Back in 1987 – ‘the Jamaicans’ hit.  Not the whole of Jamaica – just a three-man posse of ruffians we town folk called ‘the Jamaicans’.   It was during the crack epidemic of the 80’s, and I was thirteen. 

Much of my days back then were spent goofing off with friends.  On the weekends, we took our small allowances and hoofed it to the inner city to buy marijuana.  We were silly kids pretending to be grown-ups, until times changed, and we could pretend no longer.

A time came when two of my friends began disappearing after school, and by the week’s end they had extra money.  When I asked their whereabouts, they replied, “We sell rocks for ‘the Jamaicans’.”  I didn’t know rocks were in such high demand, but the incentive was worth checking out, so we headed to New St. early the next day, to a neighborhood that was a breeding ground for crime.

When we arrived there was a network of roguish teenagers bustling to and fro.  I watched as my friends approached a man lounging in a luxury car.  He was short and dark complected, with even darker clothes, his voice rhythmic and foreign.  He handed them a package and drove away as the three of us gathered curbside.  Within moments, a scraggly man hastened our way with a crumpled bill clutched in his fist.  He exchanged it with my friends for the contents inside a small plastic bag – and that’s when it hit me.  My friends didn’t sell actual rocks.  They sold a drug called – rocks. 

That’s when it all made sense.   No longer were we simply standing in the hood, it was more like the Promise Land – a bountiful mirage of tremendous opportunity and it read, ‘see what you’ve been missing?’   While I was home frying bologna and watching cartoons, my friends had been out getting rich.  Their success was equivalent to turkey with gravy and man…  I wanted to eat.  The guy in the luxury car was called Roofus.  We met the next day when I received my first package of cocaine.

Life as a drug dealer began with invigoration, but soon became hard work. I hopped in and out of cars all day haggling with strangers.  My cup of judgment was neither half empty, nor half full, but a lot of both – completely empty of experience, at the same time, full of potential.  Hustling drugs day and night, I was fueled on by the idea of success.  My motto was, “show me the money, and I’ll show you commitment.”  I wanted da ‘bling to cast its illusion of wealth over poverty.  I wanted instant fame and glory, to shine amongst my peers.  But stardom would come at a cost, and I gradually became someone different.  I had walked across the bridge from innocence to inquisition, with something terrible waiting at the bottom.

The first thing to go was my mother’s curfew.  Next, I was a high school dropout.  Courting girls began to occupy any time and focus not spent dealing drugs.  Then came mischief, like vandalism and acts of violence.  I was losing my grip on my values and drifting on a sea of poor choices. 

One day, I lost some drugs and had no way to pay Roofus. Frightened by the rumors of how ‘the jamaicans’ dealt with incompetence, I went into hiding.  Imagine my surprise when Roofus called my house and threatened to harm my family.  Suddenly, I was standing in a chilling darkness too great to conquer.   Roofus demanded that I come to New St. to discuss payment.  Along the way, I had a premonition of something horrible and decided to wait until I could come up with the money.  A week later, Roofus skipped town after fatally shooting his girlfriend. I wondered if the bullet that killed her had my name on it.

The experience was a critical turning point in my life. While I did complete the journey across the bridge, my identity toppled over the edge.  I gave my all to the dope game in hopes of something better. The price was my undying loyalty to streets – that gave nothing back.

©Chanton

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Chanton is a thought provoking and inspirational writer as well as a frequent contributor. It’s a privilege to share his work.

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It was December 5^th, 1998, when I stepped outside of Jimmy’s nightclub at 2 a.m.  The strip was packed with inebriated club hoppers loitering on the sidewalks.  Cars blared their stereo systems, and the scent of ganja lingered in the night air.  With 15 grams of cocaine stashed in my jacket, I decided to head home.  I had no intention of being around when the cops showed. I popped on my headset and bopped to the lyrical testimonies of Tupac Shakur, “Come listen to my truest thoughts, my truest feelings, all my peers doin’ years behind drug dealing…”

Scanning the crowd, I readied for my departure when I spotted a familiar face. “Oh shit! That’s Crip.”

His lean, wiry frame was indistinguishable under baggy clothing with dangling dreadlocks that curtained his face, but I was convinced – the nerve of the guy to show his face.  He and I should not be in the same club scene, not after last week. Confrontation was inevitable. My only advantage was that I saw him first.

I slunk behind a group of people, then hurried across the street. Advancing alongside the building where Crip stood, I drew the 9mm handgun from my waist and chambered a live round. Intended as a last resort, I shoved the heavy steel into my back pocket, and rounded the corner.  There was Crip…

Our eyes locked in a silent exchange that revealed an awful truth – we were both bound by circumstances, and there was no turning back. I lowered my gaze and eased onward, careful not to alarm him. At precisely the moment we stood at arm’s length, I spun, fists clenched, and demanded, “What’s up mutha fucka? Which one of ya’ll niggas shot at me?”

His eyes widened with the shock of being accosted as he raised his shirt and pulled a .357 revolver.  I figured if I went for my own gun now, we would likely kill each other. Instead, I flashed my palms, stepped back, and hoped to dissuade him with an explanation. “What the fuck man? I was just…”

That’s as far as I got before my words were cut short by the sudden jerk of his hand. I turned and dashed for cover, yet there wasn’t any place to hide. Crip thrust the chrome tool at my chest and fired.  POW!

The deafening sound sent shock waves through my body as I stood frozen with fear. My impulse trumped all ability to reason, and I pulled out the 9mm. The Crip I saw now was different, as though he’d undergone a fiendish transformation. His lips were curled in a fierce snarl, and there was confidence in his eyes that pierced. Again his hand snaked forward in a lethal jab. I pointed my gun, desperate to stop him.

Joint blasts amplified the terror between us and sent bystanders scurrying to safety. My legs tore away with a mind of their own as another pop sounded behind me. I squeezed the trigger, but nothing happened. Two strides later, I crashed to the ground, the brutal impact smashing my watchcase and wrenching the 9mm free. My legs felt locked in a whirlwind, yet when I checked them, they were still.

Damn. I was shot.

I struggled to rise, but slipped back down to the crunch of scattered debris. The 9mm laid inches from my face with a spent shell casing lodged in the chamber. I reached for it but faltered, thwarted by sudden paralysis. Then the unexplainable happened.  I began to relive my entire life through a surge of memories and emotions. The sensation catapulted me through a space in time, nearly causing me to forget about Crip.

A swift search revealed that I’d fallen around the corner.  I didn’t know if Crip was even injured.  I expected him to step around the corner and kill me at any moment. Empowered by the urgency to prevent my death, I grasped the gun. With a violent shake, the casing sprang loose and tinged against the asphalt. I rolled and popped off a series of shots in the sky and waited for Crip to show.

As dozens of footsteps converged towards me, I was imbued with panic. I trained the gun on the first face that hovered, only to see it was a friend who’d rushed to help. At his request, I ceded the gun and watched as he bolted around the corner. More faces appeared, suspended above me, annoying me with their questions and concerns. My backside raged with pain as if being cauterized with a searing stake, while pressure penned my chest, causing my breathing to strain.  With each new face that happened into view, a fraction of the air was claimed, as my vision succumbed to a fierce swirl that distorted the surroundings.  Voices were reduced to murmurs over the thumping of my chest.

“I… can’t… breathe…” I whispered, my voice scraggly and feeble.  “Move them back, man, I can’t breathe.”

Pandemonium swelled as onlookers gathered and cast down stares of sympathy.  Then a voice emerged, booming in the distance, “Ya’ll git the fuck back!”

Although I was unable to see his face, his commanding ways consoled me.  “Stop panicking, Duck…,” I heard him say, “…if not, you’re gonna die.”

I closed my eyes, stilled myself, and relinquished my woeful struggles. I drew on a spiritual medium where inner calmness was fostered. Compelled by the notion to atone, I immersed myself in prayer, neither for forgiveness nor some half-hearted attempt to explain away my misdeeds, but a prayer of strength for my mother. I wanted her to know how much I loved her and thought she deserved better. Afterward, I wasn’t afraid anymore. I was ready for the final transition.

As I journeyed toward that terrible darkness to end my worldly suffering, I held on to the vision of my mother and let go of everything else…

©Chanton

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Chanton is a thoughtful and gifted writer as well as a frequent contributor.

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Imagine an agitated rattlesnake, poised and ready to strike, and you’d know what it’s like to know my Grandma Fannie. Though small in size, she had a mountain of attitude, with a low tolerance for nonsense. Grandma chastised with a straight forwardness that came off as mean and fussy, yet behind her snappiness and rigid demeanor was a loving woman who put her family first.

Grandma’s favorite pastime was fishing. It was an enjoyment she shared with us all. Where family squabbles would create wedges, fishing would bring us together. The best fisher in the family was Grandma. While we struggled to manage one casting rod, Grandma used several. Even on days when the fish weren’t biting, they’d always snack on her bait, and she had a knack for choosing hotspots that resulted in filling her buckets with fish.

One evening we all got together and headed out to Lover’s Lane, a secluded area on the countryside popular for its fishing. Cloudless skies enriched our spirits while songbirds chirped at our arrival. Uncle Kenny went off to search for snakes, believing they hung out in good fishing spots. My brother, Ray, was tasked to keep near my mom to unhook and rebait her rod. Grandma tended to my cousin, Teeka, and I as we settled around the creek with our poles.

Fishing was a ritual that never changed for Grandma. I watched as she placed one bucket and scooped water in another, baited her hooks, and went to work. In no time, she was pitching fish in her bucket, while Teeka and I barely had nibbles.  I scratched my head in wonderment. What was she putting on her bait? Soon, I grew bored with my pole and toyed with the fish gathered in the shallow water.

“Git still, boy!” Grandma snapped, “That’s why ya can’t git a bite.” Her sharp tone was enough to make me mind her, but it did nothing to resolve my boredom. Moments later, I peeped over my shoulder, before taking another step toward mischief. “Boy, git back here! Where you think you’re going?”

“Nowhere, Grandma. I’m right here.”

Amused by the activity along the bank, I barely turned around when I heard my mother’s voice warn, “Mama, don’t get so close to that water.”

Grandma was too stubborn to take advice, especially when it came to fishing. With her attention on me and her fishing equipment, Grandma failed to watch her step.

“Ma-a-a-ma!!,” my mother yelled as I jerked around to look. Grandma’s feet were off the ground, her body horizontal, as her legs pedaled in the open air, arms flailing wildly in a backstroke.

I was grinning before Grandma even touched down, thinking, ‘That’s what her mean self gets.’

Splash! Grandma landed in a spray of muddy water as I fell to the ground in laughter.

My mother yelled for help, “K-e-n-n-y! Hurry up! Mama done fell in the water!” Grandma stood up in shallow waters, her lost wig a drenched casualty.

“You better stop laughing at my mama,” my mother threatened, while I rolled around with my stomach in knots. Uncle Kenny came and helped Grandma to the bank before wading out in the water to retrieve the wig. Aside from embarrassment, Grandma turned out to be okay. Later, we all shared a laugh.

My fondest memory of my grandma Fannie was that day at Lover’s Lane. She taught me the value of a family laughing together, though it came at her expense. In August, 2010, my grandma passed away at the age of 82. Though I’ve cried many nights as I’ve struggled to find closure, I think of her and that day now, and I am still able to laugh.

©Chanton

Fridays on death row are good for one thing – visits from family and friends. Today when I arrived at visitation, I found my mother waiting beyond the fortified glass.  She smiled earnestly, unfazed by the officer who secured me in an isolated booth. After greeting each other, we talked momentarily before I noticed that she was squirming in her seat.  Her effort to contain herself was evident, though I still hadn’t guessed why.

Then, out from beneath the steel counter crawled an adorable, yet furtive, tot.  She wore a teddy bear t-shirt, fluffed trousers, and her plaits were fastened with assorted hair bows. She whirled around to study me with cinnamon eyes that held me in their gaze. A subtle smile crept along her face before I watched her struggle to climb onto the seat, defiant of her pintsized stature. There was a fearlessness, a result of her naïveté, which left me feeling intimidated.  I searched my thoughts for an explanation, but they only gave way to guilt. Her confusion was marked by an arched brow as the discomforting silence increased. She then rocked on her haunches, squared her shoulders and declared, “Hi. I’m Caleiyah, and you’re my granddaddy.”

My tears betrayed me as I feigned a cough and risked wiping my eyes. “That’s right, baby…,” I affirmed with a joyous smile, then added, “… I’m your granddaddy.”  Gosh – there was so much I wanted to say, yet I didn’t know where to begin. I wanted Caleiyah to know how much I needed to hold her and the agony I felt was because I couldn’t. I wanted to say how sorry I was for not being there and that I promised to make it up, though I knew I may never get that chance. I wanted to say, “Look, Caleiyah – I’ve made mistakes, but people can change.” So many things I wanted to say, yet they all felt like excuses. With a heavy sigh, the words rolled off my tongue, “So, how’re you doing, baby?” It was all the encouragement the two year old needed to take charge of the situation.

Caleiyah chatted up the silence, providing the lowdown on everyone she knew. Her steadiness for storytelling left little room for opinions; still I admired her outspoken personality. There she was making things easier for me as I tussled with past decisions that kept me away. I’d often pose a question at random, then listen as she rambled on. We played games, sang, and did other activities that dismissed the divider between us. They were the first moments I’d spent with my granddaughter, while my death sentence meant it could be the last.

A knock from outside the door announced the time when visitors prepared to leave. Caleiyah seemed distracted by the sudden departure of others as she glanced back and forth. With tremendous effort, I buried my sadness, though my voice yielded to the pain. Caleiyah stood up on the stool, pressed her forehead to the glass, and said, “It’s ok, granddaddy. I’ll be back.”

What a remarkable child to have taken my woefulness and molded it into comfort. Her interaction excused my failures with no apologies required. They gathered their jackets and headed for the exit while Caleiyah blew kisses goodbye. Soon, the elevator arrived and took them away, and finally, I cried alone.

©Chanton

Last night I dreamed I was dying.  Not from illness or old age – I was going to be executed by lethal injection.  It all happened so fast.  One moment I was living my miserable, yet consistent seventeen years of incarceration.  The next thing I knew, my number was up.

I kept telling myself it wouldn’t happen to me – that the mighty fist of God would swoop down and smote my enemies.  Then I remembered that my enemies had gods also – from my predicament it seemed evident whose god was winning.

I was kept isolated in a dusky room.  There were barred windows, a television set, and a steel cot to lay in my misery.  I paced in circles to unwind the hands of time.  I painted myself invisible with repentance.  I held intimate conversations with my family, though the walls said nothing in return.  I snapped in and out of trances, thinking, “Why haven’t we been called to class yet?”

Then my picture blasted onto the TV screen with the bold caption beneath:  KILLER TO BE EXECUTED TONIGHT, 2  A.M.   I studied the image and hardly recognized myself – my face looked worn with burden.  I slid into my flip-flops and searched for my headset, anxious to hear the report of a granted stay.  But it was too late.  Even a stay of execution would not quiet the mess that rattled in my head.

I made a decision – I was going to kill myself.  The circumstances I faced were so horrible and unreal that suicide seemed like the only remedy.  I combed the room for a weapon.  I felt desperate to die.  I noticed the bed sheets and was reminded of my friend E-Boogie, who’d hung himself.  I whispered an incantation, “I can do this,” over and over as I fumbled to tie the knots.

I could do it, couldn’t I?  It seemed paradoxical to be non-suicidal while contemplating killing yourself. Yet I couldn’t shake the notion that I deserved to decide my own fate.  Why should I give the state the satisfaction of terminating my life?  Why would I give death penalty supporters a cause to rally in victory?  These people were not loved ones of mine.  They hadn’t made sacrifices for me.  They’d never shed tears at night when I was late coming home or hugged me so tight that it felt electric.

The state hated me.  Its mass supporters of capital punishment hated me. They believed that life was wasted on me with absolutely no chance for redemption.  Well, I would show them.  No longer would they draw strength from my fears.  No longer would I be marked by their judgment.  They would not get to congregate over coffee and scones while my body convulsed from their poisons.  My life was not theirs to take – that duty was my own.

I knew that suicide was widely believed to be an unforgivable sin. Who was I kidding?  I’d been labeled a murderer by all those that mattered. There’d be no more tedious claims of innocence for doubters to discredit.  There’d be no salvation for people like me as long as there are people like them.  And there’d be no hope of a better tomorrow when my tomorrow was upon me today.

I spotted a beam that was high up on the ceiling and hoped it would suffice.  As I tied the sheets, I fashioned a noose to fit comfortably around my neck. Then I used a chair to hoist myself into my own death chamber.  I was furious, terrified, and yet somehow content – there was no other way.  I stepped off the ledge…

I was jarred awake in my cell on death row as my head swam with delirium.  I glanced around the room and choked back sadness as every item was a reminder of the possibilities to come.  I laid back, closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.  I was convinced that it was all a dream.  But after having lived through the reality of executions past, the dream left me with a single question, “Was it?”

©Chanton

You have no idea what it’s like to be me – to have a father who delivers empty promises, to have dreams that are so far out of reach, attainability mocks you.

You have no idea what welfare tastes like or how the lump in the throat of a proud woman feels as her child gleefully laces up his used shoes.

You don’t know what it’s like – what early morning yard sales and a three mile trek to a fucked up job can do to your psyche or what it’s like to watch your hero bested by a villainous street drug, that special something in their eyes, forever gone.

You can’t know what that’s like because you’re not me, and you have no idea what it’s like to accept that everything you’ve done good was never really good enough; no idea what it’s like to have avoided near tragedy, only to have it claim your spirit, or what it’s like to, twice, be a victim of injustice because classism was instituted just for you.

You, seriously, have no idea what it feels like to believe in a country that doesn’t believe in you, one that has deemed you hopeless and washed its hands of your filthy soul – what it’s like to watch your brother’s lifeless body hanging from a bed sheet as an alternative to the daily cruelty he has suffered – no idea what it’s like to see your loved ones perish beyond a glass partition, to have that emptiness in your chest, and stillness on your tongue – no idea, the embarrassment of having to face your children, knowing that your shortcomings have victimized them, also.

You have no idea what it’s like to be drowned in struggle, encumbered by misery, yet still keep fighting because it’s all you have left.

What a life… you have no idea.

©Chanton

She sits weeping in the front pew wearing a pretty dress.
The ivory casket conceals what remains.
Don’t cry for me, Mama, you did your best.
In the eyes of the gathering is a terrible truth.
The ivory casket conceals what remains.
I am the good that I have done, and the bad.
In the eyes of the gathering is a terrible truth.
Joyous hymns ward off the minions awaiting my soul.
I am the good that I have done, and the bad.
What’s next for a guy like me?
Joyous hymns ward off the minions awaiting my soul.
Tear drops descended for a fallen son.
What’s next for a guy like me?
A long black chariot and a caravan of mourners.
Tear drops descended for a fallen son.
Six feet is plenty deep to bury my regrets.
A long black chariot and a caravan of mourners.
Words spat from Scripture can be swift and deceiving.
Six feet is plenty deep to bury my regrets.
I was meant to be so much more.
Words spat from Scripture can be swift and deceiving.
The portal opens and I am summoned forth.
I was meant to be so much more.
Farewell to all who knew me.
The portal opens and I am summoned forth.
She sits weeping in the front pew wearing a pretty dress.
Farewell to all who knew me.
Don’t cry for me, Mama, you did your best.

© Chanton