Soon, I changed my name legally from Fred Jones to Alim Bilal.
Alim means the learned one. I wanted to be known as a deep thinker, a learned person.
Yet my experience with Islam, I reflect now, was little more than a fad. At the same time I was converting to the faith during high school, I was also doing something that was completely out of keeping with its philosophy.
I started experimenting with drugs. My little sister, Resa, who is three years younger, knew it and would cover for me. When I’d walk out of our bathroom, she would go in after me and pick up the coke spoons and other drug residue I’d left behind. She was fifteen or sixteen at the time.
Still, I kept a high grade-point average at Essex Catholic High School. My mother and my parish priest bragged about my accomplishments when I earned an academic scholarship to Assumption College in Worcester, Massachusetts.
I knew as I packed my bags for college in 1971 that I was taking their hopes and expectations with me. I had a lot to accomplish.
But being plunked onto an all-white Catholic campus in the middle of New England was hard for me. Although I performed well academically, earning a 3.5 grade-point average in the first semester, I flopped around socially like the poor kid from Newark that I was. I missed the comfort of my family, and I didn’t have Mom’s rigid rules. I didn’t fit in at Assumption.
Maybe that’s why the need to fit in became so all-important when I went home for winter break during freshman year and found my friends shooting heroin. When they asked me if I wanted to take part, I should have had the guts to leave. But I tried it. In that instant, I burned up every opportunity my mother had sacrificed to create.
Mom had done everything she could to keep the streets out of our life while we were kids. But she couldn’t protect us forever. One by one, all of my siblings turned to drugs and risky behaviors after they reached adulthood. It was as if our strict upbringing created within us a monstrous urge to try everything we had missed out on. My mom suffered with each of us, through our addictions, health problems, broken families, and incarcerations. She never stopped trying to bring us back from the edge.
When my little sister graduated from high school, Resa became one of my favorite drug buddies. She always said there was no better person to get high with than me, because she didn’t have to fear that I was going to turn on her and hurt her. We trusted each other. We drove to Harlem regularly. One of our suppliers there was called “The Claw” because he had an oversized, grotesque mitt of a hand. Having used up all the veins in his arms and legs during years of drug use, he had started shooting drugs directly into his hand. But his hand had grown hard and engorged because he let it get infected. He eventually had to have it amputated.
On the way back from Harlem, we’d stop at a gas station, eager to get some privacy so we could cook up the raw heroin we had bought. We couldn’t go into the bathroom together since it would look suspicious, so I’d go in first and shoot up. Then my sister would take her turn.
Just as Resa thought I was the safest drug partner for her, she was a good sidekick for me, too, because my sister had an uncanny knack for finding just the right spot for the syringe. Her practiced fingers could always locate a vein, so that I could feel that euphoric rush I sought. And when you’ve been a longtime user, believe me, good veins are hard to find.
My appetite for heroin flared out of control as soon as I tried it. It wasn’t deliberate. I truly wanted that rosy future that had been promised to me. I had expected to finish college and start my glorious career. I thought I was so smart that no substance could overpower me. And that’s where I went wrong.
Very quickly, I found out that addiction has nothing to do with intelligence, nothing to do with one’s morals or spirit. It’s pure evil and it has the power to overwhelm everything a person has inside, I don’t care who you are. I found out, as I started craving the drug at all hours, that I wasn’t special. I let my addiction tear through my life and get between me and my goals. I couldn’t even keep the promise I had made to myself about being a good father. I dropped out of college, committed a robbery, and was on my way to prison when my children were born.
Yet I remember feeling a profound sense of love for my newborn son and daughter. It was the only positive thing cutting through the mess I had made of my life. I felt that God had honored me with one of my life’s wishes.
Their mothers brought the babies to visit me occasionally while I was incarcerated. I was always overjoyed to see them. I remember walking into the visiting room to see Rameck sitting there, dressed neatly, cuddling with his mom. Just seeing the two of them ignited conflicting feelings in me.
I was happy and proud to see my son, but I wasn’t proud of the complicated ball of emotions that entwined yet separated me and his mother, Arlene. She had gotten pregnant in high school and had hoped that the three of us could live happily ever after. Her hopes had been dashed almost immediately when it became obvious that I not only had another girlfriend but was on my way to prison.
I knew how badly I had damaged Arlene emotionally. All those feelings came pouring out when I saw my little son cradled in her arms. I know I seemed detached to her; that was just my way of handling the situation. For the duration of our visits, I would hold Rameck’s hand and help him toddle around the waiting room, or I would put him on my lap and feed him. That was the extent of my fathering, due to the circumstances. As he grew older, it became clear that Rameck hungered for more.
He loved being around me and craved my attention. During the periods that I spent “on the street,” when I wasn’t in prison, he would nearly glue himself to me when we were together.
The boy had a lot of questions. A lot of times I scolded Rameck for talking too much and begged him to just be quiet for a minute so I could hear myself think. I regret that so much now. That was the kind of thing I had resented most about my own father. How could I have gone back on my own vow to be the kind of father who listens when his child has something to say?
Once, when he was about eleven or twelve, we were in my car going to cash my paycheck from a job I had found working on computers. Rameck pelted me with questions: “Why does Mommy say you’re not doing what you’re supposed to do? Why don’t you ever give me any money? Why don’t you ever come and pick me up?”
Choosing my words carefully, I gently let him know that my everyday life was a struggle. I told him I was doing my best. At the time, my “best” meant that I occasionally picked him up and spent money on him, and that child support was being deducted regularly from my paycheck.
What he really wanted to know—but didn’t ask—was why I didn’t give him my full attention. What I left unspoken was the fact that drugs had stolen my focus and were still unraveling my life. Although my children’s safety and well-being were important to me, I’m ashamed to say that drugs were even more important.
Several times, the police came knocking at my door to arrest me because Arlene had reported me for nonpayment of child support. I had only myself to blame when that happened. I never got mad at her, and I certainly tried to let Rameck know that he shouldn’t feel guilty about it. It was my own fault because I wasn’t living up to my responsibility.
I hated the fact that my kids had to take a backseat to my addiction, starting from the minute I woke up every morning. I got out of bed planning what I would do to score some drugs. I had wanted to give my children so much, but I didn’t have anything to give.
Because I wanted my kids to have nice things, I hustled even harder at Christmas and birthdays to ensure they had lavish gifts. Once, I surprised Rameck with a bright red electric keyboard that he was crazy about.
I remember quite clearly the day I got it for him. I stole it from a Sears store. There had been dozens of them, stacked in a huge pyramid right by the store entrance. I took one for Rameck and disappeared nonchalantly through the door and into the parking lot.
I loved that feeling of walking in the door at Christmastime and having my so
n leap for joy because Daddy had brought something special just for him.
By the time Rameck reached high school, I had become a daddy a third time. I was in a relationship with a woman named Beverly, whom I had met not long after I got released from prison in 1979. Once I left the halfway house, I moved in with her. I was working nights and Beverly was working days as a cashier when our daughter, Daaimah, was born. It was my first chance to be a full-time dad.
In the daytime, I would babysit Daaimah. But I also had a habit to support, and since she was there, Daaimah had to go along for the ride.
I would wake up in the morning, then wake up the baby. I’d feed her, dress her, and braid her hair neatly. Then we’d get in the car and find a place to go “shopping” because I needed money for drugs. The two of us would go into a Sears store or a supermarket, and I would put her in a shopping cart. Cute Daaimah served as my diversion. I’d push her down the meat aisle in the grocery cart and pretend to fuss over her while stuffing steaks into my jacket.
I must have had my routine down pat because I never got caught. I felt invisible, untouchable even, when I was rolling the cart through those stores, taking what I wanted. It took years for me to wake up to the fact that our father-daughter outings were warping the precious little girl I had turned into my accomplice. It got to the point where she would say, “Dad, Dad,” tug me on the shoulder in the store, and point to something she wanted. Later, when we got to the car, she would be delighted to see I had gotten it for her.
Our partnership ended abruptly one day when Daaimah was shopping with her mother. After they checked out and were loading the car, Daaimah merrily plucked a bunch of stolen dolls out of the hood of her jacket where she had stashed them. Her mother gave her an earful that day. She told her that Daddy shouldn’t be doing those things, that he’s going to go to jail if he doesn’t stop.
I didn’t hear about this conversation until later, when I was out doing my thing, shopping for free with my sweet daughter. Right in the middle of the store, Daaimah cried out, “Daddy, take those steaks out of your shirt! I don’t want you to go to jail!”
Even as I shushed her, I felt ashamed.
It would be one of many times my children tried to steer me straight, to save their own father. Rameck didn’t beat around the bush once he was old enough to see what kind of life I was living. I can’t count the number of times he encouraged me to give up the drugs. If anyone had been listening in on our conversations back then, they might have thought Rameck sounded more like the parent than I did. “Dad, you can beat this,” he would tell me. “You’re a strong, smart man and I know you can do it.”
Rameck was my constant cheerleader, but there came a point during his teen years when his behavior began to mirror mine in some alarming ways. I could see some parts of my restless, radical personality starting to pop out in him as he began hanging with some thug friends and acting with violence and anger. It all culminated with Rameck’s getting arrested on an attempted murder charge for his role in an attack on a crackhead.
I ached for Rameck not to disappear down the wrong path like I did. “You don’t want to be like me,” I told him.
Rameck and I had a memorable heart-to-heart talk after his arrest. I tried not to preach at him. But I did want him to realize that he had the opportunity to switch direction before his life became the horror movie that mine already was. Rameck knew I had wasted years of my life in prison, critical years that kept me from being in his life. I had even missed my own sister Jackie’s funeral because I was locked up.
It meant a lot for me to offer myself and my own experiences to wake him up and make him realize there were painful consequences for his spur-of-the-moment actions.
Rameck, my smart young son, grasped what I was telling him. He made the choice to stick with George and Sam and go to college. As I watched him grow and achieve, I felt helplessly grateful.
Serving as an example to him felt purifying to me. It gave me a sense of purpose, it comforted me. It gave me something I could feel good about, whenever I started hating myself for falling so short of my goals.
Offering advice, I knew, was the one thing I could do. Even when I was hustling in the streets, I stayed in touch and always had fatherly advice to offer if they needed it.
Since we lived in separate homes, I always encouraged Rameck to reach out for me. I wanted him to know who his father was, inside. “My actions don’t define who I am,” I would tell Rameck, hoping he could understand.
My kids knew how to find me if they needed me. I made sure they knew my phone number at all times. As they got older, Rameck and Quamara called me often to share their problems and worries. It was clear—they forgave me for my flaws. I’m still amazed by the depths of their love and acceptance.
But I’ll never forget one day with Daaimah, when she was in fourth or fifth grade and she asked me to drop her off in front of her school instead of walking her in. I probably was high and didn’t realize how scruffy I looked. “Dad, don’t walk me to the door. You embarrass me,” she said. Her words stung me out of my stupor. I realized that even though she loved me mightily, she was ashamed to be seen with me.
I couldn’t deny it any longer. Even though my children loved and accepted me the way I was, I wasn’t the man that God had destined me to be.
I had lost a lot of good jobs by then because of my addiction. I once crashed a work truck and got fired because I was high. Every time I went to jail, or to rehab, I promised myself I was going to get out and do the right thing. “I’m not going back into the life,” I vowed countless times. But whenever I returned to the streets of Newark, I found out that the city hadn’t changed, and neither had I.
For eight years, I managed to hold a job with the Newark water department, although I have no idea how. Every time the bosses threatened to fire me, they didn’t follow through. I felt really bad, because I had gotten the job through family contacts and I was abusing that familiarity. But I never stopped getting high. The fact that my supervisors never fired me ended up enabling me and keeping me from changing.
The day that the water department finally got fed up and fired me, that was my rock-bottom moment. I lost my apartment shortly after that, since I couldn’t afford to pay the rent.
I had been back and forth to so many rehab programs that my medical insurance company said it would only pay for a two-week program. I knew that wasn’t enough.
I prayed. “God, why have you taken everything away from me?” I questioned. “You took my job, my house, and I can’t get the help I need to kick this habit.”
A flood of fear came pouring out of me. I was petrified of failing again. My faith in myself was long gone by that point.
Then I put my trust in God. I signed up for the two-week program.
As I boarded the train to leave for rehab, I made a solemn promise to myself. I vowed to make my children proud of me.
When the two weeks were up, God came through. I found an out-of-state Christian rehab clinic that let me continue my detoxification for free.
While I was there, I thought about how I owed it to my three children to make a change.
In those quiet hours I spent alone, I could hear Rameck’s voice encouraging me. “Do it for your kids if not for yourself. Your kids need you,” he used to tell me. One day I found a piece of paper and composed a heartfelt poem for Rameck, who was by then in medical school making his dream of becoming a doctor a reality.
It read, in part:
See son, I was there for you from the first day you were born,
But life has snags, so because of fate, your parents’ love would be torn.
And even though in your little life, you would pray we could be one,
I wasn’t there to help you grow, for that I’m sorry, son.
Sometimes I wasn’t there to push you along the way. Only you could run.
Please find it in your heart to forgive me, truly I’m sorry, son.
So when you jump your next hurdle, and t
hat dream of a doctor you become,
Just remember I always knew you would do it, I always knew you were the one.
So don’t forget the mistakes I made, use them when problems come,
And don’t forget the words I said. Don’t forget, “I’m sorry, son.”
I signed it, and mailed it to him. Years later, I was surprised and touched to find out that Rameck had framed my poem and put it in a place of honor over his mantel.
When I completed rehab, I came home newly determined to live up to my children’s expectations. It was 1997. I was forty-three years old and finally ready to put my mistakes behind me.
I lived with my mom until I got on my feet.
It wasn’t long before I stumbled into a good job. I was at church when a friend asked me if I wanted to work at a local rehab center where she had connections. “Alim, don’t you want to be a counselor? You’d be good at it,” she said. “I can get you on if you can pass the drug test.” I had been clean for months, so I passed the urine test with flying colors. I went through the interview process and got the job.
Immediately I loved the work. It was the perfect fit: working as a rehab counselor, trying to inspire addicts to make a change like I did. I myself had gotten caught up in the social factors that brought clients through the door. I fully understood how your environment can twist you and rob you of good judgment. I was intimately aware of how hard it is to change when you’re surrounded by folks doing the wrong thing.
Landing the job motivated me to go back to school, where I quickly earned my associate’s degree and became a certified drug and alcohol counselor. Finally, I had found my calling.
When you work with drug addicts, it’s impossible to ignore the lasting impact of fatherlessness. I know of young men who were actually taught the drug trade by their fathers, and I think that’s unforgivable. I have a young relative whose father told him the way to get the things he wants is to sell drugs. Of course, every child looks up to his father and wants to do what his dad tells him. Now that young man’s in the federal penitentiary serving a twenty-year sentence. I think it’s a tragedy when a father fails to teach a child right from wrong. That kind of story hurts my heart, but it’s a reality.
The Bond: Three Young Men Learn to Forgive and Reconnect With Their Fathers Page 23