a fight, but Richie was a different story.
One day my mom yelled into our room, “Richie and Shawn, get down here!” As Shawn and Richie ran down the stairs, they both in unison yelled back, “Yes!” My mom pointed to the money lying on the coffee table and said, “I need yawl to go to the store to get a loaf of bread, and please don’t bring me back no white bread.”
As they walked back home, they encountered three boys about Richie’s age who wanted Richie to fight. One boy said, “What’s up, Rich-nard?” Richie immediately said, “I didn’t say it.”
Shawn unaware of what was happening said, “Say what?” Before Richie could answer, one of the boys swung and missed, but his intent was enough for Shawn and she dropped the bread and attacked the boy. The other two boys jumped in, but Richie had seen all he needed to and he turned and ran, while Shawn fought all three boys.
When I later asked Richie why he ran, he said, “I didn’t want to be hit,” a phobia he overcame in his later years. However, this began a cat and mouse game between Richie and the boys of the neighborhood where we lived. Anytime they would see Richie they would chase him. Richie’s only sanctuary was in the confines of the front yard. We all had our quirks and limitations placed on us by the environment and our upbringing, but Kim had it the worst by my standards.
Shawn, Richie, and I never had any trouble making friends, but Kim’s shyness was a great hindrance to her social development. The fear of upsetting my mom was a great motivator to keep silent around the house. My mom ascribed to the notion that children should be seen and not heard, and Kim bought into it wholeheartedly. Kim’s willingness to be silent around the house made it easy to carry the same behavior outside the house as well. One summer day while most of the parents of the neighborhood were at work, my siblings got into an argument with another family’s kids. The Johnson family had a girl we called big Kim and her sister Teresa; my family had Shawn and Kim.
The four girls matched off as big Kim yelled, “Shawn, I’m gon beat yo ass!” Shawn’s response: “You might know karate, but it ain’t gon help you. Your ass is mine, bitch!” The fight between Shawn and big Kim lasted only a couple of minutes. They went around in a circle for two minutes then with a facial expression that could have killed a cat, big Kim did a sweeping roundhouse kick; Shawn the street brawler that she was, grabbed Big Kim’s leg, picked her up, and slammed her to the ground.
Big Kim yelled, “Get off me and let’s start fresh!” Shawn said, “No, you wanted to fight, bitch, so let’s fight!” Big Kim called out to her sister, “Teresa, get this bitch off of me!” As Teresa started to grab Shawn’s foot to drag her off her sister, Shawn said, “Kim, you better beat her ass!”
The problem was Kim was nowhere to be found, so after the fight we searched all over the neighborhood for Kim but could not find her. Once it started to get dark and there was still no Kim, we began to worry. Shawn called my mom and told her we could not find Kim.
My mom asked, “What happened? Did yawl check all through the house?” Shawn said, “Yeah, she not here.” My mom said, “Check again, and call me back.” After we searched again, Shawn called my mom back and said, “We still can’t find her.” My mom, knowing her daughter, asked, “Did yawl check under the beds?” Shawn said, “No, why?” My mom said, “Check and call me back.”
We found Kim under her bed sound asleep. Shawn yelled at Kim, “Why you under the bed?” We all knew it was because she was afraid to fight, and she knew if Shawn had found her she would have made her fight. Kim’s lack of heart caused her many problems as a child, but my oversized heart may have caused me just as many, if not more, problems.
I remember at age six wondering about the strange light emanating from the box my mother used to prepare our food, which I later learned was the stove. I was big enough to reach the top of it, and on more than one occasion I tried to touch the fire but was always prevented by someone older.
One day when my mom wasn’t home and Shawn was cooking, I just happened to walk by the kitchen. Shawn asked, “Tootie, you hungry?” I said, “Yeah.” As she turned to make my plate, the dazzling fire drew me in like a moth to the light. Slowly I reached up and tried again to touch the fire. Shawn yelled out, “Stop! Daddy, Tootie’s trying to touch the fire again.”
My dad, a stocky, brown-skinned man of about thirty-five, with his sternest face said, “Let him touch it.”
Trembling because of my dad’s face and because everyone came to watch, but at the same time filled with excitement, adrenaline, and relief, in one of my most climactic experiences of that time I slowly reached for the fire. As my hand entered the flame, at first I just felt warmth which intrigued me, but the longer my hand stayed in the fire an intense burning replaced fascination, and all at once I both screamed and cried. Richie yelled, “Dummy!” Then Kim said, “That’s what you get!”
Everyone laughed, and for the next three weeks Richie and Kim took turns asking me if I wanted to touch the fire again. As I look back, here is where two of my most corrupt morals were formed. In that moment I learned it is funny when other people get hurt and trials, difficulties, and pain were the victim’s fault. These two morals were the first two stones laid in the foundation of my corruption. Before this time, I felt sad if others were crying and went to defend them. However, there would be more morals and values to come that would turn an otherwise thoughtful, generous, honest, truthful kid into a selfish, stingy, deceitful liar.
After the experience with the fire, I became distrustful of my family and to some extent even myself. Even though I didn’t understand the meaning of love, I often wondered why my friends and their siblings did things that mine didn’t. Most of my friends who had big brothers were protected and helped by them. Richie and I were close, but every chance he got he would beat on me. If he wasn’t throwing me across the room, he would smother me with pillows or blankets, which for a seven-year-old was terrifying.
One day as I entered the room Richie and I shared, he was lying on his bed. When he looked up and saw me, I instantly knew but it was too late. Richie, who stood at a towering 6’1” said, “Tootie, you want to wrestle?” At that time I was about 5’ so I tried to back up, but like a hungry lion he pounced. Before I knew it, I was the helpless victim of the DDT (a violent chokehold where you slam your opponent’s head into the floor). If that wasn’t bad enough, when I got up the nerve to go and tell my parents, I was told to stop being a tattletale. Through this experience, the third and fourth morals were added to my character. The third and fourth principles were: Prey on those weaker than you, and never tell on anyone. These principles were contrary to my earlier character. Up until that time I was a defender of those weaker than me, and felt telling was the only way to get help. At the time I made no conscious decision to change, but unconsciously I adapted to my environment.
The Two Paths
In 1982 at the tender age of eight, I was unleashed upon the streets of Oakland, California, and my mind soaked up all that was around me. My desire to prove myself found a playground not full of friends but tests. Until then I had never had a fight, unless you count the merciless beatings I took from Richie.
My first day outside, a kid named Tommy came up to me and asked, “What’s your name?”
I responded with, “My name is Tootie.” After his next words, which were, “That’s a girl’s name,” I had my first fight.
Due to my courage and heart, the older kids took a liking to me and let me in their circle. So while other kids my age were playing tag and hide-and-go-seek, I was sitting on the porch of the young drug dealers of the neighborhood. Vonne and Isaac were the two young men who protected and supplied
