Guilty at Birth

By walter wayne kingstro

Guilty at Birth is a compelling true story of a young African American boy, who from the age of six was encouraged and influenced by his father to become a career criminal in the field of forgery. The circumstances, influence and environment in which he was introduced to led him into a world of crime and deception, in a field that was considered a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kingstro & Bell Books
• Release date: May 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9780692288368

Book preview

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Introduction

Paying The Piper

In February of 1993, on a cold rainy morning, in the State of California, Superior Court of Los Angeles, the bailiff turned to the spectators in the courtroom and announced, The Circuit Court of Los Angeles Division ‘F’ is now in session. The Honorable Judge Dukes, presiding. All Rise!

Judge Dukes walked in from his chambers and sat at the bench. Looking down at the docket of the first case, which read: The People of the State of California versus Walter Wayne Kingstro, he began to read the charges. The charges were as follows: forgery, credit card fraud, and fraud with the intent to willfully and knowingly alter credit cards, falsification of identification and possession of credit card profiles.

As the judge finished reading the list of charges, my attorney stood and said, "Your Honor, although my client has an unsavory past, Mr. Kingstro is making every attempt to turn his life around. He is currently working at LAX and attending classes at DeVry Computer Institute. My client also has a loving family, and is trying to make something of his life.

Mr. Kingstro is aware of his mistakes, and asks the court for a chance to continue making progress and not to judge him for his past, but to allow him to show his positive possibilities. Your Honor, as the defendant’s attorney, I ask the court to grant Mr. Kingstro probation so that he may complete his course in computer programming, so that he may earn a legitimate income.

The prosecuting attorney rose next. "Your Honor, in light of the defendant’s lengthy record, and although Mr. Kingstro has no violent offenses, nor does he have any strike-able offenses, the State finds the defendant to be a threat to society and the community. Mr. Kingstro has a very colorful history of forgery and other illegal activities, including fraud, receiving stolen property and commercial burglary. The defendant has at least fifty arrests, and although the records show only four prior convictions, his arrest record alone shows a blatant disregard for the law.

Mr. Kingstro has been a criminal all his life. In light of his lengthy record and his crime at the age of forty-three, I find it very hard to believe there is any chance of Mr. Kingstro ever changing his pattern of living. Mr. Kingstro has become a career criminal and, in my opinion, Mr. Kingstro has made a mockery of the entire justice system long enough. As the prosecuting attorney for the State of California, I strongly oppose Mr. Kingstro being released on probation. I think it’s time that he be punished accordingly, to the full letter of the law. for the crimes he has committed. I recommend that the court impose the defendant to the maximum sentence allowed by the law.

After Judge Dukes listened to the closing arguments from both sides, he asked me to rise; which I did, slowly. As I stood before the judge, he asked me, How do you plead to the charges against you?

I reluctantly replied, "Guilty, Your Honor. However, as my attorney stated earlier, I ask that the court take into consideration my efforts to turn my life around by going to school and working to better myself. I ask that the court allow me to have probation in order to complete my classes at DeVry so that I can earn a legitimate income to support my family. Your Honor, if I am sent to prison, it would only hinder me from changing my life."

Mr. Kingstro, Judge Dukes said, in view of your lengthy criminal record, and your history in forgery, I can’t seem to find any extenuating circumstances in this case on which I would feel comfortable enough to hang my hat. Therefore, probation is denied. You are hereby sentenced to eight years in the California Department of Corrections. Next case!

With that order, the bailiff then handcuffed me. As I was being escorted from the courtroom, I glanced back at my wife, Jada. There was a look of disbelief on her lovely face as the tears began to well up in her eyes. She waved good-bye as I walked out of the courtroom.

My precious and wonderful wife of seven years had actually believed that because I tried to change my life that the judge would seriously take that into consideration and allow me to go free on probation. I admired Jada for her never-failing devotion and diligent effort to keep me strong throughout the whole ordeal with her positive attitude.

But, all along, I knew better. I had prepared myself for the worst, not knowing the worst was yet to come. Jada, my attorney, and I had spoken briefly on the possible outcome of the case. Jerry Reopelle was a damn good attorney. But neither he, my wife, nor I were prepared for the twist of fate the judge handed me.

You see, the court system today works something like this—because of the overcrowding in jails and prisons, the district attorneys, defense attorneys, and judges try with all honesty to work out deals. They offer anything from probation to joint suspension. The deal that was supposed to be worked out for me was a maximum of three years in state prison. The sad part about this particular deal was that not having it in writing meant the three years was void.

Yes, I could have taken it to trial, but doing so, if found guilty, I would have stood a good chance of receiving thirteen to fifteen years because of my record. I may have won with a jury, but, I was not willing to take that chance. So I agreed to plead guilty under the false assumption that the very worst that could happen was that I would receive no more than three years. Boy, was I wrong! And, as you can figure out, I was screwed, but not crucified.

In spite of the judge’s decision to renege on the plea agreement, I considered myself fortunate. The fact of the matter is that the judicial system changed in the nineties. New crimes such as carjacking, drive-by shootings, home invasions, and gang activity—as well as other horrible, heinous crimes—have brought about tougher, new sentencing laws.

One of these laws is Three Strikes You’re Out! Mandatory life imprisonment would require any person being convicted of a third crime of State or Federal Law to be imprisoned for a minimum of twenty-five years and a maximum of life. A person who has been convicted of only one violent offense receives such a penalty, even if he or she has been convicted for no other violent crimes.

Any person who has already been convicted of two offenses when the law passed is eligible for the three-strike sentence upon a third conviction; and there is no time limit. It doesn’t take a genius to recognize the three-strike law has no regard for Proportionality. Simply put, it equates crimes of passion with those of premeditation and deliberation. It equates possession of drugs with the acts of rapists and murderers. Worst of all, in California, and only in California, it equates crimes of violence with crimes of nonviolence.

I recently read an article that stated: the Three Strikes law has been enacted in twenty-two states. However, prosecuting attorneys do not seem to be using it much in sentencing. Six states—Colorado, New Jersey, New Mexico, North Carolina, Pennsylvania, and Tennessee—have not used this law at all,, yet, twelve other states have only prosecuted a few people under the new law.

California has used the law the most frequently. California has sentenced over 15,000 people under its provisions. By contrast, the State of Washington, which was the first to adopt the three-strike legislation, had only used it 63 times as of 1990. In my honest and humble opinion, I am not opposed to the three strikes law. There are certain crimes that need to be handled accordingly. However, in the State of California, politicians, judges, and district attorneys are abusing this law to advance their careers. I thank God for not falling under the three-strike law, considering there are so many men and women being struck out for minor offenses.

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AFTER LEAVING THE courtroom, feeling totally double-crossed, I was placed by the bailiff in a holding cell, to be transferred to the Los Angeles County Jail. There were five or six other people who had also been sentenced; they were discussing the outcomes of their situations. It was during this time that I really began to count my blessings.

There was one case in particular that caught my attention. An old Mexican man, who had to be in his late fifties, had been sentenced to twenty-eight years to life for shoplifting! He told me that at the time of his offense, he was homeless, hungry, and had no money to buy himself anything to eat. He had gone to a neighborhood market and stole some food. He was caught and arrested for shoplifting. But once he got to the police station, it was discovered that he had an arrest record and two prior violent convictions. The prior convictions were over twenty years ago, but the D.A. refused to offer him anything better than nine years with 80%. This man would have to do at least seven-and-a-half years before being eligible for parole. He turned their plea bargain down, which left him no other option but to take his case to trial. He was found guilty at trial of petty theft with two priors. His sentencing was left to the mercy of the court.

The jury’s decisions are based solely on guilt or innocence. They are not allowed to know the consequences of a guilty verdict for a crime such as petty theft for fear of conscious decisions being made. Most jurors are unaware of the dehumanizing cruelty that is being done to offenders in the system today.

I believe in the words of Martin Luther King, Jr.—An injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. I also stand by the adage All money is not good money, and if it is obtained by force or violence, to me, it makes it not worth having. Forgery is a non-violent crime; therefore, that makes it a non-strikeable offense. Nonetheless, I am a criminal. Having such a lengthy criminal record, I considered myself blessed not to have been stretched out.

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THE MORE EVERYONE talked about their circumstances, the greater the tension became. The holding cell was filled to capacity. There were many frustrated, angry prisoners who felt used by the system. I began to feel that a fight would erupt at any moment. The sounds of chains rattling began to come closer and closer. Finally, the cell door opened; we were shackled and transferred to the Los Angeles County Jail.

I have had the misfortune to have sustained substantial experience with county and city jails all over the country. Being processed in the Los Angeles County Jail has always been by far, the most humiliating, degrading and lengthy process that I have ever been subjected to throughout all the years of my career in crime.. The Los Angeles County Jail takes center stage of all lock-up facilities.

During my stay, I was viciously assaulted by the deputies, and dragged through the corridors to the infirmary where I was treated by the paramedics for injuries inflicted upon me. I spent the remainder of my time in solitary confinement, commonly known as the hole, in a filthy cell chasing off rats while starving. I had experienced deputies’ offensive tactics several times in the past. But, I was young and had little or no respect for authority.

In the case at hand, that was not my mindset. I had learned it is easier to cooperate. Obviously, they did not see it that way. Thirty-three miserable days had come and gone before I was transferred to a state prison. I was only leaving there and going to another jail, but if only for that moment, I felt as if I had died and gone to Heaven.

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THE BUS RIDE was strange. I was relieved to get away from the county jail. I was also feeling the pain of the overall situation. Being shackled and boarded on the bus, the reality of it hit me like a ton of bricks. We headed up the highway towards Wasco State Prison. It was very quiet on the bus; all you could hear was the rattling of chains now and then. The sergeant told us when boarding the bus that there was no talking allowed. To enforce this rule, there was a correctional officer with a shotgun at the back of the bus. So everyone settled into his own world, some sleeping; some, like me, in deep thought.

It was a clear sunny spring day. I gazed out the window and took in my last look at the free world. Pedestrians were walking around fancy-free; motorists were cutting in and out of traffic, going about their everyday routines. I believe it’s true that you never miss your water until the well runs dry. Watching the free world from my window, I felt the pain of being locked up again.

I was headed back to prison at the age of forty-three, for the fifth time in my life. This time, I had received an eight-year sentence. I was hopeful that with good time I’d be eligible for parole in four years. I used to feel that being a criminal was the only way to live. I have since learned otherwise. I was truly tired of this life. I did not want to do this anymore; it had stopped being fun for me long ago. I was trying to be strong and take it all in stride, but, the time was killing me! I definitely had to find a better way of living. I had done time before, but this time it was different. The older and wiser I get, the more I realize that this type of activity is not right, and not worth it. Having to pay the piper is a motherfucker!

Sitting on the bus, quietly grieving over my present situation and subconsciously having a confrontation with myself, I turned my attention back to life outside the bus. I noticed a few banks, as well as businesses, that I had schemed on several times in the past. A crazy thought came over me. I felt as if the buildings were staring directly at me; mocking me, as if to say Who’s having the last laugh now? My guilty conscience was playing tricks on me. It was a strange and new feeling for me. Simply because I’d never felt ashamed of any crimes I committed in my life, that is—until now.

As an outlaw, scheming, and manipulating had become second nature. I never thought twice about victimizing my victims. I never lost one minute of sleep. As a matter of fact, we would celebrate when we beat for large winnings, while the victims were inconvenienced; their checks and/or credit cards stolen, and their bank accounts emptied. Usually, it would take up to six weeks for the investigating officers to establish that the victim had no involvement in the crime. Until then, their accounts could be frozen and all their banking business could come to a complete halt. Usually, the victims were refunded their money.

1

I HEARD SOMEONE up front say, There’s Wasco!

I turned my gaze to the front of the bus and could see the prison. To me, it looked similar to a huge cemetery with a large tombstone that would read, Home of the Living Dead! An old so familiar feeling came over me. I was about to be buried alive for the next four years. As the bus entered The Gates of Hell, I wished so much that I could live my life over again, and had done things differently. Where had all the trouble started?

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Chapter 1

The Beginning

My father, George Jr., was born on Christmas Day, 1926, in a small town called Lafayette on the outskirts of New Orleans. His parents were engaged in an interracial relationship. George’s mother, Mary Camble, was white. Her family owned a nice sized plantation in New Orleans. The Cambles were not only wealthy; they were well-liked and respected throughout the state. There were many people of the black race working on their plantation at that time. Sharecropping and other small paying jobs were always available in the 1920’s. Blacks had very few choices.

Mary was young and pretty; she was also promiscuous. On one hot summer day, Mary set her sights on one of the workers, who turned out to be my grandfather. He was tall and handsome, with a very dark complexion; a descendant of Jamaican heritage, from which the name Kingstro originated. George Kingstro and Mary eventually had an affair in secrecy. Mary was very much in love with him. When she discovered that she was pregnant, Mary was terrified beyond belief of what her family and friends would think. Impregnated by someone of the black race!

In those days abortions were against the law, and those that were performed were done at great risk. Mary decided to conceal the pregnancy for as long as she could. The only person aware of her condition was George Kingstro, who was fearful of the lynching and torture black men received in those days for having a relationship with a white woman.

As the time of the birth grew closer, Mary could no longer keep it concealed from her parents. She told them about the affair. They were outraged, for their importance in the community would no longer be kept in good standing if the people of that time had known. Therefore, they figured out a way to keep from disgracing the family name. Just before her expectance, they placed Mary at a hospital in a small town on the outskirts of New Orleans called Lafayette.

On the day of my father’s birth, his mother gave him up, and the infant was placed in his father’s care. Mary’s parents gave him money equivalent to six months pay, for his cooperation in not speaking the Camble name.

They told family and friends that their daughter’s baby was stillborn. It would be years before my father learned the truth. George, Sr. was satisfied with the arrangement. He loved his son and accepted the Camble’s proposition. With the help of his sister Gwen, he raised my father to the best of his ability. He worked very hard, but was dirt poor. In the late 1920’s and early 1930’s the Stock Market crash and the Great Depression took place. Jobs were scarce; blacks and whites were standing on equal ground for employment. Somehow they managed to get by. As time moved on, something terrible occurred that would change my father’s life forever.

One day while working on a construction job, George, Sr. had an accident and had to be taken immediately to the hospital. It was then that my father learned the truth about his mother. Just before George, Sr. died, he was able to tell his son the whole story. As the story had come to an end, George died with my father in his arms. George, Jr. was thirteen years old at the time. The story of his mother had only caused more pain for him.

Aunt Gwen was stricken with cancer. George, Sr. had been the sole provider in the family, and after his death their only income was a small social security check. They lived in a wooden shack without electricity or running water. The beds were made of straw filled sacks. Gwen’s cancer became so severe that she had to be hospitalized.

After she died, my father dropped out of school, venturing out and performing odd jobs like shinning shoes in the French Quarters of New Orleans. As time moved on, he began running numbers for gangsters, selling marijuana and gambling. He was doing everything he could to survive. Not once did he call on his mother for help. His anger and his pride would not allow him to. It would be years before he would find it in his heart to forgive her for what she had done.

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MY MOTHER, WILLIE Mar Moore, was born in New Orleans, Louisiana on August 17, 1927. Rebecca Sheppard, my grandmother on my mother’s side, was a full blooded Cherokee Indian. Working as a barmaid in the local bar, she became friends with an African American man. Robert Moore, my grandfather, and Rebecca were married after a short courtship, only to find out later that they were not compatible.

After my mother was born, the marriage fell apart. Rebecca spent a great deal of her time drinking and fighting. After they parted, my grandfather moved to California. My mother was only two years old at the time. Rebecca’s occupation caused my mother to spend most of her time looking after herself. My mother also suffered hard times. At the age of twelve she was forced to drop out of school and get a job in order to help my grandmother financially. Poverty played a big role in their lives. Even as a child my mother had many friends; most of them were gang members.

Willie Mae’s friendship with the gang eventually became a commitment; they called themselves The Space Gang. They were like her second family because everyone looked out for each other. Gangs in those days were usually a group of people spending most of their time hanging on street corners or in neighborhood parks. They were not as violent as the gangs of today; they seldom used weapons. Only when the fights became serious would someone pull out a switch blade knife or a pair of brass knuckles. Zip guns were used for more dangerous activities, but they were not too accurate at finding their mark. My mother was loved and respected. Being a member of the gang gave her a sense of security; others treated her with respect. She was happy being a member, and she never denied herself fun.

My mother and father met at a neighborhood park where they hung out and had their meetings. She was fifteen and he was sixteen. At that time my father was a driver for the New Orleans Taxi Cab Company. He offered her a ride home and she accepted. Shortly thereafter, they started seeing each others on a daily basis. Little did they know that they would one day have eight children. My mother and father were inseparable; there was never a dull moment. They went to the fights and were often seen at clubs. In the late 1930s and early 1940’s black entertainment was at an all time high. Professional boxers like Joe Louis and Sugar Ray Robinson were at the peak of their boxing careers. Nat King Cole, Billy Eckstein and The Mills Brothers would draw crowds all over the world. Then, World War II happened. That changed everything for everyone.

December 7, 1941—the day that the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. There were food rationing, air raid drills and war films. The propaganda sparked fear in the United States. My father enlisted in the Navy in 1943 at the age of seventeen, as he was able to convince them that he was old enough. He was stationed at the Great Lakes Naval Base. My parents were engaged before he left, and they kept up communication through writing letters the whole time he was gone. For the first time since the Civil War, the country had another race to look at with suspicion and distrust.

Two years later, after his return, they were married. The year was 1946; nearly 80 years after the end of slavery in America. Freedom for most African Americans was a hollow word. No part of the United States was completely free of racism. In the South, however, racism was more than a hateful and oppressive attitude. State and local laws ordered segregation or separation of the races. African Americans were barred from most hotels, parks and restaurants. They were given second class treatment on buses and trains. Most black people could only get jobs that white people would not take. Those blacks who did the same work as whites usually were paid less. Black people received second rate medical care and third rate education in segregated hospitals and schools. Black people were reminded in dozen of ways that they were not full citizens. They had to call whites Sir and Ma’am. Whites could address blacks by any insulting name they wished.

When my father returned from the war, he tried looking for odd jobs, but at that time even those were scarce. Most blacks had to resort to the con profession—pimping, running and playing the numbers, gambling and thievery. This was the lifestyle in which my father had to live. Of course the 1940’s had it share of illegal activities. A great majority of blacks refused to live in poverty and were willing to take their chances. My father chose the street life, doing whatever it took to survive.

One night while he was at a gambling shack in New Orleans, he got into a fistfight with a man who refused to accept his loss. My father pulled out his thirty-eight and shot the man in the leg. The man happened to be the son of a well respected and notorious gangster. Immediately the word got out that his life was in danger. My father, fearing for his life, made a quick decision to leave New Orleans. My mother contacted her father in Pasadena, California, and asked if they could come stay with him. He sent for them right away. My mother—pregnant with their first child—and my father, secretly left New Orleans during the night; they caught a train and headed to California.

Sunny California proved to be a better place for my parents. Jobs were plentiful; not like down south where the only jobs available were laboring in the fields under the scorching sun and in the freezing cold winters. My father got a job right away as a dock worker. It was during this time, on April 15, 1947 in Pasadena, California, that my oldest sister Barbara Kingstro was born. After their first child, my mother couldn’t stop having babies. She became pregnant every year. On February 28, 1948, Brenda, the second oldest was born. Winston, my oldest brother was born on May 8, 1949, followed by George Jr. on September 12, 1950. I was born fifteen months later, December 18, 1951; Walter Wayne Kingstro. Fourteen months later on February 8, 1953, my mother gave birth to my twin sisters, Stacey and Lacey.

In the same year, my twin sisters were born, my half brother came into existence. Kevin Kingstro was born five months later, on July 13, 1953. His mother’s name is Mildred. When my mother found out, she was furious! Eventually, she forgave my father for his infidelity.

The last Kingstro my mother gave birth to arrived a few years later. Pamela was born on December 31, 1957. By the time my father was working full-time and hustling on the side, the only time he was ever home was to sleep. My mother found it very difficult to take care of eight out-of-control children alone. She decided to send for her mother in New Orleans.

My grandmother was a beautiful person, and she loved all of us. She would call us by nicknames she made up for us. Mine was Man; the twins name were Red and Old Woman; my brother George was New Nee. I never quite understood why she called us those crazy little nicknames, but after a while we became accustomed to them and would always answer when she called us.

Soon after my grandmother came to live with us, my father quit working and began hustling full-time. He moved us into a big house in Altadena, California, a small town just north of Pasadena. We lived upstairs, and he ran an after-hours club downstairs. People from all around town came to drink, gamble and make noise all through the night. Many times there was no food in the house, because my father would lose every dime he had in a crap game.

My grandmother and my father fought constantly about his lifestyle and about his unfaithfulness to my mother. One morning after everyone left from a night of drinking and dancing, my grandmother and my father had one of their fights. She cracked him in the head with an iron. He bled all over the house before being rushed to the hospital. When the hospital released him, he never came back. It would be a long time before I would see my father again.

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Chapter 2

Mama’s Little Mob

In 1958 a major change had come over our home. It was the year that my father moved out. I was only seven years old at the time. Occasionally, someone would stop by our home at night seeking entrance to my father’s after-hours club, and asking of his whereabouts. My mother was not certain where he had gone, nor did she care. A few of his associates heard rumors that he had moved to Los Angeles and was running another after-hours house in the city.

During the period of time that my father lived in our home; we rarely saw him. Nonetheless, we all missed him a lot. What we missed most was the excitement of all the people who would show up at our home at night wearing flashy clothes and driving their fancy cars. I remember my brothers and I would sit on the windowsill in our bedroom and watch the people coming and going throughout the night. We would also sneak down the back stairs—slipping out through the back door—and go around to the front where we would peddle the customers for change. There was always something exciting going on! People flashing large bankrolls and giving us a token dollar or two. At a young age, the glamour of it all fascinated me. Sometimes we were able to hear bits of their conversations relating to their illicit lifestyles. Some were pimps; some were into thievery; while still others fancied themselves as con men with their endless types of con games. When I found out about the various types of things that they did, I was even more enlivened without as much a clue as to the effect these types of lifestyles would have on my future.

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I REMEMBER THE first time I went to jail; I was six years old. My brothers and I were prowling the neighborhood in search of something to steal when we came upon a fish pond in the backyard of one of our neighbors. The pond had these big lily pads and schools of huge brilliantly colored fish, and a narrow walkway extending across the entire pond. We were so excited that we ran all the way home for some coat hangers and a couple pairs of our mother’s stockings. We were ready to go fishing! However, it wasn’t as easy as we thought.

When we returned, I hung over the side of the bridge trying to reach the fish with my net, and ended up falling into the pond. I screamed for my life in this three foot deep water—since I couldn’t swim—and was still in shock by my unexpected fall. It didn’t occur to me to just stand up. Meanwhile, my brothers watched in terror, because neither of them could swim either. When they heard a nearby door slam, they realized that someone must be coming so they left, running and looking over their shoulders to ensure that they were not seen. It was an old white man who came out and pulled me from the pond. I was soaking wet; crying and trembling. I believed that if it wasn’t for the lily pads keeping me afloat, I would have drowned.

Although the old man treated me kindly, trying to convince me that everything was going to be alright, I couldn’t stop crying. He took me into his home and I met an old white lady as I entered the living room. She quickly wrapped my old, soaked body in a towel, and began drying the remaining tears from my face. Since our makeshift nets were left in and around the pond, I’m sure that they knew what we had been up to. The pond incident didn’t seem to bother this couple as much as it had affected me.

What seemed to concern the couple mostly was who I belonged to and to get me safely home. What this couple didn’t know was that I was more terrified of what my mother would do to me once she learned what I had been up to, as well as of my near death experience. So when the couple kept asking me where I lived, I would start bawling like crazy. The couple finally gave up and phoned the police. When the officer arrived, he first questioned the old man, then the lady. When he got to me and I began to cry, he gently took my hand and escorted me to his patrol car. Off to the police station I went. After being there most of the night, my mother finally came and picked me up. Although I knew that she was angry, I think she was happier that I was safe, because she hugged and kissed me all the way home. I never did get that whippin’ I knew I deserved.

My brothers were not so lucky. Not only were they whipped for leaving me, they got it extra bad for not telling my mother what really happened. She had everyone looking all over for me. With nowhere to turn, eventually the police were contacted and a missing person report was filed. It was then that they informed my mother that I was down at the police headquarters. My father thought this was so funny. He had a joyous time telling and showing me off to his friends. This needed attention I received from him and his friends at this point in my life left an indelible impression on me. From that point on, my father was my idol. I wanted to be like him.

TO ANY LITTLE BOY’S FATHER

There are little eyes upon you

And they’re watching night and day;

There are little ears that quickly

Take in everything you say.

There are little hands all eager

To do everything you do;

And a little boy who’s dreaming

Of the day he’ll be like you.

You’re the little fellow’s idol;

You’re the wisest of the wise.

In his little mind, about you

No suspicious ever rise.

He believes in you devoutly,

Holds all that you say and do,

He will say and do in your way,

When he’s grown up, just like you.

There’s a wide-eyed little fellow

Who believes you’re always right;

And his ears are always open

And he watches day and night.

You are setting an example

Every day in all you do;

For the little boy whose waiting

To grow up and be like you.

—Anonymous

When my parents separated, my mother and grandmother moved us to a ten unit complex in a small court in Pasadena called Lincoln Manor. It was similar to the housing projects of today, only smaller. Our only source of income came from my mother’s bi-weekly check from the Welfare Office. It looked like everyone in my neighborhood was poor, black and on welfare. With eight kids to feed, the welfare checks were not enough to last from one to the next. A typical day began when we awakened in a cockroach infested house. Check days seems like the only days when everyone had enough to eat, and the meal wasn’t from government issued food. Many nights we would go to bed crying from hunger, even the beans so often ran out.

Out of desperation, we began stealing candy from the little store around the corner. After a long period of time and as our need grew. We progressed to the neighborhood supermarket where we stole eggs, various meats, bread and milk which we gave to our mother to cook for us. At first she would become angry, punishing us with whippings. Eventually my mother stopped whipping us for thievery and silently accepted the needed food, but she never condoned our actions.

Before I go any further, I want you to know that I love my mother more than anything. She did the best she could with what she had to work with. Raising eight children along is not the easiest situation in the world. Never having enough food for the children you gave birth to and love will have a dramatic effect on anyone. It was rough on my mother. One thing that has always impressed me, and I am thankful for, is that she has never abandoned us. She has been with us all the way, and still is. She did not want a hand out, just a hand up.

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MOST OF THE neighborhood kids attended Lincoln Elementary School. Since my mother could not afford to buy us new clothes, we wore used clothing from second hand stores. She would encourage us by saying that at least they were clean. Places like Goodwill and the Salvation Army were common to low income people. Everyone called them rummage sales.

I remember that my mother drove an old black Ford station wagon that we named Betsy. Even though the car ran rough, the tires were bald and we were barely able to keep gas in her, old Betsy never failed to get us where we needed to go. Since the majority of poor people in those days had to use public transportation, we appreciated old Betsy no matter how raggedy she was.

I also remember that on the first of the month when my mother’s welfare check came, she would load all eight of us in old Betsy and go shopping. Even though rummage sales were not places where one had to spend all of their money, we had learned all too well what happened once the money was gone. As my mother would load her basket with only the things we needed, we children would find a way to steal most of the things and must of what we wanted without getting caught.

From the moment we would enter the store; our young minds would conjure up a scheme on how to get away with everything we could steal. Once my mother made it through the checkout stand to pay for what was left in the basket, we would all walk to the car, pile in then pull out all the merchandise. All my mother would do was shake her head from side to side with a coy smile while