Souls Looking Back: Life Stories of Growing Up Black - Softcover

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0415920620 ISBN 13: 9780415920629

Publisher: Routledge, 1999

Synopsis

Most of what is written these days about young black men and women emphasizes incarceration and mortality rates, teen pregnancy, drug use, and domestic strife. This collection of sixteen autobiographical essays by African-Americans, Africans in America, Afro-Caribbean and biracial college students who have tackled significant obstacles to achieve success and degrees of self-understanding offers a broader, more hopeful portrait of the adolescent experiences of minority youth. Here are emotionally honest and reflective stories of economic hardship, racial bias, loneliness, and anger--but also of positive role models, spiritual awakening, perseverance, and racial pride. In these essays, students explore the process of self-discovery and the realization of cultural identity. The pieces are accompanied by commentary from prominent African-American scholars, such as Jewelle Taylor Gibbs and Peter C. Murrell, Jr. Together they create a vivid portrait of what it is like to grow up as a black person in America, and offer a springboard to current debates about self-discovery, cultural identity and assimilation. Often raw and painful, always honest and affecting, this collection of personal stories written by young people stands as an eloquent tribute to the courage of today's youth and to the power of their own words.

About this title

About the Author

Dartmouth College and is co-editor of Adolescent Portraits (1999). Janie Victoria Ward is Associate Professor of Education and Human Services at Simmons College and is co-editor of Mapping the Moral Domain (1988). Tracy L.Robinson is Associate Professor in the Department of Counselor Education at North Carolina State University and is co-author of The Convergence of Race, Ethnicityand Gender (1999). Robert Kilkenny is co-editor of Adolescent Portraits (1999) and is Clinical Instructor in Psychology at Harvard Medical School.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Souls Looking Back

Life Stories of Growing Up BlackBy Andrew Garrod

Routledge

Copyright © 1999 Andrew Garrod
All right reserved.
ISBN: 0415920620

Chapter One

Born with a Veil

PRINCE

Prince shows amazing strength and resiliency despite a childhood of extreme instability, poverty, and frequent upheavals, against a backdrop of crime, prisons, drugs, and violence. He eventually escaped the hardships of his youth, by way of "rich white" schools, which his mother always sought out for him, and through emulating positive role models as opposed to the omnipresent negative forces in his life. He excelled in school, being the only black kid in advanced classes. With the strong influence of teachers and a highly successful black Big Brother, Prince rose above his situation?to attend a prestigious college?while still feeling connected to his past and his "people."

Prince epitomizes the transformative power of the psyche, as he looks back on all the people who "hurt" him in life and reframes situations, viewing them as ultimately "helpful" in arriving at his present identity. This essay was written in his sophomore year.

My father received a phone call from some of his friends. They weregoing out and wanted him to come along. He said, "Hell, yeah. You know I'mdown for some action. When y'all coming by here?" As he got ready to go out,my mother grew worried. She had asked him to stop hanging around this set offriends, but he had told her to shut up and leave him alone.

"You trying to run my life again? I'm a man! Damn, I can make my ownmotherfucking decisions!"

    He pushed her aside gently and she jumped right back in his face and toldhim, "I am telling you not to go out tonight! I have a bad feeling." He lookedat her funny. She said, "I had a dream this morning that you would go out andnot come back for seven years. Don't leave! Please stay with metonight!" He said, "Awww, fuck that old voodoo shit. I'm going out, woman."That was the end of their discussion until his friends came by. She protestedagain for him not to leave, but he was even more adamant because his friendswere there waiting. He did not want to look pussy-whipped and he wasn't aboutto go out like some kind of sucker. He pushed her away from the door and left.He pulled his coat around him as he climbed into the back seat. She watchedfrom the balcony as the mist swallowed the car.

    That night, my father and his friends robbed a convenience store. Duringthe crime they shot and killed a bystander, the son of a wealthy local cardealer. Newly identified as one of the area's most wanted criminals, my fatherwent into hiding for more than a year. The police continued to search for himand ultimately followed my mother on one of her regular visits to his secretapartment. The police arrested both my parents and took them to jail, where Iwas born a few days later.

    While my mother was in custody for aiding and abetting a fugitive, she wentinto labor. She was taken to the hospital where, after my birth, they took meaway from her and sent her back to her cell. My grandmother picked me up fromthe hospital. At the time, my mother had been going to school and working. Shewas released from jail a week after my birth and turned to my father's mother,Jenelle, for support. We moved to an apartment in South Central L.A. I wouldfrequently spend the night at my Uncle William's house. Though William is myfather's younger brother, he is only four years older than I am. We had lots ofexperiences together?good and bad. When we were older, we grew closethrough fending off gang assaults and finding our way across South Central L.A.William is more like a brother to me than an uncle. These days, though, becausehe did not get out of that environment, he is hard to talk to. He still liveswith my grandmother and is struggling to support her, his daughter, andhimself.

    Some weekends, my mother would pack up our old Mercury Comet (completewith tail fins and rust spots) with cold fried chicken and lemonade andtake William and me to visit my father in Soledad State Prison, some 250 milesnorth of Los Angeles. We always ate at Denny's on the way up because thedrive took so long. On the visits we met my father in a common room withother prisoners, where he would show us off to the other inmates and thenproceed to argue with my mother about the course of his life and whether theycould be back together after he was released. William and I would escape thissituation as fast as we could. We usually asked my mom for the car keys so thatwe could go and get some lemonade out of the back of the car. When mymother returned from the meeting room, she would have tears in her eyes. Shewould tell me, because there was no one else to tell, how my father was tryingto change her into something she was not. I still do not know what she meant,but I do know that it greatly troubled her. I could never watch my mother crywithout crying myself.

    My first experiences with my father in prison struck me then as merelyinconvenient and a little troubling because of the fighting and tears. I didnot feel that something was strange or missing in my life. My mother took verygood care of me on her own, so I managed to ignore the gentle voice in mymind that told me something was seriously wrong with my father's situationand his relationship with my mother.

    My mother and I soon moved from South Central L.A. to a suburb in theSan Fernando Valley, known as the home of the "valley girls." By that time myfather had been in prison for 5 years, and my mother and I were living with aman named Lewis who owned a new Cutlass Supreme. I'm not sure who hewas or why we lived with him; I guess he was my mother's boyfriend. It is anindication of the relationship I have with my mother that I don't particularlyresent her or look down on her for living with another man while her husband,my father, was in jail; for the first 8 years of my life my mother and Istruggled by ourselves, relying heavily on each other. We were always veryclose; I got to know her as a human being?sometimes more than I wish I had. IfI didn't know so much about how she struggled to raise me, I could be moreselfish and just blame her for all of our problems, like most children do.Instead I find myself blaming others!

    When we were living in Canoga Park [San Fernando Valley], I had my firstexperience with racism. William came over and we decided to go to the park.We dug in the sand, played with the sand hornets, and made mud pies to throwat each other. Then, as we were about to get on the merry-go-round, a motherran up and yanked her child off of it. On the way home William told me she hadmuttered to her child about us "nigger children," and I was incredulous. I didnot yet have the slightest idea of what it meant to be black, much less blackand living in a valley suburb. That lady helped me to begin to understand.

    My early school experience in the valley was the first indication of whatwould become a trend in my life. I attended a preschool best characterized as awhite hippie experimental school. The school was built out of dark wooden logsto give it a natural look, like a logger's cabin, out there in the tree-coveredvalleys of Southern California. I guess I must have excelled at this schoolbecause I was labeled "gifted" and received lots of compliments. Teachersalways liked me, because I was eager to learn and intelligent to boot.

    My own school experience makes me thoroughly aware of the identityproblem that faces young black students who have a drive or natural tendencyto excel. If my mother taught me about anything besides God, she taught me toexcel at school. From a very early age I learned that "education was the wayout." I no longer believe this is the only way?it is possible for a man likeme to excel in the world without formal education?but this valuable lessonhelped me through the first 18 years of my life. It kept me focused, out oftrouble, and on a generally good track, so now my options are open. Somepeople, like my father and every drug dealer/gangbanger/hustler in America,learn that school is not the only option before they figure out what otheroptions are viable. They often make the wrong choices and ruin their futures.Some good and valuable lessons have to be taught early, before other lessons oflife poison the mind.

    That is why my teachers always singled me out. Not only was I intelligentbut also I was already psychologically primed to learn and endure ridiculouslylong-suffering classroom "education." I am happy to say that since then I havethoroughly rid myself of this patient Protestant work ethic! I now work onlyfor who and what I love and want, unless I am coerced by the trusty "low gradesversus future options" temptation.

    Just as I had lessons in "academic achievement," I also got instruction inirresponsibility, mainly from my father, but sometimes even from my mother. Iremember one night we went in Lewis's Cutlass to pick up my mother'syounger brother Jeffrey. I recall the group Frankie Beverly and Maze on theradio singing a bluesy, slow, soul song called "Happy Feelings." I seem toremember that while we were driving around, we continued to collect passengers,people I thought I knew. Marijuana smoke filled the car, which is probablywhy I don't remember any of them. I was laughing along with the adults. MyUncle Jeffrey was sitting in the front seat and he turned around to me in theback, where I sat between two other people. He told me to come a little closerto him and close my eyes, which I did. He put his hand over my mouth and hismouth over my nose and told me to inhale. My lungs were quickly filled withthe heavy, fragrant, painful smoke that burning marijuana leaves produce. I gotso high that night!

    My mother mildly protested my corruption, but then took the joint from herbrother. She was driving and damned if she wasn't going to have any. Shefinished the joint and drove on. A while later my mother and uncle startedarguing about something. The other people in the car went silent, and the musicstopped. My mother was yelling at the top of her lungs at her brother. He wascursing her and yelling too. I was upset because I had seen what happens whenmen start to yell at women. They continued yelling and my mother, cursing,pulled over to the shoulder of the freeway and told my uncle, "Get the fuck outof my car!" He said, "Bitch! You get out of the car! Fuck you!" She was furious,her eyes were red from the smoke and the anger, her arms had stiffened and herfists were clenched tighter than her teeth. My uncle's bottom lip was hangingand his brow was frowned. My mother opened up her door and told him againto "get the fuck out" before she had to make him. He now had an excuse to getreally mad, so he said, "Fuck you bitch! Come take me out!" My mother wasn'tplaying that night. She got out, and I gasped when a car sped right past her asshe walked around the front of the Cutlass. My mother threw open his car doorand pulled him out. They continued to yell and then my uncle hit her across theface and kicked her so that she fell into his seat. He pulled her out of the caragain and hit her some more. I screamed at him at the top of my lungs, tellinghim to stop and leave her alone. I had a feeling in the back of my head fromthe weed and a burning sensation under the skin. He stopped hitting her butcontinued his yelling. The other people got out of the car, and one man heldhim back even though he had stopped. He was still mad and wanted the other manto let him go, but the man didn't, so they started fighting. My mother got inthe car and left them. The car aired out as we drove back home. That was myfirst exposure to drugs and the whole party scene.

    In the years since, I have gotten to see firsthand what that lifestyle didto my Uncle Jeffrey. He never developed the maturity to take responsibility forhimself. He now has several terminal, malignant brain tumors from 20-oddyears of chronic drug use. He has come back to my mother time and time againfor a place to stay now that he has cancer, because he cannot cope in the worldby himself. The unfortunate part is that even before he had cancer, he wasincompetent. Seeing his sad state helped me decide against drugs andirresponsibility as a way of life. Those who hurt you can actually help you.

    Speaking of hurt, my mother and I had to move suddenly from our nicetwo-story home in the San Fernando Valley. I don't know why, but one day allof our furniture was gone, her boyfriend Lewis was gone, and we were in direstraits. The last afternoon we were in that house, with the sun shining throughthe bay windows upstairs, across the desolate, dust-covered floor, I asked mymother for a spoonful of peanut butter, my favorite snack. She cried thebitterest tears because she could not give it to me. We had nowhere to go, sowe spent that first night in a park restroom. I was sensitive about sleeping onthe floor of the women's restroom in a municipal park. After I awoke (my motherdidn't sleep) and washed up as best as I could in the sinks there, we boughtsome cherries from a Mexican street vendor with the little bit of money momhad. We did not live on the street for long, though. We moved in with ourlesbian cousin Esther and her son, Samuel, but soon found a place around thecorner from Esther's. At first we had no furniture or food?only some books.Even though we were right around the corner from an elementary school, I was"bussed" to integrate a white school because of the "gifted" status I hadacquired at my preschool. I was stamped legitimate: "Class A1 Negro?HandleCarefully," or, in the words of Ralph Ellison, "Keep this nigger running!" Inany case, it helped me more than it hurt.

    My father finally got out of prison after 6 years. He was 6 feet 3 inchestall and weighed a lot. He had very crude but handsome features. I look justlike him, except that my features were mellowed by my mother's. I have goodmemories of him holding my mother and smoking weed, talking to me as a fathershould talk to his son. He always offered me some of his weed. I accepted once,much to my mother's chagrin. She had become a little less tolerant of mycorruption. I didn't appreciate her concern then?in fact, like most children Iknew, I loved my "nice" father more than my "mean" mother. I often told him hewas nicer than her, especially after he let me do something I wanted to do.

    He was a brilliant man, but his brilliance had been corrupted by the way hegrew up. As a child he faced a bleak future and he was not capable of hoping tocreate more for himself. Like most poor blacks, he was a victim of thehopelessness and despair that permeates the ghettos. His environment never evenhinted to him that he could possibly succeed. His mother (my grandmother andWilliam's mother) lived fast when he was growing up. She never told him thathe could succeed and never gave him a reason to hope. He needed attention; sheneeded gin. She got her gin; he went to juvenile hall. He was classified as"incorrigible" by the age of 13. He was in and out of the juvenile systemregularly until the year he turned 18 and went to the state penitentiary. Henever got the help I did, and by the time my grandmother calmed down, it wastoo late for my father.

    I remember one time he took me to the movies. We had to ride the bus toget to the double feature, and on the way we stopped at an apartment complexwhere my father met briefly with some of his associates. He was wearing ablack jacket, a burgundy braided tie, and some slacks. He looked very sharp. Heshook hands with some laughing, jive-talking men and we then got on the busagain. He began to explain to me some of his religious beliefs: that man createdhimself, that God had never done anything for him, and that each man needed todo for himself. I asked him, in my misunderstanding of atheism, if he meantthat God would only help those who helped themselves. He said, "NO! I meanthere is no God." I still did not understand how God could not exist, so I justleft that topic alone.

    We got off the bus for a second time, but we still weren't at the movietheater. We went into a cheap motel, he rented a room for a couple of dollars,and we proceeded to the room. Once we were in the room, the conversation dieddown. I watched curiously as he produced a vial, a small mirror, and a rolledup hundred dollar bill from his stylish black jacket. He poured some powder,cut it into lines, rolled his hundred tighter than it had been, and took asnort. Several snorts and high sighs later, he told me, "Don't you ever letme catch you doing this stuff." I said, "Okay." I didn't know what the fusswas about. I did not know what he had done nor had I seen anyone else do it,so I did not understand his warning or his newly excited, happy conversation.

    We soon had to change houses again because my father double-crossedsome "business partners," who came one night and shot up our house withautomatic rifles, hoping to kill him and not caring if they killed us, hisfamily. My mother had a premonition and woke us up before they came. We droveout of the apartment complex with my father in the trunk of the car, just incase they drove by. My parents moved to Oakland to start a carpet-cleaningcompany. They bought the equipment with money from some of my father's illegalexploits. I was to stay with my grandmother and William. I ended up having tomove to Oakland, though, because my uncle went into the hospital. My grandmotherhad been leaving me at home alone a lot to look after him before hewent to the hospital.

    Oakland, for me, was a place of loneliness and unhappiness. I stayed in thehouse for the most part, where I read and read and read. I read whatever Icould get my hands on: old Richie Rich comic books, science fiction of allkinds, Disney books, Aesop's fables, black and African history, and so on. Iwas lucky that my mother always bought me books. She ensured that I hadsomething to do when I was sent to my room for stealing! I had no friends inOakland. My mother and father were always fighting. He would beat her up andbruise her face, she would throw things, and then they would make up. Myfather had friends in Oakland, so he left us. The rent ran out, and one coldrainy night we had to get our bags and move back to Los Angeles. My mother andI left on a bus for L.A. in the middle of the night. I don't know where myfather was.

    In L.A. we had to live with my father's mother, Jenelle, for a while. Whenmy mother and father got back together, we moved again. In L.A. I was stillable to attend the same rich white integrated school. My mother was nowpregnant. My father owned a dry-cleaning store, and things were going wellfinancially, so we moved into a duplex on a relatively nice street. The nicetimes did not last. My father continued to beat my mother. She was getting moreand more pregnant and they continued to fight about the type of food she waseating: She was a vegetarian, but my father wanted her to eat meat for thebaby's sake. My father was an atheist and my mother was a born-again Christian,which produced more conflict. I could never help my mother. When, late atnight, the screams or thuds or bumps would interrupt my descent into sleep, Icould not help her. Several times I tried, but I was always told, "Go back toyour room, Prince! This doesn't concern you!", or "Prince, leave us alone rightnow." I shuffled quietly back to my room and slept fitfully on my box mattresswith layers of old blankets and quilts to offer a little padding.

    My mother finally could not take it anymore. I was 7 going on 8 at thistime, and one day right after school let out for summer vacation she approachedme saying, "We are going to stay with your grandmother Jenelle." I was happythat I would get to hang out with William, but I sensed that something waswrong. We moved in with Jenelle for the second time in a year, and things wererough. When my mother was 8-months pregnant, she went into labor in thekitchen, and my grandmother had to whisk her off to the hospital.

    My mother returned from the hospital, and as she walked in the door Icaught a glimpse of the baby in her arms. It was white as chalk?I could seethe veins in its head and the light brown downy hair. "It's a boy," she said,noting my wonder. "It's your little brother." She cooed gently to him. Hegurgled. She walked over to the liquor cabinet and put the hand-held cradle ontop of it. William and I gathered around the cradle to examine my baby brother.His eyes were closed, and he looked nothing like a regular person. He was soyellow! "What is his name?" I asked. "His name is Raphael," said my mother. Ithought he looked like a Raphael, such a gentle sounding name, and this babywas so harmless and unprotected. What better name could there be for such acreature? I liked him.

    The next day my mother and my grandmother had a fight.

    "I'm sorry," my grandmother said, "but I will not have you in my house onemore day! You have got to go!"

    "What do you mean?" my mother protested. "You're going to throw us outin the street? You know we don't have anyplace else to go!"

    "I'm sorry, but I can't help you," my grandmother replied. "You havegot to go."

    So we left. My grandmother cursed at us on the way down the stairs and onour way out the driveway. The whole apartment complex was aware of ourdeparture.

    We went back to our old street, but this time we did not go back to myfather. My mother had gotten to be close friends with our landlady, who livednext door. She was a middle-aged white woman with a very nicely furnishedapartment. I was amazed that this comfortable home was right next door to usthe whole time.

    My mother cradled Raphael in her lap while she went through the agonizinghumility of explaining her situation to this woman. Thank God that thewoman was kind-hearted and a friend to my mother in her time of need. I washappy to be there. I slept comfortably in a fully mattressed bed with new,clean-smelling comforters. But I awoke the next morning to the sound of anxiousknocking at the front door.

    "Open the door! Is my wife in there?

    "No, she is not here."

    "You're lying! Open the damn door! I need to talk to her!" He knocked atthe door with his foot.

    "I told you. She is not here." This old white lady was very cool about it.She did not start to panic, though she did get nervous. Finally she convincedhim to go away, although she was aware that my father knew my mother and Iwere there. Later she told my mother, "I have got to ask you to leave. I cannothave all of this destruction and confusion coming to my house. I'm old, and Ineed my peace." My mother replied, "I don't want to burden you, so I'll go."

    My mom decided it was time to move to Atlanta. She started to pack up themufflerless Volvo we bought from a friend for $200. It had rust spots like ourold Comet, but it ran. My mother still had her key to our duplex next door, sowe went in, hoping that my father was not there. He wasn't. We packed ourclothes swiftly and made many trips back and forth to the car, which was parkedbehind the apartment. Our Volvo was blocking the driveway, the nose was facingthe street so that when we finished we could leave. The phone rang. Mymom looked at it the first time it rang and then proceeded to pick up anotherbag. It rang three more times. Exasperated, she picked up the phone anddropped the duffel bag to the floor. "Hello?" A look of terror came over her."Is that you? What are you talking about?" She hung up the phone, looking pale.My mother began talking to herself in a low, angry, growling voice. I couldn'thelp but hear what she was saying. "Do you know what your father just said?That motherfucker says he is going to come over here and kill me if we try toleave. Bastard! Hurry up and pack, God damn it."

    We packed fast and furious, gathering what we could fit in the trunk andbackseat. My mother handed me the last bag to put in the car and she got in toopen the door for me. Just then a car pulled up in the driveway blocking us andmy father leapt out, shining black metal in his left hand. He stomped up to mymother who had gotten out of the car and said, "You ain't taking my sonnowhere!" She yelled back, "We are leaving! You wanna kill me, go rightahead! But motherfucker, I'm leaving!" She got in the car and told me to do thesame. I was standing there on the passenger side looking at them argue, and mydad came around the back of the car to tell me to come with him. "Come onwith me, son," my dad said calmly, putting his gun back in his pants. "Prince,get your ass in this car!" my mom screamed at me. "Son!" my father pleaded.My mother was screaming for me to get in the car, or "I will leave your asshere!" I was in a tug of war, and only I could sway the balance. I decided toget in the car with my mother, and she proceeded to push the other car out ofthe way. Once we were on the street, she headed west into the sunset and neverlooked back. But I looked back and I saw my father standing there alone.Sunlight shined in the sweat that rolled down his face, making it glisten. Hestood in that sharp black jacket with his hands on his hips. That was the lasttime I saw my father.

    Leaving my father and other family in California was a turning point in mylife. My quest for identity was made more difficult, but at least I knew I wascapable of making decisions. I can all too easily imagine what might havehappened to me had I stayed in Los Angeles with my father. I would have grown upeven more quickly than I did with my mother. I would have been forced toassume responsibility for myself that I was simply not capable of handling.After I grew frustrated with the institutional academic route to success, Iwould probably have joined a gang to fulfill my inner drive and motivation.Even considering all the poverty, crime, delinquency, drugs, violence, andabuse that surrounded me in the South, I am still glad I made the choice to gowith my mother and brother.

    My father left Los Angeles for the South himself, back to Mississippiwhere he was born. He tried to rob a bank there but was hit by a bus whilefleeing, fell into a coma, and went to prison for 4 years. The same year he gotout he went back for armed robbery and is still there today. It seems like Imight have ended up with my mother either way!

    Three days after we left Los Angeles, we arrived in Houston, Texas. Mymother's father lived there, and it was supposed to be just a "rest stop" onthe way to Atlanta, but it turned into our home. We stayed with my mother'sfather while my mother drove a paper route. She eventually found a better jobat a day-care center and we were able to get our own place.

    As we had done in L.A., my mother and I sought out the best school toenroll me in. The morning we found it, we stepped off the city bus into a newworld filled with elegance and style. Southern plantation-style affluence had adifferent look than big city affluence, which was gaudy and glittery, like neonlights. Southern affluence was understated and elegant: wide streets lined withoak trees, Porsches, and Rolls Royces. That was the street that led to TallOaks Elementary. Even the hot-lunch trucks had style.

    While a day at school was a welcome escape from the troubles of home,school was still hard emotionally. The wealth of the other students made mevery self-conscious. I was very aware of my poverty each time I had to borrowmoney from my teacher or the cashier in the cafeteria line to pay for lunch.Sometimes I just couldn't bring myself to ask them for help again, so I wouldfast. My self-esteem plummeted even though I was doing well in my classes.

    I often got into trouble and was sent to the principal's office more thanonce. I took many notes home to my mother. My teachers made contracts withmy mother: If I did my homework for the week, I would get a star sent home onFriday; if I didn't do it, I would get a sad face. Even when I wasn't doing mywork, I always hoped for the star. When I didn't get it, my mother would fussat me or whip my ass, depending on her mood. I would come from the bus everyFriday and walk into the day-care center where my mother worked. My motherwould take me to the back so that she could examine my grades for that week."Why the hell aren't you doing your homework?" I would make up an excuseor just say, "I'm bored." That was one that always seemed to work for us"gifted" children.

    My family and I made seven moves in our first 2 years in Houston. Wemoved from my grandfather's house through a series of crime-infestedneighborhoods, even to the day-care center where my mother worked. We wouldsleep in the back and wake before the kids started to arrive. Finally, wesettled in a subsidized apartment in the same complex where one of my cousinslived. At last I was able to grow a little when we settled in this apartment. Iwould walk with my brother Raphael down to the library and look across thestreet at the city's university looming large upon the hill. I thoughtoccasionally that I might go to college someday. In the meantime, while myclassmates were enjoying chauffeured rides home in Rolls Royces and AstonMartins, I was enduring city bus rides (our Volvo broke down) to the health andhuman services department to cheat the government into giving us food stamps.Although my mother was employed and not "technically" eligible for publicassistance, we managed to persuade them to our cause. It was a great assistanceindeed?we ate well and did not have to worry about food for about 2 years. Butmy mother's "persuasive" tactics eventually got her into trouble. She wasalmost sentenced to prison for food stamp fraud, but because she had childrenthey let her off with 10 years' probation. In order to feed us and to makesure she had enough income to pay our rent and keep our lights on, she hadrisked her freedom. This is but one of the sacrifices my mother had to make toraise me and my brother over the years. Regardless of what popular opinion hasto say about "welfare queens," I know for a fact that my mother had to do whatshe did to pave the way for me and my brother.

    At school I was the "special black student," a role that I quickly grew tiredof. Once, when I cursed out a teacher who had been picking on me, I walkeddown to Mrs. Briggs office to talk to her about it. Mrs. Briggs was anunderstanding old white lady who seemed to look right inside of me. When Italked with her, I did not have to say much because she knew me so well. Shehad seen it coming and she helped me out a lot. "I understand that a lot ofpeople are always pressuring you. Sometimes it doesn't feel so good, but youreally do have to do your homework. And your teacher is just trying to push youbecause she cares about your education." I knew that already, but I still didn'tlike it. She gave me some advice that I will never forget. She told me that whenI got home and went outside to play, if I heard a voice inside my head that toldme to do my homework, that is what I should do. I should not ignore that littlevoice, because it was only looking out for me. The more I ignored it, the worsemy grades and the pressure would be. I loved Mrs. Briggs for teaching me tolisten to my conscience.

    Another lesson I learned is that the best schools were rich and white. Beingyoung, I did not know cause from effect, so I assumed that they were goodbecause they were white. I had no idea that money and resources played a rolein the matter. This lesson was reinforced by the simple fact that Tall Oaks wasin a neighborhood as unlike mine as possible. Having said that, I have to saythat the years from 2nd grade to 6th grade were the most joyful of my life! Iwas able for the first time to act like the child I was. I still had some adultresponsibility, but more and more the freedom of childhood was within my grasp.In our apartment complex, I was able to make friends and play and fight andthrow eggs at buses and do all the things that poor black boys do. I wascomfortable because I was doing "normal things." I had not yet becomefrustrated and jaded by the poverty that confined us to the ghetto, nor had Ibecome sensitive to the forces working to keep us there. I thank God that mymother was.

    When I was 12, my mother put me in a program called Big Brothers andSisters. Although the program is advertised for everyone, it is generallyfocused toward poor black and Mexican kids, who usually end up matched withuppermiddle-class whites. I was lucky because my big brother, Leon, was blackand upwardly mobile. My involvement in the program opened up many opportunitiesfor me, the value of which I was not aware at the time. Leon was one of themost positive elements in my life. I have not had many influential black rolemodels in my life, and those that have been close enough to influence me havenot been good influences. My Uncle Jeffrey and my father taught me how touse drugs and beat women! The lack of role models for black youth is a realitythat I lived with for a long time, but I was rescued from my ignorance beforeit was too late.

    Leon had had a relatively happy, working-class, two-parent upbringing. Hewent to a state college and a historically black law school, so he could offerme plenty of advice on school and on making plans for the future. I loved hisrationality. I was a close-mouthed, shy, silent kid when I met him, but overthe years, he helped me out of my shell, taught me things I knew nothing about,showed me parts of town I had never seen, and allowed me to witness hissuccess. Last year he became a partner in his law firm and got married.

    I got together with Leon in the middle of 6th grade. Under his tutelage andmy mother's nourishment, my confidence grew and I was better prepared forschool that next fall. However, 6th grade was the first and the last year (evenin college!) that I went through exactly the same process as all the otherstudents in preparation for school. I went school shopping for clothes andfiller paper, I went to register on time, I went to orientation on time andwith everyone else. It was a great experience. I felt really good about myselffor the first time since we had moved to Houston. That confidence did not lastpast that year. In 7th grade, economic problems and the upheaval of more movingcaused my grades to drop. I flunked out of the gifted program and lost mytransfer to the "rich white" school, which meant that I had to attend my homeschool.

    I have still not figured out exactly why I gave up on my schoolwork. I feltI really didn't belong at my home school, even though I had friends there. Myhome school reflected the poverty and anomie that marks inner cities acrossAmerica. My brief stay there forced me to make more conscious decisionsabout the course of my life because I knew that I didn't want to fit in withthese students, even though I felt attached to them. I would have to work tomake it out of there and into a better life for myself, and whether or not Isucceeded was entirely up to me. Not even my mother or Leon could help me. Leonand my mother were disappointed in my poor school performance, but what couldthey do? I did make it out of there and back to the better junior high schoolthe next year, from which I eventually graduated with average grades and lowself-esteem. My experience of flunking and being transferred to a poor schoolwas another milestone in my search for identity; I learned that I am human andthat even the most driven, talented, ambitious youngsters can fail. I was notas exceptional as others said I was. I was a human being, and human beingssometimes make the wrong choices, or just mess up. A wise man once said, "Evenmen of steel rust."

    My family moved again during my freshman year, and I enrolled in the regularcurriculum at the local high school because I was not willing to try tochallenge myself by taking the advanced classes. I did well in school withouteven trying and kept a low profile. I made two friends and mainly hung out withthem. I made enough As that by the fall semester of 10th grade my guidancecounselor and science teacher (both black women) noticed that I was doing toowell to be in regular classes.

    My guidance counselor said, "I think you need to think about getting intomore challenging classes."

    "Naw, I don't think I should do that," I replied. I was still discouragedfrom middle school. She insisted that I undertake the challenge and recommendedan advanced English class. "No, I really don't think I could handle thereading." The class required students to read five books during the whole term.I was lazy when it came to reading books for school. I had the most ravenousappetite for them if they were not assigned, but the stigma of schoolworkkilled (and still kills!) my desire. So I went home to enjoy my Christmasvacation and to eat turkey.

    My jaw dropped when I got back to school and saw my schedule: advancedEnglish and advanced math. What was my guidance counselor trying to do?The thought of refusing her intimidated me, so I decided to just take it as itcame. I thought I could at least keep up if I kept doing what I was doing inthe regular classes. I was right. The advanced classes were not that much harderthan the regular classes. In fact, they were easier because the teachersexpected you to do well and provided encouragement. Although I had to read abook a week for my English class, I also got to do creative things with mywork. Oral presentations, which came to be my favorite thing to do, wererequired of me for the first time in my life.

    My isolation began that term. Though my two friends, Avery and Dwayne,were smart and capable of making it in the accelerated track, I was the onlyblack student in the whole school in any advanced classes. Slowly, otherfriends and acquaintances began to fall away, so that when I graduated from10th grade, the only two friends I had left were Avery and Dwayne. Theisolation hurt, but I see now that it was a long time coming. All my schoolingin Houston, except for my brief stint at the local junior high school, had setme up for it.

    On the other hand, I had learned to use words to cope with every type ofsocial situation. All the talking I had done to get out of fights, to repelpotential offenses, and to persuade teachers that my work really was good, hadprepared me for my next adventure in high school?debate. When I decided to takedebate, I had expected to go into class, glibly discuss an arbitrary topic,and, as usual, win the argument. My debate coach, Mrs. Kendall, a short, round,motherly yet sardonic, chain-smoking white lady, quickly dispelled those ideas.Extensive amounts of research and preparation goes into debate, not onlypresentation and persuasiveness. I cannot say that I have mastered the activityyet, but I continue to learn in college as a member of one of the topcollegiate debate teams.

    Like Leon, Mrs. Kendall introduced me to many subjects that I had neverbeen exposed to before. She introduced me to extracurricular activities thathelped pave my way into college and prepare my mind for the tasks before me,and I love her for that. I learned more than I did in all of my other classes.Debate was the only forum in high school where I learned anything ofintellectual value. Debate was the most satisfying thing I ever did with mytime; it was the only activity that gave gratification in return for hard work.My teammates and I also learned about life as we traveled across Texas withMrs. Kendall. She loved us all, and I love her for that too.

    Debate made me feel that I was on my way. But to where? To college andmy destiny, I suppose. I chose my college based on the strength of its debateteam. My time at college has allowed me to put the past and the present inperspective. I have come to believe that I am either great, lucky, or blessed.I don't believe in luck so I must have some greatness in me and I must have amission in life. From what my experience shows, I should be thoroughly fuckedup in one way or another. If I am not atoken-for-life-selling-out-dollar-chasing-white-man-in-black-skin because ofthe inferiority complex I got by encountering extreme affluence at school anddesperate poverty at home, I should be aforty-ounce-drinking-blunt-smoking-rap-listening-bitch-slapping-ho-chasing-crack-slinging-street-nigger acting out the hostility, violence, andself-destruction that I witnessed at an early age and throughout my life.Having learned to snort cocaine and smoke marijuana at such a young age, Ishould be involved more deeply in the drug subculture than I am. I did becomeinvolved with drugs briefly in high school. A lot of the debaters (all whitekids and advanced-class students) drank, smoked weed, and did acid, so I didtoo. I quickly learned that I was not drug-user material.

    I am amazed that I do not have a more intense conflict about race.Incredibly, even my experience in high school reinforced the lesson that whiteis right when it comes to education. As I grew more sophisticated, I did escapethe post-hoc fallacy I had fallen into earlier; I realized that it is money, notrace, that is the defining factor in school quality. Tracking can segregateeven the blackest neighborhood school systems! While in high school, Iexperienced patronizing white attitudes toward the "only black student inclass" and "that talented young black man," but that was really nothingcompared to the isolation forced on me by my former black peers. I never didfigure out how to regain their acceptance, which at that time I felt I needed.So, out of frustration and pain, I just figured, hell, they might be rightabout the value of education and other ideas about what constitutes success.There was nothing I could rely upon to strengthen me because my role modelswere few and like most kids, my identity was strongly influenced by theacceptance of my peers. I know now how foolish we all were.

    I learned from my high school experience just how correct W. E. B. DuBoiswas when he wrote in The Souls of Black Folk:

After the Egyptian and Indian, the Greek and the Roman, the Teuton and Mongolian, the Negro is sort of a seventh son, born with a veil, and gifted with second sight in this American world,?a world which yields him no true self-consciousness, but only lets him see himself through the revelation of the other world. It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at oneself through the eyes of others, of measuring one's soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity. One ever feels this twoness?an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder.

    My perception of myself in early life reveals the truth of "the veil." Itwas only rarely and in the midst of a crisis that I was able to come to aconclusion about myself, by myself! In fact, this is a common dilemma ofpoverty and blackness in America, and perhaps of humanity. You find yourselfconstantly fighting everyone else around you to get what you need, so that younever have time to figure out what you want.

    My entire school experience shows the truth of the "double-consciousness."I had to speak two languages?one of poverty and tired resignation, andone of hope and bright futures. I had to be aware of one group while in themidst of another and succeed in both! School also showed me how resentfulblacks and patronizing whites looked upon my experience with "either contemptor pity," respectively.

    The identity I have become comfortable with proves the truth of the "twosouls warring"?I am not a middle-class "African American" wishing hehad experienced the gritty poverty and violence of his underclass brother sothat he could feel connected to blackness, nor am I simply a poor black whovainly wishes, Bigger Thomas-like, for the freedom and affluence of the whites.I have experienced the violence and desperate poverty of the ghetto andcontinue to live too close to it for comfort, but I have always seen a way out.The value my mother placed on education, the keystone of middle-class values,allowed me to learn the language and ways of middle-class America, but thecenter of my being still lies with my people. It has made for an interestinglife.

    The college experience has allowed me a chance to put my relationshipwith my mother into perspective. Recently she was diagnosed with breast cancer,and although she has undergone an operation, there is no telling whether thecancer may come back to kill her. When she was in the hospital she missedsome probation hearings (from the food stamp fraud), and her probation officerdecided to crack down on her and become a hard-ass. This put my mother onthe spot again, and for what? For trying to take care of me and my littlebrother. The criminal process against my mother has begun again. The real crimeis what they do to her, but I now can understand that all the persecution shehas endured is simply the price she paid to ensure my brother's and my future.But having said that, I still feel hatred for those who have unjustly imposedsuch burdens on us throughout our lives. The forces which created the situationthat produced my father are the same ones which continue to persecute mymother.

    My personal growth has naturally included forays into the realm of theromantic. I am in a relationship with a young woman on campus, and she lovesme, but we have been having problems recently. My early experience with mymother and father has kept me from making some of the same mistakes myfather made, like hitting her or otherwise abusing her, but other problems fillthe gaps. All the time I spent as a child struggling to maintain my sanity andbe cool about things when hell was all around me, makes me a little difficultto communicate with. I also have a hard time listening and understanding otherpeople's needs. It is the same callousness that allows desperate people to dealdrugs to their neighbors and greedy people to colonize and enslave others. Myobsession with my own well-being makes me stubborn, and once I make up mymind about how I feel, it is damn near impossible for me to understand how Ican be wrong. It causes problems, but I want to change and experience the joythat comes from true intimacy and communication. I love my woman friend,but it is sometimes hard for me to express it. Same goes for her. But after allthe fighting and all the crying, we still talk heart to heart. Although we donot "go out" anymore, we are starting again as friends. I guess friendship iswhat marriages or any other long-term relationships are built on. The bestlesson to be learned from love can be found in Christ or Buddha; give withoutexpecting something in return. Give something freely without tying yourheartstrings around it. I have learned that lesson.

    After all is said and done, I think it all comes down to faith. Faith is notrequired of most Americans, I think, and it is withheld by circumstance fromthose of us who need it most. Most of us cannot see beyond the four dimcandle-lit walls that surround us when the light bill has not been paid.The darkness dims the spirit, and the pain of deprivation makes us callous and unfeeling.

    I am currently studying in one of the most selective colleges in the country.I stand on the cusp of personal and financial success. My situation, however,is nothing I alone can be credited with, nor is it merely luck. It is just ablessing. I am grateful because I must be. I thank all the people who tried tohurt me but actually helped me: to the lady in the park who didn't want herdaughter playing with "nigger" children, to all the gang members that sweatedme over the years, to the racist teachers, to the folks who introduced me todrugs, to my father, to my drunken grandmother?and to all the "help" along theway. I thank all the people who wished me well: Mrs. Kendall, Mrs. Briggs, myhigh school guidance counselor, and science teacher. Finally, I thank my motherfor all the sacrifices she made and continues to make for me and my brotherRaphael. I also thank God for my destiny.

Continues...

Excerpted from Souls Looking Backby Andrew Garrod Copyright © 1999 by Andrew Garrod. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Edition details

• Publisher: Routledge
• Publication date: 1999
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0415920620
• ISBN 13: 9780415920629
• Binding: Paperback
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 328
• Editor: Garrod Andrew