“Man, fuck Wilbert… he can’t tell me what to do. He ain’t my mutha-fuckin’ daddy.”
That was a recurring phrase I heard about the director at the local community center, kids fuming over rules and regulations and a man dead-set on enforcing them.
I first heard of Wilbert over monkey bar banter during recess at elementary school, dissenting conversations about fun and rules that turned into a tug-of-war of words. I heard enough to know I wanted to know more about the man who could inspire such joy while rousing such fury. The next day, I walked home from school, giddy with anticipation as we made our way to the Center.
The Reid Street Community Center was everything I had hoped for. Everything I dreamed. Their basketball courts were indoors and had polished wood. In the projects where I lived, there was only dirt. There were billiards in the game room, air hockey and puzzles. A dance studio with full-length mirrors. Vending machines and a playground. A kitchen. A pool. Arts and crafts. Oh, yeah… and Wilbert.
He came in well short of his reputation which was prominent enough to be a titan, though he towered over the heads of onrushing kids as they poured through the doors of the Center. His skin tone was dark, rich and as appealing as cocoa on a winter morning. He was clean-shaven with a trimmed moustache that made him approachable while his steady glare gave me pause. His fitted tee showed off bulging biceps, his warm-ups and sneakers making him look the part of a bona fide athlete in search of the competition. I held my breath along with my opinion as I breezed by him, seemingly unnoticed. It would be my first day in a place that would become a second home.
Wilbert turned out to be a cool guy – not some half angel/demon to which I presumed. He was laid back, even when he was engaging kids and their activities. His voice was mellow and well composed. Sure, there were rules plastered on almost every wall throughout the Center, but it’s not like he used them to browbeat us into submission. Wilbert was as stern as he needed to be to teach us kids discipline and self-respect; a purpose well-served since many of us had no one else.
The Reid Street Community Center sat in one of the most impoverished neighborhoods in town, where lack of resources often included a lapse in effective parenting. Kids from broken homes with single, working-class, mothers and absentee fathers were those who most frequented the Center. Many of them were unruly by cause-and-effect and didn’t give a damn about following the rules. But where some home-life offered negligence and abuse, the Center was a sanctuary.
Wilbert wasn’t just the activity coordinator, he was also a mentor to troubled kids. His goal was to tap into the potential of every kid there and draw out our self-worth. Sometimes it meant giving someone the boot for flagrant or repeated offenses, though the ban seldom lasted more than a day since Wilbert was exceptionally forgiving.
There were other staff members that helped out around the Center, counseling and facilitating events and proving their devotion to the cause. As such, Wilbert could often be seen in his office toiling over paperwork as he figured out how to keep the place running, yet he left his door open, always willing to stop in the middle of budget cuts to make himself available to talk.
He was the Center’s little league football coach, the basketball referee and also the swimming instructor. He hosted Friday night dances in an effort to raise money for the equipment. He showed up on rainy days, worked long after hours and drove the kids home when they were running late for curfew. And yeah… he caught some flak at times for being strict when enforcing the rules, but it was only because he held us to high standards. Still, no matter how many times the kids cussed him out and spewed their harsh opinions about Wilbert, he was always there for them the next day.
Wilbert went on to effect many lives with his work at the Community Center, a feat that was sure to offer its share of challenges. The building was marred by paint chips and broken windows, the equipment was rickety and threadbare. Bullies and other misfits came around at times and turned the grounds into a battle field. And with the Center serving as a hub for every urban kid in the surrounding neighborhoods, too often it was understaffed. Yet Wilbert was the driving spirit that kept that place alive, his devotion the keys to the door. It was his very stance on the policies and his unwillingness to compromise that made many of us kids feel safe. Sometimes I would wonder how much he would take before he up and left us, but as it turned out, Wilbert was already home. And he was never out to try to be anyone’s ‘daddy’… No, Wilbert was determined to do better.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. His unique writing style is in a league of its own. He is gifted.
He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case.
He wrote this essay in response to our recent contest, which he couldn’t enter due to his position on the Board. He’s a man who goes the extra mile even when he doesn’t have to.
Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at (Please Note, this is a change of address, as NC has revised the way those in prison receive mail):
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131
