Exodus: Out From the Ghetto in My Mind

By William Arnold

This autobiographical journey details the evolution of a ghetto-child who struggles to transcend the ghetto, physically and mentally, on his path to manhood. William, born and raised in the slums of Atlanta, Georgia, awakens to a life that seems to offer obstacles and tragedies behind every twist and turn. In a quest to fulfill his purpose and destiny to live through his God-given talents and passions, he stumbles again and again through tragedy after tragedy, nearly ending up as just another statistic. After a life-altering epiphany, he gathers his strength and makes one final attempt to break generational curses and defeat the most dangerous enemy he's ever faced--the ghetto in his mind. Does the ghetto actually exist in the physical world, or is it really just a function of the mind? What does it actually mean to "make it out"? These are the questions the Author seeks to answer, not only for the reader, but also for himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667887777

Book preview

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EXODUS: Out From the Ghetto in My Mind

Copyright © 2023 William Arnold. All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-1-66788-776-0 (Print)

ISBN 978-1-66788-777-7 (eBook)

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted

in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other

electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of

the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews

and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Table of Contents

INTRODUCTION

Chapter 1: THE HARDEST HOME PLATE

Chapter 2: BORN HUSTLERS

Chapter 3: GUN PLAY

Chapter 4: THE BOOK OF THE FATHER

Chapter 5: EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

Chapter 6: IT’S A RAP

Chapter 7: GOOD SPORT

Chapter 8: NO ACCIDENTS

Chapter 9: WEEDING OUT THE GOOD ONES

Chapter 10: BABY BOY

Chapter 11: CELL ME NO DREAMS

Chapter 12: BOXED OUT OF A REBOUND

Chapter 13: BACK TO SQUARE 1

Chapter 14: A WOMAN’S WORK

Chapter 15: THE WAKE-UP

Chapter 16: SHOCK THERAPY

Chapter 17: THE CLIMB BACK

Chapter 18: BEHOLD WHAT YOU WISH FOR

Chapter 19: RUNNING THROUGH THE FINISH LINE

Chapter 20: TO BE

A SPECIAL ACKNOWLEDGMENT

INTRODUCTION

We’ve all heard the saying you can take a man out of the hood, but you can’t take the hood out of the man. Unfortunately, that idea has become one of the governing principals of our society, one that has been highlighted and perpetuated over and over again, most often by adults—usually famous athletes or entertainers—who make it out of the low conditions from which they sprang as children, only to be dragged back down by the behaviors, habits or relationships developed while growing up in poverty and crime-stricken environments. It’s always sad and embarrassing to see, especially when the downfall occurs before our very eyes, on television or throughout social media; however, we’ve grown so accustomed to it, to the extent that when we know people who came up from the bottom, we almost anticipate the moment at which their demons will catch up to them. We listen when they speak for signs of miseducation and immaturity, something that will prove this person is actually from the hood; we watch when they encounter confrontation, waiting for the goon to jump out and show everyone that this person still has that edge—that lack of civility that evidences a history in the streets. In fact, let’s be honest, most of us applaud ghetto behavior when we observe it, especially when displayed by those from whom we least expect it, treating it as a form of certification, a means to acceptance from the rest of us ghetto children throughout the world. For example, when the stereotypical white male comes out and says or does something like a gangster would—if he can manage to pull it off as genuine—he goes up a few notches in our book rather than down. Perhaps, this badge of honor attitude towards negative behavior we associate with the ghetto is why the cycle constantly repeats.

I’m certain there are countless individuals who would agree that becoming successful outside of the street life, becoming a somebody in the real world, is a constant struggle when your core reactions, your deepest held principles and beliefs, and your most developed instincts all point you right back towards the hood. Many of us who make it out find ourselves living our entire lives on edge, trying to reconcile the wrongs done to us and around us, trying to forget the trauma, trying to celebrate the wins, trying to avoid people and situations that might cause us to reveal who we are and how we feel deep inside. All of us who manage to get a slice of this American-dream are well-aware that it only takes one wrong move for us to lose everything that we’ve gained, sending us right back to the ghetto where we started. After all, most of us have no solid support system waiting in the background; no parents in suburbia to lend us a couch to sleep on as we reset and rebuild; no friends in high places to loan us money to re-strategize and rebound and no rich relatives to catch us when we fall. To us, the ghetto is our actual home and the real world is more like a wilderness, we’re truly alone out here.

For me, there was nothing glamorous or rewarding about the struggle to rid myself of the ghetto-ness in my thoughts, words and actions. It has been more of an odyssey than a journey, more of a horror story than a drama. I consider myself the perfect example of what it means to battle and overcome these types of inner demons. In no way, shape or form did I make it look easy—probably not even admirable—but I sincerely doubt if that is even possible. From battling with addiction, to struggling to overcome criminal tendencies and toxic relationships, I seem to have tripped over every hurdle in the road from the bottom, to success. As you’ll learn in these chapters, I did everything necessary to become nothing more than a statistic, a cautionary tale to others. While my peers from childhood remind me that they always knew I was someone who would make it out and do something big with my life, even they would be shocked by some of what they find in these pages. Many of them have no idea how close I came to being suffocated and buried underneath the ghetto that remained in my mind long after the ghetto was in my sight. I often remind people, I had to make it out twice, first physically and then mentally. Making it out physically was tough, to say the least, but making it out mentally was nearly an insurmountable task for me, one that I barely survived.

Hence, my reason for bringing these memories to light and sharing my journey with you, the good, bad and the ugly. I am absolutely certain that there’s someone out there who will read this and find life-saving knowledge and understanding. I know that I was blindsided by this phenomenon I’m speaking of—a function of gravity it seems—this force that would be chasing me into my adulthood and dragging me down like a ghost pulling on my leg. Everyone talked about making it to college or getting that dream job, but no one ever talked to me about addressing and defeating the mind-state that a kid raised in the ghetto takes out into the world. When used properly, the skills and instincts of the typical ghetto-child are prone to make him the sharpest in the bunch; however, no one talks about the amount of skill and instincts required to lay that ghetto-child to rest, so that the grown, responsible adult in us can start making decisions and enjoying experiences that bring us closer to the bright side of life, out of the darkness of the hell-holes we came from. Thus, I see it as my duty, maybe even my one true calling, to share these revelations with you

You might know William Arnold, the successful big city attorney; you might know Will Power, my artistic persona, the writer, painter, playwright, rapper and poet; you might know Mr. Arnold, the husband and father of four beautiful, healthy and brilliant children; but, if you don’t know William, the broken kid who became a broken adult, the addict, the inmate, the hustler, the shyster, the wounded, the would-be failure, then you might not know me much at all. Today, when I say I made it, while you might clap for me, you might not have a clue what that actually means. Here, in this work, you will find the truth you seek, if ever you become curious about what it took for this young ghetto-boy to evolve into the honorable man I see in the mirror today.

I thank each and every one of you for partaking in this journey with me, and I pray it leads you to the peace and joy that I have found by transferring these true stories from my ownership to yours. Do with it as you wish, all I ask is that you start from the beginning, and if you have the courage and genuine desire to see where it all ends, follow your heart to the finish line, as I have.

Chapter 1:

THE HARDEST

HOME PLATE

People never truly leave behind their first home, at least not in our hearts, not even those of us who wish we were born in a different place. Maybe it’s because when we first got there, we were too young to run away even if we wanted to; too young to judge and critique it; too helpless and confused to not love it, if only for the comfort of familiarity. As for me, I will never outgrow my first home. I know this because I’ve actually tried to outrun it, again and again. At so many points in life, I’ve attempted to paint over my memories of life in the projects, as if I could hide those recollections behind other, more colorful memories. I’ve tried to write over them with the blackest ink I could imagine, ink that’s been spilling from my pen since I began writing as a child. Yet, even in my most imaginative fiction I can’t write it away; when my own sanity has demanded that I put the ghetto behind me, I’ve always found it impossible to outrun. I think I am finally starting to accept that the most I can do is learn to live with it. In doing so, I guess I also have to accept and admit the fact that even I, at some point and for some time, also loved my first home. It’s a wonder and a tragedy, how harmoniously love and hate can coexist together in the same room, in the same mind and heart.

They called it The Temp, my first home, that’s short for Allen Temple Apartments. If you’re from anywhere other than Atlanta, Georgia, chances are you’ve never heard a single mention in your life about the so-called Temp. To those who do know about it, however, you’d swear the place was some sacred monument if you heard them talking about it. Like every other ghetto in America and maybe the world, those of us who live and die in places like The Temp find glory in comparing one broke-down community to the other, somehow. Naturally, when we compare one ghetto to the next, we never compare positive elements; like, for instance, the safety of the premises, the beauty of the grounds and landscaping, the responsiveness of the property managers, or the graduation rates of the high school residents. No, instead we fight and argue over who has the worst projects: Who’s got the best dope and the biggest trap? How many people died in your hood? How recently? How wild and heartless are the youngsters in your hood? How scandalous and reckless are the women? How young are your shooters? How unsafe is your community for people who are not from there? It’s sad but true, the destruction and ugliness of the poverty we once yearned to escape as a people, now has become the expectation, even the standard.

For us children coming up in the ghetto, I imagine many of us develop our first feelings of pride while romanticizing about the coldest realities we observe within the corners of our neighborhood on a daily basis. I’m no exception, at least I have not been one most of my life. Being from Allen Temple—being able to say that it was my first home since I walked this Earth—always made me proud for the wrong reasons. I’ve felt more than a hint of dignity when telling others that I ran the streets of the concrete jungle while unprotected and unguided for the most part, amongst the strong, the weak and the wolves who hunted the sheep, amongst the dealers and dope-fiends who never went to sleep, amongst the wild and heartless. Yes, how can I not take pride in being a proven survivor? How can I not hold my head high thinking about the events and experiences that evidence my claim that I can make it out of anything? As if I forgot how miserable I would be if I ever ended up in that place again, even now I smile as I remind myself that I survived The Temp.

In the late 80’s and early 90’s, the projects in Atlanta were a whole vibe of their own, far more than just places of residence for poor people; Allen Temple, however, was on the extreme end of the spectrum in terms of the typical woes and worries common to most ghettoes. During the height of America’s crack epidemic and the government’s War on Drugs is when the Temp earned its reputation; it was the violence that made the place famous. The violence, however, arrived in the same package as the drugs, in the same way the side-effect travels with the pill; they were delivered together by outside forces, individuals and institutions in positions of power, all beyond the reach of those affected most by the strife they created.

The Temp and other ghettos like it were targets, victims of a dark, sinister conspiracy that was carried out to ensure the con­tinu­ation of the status quo in America and the ultimate destruction of black and brown people throughout this country. The violence of the 80’s and 90’s didn’t come out of the projects, nor did it organically develop within the projects, it was farmed, shipped, processed, packaged and then brought to the projects.

I once wrote in a rap verse,

"Born in the forest, then they brought her to the jungle,

where she cracked those project bricks ‘til they crumbled,

showed the world how to turn youngsters into monsters,

Can’t rock cradles, so babies got dumpsters,

Cain diss-Abel and their brains can’t function,

through all the cutting and the cooking and the stumping,

her lungs still pumping, damn she still jumping."

Yeah, that sums it up to a large extent. But, when you unpack it all, the chaotic realities of the crack epidemic and the crime that followed can’t be placed into lines that rhyme.

Creating an entire industry, fueled by producers, distributors, brokers and consumers, similar to a factory in a small town, the crack epidemic brought what appeared to be wealth and prosperity to the hood. The Temp became a place where even a kid could make real money selling drugs from his mother’s front porch. During those days, in an apartment complex like ours, it wasn’t necessary to hang out on the corner in a Trap to sell drugs, there were so many addicts coming and going all day. But make no mistake about it, the trap is where the legends of the crack era made their bones.

As if the developers of the Temp anticipated the crack boom was coming, the complex was designed perfectly for anyone living life in the shadows and trenches, anyone wanting to remain under the radar. It was a huge, hilly maze of an apartment complex, comprised of about 50 large, reddish-brown, brick buildings, each with 12 single family apartment units. There were, in theory, two ways in and out of the Temp, one in the front of the complex and one in the rear; but, on most days the back entrance was blocked by a tall, black, metal security gate; this made the front entrance at the busy M.L.K. Jr. Drive Highway the only way in and out of the Temp. That main entry point, Middleton Road, was a skinny street barely wide enough for cars to pass one another without touching; it formed a circle (more like a Q really) around the entire complex and had multiple side streets sprouting out of each side like vessels; dead ends, parking lots, walk-ways, woods and grassy areas, all forming the maze I knew as home. Maybe not while driving, but while traveling on foot, it was an easy place for a stranger to get lost.

Every apartment in the Temp had its own balcony or porch, for the view of course, but every resident’s front door was inside of the main building. The buildings were accessible on each side—front and back—through a big, heavy, brown, iron door; those doors would often slam shut and get jammed in the doorframe, then they had to be pried open by someone with grown man strength. If there were no grown men around, everyone would have to enter and exit from the opposite side until someone strong enough came along. It was a horrible hazard.

Once inside, each building had three flights of concrete stairs, outlined in rusty black iron trim, and they were the only way to get to the second and third floors. As you can imagine, it was a painful inconvenience moving in or out of one of those 3rd floor units.

The hallways inside the buildings were always dark and dank, especially for those of us whose front door was hidden underneath one of the staircases, like ours was. We lived at 3086 Middleton Road, apartment # 2, in the second building on the right when entering the complex, facing the main street on the ground level. Because of this, I much preferred entering my house through the patio door, but my mom hated the hassle of moving whatever was usually blocking that door—either a sofa or plant—so I usually had to use the hallway entrance like everyone else. The dark corners underneath the stairs were well known hiding places for rats, rodents, giant cockroaches, spiders and sometimes people, those looking to get away from whoever or whatever was chasing them. That made it pretty damn scary coming home each day, never knowing if someone or something would be there to scare the life out of me before I could reach my door. I remember always being on edge when coming or going, knowing that whenever the main door to the building slammed shut, whatever happened inside my building would be unheard and unseen by anyone outside.

Honestly, the insides of the buildings were perfect places for drug dealers, out of view of the police and the public; yet, somehow most of the traps in the Temp were outside, in the open air. When I first encountered one in my complex, I didn’t understand what I was looking at, but I was fascinated without a doubt. I just stood there and stared at the crowds of men, the women and boys, all wrapped-up in a parade of shit-talking, dice-rolling, joking, joning, fighting, flirting, drinking, smoking, and, of course, transacting. Wow!! I thought, It must be a party going on or something.

There was one trap in the Temp I will never forget, the sight of it left a permanent stamp on my memory. It was less than a few hundred feet from our front door, just up and over the hill from our building, out of view from the main entrance, which now makes perfect sense. The trap was clearly visible from the top of the hill, once you drove or walked to the top of Middleton Road, there it was, a sprawling marketplace hidden directly in the belly of the concrete jungle.

I remember that trap in particular because I recall not being able to avoid it even when I wanted to; all us kids in the Temp had to either walk, run or ride our bikes through it daily to get to the Candy Lady who lived in a building at the bottom of the hill also. I imagine every project complex had at least one candy lady, I know we always had several, but this particular one was the best. We happily risked life and limb daily to make our frequent visits.

Most days, the entire parking lot was commandeered by the dope boys, as if it had never been designed to accommodate the residents of the three buildings that surrounded the lot on three of its four sides. Sadly, those people were powerless against the herd, they either joined the commotion or became prisoners to it, innocent bystanders who had to watch the daily happenings from their balconies or dusty windows, becoming witnesses to all the good,

Reviews for Exodus

[anissaannalise-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This was quite good (3.5 stars) as a set up for the series & I must admit that I was far more interested in the actual planning of the Exodus & journey to Aurora from the technical to the societal & political than I was in any one character in particular. I'm usually much more about the characters but I felt the writer handled the other aspects so well that I craved more of that. I can only imagine that the characters are more deeply drawn & important in subsequent books as the Exodus has reached its destination & the journey toward a new society & civilization continues. I will probably read the next in the series but not right away but I am glad that I finally got around to this one on my Kindle.