for a black man that could cover an entire lifespan, I felt the despair and misery of every young black male in America.

I had been warned numerous times by my two older brothers who had encountered similar unfortunate situations and experiences while traveling the main road. I lay there feeling trapped, vulnerable and desperate, trying to constrain my mind from reflecting on an incident that took place less than two weeks ago when Little John, one of my oldest brother’s friends, reportedly had come within inches of losing his life in a similar situation.

Little John told us about how he had been chased by a car load of crackers one night as he travelled the main road, hearing tires screeching to a halt. But instead of feeling glass from liquor or pop bottles being thrown at him, shattering against the paved road or loose gravel around his feet, he heard gun shots and bullets whizzing by close to his head, as he scurried through thick cotton fields into dense woods for safety. Lil’ John relived the incident about being chased deep into the cotton fields and the only thing that saved his ass was a mud hole that carried the stench of a dead animal.

He reported how he had buried himself in the mud beneath some bushes as he heard weeds rustling and sticks cracking a few yards from where he lay. He related how he knew he had to be totally immobile and forced to maintain absolute silence, thinking his pounding heart would surely give him away as he struggled to breathe and hold his breath simultaneously; how the stench was so strong he thought he would pass out. No man should have to go through that to survive, he said in a tone dripping with humiliation, frustration and anguish.

I empathized with Lil’ John as I lay there tense and motionless, fearfully contemplating my plight and being totally oblivious to the cool granules of dirt that clung to my sweaty face and body.

I felt trapped and helpless, like many African brothers who had been captured, shackled, chained and beaten unmercifully to oblivion and submission and forced to travel against their will to this foreign land called America. My mind swiftly drifted to some of the many atrocities taking place in the south, with invasive thoughts about Blacks being lynched, desecrated, mutilated and castrated at will in this so called land of the free.

I remember the whole town talking about this black boy from Chicago named Emmett Till, a fourteen year old who was brutally murdered for saying bye, baby to a white girl while visiting relatives in Mississippi in 1955. Some people had talked about seeing vivid, sickening photos of his battered and beaten body that had been published in newspapers around the world after being publicly exposed in an article published in Jet magazine. His ruthless murder created an international outcry against southern injustice when his killers were acquitted by an all-white jury. I could almost feel what it must have been like to be dragged from your relatives’ home while they stood there helpless and scared shitless, knowing the same would happen to them if they so much as said a word or attempted to intervene.

I thought about the bravery of the nine black students who became known as the Little Rock Nine, for integrating the segregated Little Rock Central High School in 1957, despite the governor of Arkansas’ failed attempt to have state troops intervene and prevent these students from entering the school. What courage! I thought with pride and admiration for these black teenagers who were doing something about the injustices that continued to wreak havoc on black people; the consequence of their actions resulted in President Eisenhower ordering federal troops to be brought in to enforce the law. The backlash led to all Little Rock schools purposely closing their doors for a year rather than complying with a court order to have Blacks admitted. This deliberate, discriminatory act took place less than a hundred miles from where I lived.

I reflected on the different tactics, strategies and desegregation efforts being attempted throughout the south to discourage violent actions perpetrated by whites; the organized boycotts and other direct acts involving non-violent demonstrations to protest segregated seating on city busses, unjust laws, and demands for equal treatment. I remember having felt a strong sense of pride hearing about young black people organizing sit ins at segregated lunch counters, wade ins at segregated beaches and pray ins at all-white churches; blacks and whites together making freedom rides on busses and trains throughout the south to protest segregation in public stations and waiting rooms.

I marveled in the thought of the actions being taken by organizations such as the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP), headed up by Roy Wilkins; the National Urban League (NUL) under the directorship of Whitney M. Young; Southern Christian leadership Conference (SCLC), founded and led by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and other clergymen; Congress of Racial Equality (CORE) and the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC, aka Snick), the NOI (Nation of Islam) a Black Muslim organization that gave rise to its fiery speaker, Malcolm X, and other grass roots organizations uniting to develop a strong movement that emphasized Black Power as a new identity in fighting racial inequality, protesting desegregation and the continuous denial of voting rights for Blacks.

I reminisced about the numerous times in the cotton fields, corn fields, bean fields, back fields, back yards and back rooms where people talked about Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. I had heard his thunderous voice bellowing out, If you can’t run, walk; if you can’t walk crawl, but by all means keep moving! I was engrossed in deep thought about the numerous injustices taking place in the south until all of a sudden a horrifying, dreadful sound interrupted my thoughts, shocking me back into reality as threatening voices exploded around me, reawakening thoughts and feelings of immense danger, forcing fear and panic to further tighten its vice like grip around my heart.

Where dat damn coon go? a hoarse voice growled angrily.

I don’t know but that’s one lucky son of a bitch, another exclaimed.

Dat nigger run like a jack rabbit. You see him hurdlin’ dem weeds and jumpin’ over dem cotton stalks?

Hell, dat nigger was jumpin’ higher en a cat’s back in a dog fight, another voice responded, laughing loudly.

You better run, you black soma bitch, another voice yelled out as if I were far away in the distance; when in fact, I was only about twelve to fifteen cotton rows over from where they were prowling around!

Let’s get out of here, a voice demanded.

Yeah, cause somethin’ stink like hell, the hoarse voice complained.

Probably a dead nigger, retorted another. Then they all laughed loudly, the sinister sounds of their voices trailing off into the still of night.

This was the south, during a critical period of racial disharmony and social inequality despite the fact that slavery had long been abolished; where blacks were still subjected to Black Codes and Jim Crow laws and whites still clung incessantly to the notion of white supremacy, thinking they were rulers of the earth and could maim or kill a human being without any legal consequences, just because of the color of his skin.

This was during a time when the civil rights movement was gaining momentum in fighting injustice; a time when a major victory for blacks had been won as the Supreme Court struck down segregation in public schools in the case of Brown vs Board of Education of Topeka, Kansas, and declared that segregation on busses was unconstitutional. This was the era when Rosa Parks, a civil rights activist, had refused to relinquish her seat to a white man on a local segregated bus, and Martin Luther King, Jr.’s non violent protests began to make its presence known in Birmingham, Alabama and throughout other southern states.

This was happening during the early and middle 60’s, a promising time of hope when President John F. Kennedy had sent a bill to Congress outlawing discrimination in restaurants, hotels, and other public places; a few years preceding the march on the nation’s capital, led by Dr. Martin Luther King, Asa Phillip Randolph, Roy Wilkins and other civil rights figures, where over 200,000 people of all races and colors took part in demanding freedom and justice for Black people; urging Kennedy’s successor, Lyndon Bayne Johnson, to sign the civil rights act into law.

This was during an era when the Civil Rights Act supposedly threw the knock out punch to the jaw of Jim Crow; prompting the Black Panther Party and other established organizations to issue a call for Black Power, a symbol of economic and political justice, independence and self-sufficiency; a time when black folks had become sick and tired of all the bullshit perpetrated by whites, and strategies were shifted from non violence to self defense tactics by any means necessary, as Malcolm X proclaimed, to demonstrate that blacks were not going to turn the other cheek, but were being empowered to knock the shit out of whitey or anybody else who put their hands on you, while Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. continued to emphasize how and why Blacks could and should confront economic and human rights issues through non violent encounters.

This was during a critical moment in time when southern racist states, cities, towns and municipalities subjected themselves to national exposure and the world became aware of the deep rooted problems of racial discrimination, injustice and inequality that absorbed the nation’s attention and aroused its deepest feelings. A time when tear gas, bull whips, night sticks and billy clubs, water hoses, vicious dogs and many other illegal weapons, devices and underhanded tactics were used to attack innocent, nonviolent demonstrators who marched from Selma, Alabama to the states capital in Montgomery to protest unfair civil and voting rights acts.

Despite the battles won and few rights gained, the war against racial discrimination and inequality was long from being eradicated. It continued to be business as usual in the south and it was still fair game for whites to assault blacks. These were common occurrences, not only while walking along the main roads at night, but other opportunistic times regardless of whether a black man allegedly got out of line or simply stayed in line. Under the blood stained umbrella of civil rights laws drenched with the stench of Jim Crowism, Blacks continued to be chastised, victimized, ostracized and penalized for any behavior perceived by whites as being disobedient or disrespectful.

It was still extremely dangerous to express ourselves in the same fashion as whites because the color of our skin and their ignorance toward race would not allow whites to accept blacks as full class citizens. Their obsession with hatred for Blacks prevented them from confronting their own inferiority complexes. We were still carrying the shackles of slavery as seen through distorted lens of most southern white people. Consequently, we could not go about our business without worry or fear of being harassed, ridiculed, insulted or attacked by whites. Jim Crow laws continued to protect whites from being intruded on with mocked displays and discriminatory signs that read Whites Only, which continued to deny Blacks the privilege of eating at lunch counters, drinking from water fountains or using the same restrooms as Whites.

This was a time when young brothers like me were ready to stand up and stomp whitey’s ass, not just because he needed a good ass kicking to knock some common sense into his prejudiced, racist head; but also to let him know that he could not continue to hide behind white sheets or his white skin because the time was slowly but surely approaching when black folks would have their day. In fact, at that very moment I was thinking about a way I could get back at these crackers who had me pinned in a cotton field; but unfortunately, too many odds were against me and I was forced to retreat into a survival mode where I had to react in a cowardly manner for the sake of staying alive.

It wasn’t like I was being hunted down for actually committing a crime or anything. I was simply guilty of being black in a racist atmosphere where I would certainly have been tried, convicted and sentenced to a death penalty right there in the cotton field had I been caught. In no way could this ever be considered justice, according to white man’s standards; but it sure as hell was a black man’s grief in which human rights were continually being violated in a racist environment where sick white people wallowed relentlessly in the muck of being perpetrators of heinous crimes. To fight back would surely lead to false accusations and trumped up charges being brought against us, which ultimately would result in being jailed, maimed, and in some cases lynched without any consideration for self defense or any semblance of a fair trial. To have to defend, fight or run for your life on a daily basis because of the white man’s pathological obsession with fear of a black man was an assault to human nature and an injustice to human rights!

I had continued to lie motionless, preoccupied with deep, penetrating thoughts of anguish and antagonism that exploded in my head; overheating my nervous system with feelings of hatred and resentment as I heard the roar of an old truck engine and tires peeling off into the darkness. I angrily jumped up to see tail lights fading in the distance as the fear subsided and the rage exploded inside me like a title wave because of the danger I had just been subjected to that caused me to run for my life in order to escape harm.

Here I was, a 14 year old black boy running scared like a jack rabbit and hiding like a coward. I resented the fact that the black man was so vulnerable to prejudice and hatred by a group of treacherous white people who stupidly deemed themselves superior and dominant over other races. The anger and bitterness had reached a boiling point, threatening to erupt inside me like a volcano. I was living in an unjust world where fighting back to defend myself would only be misconstrued as unwarranted aggression. Unfortunately, at that moment all I could do was scream to the top of my lungs and lash out my anguish and frustrations in the quiet darkness amid harmless cotton fields thinking it’s really shameful and sad how things are getting so bad it’s driving black men mad!, while subconsciously being thankful I was still alive! Like any other black male trying to maintain some sense of sanity in a crazed and cruel environment, I was partial to passivity but had to swallow my pride to save my hide. So I dusted off my fear, wiped down my anger and took things in stride in preparing to fight another day.

I would fight other battles of discrimination and racism during my final grueling days living in the south and would continue to fight these same twin adversaries up north. On a few occasions, I would take my frustration and rage out on some uppity, indignant and plain stupid white boys in Michigan who mistakenly failed to realize their days of exaggerated white male dominance were long gone and that a brother was ready, willing and able to start kicking ass and taking names! I would also release other pent up frustrations and misguided anguish on some brothers as I would, unfortunately, get caught up in the street and engage in Black on Black crimes and other criminal activities, while being psyched out by the fast life and getting fucked up and strung out on drugs, falling victim to the many vices that were running rampant in rundown neighborhoods and ghetto streets.

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As I headed back toward the main road, I tried to shift my mind away from the bullshit I had just encountered and focus my thoughts back to the pleasurable and enjoyable moments I had experienced with a female prior to the incident. Her name was Regina and she lived about a half mile down the main highway and about another mile down the graveled, dusty road. Dark complexioned with a cute round face, big eyes and full lips, Regina stood about 5’4" and weighed about 120 pounds on a medium frame. Regina had thick, black, coarse hair that required the attention of a straightening comb almost daily. She had a shapely body with long, soft, hairy legs and pretty toes for a country girl. I had been checking her out from time to time and had decided she was the type that I wanted to get next to.

I knew Regina was digging on me by the way she flirted around in her innocent, silly girl manner. But I was already going with JoAnna Jackson and was trying to get next to this girl named Emma Jean on the side. Both of them lived in the city and they both kinda had it going on in their own way. JoAnna had clearly let me know that she had the hots for me when she hiked her skirt and spread her legs wide open, showing me her pink panties and beautiful thighs while playing on the seesaw one day during recess. We had kissed in the back of the school after validating our relationship. I hadn’t gone through the ritual of asking her out and we were passed the stage of swapping I love you, do you love me notes.

Emma Jean was a skinny, pretty dark skinned little thing with all the pieces in the right places. Very petite and always dressed nice and neat, she was kinda frisky and had been flirting with me in school for quite some time. One day in the hallway while pretending to pick up a pencil she had dropped on purpose, Emma Jean bent over right in front of me. This day she had on a short, navy blue skirt and I saw the way the hot red panties she had on outlined her little tight ass. She was teasing me big time because I know she knew I was looking! I thought to myself, I should squeeze that ass right here in the hallway. But too many eyes were around. She gave me that smirk smile as she stood up, looking me directly in the face with an enticing gleam in her eyes. I wanted to throw her to the floor and mount her little fast ass like a wild stallion right there on the spot as I stood there marveling at what it would be like to really sock it to her.

Yeah, I’m goin’ put the Limbani on somebody’s booty one day, I said aloud in a braggadocio manner as Emma Jean looked back over her shoulder smiling, revealing pretty, evenly white teeth, then enticingly shaking her ass as she strolled down the hall. Emma Jean had a thing for me and I sure had a thing for Emma Jean.

I remember lying stretched out in the middle of the floor one evening doing homework and my mind drifted to thinking about the promising pleasantries I was experiencing with females. I had been caught red handed by JoAnna trying to put the squeeze on Emma Jean and thought I’d better write a little love note to tighten up my game. I scribed a little poem in my best penmanship to JoAnna, apologizing and begging forgiveness for my wrongdoing; but I also wrote to Emma Jean with a different note. It was on February 8, 1964, a few days before Valentine’s Day when I wrote what I thought were clever lines:

2nd month for love

8th day for wishes

19 hugs and 64 kisses

To a beautiful queen, sweet Emma Jean

Many guys I know like to fool around and play

So I won’t talk about all the rest

Because I love you and JoAnna J.

But I love you the best

After drafting my masterpiece while stretched out on the floor in the middle of the living room that had become the centerpiece of our lives, I got up to go complete my chores for the night. Apparently my mother had read my scribe because she advised me that I should never tell a girl I loved her and someone else. She said it showed I was not trustworthy and not serious about her and that it would cause her to feel uncertain and insecure. You could end up hurting her feelings and make it hard for her to trust other boys, my mother had said. I acknowledged that I understood and would take heed to what she was telling me. But quiet as it’s kept I really didn’t care about hurting either one of their feelings. I was just trying to keep my game tight with both of them… because that is what players do.

Regina was an innocent country girl who had not experienced any of the joys and thrills of life. All she knew and had ever done was go to school and work on her family’s farm. At an early age she had acquired a lot of farming experience. She could milk a cow and make butter milk and shit like that. She could even drive a tractor, something I had not yet learned to do - at least not all by myself. Her parents owned most of their farm land, cattle and farm equipment and every family member had to work hard to maintain the farm and their livestock. It was not uncommon for Regina to wear coveralls, looking like a tomboy and doing almost anything her two older brothers could do. Despite her upbringing and farm girl appearance, there was something fine and sexy about Regina that caused my imagination to run wild. Like an artist I found myself visually painting images and drawing pictures in my mind’s eye of what she was covering up underneath them coveralls.

Like a lot of other young girls, Rey had reached the stage where she was undergoing a change in her anatomy associated with puberty and was experiencing a number of different bodily sensations. She had allowed me to cop a few feels on the school bus as we rode home, and this particular day she had welcomed my advance to come by her home later on that evening. Regina had the itch and had allowed me to do a little scratching. I relished the thought that although she would not allow me to go all the way, the fun we had exploring each other’s body was promising that the next time we might be able to get down in a real show down.

Unlike JoAnna and Emma Jean who lived more than 10 miles away, far beyond walking distance, Regina was only a mile or so down the road from me. I knew she was a virgin and at this stage in my young life I had learned a few tricks on how to get a girl excited. With Regina, I was eager to use my amateur skills in getting her hot and ready so I could pop that cherry righteously. I could hardly wait to get with her again to put my mojo grind on her fine, black ass.

All the feelings of fear and anger associated with my encounter with them coward ass white men had dissipated and were being replaced with warm feelings of pleasure and excitement related to the sexual escapade I had experienced and thoroughly enjoyed less than an hour before. I had reasoned that the next time I got caught up in some weak white shit that I would have me an equalizer and try to knock one of them honkies’ brains out; like arming myself with some fist sized rocks or a solid stick or something. That’ll teach them for trying to mess with me, I thought to myself, knowing I probably wouldn’t do nothing but haul ass to safety like I did this time. Now that the imminent danger had passed I found myself talking shit when only minutes before I was scared shitless.

That’s okay, I rationalized. I’m still goin’ end up fuckin’ some white boys up one day, you watch. I was well aware that I was talking to myself. It was a psychological thing, partly a defense mechanism to restore my damaged ego and partly a declaration that served to reaffirm a sense of outlandish, courageous pride. But deep down inside I knew that I was going to go berserk on some cracker one day because I had already grown tired of being picked on, fucked around and fucked over, feeling dogged and mistreated worse than an animal; like I was inhuman, a nobody.

You watch, I said again as if doubting myself but attempting to become grounded in the reality of knowing for sure somebody was going to get a good ass kicking from me in the near future. No doubt about it, I continued, slowly nodding my head in affirmation and engaging in self talk that bordered on irrational, illogical thinking. Intuitively, I sensed it was going to happen. I wanted it to happen, to fuck up some white boys so bad I could hardly wait. I could feel it coming. I could damn near taste it! I wanted to do it to show mighty whitey I was not to be fucked with. I needed to do it to rid myself of all the pent up anguish and frustrations, to feel better about myself, to feel macho and respected as a human being.

The old southern expression, I’ll be good, peckerwood, was quickly replaced with a more aggressive, retaliatory response, I’ll get funky with a low down honky! When I realized what I was saying in concert with how I was feeling, I quickly discarded the distorted belief and misperception of myself and attempted to become more rational in my way of thinking. I realized my mother and father did not teach me to hate and did not raise me to be prejudice. It’s not like I was hostile toward white people or any other human being. I don’t have a vendetta or an obsession to cause harm or wreck havoc on any white person’s life. I guess I got a little carried away, maybe confused; what with all the Christian talk about loving thy enemy and turning the other cheek. I was gradually becoming far removed from the Biblical expression to do onto others as you would have them do unto you. I was dealing with a reality that caused me to start thinking about doing unto others what others do unto you. Better yet, I was slowly but surely learning to do unto others before they did unto me!

Deep down inside I knew I had no hatred in my heart for anybody and I had basically lived – and would continue to live - my entire life with the attitude of peace on earth and goodwill toward men. But for some strange reason at that moment in time, I felt a strong urge to fuck somebody up! Kick the shit out of somebody; put my foot knee deep up some body’s ass for all the ass whippings blacks have taken from them! For an even stranger reason, it made me feel better just thinking about it and I could imagine what it would feel like actually doing it. In fact, I could almost vision stumping a mud hole in some white boy’s ass with little or no regard for the outcome or consequence. This was justice, I thought; a black man’s pleasure.

As I began to walk down the main road headed toward home, I didn’t feel threatened any more. I didn’t feel bitter or angry and I didn’t feel scared. In fact, I actually felt pretty good as I frolicked in the thought of having been with Regina. This was my enjoyable moment, my treasured pleasure; and I wasn’t going to allow it to be taken away from me by no white man. Them crackers must have seen me brandishing a smile of delight and amusement and got jealous; couldn’t stand to see a black man happy. It must have ripped the threads in their dirty drawers to see a black boy walking down the street beaming with a sense of pride, enjoyment and fulfillment, feeling they must be missing out on something. Indeed they were missing out on something, I thought. But this was their problem, their agony and dismay – always wanting what little a black man’s got and seeming to always find a way to take it from us. It was like a black man expressing joy and satisfaction only brought anguish and misery to a white man; a black man’s pleasure was a white man’s grief.

I sighed heavily with a sense of relief then totally dismissed the thought, ridding myself of any residual effect of having barely escaped a dangerous encounter that could have caused serious bodily harm or cost me my life. As I walked briskly along the edge of the main highway, I welcomed the quiet solitude that surrounded me and couldn’t help but notice that I had a little extra pep in my step. I put my fingers up to my nostrils and whiffed the enticingly mixed fragrance of coochie and perfume. Hot Diggity Dog, I said loudly, as I felt myself beginning to get a hard on just thinking about it! Then like a young, silly boy full of mischief and excitement, I started grinning from ear to ear, revealing all my pearly whites to the vast darkness that surrounded me, glowing with an overwhelming sense of pride and pleasure as I welcomed a gratifying and entertaining thought: All this for trying to get a piece of pussy!

Chapter 2

His-Story Ain’t My Story

… So, boy, don’t you turn back.

Don’t you set down on the steps cause you finds it’s kinder hard.

Don’t you fall now—For I’se still goin’, honey, I’se still climbin’

And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

Langston Hughes - Mother to Son

In my struggle to understand the delicate and intricate processes involved in the development of the young minds of African American males, it became apparent to me that my life was very expendable in a racist world that is so hell bent on violence and wars, that it totally ignores and neglects the social, emotional, psychological, and physiological needs of the unwanted, almost invisible black male child. I have discovered that there is a commonly held set of misunderstandings and misconceptions consisting of a shared and distorted belief of the black male’s world in general, the problem at hand, and the conditions under which the problem can be responsibly resolved.

As an African American male growing up in a dual society, I have found history to be a harsh teacher which has taught me many cruel and grueling lessons. In my quest for self-fulfillment and self-actualization, I have come to recognize that there is no middle road or peaceful co-existence devoid of constant, intense struggle. In my struggle for self-determination I have come to grips with the fact that I cannot afford to assimilate into American or Western culture (without being subjected to a conceptual incarceration of my own thoughts and losing sight of my own culture), but that I must deal with it from a non-compromising position of equity and African cultural grounding.

Like the American Indians who were stripped of a land that was rightfully theirs, inevitably to be offered insulting reparations and pitiful, inadequate accommodations; this same blood stained land that has witnessed enumerable lives of Africans in America being lost through our blood, sweat and tears, the backbone in which this nation was built, is rightfully indebted to us and unquestionably can be considered in part, our land. Its history, as told from a European perspective with malicious lies and ruthless rhetoric, is a stolen legacy that is shamefully flawed, deliberately distorted and systematically sanctioned with pathological lies and covert behaviors in order to continue to disregard our role and delete our involvement, investments and contributions in the making of history; that the so called American history that is being portrayed in educational institutions, history books, movies and even the Bible is not accurate and his story is certainly not my story.

I was born and reared in a small town in Arkansas, located about 100 miles east of Little Rock and about 60 odd miles from Memphis, Tennessee. Growing up as sharecroppers – which to me was only a few steps above actual enslavement - my family was very poor, as were most of the families who struggled from day to day, sharing hopeless dreams and living hapless lives in the midst of cotton and bean fields that stretched for miles and miles, shaping our world and dominating our lives for many trying years to come.

I learned early in life that hard work was an obligation, a nonnegotiable requisite to sustaining one’s livelihood, and that responsibility to the family took priority over any kind of personal entertainment, recreational activities or social events with friends and neighbors. I also learned by example at an early age, the importance of sacrifice and how to postpone need-gratification. My parents made many personal sacrifices in teaching us the difference between want and need. I learned the importance of self-discipline, sacrifice, and what was meant by the Premack Principal, better known as Grandma’s Law, which simply but firmly meant business before pleasure, or expressed in children’s terms, work before play. In most cases it was expected that we completed our chores before any fun and games or leisure activities could be enjoyed. In nearly all situations that’s exactly what happened.

Our socio-economic placement had a great impact on the way we lived. As a poor, hardworking family, we had very little control or power over our lives. We simply lacked the vision, resources and fortitude necessary to improve our own circumstances. Our lower class status influenced our pattern of thinking, feeling and behavior in subtle and demeaning ways. Our ethnicity played a role in determining how we ate, worked and related to others, how we celebrated holidays and rituals, and how we felt about and coped with life, illness and death; learned attitudes, mannerisms and patterns of behavior that were simply passed on from one generation to another.

Being sharecroppers, each family member had specific duties that contributed to the well-being of the family. As early as six years old, I was being conditioned to become a very responsible, dependable young person. I was taught to take care of adult chores assigned to me and I learned to carry out my responsibilities in a mature manner. I had the responsibility of gathering firewood and water for the night. I had the partial responsibility of feeding the chickens; slopping the hogs and making sure the chicken coop and hog pen were secured for the night. Engaging in recreational activities and ordinary leisure time was secondary to completing daily, evening and night time chores.

As I grew older and more responsible, my mother taught me how to prepare foods that had to be cooked for long periods of time. Our primary meal on almost a daily basis was beans and cornbread; sometimes we had black eyed peas mixed with a little okra; or collard greens seasoned with rationed chunks of salt pork. As a preteen I learned how to boil water, sort beans, add the right seasoning, stir and add more water in a timely manner to assure the beans were cooked thoroughly and properly. It was a big responsibility that my entire family depended on and at times it felt good to be needed, depended on and trusted to carry out major tasks at such a young age.

A critical role that required a great deal of responsibility was assigned to me when I turned ten years old. I became the primary caretaker of both the home and my baby sister. During the day, while all other