Criminal Minded

by Tracy Brown

  Zion told me that Olivia was tired and she had gone straight home when they got back to New York. I didn’t hesitate to put my concerns out there. “So what’s up with you and Olivia spending all these days in Baltimore?” I asked. “If I didn’t know any better, I would think you two was fuckin’ or somethin’.”

  Zion’s facial expression showed that he was stunned. He looked at me for a few silent moments and then said, “Nah, Lamin. You got a hell of an imagination. Me and Olivia was selling bricks not knockin’ boots.” Zion’s laugh was uneasy, but I told myself that he might be right. Maybe I was just imagining things. Maybe I was paranoid.

  “Well, just so that you know,” I said. “If you were fuckin’ my sister, I would have to fuck you up. She’s only nineteen, and she don’t need a nigga like you breakin’ her heart.”

  Zion nodded. “You don’t have to worry about that, Lamin.”

  Zion sparked a fat blunt filled with purple haze. We got our smoke on and discussed how him and Olivia were flippin’ them ounces like hotcakes. Things were going well. Zion now had two cars, and I was squeezin’ stacks of dough into my safe on a daily basis. But I was still frustrated, both by my lack of a way to get my dream off the ground and by my inability to walk without that fuckin’ cane! I still hadn’t shared my plan with Zion, partly because I really didn’t have a plan at that point. All I had was a dream.

  “Some days, this house feels like a fuckin’ prison, Zion. For real. These walls feel like they’re closing in on me sometimes.”

  Zion shook his head as he inhaled the weed. “Nah, La. Ain’t nothing as bad as prison. Nothin’ compares to that shit. Word.” He passed me back the blunt. “Ask your cousin. I’m sure he would pay to trade places with you right now.”

  I took a toke and listened to Zion’s saga.

  “Lamin, them niggas try to strip you of all your fuckin’ dignity in there, man. Seem like they enjoy strippin’ you naked and tellin’ you to part your ass cheeks. Wakin’ you up in the middle of the night, tossin’ your cell. That shit is the worst.”

  I took another toke. “Niggas act like that shit is appealing, though. So many of ’em go back to jail over and over. Makes you wonder why they keep fuckin’ up like that.”

  “’Cause once you do a bid of more than a year, they got you in here.” Zion pointed to his head. “They got your mind and when you get out, subconsciously you’re still in jail. You get used to being on a schedule for the rec room, the phone, for meals. You get used to a do-or-die mentality, and then you come back to society, and they tell you to blend in. Forget all the madness you witnessed behind bars. Forget all the fights and the rules and the mayhem. Just blend in. That shit is impossible.”

  As Zion puffed the blunt, I thought about what he was saying, my mind cloudy from the haze. I found myself deep in thought wondering what atrocities Curtis was seeing in prison. Zion made it sound like a horror movie, and I guess at that point I had never allowed myself to really think about what Curtis was up against each day. I wondered if he would go the same route as countless others and become a career inmate—a repeat felon doing bid after bid, spending the majority of their adult lives behind bars. I also realized for the first time that the group homes and institutions Zion had been raised in and caged in had contributed to his reckless attitude.

  I got lost in my thoughts for a moment until Zion passed me back the blunt. Despite the fact that I was already high, I smoked some more—hoping to block out my cousin’s misfortune. But Zion was far from done.

  “I saw a lot of shit when I was locked up, Lea.” Zion paused. Nodded his head. “A lot of shit. There ain’t no such thing as friends in jail. No such thing as peace. No freedom, no dignity. So even though you can’t walk without that cane. Even though you feel frustrated … this shit ain’t nothin’ like prison.”

  I was eager to change the subject. “I’m thinking about getting out the game,” I said. “Getting shot up, losin’ a kidney, seeing all the shit I’ve seen … I’m feeling like it’s time to do something better with my life.”

  Zion stared at me for a long time. His eyes were heavy and his lids were low, courtesy of the weed. But we sat staring each other in the eye for a long while.

  “Get out the game and do what, La? Work nine to five for a couple hundred a week? While we’re sittin’ here now—smoking weed and drinkin’ forties—we’re making thousands in them streets, nigga. Get out the game for what?”

  I laid my cards out. “I wanna start my own business. I got a lot of paper from them streets, and, instead of blowin’ it or waitin’ for the feds to seize my shit, I wanna put that money to good use and start a film company. I been researching the shit and I can pretty much cover all the expenses. Equipment—I’ll buy some. Film crew—I’ll pay somebody. I already submitted paperwork to trademark the name of the company, I got a logo and all that shit. Now all I need is clientele.” I looked Zion in the eyes once more. “But I’m getting out this game. And so should you.”

  Zion continued to look at me for a while. Then he looked away. When he turned back in my direction, he had a grin on his face. “Lamin, all I know is this game. Ain’t nothin’ else I wanna do. I ain’t never had no other dreams, no goals. Just to succeed in this game. That’s all.”

  I nodded. I understood him. I felt his pain, and I could see why he saw no other route. No other alternatives. But my mind was made up. “I feel you,” I said. “But this hustling shit was never my final destination. It was always a means to an end for me. A temporary solution to my fucked-up problems. But this shit ain’t long term for me. I ain’t tryin’ to retire from these streets when I’m old and gray. That shit don’t happen like that. Zion, if you keep hustling, all you’re gonna wind up doing is more time in that same prison system we were just talkin’ about.”

  Zion shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong, Lamin. I ain’t never going back to jail.”

  When I looked in his eyes I could tell he meant that shit. Zion wasn’t bullshittin’. I knew he meant every word he had just said.

  “Then let’s do what we gotta do to go legit.” I was trying to persuade Zion to see things my way.

  He shook his head. “Nah, that’s not for me,” he said. “I’m gutta and I’ll always be gutta. But you got dreams and you should chase ‘em. I got your back on that. In fact, let me put up some money, and you can consider me a silent partner or whatever. I don’t want to do no business work or nothin’ like that. Just let me share in your profits. I know that whatever you do, you do it big. So if this is going to be as big as I think it will be, then I want in.”

  Zion extended his hand and I gave him a pound. It was official. I was beginning my exodus from the game. But first, I spent a few hours chillin’ with my best friend.

  Prisons and Projects

  They’re caging us in prisons and projects

  Confining us on Indian reservations

  Delaying our progress

  Entrapping us in concentration camps

  Keeping us uneducated, poor, and jobless

  Silencing us by confining us

  To prisons and projects

  They’re planning our demise through platinum and diamonds

  Filling our imagery with visions mindless

  Enticing us to spend on the clothes in which we dress

  Yet the time we spend with our children is becoming less and less

  They’re manipulating us like pawns in chess

  Once a powerful nation we’ve somehow digressed

  Into inmates and residents

  In prisons and projects

  They’re killing us with lethal injections

  Poisoning our minds with ill-given directions

  Coaching our daughters to accept disrespect

  Training us to depend on food stamps and WIC checks

  They’re distributing propaganda, distorting the truth

  Blatantly stunting the growth of our youth

  Misinforming us with lies blinding us with ignoranc
e

  Deafening us with the noise of their own belligerence

  They are teaching our children to follow the same path

  Teaching them violence and hatred instead of science and math

  Not equipping them to do battle with the authorities

  Teaching them that all they can be are minorities

  They are infiltrating our homes taking over neighborhoods

  They’re hunting us down like deer in the woods

  Depriving our people of substantial opportunities

  They’re pumping AIDS and plagues into our communities

  Protecting themselves with diplomatic immunity

  One may ask what exactly should we do with these

  Institutions of unspoken indignities

  That are often referred to as prisons and projects

  Whose idea was it to create

  These identical complexes surrounded by gates?

  Affordable housing is the wolf in disguise

  Which they use to mask their plans for our demise

  Ever notice that we are raising generations

  In these institutions that hold back the Black Nation

  Have you figured out yet that it’s all part of the plan

  That was masterminded and carried out by The Man

  To ensure that we would never escape our shackles

  Every step forward is conquered and tackled

  They’re limiting our choices, diminishing our prospects

  By keeping us caged in prisons and projects

  TWELVE

  the exodus

  1994

  Olivia

  Zion started slipping away from me, and I was an emotional mess. Things changed between us. Zion seemed to never have time for me. Our stays in different cities were rarely overnight ones anymore. It wasn’t long before I realized that Zion would never be mine. Then to make matters worse, Lamin decided to get out of the game. That meant that I no longer had to hustle with Zion on Lamin’s behalf. I hoped in my heart that Zion would invite me along on his trips out of state even after Lamin quit the game, but he never did. Zion’s trips became weekly rather than monthly, and I was left behind. I hardly ever saw him, and I was sick. But as much as I loved him, I wouldn’t beg him to return that love. I was too proud to lower myself to that level.

  My family drama raged on. Mommy was becoming more and more depressed. She seemed like a part of her had died—like the light inside of her had gone out. I was worried about her and frustrated by the fact that she wouldn’t tell me what was wrong with her. Wally was still a grumpy bastard, sitting in front of the TV all day and not speaking to anyone. The only time he opened his mouth was to eat or bark orders at my mother on the few occasions when she emerged from her room.

  I thought about Lamin. He had never looked back after he left Mommy’s house. Lamin had been in the streets, but now he was pursuing his dream of running a production company. Even Lucky—she had left her parents’ house and started a life of her own. She was going to college and living with her man. She was happy. Everyone else was happy. I was the only one still depending on my mother to take care of me. I was depressed about all of it. So I coped with my heartache by staying in bed all day and only leaving my room to eat my mother’s delicious dinners and her Sunday morning pancakes. I was drowning in my misery, and I felt abandoned by everyone but her. I still never talked to Wally. We existed in my mother’s house as if each of us were invisible. I hated the control he had over her. But I was scared; scared to venture out on my own into the big, bad world.

  I woke up one day and found my mother in the kitchen making Wally some breakfast. She had her back to me but when she turned around to face me, I could see her swollen right eye. That nigga had hit her again, and she was still making him breakfast. I shook my head, disgusted, and left without uttering a word. Before that moment, I subconsciously worried that I’d be lost on my own. I convinced myself that I could never stand on my own two feet. I actually believed that I could not withstand the perils in my life without my mama’s pancakes on Sunday morning.

  The day I saw my mother cooking with a black swollen eye was the day I realized I could make my own damn pancakes. It was time for me to get a life of my own.

  I called up one of my old flames. A guy named Michael from uptown who worked in construction. He was just what the doctor ordered. Michael was fine—tall, dark, and handsome. And let’s not forget paid. Michael had spoiled me when I was in high school. He was five years older than me so when I was seventeen he spent what I thought was “big” money on my clothes and hairdos. But now that I was grown and anxious to get out on my own, I needed more than cute sneakers and a couple of outfits. I needed rent and bill money. My plan was to intoxicate him like I had before; get him wrapped around my finger and eating out of the palm of my hand. Whenever I went out with him I wore my best clothes. I always got my hair done right before I’d meet him and my nails and makeup were always flawless. Michael liked me because I could be the cool chick from around the way around his boys—smoking weed with them and drinking Hennessy. And I could also be the sexy seductress in private, and he loved my sex. I began to realize the power of my sexual prowess, and I used it to my advantage.

  At first, I spent so much time at his house that I might as well have lived there. Michael didn’t mind having me around. I cooked for him and spoiled him. I served him breakfast in bed and treated his boys nicely when they came around. Soon, Michael was paying my first month’s rent and security on a place not too far from Lamin. My building was on Clinton Avenue. It was a three-story walkup with a white stone exterior trimmed in green paint along the windows and the doorways. I loved it from the moment the Realtor showed me the place. The apartment had one and a half baths, hardwood floors, a kitchen equipped with all new appliances, a large master bedroom, and a huge walk-in closet. I was sold from the moment I saw it. The day I moved in, my mother gave me a piece of advice that I felt she should have heeded herself.

  “Olivia, make sure you don’t let a nigga have too much control over you,” she said. “The more money they spend, the more control they think they have over you. You don’t want a nigga to think that he can tell you what to do because of the things he’s done for you.”

  I stared at her, dumbfounded. “Sounds like you know what you’re talking about,” I said sarcastically.

  She looked at me with her eyes narrowed. “I know I haven’t always done the right thing, Olivia. But I always loved you and your brother.” She looked away and I thought I detected a distinct sadness in her voice. “As you get older, you get wiser. Sometimes you learn your lessons too late. But I know what I’m talking about, so listen to what I’m telling you, girl.”

  I wanted to ask her more. Wanted to probe further into my mother’s recent unhappiness that was becoming more and more evident. But she seemed to be off-limits when it came to discussing her emotions. I wondered why she always seemed so sad; why she put up with Wally’s nasty attitude and his abuse. But I didn’t question her. Instead, I touched her hand gently and left her home. It was time for me to show her how to be happy. And to show everyone else, especially Zion, that I could make it on my own.

  Lamin

  I started paying close attention to music videos. B.I.G. was the King of New York and I loved how the “Juicy” video showed enormous wealth and a rags-to-riches fairy tale. I wanted to be able to draw pictures with images that way. Then Wu Tang—sons of my native borough—stepped on the scene with C.R.E.A.M. The video for that shit was the grittiest, grimiest depiction of the concrete jungle called Park Hill. Without having to use words, the images in that video told a whole story of hopeless poverty. I was in awe of the art form called directing. I contacted the production company that worked with the Wu, using connections I had forged long ago with guys from Park Hill and Stapleton. Before long, I was behind the scenes on every shoot, soaking up the techniques and camera angles and trying out my own dimensions. I got the biggest thrill helping film a blac
k-and-white hip-hop video on the roof of Park Hill’s housing complex featuring the Queen of Hip Hop Soul. I was beginning to find my way.

  Then, as fate would have it, the opportunity of a lifetime landed in my lap. Zion brought one of our Brooklyn workers to see me. The kid’s name was Leo and he had just signed a deal with Ryde or Die Records. Leo was good. We had all heard him battle niggas in ciphers throughout Brooklyn, and I wasn’t surprised at all to find out that he had been signed. He was someone that I was genuinely happy to see on the come up.

  Zion explained that Leo wanted to film a music video in the Fort Greene housing projects known as the Ingersoll Projects. That’s when it all hit me. This was my big break. I asked Leo what his concept was for the video, and he explained his vision.

  “The name of the song is ‘Project Mentality’ and I wanna show all the shit that we see everyday in the ‘hood. The old broads sittin’ on the bench gossipin’, the old dudes drinkin’ beer on the corner. The kids playing tag in the stairwells with the addicts zoned out from the drugs. I wanna show the pissy elevators, the garbage in the hallways, the bars on the windows and the gates surrounding it. You feel me?”

  I smiled and nodded. “I feel you. But what’s your budget?”

  Leo threw his hands up. “Right now I’m working with a pretty hefty advance from Ryde or Die. You tell me what it’ll cost, and I’ll get you the dough.”

  This shit seemed too good to be true. I had never shot a video, a film—nothing. But the chance of a lifetime had fallen in my lap. I wondered if what Grandma told me about prayer was true. No one else but God could have given me an opportunity like this one. And I had no intention of wasting it. I called in some favors and put my money where my mouth was. Like every other time in my life when I was faced with a challenge, I stepped up to the plate, valiantly.