The Long Way "Home": The Testimony - Book #1: The Testimony -

By Odell Richardson Jr.

The Long Way "Home": The Testimony A True B'More Story is a narrative, non-fiction memoir out of Baltimore City, Maryland. It's a powerful true story about a young man faced with adversities early on in life. Odell Richardson Jr. shares with the world his most personal journey to find the best version of himself virtually alone. This gripping an

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blueprint Press Internationale
• Release date: Aug 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9781961117556

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The Testimony

Book #1

ODELL RICHARDSON JR.

The Long Way Home: The Testimony

Copyright © 2023 by Odell Richardson Jr.

All rights reserved. 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 non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN

978-1-961117-54-9 (Paperback)

978-1-961117-55-6 (eBook)

978-1-961117-53-2 (Hardcover)

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

Thank You LORD and GOD bless everyone!

Table of Contents

INTRODUCTION

Chapter 1Entering An Exit

Chapter 2A Fresh Start

Chapter 3Breakin Through

Chapter 4Changing Worlds

Chapter 5Ten Days

Chapter 6Whiskers On The Chin

Chapter 7The Prediction

Chapter 8Confirmed Separation

Chapter 9Searching

Chapter 10The Failing Graduate

Chapter 11Big Boy

Chapter 12Leaving

Chapter 13Falling Horizon

Chapter 14Full Eclipse

Chapter 15Thin On Luck

Chapter 16Feeling The Heat

Chapter 17A Visit From The Reaper

Chapter 18Unclean Break

Chapter 19End/The Beginning

INTRODUCTION

Home; an internal or godly place of rest on earth which includes love, peace, purpose, passion, patience, prosperity, humility, humanity, joy, accountability, spirituality, intelligence and wisdom.

The journey of life shall bring forth many challenges, leaving us with many questions to ourselves. How did my life end up here? Why did I respond to certain situations in this manner? How was I able to hurt others without realizing it? These are just a few many of us will encounter before finally discovering the answer to the most important question of them all: Who am I? Today, I have the answer to these and others, but many still do not. With this story, I will share real life messaging to help others counter many of their inconsistencies with the hope of promoting a better standard of living. I believe this body of work can assist with growth for all people who are simply in need of encouragement.

Welcome, my name is Odell Richardson Jr. I’m an African-American author from Baltimore City, Maryland. My zodiac sign is Cancer. I love to write or express creative ideas on paper; I enjoy reading, occasionally drawing or sketching, and I enjoy watching professional basketball, football and boxing. I’m a proud father of three. I have a subtle but strong sense of humor. I’m a saved man; a humble man. I’m single, yet I’ve learned through experience what it takes to truly give and receive love properly. I’m pretty compassionate: a true people person who often considers the collective not just individual elevation. All this seems fairly normal, right? Well, not when it takes a man more than thirty-four years to fully grasp it all. Throughout most of my life, I’ve lived with absolutely no guidance or direction while in the tough city streets of B’MORE. It is my desire, now that I’m found, to help others achieve the same by escaping or surviving the same ideas of darkness I dwelled in for many years.

In this story, ALL of the names of everyday people, with the exception of my own, have been altered or changed to false names. However, there are several familiar names, and appearances by celebrities and/or stars in this story, you all will recognize throughout. These individuals DO NOT have any ties to any plots or themes throughout the entire story. These good people had absolutely NOTHING to do with the trials I’ve endured throughout my entire life. All appearances of any film or television stars, athletes, singers, rappers, or political figures were solely coincidental. I DO NOT know any celebrities personally! NONE of these celebrities know me personally. NONE of them knew of my background or of anything involving my past.

This truth-based story or novel began in the inner city of my hometown, Baltimore, Maryland. This story about my life will allow the readers to journey with me throughout this city and abroad. Today, my life is planted in better soil, therefore I must carry out the duty to share these experiences with the masses to influence positive change. Before I continue, I would like to thank all of the readers for taking the time to become one of the most important forces of my dream. The ultimate goal is to bring this message and true story to the silver screen. This is the honest prospective of a young African-American male from the inner city. I truly hope that I’m successful with informing the entire nation about the facts of this life, but from a very different angle. I love to express myself through writing. Since a young man, I’ve always been a writer at heart! This is what I do! This is who I really am! I’m reaching out with my testimony to follow my dreams, and simply because I have a genuine love for everyone; I know this is what I am supposed to do.

This evolution of my mind and spirit was long in coming. I’ve finally mastered my way of thinking. I’m now a man of integrity. I will breakdown the mentality of the streets in detail while displaying how our choices shape our future. As I do this, I hope to help and inspire others to make the necessary changes or adjustments in their lives, before it’s too late. This story is filled with information based on many of my past experiences. Many will learn just how diverse or complex my people can be. We all are not the same. Still, we are beautiful people. To those who may lack insight; we are not all bad seeds, or the so-called, throwaway. We may periodically attend the same party, but that does not mean we are all dancing to the same tunes.

This urban literature, narrative non-fiction story is not designed as a vehicle to disrespect those who are still trapped or engulfed in a world full of negativity, lies, and deceit. However, this could serve as a warning to anyone who will hear this cry. I wish to speak to everyone, including those who are just as stubborn as I in the past. I realize there are so many individuals in the world who need help and desire to live a more secure and peaceful existence. Some do not struggle with drastic illegal issues, but maybe these individuals could use a little help in other areas mentioned throughout my story. There are many! Much love to those folks who abide by the laws of the land! I’m now fit to join you all, yet I could really use your support with this message. I’m still plugging away in my own journey, therefore I do not have all of the answers. Still, I’m quite confident this message can help many understand what decisions not to make.

Cleansing my soul or burying the past is also an important factor behind this creation. Writing has been in my heart for over four decades. This story alone should have been told at least seven years ago. The world had such a tight grasp of my soul, I was not able to focus on positive things like peace, or the following of a dream. Where I’m from there are no true dreamers. To do such a thing, believe it or not, was often viewed as a sign of weakness. I was caught up for sure, yet I was blessed with grace and mercy to stay an exception to the infamous rule about street life and death.

In this story you will discover an unfamiliar landmark to many. Although Baltimore, Maryland is a fairly large city, the core setting is virtually unknown. Even relative hit television shows like, The Wire, The Corner, and Homicide (Life on the Streets), just to name a few, overlooked this small but interesting area. The setting of Roc (1991-1994) on Fox, was based on the exact location of this novel’s premise. This unique place and its occupants were truly mind-blowing from many different perspectives. As I carefully walk you through my story, things will get quite disturbing and graphic folks. However, it is mandatory not to lose focus on the bigger, more important subject matter of this story; making changes for a better existence.

Praising God and creating positive change are the main driving forces behind this movement. This makes it crucial for me to express this to more than one particular audience or genre. This is a positive movement for all mankind. This story is designed to touch everyone. From the streets, to the athletes, doctors, lawyers, firefighters, correctional and police officers, and other professionals alike; this message is relevant. These personalities and others play significant roles throughout my journey. I’ve encountered a lot, yet I’ve always tried to hold on to a kind spirit. I’m not a thug or an ex-kingpin even, nor did I ever care to be. My journey was not exactly a pleasant one, but it was designed for me by God, ultimately with a positive outcome in mind. This is my story, and I feel obligated to promote my resources for the advancement of myself and my fellow men and women across the globe. I’m an extreme optimist. I hardly ever complain about anything. I don’t point fingers, I’m incredibly patient, and I’m not big on excuses. Every wrongdoing in my life I’ve acknowledged, suffered, and repented. I’ve found peace and that’s all I will ever need. However, there is a deep desire for me to follow this dream, and to help make a difference by promoting positive change, if even for a single soul. This, along with glorifying the Creator, promotes this material you can now take part in. Maybe by the time you reach this story’s end you’ll be better equipped to make a needed change in your life, or to promote change in the life of a friend or loved one. Perhaps with your help and my testimony, you, or someone you know or love, will not have to take THE LONG WAY HOME.

Entering An Exit

I, Odell Richardson Jr., entered this world on June of 1972 on the 29th day. I weighed in at exactly 7 pounds 15 ounces. I was my dad’s first-born son. As for my mom, Denise Alexander, I was her second born child. This meant I was also the newborn baby brother of my four- year-old sister, Gina Alexander. Shots fired from a police officer’s revolver explains the difference in our last name. Gina’s dad Jean was killed in the streets of Baltimore City during the summer of 1970. Ironically, my sister’s dad and I share the same birthday. After Jean’s death, my mom then met my dad Odell Richardson Sr. Two years later, I was born in southeast Baltimore at then City Hospital. Today, the same location is named Johns Hopkins Bayview Medical Center. Despite the early tragedy endured by my sister and mother, the possibility to have a normal family upbringing still remained intact. So there I was, a healthy baby boy with an above average sized head, all set to start my journey in this game we call life.

My original residence was 1913 Kennedy Avenue located in east Baltimore. Not long after I was born, my immediate family and I moved to a house approximately three miles away. A three bedroom on Asquith Street slightly further east, would now be called home for myself, my sister, mom and dad. Both mom and dad were in pretty good health. My dad, ten years my mom senior, was an employee as a commercial truck driver for The Coca-Cola Company. My mom also worked at The Coca-Cola Company as a receptionist. Their place of employment was within five minutes walking distance of our new home.

On the surface, my dad appeared fine but was a chain smoker of Pall Mall cigarettes and a heavy drinker of dark liquor. My mom stayed far away from both. She was an extremely humble and responsible young lady. My mom was only sixteen years old when she had my sister Gina; only twenty when I arrived. Still, she was prepared to be a great mom. She was also an artist at heart. She loved creating handmade picture frames and stuffed animals from nothing more than cotton balls and colorful pieces of cheap fabric. Out of my two parents, my dad was certainly the more outgoing. My mom was very mild-mannered and soft spoken; a God-fearing woman despite having two children out of wedlock. By her early-twenties, she already understood what it takes to be a good mother and an even better person. My mother was a mom in every sense of the word. She made sure we ate three meals a day, stayed away from too many sweets, and got plenty of rest. My dad was already a father, but early on, there was no trace of other siblings. As time moved along, this age gap and my dad’s imperfections would slowly begin to alter our plans to live the normal existence we all crave.

In 1975, as The Vietnam War drew to its end, claiming countless Americans, I was three years old learning how to gain full control of a normal stride. This is likely the age where I’m able to go back or visualize a few specific details about my childhood. I can recall certain events that took place inside of my household. I remember being forced to eat my spinach during dinner time. I despised spinach very much as a kid; my mother knew it. Still, mother would never use ignorance or violent tactics to get an important message across to me nor my sister. Instead, she would use her creativity. She would always say to me, Odell, if you eat all of your spinach, you’ll be as strong as Popeye. Mother knew Popeye was my favorite cartoon character at the time. I loved the sailor man so much, this statement worked on me with all of my veggies. Well, with the exception of Brussel sprouts.

At home, I also remembered not-so-pleasant instances like being punished for breaking the record player, and for pushing an innocent little girl down our red brick steps outside, apparently for no reason at all. I still don’t understand what drove me to do such a stupid thing. Still I like to believe I was an average kid growing up in the early seventies. Life was just getting underway for my sister and I, yet we would soon be exposed to one of life’s most certain facts.

As time moved on I began to develop a bit of my mom’s personality and my dad’s keen sense of humor. I also recall being pretty close to my sister at four years of age. We even took baths together, believe it or not. I enjoyed having a big sister. She definitely looked after me. Every time I hurt myself or did something I had no business doing, my big sis was there to help out. Gina was actually the first person to arrive on the scene when I nearly ate dog poop. That’s right! At three years old, I nearly ate a piece of old dog mess. I had mistaken the white chalky substance for a piece of powdered doughnut. I’ve always loved cookies, pies, cakes, and doughnuts. Gina really saved me from this act. I was kneeling on the ground with the poop in my hand, when Gina suddenly arrived and yelled out at me from the front porch.

My sister Gina was there for me from the start. She was also the first to support me with my infamous reoccurring nightmare. Every so often, I would have this intense nightmare about Big Foot. It seemed like every other night, Sasquatch would drop in to visit me inside of my bedroom. Normally, during these nightmares, I would hold fast until the giant hairy fellow left from the foot of my bed, but one night he made sure I would respond to his presence. In the midst of these nightmares, I would periodically take peaks from out of one eye. I would do this until the creature disappeared. He always seemed to vanish right before I felt the need to yell out. Well, on this night I was forced to react. Just as I cracked my left eye for the third time, I found myself staring directly into the hairy brown chest of the beast. Big foot was on Asquith Street, in the heart of Baltimore City in my bedroom kneeling directly over top of me.

This nightmare seemed so real I thought I could actually feel its breath and its coarse brown fur brushing up against my skin. I remember looking directly into the yellowish eyes of the beast. My heart rate soon tripled as I struggled to scream as loudly as I could. HELP, HELP, MOMMY, HELP, HELP! I screamed. I continued to yell until I saw any kind of change in anything. It was not until I noticed the brightness from underneath of my own eyelids, I realized I was safe. My entire household rushed to my aid, but my sister was there first, out in front. After leading an extensive search party for the eight-foot creature and coming up short again, I regained my normal heart rate and was able to recover a normal sleep pattern. Memories like these and others, such as my mom’s patented call for bedtime, never left me. As a youth, it was clear I was an individual who hardly missed a thing. No matter if it was good, bad, or if it meant anything at all, from this point forward I would likely remember.

Midway through my fourth year of life, I would gain even more knowledge about my dad. He never mistreated me in any way. Yet, I can slightly recall a few intense outbursts of his. I had no clue at this point what sparked them, but I do vaguely recall a few instances of him yelling and breaking things around the house. Childhood living for me was still normal as I saw it, but I was not yet five years old. My dad, I believed had done enough good by me to gain my total confidence. My sister kept her distance from my dad. I guess she refused to replace the dad she had lost when she was two or three years old. That was the only way I believed a four-year-old could comprehend my sister’s vibe towards my dad. I really didn’t know much, I was still too young. Therefore, I continued doing all I could to find my way and to simply be a kid.

As my fifth birthday approached, I would get a chance to really interact with my close relatives. My mom Denise was the second youngest of five children. She was one of two females brought into this world by my grandma, Alma Alexander. We all simply called her Mama. I recall visiting my grandmother’s house as I grew a bit more. Grandma’s house was where the rest of my immediate family resided. This three- bedroom home sat to the right, off of a road named North Avenue. This row home rested directly across the street from today’s March Funeral Home. Grandma lived at 1913 Kennedy Avenue. My visits there were a pleasant change of scenery. There, I also got to spend time with my grandfather, Edward Alexander; Daddy, my three uncles, BoBo, Frank, and Marie’s partner, Montell, who was like family as well.

My grandparents also had a dog named Deal. Don’t ask! Deal was a female Alaskan Malamute puppy. She was the first dog, of any kind, I had ever encountered. With all this, it was none of these figures who kept me excited during these visits. My constant enthusiasm came from my six year old cousin Shawn. Shawn was an only child, the son of my aunt Marie. Marie was my mom’s younger sister and quite a personality. My aunt was the exact opposite of my mother. She was more outgoing, louder, and much more animated. My lovable aunt had my cousin Shawn when she was just fifteen years old. She was now twenty-one, and had been with the same man for the last several years, but Montell was not Shawn’s biological dad. That previous relationship fell through by my cousin’s second birthday. Despite it all, the more I visited Kennedy Avenue, the more I knew I had found a partner for a lifetime.

Weekends became my most important days of all. My home on Asquith Street was becoming a place where I only slept for the most part. Even on some weekdays I would find a way, or my cousin would, to pull the necessary strings to get any of my uncles to bring me to 1913. All of my uncles were quite different from one another. Uncle Bo, or BoBo, we all called him, was grandma’s youngest son. BoBo was a menacing six- foot, two-hundred eighty-pound student of Frostburg University. He had just started working for a local Nationwide Insurance office as a Claim’s Adjuster. Uncle Bo was the guy grandma used as the disciplinarian, of the physical variety; the ass kicker, if you would.

BoBo was the person who made sure the laws grandma laid down were enforced. Montell, a school teacher, was nothing more than a man we all respected who had charisma, good looks, and stacks of Bruce Lee magazines. Then there was our only married uncle Tony, who did not live at 1913. He usually kept a distance from his younger siblings, for some odd reason. He really only seemed to be concerned with his mom and dad; that was it. Under our uncle Tony was my uncle Frank. Uncle Frank was the friendliest of them all, not really by choice. My uncle was mildly handicap from a beating he received as a teen. Frank once lived life as a free-spirit similar to his sister Marie. He allowed himself to fall victim to the street lifestyle. Frank was severely beaten by a host of police officers as he made an attempt to defend my grandma from being treated rudely by these same officers; by his accounts. Details were sketchy surrounding the incident. However, my uncle’s background was not. My uncle Frank was a bully and a drug dealer.

My uncle’s chosen profession was not a concrete reason for him to be beaten senseless. We all know today, it was common during those days for authorities to do so to anyone, mainly blacks, and simply get away with it. My uncle spent a few years in prison after this beating, only to come home a completely changed human being. My uncle is prescribed medicine to take regularly in order to sustain control of his mental and emotional state. Since this unfortunate incident my uncle has had trouble controlling himself. Fortunately for the family, it’s all harmless. Whenever my uncle fails to administer his medicine correctly, he has uncontrollable outbursts of laughter. Yep, that’s right! Frank would laugh so loudly and long during these breakouts, all Shawn and I would do, most of the time, was join in. It probably didn’t help my uncle’s cause that he was a heavy drinker and smoker like my dad. He spent quite a few afternoons drinking his monthly disability check away with his buddies up on North Avenue.

Shawn and I simply loved our uncle. As kids it’s always cool to have an impartial grown-up around. My uncle’s situation still baffles me today. I can still recall most of the story grandma shared with me about the time when my uncle Frank was being released from prison after a few years. Grandma said she and her mom were called to pick up Frank from the prison facility. Months leading up to his release grandma had already grown suspicious about her son’s behavior. She mentioned while my uncle was in jail the letters he regularly sent home had become quite peculiar. Frank began his prison stay by speaking on becoming a better person and moving on with his life. Over time, grandma indicated the content of these letters had changed drastically. Before long, all uncle Frank cared to discuss with mama were characters from Marvel and D.C. Comics; Spiderman and Superman, to be specific. My grandma, my uncle BoBo, and my great grandma, who was deceased before my birth, all picked my uncle up from jail after his release. For the first time, they all got to experience one of his patented outbursts. My uncle BoBo drove the car with my late-great grandmother in the passenger seat. My grandma sat in the rear with her freed son. Immediately after entering the vehicle, Frank would burst into laughter. Great grandmother quickly turned, looked over her shoulder, and yelled out to her daughter, Yeah, he’s gone!

My immediate family of my sister, three uncles, an aunt, a cousin, grandma, granddad, and a puppy all stuffed into this three-bedroom home on Kennedy Avenue. There was more than enough attention to go around for Shawn, my sister Gina and I. Before long, my home on Asquith Street was an inconvenience for me. I didn’t care about anything other than hanging out with Buster. That’s what our grandfather called Shawn. He called me Bumble Bee, because I always seemed to accumulate at least one or two bee stings in a week’s time during the summer months. Kennedy Avenue quickly became my home again away from home. Gina and I still stayed under the watchful eye of our loving mom, but it was clear Shawn and I needed to grow up together. There was a need for us to be around each other, certainly in the warmer months. We really loved the outdoors. We meshed immediately with the other kids in the neighborhood. We raced our Green Machine big wheel vehicles up and down Gorsuch Avenue with a controlled recklessness. We also made strong attempts to mask ourselves as superheroes. Well, if you call large and small bath towels costumes. That was the best we could do to become the ghetto’s version of Batman and Robin. I was the youngest, therefore I was Robin. I loved my cousin Shawn so much, it was an honor to take a back seat to him.

Shawn, at only seven years old somehow managed to take my sister’s place as protector. I no longer felt the need to be around my sister as much. I actually became a little frustrated when I had to be. I loved my sister, but at the age of five-and-a-half, all I had on my mind was fun. My cousin was the only one I felt a need to be around as a kid. Even when school was back in session, Shawn and I found ways to have lots of fun. Early on we attended separate schools. Shawn attended Cecil Elementary School, just minutes away from 1913. I attended Coldstream Elementary, about the same distance from our home on Asquith Street. I was a kindergartner. Shawn was in first grade. We loved our lives in east B’MORE. Fun, friends, toys, frozen cups, snowballs, sticky apples, and the delightful music whistling from the Good Humor Ice Cream truck was more than enough for us all. What more could a child ask for? Times could not have been more pleasant for me at this point. Life was too perfect for me to realize what loomed slightly ahead. The summer of 1977 was going great. We hardly experienced any precipitation all summer long. This gave my cousin and I plenty of time to run wild. I had no idea a storm was about to hit; both in east Baltimore and in my heart, changing my world forever.

One stormy summer night, my cousin Shawn and I, along with my sister and the rest of the family stayed huddled closely inside of grandma’s house. The thundering rain pouring down the window panes was so intense, it actually felt like something more was coming; perhaps a blackout or a hale storm. If there was ever a place to be during a time like this as a kid, it was here, in big mama’s hands. There’s no presence like the one a grandmother possesses. On this night, my mom was the only immediate member of our family who was not present. My mom and dad were out attending a wedding reception somewhere in the county. My mom and dad were not married, although at the time many believed they were.

My sister and I were supposed to stay on Kennedy Avenue until the reception ended. Soon, the clock struck ten and the rain continued to pour as if God Himself had forgotten to turn off the faucet that showered the earth. Everyone sat relatively quiet, playing card games or painting their fingers and toes. I was drawing a picture of Superman. I’d inherited my mother’s passion for quiet artistic creativity. It was only evident whenever I sat still long enough to zone in or focus on a specific topic of interest. I guess you can say I was trying to become the next Stan Lee. Like Mr. Lee, I never just liked pictures whenever I picked up a book, a pad, or a pencil. The dialogue did for me what the illustrations would, even more so at times. I felt the dialogue or conversations in a comic book really made the characters come to life. I loved this idea as a kid. That’s why I would hardly ever draw without writing, and I almost never wrote without drawing. However, on this night in August, as I did my best to perfectly define Superman’s bicep muscles through cramped, five-year old fingers, I was unintentionally interrupted.

The phone rang just as I rose to change my positioning on the chilled wooden floor. Hello, What? my aunt Marie yelled into the phone attached to the kitchen wall. What the hell are you saying? she asked in a panic. What’s wrong with my sister? she asked with an uncontrolled anger. By this time my #2 pencil had become a dormant object in my right hand. The rest of the household, including my sister, were now growing in concern. Suddenly, I was hearing at least six different voices all at once. I could not fully understand what was taking place, but I was doing fine reading everyone’s body language. From where I was sitting, things did not look nor feel very promising. All I truly knew was that it was pouring down raining, there was a phone call, my aunt only had one sister, something was wrong, and everyone was seemingly upset. My conclusion as to what was going on was not a positive one. Minutes later, I learned two things of opposing circumstances. One, I can comprehend pretty well for a five- year old, and two, what I just figured out was my worst nightmare. This was turning out to be even more frightening than all of my many Big Foot encounters, combined.

On that stormy night, my mom and dad left the reception and were headed back to 1913 to retrieve my sister and I. On the way, my dad lost control of the vehicle and rolled the car over several times before landing it in a large drop-off. It was said my parents and the two others who accompanied them were hurt pretty badly. Of course, at this time details were sketchy. As my sister and I sat innocently at our grandparent’s house during the rain storm, our mom and my dad remained traumatized in an overturned vehicle, apparently badly injured while awaiting assistance. My world was changing drastically as I stood still, fully unaware as to what life was all about. At only five years old, my first major lesson in life was already underway.

At five years old I was baring witness and learning a valuable lesson in life. I was learning that life is not all about fun and games, and that pain and grief is a part of it all. I didn’t understand why, but I was able to understand the huge difference between laughter and crying. For a child, it’s quite intense to observe several grown-ups sobbing. This indicates to a kid just how severe a situation may be. We all know, if adults are at a loss, then the child to a certain degree is at an even greater one. I began to realize there was a large cloud hanging over my family; much larger than the one responsible for producing the storm outside on that evening. My family was now in a state of emergency. As my family pulled together and headed for the hospital to check on my mom’s condition, my sister and I, along with Shawn, stayed back with our grandparents. It was time for my family to get to the hospital. There were four badly hurt passengers in the sedan on this rainy night. All were injured seriously, yet we soon learned one of the worse injured was my mom.

As the days passed by, details of the accident began to surface. Starting with my dad; it was said he had suffered severe injuries to his back and to one of his legs. One of the rear passengers was actually his younger brother, an uncle I don’t remember much at all. He was doing a lot worst than my dad, but was said to be in stable condition. The status of the other passenger, a female, was not disclosed initially by my family, yet she too was stable. My mom was the primary concern for my family. Being only twenty-three years old placed the family in a higher state of worry. My mom’s condition from the accident was very critical. My mom suffered massive head trauma, several broken ribs, both legs were broken, and she had major damage to her face. My mom’s face smashed into the vehicle’s dashboard, causing her to lose most of her front teeth. We all knew things were not making sense when we learned my mom was not wearing a seat belt. This was something she practiced religiously.

It was said my mother had to be pulled out of the wreckage through the front windshield of the late-model sedan. My mom also received multiple internal injuries to her kidneys, liver, and stomach. It had taken surgeons quite some time to get the bleeding under control. My mother’s 23 year old, 125 pound frame was in shock and being put through a severe test. A crying shame, everyone thought. Toxicology reports confirmed my mother was the only occupant in the car who did not have a single drink on that evening.

Details continued to pour in about the horrific incident involving my parents. My dad’s near-paralyzing emergency back surgery was a success. His condition stabilized and he would soon be able to return home and back to work in the near-future. His brother Curt was just as fortunate. He too was released just days after the accident. His female companion was treated and released with manageable injuries as well. My mom’s condition slightly improved, but she still was in a bad way. Evidence of my dad’s blood/alcohol level placed a dramatic spin on the entire situation back at 1913. He was a pretty heavy drinker and reports of his behavior prior to leaving the reception indicated irresponsibility on his part. Rushing to and from the event also may have played a large role in the matter. Groceries were found on the roadway and inside of the trunk of the mangled vehicle. My mom had rushed through grocery shopping to make it to the reception on time. My parents felt they did not have enough time to drop off these purchases at home before heading out. These factors along with the severe weather and alcohol spelled trouble from the very beginning. In my family’s eyes, my father was the man and the elder, therefore he would have to shoulder the blame, and become the target of their intense backlashes.

As my mother fought for her twenty-fourth birthday, my dad paced the earth upright for the first time since the horrific accident. After returning back to work as a driver for The Coca Cola Bottling Company, one of the first places he visited after work was Mama’s. My dad hurried to see me for the first time since the accident. Because of my mom’s slight progress, the jury was still out in regards to my dad’s character. With hopes of my mom recovering, the focus mostly remained on me and my sister. My dad arrived at 1913 without my knowledge. I was upstairs, still somehow managing to be a kid. I knew my mom was in some kind of blameless trouble, but I guess the family did all they could to assure me I would be reunited with her soon. Shawn and I were upstairs hanging out when I received a called from grandma downstairs. Odell, come down here boy! Your father is here, she yelled enthusiastically. Oh, I replied excitedly. I hopped up quickly and rumbled down the winding stairway.

I was excited to say the least, yet I had no clue as to what I was running into. As a kid, have you ever found yourself running in the direction of something, full of excitement, only to find out what you were running to was the exact opposite of what you imagined? Well, that’s just what happened to me as I entered the kitchen of my grandma’s home. It was as if I had anti-lock brakes in my Converse sneakers when I observed my dad awaiting with outstretched arms. All I saw was an unfamiliar man smiling at me with his arms extended. Both of my dad’s eyes were bloodshot and his voice was a bit distorted as well. I quickly made the sudden turn perhaps he should have made just several days prior. I hurried quickly over to the security of my grandma’s huge left leg. As my dad made repeated attempts to reel me over, I planted my grill deeply into mama’s flowered one-piece housedress. Go ahead boy, she yelled down at me while smiling in embarrassment. Go say ‘Hi’ to your father boy! No, no, no, I don’t want to, I replied back while simultaneously peaking out from her dress. I was wondering if my real dad would suddenly appear. Nope! He didn’t, therefore I proceeded to try to run and hide within the brush of the landscape printed on my grandma’s garment.

I spent the next twenty minutes treating my dad as if he were a complete stranger. Suddenly, it seemed like the Big Foot encounters had never existed. The big hurry fellow had quickly slipped into third on the Scare the Hell Out of Odell list. Experiencing my family melt away due to the accident, and now observing a red eyed monster wearing a Coca Cola cap, was likely enough for me to pay a visit to a shrink for toddlers. During this very weird encounter, I remember vividly my dad’s transforming facial expressions. He had gone from having a relentless smile as he pleaded for my embrace, to a look of disgust and frustration. Nevertheless, nothing worked for my dad on this day. I didn’t stop my uncontrollable yelling until he left the house all together.

A short time later, I would again be at a loss with my parents. It was now time for me to visit my mom at the hospital. Her condition was still very shaky, but she was slowly showing improvement. My sister Gina and I, along with the rest of the family, all headed over to Union Memorial Hospital in east Baltimore, located on 33rd Street. This was my first visit to any hospital. This idea alone made me a bit uncomfortable as we all entered this facility. The prep talk I was given by my grandma made me excited to see my mom. It had been awhile since I’d last seen her reassuring bright smile. I did not know the severity of her injuries at this time. Therefore, I was excited and very optimistic about this visit. I still struggled with getting passed just how weird my dad appeared. I had hoped for a more delightful experience with my mom. However, I was only five. I was unable to fully discern how different injuries could alter my parent’s appearance in many different ways. I was not totally aware that one could be hurt much more than the other during the same incident. I was too young to understand why my dad was home and why my mom was still in the hospital. I did not understand the seriousness of this situation. As things progressed I became more lost and distant, and the terrible ordeal I had just gone through with my dad was about to worsen.

We all entered the room where my mom stayed. My sister immediately ran over to a woman in a wheelchair. That was the title my mind forced me to use while referring to my mother when Gina rushed over in excitement. There was no way of convincing me the woman in the blue and chrome wheelchair was my mom. I watched my sister with uncertainty, trying to figure out why she was so cheerful about the battered individual in the light-blue hospital robe. As my mom finished greeting the rest of the family, I could slowly see her eyes coming around to meet my own; which had never left hers the entire time.

Before I could even blink, I found myself listening to the same phrase and observing the very same gesture my dad used earlier; outstretched arms from a stranger. As my mom’s arms drew closer as she leaned forward, I quickly glanced behind, making sure I was near the same large leg that bailed me out of the ordeal with my dad. Again, I ran to my grandma who ironically just happened to be making a similar statement to the one she had made earlier. Boy, go over there and give your mother a hug, she insisted this time around. Everyone seemed to be repeating themselves, so I followed suit. No, no, I don’t want to, I yelled. There was only one difference between these two incidents. Instead of just my dad getting frustrated by my response, the entire family grew tired of my refusal to cooperate. As a kid I was more attached to my mom than my dad. However, I had a hard time truly believing the battered woman I was observing was the person everyone was claiming. My mom appeared much darker. She had lost an enormous amount of weight. And, I’d never seen her hair in braids going backwards before, so that was weird as well. My sister braided my mom’s hair during a previous visit. This was my first and things were simply too difficult to grasp. Although my grandmother was leading the plea for me to advance over towards my mom, she was the only person I felt could protect me at this time. I’m not sure about all of the details involved with this visit, but I’m very sure the outcome was the same as it was with my father. I never went over to greet my mom.

Today, I still struggle with the lack of compassion I displayed towards my mother while she was in the hospital although I was just five years old.

I was afraid. I managed to get better at dealing with my mom’s physical features as time continued. As her condition improved, talks of her being allowed to visit home periodically began to surface. My mother’s condition had stabilized well enough for doctors to reluctantly agree to a few trial runs for her to periodically spend some time at home again. This allowed my family to breathe a temporary sigh of relief. This great news allowed me to once again settle back into a normal existence. For as tense as life was surrounding the accident, things seemed to be returning to old form a bit. My sister and I were back at home on Asquith Street with my mom and dad. Although they were banged up, we all were back together. The sun was shining brightly again and things were looking upwards. It was now time for my sister and I to continue on with just being normal kids in the inner city of Baltimore.

A month passed by, and it appeared as if my mom was going to be allowed to finally come home for good. She was only allowed to spend time with us a few days out of the week. My dad was almost back to normal, therefore he continued to work full-time to support the household. My dad and I had found the magic of old, thanks to his looks returning to form. My mom still showed signs of serious damage from the wreck, yet her condition showed gradual improvement. My uncle Frank spent a lot of time with us overseeing his younger sister. He was the only relative that never seemed to have a negative vibe towards my dad during this tough time. By this time, all of the others had all but dismissed my dad as a member of the family. Many heavy darts were thrown by my family towards my dad, but at this point they were all subliminal or subdued.

As the summer came to an end so would something much more. My mom was resting inside one day and a knock on the door alarmed me and awakened her. My sister was on her way home from Coldstream Elementary School. The people at the door were nurses from the hospital. They came unannounced, upsetting my mom quite a bit. Although she was better, she was far from being out of the woods. Still, at home she enjoyed her peace not knowing this peace would be forever interrupted.

After the physicians entered, my mom immediately began to resist their orders to get set to return to the hospital. Something in my mom’s hospital files forced the hospital to react quickly and hurry to Asquith Street. I can recall two women in scrubs, pleading with my mom to not fight with them. Come on, lets go Denise, a nurse insisted animatedly. No, I don’t want to go, mother yelled in fear. This phrase seemed to be genetic. I know, but you have to, you’re very sick, the other nurse said in a pleasant tone. No I’m not, I’m fine, my mom replied fearfully. As the two nurses tried desperately to calm my mother down, a third person, a doctor also dressed in scrubs, entered through the front door. Is everything alright? he asked calmly. Just then, my sister entered the house from school and my mom began to cry. This set off a domino effect around our living room. Well, except for my uncle Frank. I never saw him shed a tear unless he laughed himself into tears. I don’t want to go, mother continued to shout. The representatives from Union Memorial Hospital continued to quickly pack up my mom’s things for her to be escorted back to the hospital. As they did so, I cried with stares between my mom, these physicians, and the frantic red lights popping from the top of the ambulance that awaited just outside. Mother repeatedly tried to resist. Frank, tell them to leave me alone! mom yelled. Frank, usually short on words complied, Let her stay, leave my sister be now, he shouted. My mother then held onto her brother’s trousers with all the might within her battered little frame, but to no avail.

As my sister and I sat through yet another dramatic scene, my mother was taken away from the house for what would be the last time. Obviously the hospital knew more than they cared to share with us on this day. A few days later, my sister Gina was called upstairs frantically by our grandma as we found ourselves back at 1913. Gina, Gina, come here, Mama yelled emotionally from upstairs after receiving a brief phone call. My sister entered the room to our broken-faced grandma who suddenly screamed outwards, YOUR MOMMY JUST DIED! My mom’s injuries eventually won her over. Too much internal bleeding was the culprit. I was unaware of all of the details, but I knew what death meant. My inability to describe the exact moment I learned about my mom’s death, to me, is an indication that I was likely in shock and severely heartbroken. At the tender age of five, my mom was no longer with me. I was now motherless! I had just received one of life’s most fearful but certain facts; life must end whether we want it to or not. Just like that, she was gone forever. My beloved mother, Denise Alexander had passed away. She was just twenty-four years old.

A Fresh Start

My mother’s death devastated the entire family and all who were close. Initially, my sister remained emotionally neutral. She stated when grandma first broke the news she didn’t feel a thing. Disbelief, along with just how much Gina loved spending time at grandma’s house temporarily postponed my sister’s grieving period. Gina stated it took an entire month or so for her to finally break down. Gina said as time went on her four most frequently used words were, I want my mommy. Despite suffering this tragic moment, I still continued to be a normal kid. I was saddened by the death of my mom, and I was still haunted by her post-accident physical appearance. The impact of the void left behind was strong, but would almost fill immediately. Being around my cousin Shawn and my aunt Marie made things feel better but was confusing for me at such an early age. I did not have it all figured out, yet I did realize a few things. Shawn was as close to me as any member of my family, yet he had a mom, and I no longer did. This really hurt at times. My cousin noticed my mood changes. He even told me once, O, don’t worry, we can share my mom, just after observing me sitting in the vestibule with my head down. Thank God for family and thank God Shawn was there for me throughout this tragedy. I still had a sister and a host of aunts and uncles, yet I had just lost my mom, but in Shawn I felt I had recently gained a brother.

Situations revolving around my dad, my mom’s possessions, and my well-being continuously would be the topic of discussion on Kennedy Ave. There were first talks of my sister and I staying on Asquith Street along with my dad. However, this all changed around the time my family was making arrangements for my mother’s funeral. My mom was set to be put to rest at March Funeral Home on North Avenue in east Baltimore. If you’ve ever been to the heart of east Baltimore, you’ve probably driven passed March Funeral Home several times. There are several locations today. However, during the time of my mother’s death, the owner, Mr. March, an old friend of my grandfather, had not yet expanded his business to the funeral home’s present locations. March Funeral Home was originally down a couple of blocks on the right-hand side of North Ave. going westward; 928 to be exact. A home owned by Mr. March. That address would later be converted into an establishment in memory of the late great Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Mr. March held funeral sessions for the beloved in this brick row home on the corner of North and Cecil Avenues. This was the place where my mom was laid to rest, not even five minutes from where she grew up.

My mother’s very quiet demeanor or personality resulted in a pretty quiet funeral arrangement. Her personality also nearly prevented my family from ever discovering a piece of vital information about my father. As my mother’s very private but emotional ceremony came and went, conversations about where my sister and I would now live revisited. It truly appeared as if my sister and I would be returning to Asquith St. with my dad, but the asking of one question changed everything. As preparations to try and return to normalcy proceeded, my grandma had a sit-down with my suddenly frightened sister Gina. The conversation was in reference to my dad’s behavioral pattern on Asquith St. The conversation ended with an all too familiar question. My grandmother asked my sister if there was ever an instance where my dad touched her in any way. To my grandma’s surprise, my sister responded with a reluctant nod, YES!

This realization added fuel to an ongoing raging fire. My sister explained to our grandma; my dad had touched her several times in an inappropriate manner. However, on the days when no one was home besides my dad and Gina, he would do the unthinkable. My sister told my grandma that my dad would follow her through the house while feeling on her buttocks. She would always hurry to her bedroom and lock the door to try to keep him away. Whenever my sister was not able to seclude herself my dad would become aggressive toward Gina. She assured grandma that my father never had actual sex with her of any kind, but the disturbing information forwarded was more than enough. Mama had heard all she could stand. After making her very quick decision to become our legal guardian, grandma immediately held a family meeting. Besides grandma, this was a men’s only meeting. The only participants were my uncles Montell, BoBo, and yep, Tony. As I stated before, the only time we were going to hear from my uncle Tony was if Mama needed something. Well, as far as she was concerned, this was a definite need.

My uncles were furious about the death of their younger sister. Now they were learning of more disturbing news from their mother. My uncles, along with my granddad, all began to focus in very closely on my dad. He was now viewed as the man who destroyed our family. To them, every negative situation at this time surrounding our family had my dad’s fingerprints on them. It took my uncles a week or so later to approach my dad. My father was coming to pay me a visit when he was violently cut off in the hallway immediately after entering the house. No one saw a thing. My three uncles quickly took my dad into a separate room and closed the door. The encounter lasted for about fifteen minutes. No one truly knows what really happened behind that door. With only a little noise there was hardly any evidence of violence. Still, this would be the last time my dad would ever set foot in 1913 Kennedy Avenue.

After the apparent threat given by my uncles my dad tried to lash back. Hours later, my grandma received a call from a neighbor on Asquith St. It seemed as if my dad had become so irate about what had transpired during the short encounter, he decided to take out all of his frustrations on several of my mom’s prized possessions. The neighbor, a woman, stated my dad was throwing all of my mom’s creations and pictures out into the backyard. It was a rainy day, therefore the woman offered to retrieve and store the possessions until someone could pick them up. However, just afterwards my dad took the items back after he calmed down. As all of this was taking place, I was clueless. I progressively believed my dad was the best person in my life other than my grandma and my cousin Shawn.

I simply didn’t know about any of this.

Instead of being fed more bad news, I was allowed to play and have fun with all of the other kids in the neighborhood. After all of the turmoil, Shawn and I returned to the bat cave and found our groove as fun-loving children again. One moment we were burying my mom, the next we were engulfed in rock-throwing battles against the neighborhood bullies. We all had to know how to throw rocks and how to handle aluminum trash can lids in the hood, or else. During this same period, I also found pleasure in playing with insects for some strange reason. My cousin hated bugs, but I could not resist taking a closer look them. As you could imagine, I was usually alone during these moments. Needless to say, my cousin and I were usually joined-at-the-hip.

Despite the tragedy, fun was at an all-time high for us at this point.

The penny candy, the toys, and I could never forget the evolution of television in our lives. Out of all of the kids on Kennedy Ave., I was placed in charge of the T.V. Call. This meant I had to let all of the other kids in the area know when an important program was scheduled to air. I did fairly well. The job required lots of running in and out of the house, to my grandma’s dismay, yet I still got it done. I became a host for the hood, especially when it came to my favorite show at the time. The Incredible Hulk on CBS, NBC (1978-1982) was, in my eyes, television’s greatest creation. Right before the broadcast would air my call would go something like this: Go in the house y’all, The Incredible Hulk is about to come on. This show, and the distant second, Six Million Dollar Man series ABC (1974-1978) was television at its finest for me. There was a reason the cooler Steve Austin (Lee Majors) fell second to Dr. Bruce Banner (Bill Bixby). The bionic man just so happened to invite my old pal onto his show. You all guessed correctly, yep, Big Foot. If everyone could have seen how my eyes were glued to the screen for these episodes, I believe people would still be in stitches today. However, even with the fright, it was clear early on, the world of television and film interested me