Cherry Hill: From the Streets of Hell to the Gates of Heaven...An Autobiography

By Akeam A. Simmons

Cherry Hill depicts the life of a young man growing up on the hard streets while his young mother works two jobs trying to care for them. He is raised by pimps, prostitutes, drug dealers, and hustlers; at the very same time, he carries an anointing from God in his bosom. All his life, he runs from God until he can run no longer. This book unveils how God can use anybody—those which others count as no good, God can use them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532075414

Akeam A. Simmons

Dr. Akeam Amoniphis Simmons lives in Pelham Alabama with his wife of ten years, Kimberly Simmons. He has three doctorate degrees- Theology, Psychology, and Christian Counseling. He has been pastoring for over forty plus years, and presently pastors Liberty Missionary Baptist Church. He has written twenty other books on various topic, such as, A four book novel series Called Grace. Several self help books, inspiration, and five books of poetry. Dr. Simmons is an avid reader, loves chess and biblical discussions. His desire is to help the Believers live the life that Christ intended them to live, and not just go to church just to go home and live a quiet life of defeat. In His forty years of service to the church, he has preached all over, including foreign countries. He says that his mission is to assist Believers in living the full life of Godliness and helping to set others free.

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Copyright © 2019 Akeam A. Simmons.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-7540-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-7541-4 (e)

iUniverse rev. date:     05/10/2019

To my

mother, a very wonderful woman-although she was a teenage mother when she gave birth to me (14 years old), she refused to give up her son. Thus, I am the result of a mother who wouldn’t stop loving, wouldn’t stop caring, and wouldn’t stop believing that she could save her boy from the hellish streets that had ended many young lives prematurely. As a little toddler, she could have very easily left me somewhere and went on with her young life, but where ever she went, she always took her little boy with her; and, although it was sometimes hard, I truly thank mama for not leaving me.

Thanks mama for the many whippings. Now I know that they helped keep me out of jail and out of the graveyard.

To my wonderful wife, Kimberly, that my mother loved dearly, who forced me to live again when I had but died. I don’t rightly know why it is that my God counted me worthy enough to afford me one of His angels, but I am thankful to Him for such favor poured upon me during the most difficult time in my life. Kimberly, my wonderful angelic wife that pours new fresh life into me daily……..Wished that every man had such a wonderful wife in his life!!!

MY ANGEL

KIM

To my granddaughters

Kayla

THE STEPS OF A GOOD MAN ARE ORDERED BY THE LORD: AND HE DELIGHTS IN HIS WAY. THOUGH HE FALL, HE SHALL NOT BY UTTERLY CAST DOWN: FOR THE LORD UPHOLDS HIM WITH HIS HAND

PSALMS 37: 23-24

Contents

Prelude

Foreword

Fore Apology

Chapter 1   Running for Life

Chapter 2   The Fast Life in Cherry Hill

Chapter 3   Fist for Breakfast

Chapter 4   Out from Georgia

Chapter 5   The Neighborhood Pimps

Chapter 6   A Prostitute’s Courage

Chapter 7   My Present My Hood

Chapter 8   The Fruit Never Rolls Far from The Tree

Chapter 9   Dead Men Walking

Chapter 10   Jailhouse Awakening

Chapter 11   A Matter of Trust

Chapter 12   Mama Tries to Save Me

Chapter 13   Military life

Chapter 14   My Vietnam Misfits

Chapter 15   Life in Company 550

Chapter 16   My Rogue Brother

Chapter 17   My new old life

Chapter 18   On The Run from God

Chapter 19   A Holy Push Out of Boynton

Chapter 20   Change in Bama

Chapter 21   Life in Church

Chapter 22   Accepting The Calling

Chapter 23   Pastoring

Chapter 24   Only The Strong Survive

Chapter 25   No Glamorous Road for Me

Chapter 26   Conclusion

Prelude

There I was in the heart of little Vietnam, Cherry Hill, running for my life…..Running and running as fast as my feet would carry me. Beads of sweat raced down my brow and blew into the South Florida’s musty misty night air while my heart galloped like a thousand horses racing in my chest. Every breath that I took burned and hurt and screamed from the pits of hell for me to stop and I felt like I couldn’t go on, but I had to; I just had to; couldn’t die that night, refused to. I had just left my boy B bleeding out on the pavement down from Miss Tip’s store; didn’t know whether he was dead or alive, but I knew it was bad, real bad, and I didn’t want to die with him that night. I needed mama’s prayers to intercede for me tonight (again).

I heard sirens everywhere, so I had to keep going, mustn’t stop regardless of the pain; got to keep moving- Got a pocket full of dope and a pocket full of ill gotten money that I can’t explain. If I get caught by the cops or my enemies, I am done. Mama would be another Hood mother with a broken heart whose son was gone too soon, so I pushed through and endured the pain. Fear kept me going with Cherry Hill adrenalin. B is dead; damn, he’s dead. I kept thinking to myself as my chest seemed like it would explode in a minute……………

Never thought in a million years that I would be preaching around the country someday …………………..But here is my story-the good, the bad, and the ugly-the very ugly!!

Foreword

I simply cannot understand why God does some of the things that He does; it is beyond my mortal reasoning why does God take the worst of us and make the best of us, or is it that He knows that the best of us is usually covered and concealed by the worst of us.

Does God reach down into the darkest depths of our soul and unveil the good that He had already created deep within us, or does He just specialize in creating and mending the broken and weakly things to unveil His ultimate love and forgiveness-His purpose for human kind.

He specializes in renewing some of those things that have been discarded, broken and counted unusable; the things that people have over-looked and counted as nothing and invaluable.

I never could understand why God chose me for His work; why did He choose to use such a weakened corrupt vessel as I. But then, He disclosed to me that He gets more glory from the things that He has rebuilt and cleaned and mended back together again, than that which is already done and perfect-if there be such a thing.

So it was with me, God reached down into the deepest darkest depths of a little town south of Palm Beach Florida, called Boynton Beach, and tucked even deeper into Boynton was a little section of town called Cherry Hill- The roughest and toughest part of Boynton, but it was my home; my place of refuge-such that it was.

God looked down from heaven and saw me amidst the darkness and brokenness in Cherry Hill and decided to use me and get glory through me- His broken cracked humanly vessel, and though I didn’t rightly understand it then, I would soon understand why God would send somebody that was so full of streets to leading a band of His people.

And so my story began for my daughters and others that might feel inept and unworthy for His service.

The chronicled history of my family tree pieced together as best I could from bits and pieces of information here and there:

My mother was born in Chula Georgia July the 31, 1941 at 3:15 pm; she was delivered by a midwife named Julia Collins.

My Great grandmother was born in 1902; her name was Nora Bell Shennett from Wilcox County Georgia, and my Great grandfather’s name was Henry McClendon, also of Wilcox County Georgia.

My Great grandmother’s maiden name was Bell, and she married a man whose last name was Shennet; Her name then became Nora Bell Shennett, after which, she married my Great grandfather Henry McClendon, but her maiden name was Bell, thus, my family heritage is that of Bell.

My Great grandmother gave birth to my grandmother in 1918 and her maiden name was Rosa lee Mclean (so her birth certificate states, but they called themselves McClendon); she was 23 years old, in 1941, when she had my mother, and she lived in Wilcox county Georgia.

My grandfather’s name was Frank Barnes, and he was from Hawkinsville Georgia; he was 32 years old when my mother was born. His employment was at a Turpentine Still-he was a Turpentine Chipper (that is what their marriage license says).

My mother was thirteen years old when she got pregnant with me from my unwed father, Jimmy Simmons, and she delivered me a few months after she had turned fourteen-so I guess one could say that we grew up together.

Mama birth me December 13, 1955; I had my first daughter, Nequisa B. Simmons, July 18, 1976, My second daughter, Keandra M. Simmons, January 15, 1988, and my granddaughter, Markayla M. Simmons-Nequisa’s daughter, November 21, 2003.

So thus, my family history is traced back to Wilcox County and Hawkinsville and Chula Georgia; somehow though, they all migrated to a little town called Tifton Georgia-where I would spend my summers from Cherry Hill visiting my grandmother.

I didn’t realize it, but for several months prior to her death in 2013, Mama was bidding me goodbye. I called her every day, and she started ending our phone calls by saying, Son, take care of yourself, instead of the usual Goodbye.

Then, in August, she decided to stop dialysis, and go home to be with the Lord-as she so called death.

During one of our last conversations, after I had dropped everything and came home to see her; she said to me that now she could go on home, for she had seen her son one last time before leaving.

It sounds crazy, but I never truly took her serious until she actually refused dialysis.

I kept asking her, Mama, are you sure this is what you want……….are you sure?

Each time, she would reply yes (I would always hope that she would change her mind, but she never did). So, that Saturday night, August 31, at 10:45, I watched my Mama take her last breath amidst a haze of my own tears.

She had given me my first breaths, and now, here she was giving me, her son, her very last breath-literally. I was leaning down right into her face-hoping that she would keep breathing; then when she exhaled that last time, I inhaled, and pleaded for her to inhale one more time-but she never did, so I inhaled her last breath.

She gave to me right down to the very end of her life-the last most precious thing that she had left-her last breath of life.

A thousand thoughts raced through my mind as I held Mama’s limp hand, and felt death fully ease upon her. I thought of the many struggles that we had gone through; of the dog of a man that had beaten Mama like she was another man-right in front of her little son who could only watch painfully amidst a flood of tears.

I remembered the many times that we didn’t have enough food in the house, and she would give me her food off of her plate, and tell me that she was ok, but I knew that she was not; I remembered the cold winters in the little shack that we lived in in Cherry Hill.

Mama would come to the couch where I slept, and take her coat off and spread it on me so that I would be warm. She would lean down, as she spread her coat over me, and softly whisper in my ear, Mama is alright; um not cold, but again, I knew that she was. Yes, a thousand memories raced through my mind as her body began to grow stiff and cool.

I never wept so hard before or since that day, but every-now-and-then, the tears still come; I guess some things you never truly get over; you just learn to live with it.

Even now, years later, I still find it hard to believe that she is actually gone. Sometimes, I pick up my phone to call her, then realize that Mama is gone-forever gone; taking with her a thousand memories and family history; so now, I forge ahead trying to be more of the man that Mama raised me to be; and though her earthly voice has gone silent, I still hear her voice echoing in my heart of staying strong, of being a man, and of making her proud.

I thought it best to give my daughters a glimpse of where they came from; for if we know where we came from, we can appreciate where we are, and stay in tune with where we want to go.

One of the most unfortunate things about the generation of late is that they seem to don’t know, have forgotten, or trying to forget their true heritage-they have to be taught and reminded that it hasn’t always been as well as it is now.

We’ve had some very difficult and brutal days in the past that we came through; that is the reason why I disagree with all the hype of them destroying and pulling down the confederate’s statues around our country. The statues are a reminder of what transpired in the past, and more importantly, what we, as a people and a nation, overcame. If we as a people forget what we have gone through, then, we are soon to repeat it. Too, I wonder are they going to go into the history books and tear out the pages that are unfavorable to us also-an attempt to wipe away what we, as a people and a nation, went through and overcame.

They call the generation after the baby boomers generation X, and I suppose that’s appropriate because they seem to not know who they are; so they try to create an identity that is congruent to the society of which they live in. This can only bring about more failure and more turmoil. If our children are to succeed, they must come boldly and embrace who they are and accept who their families were.

Sometimes we, as adults, forget that we too, like our children, use to be wild and crazy. We too, did some foolish things. Stop trying to make our children feel like we have always had it all together.

If we would understand our parents, then we would understand ourselves because good or bad we are a result of our parents. We act the way we act because of where we came from. Heredity plus environment equals behavior-where you came from and where you are now is why you act the way that you do.

This book is my attempts to allow my daughters to peer over into their father’s past, and realize their own past.

One can never know who they truly are unless they can delve, if only a little, into their family’s past; therein lays the root of our idiosyncratic ways.

And too, I live every day suffering from the pain of the lost of mama. I never fully realized how much she meant to me until she was gone.

Nobody loves you like mama does; unlike everyone else, mama’s love is not based upon reciprocation; she loves you in spite of. Everyone else loves you because of, or what it is that you can do for them-a love based upon usage until you are all used up.

My heart is broken, and every day I rise with an overwhelming load of pain; depression eases upon me and rests with me throughout my day, and I often wonder how much longer can I endure.

Every day I awaken with the thought that maybe this is the day that I can bear no more, or go no further; I ask myself is this the day that I just toss the towel in and take all of my prescription drugs that the VA has given me for depression, and just go to sleep, never to rise again until Jesus calls for me.

But then, mama’s words screams from the grave, the ones that she would always utter to me to keep on going, The Lord will see you through.

Fore Apology

First, allow me to apologize to my readers for any harsh words that might appear hereafter; for it is not my intentions to be callous, abrasive, or coarse in this exposition of my early life; however, sometimes it is most difficult to capture the true essence of the moments, and convey the real personality of the character without employing their choice of words; which, perhaps, are bombarded with expletives.

Still, I only confined my writings to three expletives that the many characters in the confines of these pages so often chose to use; so please, afford me the opportunity to apologize unto you right now for the usage of the words ass, hell, and damn; for they were used in my neighborhood more often than common standard English.

Thank you in advance for accepting my apology, and understanding as I desperately attempt to travel back to those pain filled years and expose some of the brokenness, and hurt that eventually helped mode a little boy into a man and a productive citizen, a pastor preacher……………………Sometimes that which was meant to kill us, only made us stronger!!!

Chapter One

Running for Life

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The night was warm and musty. The moon stood erect and regal in the never ending billowing dark sky; brightly glowing stars twinkled and glimmered across the sullen night. Darkness crept around us like a thief in the night watching us to steal our very souls if it could.

My nostrils filled with the robust aroma of Georgia clay, I held mama’s hand as tight as I could while we walked down the dark dusty dirt road. I kept hearing rustling sounds following us in the bushes. My heart raced in my chest as fear catapulted upon me like a beast of prey.

It was my step father following us in the bushes; he was afraid to walk along side of us on the road for fear that he would get caught during our escape. I guess he didn’t think that the white folks would harm me and Mama too much; well, not nearly as much as they would have him.

Mama kept talking to me and trying desperately to console and comfort me. She knew how very frighten I was, and as I reflect back upon that night, I now realize how so utterly frightened Mama must have been, but she kept her fears to herself and mustered the strength to comfort her little boy during this desperate time- She kept saying to me softly,

Everything is alright. We’ll be at Madea’s house soon.

We had been living in a one room shack on Mr. Taylor’s farm. Mr. Taylor was an elderly white man that my step father worked for; doing farming and whatever else Mr. Taylor needed him to do during the run of a day-a share cropper; I guess you would call their relationship.

Too, white folks always felt like they had to care for and save the black family-they felt like they knew what was best for us; even now, with planned parent-hood and the like, At large, white America feel like they know what is best for us; which works out to their best interest-at least that’s the way that I see it to be.

During this same time, sometimes, really early in the morning while the dew was still resting on the blades of grass, and the sun was just peeping up from its hiding place, mama would get on the back of some old raggedy truck with me tucked close to her side, and go into the long fields and crop tobacco and cotton with so many other black folks. She would leave me, along with a few other kids, at the end of one row while she cropped down and back.

When I close my eyes and remember those days, I can still smell the pervasive aroma of the growing storks of tobacco caressing my nostrils; I can still hear the black folks, crowded on the back of the old pickup truck, laughing and joking with each other, and I can still hear old Mr. Big John, as everybody called him, saying to us,

Y’all hold on now, you hear.

Mr. Big John was a huge old brown skinned, grey haired man that wore big dirty denim overalls that hanged loosely on him every day, which disclosed that he wore no underwear. Me and the few other kids, and most of the adults, would oftentimes giggle at Mr. Big John because he never wore any underwear, and his overalls didn’t cover him up very well.

The old truck would sputter and stall, but as usual, we were soon on our way with the early morning cool breeze beating upon our faces while I tried desperately to hide within the confines of mama’s clothes to keep warm.

We lived in Mr. Taylor’s farm shack-a one room dilapidated shack with a little kitchen and outdoor toilet out back. It was made of old ply wood, with a roof that was peeling, and it leaned hard to the right like it would topple over at any moment, but mama loved it and kept the few dishes that we owned washed, and she cleaned the shack like it would soon turn into a mansion; but too, I guess it was our mansion, for it was her house, and she was the only lady of the house.

The little shack was extremely cold in the winter and hot as hell in the summer. You couldn’t keep the cold out in the winter, and you couldn’t keep the heat out during the summer, but I guess my mama, about fifteen or sixteen years old then, would do anything for love and to make sure that her little boy was cared for.

My step father and Mr. Taylor had had some kind of disagreement, and of course, back in those days the white man was always right, and Negros had no rights.

My step father, Reb (as he was faithfully called by everyone), must have been a share cropper living in Mr. Taylor’s farm shack. On this particular day, I heard Reb fussing about how no good and low down Mr. Taylor was; he raged through the shack and ranted on and on about what he would do to Mr. Taylor, but I and mama knew that he wasn’t going to do anything but what he was already doing-cursing and complaining to me and mama behind Mr. Taylor’s back.

We were just afraid that he would do like he had always done-take his anger out on mama and beat the hell out of her while I stood helplessly amidst a flood of tears while seeds of resentment and hate started taking root in my young bosom.

Late one night, we sneaked away under the cloak of darkness, and left everything we owned (which was very little) except the clothes we had on. We left the old shack, sitting in a field, in the middle of nowhere, for good.

We walked for what seemed like forever. Every now and then, Reb would come and walk along side me and mama, but as soon as he saw any car head lights, he would jump into the bushes, leaving me and mama to face whatever or whoever alone.

We walked and walked and walked down this never ending, winding dark dusty road.

Can’t wait to taste some of Madea’s greens and fried chicken. Mama said, squeezing my hand tighter and feigning a laugh. Don’t you want some Junior. I bet that she has baked your favorite chocolate cake.

Yes mam. I replied with as much strength as my little voice could muster.

I knew that she was trying to console me; and I was, in turn, trying to console her. Even then, I subconsciously knew that we were all each other had.

After what seemed like eternity, we round the curve on this moon lit darkened dust riddled road; we could see, off in the distance, police lights piercing the darkness-like they were waiting for some dangerous criminals that had escaped jail.

Mama hesitated, and ran her hand nervously across her chest while squeezing my hand even tighter. I could feel her hand shaking nervously while squeezing mine.

I could hear Reb in the bushes uttering quietly expletive after expletive of how no good and low down Mr. Taylor was for doing this.

Mr. Taylor, no doubt, had called the police, because at the end of what seemed like an endless winding dirt road, the police was waiting for us and took all of us to jail-including me (I was only about three or four years old).

Where y’all Niggers thank y’all going this time of night-damn it? Got this youngin out hear this late. The burly white policeman asked, with his too little uniform on and a deep Georgia accent.

while he shined his huge flashlight into our faces, he rolled a big ward of tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other and then spat onto the ground

And where is that damned sorry ass husband of yours?

Mama just stood there, laden with fear, and said nothing as though she didn’t even understand the fat policeman.

You could tell that he was irritated for having to be out there so late in the middle of nowhere waiting for a few Negros to apprehend, but Mr. Taylor obviously had power enough to move somebody high up in the police station.

Gal, don’t you hear me talking to you? He snapped hard at Mama, stepping in a little closer to her while his young partner looked on. Where is that boy you calls your husband? Might as well tell me, cause um a catch his black ass sooner or later.

He turned and spat the big ward of tobacco from his mouth, and then wiped the lingering spit on the sleeve of his shirt. It was hard to look away from his brown teeth when he talked.

You hear me gal! He shouted at mama again, now beginning to flay his hands in the air, while he spoke, as if to soon strike her.

He…..He….He. Mama started to say.

He what? Damn it.

He…..He.

I could feel Mama’s hand trembling even more than it was before. I was so frightened; it felt like my little heart would jump out of my chest in a minute.

I kept looking over at the bushes where I thought that Reb was, hoping that he would come out before the fat policeman hit mama.

I prayed that he wouldn’t hit mama or me. Back then, policemen oftentimes beat black folks for sport, and they had only a little mercy on women and children.

Before mama could answer the irritated policeman that was growing more irritated by the second, Reb. slowly eased from the bushes and walked up nervously besides us-clearly trembling in fear.

I was surprised that he didn’t run off into the night and leave us. It certainly wasn’t beyond him, for he had left us, to fend for ourselves many a times before.

What….What you doing over there? Hiding? He asked Reb. And why you got your damn family out on this road this late at night? Boy is you crazy.

The burly policeman shouted at Reb like he was really concern about us.

I often wondered why do white folks always think that they are our keepers, and that they know what is best for us-like their dogs, thought they treat their dogs with much more respect.

Reb didn’t respond; he just walked up to him clearly trembling in fear with his head hanged down in the locks of his shoulders-like a little boy that had gotten in trouble.

Back then, as it so often is now, even the most hateful white racist white folks thought that they were Negroes keepers, and that it was somehow their God given duty lord over their negroes-the thought that they particularly knew what was best for the black children.

They always presented themselves as good ole Christian folks that believed in God, but they just had a habit of burning black folks houses down at night and lynching a few every now and then, but those same white folk would go to church on Sunday, and quickly tell Negroes what was best for them, and how they were good Christian folk that loved God.

Before Reb could answer him, he slapped him hard across the face with his flash light. Reb hit the ground hard like a sack of potatoes, and just laid there holding his face in the palms of his hands; rich red blood ran out between Reb’s fingers.

He still didn’t say anything; not a mumbling word.

Standing there, I thought of Madear’s words that she would always say about Reb, Any man that will hit a woman won’t fight another man.

I guess Madear knew what she was talking about, but I never expected Reb, or any other black man to fight the police-if he wanted to live.

I thought that me and mama were next to be slapped around, but to my surprise an relief, he didn’t; I guess it was just too late, or early in the morning. He just wanted to get back to whatever he’d be doing now instead of herding a few Negroes.

The fat policemen and his partner grabbed Reb up and slung him into the back seat of the police car, and then roughly slung me and mama beside him.

Reb said nothing, not even to me and mama; he just stared straight ahead. Though I didn’t like him, I felt sorry for him-to be treated less than a man right in front of his family, and there was absolutely nothing that he could do about it but accept it.

Mama silently wept while still tightly holding my hand.

Blood trickled down Reb’s nose and dropped onto his shirt, but he just sat there staring out the window like he didn’t know it.

Reb…..You…..You alright? Mama asked him as gently as she could-not wanting to feel the blunt of his wrath for what the white man had done to him.

Reb usually took his misfortunes out on us.

He didn’t reply, or even look her way; he just kept staring ahead. I guess he knew the drill, for it wasn’t his first time crossing paths with the law for beating a female.

Mama was scared because, as I said, when the white man beat Reb, sometimes later, after the police had left, he usually took it out on us, and beat the hell out of us.

Will you shut the hell up back there? This ain’t no family reunion you know. Though it was mama talking, the policeman shouted and stared back at Reb as if he wanted to