Soulful Silverback

AMERICA’S BITCHES BREW

Brooklyn Hospital was under siege during the first wave of the coronavirus outbreak in April. I live one block away from the Civil War era hospital. As ambulances raced through the empty streets, I could hear the echo of the sirens reverberate off of the buildings nearby.

The sirens wailed for weeks. To keep my mind occupied I had thrown myself into my work to preserve my sanity. From my brown upholstered chair in the corner of my apartment, I could hear every ambulance that passed by. At the sound of every siren, I could envision the darkness that was about to overtake the nation.

A tsunami of past traumas crashed into my mind as I recalled the lasting impacts of 9/11 on New York City, the country’s abysmal public healthcare system, and America’s world-renown legacy as one of the most viscously racist nations in the history of mankind.

I was defiant in my refusal to be mentally waterboarded by the sensationalism of the American media. Having already experienced NYC during 9/11, I already knew that the city was in dire straits in the years ahead. With the hourly increase in ambulance sirens and the death tally rising on my television screen, I clicked off the news media and turned up the volume of my soulful music collection.

In the weeks ahead, I dove into the business deals that I was working on and leaned heavily on my depression coping mechanisms. I was successfully navigating my way through murky mental waters until May when the recorded murders of two separate unarmed black men were released for the world to consume.

I sat there staring into the nothingness that I was feeling inside. Wondering yet again how America first contracted this disease of ruthless systemic racism. For a moment of relief, I imagined the scene from the television series Game of Thrones where the fictional character, Jorah Mormont, was inflicted with the disfiguring Grayscale skin disease by the exiled Stone Men. The disease of American systematic racism would reveal its hardened gray, scaly, scarred skin to us all in the midst of this devastating public health crisis.

(Silverbacks Note: Greetings from Amsterdam North! Frankly, it’s been difficult for me to write over the last several months. I began to find my stride in beginning to share my personal narrative with you in Music Is Life and Power of Love. I still have more to share on that basketball journey but it’s been tough to write from a negative headspace. As I attempt to find my roar again, I have been busy growing other aspects of the Soulful Silverback brand.

Since I last published a piece, we released the Silverback’s first reading mixtape on American racism titled “Chaining Day” (check out the fire album cover art here), we launched our first paid advertising marketing campaign (Oy! the comment section was divisive), we replenished the t-shirt inventory on the Silverbacks Shop (go cop some merch!) and registered the business as a company in the Netherlands (pretty dope, right?). More on this in the coming months.

It’s often been said that the pen is mightier than the sword. And y’all know I’m damn nice with my pen. This vignette is one of those occasions where I felt that I had to pick up my sword. Warning: parental advisory, colorful language in the words ahead.

Cheers,

P.S. – Click on the section hyperlinks to listen to the tunes.)

BITCHES BREW

I sank deeper into the padding on the chair, deeper into thought, and was stunned by the intersectionality of this mounting crisis. I could taste the bitterness of America’s racist bitches brew hit the bumps on my palate.

It’s all of these nauseating miasmic ills mixing together: this nation’s continued bloodthirsty investment in the military-industrial complex; the amoral marriage of corporate profits to citizens’ healthcare; and the nation’s savage legacy of importing humans and legally classifying them and their offspring as non-persons.

These ingredients are America’s handcrafted recipe, her lasting legacy on the world stage, and her most lethal weapon; her bitches brew if you will. This concoction is so potent that Adolf Hitler was inspired by America’s centuries-long systemic performance that he commissioned the formula to be the foundation for his own deadly race laws.

During the last week in May, my phone began to vibrate as text messages from family, friends, and acquaintances from all over the world.

Big Nev! Just checking in on you. I wanted to make sure you’re good.

Hi my love, I wanted you to know that Mom is praying for you always.

Mate, how are you going? Crazy what’s happening in the States.

My initial feelings of being cared for were quickly switched to dread as I scrolled past a notification that Minneapolis law enforcement had killed an unarmed black man while in police custody. Given the flood of text messages, I instantaneously knew the visuals of the murder were likely to be devastating.

Just weeks before in early May, a cell phone recording was released of armed white men hunting and shooting a Black runner, Ahmuad Arbery, in the southern State of Georgia. In the chilling video, you can see Ahmad fleeing his attackers only to be cornered and shot dead in the street. His lifeless Black body lying facedown on the pavement in the southern breeze was an all too familiar image of the antebellum south.

Weeks later in late May, as more concerned text messages poured in, it only fortified my resolve to avoid the video of George Floyd’s execution until I was mentally prepared for the visuals. I continued reading the text messages.

How are you holding up Neville?

I can’t believe that this is happening. I am so sorry bro.

Hey Nev, be safe out there big fella! We’re worried about you.

As more and more concerned text messages from mostly white friends and acquaintances arrived, the more bewildered and enraged I became. The cushion beneath me was morphing a launchpad and I was beginning to rumble in anger. I wanted to lift off and explode in response to the text messages.

WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN AM I OK?! I LIVE MY LIFE WITH THIS EXISTENTIAL FEAR!! I EXPECT THIS BEHAVIOR FROM WHITE FOLKS. THE REAL QUESTION IS: ARE YOU FUCKING OK WITH WHAT YOU SAW?

Delete, delete, delete, you can’t respond with that I thought. These folks are concerned about you.

But it was too late, I had already been poisoned by the news of the day.

WHAT MORE CAN I SAY

I needed to calm down and quiet the war going on inside. I put my phone down and went back to working on a large technology partnership with Jay-Z’s entertainment company, Roc Nation.

Eight months prior, I had delivered one of the most riveting and personal business pitches to the leadership team at Roc Nation. Jay-Z had once compared the technology industry and its lack of diversity, inclusion, and retention to Major League Baseball prior to integration on his song Legacy.

“We gon’ start a society within a society

That’s major, just like the Negro League

There was a time America wouldn’t let us ball

Those times are now back, just now called Afro-tech”

With rhymes like that, it wasn’t lost on me that I was a Black man selling technology to the company he founded. It was a proud moment in my career to stand at the plate in the sleek Roc Nation conference room and deliver a homerun presentation to win their technology business. Just like Jackie Robinson stealing home plate decades prior, I was able to exemplify that diversity, inclusion, and retention can benefit corporate profits when our talents are unshackled and enabled to flourish.

When I brought the deal to my company I was again confronted with the taste of America’s racist bitches brew. I scheduled a conference call to discuss the details of the pricing negotiation. Two of my white bosses were on the conference call and when I joined the call I overheard their conversation.

“This is why I don’t do business deals with any Roc Nation type of companies,” one White boss scoffed to the other.

“Oh no, the guy we are working with is a White guy,” the other white boss replied to his off-color comment. “He’s not Black.”

It’s tough to describe the complexity of my feelings on that conference call but you know that bathroom scene from the movie Trading Places?

There’s an important scene near the end of the movie.

During the scene, Billy Ray Valentine, the main character, is hiding in a nearby stall and overhears the details of brothers Randolph and Mortimer Duke’s nefarious experiment as they settle their infamous $1 wager in the bathroom.

I guess you could say that I felt like Billy Ray overhearing the Duke brothers’ conversation except these two knew I was present on the call. But it was too late, they had already exposed their diseased mindset about Black people.

I remained silent on the call as that all too familiar taste of casual cultural racism filled my throat like vomit. I wrestled internally as to whether I should have made a witty remark or let the exchange slide entirely.

I didn’t address the offensive exchange and focused on the task at hand. This was not the time for activism, so I brushed off the comments and forged ahead with the internal conversation.

Months later when the deal closed in June, one of those white bosses had the audacity to attempt to tie my success with Roc Nation to the timing of George Floyd’s murder.

“Seems like George Floyd’s death really helped us close this deal,” he said in a pleasurable tone.

“Don’t tie that man’s tragic execution to my success in this deal,” I bristled. “The two events are not correlated.”

I was confronted with the casual nature of cultural racism at every turn. The reality of Jay-Z’s sharp lyrics from The Story of O.J. came to mind and my mood was dampened.

“Light nigga, dark nigga, faux nigga, real nigga

Rich nigga, poor nigga, house nigga, field nigga

Still nigga, still nigga”

The Grayscale skin disease was spreading and taking its toll on my mental health.

ALABAMA COLTRANE

It took me weeks but I finally mustered up the courage to watch the full 8:46 minutes of George Floyd’s execution.

Late one night around the midnight hour in early June, I turned off all of the lights and closed the shades to be in total darkness. I slipped into my bed and curled up under the covers for what I was about to see and experience. I took a deep inhale and pressed play on the YouTube video.

There had been so much talk of the recording that I was not surprised by the images on my screen. It was just as devastating as I had feared.

I had been conditioned to expect white Americans to treat Black bodies with excessive force. However, what struck me the most about this video was the defiant entitlement, comfort, and smugness on the face of the white officer as he pressed his knees deeper into the skin on George Floyd’s neck. You could see from the expression on the officer’s face that he was relishing every moment of the execution.

I COULD NOT BELIEVE THAT THIS WAS STILL HAPPENING WHILE THE PLANET IS BATTING A FUCKING DEADLY PANDEMIC AT A SCALE THAT WE HAVE NOT SEEN IN OVER 100-YEARS! HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN WITH PEOPLE STANDING RIGHT THERE?

American racism was crafted so that the enslavement was intellectual, moral, and legal. American racism is the real Grayscale skin disease from fictitious television series – except its white folks that are the asymptomatic carriers and they have infected us all with this highly contagious disease that has been slowly destroying the nation.

This strain of racism may be as infectious as “Grayscale” but its impact is excruciatingly more real. Black folks in this nation have been suffering from our daily engagement with this disease-riddled system for centuries.

American racism and white supremacy rob white people of the experience of being fully human. This particularly evil brand of racism is a disease that white people need to be cured of. Throughout history, the experience of attaining an elevated or supreme position within one’s community is earned through the content of one’s character and not by the birthright of their skin color.

I could go on and on about this topic but I refuse. I’m so tired of this shit. I fucking hate writing about racism.

The reality is plain and simple for the world to now see: America is not a healthy environment for the overall wellbeing of Black Americans across all socioeconomic backgrounds.

Sadly, unlike the television series, there is no healing ointment or witches brew to cure us of this disease either. Not Samwell Tarley, not Joe Biden, or even Jesus Christ can apply a balm to our skin to heal us from this affliction. We are irrevocably disfigured as People because racism is codified into the nation’s governing documents, cultural norms, and workplaces.

Sipping on America’s piping hot brew is slowly killing me and I have to protect my future generations from grappling with these feelings of worthlessness and despair.

America’s demons will never release this nation from its clutches and I refuse to fight against the federal and cultural racism that will likely result in my dead body being tossed onto the already mountain-high pile of young, gifted, and Black bodies that have spoken out against injustice before me.

I had to finally give up on America and flee her borders for my physical safety, my mental sanity, and my future legacy.

It was time to put down the sword and apply a healing balm to my hardened gray skin before it was too late.

RIP AMHAUD ARBERY & GEORGE FLOYD

Dreams of Wakanda

I’ve never been an avid comic book reader. I’ve never participated in cosplay. I’ve never felt a strong sense of Afrocentrism. Nevertheless, although feeling a little sheepish, I found myself in a dashiki joined by three close friends bubbling with excitement to see Black Panther on opening night during “Black History Month.” Similar to how I felt when I bused down to Washington D.C. to witness Barack Obama’s inauguration in 2009, I knew that I wanted to be a part of this monumental moment in cinematic history. Although this was more than just cinematic history, this was history.

I walked into the movie theatre in downtown Brooklyn and immediately saw a group of ladies wearing heels and African print dresses. The theatre was buzzing and it was at that moment where I realized that the excitement that I had read about on the internet was not only palpable but I was apart of the experience as well. I’ve probably seen hundreds of movies in the theatre but I had never experienced this level of excitement within the black community since Obama’s inauguration. Strangers were dapping each other, positively affirming each other’s clothing, staging photoshoots in front of the film’s poster, and for the first time ever there was an anti-bootlegging movement. In other theatres, they began the film by singing the Black National Anthem, Lift Every Voice and Sing.

Over the last ten years, our community has witnessed videos of fatal violence against black bodies in American streets. We’ve seen the bodies of Mike Brown, Eric Garner, Walter Scott, Tamir Rice, Alton Sterling, Philando Castile, and Terrence Crutcher – to name a few – all lifeless in American streets. Something that I must painfully and dangerously admit that our culture has become desensitized to. If you’re like me and you view cinema as an escape from reality, then you know that most Black actors have largely not been portrayed in positions of prestige. Hollywood seems to only cast and awards us for subjugated roles as slaves, gangsters, and maids which only seem to reiterate false narratives of my community. We have and will always be more than the images in which Hollywood portrays us.

Even though I had always been a huge fan of past superhero movies The Meteor Man, Blankman, and Blade as a kid, I knew the importance of seeing a big budget superhero film written, directed, and staring black artists. Seeing the images of people that look like you as superheroes is critically important for the subconscious of little boys and girls. After all, the first time I ever dressed up for Halloween at 24-years-old was as Green Lantern.

In 1975, a relatively unknown 27-year-old Director directed a movie that became a blockbuster hit. Jaws launched the now iconic and wildly lucrative career for famed Director, Steven Spielberg. My hope is that after also directing Fruitvale Station and Creed that this is the road that lies ahead for Black Panther Director Ryan Coogler’s career.

That said, I have always been skeptical of anything that has hype surrounding it. So I won’t lie, I was skeptical of actually how good the storyline of this film would be. Less than an hour into this film, I knew that this was on the way to being my favorite movie ever. Not kidding, Hitch has been my favorite movie for over a decade and I remember seeing that film in theatres too. For those that know me well, know that this is a big deal. A positive black film that portrays African and American black people displaying power, love, happiness, fatherhood, national pride, loyalty, intellect, innovators of technology, a dope dap and a tribal monarchy that is founded on physical strength delighted my soul and aligned with who I am. In a lot of ways, that narrative is what the Soulful Silverback blog is all about. So you could imagine that I almost leaped out of my seat when I saw M’Baku, leader of the Jabari Tribe, on screen!

After the excitement and love of the post-film photoshoot subsided, I left the film saddened that the streets of Brooklyn weren’t the streets of Wakanda. I was even more saddened that as a result of colonization, revisionist history, the genocide of the slave trade, and corruption – Wakanda was just a figment of Stan Lee’s imagination and not a real place. My mind began to soar with the idea that what if Wakanda could have been real? What if Erik Killmonger’s idea of black liberation came true and the continent of Africa united to become a military and economic world power? What if our African brothers and sisters had come to rescue us? What if those of us across the diaspora all across the Americas engaged in the healing process with our dear African brothers and sisters to restore the years that the locusts have eaten to make the dream of Wakanda a reality? What if…?.What if…? What if…? ..but until our liberation is a reality then Wakanda Forever!

This article was originally published on 1 March 2018.

Similar Read(s): LCR Perspectives on Black Panther

AMERICAN NOIR

“Fuck you! You black asshole!” is what she shouted as she poured the contents of her alcoholic drink all over me.

I had just arrived at a crowded bar in midtown Manhattan to meet a few colleagues for happy hour after work. We were huddled in casual conversation when someone walked by and forcefully pushed me as they were walking by; so much so, that I bumped into my colleague standing across from me. Agitated, I turned around to the culprit and said, “You can say excuse me!”, to which she responded with the racially charged epithet mentioned above. An uncomfortable silence fell over my colleagues as they were aghast by her racially charged remark and wondered aloud if people “like that” still existed.

The story got worse from that point but those details are not important. What is important is that these racially charged moments of aggression are potentially lurking around every corner of the Black experience. I could tell of the time when I was in high school, walking home from basketball practice in my catholic school uniform, when two police officers jumped the curb and drew their guns on my teammate and I. I could tell of the time I was in Atlanta when a cop pulled me over in my rental car and said, “Boy, get me your [rental] papers, I want to make sure this is yours,” before I was then pulled over again less than 3 minutes later by another cop who told me that my headlights were not on (it was 2 pm). I could tell of the time when an ex-girlfriend’s roommate was disgusted that she let a Black man take a shower in their bathroom. I could tell of the time when I was at the Intercontinental in Mexico and the hotel manager said to my friends, “Your Black friend isn’t welcome here.”

All of those horrible incidents of racial aggression don’t add up to the constant barrage of racial microaggressions that occur on a daily basis in the Black experience. Psychology Today defines racial microaggressions as, “brief and commonplace daily verbal, behavioral, or environmental indignities, whether intentional or unintentional, that communicate hostile, derogatory, or negative racial slights and insults towards people of color.”

Standing at 6’1” with a muscular build, I have a comparatively large physical presence. Layered on top of that is the fact that I am proudly dark skinned, so you might better understand some of the microaggressions that occur in my daily Black experience. However, what some may seem to forget, is that before all of those descriptors, I am a hominid (i.e. a human) with dignity.

(Dignity…)

When I walked into business meetings dressed in a suit and got asked where I played football, I know it was an attempt to erode my dignity. When I conducted a meeting and was then asked where I received my education, I know it was an attempt to erode my dignity. Being chased down and emasculated by another visiting employee at my office, who didn’t realize that I also worked there because I was casually dressed, was an attempt to erode my dignity. Conversely, last night, while wearing a custom tux and repeatedly being asked security type questions is an attempt to erode my dignity. Having to suppress my frustrations in fear of being labeled an “angry Black man” while White colleagues have the ability to freely express their frustrations, is an attempt to erode my dignity. Not seeing any Black executives at the company by which you’re employed, is an attempt to erode my dignity. Being told, “you’re not like those Black people,” when you absolutely are just like your Black brothers and sisters, is an attempt to erode my dignity. Being told that you don’t sound like you were born and raised in Brooklyn because you’re well-spoken, is an attempt to erode my dignity. People that have told me that they, “don’t see race,” are attempting to erode my dignity. Going on a date and being told, “I know I’ve put on too much weight when Black guys start hitting on me,” is an attempt to erode my dignity. Dating someone who says, “my family will never accept you,” is an attempt to erode my dignity. Seeing the recurring violence against Black bodies and the equally as divisive rhetoric that follows on social platforms, is an attempt to erode my dignity. If this reads as an overwhelming paragraph of experiences then just imagine living it every day.

Then there are the psychological questions that begin to fester in my mind because of the racial climate in which we live. Constantly wondering if I am walking too close to someone thereby putting their feelings above my own, is a subtle attempt to erode my dignity. Sitting across from a new prospective client and wondering how does this person view Black people, is a subtle attempt to erode my dignity. Walking out of an interview and wondering if you will or will not get the job on the merit of your experience and not because of the color of your skin, is a subtle attempt to erode my dignity. All of these thoughts come in a flash but can tally up over the course of time to weigh on one’s psyche.

The experiences above are not shared by my White colleagues and friends and therefore we lack the equality that the Declaration of Independence illustrates. Ignoring this difference continues to marginalize our experience as humans with darker epidermis. Despite the aggressions and microaggressions lurking around any given corner, Black people across the diaspora are not victims, we are mighty victors in the face of an ongoing attempt to rob us of a dignity that we hold so dear. But we will not crumble to any perils that may be lurking around any corners because as Maya Angelou wrote, “I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise. I rise. I rise.”

Similar Read: Amy’s Gotta Problem

DEAR WHITE FOLKS: BRING SUNSCREEN

I have a diverse group of friends. Over the years, I’ve had great conversations with my White friends about what my experience is as a Black American. Often in those various conversations, a few statements have recurred:

“I won’t ever know what it’s like to walk in your shoes”

“I don’t see color”

“I don’t know what I can do to help”

Generally speaking, all of these statements were said with good intent. So I’ve come up with a simple but impactful analogy that might help shift one’s thinking from apathy to care.

In my travels and most summers, I love to go to the beach. Growing up in Brooklyn, I never felt that I had a connection or access to picturesque beaches but there is calming quality in listening to the waves crash under the sunshine. I find that the beach is a great place to read a book, listen to music, have few drinks, and/or connect with friends. When I take out my beach bag to leave for the beach there is always something inside the bag that I don’t really need; sunscreen.

Now before you get all preachy on me about the dangers of skin cancer hear me out. First, my doctor tells me every year that I have a vitamin D deficiency. Second, my dark skin can absorb the sun’s rays and I’ve never gotten sunburned in America. Third, my skin looks radiant and I look great with a tan.

So why do I buy sunscreen and remember to take it with me to the beach? I know that when I leave the house for the beach that I will likely be going with other people, of lighter skin (i.e. White folks), who will need sunscreen or else they get sunburned.

Now, I’ve never had a bad sunburn but I have been around plenty of White folks who didn’t apply sunscreen properly and have gotten a bad sunburn. To be frank, it looks awful and extremely painful. Because I’m not apathetic, I’ve asked my White friends to share their sunburn experience with me. What does it feel like? When does it go away? What happens when you touch it? How does it heal? Why did you not apply sunscreen more effectively? You really have to go through this entire sunscreen application process before you layout? Why do you want to get a tan anyway? Yes, I know being darker is sexier but is all this worth it? So I’m thoughtful enough to leverage my Black privilege in this instance to bring sunscreen just in case.

Similarly, when I leave my apartment every day there are things that I have to think about that White folks don’t. I’ve previously written about some of the things that I have to think about when I leave the house. While I can’t speak for the 40+ million Black folks in this country, I can tell you that acknowledging our struggles under the metaphorical sun will go a long way to improving the racial discourse in this country.

You see, Black folks are familiar with the White experience in this country because that experience has remained prominently at the forefront of our culture. In an era where access to information is just a few clicks away, I’ve come to feel that some White folks are simply apathetic to our experience and choose to remain ignorant of the full spectrum of the Black experience. Folks choose to remain uninformed and believe, just as our current administration does, that only negative portrayals of our communities are worth highlighting.

In his usual eloquence, James Baldwin, explains the White apathy towards the Black experience as a segregated wall where there is no desire to peer over the other side of the wall because there is a conscious effort to remain ignorant of the Black experience.

In short, we want our White brothers and sisters to look over that wall, we want you to understand the complex spectrum of our experiences, we want you to be curious about how we live, we want our struggles under the metaphorical sun to be acknowledged, we want you to join in our interconnected fight against racism. We want you to bring sunscreen, even if you don’t need it.

“Most of the White Americans I have ever encountered really, you know, had a negro friend or a negro maid or somebody in high school. But they never, you know, or rarely after school was over or whatever, you know, came to my kitchen. You know, we were segregated from the schoolhouse door. Therefore, he doesn’t know – he really does not know – what it was like for me to leave my house, you know, leave the school and go back to Harlem. He doesn’t know how negroes live.
And it comes as a great surprise to the Kennedy brothers and to everybody else in the country. I’m certain again, you know, that like – again, like most White Americans I have, you know, encountered, they have no – you know, I’m sure they have nothing whatever against negroes. That is not – that’s really not the question. You know, the question is really a kind of apathy and ignorance which is a price we pay for segregation. That’s what segregation means. It – you don’t know what’s happening on the other side of the wall because you don’t want to know.”

— JAMES BALDWIN, 1963

POWER OF LOVE: PART II

Dribble, spin, hook shot, rebound.

Again.

Dribble, spin, hook shot, rebound.

He’s neva’ gonna come see you play, he doesn’t love you.

Dribble, spin, hook shot, rebound.

You’re not good enough for him to come see.

I was alone at Monsignor King Hall before practice one morning, working on my footwork.

The neckline of my green t-shirt was soaked in sweat. I was in the gym working my eleven year old love handles off to perfect my patented “drop step to the baseline” spin move.

The sound of the basketball bouncing off the kelly green floor and the squeaking of my sneakers were like music to my ears.

The season before I had fallen in love with basketball as a ball boy for the Monsignor King tournament. I had to be close to the action for the LaSalle high school game to witness one the nation’s top prospects, Ron Artest, play in the championship game.

My first teammates at St. Thomas Aquinas (STA) were a group of special kids: Izzy Bauta, Mike Blake, P.J. Marshall, Joey Romano, Nick Russo, and myself. We were coached by local mailmen, Joe Romano Sr., who was Joey’s dad, and John Browning.

Our team was good. Like, legendarily good. Our first season together we made a splash in Catholic Youth Organization (CYO) with an outstanding record. We’d easily score about 60 points a game. Any given game each of the starting five players could score 12-14 points each. I am still waiting for the local Catholic newspaper, The Tablet, to do a documentary on our successful run. We were unstoppaBULL. Get my drift? It was 1997 and who didn’t wanna be like Michael Jordan? Chicago was on fire that year, and so were we.

That year, people started to talk about how historically dominant we could become if we continued to play together throughout the summer.

And that’s saying somethin’. NBA Hall of Famer, Chris Mullen, used to workout on that floor and rumors have it that he once broke the backboards at Monsignor King Hall while practicing for the Dream Team before the ‘92 Olympics.

Yeah, so you could say that we were almost NBA Hall of Fame, Dream Team level nice, ok?

Anyway, that spring, we had won our first championship on a corner buzzer-beater against St. Rose. We had tasted the sweetness of victory and I wanted to improve my basketball skills over the summer.

But inside our apartment on 2525 Bedford Avenue, my world was crumbling. Dad was never home and the only time I’d hear from him was when he played music on Sunday’s. Sometimes he’d be so into his records that it felt like I was invisible to him.

With the hurt and anger towards my father growing, basketball was a much welcome distraction to muddle the chaos going on in my home and in my young mind. I had asked Mom if I could join karate to blow off steam but my mom felt that I might have been too much of a brute and injure the other kids my age. Not to mention that she just did not have the time to take me to practice with all that was going on in her life.

So when I came home from school energetically rambling about my desire to want to play on the basketball team, my mom initially rejected the idea. But she saw how excited I was and she finally relented with a little persuasion from another parent who offered to take me to weekly practices twice a week.

The turbulence when my dad would come home and the size of our cramped apartment felt like flying through rough air in a small airplane. The uneasiness from the tension created a cagey atmosphere that left me suffocating with resentment from how he had treated my mom and me.

Basketball was an escape to another dimension where I could be free to release the stress of my emotions. The more I poured my energy into the game, the more it gave me the fulfillment I was desperately searching for.

(Silverback’s Note: Read Power of Love Part: I, here. Remember, click on the section hyperlinks to listen to the tunes.)

OLÉ COLTRANE.

Inside Monsignor King Hall, her voice rumbles across the court.

“LET’S, GO, GREEN! LET’S, GO, GREEN!”

My mother, sitting in the wooden bleachers, leans back, takes a deeper inhale and continues to bellow. I can hear mom’s voice from the center circle.

Just like her prayer time every morning, that voice got louder, and louder, and louder.

I adjusted my yellow Rec Spec goggles as the referee was giving our team’s final instruction. I can’t even hear him.

“LET’S, GO, GREEN!” “LET’S, GO, GREEN!”

Soon it’s the only voice that everyone can hear in the gym. There’s six minutes on the game clock to begin the first quarter and the scoreboard is buzzing with electric current. Adrenaline is running through my veins. The referee toots his whistle and lobs the ball into the air.

I won the tip-off, and Mom switched to a more provocative cheer.

“YOU. CAN’T. BEAT THE GREEN, YOU CAN’T BEAT THE GREEN!,” she shouts as we got into our positions to run our first play of the game.

Looking back, her volume was a somewhat obnoxious level of support considering that our team was about to dismantle our opponents during the first few minutes of the basketball game.

Monsignor King Hall was the home court to one of the most ferocious boys junior high school basketball teams in the history of Brooklyn CYO sports.

From 1996 to 1998, the STA boys’ basketball team would rack up 149 wins and 1 loss. We didn’t have a team mascot or a nickname so our fans would cheer for us using the color of our green cotton t-shirts. Our loudest super fan was my mom, Madeline Louison. At 330 pounds, she was also our largest and most gangster, cheerleader as well.

I can feel her fierce love and undying support with every echo of her voice that rang through the gymnasium. It’s that same voice that I can still hear in the echoes of my mind, passionately encouraging me to push myself to be better to this day.

She’s still cheering me on and is the driving force behind my competitive passion. She’s still in my corner encouraging me to strive for more through the power of her love.

You see, Madi has always been the personification of the Bible. She embodies the ruthless ferocity described in the battles of the Christian Old Testament combined with the warm loving narrative of the redemption story told in the Christian New Testament. That’s how I described her to my therapist, anyway.

“You know I am an atheist, right?” Dr. Brown says to me in one of our early sessions.

“Yeah, that’s cool,” I respond as I am sitting across from him at a wooden table inside his apartment office.

“Tell me about your mother but with less Biblical references so I can understand,” he says with a slight grin that accentuates the shine in his brown skin.

I had just completed unpacking my father’s story of origin to my therapist and it was time to discuss my mother. I found myself in the therapist chair because I was experiencing an emotional block in 2014.

The woundedness of my father’s absence during my childhood and the effects of two colossally failed romantic relationships as a young adult had left me broken and searching for healing. I was struggling with emotionally connecting with humans – I felt unable to love.

“My mom and I have a really close bond,” I respond. “We’ve had to be there a lot for each other through the years…”

TAKEOVER.

My goggles were foggy from the perspiration. It was scorching outside and I could feel the heat rising off the gravel courts in the Coney Island public housing complex.

Our Dream Team was playing in our first summer tournament. We had made it to the championship of the 2nd Annual Stephon Marbury Basketball Classic.

Our team had not played hard enough in the first half to be competitive. It was halftime and Coach Romano was red in the face.

“Get your heads outta’ your asses and focus!” Coach Romano growled at halftime. He usually didn’t cuss at us but when he did his Brooklyn-Italian accent really came out.

Izzy and I plop our dense 180-pound frames into the lawn chairs. We both stood about 5’8 and our knees were protruding off the edge of the nylon seats. I cross my arms in frustration.

The PA announcer had been talking nonstop during the first half and it was good to finally hear some music blaring from the speakers set up near the courts. Jay-Z’s debut album, Reasonable Doubt, was playing during a break in the action.

Our team was not accustomed with losing and we began allowing the unfamiliar territory to disrupt our flow.

One of the parents passed around a bag of frozen orange slices to cool us down.

“Put those orange slices down and focus, Andy!” my teammate P.J. shouted. “You’re not boxing out!”

Focus, I thought.

How could I focus when all I wanted was for my Pops to come watch me play ball? I had so much heaviness on my heart. All of my teammates’ dads were there to watch them play. Even the ones that didn’t get much playing time.

Why doesn’t he want to hang out with me? I got game.

It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate my mom being there. It was just that she didn’t know much about sports and I just wanted my dad’s guidance like all the other boys. Some of my teammates wondered if I even had a dad at home.

Basketball apparently was a “waste of time,” according to him but the game I loved had already given me more than he ever had.

“Pick your head up!” my mother commands. “Get your head in the game. You’re letting those little guys get the rebound over you!”

We were playing in a rough neighborhood against a gritty team of all Black players from Coney Island. I was the only Black kid on our team and you could tell that my White teammates or their parents had never played in such a lively environment. Matter fact, they were the only White people participating in the tournament, the only White people on the basketball courts, and most likely the only White people for a few blocks.

Far away from our home court and in strange surroundings we were down by 15 points. We had been down before but not by this large of a margin. The pressure of the deficit and the exuberance of the crowd was becoming increasingly stressful.

Maybe we weren’t as good as we thought?

The horn sounded to start the second half. I looked on as all of my teammates’ fathers assured their sons and provided final instruction.

At that moment, something switched inside of me. The separation from my own father felt more pronounced. I felt so alone, so unprotected, so wounded. In order to protect the vulnerability of my feelings, a menacing ball of anger ignited inside me.

Enough.

We inbound the ball and I beeline to my spot on the post and call for the ball with gusto. I wanted to get a bucket.

The shot went up and I found a body to crash into as the ball was in the air. I boxed out, snatched the offensive rebound out of the air and scored on the put back layup.

“Oh he’s a beast on the inside!” the color commentator says to start the second half commentary.

Damn right I am a beast! I’ll ball out without my Pops.

The sound of male validation sparked such a self-confident feeling inside of me that I began to chase it by playing harder.

“Great rebound, Andy!” shouted one of the White dads.

Keep rebounding, they can’t stop you.

We score on a few back to back possessions and cut into the lead going into the final quarter.

Every time I glanced over to the stands and remembered that my father was not there I felt my blood boil hotter and hotter. I wanted every damn rebound. I wanted every freakin’ loose ball. I wanted to squeeze every pebble on the basketball’s leather skin.

Who needs a Pops anyway?

I was on a roll and our opponents didn’t seem to have anyone on their bench to match my ferocity in the paint.

I began mouthing off at the referee after he called a loose ball foul on me. I was being too aggressive positioning for the rebound, he said.

“I didn’t even touch him!” I lashed out.

Okay… so I elbowed the kid. But I had no capacity to care even if I was playing on their turf.

“Callate la boca,” my mom shouts. I am chewing on my jersey to keep from erupting and I softly whisper into my jersey, “That’s such a bullshit foul call.”

Well, at least I thought I whispered it, as the referee whistles me for a technical foul.

Coach Romano is besides himself and Coach Browning has to hold him back from yanking me off the court by the strap of my goggles.

He decided he can’t take me out of the game, we had the momentum and we needed a big body in the paint for rebounds.

Coach Romano found his composure and Joey huddled up our players at the center circle.

“Keep your head in the game big guy,” my teammate Joey said, slapping me on the head. “We need you in the game to win this.”

With Joey’s pep talk, I regained my composure and got back to dominating in the paint.

The game was back and forth as we entered into the final minute of the championship. We had clawed back to take the lead by one point with 42 seconds remaining on the game clock.

Just then, out of nowhere, a rainstorm soaked the court. Everyone scattered for shelter ending the game with mere seconds left.

When we all returned the following week to play, we had found our winning confidence. With NBA rookie sensation, Stephon Marbury, watching court side, we walloped their asses for the remaining 42 seconds left in the contest.

Marbury, A Kid From Coney Island housing projects, had just completed his rookie season for the NBA’s Minnesota Timberwolves as a member of the now iconic 1996 NBA rookie draft class that featured future all-time greats Allen Iverson and Kobe Bryant.

It was an odd way to end such a hard-fought game but we were going to meet an NBA player and take home a giant trophy. I couldn’t contain my excitement. I didn’t care much for Marbury at the time, other than that I could brag to my friends that I was somehow closer to Michael Jordan.

I can still hear mom as we victoriously left the basketball court that day.

“YOU. CAN’T. BEAT THE GREEN, YOU CAN’T BEAT THE GREEN!”

My mom and I were in a joyous mood on that drive home in the minivan. Boy, did we need that victory to lift our spirits. Winning gave us something to celebrate. I still wanted my dad to be there, but it was great to look up from the passenger seat and not see her tears.

Mom switched on the ignition of the minivan to pull off. The choir picks up mid track where the song had left off earlier in the day. This time the choir sounds so angelic, so sweet.

“Jehovah Rapha” the choir croons.

“You’re my healer…” mom and I triumphantly join in unison as we try to hit the high notes of the songs crescendo. We both sound terrible.

It was in Coney Island that I began to understand what the lyrics of that gospel song really meant.

Basketball had provided a space to set my pent up emotions free. Jehovah Jireh.

The game had supplied me with the confidence and male validation that I was craving in my father’s absence. Jehovah Shamma.

All undergirded by the support and the healing love that my little heart so needed. Jehovah Rapha.

In addition to my teammates, Mom and I have always been a team. I consoled her through the sting of her tears and she soothed the intensity of my rage. Our wounds shared a common source but the power of our love was more than enough to bring us through any challenge we faced together.

When I reflect on that era of our lives together, one of the tracks on my favorite album by Jay-Z comes to mind. The lyrics on Blueprint (Mama Loves Me) remind me of the things I asked God for in my nightly prayers as a child.

“Mama loved me, Pop left me…” Jay begins. “Mama raised me; Pop I miss you. God, help me forgive him; I got some issues…”

Thanks for always being more than enough for me, Mom. You’ve always been the answer to my prayers.

Power of Love, to be continued…

Similar Read: POWER OF LOVE: PART I

POWER OF LOVE: PART I

I can hear mom’s voice battling with God in prayer. It’s the first thing I can hear even before I can open my eyes to start the day.

My bedroom is underneath my parents’ bedroom in the basement of the house.

Some mornings the murmurings of her voice cajoles me out of my sleep. Some mornings it jolts me out of my sleep. Some mornings her syncopation consoles me back into sleep.

She prays like someone having an argument on the telephone.

You know when you can’t hear the person on the other side of the phone call but you know that the side you can hear is winning because the passion in their tone is increasing?

This was the voice that woke me up. Every. Single. Weekday. At 6 am.

“LORD GOD, I’M COMING TO YOU IN THE NAME OF JESUS…”

I bet you her fists are balled right now, I think.

“YOU SAID IN YOUR WORD, OH GOD…”

Yep, she is definitely wagging her index finger in the air right now.

“HEAR THE CRY OF MY HEART, OH GOD…”

Ah, she’s slapping her chest again.

“BRING BACK MY HUSBAND, LORD! HEAL MY MARRIAGE! RESTORE THE YEARS THE LOCUSTS HAVE EATEN…”

Welp, that shit’s neva’ gonna happen.

“Time to get up for basketball practice,” I think to myself as I get out of bed.

I could hear that she was crying again. But unlike at night when she would wail herself to sleep, I could hear the fight in her voice in the morning. I could hear her grappling for her marriage, for her sanity, and for her survival at dawn.

I mean, how else can you manage raising four children playing sports, a full time job as a NYC public school teacher, studying for your Master’s Degree in English in the evenings, and emotionally reconcile with the implications of a wayward husband in the late 90s without seeking daily divine intervention?

(Silverback’s Note: Welcome back y’all! There’s so much to say about the global public health crisis that has most of us currently confined to our homes. Until we are safe to roam free, I am reminded that Nelson Mandela was imprisoned for 27 years and if Madiba could endure, then so can we. Blessings to you and your loved ones.

My last piece, “Music Is Life” triggered healing conversations and reflections for a lot of folks. I am so grateful for your feedback, thank you. The piece also unlocked my ability to share stories about what fueled my drive and focus on the basketball court.

If my father’s absence was the antagonist in my life story, then my mother’s presence was the protagonist. I am excited to share my love for my mother, the game of basketball, and most importantly, the love for a lifelong journey I have embraced through therapy. Please enjoy reading this very special 3-part series. For the first time ever, we present Power of Love.

P.S. – Click on the section hyperlinks to listen to the tunes.)

MORE THAN ENOUGH.

It was around 1996 when we learned of my father’s infidelity. This news was a devastating blow to our home. I was unable to fully contextualize the damage but I knew that my dad was with another woman. Their explosive arguments were burning hotter by the week.

Raising four young children, effectively as a single parent, was taking its toll on mom and she had ballooned to 330 pounds.

I learned one morning that her nightly tears often continued well into her twenty-five minute drive into work. She was a public school English teacher and on the days that I had off from Catholic school, I would witness how she began most mornings in the car.

The northbound drive from East Flatbush to Bedford Stuyvesant in the late 90s was not pleasant.

I wanted to listen to this new rapper named Jay-Z on the radio but Mom always wanted to listen to the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir. She loved this one particular album on cassette, God Is Working. Oh man, did she love this one song called “More Than Enough.”

She couldn’t sing worth a lick but she would rewind that song over and over. She used to say that one day she was going to audition for the church’s Grammy-award winning choir.

Fat chance.

Sometimes her singing would be so off putting that I’d just tune out her words. Until, about five minutes into the drive, I’d begin to hear sniffles.

The drive would take us past the cross street where my dad’s other woman and their two young children lived. The sight of the block was too much to bear for my mother. The tears would fall.

Then she’d turn up the volume, as the rumble of the piano keys welcomed us to her favorite song, the sound of the keystrokes pierced through the silence in the minivan.

“Jehovah Jireh” the soloist would sing. “My provider…”

On one of our rides, I remember approaching the intersection where Ebbets Field formerly stood. There was a painted mural of my idol, Jackie Robinson, to commemorate his becoming MLB’s first Black baseball player.

“Look!” I pointed. “Did you know that Jackie broke the color barrier in 1947 playing for the Brooklyn Dodgers?” I ask, attempting to distract her from her sadness.

Ignoring my attempts at a diversion, mom would continue to sing along with the choir with more vigor, “Jehovah Shamma,” she continued through her tears. “You supply all my needs…”

By this time on our drive, we were stopped at a red light and her eyes were closed. Suddenly, a knock came to the window. Startled, we realized it was a panhandler from the men’s homeless shelter looking to squeegee our front windshield in exchange for small change.

“You know I really wanna get better at basketball,” I continue blabbering, ignoring the strange man at the window. “I am excited for my teams tournament this weekend. You think Dad will come?”

She kept singing her heart out without responding. She was in her own world.

Those drives were tough for me to experience from the passenger seat but even more painful for her to experience as the driver but we both were looking for inspiration to get us through the day.

As our old minivan puttered and squealed to a halt in front of the burgundy clay colored doors of Primary School 308, Madi would begin to transform out of her sadness.

“Come on Madi, you gotta focus now,” she’d say to herself in the sun visor mirror.

“Lord, you are more than enough…”

She turned off the ignition.

“You are more than enough for me.”

I too was struggling with feeling that I wasn’t enough. Mom had discovered her resolve in the mountains of Puerto Rico. A resolve that I was lacking.

Where did she develop such resolve? I wondered.

Instead of telling you, I’ll step aside and let Mama Soulful share her own journey with you.

Mama, tell us about those dreams you had about “La Isla del Encanto.”

OYE COMO VA.

I open my eyes wondering if I’m in my Tío Felito’s house in Puerto Rico. As I look around the room, I remember, Oh, I’m in my dorm at Stony Brook.

Why do I keep having those dreams?

In my dream, my Tío Felito, the quintessential Catholic, keeps warning me to go to church.

Why? What does he mean?

Somehow I knew in my gut that God was calling me to serve Him, but I kept pushing that thought to the recesses of my mind.

I knew that I could not serve God and date Jordache — my unbelieving boyfriend — at the same time. In my mind it was either God or Jordache. Of course, I chose the love of my life, Jordache. That one decision led me to speed through my blossoming girly college days into unanticipated womanhood.

During the course of one week in May of 1984, my life changed dramatically: I graduated from Stony Brook University on Sunday, May 20th. Three days later, I turned 22, and three days after that, this emotionally immature woman had become a wife.

It would take a few more dreams and many, many more explosive arguments with my husband that would lead me to the altar of the Brooklyn Tabernacle in March of 1986.

I was so disheartened. It was at that altar that two young women approached me, as tears of pain were streaming down my face. They sympathetically asked me if I wanted to accept Jesus as my Lord and Savior and say a prayer of confession with them.

I said, “Yes.”

Of course, I had no idea what I was doing and the tremendous lifelong impact that one decision would have on me and my little two month baby, Neville Andrés (Andy). A decision that I can honestly say transformed me from a weak, emotionally immature woman to a mighty warrior for Jesus Christ. My heart is saturated with profound gratitude as I recognize that I am still evolving, still growing and still seeking God’s truth to define who I am. As I reflect upon my metamorphose into womanhood, I know that this journey of faith began long before my college years. It began when I was just a little girl.

“Ouch,” I whispered in pain as my mom pinched me.

She did this sneakily under her crossed arms as the church choir sang, “Hear, O Lord the sound of my call.”

She was always nudging me to pay attention as the priest gave the liturgy. I can remember from the time I was a little girl how Mami adamantly taught me and my two older sisters to fear and love God. She insisted we pray before a meal; reminded us to always say, “if God wills it” when we made plans; or urged us to kneel by our bedside to recite The Lord’s Prayer. She made sure we received all the sacraments and attended church every Sunday despite the cold temperatures or our grumpy adolescent attitudes that only desired to sleep in on Sunday mornings.

Despite my religious conversion to a nondenominational Christian Church at the age of 23, I am extremely grateful for my Catholic upbringing. This orthodox foundation was the cornerstone upon which my faith has thrived on for decades.

In 1950 my beautiful mother, Isidra Natal, prematurely left her home in the country at the tender age of 18. She arrived after two days of weary travels from Puerto Rico then to Florida and finally to her final destination, New York, a strange city she had never encountered.

While living in a two bedroom apartment with her three cousins near Albee Square Mall in Brooklyn, she is acquainted with a young, handsome brown skinned man with soft straight black hair from the island of Cape Verde, located on the West Coast of Africa.

Shortly after my parents met, they got married and eventually had three daughters: Antonia, Leda, and Madeline. I am a proud, native Brooklynite born in the early 1960s when it was very popular for Cape Verdeans to marry Puerto Ricans for a green card.

During my early years, I can vividly remember the instability of my home. Growing up, my dad would always argue with my mom for many different reasons. It was either the house was not cleaned well enough or we had company visiting without his approval or simply lies that my dad’s family spewed out to enrage my father against my mother. Most of these arguments would always end in some sort of abuse. The arguments were constant and fervent while living in Brooklyn and continued even more when my parents bought a house and moved the family to Hazlet, New Jersey.

As one of fifteen siblings, my mom is the matriarch of our family. Over the course of their marriage she endured emotional and physical abuse as well as infidelity until she could no longer tolerate it. She tried to keep the family intact as best as she could, but the abuse was more than she could handle. In spite of the chaos in our home, Mami shielded us by keeping us girls as close to her as possible.

In 1975, she decided to move to Puerto Rico with my sister, Leda, and me in order to file for divorce. Despite the many years of loneliness and neglect, my mom was and is strong and resilient. She made sure we did well in school, attended every parent teacher conference, put food on the table, exposed us to the world of travel, and even made sure we maintained very close family ties. She taught us that family relationships are fundamental, and the importance of supporting each other and staying connected. My mom is a woman of character, as my grandmother would say. She instilled the will, drive, determination, and the gift of civic pride that women during her era were not sufficiently accredited for. Her fortitude of character can be easily traced back to my grandmother, Petrona Adorno Natal.

“Madelina, olvidate de esa gente que familia tienes demás aquí,” my grandmother would lovingly remind me to forget about my father’s side of the family because my maternal side of the family was more than enough.

She’d tell me this every time I’d pour out my anger, pain, and frustration of how my father’s family treated my mom, my sisters, and me. She assured me that their rejection meant nothing because of the enormous family in Puerto Rico that loved us deeply.

The rejection and my father’s violent temper led me to reject my Cape Verdean roots. I wanted nothing to do with any of them. They shunned us, and I buried the memory of this abusive family into the deepest part of my recollection.

That is why the move to Puerto Rico was critical to my identity. Who was I? Where did I self-identify? It was there in the mountains of Puerto Rico that I found true familial love.

It was there that I found a part of my identity as a New Yorican as I embraced the vibrant education, the Spanish language, the rich culture, and the delicious food.

Every morning abuela brewed a steamy pot of fragrant coffee. She’d always make sure my tacita de café was on the table ready for me to drink before going to school. This was the beginning of my lifetime love of having una tacita de cafè every morning except now they are not tacitas they are large mugs of coffee.

The caffeine fueled me, late into the night, to study books that were written in a language that was very unfamiliar to me until I slowly and arduously adopted it as my second language. The pay off of those long exhausting nights of studying finally came the day I graduated from 9th grade as the valedictorian of the graduating class. A distinction I embraced because many kids in the class did not like that a New Yorican, who had arrived two years prior, snatched up this prestigious title.

Life there was rich, peaceful, and filled with wonderful, new experiences that I didn’t always appreciate at that moment, but learned to treasure them as an adult.

In the summer of 1977 Leda and I arrived in Brooklyn before my mom. We stayed between my father’s house in New Jersey and my paternal grandmother’s house in Brooklyn. In preparation for my mother’s arrival to New York, I took on the responsibility of trying to find a place for us to live because after all my parents were divorced, and I did not want to go back to living in the house in New Jersey where so much suffering had taken place. So at 15, I was able to find an apartment for Mami to look into upon her return.

When she arrived she secured our three-bedroom apartment in Flatbush. I was registered in the 10th grade at Erasmus Hall High School, and Leda was enrolled at Brooklyn College. Antonia had graduated from William Paterson University and was living in New Jersey in her own apartment. Mami then found a secretarial job at the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey. My father continued living in the house my parents had purchased in Jersey and would visit us regularly. Despite the divorce, he always stayed connected to the family.

I was reacclimating myself to my native Brooklyn roots and like most teenagers at the time, I was consumed by school, friends, disco music, and my first part time job.

Working at Tasty Twin, a small sandwich hero shop, taught me a different level of responsibility that I had never experienced. The owners, Juan and Manuel, were two elderly gentlemen from Spain who simply adored and trusted me, but they worked me like a dog for a mere $2.50 an hour. In their absence, I managed this modest sandwich shop where the Off Track Betting gamblers and commercial workers on Flatbush Ave would sit, socialize and build community relationships. As the cashier, I made sure all monies were counted and secured while Willy, the sandwich maker, cleaned up the shop before closing. My meager earnings allowed me to purchase things I knew my mom couldn’t afford to buy.

The late 70’s were the years of Elvis Presely’s passing, Jimmy Carter’s 39th inauguration as president, and watching and mimicking Soul Train dance lines. Disco music was blazing everywhere from the radio to people walking down the block with boom boxes on their shoulders blasting their music. When Saturday Night Fever came out in the movie theater, it was a hit of monumental proportions that also contributed to the disco fever of the day.

Next door to Tasty Twin was a movie theater where Leda worked the concession stand. The manager there favored Leda and I, and she always gave me free passes to see Saturday Night Fever at least half a dozen times. My goodness, I spent so much time trying to learn John Trovolta’s dance moves. Simultaneously, roller disco was also en vogue and everyone was trying flashy moves on their skates.

Every Friday night, Antonia, and I would hang out at the Empire Roller Skating Rink across from Ebbets Field. The DJ would blast the music and the skaters would skilfully roll to some of the sweetest, most soulful music of that era. Skating was so much fun, in spite of my ungraceful moves. Antonia was a talented skater, and I was just trying to copy her graceful moves as any little sister would do.

While at Erasmus, I was the president of Arista, the national honor society. I was also the vice president of student government. These roles allowed me to develop leadership skills that I did not possess.

Academically, the years in Puerto Rico had revealed that I in fact had some gaps in my education in comparison with other students. However, out of a class of 723 seniors, I graduated number 23. This sweet accomplishment was a reflection of my deliberate determination and effort to excel in my education.

Erasmus Hall blessed me with my life-long friends: Judy, Annmarie, Magally, and Janine. They were all high academic achievers that challenged me to be the best version of myself and to always stay on task and overachieve. As the years passed, my relationship with these very successful ladies has grown very deep roots that have gone beyond friendship. We are family!

Sadly, Janine passed away four years ago of pancreatic cancer. I was so broken-hearted to the point of almost missing her funeral because I was not prepared to face her death. I would have missed out on the biggest surprise of my life had my husband and my son, David, not continued to coax me to fly down to Georgia to say my final goodbyes.

Prior to Janine’s passing, she had arranged her entire funeral service. Unbeknownst to me, she had planned for me to offer words of comfort during the service. I was shocked, honored, and extremely grateful that I was present to fulfill her last wish.

Sleep well until we meet again at the pearly gates, my friend.

In 1980, I started a new chapter of my life at Stony Brook University on Long Island. My parents were very hesitant about allowing me to attend because they wanted me to live at home, but they finally relented with a little coercing from my college counselor.

I guess they feared I would go wild and not come home; however, that was the furthest thing from my mind. I went to all my classes, got involved in the Hispanic club, and pretty much stuck to the books all the time. Every weekend I went home to see my family and to work a part-time job at my local Key Food supermarket.

All was pretty much quiet, until April of 1981 when Mr. Cool and Confident danced into my life at Annmarie’s birthday party. After that first dance with Jordache, I was smitten.

Power of Love, to be continued…

Similar Read: POWER OF LOVE: PART II

Similar Read: Music Is Life

MLK 50: BANKRUPT JUSTICE

[This is part two of a three-part series on American gun violence. Read part one here.]

“Man, I’ll tell you this, if your big Black ass ever gets stopped by a cop just lay on the ground and don’t move. I work with them and I know them racists will shoot your Black ass in a heartbeat,” said my childhood friend, a Black NYPD officer, with a chuckle and a swig of a beer one summer night.

Given that they were to write the first governing document for a democracy in the history of the world, the writers of the United States Constitution had a seismic task ahead of them. As this young nation progressed, they decided to update – or amend – the language in the original governing Document.

The Fourteenth Amendment provides the promise of equal protection under the law and the Fifth Amendment provides the promise that restricts the government’s ability to prosecute folks accused of a crime. In short, the Fourteenth Amendment promises fairness and the Fifth Amendment promises order.

You see, these are some of the “promissory notes” that Dr. King referenced in his I Have A Dream speech when he said, “It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked “insufficient funds.” But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt.”

The enforcement of Law in the United States effectively rolls up to the Justice Department which is now overseen by Attorney General, Jefferson Beauregard Sessions III. Why the name Jefferson Beauregard you might ask? Well, because his namesake is derived from Confederate icons, Jefferson Davis (president) and Pierre Gustave Toutant-Beauregard (general). Yes, the same Confederate States that seceded, formed their own government and went to war with the United States to uphold the right to own black human beings as property. I digress; loosely speaking, the Attorney General acts as the top Law Enforcement Officer in the nation and I have a pretty good idea of what his ancestors would think about laws that pertain to my humanity.

So if you dig deeper into my childhood friends cautionary advice, what he was effectively warning me was that because of the color of my skin and the size of my person that law enforcement, backed by the full power of both the Constitutions of the United States and the State of New York, would forego my rights to fairness and order and snatch my life in a heartbeat.

Yet again, my friend’s cautionary advice came to life last week in Sacramento. Stephon Clark was fatally struck by six out of twenty bullets, in his back, while in his grandmother’s backyard. Just as I’ve come to expect, “law enforcement” supporters made repeated the same cold asinine statements:

“If he only would have complied with the officers’ commands.”

“If he only didn’t run.”

“If he only had his hands up.”

“You put on a uniform.”

“It’s a split-second life or death decision on whether or not someone has a gun.”

As we reflect on the fifty years that have passed since Dr. King’s assassination, lets us also remember that not much has changed since April 4, 1968. In the last few weeks, America’s bank of justice returned the promissory notes of Stephon Clark and Alton Sterling marked “insufficient funds.”

From the Attorney General to local Law Enforcement, America continues to remind us that her bank of justice remains bankrupt insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. I pray that my loved ones never receive a promissory note marked “insufficient funds” and that my childhood friend is not a Prophet.

Rest In Power: Stephon Clark, Alton Sterling, and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Part Three: Dancing With the Devil in the Pale Moonlight

This article was originally published on 4 April 2017.

MUSIC IS LIFE

The bell inside the front door of apartment A1 at 2525 Bedford Avenue would ring loudly when the door was slammed shut.

I know this because — in a very Pavlovian way — I can still hear that bell ringing in my darkest moments.

I’ll never forget the days when I was 6 years old. It was 1992 and there I stood on that dark red carpet in front of the front door. My mom, dad, brother, and I lived in a roach-infested, two-bedroom apartment in the East Flatbush section of Brooklyn.

My father had just sprayed cologne on his neck to leave the apartment. The way he carried himself, he had so much swagger and confidence.

“Dad, can I go with you, please?”

Often my mom would chime in to advocate on my behalf, “Jordache just take him with you for a little while, while I take care of Jeremy.”

“No, Madi. I’m just going up the road to come back,” he replied.

“Just let the record play and then switch off the power, when the record is finished,” he continued.

The heavy metal door would then slam shut behind him, causing the bell inside the door to ring loudly for a few seconds. Although he was leaving, the sound of the reggae music that was still pouring out from the industrial-size speakers in our living room was not leaving with him.

I remember going to my room to be alone and deal with my sadness. This pattern went on for many more years and the continued rejection gradually became too much to bear. The sound of him leaving had happened so often that I no longer heard the bell. Instead, a question ringing in my mind.

Why doesn’t he want to hang out with me?

‘ROUND MIDNIGHT

Neville Louison Sr. is a quiet man; his movements however, are loud.

He steps around the apartment so quietly that I am always startled by the sound of his deep voice, but his impact on my life has and will continue to reverberate well into the remaining years of my life.

It has taken me three decades to heal from the emotional abandonment of him leaving me again and again. It has taken me just as much time to fully grasp the impact of the greatest gift that he has ever given me.

My father has this cool confidence. Cool like a pleasant breeze on a summer night. It’s this cool confidence that gave him the courage to leave his small island of Grand Roy, Grenada, one of the least populated islands in the Western hemisphere. In the 1970s, millions of people had immigrated from the Caribbean islands to NYC. My father was one of them, and like many, he made a home for himself in the East Flatbush section of Brooklyn.

It wasn’t long after that that my dad met my mom: a beautiful olive-skinned Puerto Rican woman named, Madeline Silva. It’s A classic Brooklyn love story — like something you might see in a Spike Lee film.

My mother had spent most of her formative years in Brooklyn and then a few more years on the island of Puerto Rico until my grandparents divorced when she was a teen.

By the early 1980s, my mother had made her way back to Brooklyn where she was attending Stony Brook University on Long Island.

His quiet confident cool draws my mothers gaze from across the room. Reggae music sizzles out of the stereo in a way that makes your hips sway, gyrate, and dip.

My mother leaned towards her best friend, Judy.

“Who is that cute guy with the black corduroy pants, moving his hips so nice in the corner by himself?”

“I call him Jordache because I always see him around the neighborhood wearing the Jordache Jeans brand,” Judy laughed. “Don’t worry Mads,” Judy continued. “I’ll introduce you to him if you behave yourself.”

Taking a swig of his beer, he asks her to dance.

Maybe it was the way his dark skin shone, the fluidity of his hips, the attraction of their African blood, or the rhythm of the music, but it was at that moment that their love story began.

After 3 years of dating, my father proposed to my mother in my grandmother’s living room.

He didn’t drop to one knee or make a grandiose proposal or anything like that. He just simply stated, “Madi, we must get married.”

My mother did not hesitate to commit to the guy she had gushed to Judy about all those years prior.

“Ok, Jordache.”

Every time they tell me that story, I can hear Beres Hammond begin to croon, “what one dance can do…” – that is one of their favorite reggae tunes.

WHAT ONE DANCE CAN DO

If you have ever lived with or in the vicinity of my father, you’ve likely been jolted out of your sleep by the buzzing of the amplifier being switched on.

By the mid-90s, our family had expanded to four children: Andy, Jeremy, David, and Sarah. My parents and their four children lived on the first floor above the building’s garbage room. As a result of the trash below us, our apartment was terribly roach-infested, but the cheap rent enabled my parents to save money for a house. We were poor but we were rich in love.

Our block felt like the Carribean United Nations. There were folks from each of the thirteen sovereign island nations and twelve dependent territories. Each island having their own unique sound, flavor, and style.

My mom was the Puerto Rican ambassador. Since she was the only Borinqueña on the block, folks would call my mom, “the Puerto Rican lady with the four kids.” She kept us close to her at all times. We were inextricably bound together.

There was a strong sense of community on our block. Everyone called my father the mayor. Mainly because he was the unofficial disc jockey. DJ South as he is known locally built his own sound system in my bedroom — the one I shared with my two other brothers.

One closet had his DJ booth which included black turntables, grey amplifiers, black headphones, and a red extension cord. Everything connected to the two large speakers in the living room. Somehow he still found a way to neatly organize all of his clothes and belongings.

This was the stereo that woke my Black ass up. Every. Single. Weekend. At 7 am.

“Early to bed and early to rise, does make a Black man healthy, wealthy, and wise,” my father would say. My brothers and I would roll around, grumbling in our bunk bed. I’d be rubbing crust out my eyes, scorn stitched into my brow, while my dad fired up the speakers. It was surreal every time because I usually wouldn’t see him for the entire week. And yet, all of a sudden, there he appeared before us. Crouched down, calmly strumming through his records.

When did he even get home?

“I go play that record,” he’d say when he finally found the record. He was always rummaging for the same record anyway: Bob Marley & The Wailers’ 1979 record, Survival.

As the needle dropped on the record in the closet, the record begins to scratch as the sound blasts from the living room. The raspy soulfulness of Robert Nester Marley’s voice welcomes you to the album.

“Little more drums,” Bob says.

DJ South’s set usually began with the Bunny Wailers “one drop” drumbeat blaring from our living room windows.

Bob’s voice returned to the track to lament, “So much trouble in the world…”

“Remember son, life is about survival,” Dad chimed in as he increased the volume to an even more obscene level.

“Survival,” he said. “Survival.”

Boy, did I want him to shut up. But no matter how much I tried to drown out the sound, he just kept on doing his thing. Eventually, I just lay there silent and angry, staring at the ceiling.

“So much trouble in the world…” Bob sings.

SURVIVAL

As a thirtieth birthday gift to myself in 2015, I decided that it was time to learn more about my Grenadian roots. It was a season of healing for me and the island was calling me, so I booked my flight.

When I landed on Grenadian soil for the first time, it had been four decades since my grandfather’s untimely death and my father’s escape to survive.

Grandpa, as I would have called him, didn’t live long enough for me to meet him. Lewis Pierre was murdered at the age of 44 in St. George Grenada in September 1977. The body was never recovered.

My father was working on a cruise ship on the nearby island of Trinidad & Tobago on that day. He was nineteen.

He was selling oranges for five cents in Grenada and that hustle was no longer sufficiently providing for the family. As the eldest of his mother’s children, he had left his home two years prior in search for work.

My grandmother and grandfather were effectively neighbors in the late 1950s. He was a Fishermen and in his 44 years of life, he fathered at least six children. Four of them with his wife and the other two children with my grandmother. My father and his brother, Joseph Cadore.

My grandmother’s family was growing and she would move to the nearby village of Grand Roy, where she raised her children, a stone’s throw away from the sea. My grandmother and her three children lived in a small two-room abode.

My uncle Joseph, who we call Uncle Wayne, is one of my favorite human beings. Since I was a child, he would always drop by to infuse his fun, rebel energy into our apartment. The moments with him were short but we loved to roughhouse with our strapping uncle. What I love about him most is that he chose to be around.

Uncle Wayne is different from my father. He is broad-shouldered, gregarious, talkative, and bald. Despite their noticeable differences, I’ve always admired their close bond.

Always up for an adventure, Uncle Wayne had accepted my invite to accompany me to Grenada. He was beaming with pride to show me around his hometown.

Uncle Wayne picked me up in a beat-up grey 4×4 vehicle with a barely functioning CD-player. That was our mode of transportation for the week.

With a joint hanging from his lip, Uncle Wayne drove us to every corner of the island. A man of the people, he stops to talk to everyone, either greeting them with a boisterous “Hello/Hey/Something” or by the double toot of his horn. I am convinced he knows most of the 100,000 people that live on the island — if not all of them.

During one tour of the island, we stopped at the home that my grandfather, Lewis Pierre, had lived. The yellow two-story home that he built with his own two hands was still standing on the mountain roadside.

My aunt Jenny, who I had never met previously, was living in the home. As I was inquiring about the family history, Aunt Jenny brought out her father’s documentation in a blue tin cookie canister.

I slowly opened the blue canister of his life and pull out the contents.

I gave the documents a quick glance to begin to put together a timeline of his life.

I read the words, “Lewis Pierre born March 18, 1932, to Camilla and Joseph Pierre,” on his birth certificate.

My great-grandparents have names, I thought to myself.

My senses were alive. I was looking at my grandfather’s face for the first time in my life.

“Wow, I look just like him!”

The questions in my mind begin to swirl like water beneath a geyser. However, I remain focused on listening to Aunt Jenny’s every word.

After sitting with the documents for a time and asking a few more poignant questions, I returned the tin canister to Aunt Jenny. I almost don’t want to let the canister go. It held so much information about my life that I may never learn more about.

We said our goodbyes and I began walking back to the car with my mind continuing to swirl with questions.

As we pulled away from my grandfather’s home, Uncle Wayne turned up the volume on the music in the car. The questions in my mind are now rumbling even more loudly as Love African Style by The Mighty Sparrow plays in the background.

“I love to see when Black people make love,” Sparrow sings.

We slowly make our descent down the curvy mountain road. With the sun beating down on the gravel road beneath our tires.

“Now I’ll take you to where me and your father lived,” Uncle Wayne says.

“Wait, you didn’t live there with your father?” I asked. “I thought you guys were neighbors?”

“No. We’d have to walk for hours to get a piece of small change from him, every now and again.”

The geyser of questions in my mind have now erupted and are shooting into the sky. I can only imagine the jagged rocks pressing into their bare feet, the sun beating down on their little heads, and the sweat soaking into their clothing. I wondered what they were talking about. I wondered how they were feeling on their long journey to their father’s house.

Why didn’t he want to hang out with me?

Suddenly, I was transported back to 1992, grappling with my own brokenness behind slammed doors. Except now it feels as if there are two little boys on that dark red carpet. Me and my dad grappling together. I can hear that bell ringing again. I wanted to reach out to my inner child. He needed an explanation.

“Neville,” I said. “He didn’t know how to be a Dad and hang out with you because he never had a Dad himself to hang out with him.”

I was then reminded of this unfortunate truth: broken men tend to produce broken men in the absence of healing.

I see those two Black boys, my Dad and me, much differently now. I’m deeply overcome with sadness to understand we both have experienced this deep pain at the neglect of our fathers.

Immediately one of my Dad’s favorite records by Jimmy Cliff comes to mind, and the words begin to make more sense to me. It’s like I’m hearing them for the first time.

Many rivers to cross…

I felt more connected to my Dad and found my brokenness in his brokenness.

Many rivers to cross

And it’s only my will that keeps me alive

I’ve been licked, washed up for years

And I merely survive because of my pride

“No wonder he played this record so much,” I thought to myself.

The song defines his journey.

MANY RIVERS TO CROSS

The details of my grandfathers final moments in Grenada are limited to his official documents and hearsay accounts.

The death certificate issued ten months later in July 1978 mysteriously states, “Lewis Pierre came to his death by drowning in the parish of St. George and that no person or persons are liable for prosecution.” The hearsay version is that Lewis was thrown off a cliff by a man who was defending his step-daughter from him. Both the official documents and the hearsay accounts leave me with enough hesitation to no longer pursue any additional details of the life and times of Lewis Pierre.

In 1986, less than a decade after “no person or persons” were held to account for my grandfather’s murder, my father would have his first child.

Like many men of his time, my Dad was not overly engaged in my mom’s pregnancy. But he did request that his first-born son carry on his name, Neville. On a Wednesday morning in late January at 5:29 am, I was born — the first-generation American male of my ancestors lineage.

There were many rivers to cross in those early years for my mom and me. Dad didn’t know how to be a father, a husband, or an American – three roles that he had zero experience with. I guess we were all trying to find our way in those days.

Most nights after mom and I did homework together, I would wake up to her sniffles. She was crying. At some point, mom and I had learned that my father had fathered two children with another woman. He lived with his other family just a few blocks away. This tore my mother apart as she was dealing with her own responsibilities. While my dad was an outstanding financial provider, Mom was raising four children without help from her husband. She was a full-time NYC public school teacher and getting her Masters degree in English at Brooklyn College.

When my father did come around, they would argue constantly. I wished for years that he would leave for good so that I could no longer see my mom suffer through their relationship.

I now feel as if I suffered the consequences of my grandfather’s decisions. Neville was emulating Lewis’ behavior, leaving yet another Black boy yearning for time with a Dad who didn’t have the tools to deliver.

As I went through puberty and I grew into my adult years, my anger for my father also matured. I falsely believed that this anger had fueled my success, but in actuality, it was widening the gaping hole in me that my father’s absence had left behind.

The brokenness that had been birthed on that dark red carpet had hardened. I was no longer a boy. Instead, I was the “strong,” “resilient” man that had found his way in America without his father. I made a vow to myself when I was thirteen that this generational cycle of fatherlessness would end with me.

In my father’s absence, I developed my own criteria on what I believe it means to be a man. I would lose myself in books, magazines, mentors, coaches, and closely observed the good men my mom had placed in my life to help guide me. None of those books or people could replace my Dad’s quiet calm cool but they helped provide me with a solid foundation to build on.

At the age of 28, the same age that my father had me, we began to reconcile our relationship. On a quiet Sunday at my parents’ home, we both found ourselves at the dining table eating corn porridge. Mom had just left for church and there was no music playing yet. We both found ourselves quietly eating at the same time that morning. The table was silent except for the sound of our spoons clanging against the bowls. After years of silence on the topic, I muster up the courage.

“How are your sons?” I asked.

Not understating my question, he asked if I was asking about my siblings.

“No, your other two sons,” I sheepishly retorted back.

After taking a moment to gather himself, he stood up to take a walk to his liquor cabinet, and came back to crack open a bottle.

We sat at that dining room table for hours. Just two broken men named Neville exposing their hearts, wounds, and lack of understanding to the other. It was Sunday filled with words that had been previously unspoken and that I’ll cherish forever.

Later on that evening, my Dad asked me to help him fix a doorknob that was in slight disrepair. As he took a knee to unscrew the doorknob, he looked up at me with the glossy eyes of an aging man who had a few drinks.

“Son,” he said. “After today’s conversation… your daddy can now die a happy man.”

These were the words I thought I’d never hear as a little boy. Through his slurred speech, I could hear the sound of a Dad’s tender love for his son.

It’s a moment not many men get the opportunity to have with their fathers.

When I reflect on that moment, one of my Dad’s favorite records Tender Love by Beres Hammond comes to mind.

“First let me welcome you to my little world that was so torn apart. In case you don’t know, I’ve gotta tell you this. That all along I thought this world had no heart…” Beres sings softly.

The two little Nevilles together at last. This is our song now, in a musical language we both can understand.

You’ve been guiding me through the music all along, Dad.

Similar Read: La Vie En Rose

Dancing With the Devil… A Brooklyn Perspective on Gun Violence

[This is the third installment of a three-part series on American gun violence. Read part one here and part two here.]

“You ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?”

This is the iconic question that The Joker, played by the legendary Jack Nicholson, posed to his victims in Tim Burton’s 1989 film, Batman. You see, what The Joker is asking Bruce is if he’s ever wrestled with fate. Moreover, did that tangle with fate deliver grief and sorrow to his life experience.

I sure have danced with that devil in the pale moonlight.

Late in the summer of 2011, I ventured out with my roommate to Queens (NY) on a school night in an attempt to lift his spirits as he was dealing with a breakup. I offered to be the designated driver for the night so he could take his mind off the emotions of the breakup and have a good time.

Coming out of the club that morning, as fate would have it, my roommate began to say that there were Angels all around us and that he could see them. I affirmed his vision to appease him and wondered to myself how much he had to drink. Seconds later each of us had the barrels of loaded guns pressed against our torsos. Our initial response was to push the guns away, to which our assailants threatened that they would shoot us. They stole our jewelry and then ran off into the night.

We quickly moved to the car and drove off towards flashing police lights in the distance. Thinking that we were trying to chase them, one of the robbers opened fire on our car eight times at close range. Similar to the photo above, I’ll never forget ducking down and looking back to see flames coming out of the muzzle of the gun. As I turned my gaze forward, the back windshield of the car in front of us shattered. Luckily the car was empty and we sped off towards the police lights. Thankfully, he was a terrible shooter and not one bullet struck our vehicle. The Angels that my roommate saw that evening and the availing prayers of my Mother had truly prevented us from being yet another fatality in America’s gun violence epidemic.

Hearing the gunfire, the NYPD acted quickly and ultimately apprehended the young men with our jewelry in their possession. We were a little shaken but the Officers asked that we return to the precinct to identify the shooters later that day.

The Officers had investigated the crime scene and determined that whoever was in the passenger seat would have been struck between the head and chest area – I was in the passenger seat.

With that in mind, the Officers then crammed six young black men into a small room and asked that I select the men who robbed us. Looking through a one-way mirror where they could not see me, I looked at these young men in the eyes and was overcome with strong feelings of empathy and sadness.

What could have transpired in the lives of these young men to bring them to this room? Was it low wages and poverty that brought them to this room? Was it the poor public education system that brought them to this room? Was it the American government backed distribution of crack cocaine to black neighborhoods that brought them to this room? Was it mass incarceration and the fatherless homes that those policies left in its wake that brought them to this room?

Having an understanding of the pitfalls in the area in which I grew up in Brooklyn, I had a surreal feeling knowing that there was a pane of glass separating me from an alternate life that I could have lived. In fact, I would later find out that one of the young men who robbed us lived in the neighborhood I grew up in. Here I was, a young black man working for American Express, living on my own, but wondering what I could do to prevent other young men from being in this room. In a way, I felt and feel a sense of survivors guilt. I walked away from that room muttering to myself, “there but for the grace of God go I.”

I know those young men went to jail and I think about them from time to time. I wish blessings on their lives and I hope that they can overcome the mistakes of their youth and the unrelenting punishment of the American prison system.

It has taken me a few months to complete this series on American gun violence and share my own personal experience with guns. Sadly, as time passed, I knew that before I completed this series that there would be another mass shooting. As I write this piece, I received yet another Notification of Death that ten people have been gunned down in a Texas High School.

Why do we need gun reform in America? Quite simply, too many Americans are having to dance with the devil in the pale moonlight… it needs to stop.

This article was originally published on 22 May 2017.

WHEN THEY SEE US TERRORIZED

Silverback’s Note: There are no “When They See Us” spoilers ahead.

My mom and I were shopping at the Kings Plaza Shopping Center one afternoon after school. Kings Plaza is the largest indoor shopping center in the borough of Brooklyn and was often buzzing with traffic.

We were on the second level near the movie theatre, when seemingly out of nowhere, men in powder blue uniforms came flying from yards away. Now first they were walking, then started sprinting furiously. When they got closer, I could see the print on their badges: N.Y.P.D.

My mother firmly yanked me out the way, as I felt the blue wind of those men breezing by.

“Andy, look at me!” she said frantically. “Whenever you see police running like that after someone, you make sure you walk the other direction, ok? I don’t want them to hurt you.”

I’ll never forget that moment near the old movie theatre in the Kings Plaza. It was the first of many “talks” my mom would have with me about the police. But more importantly, it was also the first time I would associate the NYPD uniform with one emotion: fear.

Decades later my fair-skinned Hispanic mother would admit to me that growing up with her sisters and cousins in Puerto Rico that she had no idea how to raise dark-skinned boys.

My dad, an immigrant from the small island of Grenada, didn’t have a much better idea on how to raise first-generation American Black men either.

My parents were still very much rooted in their West Indian cultural ways and lived somewhat outside of the tense race relations that dictate American society. And yet, they

instilled a healthy fear of the NYPD into me from a young age.

Why?

I was born in the County of Kings in January of 1986. New York City in the late 1980s was no walk in the park. Nevertheless, the city had its bright spots: The New York Football Giants and the New York Mets both won titles that year in their respective sports. The American economy, lead by a booming Wall Street, was thriving. However, a dark cloud hung over the city with the NYPD reporting almost 2,000 murder cases and over 5,400 rape cases in 86’.

These murder and rape cases would continue to soar well into the early to mid-1990s due to a myriad of failures at the State and Federal levels.

Mom and I would often sit down in the living room after I finished my homework to watch the evening news together. I couldn’t wait for the sports newscast so I could watch the highlights and see the scores.

Sometimes, the local evening news was filled with dreadful news story after the other. My mom would often change the channel in disgust of the seemingly endless horrific news cycle. I’d have to beg her to change the channel back to the newscast so I could see how much the Knicks lost by.

The seeds of these dreadful news stories were subconsciously planted into my brain and would later blossom into full-blown terror. At that age, I didn’t know what crime was but I could see that the men in the powder blue uniforms were taking people away in handcuffs or covering dead bodies with white sheets.

Later that year, teenage boys Antron McCray, Kevin Richardson, Yusef Salaam, Raymond Santana, and Korey Wise were on trial for the alleged attempted murder and rape of a female jogger in Central Park.

This notorious trial is the focus of award-winning director Ava DuVernay’s critically acclaimed mini-series, When They See Us.

The four-part mini-series — which is currently streaming on Netflix — does an outstanding job of humanizing the individual backstories of the five young men whose lives were forever changed by the events that took place in Central Park that evening.

In my twenties, I had become enthralled by the details of the case. The more I read, the more I was pulled into the case. I could see myself in those five young Black and Hispanic boys from underserved communities.

I read Sarah Burns book The Central Park Five: A Chronicle of a City Wilding, the accompanying 2-hour documentary by the same name, and anything else I could digest about the case.

I could understand the mistakes that their parents made. I could empathize with the gripping terror that those boys felt while being coerced into a confession. I could understand that women all around the city wanted justice for the brutal rape of the jogger that night.

I began watching When They See Us, less interested in the details of the story and more interested in how DuVernay would bring the story to life.

I pressed play on Netflix and laid down on the couch, honestly more focused on my Instagram feed than I was the television screen. I know how this tragic tale ends, after all.

Almost five hours later, as the final credits on the fourth episode scrolled across my television screen around 2 a.m., I found myself feeling an overwhelming sense of terror. I was no longer laying down and I was seated straight up just sitting there in silence. Sheer. Abject. Terror.

If I’m being transparent, I wanted to curl my 250-pound frame into a ball and cry.

The books and documentaries that I had previously consumed didn’t include the raw emotion that the mini-series evoked through the actors portrayal of the boys that became known as the Central Park 5. Specifically, the terror-inducing scenes of Korey Wise’s (masterfully portrayed by actor Jharrel Jerome) experience in the New York State penitentiary system. The fear that I’ve walked around with since I was seven years old had come to life in the form of a motion picture. The terror was in my living room.

Two white police officers jumped out. They reached for guns. Pointed them right in our direction. I’ll never forget the sight of the barrel. Or the sounds. The piercing anger behind the commands these adult men were shouting.

I was frozen.

Andy, look at me!

All I could hear was my mother.

You walk the other direction, ok?

But I couldn’t just walk away — not with the morbid abyss of a gun staring me in the face like an open-ended question: Is this when I die like the folks on the news?

The officers put their guns back into their holsters. They lined us up to be frisked on the sidewalk in broad daylight for passersby to see. Following their commands, we spread our legs and put our hands behind our head.

I don’t know if you’ve been frisked by the police before but a grown man checking my balls while my hands were behind my head was not something that I was used to as a teenager.

After frisking us, the officers offered no explanation of why they stopped us and got back in their car and drove off.

At this time, I was now the eldest brother to three younger siblings. I had pride in the fact that they looked up to me and I was a good student-athlete that spent most of my free time in church. My parents raised me to be a good kid.

I immediately went home to tell my mom about my experience coming home from practice. I felt emasculated and embarrassed to have had this experience in such a public way but this was life as a Black boy passing through a predominantly white neighborhood in Brooklyn. But I just accepted that as reality. It’s as if I had been programmed to passively allow my dignity and Constitutional rights to be violated.

We had become accustomed to seeing white officers engage with adult Black men in this manner in our own communities so we didn’t collectively think much of the interaction with the NYPD that afternoon.

You know, to this day, I’ve never called on the NYPD? Never in my 33 years of life have I picked up the phone to call the police.

Not even once.

Not because of the lack of need for law enforcement. No, I’ve been in situations where I probably could’ve used some assistance. But there I have been too many times where I’ve seen police officers rush to the scene of a crime and leave an innocent Black body lying dead on the floor.

So I’ll pass on the phone call, thanks.

Maybe I’ve never called because I remember listening to my family talk about the time when the police beat my dad so badly that he had to be hospitalized in the 80s. Apparently, he got too “mouthy” with the officers.

Maybe I’ve never called because of the time when a team of officers unlawfully entered my parents’ home. Apparently, the music was too loud.

Maybe I’ve never called because I read the news articles about Amadou Diallo (99’), Sean Bell (06’), Ramarley Graham (12’), Kimani Gray (13’), or Eric Garner (14’). Apparently, they were all too dark-skinned, too male.

Maybe I’ve never called the police because my mother taught me how to stay safe.

I don’t want them to hurt you….

This is the terror I walk around with every day. The moment I walk out of my apartment, the checklist rolling through my head is the same: Phone, wallet, keys…terror.

It’s something I can’t seem to shake. I don’t feel safe in my own body.

In 2014, the City of New York settled with the Central Park 5 for $41 million dollars, which is about $1 million dollars for every year they collectively sat behind bars for a crime they clearly did not commit.

However, for every Antron, Kevin, Yusef, Raymond, and Korey, there are thousands of kids from underserved communities that were or are currently sitting in NYC jail cells for crimes they did not commit.

I could have been one of those kids in the park. I was lucky. I mean, what if the Central Park 5 was actually the Marine Park 5?

One sunny afternoon a few years ago, I was standing in the street dressed in a tailored gray suit trying to hail a yellow cab. I had just led a business meeting with my boss, when Korey Wise walked by us.

I immediately recognized him in the crowd and stopped talking to my boss as I locked eyes with Korey.

We exchanged “the nod” of Black recognition and as I turned my gaze back to my boss, he asked, “What was that about? You know that guy?”

“Yeah, there but for the grace of God, go I,” I replied.

There but for the grace of God, go I…

The LCR

All posts by : Soulful Silverback

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Dancing With the Devil… A Brooklyn Perspective on Gun Violence

WHEN THEY SEE US TERRORIZED