No Embellishment Necessary

By Andre' L. Ford

Delve into the memoirs of Mr. Andre' Ford, as he takes us on a mental roller coaster of true-life events from the perspective of a certified, documented Original Gangsta from Dallas, TX. These stories range from 1975-2003. Learn how he dealt with and survived growing up in THE HOOD-from getting life lessons from alcoholics and addicts, to being

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: Mar 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781088029367

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Cuzz, who is that just pulled up out there? I asked Pep Loc while we sat in Wino's living room sipping on tumblers of Remy Martin VSOP. He peeked through the blinds. I don’t know, but it looks like Mon cuzz. Pep said dismissively. Mon? I questioned. Mon was the homie from the hood, but cuzz had all kinds of issues with him, mainly that he was a sherm head. Despite any flaws that he had, he was the homie so he was welcome on Cymbal Drive. I was just surprised that he would be pulling up on Cymbal so soon. We had roasted him just days before.

….5 Days Earlier….

Ding Ding and I stood out on the bLOCc. An unfamiliar car sped down the street and parked on the curb, close to us. Ding and I both clenched our weapons in anticipation of the enemy trying to pull a move. Instead, the homie Mon stepped from the passenger side, looking bewildered. His eyes were bucked and glossy. I couldn’t tell if he had been crying or yelling or both. I saw that his wife was driving the car. He greeted us by locking C's, and then immediately continued his spiel.

CUZZ!!! I need yall to come with me to kill theses hoe ass slob niggaz cuzz! Mon was obviously distressed and in his feelings, but he was talking about murder, and though he is the homie, he wasn’t the type that could get a fast reaction out of me, so he went into his spiel. Ding and I both knew that Mon was a certified sherm head. He lived in Royal Crest Apartments, which was the sherm capital of the city at the time.

"Cuzz, the hoe ass nigga knocked on my door with that bullshit. He had the Right Ones! Both Ding and I were excellent at interrogation and reading body language. By the time we were done with Mon, it was ascertained that he had been getting sherm from the nigga on credit, and owed him a couple of hundred dollars. The nigga was at Mon's house, only asking about his money, allegedly, as he should. This was certainly not grounds for a BK Ride, damn sho not for me, and I told Mon so, to his disappointment. THEN cuzz, I went on, you come over here with your girl in the car! He said, Yea, my girl is from the hood cuzz, Lake June Village, so she know what's up. I said, Nigga, I wouldn’t give a fuck WHERE she was from! You bring your wife with you…to come get us…to go kill a nigga? What kinda shit is that cuzz? That shit aint 7um nigga. I don’t move like that! He looked like he couldn’t understand what I meant, so I elaborated. Cuzz, you want a nigga to ride with you to Oak Cliff, to smoke your neighbor, that you were just arguing with in front of your door…….the door where you and your family live. When the nigga comes up dead, where do you think that the police are going to check first? Mon didn’t answer, so I answered for him. Yo house nigga! He said, My girl ain’t a snitch cuzz?! I responded angrily and quickly. You dumb nigga why the fuck she not cuzz!? He stared at me, and I stared back at him. The side effects of the PCP caused him to be at a loss for words. He just stared off into space as I spoke. She's a civilian cuzz. After they go through the motions of using CPS to threaten taking her kids, she will tell them everything that she knows!"

Mon eventually left, walking to the car with his head hung low, like D Bo had snatched the chain that his Grandmama had given him.

This is why I was surprised to see him pull up tonight. It had been less than a week. Mon knocked on the door and Wino let him in. He staggered in, tripping on that sherm, wet, dip, zoodabang, and whatever else that it was being called this week. The sherm had many names and many chemicals. Two main ingredients in the formula are horse tranquilizer, and embalming fluid. Cigarettes are dipped into the liquid, dried, and smoked. The drug is a hallucinogen that causes the smoker to feel weightless and sometimes experience an unexplainable super strength. After years of abuse, sherm smokers often suffer from different forms of brain trauma that often peels users/abusers away from the flows of society.

Apparently, he was still upset from his last episode on Cymbal. He began to express his disappointments, directed at me. Cuzz, cuzz, yall niggaz were wrong for not coming to help me. I told him, So cuzz, after all the shit that we’ve said to you, you still think that we should have left with you AND YOUR WIFE to go put that work in? He began to raise his voice. In my peripheral, I saw Pep stand up. Mon kept saying the same dumb shit over and over, getting louder by the moment. I could tell that Wino was preparing to tell cuzz to leave, but before I or Wino could say anything, Pep had grabbed Mon by the back of his shirt, at the neck and at the waistband at the back of his pants. Mon tried to resist and before he realized that Pep was exiting him from our presence, Pep lifted Mon off his feet and threw him head first through Wino's front living room window. GooootDayum cuzz!, was all that I could say. I rushed to the window and saw Mon get to his feet. He wasn’t cut or bleeding. He seemed to be more embarrassed than anything. He looked around, dusted himself off, and then did his same ole shameful sherm-head shuffle to the car, looking like D-Bo had once again snatched the gold chain that his grandma had given him.

This is how it was on Cymbal Drive. Any given day, you could get your issue-ranging in the forms of a simple ass whooping, to getting shot or even killed. Despite all the wisdom, spirituality, and love that my parents and Grandparents had distilled in me, THIS way of living had become my NORM.

HUMBLE BEGINNINGS

Chapter 1

January 6, 1975. Gerald Ford was the US President. Wheel of Fortune made its television debut; and I was born in Dallas, Texas at Saint Paul Hospital at 1:59 a.m. My namesake is a unique situation, because my Momma, Miss Paula Ann Poe, named me after her first husband that she’d met in high school. He was a handsome guy, named Mr. Andre Lynn Ford. My actual biological father's name is Mr. Rodney L. Jarvis. My parents both lived in the Glendale neighborhood of Oak Cliff, in Dallas, Texas.

Daddy grew up with both of his parents in the house, and by today's standards, they would be considered middle class. Daddy grew up with his siblings, his big sis, my Auntie Vicky, and his younger brother, my Uncle Artis.

When I was born, Daddy was away in Oklahoma, in college, becoming an A Phi A and learning to teach basic studies to teenagers. Momma was a newlywed when I was born. Her husband was in the Air Force. She and Mr. Andre’ Lynn Ford was stationed in Oklahoma. Mom came to Dallas to give birth to me. After I was born, I went home to live with my maternal grandmother, affectionately known as Momboo.

Momboo moved to a neighborhood known as Highland Hills. At the time in 1973 this was a new housing subdivision. Momboo was a single mother from Longview, Texas, moving from Houston, TX where Momma was born. When I came to live with her, Momboo had 5 of her 6 children living at home. My Uncle Claude was the oldest of my mother's siblings as he was 10 years her senior. Momma was the second oldest, followed by my paternal twin Aunts Wilma & Wanda. My Uncle Ricky was the youngest brother and then there was my Aunt Cookie, the baby of the family, as she was only 12 years old when I was born.

Contrary to popular belief about members of gangs, my family was loving, even doting to an extent. Momma was the greatest. She showered my sisters and I with the love that only a Mother can give. I was also both my Grandmothers’ oldest grandchild. With me being the only baby in a house full of women, at one point or another, I was everybody's baby. For the first few years of my life, I lived at Momboo's house on Judge Dupree, with all my cousins. This is where I first felt the responsibilities of being a leader, as I was the oldest of 10. I have very early memories of those days. Momma was in her early 20's, very smart and very pretty. She was working on starting a career in Insurance, and making things better for us. I have twin aunts, Aunts Wilma and Wanda. My Aunt Wanda had her first kid 6 months after Momma gifted me to the world-my cousin Craig. Growing up in the same house, Craig was more of a brother than a cousin. He was my first friend. My Aunt Wilma also had a son. My cousin Baby Ray, 3 years younger than Craig and I. His Dad, Private Raymond Lee Sallie was married to my Aunt Wilma. Momma used to call him Private Raymond Lee Salad Dressing.

Momma always regretted not going to law school, like she wanted to. She told me once that her older brother, my Uncle Claude, talked her out of going to law school, by telling her that America would never allow a black female lawyer to excel. Boy was he ever wrong, but his discouragement was enough to kill a young girl's dream.

Judge Dupree was a long street that extended three blocks. We were on the last block of the street, the 3rdEnd, as it became known. Growing up there was like a mix between the country and the city life. Momboo was an "old school’’ grandmother. She was everyone's ‘grandmother’ on our street. Back then, she worked in a bakery. When she would come home from work, everyone would run to our driveway as soon as we saw her truck pull up. She brought treats home for all the neighborhood kids, every day. She remembered what each kids’ favorite cookie was, and always had it in tow. That lady was something else, just AMAZING! We kids on Judge Dupree stayed out and played sometimes until 2-3 in the morning, not knowing that we were creating bonds and memories that would withstand the tests of time.

Craig was definitely more of a brother than a cousin. We did everything together: climb trees, ride our bikes all over the neighborhood, coming up with 35 cents every day during the summer, so that we could swim at Little L swimming pool. Any time we played football in the hood, we always had to be on one another's team. Though only 6 months older, I always felt like the big cousin/brother, and I was protective of him.

Aunt Wilma would often tell this story: Craig had done something or other, and she spanked him. I heard Craig crying, and I wobbled in there to see what had happened. At the time we were toddlers, still in pampers. She’d spanked him and went back to the den to finish watching her soap operas. Shortly after, I marched in behind her, with my face scrunched up, clearly upset.

AUNT WILMA!!!, I yelled.

Huh?, she replied with a look of concern.

Did you whoop Craig?, I inquired, with all the attitude of an angry adult.

Aunt Wilma was not moved by my sense of alertness and urgency.

She took another sip of her tea before replying, matter of fact, Yes, I surely did, and I’ll beat yo’ ass too.

All I could say was, Oh, and then I turned around, and got out of there as quickly as my little legs would carry me, hearing Aunt Cookie laughing hysterically.

I remember showing Craig how to use the chair to climb up on the cabinets to retrieve cookies from the top of the refrigerator.

We had a HUGE shade tree in the front yard that Craig and I had aspirations of climbing. We were told that my Aunt Wanda had planted the tree years before. It took us awhile, but we finally came up with a way to pull up on that first branch. Once we made it up on the first branch, we were able to climb higher and higher each time, until eventually we had even found big enough branches for us to get comfortable and sit on. Often, we’d be up in the tree, talking for hours. Momboo, Momma, or any family member would pull into the driveway and get out of the car, without ever noticing that we were in the tree.

Once Momboo saw that we were able to climb the tree, it worried her. GET DOWN FROM THERE!, she would yell, and we would scurry down, laughing, because we knew that as soon as she got in the house and settled, we would be right back in the tree, or exploring the attic, or climbing on top of the house;some type of domicile adventure.

Back then, we went to church in South Dallas at Mt Zion Baptist Church, in 4 Deuce, on Dathe St. Of course, it wasn’t 4 Deuce back then. It was just a part of The Sunny South. Going to church was expected and even required while being at Momboo's house. Some days, it would be all 10 of us grandkids, piled on top of each other in her car. We’d be in the front seats, and the back seats. It didn’t matter, as long as she got us to church to get a WORD. Momboo was very involved in the church. She wasn’t going just to be going. She was a part of the church's staff and she loved doing what she considered to be GOD's work, an excellent steward. It was one of her gifts.

Momboo also had the Gift of Interpreting Dreams. Family and friends would drive to Momboo's house from all over the city, to give her the details of their dreams-hoping that she could give them insight on an important next step, potential romance, or a business decision. We always knew that Momboo was special in the spiritual sense. She was The Connection to Our Ancestors.

It was considered normal to hear voices or footsteps in the middle of the night, at Momboo's house.

Uncle John had been dead for weeks, and I could still smell the familiar aroma of his coffee pot brewing every morning. When I told Momboo and Momma that I’d actually SEEN Uncle John in the kitchen one early morning, it was considered a normal thing.

Momboo's older sister, Aunt Bernice attended the same church that we went to, with her husband, Uncle Bennie Ford. Uncle Bennie's extended family attended Mt. Zion Baptist Church as well. We were all involved in the church. For my first Easter Program, I had to memorize and recite Psalms 100. I stood up there in front of everyone, in my bright-colored suit, complete with suspenders, looked straight ahead, and recited the familiar psalm:

"Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands.

² Serve the Lord with gladness: come before his presence with singing.

³ Know ye that the Lord he is God: it is he that hath made us, and not we ourselves; we are his people, and the sheep of his pasture.

⁴ Enter into his gates with thanksgiving, and into his courts with praise: be thankful unto him, and bless his name.

⁵ For the Lord is good; his mercy is everlasting; and his truth endureth to all generations.

With each rehearsal, I got better and better, and by the time Easter Sunday came around, I’d memorized it. I put emphasis on each WORD, like Preacher did.

Momboo and Momma were so proud. Everyone clapped for me when I was done, even Jacqueline Ford. Jacqueline was a pretty little girl that I’d become friends with at church. We’d talk and play after Bible Study on Wednesdays, choir rehearsal on Saturday night, and every Sunday after church. I even bought her a bottled pop out of the machine one Sunday, because she was upset when Sister Shepherd told the Youth Group that I was reciting 100 Psalms. She thought that she would recite 100 Psalms this Easter, but apparently the elders had gone a different route. Jacqueline had already memorized it, but, "Too bad, Sister Shepherd stated sternly. Lynn is saying it this year, and you’re going to walk in the parade with Peter Cottontail."

Later, Momboo explained to me that Peter Cottontail didn’t have a thing to do with JESUS, FATHER GOD, or THE HOLY SPIRIT, but every week approaching Easter, we practiced singing Here comes Peter Cottontail, hopping down the bunny trail, Hippity Hoppity, Easter's on its waaaaaay! Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey.

Jacqueline had to look pretty and march down the aisle with someone dressed as a bunny. It was simple kid fun, but she wasn’t feeling it this year. Sister Shepherd didn’t play though. She was a big burly woman, mean as a rattlesnake. She would pinch us if we didn’t shut up quick enough.

And then there was Sister Haynes. Sister Haynes lived on the same street as the church. She was an elderly woman that lived alone. Momboo would often go to her house after church or BIBLE study, with all of us in tow. Sister Haynes would cook for us. She had a sandbox, swing set, and lots of toys in her backyard. Sister Haynes treated all us kids like we were her own flesh and blood.

I learned a lot at Mt Zion Baptist Church. I learned of nepotism, favoritism, gossip, and messiness.

As a child, I didn’t understand, but as I got older, things became clear.

WHAT THEY HITTIN FOE?

Chapter 2

One of my earliest childhood memories is of me standing in the garage, watching my Uncle Ricky and his friends shooting dice. Bet 20 you don’t hit nigga.

On the bar

Caught them.

Bet they 6 or 8 before they 7 or 11.

All of this vernacular was new to me, and I was captivated by their lingo and swagger. It was my Uncle Ricky, his first cousin Chuckie (the pimp), his friends Fugee, and Lamont, and Lamont's brother, Michael. They passed a bottle of cheap wine back and forth between each other as they shook the dice and the same money exchanged hands over and over.

Fresh lick out the doe!, Uncle Ricky loudly proclaimed, as he rolled an Eleven on his first roll.

Hold up nigga! I caught that! This was Lamont, talking to Uncle Ricky, through clenched teeth, grabbing Ricky's hand.

You need to unass me nigga, Ricky growled back.

Get yo’ hands off my money, and I’ll get my hands off you. Lamont had been shooting dice for hours and he’d lost over 500$. He couldn’t catch a break, and he’d become well passed frustrated.

By that time, Chuckee had creeped up on Lamont's blind side, and handed Ricky his blade, without the two brothers ever noticing. Fugee tried to be the peacemaker, because he knew where this was headed. Lamont, the dice hit before you caught ‘em. You gotta touch the dice to catch ‘em anyway man. This infuriated Lamont. He yelled, Nigga, stay out my gotdamn business!!! You niggaz gonna lie for each other. I know y’all don’t like a pretty nigga like me anyway…. but ya bitch do. Fugee replied, Okay, well fawk ya then nigga, shiiiiiiid.

…. Years later, I learned that prior to the incident in the garage, Lamont had been making advances towards Uncle Ricky's girlfriend, Rhonda. Rhonda lived up the street, in the corner house at the top of the 3rd End.

Ricky was on him quicker than a lightning flash. My 3-year-old mind couldn’t really comprehend what was going on. I knew that they were all friends, and so it was very shocking to me when I saw Uncle Ricky pushing his knife into Lamont's upper body.

I remember being scared from seeing all the blood, and from hearing Lamont's screams. Fugee picked me up, and tried to shield me from what was going on, but I wanted to see. Lamont's brother Mike was yelling for Uncle Ricky to stop, but was all too apprehensive about intervening, because Chuckee stood close, hand in his waistband, with a stoic, daring look.

Uncle Ricky punched and stabbed Lamont over and over. The garage looked like a crime scene. Hell, at this point, it WAS a crime scene.

Come on cuzz, ease up. This was Chuckee, trying to get Uncle Ricky to stop, to no avail.

"Don’t kill him man,’’ he pleaded.

Shortly after, the back door, that leads into the kitchen, opened up. It was Momboo, standing there holding her robe together. Her eyes grew as big as silver dollars when she saw the scene. Ricky! she yelled, as she instinctively made her way to her son. From the way things looked, she couldn’t tell WHO was hurt. Uncle Ricky was covered in Lamont's blood, and this is what had her shook.

Once Momboo got closer, she saw the knife gripped in Ricky's hand, and saw the blood pouring from Lamont's torso.

This matriarch of a woman did not panic. She lifted her hands, went into a silent fervent prayer for both Ricky and Lamont. She pulled me from Fugee, went back in the house, sat down on the couch, let out a sigh, and called an ambulance. A few minutes later, Uncle Ricky and Chuckee came through the living room and headed back towards Ricky's bedroom. I got down from the couch and walked to the back door where I could hear both brothers crying and whimpering in the garage. Uncle Ricky changed clothes and got cleaned up. They hurried out of the front door, carrying a bag filled with bloody clothes, and jumped into Chuckee's Cadillac.

The ambulance arrived and the nurses working to save Lamont in Momboo's small, one car garage. A crowd had gathered outside. I don’t believe that Uncle Ricky was ever charged for stabbing Lamont. In fact, they remained friends, and Lamont was right back down to our house, soon after his wounds healed. 7 years later, when I was 10 years old, they were both killed a week apart.

FAVOUR

Chapter 3

Despite the violence and fights that I witnessed as a child on Judge Dupree, my family was great, really close knit. My maternal Grandmother, Momboo, was the very BEST! She seemed to never meet a person that she didn’t care about. If you stepped foot under her roof, you would be getting a plate. She was going to feed you. Yes, she was Grandmama to everybody on the street, but she still found a way to make me feel like she was ALL MINE! After all, I’d given her her name. She always told me the story of how it came about. She said that I always called her Mama, because that's what Momma and my aunts called her. She said that one morning I woke up in her bed by myself. This was often, as she got up most days at 3 or 4 in the morning, making a pot of coffee, and had a praise & worship session, standing in her kitchen. The Kitchen was her WAR ROOM. I would always call out to her as soon as I woke up, letting her know that I was awake, and hungry. On this particular morning, she said that she heard me yelling something from her room, but she couldn’t quite make out what I was saying. She walked to her door and listened. Momboo! Momboo, I want some oatmeal! To this day, I have no idea where the name came from, but from that day forth, she was Momboo. All my siblings and cousins followed suit and called her the same. All the neighborhood kids called her Momboo, and eventually their parents did, as well.

Momboo was the type of Grandmama that would teach us The LORD's prayer one day, and the next day, she would be teaching us how to get the best of an opponent in a fist fight. I can remember coming in Momboo's room at night, with Craig, and she would be at her bedside, on her knees in fervent prayer. We were kids. We didn’t know any better. We would be climbing up on her back, calling her name repeatedly, but her prayers never ceased.

Craig and I used to laugh at how Momboo would be freestyling gospel songs. At any given moment, she would break out in song, with the harmony of an old negro spiritual, (humming…hmmmmm, O’ Precious LORD, guide my hand while I’m driving these kids to McDonald's today." Whatever she was doing at the time, she would freestyle the moment into a gospel tune. In retrospect, she really kept ALL of us COVERED with her prayers.

I can remember the days when I was out and about into something, doing what young mischievous boys do. I might have some bullets in my pocket, about to load a clip–reach in my pocket, and come out with a small piece of oiled cloth with a SCRIPTURE written on it in Momboo's handwriting. Look to the hills from whence cometh thy help…..

I could do no wrong in her eyes. There were instances where all of us cousins/siblings would be into something in the house, making a mess. She would come in, swinging a switch, giving orders. "Craig, pick that up. Monica, put that where it goes. Nicole, why do you have that out? She would delegate to everyone, except me. She would just gather me up in her arms, or grab my hand and walk me to her room. She’d sit me on the bed and tell me about her day, pray for us all, and then tell me about any random BOOK or STORY from The BIBLE.

"Lynn, you’ve got FAVOUR. GOD has given you FAVOUR. Do you know what that means? I’d shake my head, No. She continued on. It means that you are special in GOD's heart. GOD loves you, and HE has a PLAN for your life that neither you nor anyone else can stop."

That gave me something to think about, regularly. It was hard for me to fathom that GOD even knew me. To know that HE loved me and that HE had chosen me as part of HIS purpose? That was powerful.

Momboo would also talk to me about The Last Days, and Revelations. That was scary for me, as a kid. It often kept me up at night, wondering if that day was THE LAST DAY.

My Uncle Claude was addicted to heroin. I’d run to Momboo when he would yell at us. I hate Uncle Claude!, I’d say behind muffled tears. No baby, don’t say that. It's not good to hate anybody.

Momboo explained to me that people put themselves in positions that allowed bad spirits to control how they act. So, it's really not them that's being mean, or doing the bad thing. It's the bad spirit that they’ve allowed to take over their actions. I was all ears. If you look really closely, with your heart, and not just with your eyes, you can see the face of the spirit. Separate that spirit from the person, and you won’t ever feel like you hate anyone. Her wisdom and faith in The LORD has carried my family for generations.

I don’t think that there was ever a day when she didn’t tell me how special I am. I believed her, because she loved me, and I trusted her. For that reason, I always conducted myself as such-SPECIAL.

Momma, at the time, was experiencing life as a single mother. She soon met my sister Nicole's father, Edgar Lacy. In retrospect, Momma had to be going through it and unsure of herself when she met him. Edgar was a petty hustler, a street dude that did drugs and drank A LOT. I couldn’t even imagine Momma with a guy like that. Yet, she briefly was- long enough to give me my little sister, Juanita Nicole, named after her Dad's mother. Wow, I had a little sister! I was only 3 at the time, but I’d always been a proud big brother. A few weeks after Nicole was born, my cousin Craig became a big brother as well, as my Aunt Wanda gave birth to my cousin Monica. Ironically, in 1978, Momma, and all of her sisters (with the exception of 15- year old Aunt Cookie) and most of her female first cousins were all pregnant at the same time.

YOU DIRTY RAT

Chapter 4A

We lived in a small apartment in South Dallas-Meadow Grove Apartments, behind Lincoln high school, right next to the GraveYard. Edgar was always gone. He seemed to never really be there. HE and Momma used to argue and fight a lot.

He would always show me his chrome plated pistol. He’d tell me hold it and then tell me that I am….[you are to NEVER let anyone fuck with yo’ Momma or sister."]

The apartments that we lived in were straight up in the ghetto. This was a rough part of South Dallas, even back in the late 1970's. The apartment was small, and though Momma always kept it clean, it was common to see a rat scurry when the lights came on in the kitchen at night. Momma loved us, but she was very unhappy. I remember her crying while she cleaned the kitchen, and me going outside, picking wild, bright yellow sunflowers for her in an attempt to cheer her up. She had them in cups lined up along the kitchen windowsill.

Momma had set rat traps by the back door, trying to eliminate the pests. One night, I was awakened by loud talking. My bedroom door opened up, and Edgar stumbled in. He scooped me up out of bed and took me towards the kitchen. I could tell that he had been drinking.

WHAT, are you doing with my baby?!, Momma asked with disdain in her voice. Apparently, Edgar mistook this question for being rhetorical, because he never responded. He put me down and opened the back door and we walked outside. Stepping outside, I immediately saw the rat trap. There was a fat rat wriggling under the trap's capturing arm, squealing and snarling. I turned to make my way back into the kitchen, but Edgar grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me back around. He handed me a hammer, and said, Kill it. I looked up with confused, uncomplying eyes, arms still down at my sides. Get the hammer nigga. I just stood there, looking. He finally grabbed my hand, put the hammer in my palm, and forced/folded my small fingers around it. I’d had enough. Momma!!!!! I yelled.

Shut up nigga before I beat yo’ lil scary ass! I didn’t want Momma to come outside, because I didn’t want him to hurt her. I remember wishing that Uncle Ricky would bust out the back door and kick his ass, or even stab him like he did Lamont. But no one came, and he snatched the hammer from my hand. Scary motherfucker! That corner store wine was doing a number on him tonight, as he slurred every word. He said, Get back. When I looked up, he was holding the hammer up over his head, preparing to swing down. I thought that he was going to kill me, but instead he swung the hammer down hard and fast onto the porch, smashing the rat's head. All squealing stopped. Blood and rat's guts splattered the porch. The arm of the trap still pinned the rat's body to the wooden trap. Its small legs kicked and twitched. Yuck. I just wanted to go get back in my bed, but Edgar snarled at me. Now, throw it in the trash. There was a trash can outside, a few feet away. He wanted me to pick up the trap and throw it in the trash. No way was I doing that.

Pick it up, scary ass nigga. Behind tears, I managed to mumble, I don’t want to. I don’t think that I was scared. At this point, I just didn’t want to touch that mess. He continued to urge me to pick it up and I continually refused. Finally, he picked it up himself, by the tail, and put it right up close to my face. It stank.

See nigga, it's dead, damn. It can’t even bite you!

Momma threw the back door open. What the hell are you doing?! She pulled me into the house, and started swinging on Edgar, hitting him in the head and face.

Crazy bitch. He pushed Momma and she fell off the porch, to the ground. I stepped out to help her up, but I was too small. Go back in the house Lynn, was all that she said, but I stood there until she got up. She came back towards the porch and the back door, watching Edgar the whole time. He still held the hammer, fresh with rat's blood. She picked me up, and walked into the kitchen. She locked the door and we went into the living room, sat on the couch, where she sang to me through her tears, until I fell asleep. Edgar banged on the door, cursing all night.

The next day, we were back at Momboo's house on Judge Dupree. Momma was starting over again, this time with me AND Nicole.

A NEW DAY

Chapter 4B

New beginnings are not easy for anyone, and I’m certain it was no different for Momma, a single Mom with two kids in tow.

Momma was working for a company called Employer's Insurance in downtown Dallas. She got paid by salary and commission, and made good money. Momma was an oxymoron, an enigma. She was definitely from the hood; from Glendale to Highland Hills, to South Dallas, back to Highland Hills. Though from the hood, she did not let the hood show in her personality or character. In fact, upon introduction, one might believe that she was a Harvard student, or daughter of a King and Queen. One might even say that Momma was bourgeoisie. Momma never smoked or drank, despite it being all around her. She was on a mission to make sure that my sister and I were good. She had made friends from her new job; Regina and Myrtis. They decided to go out one Friday night. They went to a club that Myrtis often frequented. Momma sat at the table most of the night. After a while, she noticed a tall handsome guy staring at her from the DJ's booth. The handsome gentleman noticed Momma sitting there with her friends. He stood closer to the table to get a better view of the pretty lady that had grabbed his attention. Are you going to just stand there? Or are you going to ask me to dance? Momma spoke to him with confidence. Michael offered the pretty lady his hand for a dance. He said that THIS was the moment when he knew that she would be his wife.

It was the beginning of fall, 1979. I was 4 years old. Michael came to Momboo's house to pick us up. What he didn’t know at the time was that Momma and Uncle Ricky were in a heated argument. Momma was all up in Uncle Ricky's face about something, and he was right back in hers. I was watching his hands for the knife, but they only yelled at each other. By that time, Michael had arrived, and Aunt Wanda opened the door for him. He heard the loud arguing in the back. Recognizing Paula's voice, from talking on the phone all night for the past 3 weeks, he headed to the back room. Uncle Ricky and Momma were standing in the bed, screaming at each other. Michael immediately stepped up on the bed and pushed Ricky out of her face, and then asked her if she was okay. Uncle Ricky punched Michael in the back of the head and the two men began to fight, right there, standing in the bed. I learned two things that afternoon on Judge Dupree; that Michael DID have a heart, and also that he DIDN’T have but one leg! Michael punched Uncle Ricky in the stomach with a stiff uppercut. Ricky fell down on the bed and rolled, holding on to Michael's leg. He rolled onto the floor and looked up at Michael. Paula had her arms around him. Ricky started to get up and that's when he realized that he still had Michael's leg in his arms. What the fuck?! He dropped the wooden leg onto the floor and walked out of the room, still talking smack on his way out.

You’d better be glad nigga. Paula, you better tell him.

I stood in the middle of the room, soaking it all in. I had never seen anyone stand up to my Uncle Ricky. I had never seen anyone come to Momma's rescue, other than Momboo. I certainly had never seen anyone with one leg before. This was a lot to process. Michael sat on the bed and worked his prosthetic back on. Momma gathered herself, a few things, me, and Nicole, and we headed out the door. We jumped into Michael's car, a royal blue Chevy 64 Impala. As we pulled off, Uncle Ricky came outside walking down the driveway, next to the car, threatening Michael. Momma locked the doors, and we sped away.

We slept at different hotel rooms every night for the next few weeks, until we finally moved into an apartment. Years later, Momma would often tell the story about me on the first night in our new apartment. She said that I came into her room, frustrated and fed up, 4 years old, with an attitude, and said, Momma, I’m tired of this. I’m ready to go home, mistaking our new apartment for another hotel room. I was ready to go back to Momboo's house. Now, we had moved to The Legends Apartments in West Oak Cliff. This was the hood, but it wasn’t the ghetto. Another chapter in our lives had begun.

Black is Beautiful, Indeed

Chapter 5

I had just turned 5 that January, and I’d be starting school in the fall. Umphrey Lee Elementary School, in West Oak Cliff was the first elementary school that I attended. Umphrey Lee was a K-6 elementary, kindergarten to 6 grade students. Momma prepared me for school that entire summer. I recall that her patience wore thin, trying to teach me how to read a clock, and tell time. She became frustrated and yelled at me. I eventually got it though, and seeing how happy that made her, encouraged me to want to learn more things. Mr. Jarvis, my biological Dad, is a school teacher, by trade. By then, I was meeting him at my Grandmother's house in Glendale, maybe two weekends out of a month. Daddy was BIG on teaching and learning. During this time, he was in his militant stage;very pro black. He promoted education, and he would have a short list of words for me every time that I saw him. I had to learn how to spell these words, their definitions, and how to use them in sentences. He’d ask me about the words at any time, so I always made sure that I knew my words. I had to be able to use each word in a sentence properly, and if I didn’t have the spelling or definition correct, then I didn’t get new words, and I’d be on his form of punishment, which usually only meant that I had to pick one VHS movie rental, instead of two, and could only get one toy that weekend. I was his only child after all, and I hated to disappoint my parents, or any adult for that matter. SO, I learned how to spell each word, and learned their definitions. I still remember the first 3 words: prevaricate, facetious, & simultaneously. I would often *WOW* adults by using my new words. This created for me a love of words. He also taught me how to count to 100, using 1$bills, making 10 stacks of 10.

August 1980, first day of school. I was 5 years old, in kindergarten. My teacher was Mrs. Waller, a sweet but stern elderly black lady. She hugged me every morning when I walked in her classroom. The classroom reads from left to the right. Left to the right. She would have the class saying this out loud together, slamming our left hand down when we say LEFT, and our right hand down when we say RIGHT. This is how she taught the class to read.

My stepdad Michael had ordered encyclopedias, because he’d built a bookshelf for the living room. Along with the encyclopedias, came books of short stories. One of Pa's (Michael's) forms of punishment was to make me go in the room and read those books. I initially abhorred it, but soon I looked forward to my alone time with my books. I would often read to Nicole. Before long, I began to love reading.

Umphrey Lee was where I learned that the measure of melanin in my skin is how some define me. Tar baby! Black Boy! Black Moses! Charcoal! Black Jellybean, the nastiest jelly bean!!! I bet at night; all you can see is his teeth! I heard it all, and this was all new to me. I remember this light skinned, pretty girl named Shelly. She had long, dark black hair. She asked me matter of factly one day, Andre’, why are you so black? Not only did she have the audacity to ask me this, but she REALLY wanted an answer, and I didn’t have one. I was vexed. This hindered my self-confidence and caused me to go into a shell for a little while. I was already a quiet kid, and after those first few weeks of school, I wasn’t talking to or playing with either of the other kids. One evening after school, I asked Momma, Momma, why do the kids call me names? She asked, What do they call you? I explained everything to her. She sat me down right in front of her, held me by the shoulders, and said to me (I’ll never forget……………

Lynn, Black is beautiful. That one short statement held so much weight-much more than I could fully grasp at the time, but I heard her, and I listened. Huh?, I questioned. She continued, Black is beautiful, and let no one tell you different.

What? I thought to myself. Black is beautiful? The kids at school surely don’t know that. It had to be true though, right, because Momma said it. Momma took down some of the encyclopedias off the shelf and opened them. She showed me pictures of dark-skinned people. She showed me Jack Johnson and explained to me his plight - Heavyweight Boxing Champion of the whole WORLD! Wooooow! She showed me Sidney Portier, James Brown, and even images of the African warrior, Shaka Zulu. From that point on, I was proud of my melanin, and I felt much better after talking to Momma.

I went to school the next day with a new confidence. The bell rang and the classroom was full. Mrs. Waller stood at the front of the class, and addressed everyone with a graceful, Good morning my babies. In unison, we all replied, Good morning Mrs. Waller. This was the daily morning routine. Next, we would be practicing reading, or so I expected.

Instead, Mrs. Waller went to the chalk board and wrote numbers, in chronological order from 1-10. She went through each number, asking what it was. After she was done with the number 10, she asked the class, Now who knows what comes after the number 10? Hands shot up quickly.

She called on James Sneed. James stood up, and made a show of things. He cleared his throat, and began counting out loud with confidence. He counted to 30, and stopped with a look that said, Okay, this is where you applaud.

Mrs. Waller showed him the appreciation that he was searching for. Very good James. I’m buying you an ice cream sandwich at lunch today. James smiled, showing plenty of gums and teeth. Anybody else wanna try?, Mrs. Waller asked, staring directly at me, seemingly daring me. I raised my hand. In hushed tones, I could hear a few kids saying, Black Andre.

Mrs. Waller called on me. I stood up and looked around the classroom. No one was really paying attention, or so I thought. I stood up. In my mind, I was in my Dad's living room with my cousin Craig, counting out dollar bills for him (Dad). 1, 2, 3,…. I began. I counted to 100 without a stutter. Everyone that wasn’t napping clapped their hands and cheered. Mrs. Waller looked so proud. Ice cream sandwiches for a week for Andre’. I couldn’t contain my grin as the classroom erupted in cheers.

We had an assembly in the auditorium that day. As we gathered our wits after nap time, Pretty Light Skinned Shelly walked up to me. Black Andre’, get by me in line, so you can sit next to me in the auditorium. She and her friend giggled and walked away. I didn’t know what that was about, but when Mrs. Waller had us line up to go to the assembly, James and his teeth and gums rushed to get behind Shelly. Uh-Uh, Shelly said, shook her head and stepped out of line so James could step up. They had a standoff. Neither was moving, and Mrs. Waller told Shelly to get to the end of the line. Embarrassed, she walked to the back of the line, dramatically sliding her jelly sandals across the tiled floor. I got in the line behind her as the class walked out.

The classroom marched down the hallway with enthusiasm. It was just an assembly, where staff would get up on stage and address us about whatever the monthly DISD curriculum called for. Still, anything that veered from our normal daily routine was exciting. Mrs. Waller ushered us into the auditorium, and to our seats. The auditorium was half packed, as all the kindergarten-4th grade classes were in attendance. Shelly sat next to me.

Mr. Jackson, the school's principal, addressed the auditorium from a booming microphone. I remember always thinking that he looked like George Jefferson, from the tv show. This assembly was about the importance of going to the dentist, and taking care of our teeth. They had a dentist there to give visuals and explanations. She had a huge mock toothbrush, and a set of huge fake teeth and gums. Looked like James's actual teeth and gums. The dentist asked, Students, does anyone know how often we are supposed to brush our teeth? Several kids, including me, yelled out, Three times a day!

That's right. Three times a day, after breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Shelly complimented, Andre’, you’re so smart.

Mr. Jackson pulled down a white screen to start the overhead projector. As soon as the lights went off, Shelly held her hand out to me. I just stared at it, and looked up at her. She looked at me with a look that said, Maybe you’re not so smart after all. Finally, I took her hand in mine, and we sat like that for the rest of the assembly.

I unconsciously massaged her hand, each finger one by one. I rubbed the back of her hand, and the inside of her wrist. 5 years old. We were doing too much. Shelly just sat there gawking at me, and smiling. After the lights came back on and the assembly was over, Mrs. Waller marched us back into our little classroom. It was naptime, which was just fine, because most of us were half asleep anyway.

This was when Shelly told me, Andre’, you’re my boyfriend now.

Okay, was all I said. I didn’t really know what that meant, other than I was supposed to hold her hand during assemblies, and stand by her in line.

I had to see what Momma had to say about it.

It Wasn’t Even Christmas Yet

Chapter 6

Girlfriend? Shaking her head, Momma was having none of that. "Right now, I send you to school every day to LEARN, not to have girlfriends. That can wait. You will have plenty of time for girlfriends when you turn 30 years old." And that was that.

The weekend was here, so it was time to go to Momboo's house. I was always excited for the weekend, so that we could go to the 3rd End, but especially more so then, because for the last few weekends, Craig and I had been learning to ride a bike.

Our friend Jerry Carraway lived two houses down from Momboo's house. Jerry was Fugees baby brother. He had gotten a bike for his birthday, and had just recently taken the training wheels off. Andre’ Thompson lived in the corner house across the street from us. Andre’ was a couple of years older than us. He would push us down the 3rd End on the bike, and let us coast to the stop sign. Before long we were pedaling, and riding the bike ourselves. No more training wheels!!!

I wanted my own bike. Aunt Wilma and Aunt Wanda went out and bought two bikes, for Craig and Baby Ray. They were black and white BMX bikes. I made my request known to Momma that I wanted a bike. I told Daddy, and even Grandmomma and Momboo. At this time, Nicole and I shared a room, two twin beds. I would have the sales paper in the room, keeping her up all night, talking about bikes. Momma said that I had to wait until Christmas. The next day, I studied a calendar. Christmas was almost 8 months away!!!

I’d all but given up on it. Then one morning, I woke up to a brand new glossy black and blue Huffy bicycle in my room, on its kickstand at the foot of my bed. I had to rub my eyes for 10 minutes, to be certain that I wasn’t dreaming. I sat there staring at it for awhile.

You like it? Pa (Michael) was standing at the door, watching. Get up and look at it. I jumped up, wearing my favorite Under-Roos (Aquaman), walked over to my unexpected treasure, and inspected it thoroughly. The bike was perfect. Black and Royal Blue, with black and blue mags, pegs, and a watermelon seat. It had shocks on the tires, which was unique. I wasn’t trying to waste time. I put the bike back on its kickstand, went into the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face.

Momma met me with a smile, Good morning. Do you like the bike that Michael bought you? YES! I’m about to go ride it now!’, I said with excitement. Not before you make up that bed, and eat some breakfast."

Awwww maaaaan. She gave me THE LOOK for that remark. I finished up in the bathroom, and went back into the bedroom. Nicole was still sleeping. I hoped she wasn’t dreaming about getting on my bike, because if so, she was gonna wake up to a different reality. Nobody was riding this bike, but ME! Well, maybe I’d let Craig ride it, but that's it!

Momma had made me a bowl of oatmeal, and buttered, toasted cinnamon raisin bread. I scoffed it down quickly, anxious to get out the door. I pushed my bike by the handle bars down the hall, through the living room, to the front door. Michael met me there. Hold on Cap’n. Let me give you the rules. We stepped outside.

Rule # 1, no riding in the busy street. We were in apartments with busy streets on both sides. The neighborhood streets were on down. So basically I was confined to riding in the apartment parking lot. I was cool with that for the time being.

Rule # 2, keep your bike clean. He showed me where a bucket was kept, with a wet towel in it. "Your tires are going to get dirty. That's expected. But wipe the frame off after you ride it, and keep your handlebars and seat clean.

Rule #3, don’t let anyone ride your bike.

Ok, ok. I agreed to it all without hesitation. I was just ready to ride off. We walked the bike to the concrete steps and down to the apartment parking lot. As soon as I got on the bike, a car was turning into the parking lot. Be careful, Michael said. You have to be mindful of these cars. Don’t expect them to see you. You have to make sure you see them.

I’ll be careful, I yelled back. I was already riding off from the curb. Speed bump, pot hole, car not parked right. This wasn’t gonna be easy, but I’d make the best of it. I saw a hole in the gate behind our apartments, and a trail just outside the gate. I’d have to investigate that. Meanwhile, I just rode up and down the parking lot, sun shining on my face. I stayed out there for hours, riding back and forth, until Momma stepped out to the curb, and motioned me back in. I stopped at the front door, grabbed the towel and bucket and wiped my new whip down before taking it in. I parked the bike in our bedroom. Nicole was sitting up in her bed.

I got a bike Cole. I was still smiling.

Is it Christmas?, she asked, still half asleep.

No, it's not Christmas yet.

Well then, why did Santa Claus bring you a bike?

Santa didn’t bring me a bike. Michael did, because I’m special.

I walked to their bedroom door and knocked. Michael said, Come in. I walked in and threw my arms around his neck, hugging him. Thank you. Thank you. I love my bike. Thank you. Can we get Nicole one too? He chuckled, saying, You’re welcome. Just keep doing well in school and keep your room clean like you’ve been doing. Don’t worry. Nicole will get a bike soon.

Okay. I was ready to get back outside, when I heard a booming sound. Thunder. It had started to rain. Hard. I wasn’t deterred one bit. Momma stopped me in my tracks. No way mister. You will not be going out in the rain. Head dropped, I rolled the bike back to the room and parked it.

I had memorized Momboo's phone number;225-2512. I called Craig to share my good news with him. He sounded as excited as I was. I couldn’t wait for him to see it. After Uncle Ricky had wrecked the 64 Impala beyond repair, Pa had gotten himself a pickup truck, and he said that we could take my bike to Momboo's house so I could ride with Craig. I couldn’t wait!

A Hard Head Makes A Soft A**

Chapter 7

I looked out of the window. It was pouring down, raining. I sat on the couch, in the living room with Momma. It was mid-day, and I could tell that she was tired from a busy work week. That became evident when I heard her snoring lightly. I peeked in their bedroom. Michael was asleep. Nicole was under the covers, still in bed. I wasn’t about to stare at the walls, so I pushed my bike to the door, and rolled it outside. It was still misting rain, but it was light. It felt good actually. I could tell that it rained hard for the little while that I was back in the house. Big puddles had gathered in the courtyard, and in the parking lot. I was not deterred. I got on my bike and rode out into the parking lot. HOOOOOONNNNNK! The driver of a big old school LTD pressed on his horn and his brakes, sliding passed me, barely missing, as I rode out into the parking lot, between two parked cars.

Gitcho black ass out the street!, the angry driver yelled. I’d have to be careful. That was close. I rode on through the lot, watching ahead for any moving vehicles. I got to the back fence and inspected the hole that I’d previously spotted from a distance. It was big enough for me to roll my bike through. I got off my bike and pushed through the gate to the trail. It was muddy, but I’d be ok.

I rode my bike, bouncing along the trail, through mud, and puddles. I had no idea where the trail was leading to, but curiosity had me in its grasp. The trail opened up to a creek that dropped down deep. The path rode along right next to the creek. It felt dangerous, but I kept going, slowly. I exhaled when I made it to the other side. I got back on my bike and rode on. I finally saw the end of the path. The path let out on a street that I wasn’t familiar with. I knew that I wasn’t far from where we lived, because I wasn’t riding for long. I continued onto the street, got on my bike and rode until I came to a stop sign. I looked back, trying to get a mental picture of the way I’d come, so that I could find my way back to the trail that led to home.

I turned down another street. Lo and behold, a familiar sight. It was my school. I rode toward the playground, just thrilled to see something that I recognized. There were some other boys there, the same age as me, standing by the swings. I recognized a few of them from around school.

Hey Black Andre’. It was a kid named George from my class.

Hey Curious George. I got off my bike and went over to him. The other kids always made fun of George because of his short, nappy hair. They called him Curious George, like the monkey from the book Mrs. Waller read to us some days, before nap time.

Wow Black Andre’, that's a cool bike. I beamed with pride. Can I ride it?, George asked.

Nope, I can’t let anyone ride my bike. I said this quickly. The other boys walked over. I didn’t know either of them. They all oohed and ahhed at my bike. I’d already made up my mind that I was going to fight if someone tried to get on it, or even touch it, but they all just admired from a distance. The two bigger boys stood back. One of them had a football.

George asked me, Do you know how to play? I was familiar with football. Momma watched the Dallas Cowboys faithfully. She and my aunts would be screaming at the television every Sunday after church. We also played football in the street on the 3rd End-stop sign to stop sign, touch-tackle in the street(two hands on the back), and tackle in the grass. That was street