The Journey of a Thoroughbred: The True Story of Jamon Michael Davis

By Jamon Michael Davis

From the struggle...to the victory...

For many people, especially for those of us who've been counted out, hope is a hard thing to encompass. But I believe I found the way.

We all make mistakes and fall short sometimes. But when we do, learn from it, get up, and correct it.

Being a thoroughbred doesn't mean being perfect. It means being of integrity, sincere of heart, authentic. And most of all, it means walking with God...win, lose, or draw.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781638817734

Book preview

The Journey of a Thoroughbred

THE TRUE STORY OF JAMON MICHAEL DAVIS

Jamon Michael Davis

Copyright © 2022 Jamon Michael Davis

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2022

All Bible scriptures are referenced from the New International Version.

ISBN 978-1-63881-772-7 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63881-773-4 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Acknowledgment

i am of I AM

Choices

Ready for the World?

Taking the Weight

The Concrete Jungle

Pain and Tears

Doing the Impossible

Essentially Equipped

Everything Happens for a Reason

Stepping Up to the Plate

Poetic Justice

The Sky Is the Limit

Acknowledgment

Special thanks to

God The Father The Most High, and to Jesus Christ the Son the Savior, and to the Holy Spirit the Helper—for all of all;

Lizy, who sparked this belief in myself that I now have;

Ma;

Grandma;

MamaBelle;

Dad and Stepmom;

Thommy, who gave me the idea and recommended that I write a book about my life;

Thomas, Mac, and BP;

DJ, KJ, and J;

Rah, CJ, DenZ, and DarBe;

my many nieces and nephews;

Dee, Quis, and Snoop;

certain school/program staff (in and out of jail) who showed me kindness;

certain people (in general) who showed me kindness;

and last but not least, to every messenger spreading The Word of God.

i am of I AM

i am of I AM

For You formed my inward parts; You knitted me together in my mother’s womb…

—Psalm 139

On a tailored journey…

Upon my release after fourteen calendars, I was convinced to share in leading the miseducated street nigga to the truth. Having had an awakening, I believed I could help make a difference. The plan was to let my actions speak the loudest, but I spoke words in hopes of giving a warning…enveloped in inspiration.

Patched from a portion I deserved and from a portion I may or may not have deserved, I was here. Not for recognition, but to get done what I believed was my responsibility to get done. In step with purpose. To help alter the odds before putting those not awakened on notice that more promising alternatives were available. And above that, to be a man my family could count on. And above that, to be thorough…

Born on June 4,1990, in Fayetteville, North Carolina, and raised in Chicago, Illinois, my earliest memories start on Eighty-Fourth Street in Chicago. I was around five years old, living in an apartment with my ma and sister (who was two years older than I was). We called it the brown house. It was a very tall apartment building and very large overall. To the left of it was a run-down fenced-in little area that I thought must have once been a garden. To the right was an alley. It was my great-great uncle Ivory’s building. My ma rented from him. In all the time we lived there, I don’t remember ever seeing anyone else living in the building. I have a lot of memories living there though. Some good memories. And some bad memories too.

Periodically, a different man would come to the brown house to see my ma. And while I may have exaggerated their presence in some respects, for some reason, it bothered me. I remember, once, a man dressed as a bus driver offered me some of the pizza he had, but something inside told me not to accept it from him. So I didn’t. I don’t remember any of the other men ever speaking to me. Later on in my life, my ma and I would have a personal conversation where she would express to me through sobs that the appearances of these men weren’t fully what they seemed to me to be. But even in sympathizing with her as I listened, after giving careful thought to our conversation, it didn’t change the effect of what I’d seen back then.

We didn’t have much, but Ma took care of us. Those were the worry-free days. I was just glad to play, eat, and to be around family and friends. My sister and I spent a lot of time together those days, and I really enjoyed it. Her name is Rah. She was so kind and always looked out for me. And she made me feel welcome. We often watched TV and movies. Or she would play the video games with me so I wouldn’t have to be alone. And I would play with her Barbie dolls with her, so she wouldn’t have to be alone. Ma had bought us some Rollerblades too and would let us skate in the alley when she could watch us. With the way the block was set up, it wasn’t the ideal scene for children to play outside unsupervised. Actually, it was the ideal scene for children not to play outside unsupervised: no yard, building next to an alley, different people passing by sporadically (to name a few). But we made the best inside of the apartment, and there were plenty of more fun times than there weren’t. Like the slight mouse problem we had. I remember one night, while Rah and I were playing in our junkie bedroom we shared, one ran past us. We jumped up from the floor so fast and into our bunk beds. When the coast was clear, we gathered up some toys into our beds with us and prepared for battle with the mouse. We threw a few toys at random spots to find out where it was at. Feeuuoon! It went running, trying to get away. We spent a long time gathering, then throwing toys at the mouse, trying to kill it as it ran around the room. Finally, it stopped running and was lying in one spot, so we got down. It still wasn’t moving as we got closer. We had won the battle! And getting something to pick it up with, we threw it in the garbage. When it was time for dinner, Ma called us to come eat. It was a plate full of French fries with nothing else but ketchup. I was so glad. I thought that was the coolest dinner and that Ma was so cool for that. It wasn’t until I got older and I looked back that I realized that was all we had to eat at the time.

My ma is a pretty woman—tall, brown skinned with short hair, pretty smile and teeth, with a warm voice. She was very kindhearted, from what I saw. One of the qualities I inherited from her. We weren’t close when I was younger though. I felt like she favored my sister. Partly because of her showing different reactions toward each of us. And partly because I always saw her getting along with my sister’s dad, but not with mine. Once, my ma pulled me to the side and sat me down on the stairs. She said she needed to talk to me.

Jamon, we’re not your real family, she told me.

She then said she was just playing and that she was sorry for playing like that.

I still didn’t respond or feel any better. I just kept thinking, Why would she play like that?

I would visit my dad every other weekend, which had, court structured, evolved from an hour at a park into me sleeping over. He was so proud of me and for no reason. I looked up to him when I was a boy. Sometimes he would dress me as he was dressed, so we’d be matching. He put me on his team once, playing basketball full court with grown men and even gave me the ball once to shoot. I was just out there running back and forth with them except for that play, but I was happy. When we would ride to somewhere on the train, we would look through the windows and point out the coolest cars we saw passing by. And when we would ride to somewhere in his car, I would ride in the passenger seat, and we would jam out to DMX CDs or listen to some smooth jazz on WNUA 95.5 radio station. My favorite music became jazz. And my favorite song Slippin’ by DMX. When I spent the weekends at his apartment with him, I enjoyed it. Usually, when we went out, we visited relatives, and when we stayed in, we watched movies. And we always ate good. Eat all you want, just don’t get sick, he would say. He put me on to Home Runn Inn pizza and Philly cheese steak sandwiches, some of my favorite foods. And he taught me how to make cheesecake from scratch.

The recipe was to make a set of two cheesecakes. We used three sticks of Philadelphia cream cheese, two small cans of sweetened condensed milk, one-third cup of lemon juice, one tablespoon of vanilla extract, and two graham cracker pie crusts. After mixing together all of the ingredients in a mixing bowl, we’d set the bowl to the side while we prepared the pie crusts. We coated the crusts with egg whites and set them in the oven at 350 degrees for a couple minutes (this helped the crusts to stay in one piece without falling apart). After the crusts cooled down, we poured the ingredients evenly into the crust, put lids over them, and set them into the refrigerator for a few hours to have ready to eat. One of my favorite desserts, especially with some strawberries and strawberry syrup. And he would always let me take home what we didn’t eat. The way my dad carried himself, I always felt like he could beat up anybody. He taught me to always look people in the eyes when I talked with them. And that if somebody hit me, then to beat ’em down.

I wasn’t the bravest boy at first. One of my ma’s brothers brought a Rottweiler named Coojo to the brown house once. As soon as I saw him, I ran and jumped behind the couch, in the space between a corner wall. And I didn’t come out until he was gone. Kindergarten was where I had my first fistfight. Every other Friday was half day at school, and on those days, Rah and I didn’t have anyone to pick us up directly after school was over. So we had to wait in the school’s playground area for a while. There was this kid there who wanted, for no reason, to fight me and a friend of mine. And every half day on the playground, it was like an unspoken mutual agreement, we’d be there to fight. The kid would come to us and, one by one, beat on me and then my friend or beat on my friend and then me. We didn’t discuss a solution to this problem or why it was happening, or even say a word about it afterward. We just took our beatdowns and went on about our days. We never thought to jump him. Or at least, I never thought of it. I guess I just didn’t know of that option yet.

After the brown house, we moved to another neighborhood in Chicago. A duplex family home on 113th Pl with my great-grandmother Madear, my grandma, and my two uncles. My ma was raised there too. Apart from having the worst neighbor (in my opinion, though he seemed to get along with everyone besides me), I took the move well. My opinion of him sprouted because he would always criticize me of being timid anytime we’d happen to be around each other. Little did he know how much of a punching bag I yearned turning him into. If only the trait he criticized me of having (along with my respect for elders) didn’t hold me back.

Living here, Rah and I could, and would, play outside more without someone having to watch us because the block was set up differently. Most days we walked to and from school together, which we liked because there was a penny candy store along the way. We had learned, from playing around the house, that Madear had what seemed like countless purses underneath her bed and in her closet with loose change inside. We never found any bills, but our intentions weren’t to steal anyway. We just saw the situation as old purses with change left inside. So we’d play some game and then end up crawling into her room to the closet and underneath her bed to get enough coins to buy some snacks at the (in-house) penny candy store on the next block on the way to or from school. No matter how much we did it, there was always change the next time. We enjoyed the treasure hunt for the change as much as the snacks we did it for. And when Madear would see us with the snacks, she would say, Let me have some of those flamin’ hots. She liked to taste them, and we would share with her with no problem.

Two blocks over, there was a street called Michigan Avenue. It was a busy street, and a strip of different businesses lined both sides of the street for a lengthy distance. There were clothing stores, shoe stores, jewelry stores, phone stores, food stores, etc., even a currency exchange. There was a restaurant that sold huge doughnuts called Old Fashioned Donuts. And that was our—Ma, Rah, and me—spot to eat.

I met one of the guys in the neighborhood, and we became close right away. His name was Jody. He lived across the street. We would catch different types of bugs in empty pop bottles together and then watch them fight. Sometimes we just sat on the porch or walked around. There were crates nailed to trees that we’d play basketball on. We played with other boys (and girls) too. We played a variety of games like cops and robbers, tag, sports (flirting with the girls). But mostly it was us two hanging together. Sometimes we’d sneak to the corner store on the next block. We weren’t supposed to leave the block (but sometimes we did anyway) because it wasn’t safe. We heard police sirens a lot throughout the day because of shootings and whatever else was going on in the neighborhood. One day, a man tried to take me away. You wanna come with me? he said creepily as he held out a hand. I went to tell my ma, and we went to the police station. Jody and I usually only stayed outside if we had each other though. Sometimes one of my uncles would make us wrestle each other, and we were okay with it. As a boy, I started to look up to my uncles, who were in the streets. I didn’t see my dad much, but there were times he’d pull up on the block in his car while I was outside and give me gifts (a pair of gym shoes or some money). Then he’d hug me, kiss my head, and tell me he loved me. I cried once, right after he drove away. It’s gone be aight, Jody said sympathetically. At the time, I didn’t know the depth of the reasons behind my not seeing my dad. But I did understand that my parents didn’t like each other.

I went to church with Ma and Rah. We went with Madear and Grandma. I knew a little about God, and I knew how to pray, but this was when God first really made Himself known to me: After going to church enough times, one day at the end of service, the pastor made the announcement welcoming anyone who believed in God and wanted to be saved to come down to be baptized. It was a big church—tall ceiling, balcony behind, lower level, and the stage in front. The pastor paced slowly back and forth with slow peaceful music from the choir playing, giving people time to think about it. I felt God calling me because I believed in Him. And I said to myself that if it was meant to be for me, the pastor will ask Is there anyone who wants to be baptized and saved? one more time. He asked again, but I was too shy and didn’t go. I repeated the same thing to myself, and again, the pastor asked the question, and again, I was too shy to go. This process went on for some time until finally I found the courage to go. I didn’t tell Ma and Rah even though they were next to me. I just walked out of the pew and down the aisle to the stage. The pastor led me to some other people who took me up some stairs to a room. They gave me a gray jogging sweater and pants to change into. Then they led me to a small pool of water where a man stood waiting. He baptized me. I didn’t notice any difference within, so I didn’t know how to take it. But I would grow to learn the meaning and impact of it, to me, later on in my life. That, along with Madear occasionally dabbing my head with olive oil and praying over me. (Madear passed away around this time. May she rest in peace.)

Back at home, I still felt the same and did the same things. I wasn’t a bad child. I was respectful, kind, thoughtful, partly shy, and very quiet. Though I’ve had moments when I’ve acted up, there really aren’t many. In my opinion, the worst thing I’ve ever done as a child was the time I stole money from my ma. I saw a pair of pants hanging on her bedroom door, and what caught my attention was a hundred-dollar bill sticking out of a pocket. I thought about buying some new gym shoes, and after thinking, I stole the money and rode my bike with one of the guys to go buy me a new pair. And I bought my guy some McDonald’s just for riding with me. My ma never found out I stole it. She never even mentioned it being missing. But she did find the gym shoes and sliced them up with a razor to teach me a lesson about traveling abroad and alone, so worry-free. Years later though, I voluntarily told her what I’d done and that I was sorry. Besides that, the other things that stood out to me was the time I shut the closet door on my younger brother, DJ, and made boogeyman noises until he cried; and there was a time when I told my older sister, Rah, that I hated her. As to what happened with DJ, I had just been recently locked in a closet by a teenage relative, so I wanted to do it to someone else. But when DJ started crying, I came to my senses and was sorry. As to what happened with Rah, I had just heard the word hate used in anger, and so the next time I got angry, I used the word. Rah started crying so hard, and I felt so bad.

I’m sorry, I don’t hate you, I told her sadly.

Don’t say that, that’s a strong word! she cried desperately.

I never spoke the word against anyone else again.

Making the same mistakes wasn’t something I did, but one thing I couldn’t seem to stop doing was urinating in the bed when I slept at night. And everyone, except for my ma and siblings, would always get so angry at me for it. I understood that I was doing a bad thing, so it wasn’t them having a problem with it that got to me; it was their extreme reactions that got to me, their words and their looks directed at me. After so many times of urinating in my grandma’s bed, she stopped talking angrily about it and bought some huge Pampers for me to wear if I wanted to sleep beside her. So I wanted to avoid sleeping beside her because the Pampers made me feel so ashamed I couldn’t take it. But the worst reaction of all was the time I slept beside my uncle Quis. He angrily woke me up, put me outside of the house with the mattress in the middle of the night, and closed the door. I just stood there, ashamed of myself. My feelings were hurt all the more because I wasn’t doing it on purpose. I wanted to stop but didn’t know how to stop it. And the many extreme reactions I would get for, something I felt was out of my control, played another part in why I felt unvaluable and unwanted at an early age. And I wouldn’t like being around a lot of people, family or not.

I liked being outdoors, even just sitting and looking. There was something about being around nature that made me feel that I belonged. My favorite color was even green. I liked girls too. Actually, girls came before being outdoors. But I always wanted just one girl. And I wanted her to want just me. And I would daydream about going to the corner store buying as many Zebra Cakes (and other Little Debbie’s snacks) as I could, bringing them to my girl so we could lie somewhere and eat them all. While we would hold hands and hold each other. While we would kiss, bump, and grind. I didn’t know about sex yet, nor about all of the other things that we could do, together. It was just us being together, only wanting each other. That, to me, was being in love in my eyes. I had a girlfriend at school, but I didn’t get to see her outside of school. Her name was Shakara. I liked her a lot. We would hug, and sometimes I’d bring her a gift. Ma had a lot of beauty supply jewelry for girls for my sister. She had a lot of new ones. I would take one every now and then and take it out of the plastic wrapper so that it would look nice and bring it to Shakara. She would always say thank you. One day, she asked me sweetly, Why do you keep bringing me stuff? And so I stopped because I thought maybe she thought that wasn’t cool. I never knew what to say, so I couldn’t talk. Just hug her and bring gifts. I didn’t think we could