with the innocence of a child, I said, “Daddy, I need some money.”
He looked back at me with eyes of pity mixed with sadness and regret and said, “Tootie, just put it in your pocket and then hurry up and leave the store.”
As we entered the store, we split up. As I stood in front of the Kool-Aid stand, I remember that I neither felt happy nor sad I was stealing. It was just the thought of what would happen if I didn’t do it that ran through my mind. My eighth and ninth moral came by way of our poverty: To provide for your family no matter what the cost: and never to be afraid to break the law to do it. Looking back, I don’t know how or why they didn’t just give up, but I’m glad they didn’t because through their toil they raised us.
With homelessness came a bonus for us kids: we didn’t have to go to school. This was due to the fact that we never knew where we would be staying from night to night, and we didn’t have all of our clothes or the ability to clean the ones we were wearing. But our time during the day wasn’t idle. The girls followed my mom to different shelters and agencies looking for a place to spend the night or vouchers for hotels. Richie and I spent our time with my dad taking anything that wasn’t nailed down. We took car batteries, scrap metal, potatoes from the Granny Goose factory, and anything else we could sell or eat. We never questioned if what we were doing was wrong, because we all could see our need. It wasn’t talked about to us, but we heard our parents talking and just knew it was either this or we would starve.
I remember one summer day in 1986—I was about twelve years old—and my dad, Richie, and I were out on the hunt but came up dry. So my dad came up with the idea of going by the Granny Goose Factory before we went home. We had never been there before and Richie and I didn’t understand why we were headed that way but kept silent. As we were walking, my dad started to instruct us about what we were to do once we arrived at the factory. He looked at Richie and said, “Richie, you lift up the gate for Tootie.” Then he turned to me and said, “Tootie, you slide under the gate and go pick up the potatoes off the ground and bring them to us.” It seemed simple enough, but what he forgot to explain was that there would be men walking around that I would have to avoid.
Once we got to the gate, all went well just like my dad thought: there were a plethora of potatoes all around. Richie, ever so mindful of remembering and following instructions, did exactly as my dad had commanded and lifted up the gate. I was terrified, unsure, and trembling, but slowly slid under the gate. Now standing on the opposite side of right, I looked back through the gate at Richie and my dad safe from danger on the other side of the gate, and hated I was small. I guess my dad could see the hesitancy in my steps, so he barked through the gate, “Go get them!” That was the push I needed—the thought of disappointing him shook me, and I ran to pick up the potatoes. Here is where my eleventh moral was formed. It was: Stealing was only wrong if you got caught, because that meant you did it wrong.
Internalizing Corruption
Some may fault my parents for my corruption, but each man or woman must themselves choose their own paths. Before homelessness struck, my mom tried her best to create in me a balance of both good and bad but left it to me to choose. By the time 1987 rolled around at the ripe age of thirteen I was full of corrupt morals and values, but they were not the sum of my foundation. There were also good principles at my core, which battled within me with the bad morals. Now at thirteen I spent most of my time out of the reach of my parent’s watchful eyes, so in the neighborhood I felt free to explore each path before me. Since I was poor I didn’t have the new shoes or clothes that other kids wore, but I desperately wanted them—therefore, poverty’s temptations sped around me like the mighty flow of a great river, and with only my childish understanding to do combat, I succumbed to its waves.
In the neighborhood were many kids doing what was considered right, but there were just as many doing what could be considered wrong. It was my decision to follow those with questionable characters. I remember the summer before I was to enter the seventh grade I can honestly say I made my choice during this period. That summer I had made friends with the cool kids; they were brothers named Otis and Cesare. These two boys dressed like they were rich, but spent food stamps like all of us poor kids.
So one day while out riding our bikes, I asked Otis, “How much did you pay for them shoes?”
Otis—a tall, lanky, blonde-haired, light-skinned black kid was the older of the two but always followed Cesare—said, “Eighty dollars.”
Out of nowhere, Cesare who also had the same physical characteristics as Otis yelled out, “He lying! He stole them shoes!”
I remember I felt surprised, but at the same time it intrigued me and I turned to Cesare and asked, “How?”
Cesare said, “It’s easy; all we do is wear some tore up shoes to J.C. Penny and then put on the new shoes and leave the old ones in the box.”
Otis chimed in and said, “They don’t even have alarms, and the side door is there for us to walk right out.”
After their explanation, my next words to them were, “Can yawl take me?”
Cesare said, “Yeah, but you got to be ready early because that’s the best time.”
That night I could not sleep; the thoughts of Nike shoes danced in my head like belly dancers on the tables of an emperor. Would I get red Nikes? No, maybe blue, then I thought even better: I would choose blue and red. The next morning I was up at 6:00 AM, dressed by 6:15 AM, and out the door by 6:30 AM. To my disappointment, Otis and Cesare were still asleep when I got to their house. So I passed the time going to the basketball court where all the kids hung out shooting hoops. As I walked, I decided to find the shoes I would steal by first judging the shoes of the kids at the court. When I arrived there were three kids playing, but I didn’t like any of their shoes. I remember feeling eager and frustrated at the same time. After about two hours, I found them. To my surprise, I didn’t pick Nikes—Fila’s caught my eyes instead. They were all white with red, blue, and black lines running down the sides. I ran to Otis and Cesare’s house with the anticipation of a runner at the starting line of a race that was waiting to hear the gunfire. And fire it did: as I approached their house, their door opened and out they came.
Even though I had only stolen things to feed the family, the thought that it was okay to take what you didn’t have was already imbedded in my young character. I was scared, but I didn’t want to stop. All the way there I could only think of the benefit, never considering what would happen if I got caught. Once at the store, Otis said, “We got to go in one at a time so they don’t see us.” Cesare went in first, then it was my turn; soon as I turned down the second row, I spotted them. I went straight for the boxes and grabbed a size 4, put them on and, remembering my dad’s instructions at Safeway, I immediately left the store. I thought I got in and out fast, but when I got to the meetup spot Otis and Cesare were already there. At the time, I thought getting away was something good. Looking at it now with a hint of wisdom, I realize it was the worst thing that could have happened—due to the fact that stealing food only satisfies the hunger, but stealing clothes and shoes satisfies the ego that, like the belly, will always need to be fed. This was the first time my corrupt morals had benefited only me, but it wouldn’t be the last. So I stole all of my school clothes and shoes throughout junior high school.
Stealing became my way of life. I had gotten so good at stealing and lying to cover it up that Kim followed me one day. When I asked her why, she said, “I want to become friends with the kids whose parents are buying you all this stuff” (which was my cover story).
I busted out laughing and turned to face the store, pointed, and said, “There they are!”
She looked real
