Much Given, Much Required

By T.M. Young

JB goes from hard times to a hard head, and we all know what a hard head gets us, right? In addition to the whippings that his mother hands him over the years, his ass is also softened by lifesingle teen fatherhood, death, marriage, lies, lust, fear, and disease are just some of the things that JB endures during his pilgrimage from the projects to the suburbs. What challenges perplex and almost break him in his journey also prosper him. Money, cars, women and numerous things are among his possessions along the way, but the development of his newfound posture quickly becomes his new prized possession. According to JB, life has a way of bring you to your knees. Its your relationship with the Lord that reminds you to pray while youre there.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503565777

T.M. Young

T. M. Young is a native Washingtonian whose heart beats faith, family, and laughter. She is the author of five children books with titles in other genres to come.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Much Given, Much Required

The Bible says, "To whom MUCH is given, MUCH is required. Well, I have a question. What is MUCH? What constitutes or indicates that you are the whom in possession of this MUCH? Is it one’s education, awards, or maybe even rewards that signify MUCH? Do you think that perhaps the mark of MUCH is your career or your employee benefits? Fame, fortune, or notoriety—could they be the evidence of MUCH? What about your accomplishments, advantages, opportunities bestowed upon you, and/or in some cases, your last name? Do any of these resonate MUCH"? Do your shoes, your clothes, your house, your car, or any of that other STUFF symbolize this thing called MUCH? If so, what, then, is the Lord requiring of those who have it? As for those who don’t, is it safe to say that nothing is required of them?

I

I’m no sports phenom, political guru, or scientific genius. I’m just a regular man. I’m a regular old Joe with a story to tell.

I am the owner of two barbershops and a beauty salon, where I employ twelve people, six barbers, three hairstylists, and a three-man cleaning crew. My son and I reside in Upper Marlboro, Maryland. Where my twenty-eight-hundred-square-feet single-family home with all the bells and whistles sets on ten acres of well-kept land that also belongs to me. I have the luxury of three vehicles. There’s the midnight-blue Cadillac Escalade with the windows tinted so dark that the sun can’t even get in. My motorcycle—it’s a black-and-yellow Honda 600RR (you know a man’s gotta have his toy). On those days when I’m feeling myself, I’m that black man driving that black-on-black Mercedes-Benz CL 600, which is turning the heads of both men and women as it passes by. I have worked hard, and business has been good, if I do say so myself. As a result, I can afford a few of life’s splendors.

Now I didn’t say all that to brag about myself but, instead, to show how God has blessed me. What’s my name? Well, my mother named me James Thomas Brown. My employees call me Mr. B. You, you too can call me Mr. B. Haha! No, like an old friend, you can call me JB.

II

You see, believe it or not, I grew up in the housing projects of Southast Washington, DC, called Staten Dwellings. Back then, it was the last stop on Metro’s 92 Garfield bus line. Like most household in the hood, the head of my household was my mother. Now don’t let the sweet smile and friendly face fool you. Ms. Queen Josie Brown was no joke. She had this look that said I wish your li’l ass would. If you got this look, you knew not to even try whatever it was that you were thinking.

My mother was raising three good-looking boys, of which I was the baby. Even in the projects, she was determined to raise black men who were respectful, responsible, and strong-driven leaders. If I’m honest, I’d admit that we each made that an uphill battle sometimes. But the Queen, that’s what my brothers and I called her among ourselves, continued onward and upward nonstop. She was a hard-working Christian woman who strongly believed in that scripture that states, Spare the rod and spoil the child. Needless to say, we were not spoiled, and yes, we had a rod. In fact, our rod had a name. We called it REAL. We named it real because with it, you’d get a real ass-whipping for a real reason, and in the end, you were brought back to reality real quick. We didn’t have a lot of things. However, love, family, fun, food, and a roof we did have.

Speaking of food, I specifically remember being fed up with having to eat no-name- or store-brand foods. Richfood brandfood this and Richfood brandfood that. Just flakes with the occasional evaporated milk and that welfare cheese, to name a few. I wanted Miracle Whip, Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes, Oscar Mayer bologna, or any of the other well-advertised name-brand foods. But according to the Queen, we’d eat what she purchased or buy it ourselves. Money was tight for a single parent of three growing boys and their friends whom she too fed from time to time. We ate what she could afford and were happy about it.

Never going hungry or naked, we were taught to appreciate and take care of that which we did have. By the time we were teenagers, my brothers and I could all cook, clean, wash clothes, and sew on our own buttons. Mom liked to say things like, Baby, you can do anything that you put your mind to. Never sell yourself short. Always shoot for the moon. That way even if you miss, you’ll still land among the stars, and even then, be sure to be the brightest star shining, and her infamous, Unless your ass is in your own place and married, my name ain’t Grandma. Teacher, disciplinary, cheerleader, doctor, mediator, and motivator were just a few of the hats that she wore.

III

The Queen took us to church and taught us well. It is she, God, and REAL that I credit for keeping me off the streets and out of jail. I was never really into the gangs, guns, or drugs, but sex—that was another story.

Did I forget to mention that I was a decent athlete when I was young? I played anything with a ball—basketball, baseball, football, and kickball. If there was a game with a ball on ice, I’d play that too. As a result, I was quite popular in school and in the neighborhood. Add smooth, good-looking, and smart to that, and well, let’s just say I basically had my pick when it came to the females. I knew that I was supposed to think with the brain in my big head. But by the age of thirteen, my little head had a mind of its own.

While hanging out with my friends one day swopping sexories (you know, stories about our latest sexual conquests), one of them said that he had this girl that wanted to taste him. Everybody else was like, Nigga, stop lying.

I was like, What’s that? It was then that I was told about oral sex and was encouraged to have it done to me. My buddy said that it was better than actually having sex with a little bit of teeth every now and again. Forget the damn teeth; he had me at it being better than actually having sex. From that day forward, I was intent on doing just what he said, Having it done to me. I was on a mission, simultaneously getting as much as I could