Dying Of A Light

By David F. Smith

In Dying of a Light, DF Smith skillfully recreates the picturesque waterfront university campus in historic Virginia, the raw sounds, smells & mind state of the Jersey City street ecosystem. He gives an interesting insight into the sociocultural theoretical perspective of urban youth. The title character, Diamond Palladium narrates a perilous journey which is familiar to some, known to a few, but told by none. The story begins in the early seventies when Palladium is born into chaos and rescued by a strong Black woman. He embarks upon an odyssey which is all too natural in regards to his genetic coding, but contrary to his moral home teachings. This serious life threatening, life loosing narrative gives a unique view into the actuality of events that take place subsequent to young adults leaving their parents nest. In a novel that incorporates painstaking experiences with unforgettable style & detail, Smith presents an all to rarely witnessed part of young black culture with a provocative portrayal of the silent bonds between men & women of color. Most of all he gives us the saga of real flesh & blood individuals making difficult decisions in the face of unimaginable danger, giving a clearer, deeper understanding to the psychodynamics of the urban mind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9780976587644

Book preview

Chapter One

A black Pontiac, came to a screeching stop in front of me. A woman was driving, while three men aggressively jumped out the vehicle and started heading towards me. It definitely wasn’t who I thought, because had it been, I would already be dead. They wouldn’t have even gotten out of the car.

It took a split second for me to analyzed and see that I had a fighting chance. I sized all three up, from head to toe and noticed fear in the eyes, of the one closest to me. My fight, or flight mechanism chose an assertive approach, telling me to hold my ground, so I forwarded, as my adversaries seemed to be moving in slow motion.

I swept the right leg of the first, with my left foot and followed, with an elbow to his throat, sending him dropping toward the ground. He tugged at my shirt, as he was falling, ripping it, during his descend to the concrete. I rotated facing him, to completely free my self from the torn clothing, which was now hindering my movement. At this moment, I felt a thrust to my back, the impact was hard and quick. I felt the force of the blow, but no pain followed.

I saw my cousin Chuck approaching, out the corner of my eye, while simultaneously thinking; who the hell are these cowards and what’s their motive since its not a robbery.

All of a sudden, gunshots went off and the perpetrators scrambled to get back in the Pontiac, peeling off, before the doors could even close.

A friend of ours named Key, who was on the scene, with Chuck and myself, brought it to my attention, that I had been stabbed in the back, plus was losing a lot of blood.

I continued to stay calm, it felt like a heart beat was in the wound, with every throb pumping out hemoglobin. By now, everyone in the locality was out of their homes, being openly nosey, as the police and ambulance were arriving. I felt faint and rested on the shoulder of my father, who just appeared out of nowhere and began to usher me to the paramedics. My head started spinning, like a centrifuge, as I began to contemplate and go under beneath consciousness. How did it come to this? Is this what the rest of my short life going to be like, due to choices that I’ve made, things that I’ve done? If so, I’m prepared, but first certain things must be taken care of, before the inevitable grand finale.

My mind, then floated to another place, drifting on invisible waves, while thinking, plus remembering how it all started, in the very beginning of my earthly journey.

The Place is Jersey City, New Jersey, the time is the early nineteen seventies, the scene was big cars, big afros, bell bottom pants, hair picks, with the fist, flashy outrageously stylish outfits, with big matching hats, big shoes, with big heels, cool slang for hip talk and music like never before, that would last for ever. Bars, which doubled as social clubs, a church on every other corner and newly established masjids throughout the city. Black owned restaurants, beauty salons and stores. Afrocentricity.

This was the beginning of a minor renaissance for the American born black, most of who migrated from the south, within a decade, or better. Supposedly, at the so called end of segregation. The termination of this period actually, only officially happened on paper, but little did the Black Man know.

Now its time to newly and formally be introduced to gentrification. Which in actuality, wouldn’t truly be recognized, until the mask was uncovered years later. At this time, Black people believed by moving to a metropolis, or within a megalopolis, not only would there be greater opportunities for employment ‘better jobs’ as they say. In addition, their children would receive a better education, by attending an integrated, fast pace urban school. The problem encountered was, by the time enrollment for class came around, whites had already rolled, or moved out of the city and into rural suburbia. The educational system of excellence traveled along with them, consequently forming and perpetuating faulty institutions of learning, in cities not normally known for this.

My name is Diamond, Diamond Light Palladium and although an infant at the time, I was well aware of my surroundings and in tune, with what was going on, through if nothing else osmosis. My biological mother was killed in a car accident, when I was just five weeks on this planet, my older sister was four at the time. This left us to live with my father, which was something he wasn’t prepared for alone. Due to my father’s lifestyle, specifically number running, amongst other things, which he was at war for at the time, my sister and I were taken to my aunt’s house. She cared, loved and raised us as her own, along with her two daughters, who became my sisters.

My father had a dispute over a payout, with a disgruntled customer; who thought he had hit the jackpot, but the coins he expected, weren’t ejected. The man was undoubtably positive, that he had hit the number, but my father and uncle believed otherwise; due to the information regarding his good fortune, not being present in their meticulous paperwork. Neither of them took the number themselves, so it wasn’t even logged in central memory.

The man became bellicose and in his mind rightfully so. As a result, vicious fights began to candidly escalate between them. Happening everywhere they encountered each other, throughout the entirety of the town, in addition to increasing the numbers of those involved.

Dissatisfied with no prompt resolution of the problem at hand, death threats began to spread, carrying the john and his crew’s signature.

Mistakenly not bringing certification to the fatalist statements made, the entire ordeal culminated, with some serious bodily injuries. The john, plus some of the other members of his coalition involved, were hospitalized, but fortunately, there were no casualties.

Ironically and subsequently, the fact illuminated that one of my father’s employees, who was also a friend, named J Bird, recorded the number, but accidentally slid it out of visible reach. He was trying to multitask, by addressing more than one customer at a time, which evidently was more than he could handle. The slip was later found underneath the cash register, following a month interval, post drama. The john was rightfully paid out most of the winnings that he was due, sending things, as close to normal, as they could possibly get back to.

The daily number was obtained from the winning results of the nightly horse races, found in the newspaper. This was the lottery, before it became a bureaucracy.

The household I stayed in, was quite the contrary to my fathers way of life, the exact opposite to be precise. Everything was square biz, straight laced, God fearing, church going, working class, good Christian folk, making the best and most, out of what they had. Where more was a blessing, only acquired by overtime and prayer, nothing much else.

My mother was a realist, without visions of grander, although possessing good hopes for the future. She did what she had to do for the house to stay in shape, leading by example and helping anyone that was in need. There isn’t a person that my mother came in contact with, that she didn’t do something for, she’s just that type of person. The rare kind, that didn’t do anything because she wanted something in return, it’s just in her nature to be that way. She figured her reward was with the lord, which was sufficient enough for her to continue, with the way she’s always been.

Chapter Two

My earliest memories are of me in a walker, tiny legs speeding across the shiny hard wood floor of the house, which seemed to be, so gigantic through my fetal eyes, but in actuality was only a two family home. We lived in the up stairs segment, my aunt, uncle and three cousins resided down stairs. We were located two houses from the corner, with the dairy queen standing directly across the street, giving off a palatial essence. I can still smell the char broiled aroma of the over sized burgers cooking on the grill, because ice cream wasn’t the only selection on the Super DQ menu.

I remember being strapped in my walker, with chains lining the curb of the sidewalk, in front of the dairy queen, at night. Ice cream in palm, feeling present, at what I thought, was the nucleus of the universe. The wind blowing softly upon my face, stars populating the entire sky, while hearing the vast melodious symphony of sounds, permeating from the pulsating heart of the city. Cool, or what one might call funkadelic, type individuals in every direction, looking, plus acting bigger than life itself; on foot, in vehicles, talking, laughing, grooving, listening to Al Green, making plans, with treats in their hands.

This definitely was it, with it, being enough to hold one captive, with no resistance, in an attractive state of paralysis. I felt connected to an abysmal depth of action, with my premature adrenaline superfluously rushing, from simply watching, while wishing and hoping for interaction, which I received from a language spoken through the eyes. Could this last for ever, I wondered, plus wanted it to and for then it did, the clock frozen, with ice, as its hands stood still.

Not yet even possessing control of my audible devices, enabling me to talk, but in hold of an innate ability to observe, with my observation being photographic, capacitating myself for all, which is to inevitably come. Nothing at all being wrong, with nothing capable of going wrong, is what my universe reassured me and so I believed. The purity of youth, in accordance, with the innocence of purity itself, but if only for a split second occurring, a beautiful moment, truly captured in time.

My godfather lived with us, a hard working truck driver by profession. To me, he represented the perfect rendition of what a good, upright man was suppose to be like and he was the law, not just to me, but all those he came in contact with.

His car was the bat mobile, at least I thought it was, because it looked just like it, I mean, the spitting image, just in maroon. Each time I stepped inside it, whether to ride, or not, I was officially on crime fighting business. A caped crusader, protecting New Jerusalem, as my flaming engine sped off into the darkest of nights. Every button, or lever a special secret device, plus every entrance a new episode.

When I learned to walk, I quickly ran, then, while running I proceeded to jump and if, while jumping, something was too high, I climbed with no problem. I played with my three older cousins from downstairs, Dida, Larock and their sister Namone, who was more like another sister than a cousin to me.

Dida was the oldest, a slick witted individual, who played a dual matrix role in my adolescent years. He taught me a lot of positive and negative things, mostly negative, but I guess that’s what he knew to be popping within self at the time. He’s responsible for a lot of what I know about sports, plus about stealing, not to mention how to steal, but not that stealing was wrong, just a way of getting things on the five finger discount. I didn’t question our repeated actions at the time, because the candy rewards kept my mouth full, satisfied, in addition to quiet.

His younger brother Larock was my favorite cousin and a similar victim to his ways, like myself, being that we worshiped the ground that Dida walked on. The entire town considered him charismatic, plus cool beyond his years and we beared witness to his advanced skill in all endeavors, making us want to be just like him.

We had a large spiraling grapevine in the backyard, with delicious ambrosia produced from it. My godfather made a gourmet wine from the fruit, which was said to be so heavenly that all his friends would request to pay, or trade favors for a bottle. It was made in glass Tropicana orange juice bottles, which had to remain in the darkness until ready. All life begins in the darkness and everything present on this earth, plus beyond has its origin there.

My two oldest sisters treated me really well, never as if, I wasn’t truly their brother from birth, angelic beings sent from God like my mother. On the other hand, my sister closest in age to me, threw plenty of mischief in my direction. She did whatever she could to hurt me, with no motive except for perhaps being bereaved over the accident. She’d tell me that she hated me, wish I was never born and from the way she acted toward me, I believed her. She told me that our mother died, but not to inform me, only out of malice, which is how I learned the tragic story that I was too young to know at the time.

I didn’t even believe, or more so want to believe what she was telling me. I was satisfied, happy, plus more than content, with the mother that we had, who treated us like precious gold. In my mind, she was the axis and embodiment of evil, possessed by savage demons, though for some reason beyond my knowledge, I still loved her. Every summer we embarked upon a minimum week long vacation, always to somewhere new and exotic to my fresh vision. Usually my aunts and cousins would come along, which made for an interesting trip, plus a considerable amount more lively entertainment. Due to the fact, that everyone was defiant, in their own particular way.

We were all well trained, little people, so permitted to do our own thing, without adult supervision; as long as we stayed in a group, which allowed our personalities to surface and a hierarchy to develop. We were like miniature grown people, making our way through a foreign environment. Partaking in small shopping, plus having sit down meals and doing everything else we considered adultly normal.

Not yet knowing how to swim, in addition to being the extreme, pre x-game action junky that I was, I ignorantly jumped into the deep end of the Olympic pool at an Atlantic City Hotel. I almost drowned, until some unfamiliar saint of a lady, bless her soul, saved my life. She literally had to scoop me from the bottom of the water, as I sat motionless, like a little stuck bubble forced to witness her heroics. I was a ballistic child, well actually more like a dare devil, with no sense or knowledge of fear. There was no death defying peril that I wouldn’t attempt to overcome or master. I’d look into the hopeless face of danger, while laughing hysterically, ha ha ha ha ha ha, nothing can stop the invincible armored child of supreme supernatural law; because you know I flew in from another solar system, or so I thought.

Not once wasn’t I prepared, or ever avoiding the opportunity for a cliff hanging adventure, or quest of the sort. Unknowingly acclimating myself to cope during high pressure situations. It was nothing for me to do something that other people wouldn’t even consider. As a matter of fact, that was my norm and any thing less wasn’t worth attempting. It would be thought of as below my stature, an insult not worthy of my daring. As a prelude to future disappointments, when I was four, we moved from the ice cream palace capital, to a ultra dull Bergen Avenue, right across the street from Snyder High. We lived upstairs, in another two family house, but this time our downstairs neighbors were older and unpleasantly mean to me for some reason. Always trying to stop me from making the noise of a normal child and having fun the best way I knew how.

I would lift up the pillows on the red suede couch across the front and it became my fort, protecting me from the imaginary opposition that was attacking. Some days it doubled as a space ship, as I traveled the galaxy fighting the forces of evil. I would use physical weapons, as well as my telepathic powers, with the force always with me.

When I saw the neighbors outside, my abhorrence would make me smash into their legs, with my big wheel, as hard as I possibly could. Sometimes I would hide, to catapult things at them, experiencing success one day, when the frisbee hit the man, at top speed, right in the side of the neck. He was so infuriated, that he actually threw my frisbee, full strength, across the street, over and behind the school fence. I remained behind the bushes, trying to contain my laughter, but I know he heard me chuckling. For my first academic vicissitude, I attended pre K, at St. Patrick Nursery and never wanted to go, even though I had a lot of friends there. I would really act out, problem child style, with a little something extra, when my sisters left me there for the strict nuns to tend to. We played for the first half of the day and the second part was dedicated to nap time, after we had snacks.

The fresh little fast girls, who were always more advanced than the boys, would climb in my cot and grind their bodies on me when the lights went out. I had no real idea what they were doing at the time, but I knew if it had to be done in the dark, it wasn’t suppose to be done. Parents have no clue and would isolate their children, if they had knowledge of what was learned from their peers, especially at school, catholic at that. My sister Sana and cousin Nashwa, were cheerleaders for Lincoln High School. Cheering was a serious thing, more than a hobby, which required Broadway talent in those days. Girls really had to have it going on to participate. Sana would take me to the games at Roosevelt Stadium, on Rte. 440, which I looked forward to. She’d sit me in the 1st row, above the field, right by the cheerleaders and band, at the fifty yard line where it all happened.

Believe me, when I say it was a ceremonious event. No different, if not even better, than watching professionals play at a sold out arena, eating hot dogs, drinking soda, being part of the biggest entertainment known to the human race to date, as we in JC saw it.

The band played the silky, soulful soundtrack of the game, with an extensive repertoire, which greatly intensified the excitement level. The crowd roared patriotically and cheered for blood, waving the banner of their team of choice, as Lincoln faced Snyder in a historic rivalry for the first time that year.

This was the only place to be, at that specific time, with an unadulterated madness, that literally shook one out of their boots and left them begging for more. This is also the celestial place, where I met Akbar Muhammad, a friend of my sister, who introduced me to Islam, may the peace and blessings of Allah be upon him.

Akbar would often take me to the Mosque for service, surrounded by robes, suits and cufees. Listening to informative lectures that taught about revelation, the Quran and the teachings of the Honorable Elijah Muhammad, may the peace and blessings of Allah be upon him.

The imam gave me a Muslim attribute, my true identity, which forever will be, for the rest of my short existence on this planet and beyond, whether I chose it or not. He’d take me to eat at the Akbar restaurant, where I first tasted a bean pie, plus never had a better sandwich than what was served there, in my entire past, or present.

The lessons that I learned, were so powerful, that they implanted themselves permanently in my hard drive, never to be destroyed, or replaced. I could never thank him enough for enriching my spirit, with a factual blueprint for the architecture of self. An indestructible foundation, incapable of crumbling, regardless of mistakes that may occur during the building process.

The human being, created in haste, is a work in progress. With life equivalent to a mathematical equation, therefor, making a portion of the pages scrap, to work out different formulas for solutions to various problems. The interesting thing is, there’s always more than one correct answer, but one more specific than the other.

Chapter Three

Sana and Monique were a large part of my positive growth process, including mental development. When I entered kinder garden and then the first grade, at PS number 41 school, I realized how much ahead of the other students, I actually was. Not by intellectual superiority, or simply understanding more, but from the interaction I received at home.

I was also rudely awakened to the treatment of light skinned individuals in the ghetto, by our darker brothers and sisters. They viewed the complexion, as a sign of weakness and believed we were submissive, belonging neither to the black, or white race. They really had it twisted. I was forced to fight, almost everyday, sometimes more than once a day, but that’s just a day in the life, or basically how it was. The hood has it’s own set of rules, always has, always will. My cousins that once resided down stairs from us, now lived in a new housing community, called Arlington Gardens. Often I would be dropped off there, after school, until my mother got off of work. My sister would go to my grandmother’s, she was very interested in that side of the family, in addition to not playing well with others for extended periods of time. It’s safer not to give a time bomb the opportunity to explode.

My aunt ran a real disciplined camp, but we always managed to have fun, with the park across the street and everything. Times that I wasn’t there, my baby sitters were in Kurry Woods project. They taught me a lot also, plus I enjoyed myself there, not just because I liked the people watching me, but my father, step moms, step brother and sisters lived a few buildings down. We always had a good time and they loved when I came over back then.

Pops was still a regular part of my life, picking me up from school and taking me to his number store, which fronted as a record shop, with no inventory. There was just empty shelves, sheets of paper and stacks of money in the back, things of that nature.

Most of my uncles were part of the underworld, doing their thing from extortion, to million dollar credit card scams, always into something, but shared nothing at all, at least not with me. At times, I contemplated how it would be if I never meet any of them, including my father, due to the fact that an unconscious vision of my destiny developed, by watching and listening to them; which eventually my body started to follow. Moms tried to keep me, as far away from that element as possible, hoping that I didn’t develop a level of despondency, which I can definitely now see why.

We went to church every Sunday, not just for service, for Sunday school, plus the meetings after service, because Moms was on every committee known to God and his angels. On Easter, we were forced to participate in the plays, plus give speeches, but since the devil never stops working, he made us sneak handfuls of communion wafers and eat them during the usher’s money count.

When Moms was completely finished at the church, she’d take us to a disco and let us party in our new clothes. They had dance contests, where I would do my Saturday Night Fever, John Travolta hard strut rendition, with my hand pointed high and hips shaking side to side, while sliding on my hard bottoms. I really thought I was jammin hard, but my sister and Namone would always win.

We even attended church camp during part of the summers, in the mountains of New Jersey, which believe it or not, was a lot of fun, enough to make us always want to return the next year. That summer Moms took us to Disney World in Orlando Florida and we celebrated my birthday party on a boat inside. I was infatuated with the small world ride, the little mechanical robot people singing Its a Small World and also space mountain, the dark roller coaster, where you couldn’t see the tracks, which tapped right into my sense of danger. How easy I was to please. It was an adventure to remember, all my cousins were there, as we did it up, molding my mind for how I figured life was suppose to be. Bright and sweet, how foolish was I.

We also visited Sea World, to see Shamu the killer whale, who I smacked across the face, then ran for cover, as my mother just shook her head, talkin about that boy crazy. We drove the entire journey national lampoon style, since Moms just copped a new Buick, which was about a block long. A few months later we moved into a two family house on Madison Avenue. My two oldest sisters were off to college, Sana at Morgan State University in Baltimore and Monique at Smith College in Massachusetts. I transferred to PS. Number 12 School. Most of my cousins and friends went there, so when I arrived, they shoulder carried me, like I just saved the planet, or was a Roman emperor, or something of that sort. We were always overly animated that way and they were happy I was there. Hip Hop Culture had just exploded on the streets, so it was an exciting, innovative new time. Break Dancing, rhyming, a new way to dress, with new styles, rocking name plates, Kangols, mock necks and name belts. Cats even carried around card board boxes and linoleum to dance on. Things really got ridiculous after Beat Street came out. Everybody thought they was performing at the Roxy.

All my affiliates were three or four years older than myself, so I learned quick and ahead of my time. During lunch we would meet in the Gardens, alternating houses to cook batches, our slang for sliced potatoes. This was a ritual for us, exclusively for crew members only. One day full throttle as usual, rushing to get to Jerry Dehere’s house, running top speed, hundred yard dashing it, not trying to miss my batch. I turned the corner at Communipaw and Arlington, only to smash head first into a metal pole with a sign on it. I knocked myself unconscious and woke up regurgitating in the Medical Center, with a concussion. Larock had picked me up off the ground, then carried me to the house, before I was taken to the hospital, without my knowledge. I was always moving too fast, but never realized it. I simply acclimated to that speed making it normal. The doctor kept me overnight for observation and testing, so my mother bought me McDonalds, plus stayed until I fell asleep, telling me I have to slow down. Across the street behind the Gardens was Garfield basketball court. The blacktop of dreams, where I