Stop Hitting Me with That Bat!

By Blackjack Evans

This is your opportunity to experience the life of an average African-American male. You will become him and experience all the happy moments and all the joy, pain, suffering, and misery that he does. You will experience the love and even the hate that he experiences. You will experience the sex, violence, drugs and alcohol, the loneliness, the bitterness, and the reasons behind it all. You will take a ride down the back alleys of life, where even hope is afraid to go. And in the end, you may question your own philosophical, spiritual, and political views.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524574468

Blackjack Evans

Blackjack Evans is a USAF Veteran, with some college and an honorary degree from the University of Hard Knocks. Adopted by old school, southern parents, who were born before 1920, he was not spared the rod as he grew up and he was reared with a strong sense of morality and strong values. His story is truly inspiring and he gives credit and thanks to God for the experiences that have taught him so much, as well as the opportunity to share his testimony with you.

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Copyright © 2017 by Blackjack Evans.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2017900136

ISBN:      Hardcover   978-1-5245-7448-2

                Softcover     978-1-5245-7447-5

                eBook           978-1-5245-7446-8

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.

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Rev. date: 02/20/2017

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I

was adopted at 7 months old, by the most wonderful parents any adopted child could ever ask for. My mother was born in Southern Back Streets, USA In 1916 and my father in Southern Old Town, USA in 1915. As soon as I was old enough, they told me that I was adopted. I am Grateful for that! In the late 1960’s, the Treemont Avenue/Chester Avenue area was like New York City. Not quite, of-course, but you get the idea. What Someplacers (Residents of Someplace, USA) now call The Inner Belt; was full of houses, streets and bars back then. The neighborhood was rough. There were a couple of times that we came home and the house was torn up by robbers. I lived on a big bank (Hill) next to a church on the corner of Good Heart and Chester, which ran across Treemont in those days. There was a big Muslim building across the street from my house and the whole area was full of alleys, with houses in them. I always thought it was ridiculous to build a house in an alley, but that’s how populated that area was, at that time. Pimps and Drug Dealers were all over the place and my mother had a little used furniture store on the corner of Treemont and Edgewood in a little green building attached to the Arab Store that now sits on that corner. Her store faced Edgewood. The Arab Store was a bar, at that time. It was named either The Green Turtle or The Zanza Bar; I forget which one. The community Center that is on the same side of Treemont but across Edgewood was a big Sparkle Grocery Store and Treemont was full of bars, Barbershops, drug stores, etc. I think there was a fish market and churches seemed to be on almost every other corner in the area.

My father was Baptist and I went to church with him one week and with my mother the next week to a Sanctified Church. Wow! What a difference. The Sanctified people didn’t even believe in television and the women had to wear dresses, but they had a big band and the church would rock. People would catch the Holy Ghost and speak in tongues. The Baptist church didn’t have a band. We went to the one on the corner of Treemont and Raymond St. If my father didn’t feel like going on our weekend; then I would go to the Baptist Church that was right next door to our house, by myself. I did a lot by myself, as a child. I had no brothers or sisters. I grew up learning how to make my own fun. As sad as that may sound, I am appreciative of that, today. Today, while others fear and loathe being alone, I am perfectly fine being by myself, living alone and spending time alone with my TV Set and computer. And I would be OK without them.

My mother loved music and loved to dance. She had a bubbly personality and loved to dress. She was popular and everyone loved her! Boy could she cook! She cooked every single day, with very few exceptions. And the whole neighborhood new where to go if they were hungry. My mother would feed any and every one who was hungry. Right around 7 pm, if you were in the neighborhood and hungry, just stop by and there was always plenty of food. Needless to say, it wasn’t unusual for us to have shady and even unsavory characters over for dinner. She would pile food on your plate until you couldn’t possibly eat another bite. Once you left, she would talk about you. I don’t know what people think this is, a restaurant? They trina eat me outa house and home! My dad and I would just look at each other and shake our heads… She would go on and on while cleaning up and washing dishes. But no matter how much she talked about you yesterday, she was expecting you, today. And if you didn’t show up, you had to hear her mouth next time she saw you. And I don’t care if she saw you standing on the corner drinking a bottle of wine or selling drugs, she would pull her car over, get out and read you your rights, publicly. Why you have me cook all that food and you didn’t show up? I cooked neck bones, cabbage, corn bread, corny rice, etc., set you a plate and you never showed up! But yo black ass know where to go when you get hungry, don’t chu? Who the hell do you think I am…? But everybody knew that no matter how bad she cursed you out, you were always welcome back, next time you were hungry; even if it was that very night. And you would always get a big smile, a hello and a hug at the door. That was my mother. She was a ‘Tough Cookie’, with an unbelievably loving and caring heart!

My mother was a very independent woman. She ran her own businesses, kept her own money and paid half of the bills. She didn’t depend on my father for anything. My mother lived independence the way women of today talk about it. I loved my mother with all my heart!! One time, she went out and bought an old, raggedy house on Fair Chance Lane St., right down the street from The Angel’s Bar, before it ever became The Angel’s Bar, of-course. That area was a dense neighborhood, at that time, as well. My father didn’t like that she bought that house without consulting him; but the deed had already been done. She had paid cash, with her own money, so he had no say in the matter. She took me and we worked on that old house for two months getting it decent enough for a tenant to move into. It took a lot of work, but we whipped that place into shape and she found a tenant.

My father loved her soooo much! I’ve never seen a person, to this day, who had more love in their heart than him. He was also jealous over his wife because she was always gone, doing her thing. She was popular in Someplace. You could say her name any where you went and they knew Ms. B. My father, out of love, worried about her a lot because she dealt with a lot of shady characters. Rightfully so. One time, she was tied up when she had her Antique Store in South Someplace, behind the Tasty Market. She bought and sold guns and things under the table. I don’t think everything she bought and sold was 100% legal. She would try to hide a lot from me but I was no dummy and definitely not blind. When I suspected a cover up, I became a little detective. I would ask everyone questions and hide behind cracked doors and pick up the other line of the phone. I hated to be lied to or treated like I was blind and stupid. And do to this day. It’s just the way I am.

I went to Pre-kindergarten and met my first best friend Boon. One time, while in Elementary School, I had a birthday party. Boon and his sister were the only ones who came. I was so hurt! Everyone said they were coming and I believed them. I had given flyers my mother made to every kid at school and I always went to all of their parties, so it made sense, to me, that they would all come to mine. But none of them came, except Boon and his sister Shelley! My mother said: Now you know who your true friends are. That was my first real lesson concerning friendship. Boon and I were definitely and without a doubt, best friends from that day forward. But even he would let me down later in life.

One day, I came home and there was a moving van in front of the house. My mother said that we were moving away from my father. Imagine that! She had bought another house on the east side and I had to transfer from Lane School (1 White Kid and two Mixed Kids in the whole school, to Leggett School, which was mostly White Kids with a few Black Kids. Imagine that in the very early 1970’s. That was the worst year of my youth! I had to fight almost every day. My best friend was white. It is funny how things go, isn’t it? It was, mostly, the Black Kids that I fought with. It was like I was intruding and stealing their joy, somehow. I have always hated to fight and have always thought it was stupid. For some reason, people have always wanted to fight me. Everyone always likes me accept one person in the crowed who can’t stand that everyone likes me. A Hater. Sometimes people hate to see me do good and go out of their way to bring me down. That has always hurt me because I love all people and I truly wish everyone the best!

After my mother and I moved across town, I would spend the weekends with my father and the week days with my mother in that miserable neighborhood. I looked forward to visiting my father on the weekends and seeing my old friends a lot. My mother became jealous of Shirley Mae. I believe it was because she would go over to my father’s house and feed him. He was from the old school and couldn’t cook at all. I mean; he could mess up a Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich or mess up boiling a hot dog. Shirley Mae would feed him most every night, just like she did when my mother had taken me to Chicago one time to visit her sister, who was, later, killed by two thugs dressed up as police officers. My mother never liked Shirley Mae very much. I can understand why. How would she have known if my father was hittin’ that, or not (Having sex with her)? It’s possible he tapped it a couple of times but I never knew it and I don’t think my mother could ever prove it. My mother pretended to be cool with Shirley Mae because she felt that if you keep your enemies close, you always know what they’re up to.

My parents got back together after that year and remained married for 35 or 40 years. Forty Years! I’ve never known my father or mother to ever cheat on each other in all that time. If they did, they never let me know about it. And I believe I would have seen signs. I guess that is why I don’t believe in cheating on women. That wasn’t the way I was raised. I haven’t found many women, who believe that there are any men who won’t cheat on their woman. Well, I am one. And if I am one, then there are many others. I think that, overall, women have little faith in men, these days. I never have cheated on any woman and never will. That is the truth. I truly believe that this is behavior that I have picked up from my father and mother and that all parents should go out of their way to make sure their kids pick up this same behavior from them. I mean actively teach and stress this loyalty, dedication and devotion to their kids, as they grow up. And the parents should lead by example.

My father was a great man! He loved me soooo much! He wanted me to be better than him and I wanted to be as good as him! Writing this statement just made me cry! I truly feel that I would be doing good to become half the man my father was! He was my hero, which is the way it should be. I fear that it’s not that way for many sons, these days. I would stand in the mirror with him when he shaved and pretend I was a man and was shaving, too. He taught me how to work. We cut grass together and worked in the garden together. One time he showed me how to ring a chicken’s neck. It was horrible! I mean horrible! My dad was a man in every since of the word. In thirty years at Major Tires, he missed one day during a blizzard, while we were moving that day. And my mother had to threaten him with divorce to get him to call off and help us move, that day. My father was never late once, in all those years. Imagine that! He received watches, coats and suites from the company for his great Attendance. He set a standard for me by his example! Now that’s how a real father raises his son! Oh God, how I loved my father! I think every man wants to raise a son. I have always wanted a son of my own. And I have always wanted to love a woman the way that my father loved my mother, also. One day, my father bought my mother a brand new car and all I can think of is the feeling that I had when she saw it! I never saw a man so happy to spend thousands of dollars on a woman in my life! I think it was the happiest day of his life! It made him happy to make his wife happy! This is how I grew up. My mother cooked him a meal every single night and picked him up from work every single night at 10 pm. My father was a heavy drinker until I was about 4 years old, then quit and never took another drink the rest of his life. Not that I ever knew of. That is what a good man does for his family. Mr. Blackjack Evans Sr. was an example for all fathers, in my opinion!

My parents kept me busy. I think their theory was to have me try almost everything until I found something I liked. I was encouraged to participate in school plays and I played trumpet for 5 years. I studied the martial arts for about 7 years and fought in the tournaments. I played football for part of a year and quit. That was the first time I ever felt like a quitter and didn’t like it. Nobody in my neighborhood liked it, either. It was like our whole neighborhood was my family. But I was still lonely. I have been lonely my entire life. I don’t mention this for anyone to feel sorry for me, it is just a fact. Here’s what I mean by the whole neighborhood being my family: One day, I got hit by a car and was scared to tell my mother. A neighbor told her. I was furious with that lady! I couldn’t understand why she couldn’t mind her own business! Now that I am grown, I understand why she told my mother and wonder what happened to good neighbors like that? Can anybody answer that question for me? My mother took me to antique shows and worked the mess out of me; packing & unpacking boxes. We packed the boxes, loaded them into the car, unloaded the boxes at the show, unpacked the boxes at the show and displayed the merchandise. We repacked the boxes and reloaded them to go home, where we unloaded and unpacked them, again. As you can see, I was never raised to be afraid of hard work. It was ok, though, for two good reasons. The first was that I learned a lot. I know all of the different types of glass wear: Carnival, Pink Glass, Ruby Red, Black Amethyst, Cobalt Blue, Milk Glass, Satin Glass, Hob Nail, etc. I learned furniture, as well. You have French provincial, Duncan Fife, Victorian, etc. The second good reason was that there was the prettiest little White Girl that would be at most all of the shows, as well. And after unpacking and displaying, our jobs were basically done for the rest of the show and we would kick it and have a ball until it was time for us to go help our parents pack up. Our parents seemed to know that we liked each other and thought it was cute. A little black boy and white girl. This was in the early 1970’s. I can’t remember her name but shows would be anywhere you can think of and she would usually be there. I looked forward to helping my mother with these shows, just to see her. I’ll never forget her, although I can’t remember her name now. I believe that she probably remembers me to this day, too, although she may not remember my name, either. Anyway, now that I look back, these were valuable and very memorable experiences for me that I will always remember.

I spent a lot of time during the summers of my youth in Heart Break, USA with my relatives. Usually with the poor ones. The poor ones lived in houses that sat on bricks and leaned to the side or little apartments. I loved Aunt Tilley, Cousin Kee Kee and Aunt Jade. I also loved my Aunt Bessie and Uncle Chelsey who lived better. I would visit them, as well. Also, my cousin Kevin and Cindy. Oh and who can forget my cousin Bruce Lee… No, that wasn’t his real name; all names have been changed, of-course. But his real name was even more ridiculous. These were all adopted relatives, of-course. We weren’t blood relatives; but who could tell. They treated me as though I was.

I learned to cook at a young age because my mother said she was going to make sure that my future wife didn’t have to slave in the kitchen like she had to for my father. She had a love hate relationship with cooking. People would come over to see what Ms. Bea had cooked today and if you came over, you ate. If you were hungry, you came to our house because you would be fed. And she enjoyed it every single minute she complained about it. Needless to say, I got to meet all of the shady characters in the hood. And it was definitely the hood, at that time.

My parents were old school southern people, living in the north. They were never prejudiced. This amazes me. It amazes me, even now, when I think of where they came from. My mother had four best friends that I can think of and one of them was a White Woman named Ruby. Out of those friends; based on what I say, she was my mother’s best friend.

I was in a dance group and we were good! We were good because we practices, most every day. Me, JC, Ralph B and Lance. Benny was always around, as well. We fought together, and danced around Someplace and Next to Someplace, at talent shows and sometimes for money. We were professionals. We would win the talent shows that didn’t cheat us. We practiced almost every day. We didn’t mind because it involved plenty of drinking and weed smoking. I, also, worked at Smucker’s Pickle Factory and Wendy’s as a teenager. I had started out as a very good student. I got all A’s and very few B’s in elementary school and 7th grade. In the 8th grade, my grades dropped because I stopped caring. I learned, but wouldn’t do the home work. I was one of those kids that learned the material when the teacher taught it, in the classroom. I didn’t need to do the homework to learn, so I saw no purpose in doing it. Most teachers would drop your grade for not doing the work, even if you aced the test. I went to Summer School for the first and only time that year. I got an A in Summer School. The teacher couldn’t believe I was there. I already knew the material: English.

My first real girlfriend was Lisa. She asked me to be her boyfriend one night while we were on the phone. She was one of the finest girls at Perceptions Jr. High. No one could believe it because I was smart, not cool. I didn’t wear cool clothes and couldn’t dance, yet. I didn’t get cool until the 9th grade. I learned to dance and transferred to West Jr. High for the last 6 weeks of the ninth grade. We started our dance group, I got a Jerry Curl that hung down in big fat curls and I started buying cool clothes because I was working and making my own money. I was smoking weed, which was also cool; so we thought. The girls at West Jr. High were all over me. The first time I got my heart broken, was by Toni. We went together for 2 weeks at the end of the ninth grade. I had to go to Heart Ache, Louisiana for a couple of weeks, during Summer Vacation. When I came back, she was with another boy. This would be the beginning of a long string of heart breaks that have never ended.

When I got to Broken Dreams High School, I was blessed enough to be a popular guy, as well. I had several pretty girl friends and studied Economics and Welding. We got high before school, at lunch and after school. I went to dance practice or my part time job and continued to study the martial arts on the weekends, as well as work with my parents. On Friday and Saturday Nights, I got to stay out until 3-4 in the morning. My parents didn’t like it but, after a while, they saw that they couldn’t stop me and put up with it, as long as I kept my grades reasonable. And I did. I never wanted to go to Summer School again. My parents made it seem like they would stop loving me if I didn’t graduate high school. My father never graduated the second grade. He could read, but not very well. He could write his name but I don’t recall seeing him write much else, ever. Like I said, he wanted me to be better than him. When I was old enough, my mother sold me her car for $800.00, which I never completely paid off. I had to get a job and make payments on it. My mother was serious about her money. If I asked her for some money, she would say Go ask your daddy. She would buy me food, clothes or things I needed but wouldn’t give me a thin dime of cash. My father would give me a few dollars most every time I asked, for a price. I would, usually, end up owing him my Saturdays.

You should here the stories that my parents told from the 20’s, 30’s and 40’s, etc. You should hear the music that I grew up on. I was always amazed at how much the music changed over the decades. I am an unusual black man because the rules, the music and the atmosphere that I grew up in was different than it was for most black kids, simply because of the age of my parents. I grew up with animals, also. My first dog’s name was ShooPoopy. He used to chase cars and try to bite their tires. Unfortunately, one day he caught one. I had a few other dogs and cats. One day I asked Gwen to hold Skipper, my dog, while we went to the store. I told her he was mixed with Blue Nose and would sniff me out and follow me. She promised she wouldn’t let him go. We were at the top of Sandy Brown Hill when I heard him howl. He had been hit by a car while following us. She had let him go! When I heard Skipper howl, my heart immediately began pounding! I jerked around and I ran to his aid as fast as my feet could carry me and saw that his hip was twisted grotesquely! He was in horrible pain and his continual, winning howl was evidence of that pain! My heart was bleeding just as much as this poor animal’s wounds were! My parents paid $80.00 to get a plate put in his leg. They had, originally, wanted to put him to sleep. Paying that money to The Vet was a gesture out of love, because they knew I loved that dog! I appreciated that gesture, with all my heart! Skipper was jet black with a white piece of fur on his chest, which I called a birth mark. I always liked cats, as well. I have always loved all animals and still do, to this day. But I didn’t like Gwen anymore! She had betrayed my trust and I was done with her, for years to come. In fact, I wasn’t able to forgive her until we were adults.

I went to Heart