SICKO The Stubborn Child of God

By Kwame King

This is the invigorating, spine-tingling, true story of Sicko; a once-upon-a-time homeless kid bred in the west Bronx. Sicko's life details the timeline of a lawless adolescent mentally trapped within the limits of poverty. A gifted Indo-African, adapting to his environment year after year, to the extent of adding to the

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victory Lift Publishing
• Release date: Oct 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781733572125

Kwame King

Kwame King is a writer, musician, artist, and clothing designer. From the streets of New York, to becoming the Chief Operating Officer of Victory Lift Publishing, and founder of KOMPLX by Ladarius Bleu (clothing line), he helps young men find peace in their creative minds. Kwame was inspired by his role - mentoring in the New York City public school system, as a member of the One Hundred Black Men foundation. His three beautiful children influenced the narrative of rediscovering "purpose" in life. Currently, he resides in Maryland.

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SICKO

The Stubborn Child of God

KWAME KING

art

Victory Lift Publishing™

4320 Broadway - 1011

New York, NY 10033

www.VictoryLiftPublishing.com

© 2022 Kwame King. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by: Victory Lift Publishing LLC 10/15/2022

ISBN: 978-1-7335721-0-1 (hardcover)

978-1-7335721-2-5 (eBook)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022914400

Printed in the United States of America

This book is printed on acid-free paper

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Shutterstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Shutterstock

Cover designed by Kwame King

Artwork and photo by Kwame King

www.TheStubbornChildofGod.com

Because of the dynamic nature of the internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this book are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher. The publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Dedicated to the Lost and Gifted Souls

Through the obstacles of life, embrace your distinction.

-- Preface --

BEFORE I BEGIN TO TELL MY STORY, I’LL SKIM THROUGH SOME BLOODY history to help you understand the aggressive forces that were against me:

It started in 1619, when a group of British settlers (allies of European maritime nations encroaching upon Native American land for the past fifty years plus) captured twenty Africans and shipped them to Jamestown Virginia; planting then the seed of slavery. Over the next one hundred years, while it’s impossible to generate accurate numbers of how many slaves were captured, let’s just say millions of healthy Africans were imported onto the land and legally degraded as three-fifths of a person. These slaves were starved, beaten, and forced to build the same nation that only vowed to keep them enslaved - the United Colonies (known today as the United States).

In 1711, New York City opened the market to slave trade: a public market near Wall Street, for selling and trafficking slaves. Very little of these strong Africans had the capacity to resist. Why? Well, the punishment was revealed in 1712. Armed slaves rebelled against their oppressors, killing an estimate of nine colonists. As a result, countless colored folks were slaughtered and hung in public sight, to be examples for anyone who’d consider a courageous attempt. New slave codes were then strictly enforced. Slave owners were required to pay state taxes for emancipation rights. They’d presume full responsibility for their properties thereafter.

In the 1750s, these White settlers heavily financed wars over American soil, for the expansion of cotton production. French and Indian allies joined in rivalries against them, which lasted for years. In 1789, standing at Federal Hall on Wall Street (near the same place where slaves were solicited), the first president of the United States took an oath – George Washington. Six years later, in 1795, following a victory over Native American battlefield, a treaty regarding land concession between United States and indigenous nations was signed. This order would limit Indians to Northwestern territory (known as Ohio state). Tax payments were then put in place.

In 1830, The Indian Removal Act was signed into law by the United States Government. Within eight years, Native Americans (the original founders of the land) became part of a series of forced displacement. In what Cherokee Indians refer to as, The Trail Where They Cried, indigenous nations were forced a thousand miles out - through Federal Legislation & Executive Order, assault and murder. Settlers were officially able to claim the land.

By 1860, the colored slave population in America increased to nearly four million. Many of which were restricted to southern cotton-producing states. Following the 1861 election of Abraham Lincoln, these slaves finally united in what’s known today as the American Civil War (1861-1865).

The American Civil War brought about results. Forced to create a solution after Union battlefield losses, in 1863, Abraham Lincoln issued the preliminary emancipation proclamation - Freeing all slaves. With thousands of enslaved colored warriors still standing strong before the Union, President Lincoln declared: This is not a question of sentiment or taste, but one of physical force which may be measured. We were FREE AT LAST! Well, in 1865, Lincoln was assassinated, and in 1866, the KKK emerged.

This hateful group of White’s protected their identities under bedsheets and went on to assassinate thousands of innocent colored folks, to prove this point: We are not equal. In the 1930s, Atlanta Georgia, a young Indo-African man by the name of Leroy Henderson was spat on by a superior White man. He stood his ground and assassinated the tyrant, but for his public safety, he was forced to evade the state. Transported to New York in a wooden crate, he then married under a new name and started a family. That’s the legacy of my maternal great grandfather. In 1950, in response to decades of violence portrayed by the KKK, many states implemented anti-masking laws. Then, in Memphis Tennessee, 1968, while peacefully encouraging equality in a speech titled The Poor People’s Campaign, an honorable African leader was assassinated. Rest in peace to Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr… Your dreams will live on.

Eleven years later, an African / Native American writer was born. Honored to present my story today, I am Kwame King.

- CONTENTS -

Copyright

Preface

Introduction

SEASON 1: THE LAND I WAS NEVER PROMISED

1. The First Step

2. Adaptation

3. Organized Scarcity

4. Playing the Part

5. Societies Masculinity

6. Unconventional Approach

7. Consciously Numb

8. In the Shadows of a Curse

9. Dark Side

10. Gun Violence

11. The Red Zone

SEASON 2: POISON IN THE GIFT

12. Courtesy of Fame

13. Obliviously Territorial

14. Divided Push

15. Mixed Emotions

SEASON 3: BROKEN ATTACHMENTS

16. Indecisive

17. Choice and Reason

18. Functioning Incomplete

19. Stabling Waves

20. Destroy and Rebuild

SEASON 4: UNLOCKING LEVELS

21. Recreating

22. Consistency

23. Friendly Benefits

24. Attentiveness

25. Fortes for Breakthroughs

26. Unwavering Patterns

27. Liberation of Trauma

Bonus: Encourage-Meant

Acknowledgments

SICKO

The Stubborn Child of God

(Introduction)

I was born to the slums of New York City. West Bronx to be more specific. Raised by a single mother of three, I may have been the youngest and most innocent, but raising the three of us was quite the challenge. It was Amari, Jafari, and Stinky was how she normally got the news back to her. We were always into something… Always!

This account begins in the vintage Bronx; back in the mid 80’s. When graffiti marked the bricks of every building structure and tiles of every subway station. Buildings were either burnt down or barely standing. Filthy tenements, project complexes, junkyards and vacant lots; sums up the region. Poverty near it’s poorest.

Street kids hugged the corners - hustling and playing craps up against the buildings. Civilized women were hardly in their proximity, unless of course they were involved with the hustler or offering something to anybody willing to pay for a friendly night. They were probably gathered at a stoop midway up the block, or not far from the elders sitting at a fold-up table playing card games or Dominos. The corner wasn’t their thing. I guess because that was usually where the trouble started.

Vehicles were square and law enforcement was racist towards colored folks. For that and many other reasons, the word Nigger wasn’t allowed in our households. It was a curse like any other slur or derogatory term. The greeting my brother was the idyllic sign of respect. The name Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. represented power. Educated colored folks called each other Negros and Blacks. Church on Sundays was mandatory for most of us. Unity and fellowship was all we had, so it was all we were taught.

In a culture that didn’t rely on police-protection, by no means were we to hand our people over to slavery. That explains why tattle-telling was prohibited. Such gestures were only rewarded with punishment. Why? Well, because history proved that we couldn’t trust the law. Police brutality, lawful extortion, unjust prison sentences, false arrests, and planted evidence was all so familiar in every family. So, adults were coherently training their children to operate surreptitiously in the circumference of authorities. They were teaching us to protect ourselves. It didn’t matter if a person from the neighborhood was heavily affiliated or simply acknowledged, if he or she required help from an outside group and you were present, then you were obligated to defend them.

It was also normal to see children helping an elder up the block with their groceries. Grandparent-to-grandchildren affection was generally displayed around the neighborhood. On an ordinary day, residents of diverse nationalities sat comfortably on their fire escapes enjoying the weather and safeguarding the neighborhood. Fire hydrants stayed on full blast. Most of the surrounding buildings suffered from low water pressure due to the overuse of hydrants, but tenants rarely complained. They’d prefer seeing us enjoy ourselves at the pump, as opposed to hugging the corner with those straying away. That’s until someone would spoil the fun of course. Turn that damn hydrant off! shouting from a random window a tenant would demand. Minutes later, the fire department would be shutting us down and we’d be finding something else to do.

Every summer day was like a block party that didn’t end until the wee hours of the morning. Throughout the day, most of the young males played street basketball on the rim of a bicycle (with its spikes removed) nailed to a plaque on the poll. There was likely a game of two-hand-touch football up and down the street, skelzies in a box somewhere in between, and freeze-tag on the sidewalk. Young ladies either played jump-rope with an extension cord, found a rock and chalked a hopscotch board, joined the freeze-tag excitement, while a few even participated in sports. Ironically, although the illustration of poverty was significantly poor, the streets were creatively entertaining.

As love and unity began to spread, crack was implanted as a detriment to our community. One curious moment could’ve sped up time; causing a neighbor to chase that first high for a large portion of his or her life. Imagine a pull so strong that it can diminish the brain cells of even the most talented individuals. Folks who were once held up to high standards, were now nodding and begging for change.

An illegal resource or lucky Lottery ticket was the most hopeful escape. I could’ve walked down the block and found a crack-vial in every gap of the concrete, just as I could’ve found a lottery ticket near every trash can. There was a liquor store within a five-block radius of every avenue and a weed-man on every corner in between. It was like the happiest slum-cycle in these streets; flooded with drugs, defeat, dirty money and hope.

Most of the successful were drug dealers, while most of the defeated were drug abusers. Based on that analysis, I knew eventually I’d have to choose. While surely, I couldn’t see myself growing up to be a drug addict, this drug called the ghetto was extremely addictive. Take a walk with me through the dirty streets of New York.

Season 1

The Land I Was Never Promised

Chapter 1

1985

The First Step

My Identity

Discharged from the nursery, I was taken to a house on a hill (1857 Loring Place), right off Burnside Avenue. Now 1857 was the reward of an empire, established by my maternal grandmother Ms. G. Ms. G was a boss. A natural born hustler. Once a Nicky Barnes affiliate, she had enough clout to link my biological father with Gus’s operation over in Harlem, and Gus was the man on fifty-fifth. He had a portion of Harlem sewn. Sadly, that was a connection that didn’t turnout in my father’s favor. He walked out of this deal a few fingers short. I guess Gus wasn’t anyone to be played with either. Needless to say, this was a hustling family far before I was born.

Here I am, six years old and coming of age. My Aunt Holli gave me the nickname Stinky when I was just a toddler. Apparently, I’d run through the house with a sour bottle, which she thought was disgusting and stink, so the name suited me well. Well, that name followed me into the streets and stuck with me for decades to follow.

My first name, Kwame, was given by my mother as a sign of appreciation for her courageous brother who delivered me in the living room of 1857 (Uncle Kwame). Uncle Kwame was perceived as a man of greatness. The fastest man on the basketball courts some still acknowledged. I witnessed his athletic capabilities and often heard him say the hottest lyrics on the corner, which was indeed encouraging. Keep in mind, this is the man I was named after.

My middle name Ali was taken from my godfather: a strong Black man who was gunned down by police officers when I was months old. According to my elders, Godfather Ali was a hustler, which makes him far from a saint. But in the fatal shot that took his life, he was laid to rest as a victim of mistaken identity.

My last name is a maternal name that Nana married into. That wasn’t the surname of her tribe, nor was it my grandfather’s, which is why I prefer to be acknowledged as Mr. King. In the coming years, the reaction my maternal name would cause in the precincts, didn’t make living with it any more comfortable than being a Black man in urban attire. Law enforcement couldn’t stand us.

Most of Nana’s children still walked with the pride and dignity of successors, so her children’s children developed a similar demeanor. She was the parent of eleven children and four foster children. That’s a lot of aunts and uncles to obey. From Burnside Avenue to Macombs Avenue, Rosedale Projects to Edenwald Projects, Patterson Projects and so forth, we were spread across the Bronx.

Being raised in such a large family, inspired around-the-clock education that consisted of etiquette, cultural history, street smarts, book smarts, physical sportsmanship, hip-hop, classic R&B, humiliation and manipulation. Everybody everywhere had something to teach, be it good or bad.

My brothers and older cousins were offensively comical. Their lessons didn’t come in any ordinary fashion. Then again, this wasn’t any ordinary family.

Stinky! my big cousin Cesar informed me,

Aunty left some apple juice in the freezer for you.

It’s a lil warm Amari added, cause she just bought it.

I had just run in the house nearly dehydrated from hours of basketball, so they knew my first stop was to that freezer. You can imagine that I began guzzling immediately.

Yuckkk I spat. Disgusting!

This wasn’t apple juice at all. It was a warm bottle of urine implanted for my humiliation. So, I fixed my face and passed it off to my cousin Shareef. I wasn’t about to be the only fool in that kitchen.

It’s too warm I pretended.

In this one lesson, we were taught to pay attention. To slow down and feel the temperature. To embrace generosity cautiously. That’s not even a small fraction of the unorthodox lessons I cautioned myself for. Jokes, jokes, and more jokes. Jokes that started out as playful acts, but often turned into witty battles. Witty battles that were likely to escalate into physical aggression. That’s around the time Mother would step in.

Raising three rough young men, it wasn’t easy. Praises to my mother for still enforcing nightly prayer. Despite the odds, she was determined to keep us equipped with the armor of God. But don’t let that fool you. She also wasn’t to be played with. There were lines drawn since way back in our toddler stages. She wasn’t to be startled in any practical joking manner, violated by any elevated tone, bodily tickled in any playful form, or deceived with any foolery. Each of these limits were discovered the hard way.

One time, I crept to the kitchen’s doorway, dumped a fresh chicken leg in the trashcan, rushed back to my seat and procrastinated with the little remains as if I just demolished my entire meal. When I went to scrape the crumbs in the garbage, my mother glanced at the plate and politely asked,

So, where’s the chicken bone? Son? Boy, you better get that food out of that can, she demanded. That’s a whole leg. Get back to that table and finish that food.

But Ma, I pled.

But what? She approached.

There’s ashes on it. I began to argue.

I don’t give a d***! she threatened. There’s starving people in Africa! Say another word."

Yea, she was that adamant about appreciating those meals.

Mother was involved with a guy named Snooky since far before I can remember. This man took on the responsibility of my father and didn’t look back yet. He was pretty active in our lives - reinforcing the completion of our homework, giving us decent haircuts, and often times putting some coins in our pockets. He taught me to keep a firm handshake and give the person standing before me my full attention (looking into their eyes). To verify intentions and second-guess strangers.

Snooky was an intelligent drug dealer. He was one of those hustlers who knew when to adjust to limitations, so he rarely found himself in a major jam. Uncle Rock on the other hand, Snooky’s younger brother, had a reputation for being an extortionist. He wasn’t at all as conscientious as his brothers. That explains why Uncle Rock spent a large portion of his life behind bars.

There were some tough standards I had to meet and not too many weaknesses that were tolerated. Whatever weaknesses I had, were expected to be reshaped and reapproached the moment I had to face them.

On my biological father’s side of the family, I didn’t have many relatives residing in New York. Most of them were southerners thru and thru. It would’ve had to be a holiday occasion to be graced with their presence. My father’s mother however, Grandma Nelly, lived on Burnside Avenue as well, and only had two children - Holli and Spud. Aunt Holli and her two children (Keon and Little Corey) still resided with Grandma Nelly. Spud moved out of the apartment some years back, but he still lived in the Bronx, so he wasn’t exempt of Grandma Nelly’s most accurate suggestion…

Spud, Grandma Nelly often emphasized, you know yo kids is here. You need to get yo a** on over here father these chilren.

I guess it was worth the try.

Spud was our father. Let me start by saying that this man was significantly damaged. As a teenager, he witnessed his father die of multiple stab wounds, which I can imagine had a major psychological effect on him. It probably left a still image in his head that may have played a part in why he never connected with his children. Fear of his past or present coming to haunt him in the presence of his loved ones, perhaps. If that had been the case, it was never expressed to his children, so we went on to create our own understanding: our father didn’t give a f about us. So, as his acquaintances referred to him, Spud, so did we.

Spud was viewed as the lost sheep, for the simple fact that he was a product of the streets. He hustled, he fought, he smoked, he drank, and kept his hands dirty in every which way. What would make us any different? It’s not odd that we would embrace the same stubborn personality, except we preferred to be more like the successors of our mother’s side, with a twist of whatever it may have taken to survive in the dirty streets of the Bronx.

Spud was avoiding the fatherhood role ever since my birth. My brothers and I weren’t the only children he was abandoning. There were others roaming apart as well. There was a brother named "Jawaad" we had yet to meet, who was in between me and Jafari’s age, and a sister named Keana, in between Amari and Jafari’s age. In a time where computers didn’t exist in one’s home, neither internet nor cell phones, you can imagine that growing up without our siblings was a reality we were prepared to live with.

While Spud displayed unfailing absenteeism, Grandma Nelly and Aunt Holli filled the part to the best of their abilities. We slept at Grandma Nelly’s place often - on weekends, holidays, and throughout summer vacations. Staying with Grandma Nelly was to be under strict regulations, strict curfew, strict punishment, and strictly full course meals. This woman cooked enough food for visitors had someone decided to stop by. I’m talking about two styles of chicken and pork chops (smothered and fried), homemade mashed potatoes - with homemade gravy sauce on the side, rice, greens, cornbread, and sometimes more. Sunday was a day worth waiting for.

This side of the family was generally civilized and successful. They were marines, navy seals, nurses and professionals of many occupations. Grandma Nelly’s biological sister, Aunt Louise for instance, was a registered nurse who resided in New Jersey. She had one child named Ervin (the first cousin of my generation). He was an extremely book-smart teen. One who excelled in school by far. It was no secret that he was academically advanced. His accomplishments were paraded as examples for those of us going astray.

Now Ervin was raised in upscale environments and was often preoccupied by travel and literature. On the contrary, we barely traveled anywhere outside of ghettos. Our surroundings consisted of hustlers driving the fanciest cars, washed up drug addicts, and young teens challenging themselves to adapt. So, what Ervin may have viewed as success, and what Grandma Nelly was attempting to replicate, was totally different than what the streets was showing us, and a blatant contradiction to what Spud was chasing. Obviously, Spud saw something in the streets, worth trusting Ms. G to guide him to.

Chapter 2

1986

Adaptation

Pandemonium (The Fire Effect)

1857 was a gift and a curse. This was the house that brought my family together, but also the one that nearly tore us apart. On a normal summer day, while gathered mostly on the second floor, an uncontrollable fire broke out. It was spreading quicker than we could exit. The frontend of the house was covered in a blaze. Wooden floor strips were bubbling up and snapping apart. Walls were falling down, and windows were shattering clean out. Uncle Taliq was running back and forth through a small breach, escorting the family towards the back window. Children were being prepared to be tossed down into Uncle Kwame’s arms, standing on the top of a car in the backyard waiting to make the catch. In the blink of an eye, I was being set down safely on the hood.

Jafari came flying out wildly behind me. Unfortunately, his landing wasn’t so smooth. He fell awkwardly out of Uncle Kwame’s arms, hit the ground below, and broke one of his legs on the concrete. My mother was frazzled, attending to Jafari’s injury and easing my fears at the same time, but there was one more child to be accounted for…

Where’s Amari? she worried.

Somebody help me! Amari’s voice was heard repeatedly screaming. Help!"

Amari! Uncle Taliq made his way through the blazes searching. Stay right there I’m coming to you!

Those of us in the backyard were now carefully escorted towards the front of the house, to avoid being struck by flying rubble. It was a relief to hear Uncle Taliq yell I got him! Back against the kitchen sink with blazes before them, the next obstacle was making it out.

The temperature was rising. Cornered by flames-too-intense to risk