The Last One Standing

We may not directly control the politics in government; white corporate America, educational institutions, Hollywood, the judicial system, and financial institutions, but one thing we do have absolute control over is our own lives and choices that we make. I know choices can be influenced by our circumstances: the reality of police brutality, drugs, unemployment, poverty, broken families, poor education, and gang violence.

Personal responsibility is a hard pill to swallow because it is easy to wallow in the misery of being a victim. “I have a felony conviction and can’t find a job so I’m going back to the streets” is an attitude too many young brothers commit to. Too often the fear of incarceration is no longer a deterrent for not going to prison. Lockdown has become a badge of honor rite of passage that some brothers proudly proclaim membership.

 It’s difficult to have hope when your future is unclear, unpredictable and bleak because you have an arrest record that the job market greets with rejection. The need to make money for survival can lead an individual to take desperate actions to survive. This is how so many brothers fall back into the criminal justice traps. Prisoners are like bank deposits there must be a continual supply of inmates to fill newly built jail cells. Based on society refusal to rehab ex-felons and parole officers willing to violate felons on paper for minor infractions, it seems Black men are more valuable in prison than out.

Under the best circumstances, it takes assistance, incentives, courage, perseverance, and family support to break the cycle of recidivism. On the outside looking in it’s easy to tell a brother not to get caught in the trap but on the inside looking out all you see are roadblocks. Government and local municipalities are not rushing in with assistance so it’s up to the individual.

I grew up in a poor urban inner-city community so every day I was confronted by peer pressure and temptation. I had to first know where to draw the line between right and wrong. There were good kids and bad both were my friends. I didn’t discriminate against my playmates I was what you would call an equal opportunist. Seem like all the cool kids were the bad kids and the good kids were the nerds. I was an athlete so I found acceptance in both arenas but I choose to hang with the cool kids.

Group membership and allegiance was based on your ability to fit in. Smoking weed, cigarettes, drinking alcohol, sex, fighting, stealing I was all up in the mix. As I grew older entering high school membership requirements went from being deviant to transforming into a full-blown criminal. Gang banging, guns, selling drugs, stealing cars, breaking became the choice of weapon if you wanted membership.

I had a choice to make, be cool or be my own man, fortunately, I stepped out but some of my friends stayed in. One by one they were being picked off going to jail or murdered in the streets. I still was cool with the few surviving friends that remained but they wouldn’t walk away as I did. They felt trapped in a life that spelled death and destruction. It was happening to everyone around them so they knew it was only a matter of time before their number came up.

My best friend Edie who I grew up with since elementary school was like my brother, he was one of those who wouldn’t walk away. He had been shot on three separate incidences, stabbed inches from the heart, overdosed on THC four times, and was in and out of detention by age 15. This dude had nine lives so I started calling him a cat man. I was too young to offer any real wisdom or advice that would convince him to walk away from a life of crime but my loyalty was unwavering. Against my mother approval, we remained close friends until his death. At age 17 he was murdered and dumped in the same streets he pledged his loyalty to.

Out of the eight childhood buddies I grew up with five were murdered, two are MIA and I was spared. Innocent children that’s what we were our only crime was being born Black. The ghetto became our prison each of us held hostage by poverty, drugs, and violence. Every day we walked side by side with death not knowing how it would fatally alter our future. Surviving against all odds became a matter of choice that each of us was at war with.

Often I reminisce about my childhood friends the fun we use to have playing tackle football, rock fights, wrestling matches, boxing contest, dodge ball, foot races and hide and go seek. Little did we know these games prepared us to do battle in an asphalt jungle called the ghetto.