Confessions of a Thug and a Gentleman

By Jaz

Were taught in the hood to never tell. From rape to beatings to killings to drugsyou never tell or youre considered a snitch. This is not a tell-all book but my story, my journey. Ive changed most names in this book to protect peoples identity. I feel everyone should tell their story; it heals!

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504919845

Jaz

Darren "Jaz" Vincent's story begins in Niagara Falls, New York, where people knew him as a roughneck, a troublemaker. He was a wannabe rap singer with muscles, tattoos, and scars. But one day, Vincent says, someone convinced him to read a book about facing fear. It was the first book, at the age of thirty-four, he ever read from front to back, and it awakened a hunger in him. He was a kid from the 'hood, and all of a sudden, he stopped fighting, left New York, and moved to Charlotte, where he opened a bookstore to open other people's eyes.

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Confessions of

a THUG

and a GENTLEMAN

JAZ

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2015 Jaz. 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 09/10/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-1987-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-1988-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-1984-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015910254

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

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

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

Chapter 1 Fighting for My Life

Chapter 2 Being A Single Mother in the ‘Hood

Chapter 3 Being a Man at Fourteen

Chapter 4 The Law in the ‘Hood

Chapter 5 The Sexual Abuse

Chapter 6 Being a Father at Nineteen

Chapter 7 Trying to Understand My Anger

Chapter 8 Family Influence in the ‘Hood

Chapter 9 Religious Influence in the ‘Hood

Chapter 10 Love in the ‘Hood

Chapter 11 Trying to Stop Fighting

The Transformation

Chapter 12 Learning to be Submissive

Chapter 13 From Thug to Gentlemen

Chapter 14 Books Changed My Life

Chapter 15 The ‘Hood Comes With No Credibility

Chapter 16 Learning to Follow

Chapter 17 Learning to Lead

Chapter 18 And You Still Treat Me As A Thug

A few years back, while I was running my bookstore, an editor from a top newspaper here in The Queen City approached me. She wanted to write an article on an event I was hosting called the Charlotte Literary Festival. I was busy that day. I had a leak in the back room and at least three customers demanding attention. The editor patiently waited as I passed her several times to ask me questions about the festival. After a few minutes, I impatiently stopped to answer her questions. Paranoid about the leak in the back and the customers who were looking for books, I quickly answered her questions.

After a few minutes, I said, I really have to get back to my customers.

As I began to walk away, she leaped in front of me and put her hand on my chest and said, I find it hard to believe what you told me!

At first I didn’t understand what she was talking about until a quick glimpse at her notepad reminded me that she started with questions about my festival but it transformed into questions about who I am and my background. See, I’m normally on guard when it came to my past. My past was dark and gloomy and besides the people I love, I tried to avoid the memories. During the 15 to 20 minute interview, I was so focused on answering her questions quickly; I didn’t pay much attention to the actual questions.

She then asked, Would you be willing to give me a few phone numbers of people close to you?

Again, still unclear on what I was getting myself into, I quickly grabbed my cell phone and gave her about eight names and phone numbers of people close to me.

That Sunday an article was released about me in the local newspaper. It stated Bad Guy Turns Good! It included statements from friends and family about my past. I felt naked, exposed and humiliated! I didn’t answer my phone for days.

Soon after, I began to check my messages. I was shocked, most of the messages were from schools that wanted me to speak to their kids, magazines, radio and television stations wanted to interview me. I didn’t understand.

A few days later I had to speak to some students at a local elementary school in The Queen City. I walked into the classroom and witnessed a corkboard that had a bunch of articles and pictures of me on it. I stared at it for a minute until a child about eight years old with thin braids and silver beads hanging from them pulled my shirt and said, You’re like a superhero!

I thought to myself, I saw the past and the pain and violence that came with it. I looked down at the princess and said, I’m definitely no superhero.

She looked up at the board and looked back at me and said, You’re my superhero!

A couple of weeks later while driving back from Raleigh, NC. A local radio station had interviewed me in regards to the article. I was stunned after the interview to witness everyone crying after hearing my testimony.

I was staring at the trees as we drove down I-85 from Raleigh, trying to make sense of what was going on. My girlfriend at the time gently grabbed my shoulder and asked, Are you alright?

Still staring out the window, I replied, I just don’t get this. Why are people intrigued about my past? Everyone has a past. I’m not comfortable talking about what I went through.

She replied, "It seems to me the Father wants your story to surface. It inspires people. So why question it if that’s what He wants?"

That’s when I decided to write this book!

This book starts in one of the Seven Wonders of the World, The Falls. Now, most people think of The Falls as this beautiful place that’s home to the legendary Falls itself. Well, there’s not much beauty in U.S. side of The Falls anymore, Niagara Falls, Canada is gorgeous. The Falls is a worn down city with high grass, old broken down houses and fenced in hoods.

When I was about twenty-five years old, I asked my best friend mother, Why did you move from New York, NY to this run down city?

She responded, The price of living was cheap. You can rent a three bedroom house here for less than $400 a month but I didn’t know my neighbors would more than likely be drug dealers, crackheads, and gangsters. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. A place where rent is this cheap comes with a consequence. The Falls is a dark place. The violence is high and you can’t trust most law enforcement around here.

This book isn’t to disrespect and paint a bad picture of my first home or most of all my family and friends. Hoods like The Falls has a major burden of never telling! What I mean is, you’re taught in the hood to never tell. From rape to beatings to killing to drugs…you never tell or you’re considered a snitch. This commitment in my opinion is why so many people in this country that grow up in the hood continue down destructive paths because they rarely face their demons.

I’ve learned to embrace my past. My past helped me become the man I am now. But most of all, I healed.

There’s two things I hope to accomplish from this book. One, I want people outside the hood to understand that leaving is more than just a choice. The hood is a way of life. Yes, it has its dark components but it also has friends and family. It’s not easy to just leave without someone on the outside reaching out to pull you up and we all don’t have someone to pull us up!

Two, I want to inspire those in the hood that you can leave. No matter what the circumstances look like, you have to first believe that you deserve more and then commit to having a life beyond the darkness of the ghetto. For those who live by the code of the streets…here’s something you need to know; being born in that environment is not a curse. If you decide to leave the hood and inspire to be something great, many of the talents you learned in the hood can be cultivated into something positive. Those who succeed from the hood are blessed with a talent, a gift to survive, to adapt and most of all, to inspire because you have a story!

This book isn’t to hurt anyone. It’s just my story!

This Book Is

Dedicated To:

My Mother…Thanks For Bringing Me Into This World & Thanks For Putting Up With Me

My Son…You Might Of Taught Me More Than I Taught You

My Grandparents…Rest In Peace

Special Thanks To,

My Sister & My Brothers

My Queen

My Niece & My Nephews

My Uncles Popeye & Philip

Patrice Gaines

Rashaad Bilal

The Rest Of My Friends & Family

The Father

Chapter 1

Fighting for My Life

Blood flowed down my face. I wanted to take action, but I couldn’t move. It was as if an invisible, dominant being was holding me. I was conscious. I could see and hear everything around me, even though the heavy blood that dripped down the right side of my face blurred my vision and limited my hearing.

A friend yelled, Let’s get ‘em, Jaz. I got your back!

Other people in the bar stumbled over each other, rushing towards the exit.

What about me? Why was I still standing in one spot? Where was my brother? Was I going to bleed to death? Who hit me?

I heard a voice, but I couldn’t see where it was coming from. The voice screamed, "It was Me who gave you strength to make it this far! It was Me who kept you out of harm’s way! It was Me who kept you from spending your life in jail! Most of all, it was Me who sheltered you from death! If you don’t listen this time, you’re on your own!

My mind raced into the past. I had participated in hundreds of fights in my lifetime—professional matches, brawls at school, in bars, and on the streets. For the most part I was victorious, with the exception of a few broken bones, scars, and minimal jail time. Up to this point in my life I had convinced myself that I was a great fighter. I was strong and had tremendous speed. I was pretty cunning for a person with no criminal record, and I was still healthy.

In a split second, that night at the bar, a voice sent me back in time. I thought about how I had gotten to this night. How did I come to be standing in a bar feeling as if half my face had been ripped off?

My thoughts took me back to 1980. I was 7 or 8 years old, riding my Evel Knievel, red-white-and-blue Chopper Big Wheel down the sidewalk of 14th Street in The Falls, New York. The front wheel, connected to two chrome bars that seemed to glisten in the sun, stretched out about three feet in front of me.

Most of the other kids had normal Big Wheels made of nothing but plastic that soon fell apart after a few months. Even though we were poor and living in the ‘hood, my mother loved to get me things other kids didn’t have. In the ‘hood we called this practice living ghetto fabulous.

I remember one particular day when I was wearing a special shirt my mother had bought me. She probably thought it made a positive fashion statement about her son, but looking back I’m not sure that was the case. It was an orange-white-and-blue striped, short-sleeve shirt and I proudly sported my afro with it. At the time the shirt didn’t bother me since it was how most young kids dressed in the ‘hood, but now when I look back at old photos, that shirt really looked horrible.

Anyway, that day a man named Steve was arguing with my godmother Joyce who lived next door to us. I slowly pedaled my Big Wheel out of my yard and headed toward the commotion. As I got closer to Steve and Joyce, I pedaled faster and then purposely ran over Steve’s foot. When I looked up and smiled, he spit on me. Joyce immediately attacked Steve with uncontrollable rage. It was a rage I was familiar with.

I had witnessed my mother attack men like that on a few occasions. It always amazed me. My mother reminded me of a wolverine when she attacked. She was fast and aggressive, although she seemed to be in control and aware of her surroundings.

Soon after Joyce’s fight I returned home. The moment I walked into the house my mother screamed, Go straight to your room and take off your clothes!

I was clear what was going to happen. Though I couldn’t figure out what I had done wrong, I was about to get a beating. I stripped off my clothes down to my dingy white underwear. I was scared. Actually I was horrified. I shivered and paced until I heard a creak in the floor and the rattle of a belt buckle. My mother was walking through the living room that led to my bedroom. I leaped on the other side of my bed, out of reach, but with the wall behind me.

Like my Big Wheel, my bed was red, white, and blue, shaped like an Indy racing car. My mother entered the room.

Come over here, she demanded.

I paused and began to cry. I shook my head no.

She demanded again, Now!

I was so scared I felt as though I was going into shock. I walked reluctantly around the bed toward her.

Please, Ma, I’m sorry. Don’t hit me. I won’t do it again, I cried.

Her face was motionless, but full of anger. She got into a stance preparing to strike. As the belt went up, I dove to the floor as if she had already hit me. The first real hit struck like a bullet. I screamed.

She hit me faster and faster as she yelled, Didn’t I tell you to stay out of grown folks’ business?

Yes, Ma, I cried. I won’t do it again.

The pain was intolerable, but I had enough strength to think: I can’t wait ‘til this is over.

Suddenly, after about the fifth or sixth strike, she stopped. Still crying, I crawled away from within striking distance. She hit me three more times, demanding that I stop crying. I couldn’t understand why she was telling me to stop crying since it hurt.

Finally she stopped beating me. What did I tell you about messing with adults?

I was too scared to answer. Either way, there was a great risk of getting hit again. There was no right answer, not even the truth.

You told me stay out of grown folks’ business, I cried.

By this time I was in a ball trying to protect the areas that she’d hit the most, mainly my arms. While she was hitting me I constantly reached up in an effort to limit the belt to only hitting my arms.

Then why did you go over there and mess with Joyce and Steve? she yelled.

I don’t know, Ma, I cried.

Wrong answer! She struck me again. She demanded an answer to a question that I didn’t have a clear understanding of how to answer, so I lied. He yelled at me, I said.

If I find out you’re lying, you’re getting another whippin’, she proclaimed. She then turned and walked out of the room. I didn’t move for about ten minutes, shivering in pain. My arms were red and branded with imprints from the belt. The belt was thick with big holes. I actually felt fortunate that she didn’t use one of her thin belts; they hurt more. I couldn’t help but think that I had just set myself up again for another whippin’ by lying.

I fell asleep in the corner of my room. Late that night I was awakened by my mother. She delicately helped me off the floor. She looked heartbroken. She picked me up in a nurturing way, as if I were 3 years old. She held me close to her chest. My mother didn’t say she was sorry often, but maybe this was her way of saying it. After a few seconds she ordered me to put on my pajamas and get into bed.

The following morning, I was awakened by my mother’s voice.

Get ready for school, she said.

I rushed to get my clothes together. After washing up and putting on my clothes, I yelled across the small apartment, I’ll see you later, Ma.

I tried to get to the door before I heard her yell, Come here, boy, let me see what you got on.

I walked toward her bedroom with my head down. My mother wanted to make sure I had on my snow suit. She would also put a massive amount of Vaseline on my face. She claimed it protected my face from the cold. After leaving her room I glared into the glass on the stove and witnessed my face shinning like the sun.

To get to my bus stop I had to cross a field with prickly bushes and high weeds that grew between two old buildings with boarded windows. I always looked for grasshoppers as I passed through this area, while at the same time trying to avoid the sting of the prickly leaves on the bushes.

Next I had to cross an alley that was paved with rocks and garbage. The alleyway was so different during the daytime. Kids were told to stay away from this alley. Only bums, drug addicts, and drug dealers roamed the alley at night. The abandoned buildings looked haunted and behind every garbage can and dumpster you could hear noises from animals that owned the alley. Most of all, a