Mama, I Want to Come Home

By Derrick G. Arjune

Their parents love, support, and guidance were the pipeline to their success. Home provided the water for life. Straying from this reliable source of sustenance can be dangerous.

Kwame and his friends did. He was sent to jail when he was about to attend a top college. The unbearable conditions led to Kwames pained plea for help.

His fate was in the hands of two women from two different social backgrounds: one white and one black. Their cause was freeing Kwame from the clutches of imprisonment. Their bond was the oldest one in the world: motherhood.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483678627

Derrick G. Arjune

Derrick Arjune is a resident of Queens, New York. He is active in the community and remains passionate about examining social issues with a critical pen. His first book, The Mailbox Syndrome, dealt with corporal punishment in the home of a middle-class minority couple and the narrow views of the child protective services in New York City.

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Copyright © 2013 by Derrick G. Arjune.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Rev. date: 08/07/2013

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CONTENTS

PREFACE

CHAPTER 1

GRADES ON THE STREETS

CHAPTER 2

A MOTHER’S AGONY

CHAPTER 3

ENRAGED PARENTS

CHAPTER 4

JAIL OR BAIL

CHAPTER 5

DOWN WITH THE BOYS

CHAPTER 6

THE BASEMENT MEETING

CHAPTER 7

THE SCHOOL HEARING

CHAPTER 8

THE REAL STUFF

CHAPTER 9

SHE CAN’T UNDERSTAND

CHAPTER 10

MY HANDS ARE TIED

CHAPTER 11

A SON’S PLEA

CHAPTER 12

THE PRINCIPAL’S LAST WORD

This book is dedicated to my loving mother, Nathalie Arjune, whose daily love has always been a priceless source of inspiration in my life. My mom died before this book was completed. I am, however, forever grateful to be birthed and nurtured by this exceptionally fine woman.

My children represent a rainbow of ethnic beauty as well as challenging ideas.

I remain beholden to several persons whose fate was entrusted to my inexpert and willing hands. Their confidence in me is reason to continue the dialogue about social issues in the hope of finding useful solutions.

And to my small and intrepid group of colleagues, who believe that we must make today better than tomorrow.

PREFACE

Too many people are in jail in America. For young black men, the percentage is quite high. A necessary and burdensome impact is on the financial status of black families.

The woman is too often the bearer of the financial consequences of this troubling situation.

A Brooklyn teenager was provided a nurturing environment at home for academic and personal success. Bullying and a code of silence among his friends led to criminal activity.

Then he had to turn to his mother, who was prepared to use all the family’s resources to save her son. She depended on a female attorney who, because of her ethnicity and background, was mistrusted and attacked.

This is the story of an ambitious black youth caught in the vortex of street life, peer pressure, and family expectations.

Any likeness to any real person is incidental and unintentional.

CHAPTER 1

GRADES ON THE STREETS

I will kill you, said the irate Korean merchant to the six black youths.

Go back to China, yelled Joquan Hillon.

Kwame Cudjoe, surprised at Joquan’s statement, said, Joquan, they are not all from China.

How do you know that? inquired Cyrus Falquist.

Well, said Kwame, they are—

The assertive and confident Julius Beatty interrupted and stated, Asians. Not just Chinese, who are also Asians.

They all look alike to me, said Joquan.

But they are not, Julius insisted.

An angry voice in faltering English shouted, You people… come to my store… no money… you take… you run…

Already irritated by the threat to their lives, the black youths were more so agitated by the thoughtless generalization of the Korean merchant. Too often they had been subjected to racist barbs or reactions. They had done nothing wrong or improper except be black.

Sometimes they thought the world was mad or they were unwanted occupants in a city that looked suspiciously on their every act.

Kwame, perhaps more infuriated than the others, walked to within five feet of the merchant and asked, What do you mean ‘you people’?

Almost asphyxiated by the anguish of the suspected pilfering of these boys, the shopkeeper, in more halting English, answered, You, all of you steal everything…

Joquan, he is doing the same thing you are doing, Julius stated.

What? Joquan inquired.

He is generalizing about black people the way you are about all Asians being Chinese, Julius replied.

Surprised by Julius verbal onslaught, Joquan said, Well, I mean no harm by my statement. That man, the Asian man, said we are all thieves.

The quiet Antoine Dally remarked, Same old racist song, just a different singer.

When will you and I be able to walk into stores without being scrutinized and accused? Kwame asked.

Pointing to himself, Julius replied, You asking me?

No, no, said Kwame. I am just frustrated at this type of reaction. At seventeen, I am already tired of walking around with this tag that says ‘Watch out, I am black.’

Mustafaq Neal, who had been watching the unfolding crisis with unusual calm, said, Cool it, Kwame. You might say or do something that really gets us into trouble.

We are already in trouble, Kwame responded.

Why? asked Mustafaq.

Look at the merchant’s behavior. He believes we stole something, Kwame said.

Let’s get out of this joint, suggested Mustafaq.

Getting out of the store seemed a most prudent step. They would avoid the acerbic tongue of the merchant. They would also be away from a hostile environment. There was a pause as each mulled the suggestion.

A raspy and decisive voice belonging to a husky Asian man brandishing karate chops snarled, Get out of here, you nigars.

Did he say the N word? Kwame asked.

Yes, he did, replied Cyrus Falquist, whose six-foot-three frame was coiled like an angry viper and ready to sprint from the store.

Little had to be said. The ignominy of that term was beyond doubt. Its effect on their young psyches was incalculable. Their humane inclinations were ruptured by its vile connotations. Any indecision about leaving was quickly removed by this odious characterization.

Once out of those unfriendly confines, the six youths found the bustle of Church Street, a wide carriageway of steady pedestrian and vehicular traffic in Lower Manhattan, to be a cherished boom to their sagging confidence.

As they turned on Park Place in the direction of Broadway, they felt the danger of racial intolerance receding with every step away from the store. Kwame noticed that they were receiving anxious glances from passersby. Neither their dress nor gait warranted these looks.

Isn’t Stuyvesant High School a few blocks from here? he asked.

Without hesitation, Julius replied, Yes. It is and remains one of the best, if not the best, high schools in the country.

Yeah. I know about its reputation, Kwame stated.

So why do you ask? Julius inquired.

Kwame stopped walking and, in his characteristic serious tone, said, I am sure black students from Stuyvesant walk along here.

Yes, it is close enough to the school and is on a direct route from the subway at city hall to the school, replied Julius.

Maybe it is my imagination, Kwame said, but it seems as if we are being stared at by the folks around here.

In a voice drenched with concern, Cyrus exclaimed, I am of the same view. I was beginning to believe that there was something strange about us.

Yeah, I get the same vibes, Antoine said.

Come on, fellas, Julius urged. This is our country, the United States of America, land of the free and home of the brave.

We know that, Kwame responded. Maybe that idea—that principle—is not for us.

Bull crap, replied Julius. You are overacting.

That thought had crossed Kwame’s mind. However, it was a fleeting one, for the many looks were saying otherwise. It was as if they were a small band of marauders with puerile looks but with impure motives.

I am an American and proud of it. I am not sure that I am seen as such by others.

What do you mean by ‘others,’ Kwame? Julius asked.

Mainly whites, Kwame replied. And because they are in the majority and control so much, their reaction to you can have an impact on the way you think about yourself.

Relax, Kwame, Julius suggested. You are only seventeen. I am seventeen too. But you think too much.

Unfazed by Julius’s cutting observation, Kwame kept a keen eye on these denizens of the most storied metropolis in the world, New York City. He was convinced that their group was the subject of unwarranted attention.

A voice interrupting his thoughts said, Kwame, the persons who insulted us in that store were Asians and not whites.

I know that, replied Kwame in an agitated tone. They are adopting the same attitude to us as whites. It is a skin color thing, Mustafaq.

The further you are away from whites in pigmentation, the lesser you are in virtue, Antoine observed.

Julius—through a combination of personality, shrewdness, and will—functioned as their de facto leader. He was neither the strongest nor the brightest.

What distinguished Julius was his indomitable spirit to succeed in whatever endeavor he undertook. The others, having benefitted from his unique capacity, acknowledged his role.

Just the week before, the group had gone to view a matinee showing of the movie Avatar. They were recognized by some neighborhood youths, who taunted them with the names of academic sissies and homework bound.

The six were indeed students at an elitist high school in downtown Brooklyn. Their superior scholastic records more than qualified them for this august institution, which was located in the administrative center of Brooklyn.

Their number was few, but their achievements were manifest. Most of the students were white and were from moneyed backgrounds. However, full or partial scholarships funded the tuition costs of the six because of the limited financial means of their parents.

By necessity, they forged a bond of friendship to overcome the cultural and financial alienation they felt at the school.

Julius had averted a physical confrontation by responding, Brothers, though we attend that top school, we are still of the neighborhood and intend to give back our skills to it.

The most vocal of the taunters asked, Why do you act as if you are better than me?

No, no, my brother, Julius replied, it is just that they—you who I mean—have us doing assignments or projects. We don’t know much of the stuff.

Man, the school should help all of you, their main aggressor said.

You know the system, brother, Julius replied. We have to struggle to find our way. None of our parents or relatives attended a school like this. We are on our own.

Offering a high five, the aggressor said, All right, man. I understand.

Cool, Julius responded.

Handshakes and bear hugs were enthusiastically exchanged before the former adversaries made their way into the movie theater.

On this day, as they approached the intersection of Broadway and Park Place, the disagreement was becoming quite contentious. Julius was compelled to take action lest the discussion became too noisy.

He asked, Why don’t we test Kwame’s claim of us being unduly scrutinized?

Fine, replied Kwame. Let us go into that large retail store across the street.

Which one? Joquan asked.

Using a half-full bottle of purified water that had partially satisfied his thirst, Kwame pointed and responded, The one with the tropically dressed mannequins in the showcase.

Maybe the people in there are cooler, Julius remarked.

They all laughed as they negotiated the busy intersection to access the store’s entrance. Escaping the onward rush of taxicabs and messengers’ bicycles quickened their tentative steps to the testing ground.

Police sirens began to sound. The air suddenly felt heavy and uncertain. A dazzling-looking young lady ahead of them provided a moment of relief from the ominously close and menacing sound of the sirens.

Julius reached the entrance door first and was pushing it open when the frightening words were heard: Don’t move.

Each one of them repeated the phrase in a disbelieving manner. ‘Don’t move’? Why?

Put your hands in the air, declared the chilling voice.

Kwame almost-instantly spun around and asked, For what?

The commands, Kwame realized, were being given by a graven-faced and bulky police sergeant, whose stomach was of a proportion to signal a total disregard for physical fitness.

He yelled, Do as I say. Do not question me. These are my streets, you little punk.

Kwame had not committed a crime nor was he aware that any of his friends had. This unexpected intrusion into their freedom confirmed Kwame’s belief that they were being unfairly targeted.

But he knew that voicing his objection could be dangerous. Too many black youths had been gunned down by the New York City Police Department for much less.

The inexpressible feeling of several bullets ripping his vital organs was sufficient to shut out his genuine concern for the police action.

Kwame and the others slavishly followed the instructions of the burly sergeant. They had read books about the unspeakable horrors of war and seen movies with nerve-racking scenes of human tragedy. That experience was no preparation for the fear created by six black youths surrounded by a dozen police officers with guns at the ready.

They had been stopped a few blocks from city hall, which housed the office of the mayor—the chief executive of New York City. Kwame hoped that the mayor or his aides would see this unpleasant scene and intervene to temper, if not stop, the ugliness of the situation.

Throw down your book bags was the next command. The sergeant’s voice was sounding more menacing as if with every passing second, he was becoming more alarmed by their sight.

As far as Kwame knew, none of his friends had ever been stopped or arrested by the police. They had discussed the possibility in light of the poisoned atmosphere of the city against their ethnicity and their age group.

Now Kwame and his friends found themselves in a wretchedly unfamiliar circumstance. They were nervous, worried, and frightened.

The relatively cool spring afternoon did little to contain the unceasing flow of sweat that made their clothes look soggy and shabby. Once-handsome faces now appeared to be haggard and contorted.

Sensing a cascade of emotional pain in the group, Julius uttered, RACI.

RACI, repeated the sergeant, who had now taken a more threatening position in the middle of the six while his thirteen comrades looked on with eyes and fingers readily synchronized for shooting.

You are accusing us of racism because we stopped you, the sergeant intoned.

No, replied Julius.

Perturbed that Julius was not agreeing with him, the sergeant said, You just said ‘race.’

I did not, Julius insisted.

I heard you, the sergeant, whose name tag read Warren Brockhaus, maintained.

Afraid to argue with the sergeant while holstered guns were at the sides of unpredictable police officers, Julius urgently said, Sir, you heard wrong.

And I suppose we are doing wrong? the sergeant enjoined.

I also did not say that, Julius answered.

A firm rule of police operations was the exercise of control over situations where their authority was needed. Julius’ trenchant responses were disrupting that objective. Brockhaus decided that stronger action was necessary.

As he was about to act against Julius, a voice demanded, Officer, you should go easy with these kids. They are babies.

He spun