The Little Black Boy

By Jonathan A McKinney

"How did you survive?" is a question often asked of me when I tell the stories of my transitional teenage years. The Little Black Boy answers that question with a story of a young man's survival of family issues, community dysfunctions, relocation, and life's dramatic changes during an era marred by gangs, crack, violence, and other effects of s

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kingdom Publishing
• Release date: May 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9781947741799

Book preview

Preface

Change your thoughts, and you can change your world. Believe you can, and you're halfway there. Your present circumstances don't determine where you can go; they merely determine where you start. Judge each day, not by the harvest you reap, but by the seed you plant. Truly live!

A few years ago, I went to Chicago to present organizational compliance, bylaws, best practices and to share my experiences as a young organizer to a group of youth that gathered for the NAACP Illinois State Conference’s Youth and College Division. At the time, I was the Midwestern Regional Field Organizer for our nation’s largest and oldest civil rights organization, the NAACP, and although I was based out of Detroit, Chicago was under my jurisdiction. I have always measured success in presenting by one’s ability to keep the attention of an audience, especially when presenting to youth. This presentation was going well. The kids were present and engaged. I fed off their energy and enjoyed their insightful input and questions. After my presentation, I was approached by a group that was in attendance. This inspired ensemble of bright-eyed kids were energetic and engaged during my presentation although it was early morning. Now, the kids wanted to meet me and take a few pictures. My animated reaction when I turned to find them waiting to speak to me proved my enthusiasm for that particular group. I was eager to get more of their energy. As we spoke, they commented on their experience at the convention. They talked about the hotel where we were staying, getting free - all you can eat breakfast, some of my gadgets, and my presentation. The group especially enjoyed how I sided with them against the adult advisors to promote their youthful visions, goals, leadership and success. They shared how my funny old man stories made them feel as if they were in their living rooms kicking it with one of their uncles. I have always enjoyed watching people experiencing new things, discovering their voices, or having Ah-ha moments, and these kids were enthusiastically experiencing all three! We laughed and joked as they told me about their neighborhood, their advisors, and their goals.

After talking about visions and goals, I began to ask each of the kids, who were all in middle and early high school, where they wanted to go to college. I shared that when I was in the 9th grade, a wise woman told me that the next four years of your life is going to go by like THAT, as I snapped my fingers. And she was right! I encouraged the kids to start thinking about their futures and the world they wanted to create. I told them that they could do anything they put their minds to. As I worked my way through the kids, I was impressed by their plans and college choices. They were impressed that I could tell them a little something about each university they picked. From Historically Black Colleges like Tennessee State, Howard, and Spelman to local universities like Loyola and Northwestern, these kids were on it. When I got to the last young man, his demeanor shifted as I asked about his college plans. He looked at me and answered, I’m not going to college. Noticing his body language, I immediately thought that he was planning to go to a trade school or the military, and may have been a bit embarrassed by his answer. I had explained to the group that it's always good to have a plan, but in this instance, it’s okay not to have one just yet. I asked the boy, Do you want to go to college? His response, I’m not going to live long enough to go to college, threw me off for a second. I didn’t know if he was trying to give me a hard time, as some kids tend to do, or if he was serious. Either way, his response struck me. I tried not to show a negative reaction as my demeanor now shifted with his.

I asked the rest of the kids to excuse us as I pulled him aside with one of the advisors. When we got to a private space, I asked the young man what he meant by his answer. He looked at me casually and almost painfully responded, Nobody in my family lives to see 18. My brother was killed, and two of my cousins died, too. I then knew the seriousness of the moment. The boy looked sad and fearful as he seemed to contemplate what he thought was his destiny. I was familiar with his hopelessness, but I had not been confronted with such despair in quite some time.

We sat and spoke for about an hour about destiny, survival, and creating goals. I started by telling him about my journey and some of the things I had experienced. He was surprised that we had similar backgrounds. Once he recognized our similarities, I told him that, like me, he was born for a reason and his life has purpose. I explained to him that his potential was limitless, and his current situation can affect, but not dictate his future. For survival, I gave him my truncated version of The Parable of the Seed by Dr. Myles Monroe. The potential of an appleseed is not just an apple tree, but a forest. How, though, do you get a forest from a seed? The first thing you need to do is to deal with the environment. The seed can never meet its potential sitting in your hand or in your pocket. The seed must be put in the right environment. I expressed the importance of choosing the proper environment for survival and growth.

We discussed creating a vision board and talked about the things he really wanted. I wrote his list. A car, a house, and to play in the NFL. I pushed further, What kind of car? Where do you want this house to be located? What team do you want to play for? As he answered those questions, the focus of our conversation turned from despair to inspiration. Together with his advisor, we painted a picture that he could see and began to believe was attainable. We spoke about the reality and dangers of his community and likelihood of playing for the NFL, which brought us back to college, which was right where I wanted his mind to be.

By the end of our conversation, I believe the young man could see a few possibilities of life and living. The advisor thanked me and vowed to work with the young man to create an environment where he could grow. They promised that they would finish his vision board. I was happy to see the young man’s light come on and his entire demeanor shift from despair to inspired.

This unnamed young man’s story stuck with me. It wasn’t the shock of the moment, but the familiarity in feeling. Many of my friends growing up in Detroit, as well as kids in other urban communities across the nation, have lived with and survived the direct effects of systemic racism which limited their vision, restricted their experiences, and constrained their imagination to a reality they could not control. We grew up in a society of hopelessness and desperation, where the victims are called the villains while federal, state, and even local legislators removed resources from urban communities which caused disparities in healthcare, education, job opportunities, economic empowerment, fair housing, criminal justice, and policing.

So, as much as this book is dedicated to that kid in Chicago, it is equally dedicated to that same kid in Detroit, Atlanta, St. Louis, Baltimore, and any other urban community where the price of living is going up while the chances of living are going down. It’s dedicated to boys and girls who can access a gun easier than healthy food. It’s dedicated to the kids that have had to survive family tragedies and abuse, whether it be physical, mental, emotional, or sexual. It’s dedicated to the neglected kids. This book is dedicated to the awkward kid that feels lonely or like no one cares or understands. It’s dedicated to the bullied. You are not alone. It’s dedicated to the adult survivors of these communities who may not recognize the damage or understand how to manage the psychological effects of Black pain. Finally, it’s dedicated to those families that don’t talk about the pain caused by our loved ones and to the church members who were taught to pray and forgive instead of processing, communicating, and healing.

Far too often, people have asked me how I survived growing up in Detroit during the years where the city constantly vied for the nation’s crown as the murder capital. I credit my mother, my religious foundation, The Creator, and whatever God put inside me that caused me to endure. I hope this book inspires each reader to live, to survive, to laugh, to forgive, and to process pain properly.

Introduction

True Freedom, like love and beauty, is one of those values better experienced than defined. Yet freedom is more difficult than slavery because it demands more of us than the attractive ease of oppression. There is no greater BURDEN than FREEDOM, and no HEAVIER LOAD than LIBERTY. Today I commend everyone who is fighting to be truly free and especially those that strive to liberate the oppressed!

The 1985 movie adaptation of Alice Walker’s novel The Color Purple holds a distinct place for African Americans in the history of our culture. We know the characters: Celie, Nettie, Mr., Harpo, Sophia, Shug, Squeak, Pops, and even Mrs. Millie. We know the script as well. More often than not, if a line from that movie is quoted, The Culture responds. To this day, if an unknown woman is in a place of familiars, someone will lean over to ask, Harpo, who dat woman? Lines like All my life I had to fight!, She ain’t none of my mammy., Sat in that jail til I near bout done rot to death… and Everything you done to me, already been done to you., are staple statements in the Black lexicon. We know this movie. Not to know this movie is Black blasphemy! Danny Glover, a very nice man whose company I’ve shared a couple times, was hated by many for years behind his amazing portrayal of Mister. Steven Spielberg is not celebrated enough for his work on this epic movie.

With that thought in mind, I had an intern named Dayna (HANDS UP!) while working the Obama campaign in 2012. Dayna was 20 at the time. She was a sweet, committed, and hard-working White young lady, and she had never seen the movie The Color Purple. When our office, filled mostly with older Black women, found out that she hadn’t seen it, we told her that it was a must-see for anyone named Dayna! Colleagues started quoting lines and recounting their favorite parts. We laughed hysterically at the memories like we lived them ourselves. If a quote was started, we all finished it in unison, then laughed again. After a few minutes, Dayna was sold. She wanted to see the movie, so we couldn’t, or we wouldn’t tell her much more about it. Dayna was on her way to Portugal for a week. I loaded the movie on her laptop so she could watch it on her trip.

A week later, Dayna returned to the office and back to work. Somewhere during the course of the day, I remembered to ask her if she watched the movie. When I did, her expression shifted. She punched me in the arm and quietly called me an asshole! Before I could ask why, she exclaimed that we all made her think the movie was a comedy. She watched the movie while laying over in an airport and said that she was bawling her eyes out while watching it. She said that she couldn’t contain herself. She loved the movie but blamed us for misrepresenting the film. I thought about it for a moment, and she was right. We respond to that masterpiece of a movie with laughter and joy although it’s a drama, and it’s very dark at times.

The Color Purple depicts oppression, abandonment, incest, dehumanization, racism, physical violence, wrongful imprisonment, and rape. The African American experience has mirrored the pain portrayed in The Color Purple in a way where, not only are the tragedies depicted in the movie accepted as normal, but The Culture is so desensitized to the pain that we find it comical. We relate to the trauma of the film, compare parts of the movie to our own tragedies, and laugh through the pain as we look back at our own life’s experiences.

The flip side is that The Color Purple celebrates redemption, strength, the power of knowledge, the Black family, land ownership, Black business, and freedom, again, mirroring the African American experience in this country. Nothing compares to ownership and the right to choose. Freedom and success, in my opinion, is having access to every option and opportunity. Since our arrival in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave, Black people have collectively longed for one thing: actual freedom. As we grow, explore, and learn, Black people understand that in most instances we do have the freedom to choose, but at the same time, those choices are extremely limited and do not represent the full spectrum of options available to all. That is not freedom. And real equality, whether we are fighting for it or offering it, demands bravery.

Our lives are linear in time, but emotions and memories linger. We can find ourselves stuck in one place due to a traumatic experience. Although society tends to put each of us in categories based on characteristics like race, gender, sexual orientation, and economic status, each of us are multifaceted and multi-layered. The Black experience isn’t singular, and it spans from the traumatic to the glorious. Mine is such a story. It is uniquely mine. In these pages you will find a little boy that experienced the same joys and pains depicted in The Color Purple. This book is a flashback to the 80s and 90s in Detroit where I celebrate the era while I reflectively meander through my experiences. I talk about my family and heritage, traveling, and the life changing experiences that molded me, and how the effects of constant change in my life helped me to see that change itself, whether good or bad, is more about what we learn from it.

I. Tell. Stories. That’s right… I tell stories. And when I do, I am often amazed when people tell me that their lives have not been as eventful as my own. I never compared my experiences to anyone else’s. Never have I thought that my life was the worst or the best. I appreciated where I was and knew that life could be worse. These experiences humbled me and made me grateful for every breath.

So, prepare yourself for the journey of my lifetime! You will laugh, as my viewpoints are silly, and I was a very imaginative kid. I wish I could pack all the laughter and jokes in my lifetime into one story! I have found joy and jokes in places I probably shouldn’t have. You might cry as well, as I am very transparent about trauma and my experiences. I don’t wish the burden of my pain on anyone. Don’t feel sad or bad for me, though! These experiences molded me into a fearless strong Black man who genuinely cares about people and equality.

Life has taught me that God is real, He created me for a purpose, and He loves me for some reason. These are the stories of my teenage years and how they formed and informed my faith, belief systems, and my individualism. My hope is that these stories help young people feel that they aren’t alone in their struggle, they are unique treasures, and they are natural survivors.

Chapter I

A Night to Remember

It’s okay to be afraid, but it’s not okay to stay afraid.

I remember it like it was a few nights ago. The images have haunted my thoughts for decades and they seem to be etched in stone in my mind. The last night I spent on Dwyer Street was one for the books, well…. for this book at least. Until that night, this particular day was usual in our household. School for the kids, work for the adults, homework, playtime, and choir rehearsal for my mom was on the day’s agenda. Until that night, nothing overwhelming or memorable had happened that day.

Our family was a typical American family. My mother Julia had remarried after leaving my father, and had been married to my stepdad, Leroy for about 10 years. During that time, my stepdad and my mom had 3 more sons. So, there were seven of us residing in our home—Leroy, my mom Julia, Jeremy, the twins Leon and Leonard, and our uncle Jesse, one of my mother’s younger brothers, who was living with us at that time as well.

My mother worked the day shift and was very faithful to the church. Work, church, and taking care of her family defined her existence. To this day, and after living in Detroit for over 40 years, my mother’s knowledge of the city is limited to work, church, and family related locales. In her early-30s at the time, she made sure we had what we needed in the house. She bought our food and clothes. She cooked, cleaned, and ran us to our extracurricular activities. She was an amazing mom! By far, the best mom I ever had. My stepdad was a hard worker. Like many in Detroit at the time, he worked in an automotive plant, General Motors specifically. In his leisure, he rebuilt cars and was a master mechanic. He worked, paid most of the bills, and kept an immaculate yard. He was that neighbor whose grass people would not dare walk on. In fact, I still won’t step on that grass! With both my mom and Leroy, we had more than enough. We weren’t wealthy by far, but their collective disposable income afforded our needs and most of our wants. In fact, kids in my neighborhood attempted to bully me because I had more things than most. Those same bullies though, would come to my house to play with my video games and toys. We also took multiple family trips yearly, and I remember watching the license plates of the cars as we would travel to visit family in Alabama, Cincinnati, or Rochester.

As for me, I was a dashing 12-year-old who excelled in school and was a pretty good kid overall, and I’m not exaggerating! I was a dope kid! My 8-year-old brother Jeremy, on the other-hand, was crazy. I had never seen before, nor have I seen since, a kid scream for hours without getting tired or hoarse. He was bad… like bad bad, having gotten kicked out of preschool as evidence, but he was a cool little brother, who was imaginative and playful.

As I reflect on those early years with Jeremy, I recall one story in particular. Jeremy was about 6 which means I was 10. I was in the living room playing Duck Hunt and minding my 10-year-old business. Jeremy came to me and politely asked, Hey Jonathan, what happens if you swallow a quarter? I told him that if he swallowed a quarter, sooner or later, he would poop it out. He looked at me inquisitively and said, Ok! He went his way, and I went back to killing digital ducks. About 15 minutes later, I was on my way to a high score when Jeremy came back into the living room with a wad of toilet paper in his hand. On top of the wad of toilet paper, was a solid turd. This crazy demon seed went into the bathroom, pooped in his hand, brought it to me, and asked; Do you see it? I said NAW! GO PUT THAT IN THE TOILET! I want to say that I couldn’t believe that he brought some poo, but it was par for the course with him. Needless to say, quarters don’t digest that fast. It was never a dull moment with Jeremy!

People flocked to the twins because at three, they were still cute toddlers. They looked so much alike as babies, that at times we couldn’t tell them apart. Luckily, Leonard had a small mole on his calf that ultimately saved us. As a 10-year-old, I loved when we’d take them out and people would ask if they were twins even though my mom dressed them alike. My sarcasm would not allow me to simply say yes. I felt like it was a stoopid question, so I would make up strange answers like no, they are just close friends'', or we found this one in the parking lot". My visiting uncle was our real-life Incredible Hulk! He would greet us by picking us up by our thigh and holding us over his head with one hand. So, we had to balance ourselves as we sat perched about 8 feet in the air on his hand. Not only was Uncle Jesse big, but he was LOUD. To this day, he is still the loudest person I have ever known. Our house was a functionally dysfunctional home.

We were church folks. In those days, both Leroy and my mom attended church regularly. Our church family was an extension of our family. Those relationships nurtured and protected me when and where my parents couldn’t. The most amazing and selfless people I’ve known were members of the churches we attended. Weddings, funerals, Christmas plays, Easter speeches, choir rehearsals, musicals, church picnics, Bible studies, and church trips were just as much a part of my life as Sunday morning church service. As a kid, I really enjoyed Sunday afternoons. There was always a family to visit, who had kids that I could play with. We’d either eat at their homes or we’d eat at a restaurant. Then we’d have to change clothes to play and nap before going back for Sunday evening service. Eat, play, nap… that still sounds like the perfect Sunday afternoon.

There was no alcoholism or drug abuse in our home. Our neighbors loved us and trusted my parents. Our neighbors’ kids would come over to help my mom cook and we would go to the card parties hosted by our neighbors two doors down the block. Card parties are where I learned the term, grown folks’ business. At those parties, I experienced life outside of religion. People smoked cigarettes, drank liquor, and listened to music that I had never heard. I enjoyed watching and listening to them as much as any sermon. And although my mother was a church woman who didn’t drink or smoke, she was still invited to hang at the card parties, because she was a good player.

While my mom built relationships through her church and work communities because she had no family in Detroit, Leroy’s relationships were more established. He was from the East side, and he had family members within a few miles of our home. His sister Jackie and brother Raymond both had kids my age, and we would visit them often. We also spent time at his parents’ home, which was always an interesting time to me. I think I was intrigued by old people. We had an established community that included family, church, co-worker, neighbors, and friends. And within that community, we portrayed a picture-perfect family although we were a bit dysfunctional.

Although my mom and stepdad worked every day, it seemed like they argued most nights, and at times those arguments led to violence. Very few of our neighbors, church friends, or my mother’s co-workers knew of the abuse my mother suffered at the hands of her husband. My mother would leave Leroy for one reason or another, then go back. When I was 10, my mother built up the courage to leave……again, and I was old enough to remember the particulars. At that time, Leroy worked the night shift at the factory. My mom organized and strategized. She waited for him to go to work. When he left the house for his shift, neighbors and friends pulled up in a moving truck and we emptied the house of everything including all of my toys. I felt like a looter, but I was so excited because we left nothing behind. We took everything but the furniture Leroy had when my mother married him. We were gone for about a week, and we went back…again. I transferred schools and everything! I went to that new school for one day! (I remember that one day of school well because I got in a fight before getting lost attempting to navigate my way to our new place. Lol, I was sincerely lost for about 30 minutes. I thought I’d end up on the back of a milk carton for about 10