I had heard stories about some of William’s youthful shenanigans; nothing to get alarmed about, though. He was not pinned as the neighborhood bully, clown or prophesized to be the “one” who would make his family proud. Perhaps he could have been somewhere in the middle, but no one recalled with any great detail how William’s development as a person began and then progressed — that is until he was on trial for rape and capital murder.
William rarely talked about his childhood and if the subject did come up, it was usually because he had a funny story to tell. The stories mostly centered on the parties that his mother or his aunts would have at their homes. He would tell how all his relatives would attend the parties; even the children came. And once the adults were too tired to be their own entertainment with their card playing and playful bantering, the children stepped in by dancing for money. It was a simple time.
For William, the parties seemed a pleasant respite from what usually went on in his own house when the party wasn’t there. On more than one occasion, William said that he wished his home was open like the rest of the houses in our neighborhood. In most of the other homes, children on the “block” were welcome to visit and eat dinner just like the children who lived there. Many parents also allowed sleepovers. But this never happened in the Choyce home. And although no one seemed to question William about why things were different when it came to his house, most heard the gossip in the air; the Choyce’s thought they were better than the other families.
More than anyone else, the loves of William’s young life were his maternal grandmother, Finny, and his Aunt Sweet. I gathered this much information from the number of times he spoke about them. I was always curious why he didn’t proclaim his love for his mother or his father in the same causal manner. But the one common thread that connected William’s fondness for specific people was that they seemed to be comfortable with being who they were; and more importantly, they let him be himself— however that translated. His grandmother and Aunt, he said, always made him laugh.
When I moved into the same neighborhood as the Choyce’s in 1969, it took me a while to get to know William. He was an aloof and almost snooty boy who went to Catholic School. Back then this was a big deal because most families couldn’t afford even the small tuition. William didn’t like Catholic school and found it just as restrictive as life was at home. And, the possibility that his rebellion originated because of his home life is more plausible now, considering what I learned about his young, clandestine life. There was more information available about William than I could have ever imagined; it was in his trial transcript. I secured a great deal of insight from the testimony of the psychologists who worked for his defense team.
I learned that as a child, William knew that there was some form of punishment at the end of every “bad act”, but he seemed more than willing to take his chances while at school. Young William was beat by the nuns for various infractions of silence and order, and he probably became anesthetized to the pseudo-torture sessions, unlike other students who would vow to never do anything to bring the stinging wrath of the wooden ruler their way.
Once, one of William’s teachers, a nun, most likely the head of the “head nuns”, made a special request to beat William in front of his class for one of his transgressions. As the story was told during William’s trial, Mrs. Choyce would not waver in being the consummate protector of her family’s image, and so she compromised to allow the nun to beat her child in a private office. To have the community talking about one of her children’s misdoing and public strapping would only serve to bring unfavorable gossip about the family. That wasn’t going to happen on her watch!
But as the facts were presented in William’s trial for murder and rape, it became apparent that his home was more than just restrictive. It was tortuous and dysfunctional. It was emasculating and mentally derailing in all the vibrant colors of abuse. But, who could have known? And what allegedly happened to one young black boy in his formative years, became the truth so prominently offered up by William’s defense as an explanation for his apparent disconnect from humanity and thus the catalyst for him committing immitigable acts against innocent female victims who were— it might be concluded— the surrogates for all the women who he perceived had transgressed against him as a child and perhaps as an adult, especially his mother.
And also like me, William was desperate to have the love that he barely knew as a child. In his search, he would go back to the birth of the void (Oakland)—just like me. But he would bring the demons of abuse forward with him because they were so much a part of his existence. They would grow and grow beyond his control and these demons could only be satisfied with violence against women.
There is sumptuous proof that he fed them well.
6
Early
By the time my family moved to Peralta Street in the late sixties, I had tried as best I could to absorb the shock of puberty. And even though my mother and I had intimate talks about how my body would change, and that I might feel different inside, nothing seemed to waylay the insurgence of fear that sewed me up into a cocoon of insecurities. I was a mess and I passionately hoped that no one would notice.
And sometime during this most distressing period of my life— between the ages of 14 and 15—I met my former husband, William Jennings Choyce. Well, I sort of met him. He had lived on Peralta Street since birth and he became my brother Arthur’s best friend a few months after our move to the neighborhood. William would sometimes visit our home, most times walking right past me like I was the invisible woman or like he was blind. It was implied that friends of brothers were taboo. At least this was the vibe I got from Arthur. But I was intrigued that William was part of a family that owned their own home. And the fact that his father was his “real” father made me envy him and wonder what his life was like. It was from that point that William caught my eye.
Between 1970 and 1972, I managed to have several decent dances with the young William during the social hour gatherings we had in our homes on a rotational basis, usually on Sunday— but never at the Choyce home. Things went like this: we ate potato chips and drank Kool-Aid; we talked a little and for one solid hour, the sixteen and over crowd would dance to the music of the Temptations, Stevie Wonder, and Marvin Gaye. We would get close up on one another— too close during “Stay in My Corner” by the Dells; the song lasted an unprecedented and titillating six minutes. When our “time” was up, the boys and girls would politely step away from each other without so much as a word— unless they were “going together”, or unless they were considering becoming a couple.
But William never asked me to dance; I would have to ask him. He was a polite partner and probably the only boy whose lil’ manhood didn’t spring up almost before the music started. We kissed a few times while playing Spin the Bottle. I didn’t think he could kiss all that good, but I got a warm feeling being close to him. He was decent, respectable, and in my eyes, William was somewhat of an enigma when squared up against the other boys in our neighborhood.
After William graduated in 1971 from McClymonds High School in Oakland, California, he seemed to drop right out of the neighborhood scene, whereas before, he was at least seen from time to time driving up, down and around the neighborhood in one of his parent’s cars. Before his disappearance, William and my brother Arthur had been inseparable, even sharing the same girlfriend. I’ll never forget; her name was Peggy. She was a “buttahead”— everything looked good but her head. But for both Arthur and William, or Billy Boy, as he was called by his family, that Peggy girl was “Foxy Brown” before Foxy became the quintessential icon for black female beauty and brawn all wrapped up together. She had them mesmerized and I couldn’t figure it out. I deeply wondered about the depth of her magic that could endear her to two men at the same time, especially William being one of them. And I wondered whether I had what Peggy had.
Surprisingly, the whole mystery around Peggy sparked in me an even greater interest in William, in a r
oundabout way. I was feeling him a little. And even though he was supposed to be off limits to me, I would have “gone with him” if he had asked me. He was different from the other boys in the neighborhood in ways that really mattered to me: he didn’t smoke, drink or do drugs, and he was from a “good family”.
How could I have known that everything— I do mean everything was just an illusion?
7
About The Times…
West Oakland.
It was the winter of 1972and one of the coldest on record.
Alice Marie Swafford and William Jennings Choyce were about to get hooked up.
On the music scene, Stevie Wonder, James Brown, Marvin Gaye, Nina Simone and Isaac Hayes shared their melodic interpretations of the momentous “Black and Proud” movement while the Black Panthers unveiled their “March 1972 Platform” which set forth the philosophy supporting their endeavor to pursue and demand economic and social justice for the black community. On the political and international front, the Paris Peace Accords, which ended the conflict in Vietnam, was just over the horizon. And although America would “bring the boys home”; nobody knew just how twisted and mangled their minds, bodies and souls would be, or how ill-prepared our government would be to effectively administer credulous compassion to those who gave their lives for a cause many of them could not embrace.
In the midst of it all, Affirmative Action began to take root to prescriptively pave the way for movement toward social and economic equity for minorities that was a long, long time coming, particularly for black folks. But the nation was still drowning in an ocean of racial discord, giving rise to both civil and violent protest, which would tear a country, already jagged at the seams, even further apart.
Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy, God rest their souls, had become the fatal targets of the hatred and racism heartily thriving off the ignorance of man. We were yet to be “free at last.” And African Americans were in no position to “put what they could do for their country” ahead of being concerned for what they could barely do for themselves. That was what was real.
And on a subjective note, aspiring black filmmakers got their day as they attempted to bring the chronicles and realities of black life to the “big screen”. But they had not studied Oscar Micheaux’s early examples of responsible filmmaking within a racial context. From this deficiency came “Superfly” and other “blaxploitation films” which offered up pimps and hustlers as the “new businessmen” instead of as the women haters and abusers that they were. The undeniable outcome of this cinematic melee was that many of society’s disenfranchised young, black men began to perceive that the “use and abuse” model of exploiting females would fast track them to their own American dream.
But the collateral damage to urban society as a whole and to generations of black women would be manifold; there would be scandalous beat downs by pimps and johns. Murder was also on the menu. And when drugs cut a clear path through the city, many immitigable junkies were made. Children of the anesthetized “ghetto” were neglected and sometimes abandoned. There would also be more than enough crimes for the Oakland police “not to care about.” That was real.
Whether it was imported from other parts of the United States or even from the past, I believe it is true that a great deal of the historical record of the abuse of the black female in the 60s and 70s is evidenced in West Oakland. However, the relevance of origin plays a minor role at the end of the day because Oakland has indeed become a place where “human trafficking” has evolved into the contemporary and static model for female exploitation. Sadly, many of the females caught up in the web of prostitution today can barely be considered as mature women. It’s the Year 2K +, and the 60s and 70s are still making their mark. WHAT WE ARE WITNESSING IS THE DEATH OF INNOCENCE ITSELF.
There was so much going on in the seventies, and Oakland was but a microcosm of all of society’s ills.
8
First Date with the Boy from the “Good Family”
WILLIAM LEFT HOME AFTER HIGH SCHOOL GRADUATION IN 1971. HE JOINED THE UNITED STATES Army. I left that September 1972 to attend the University of California, San Diego in La Jolla. Neither I, nor William knew anything about the other’s life between 71 & 72. Probably didn’t care either. But no sooner than I could get home for Christmas break in my freshman year, my mother couldn’t wait to announce that she had a surprise for me.
What— more? I was just grateful to be home for a while. I was excited about eating food that wasn’t served with a giant spoon by an unhappy and fat cafeteria worker with an attitude.
“What is it, Ma?” I asked, beaming with a childish excitement. “What’s the surprise?
“Guess who asked about you?” Mother was picking collards over the sink, but I could tell from behind that she was smiling.
“Who?”
“You’ll never guess.” My mother was going to burst from her own excitement.
I liked mysteries. “How many guesses?”
“You might need three or four or…”
“For real?”
“Uh huh!” My mother had that look. She just wanted to play with me.
I wondered for a few minutes about who might want to see me. Hummm… Using common sense, I reasoned that it had to be somebody who I hadn’t talked to since I left for college. Damn, that could be a lot of people.
“Was it my daddy?”
“Is that your first guess?”
I wasn’t stupid. “No,” I answered confidently.
“Okay.”
I just knew it wasn’t my former boyfriend. Besides, I had broken things off with him as soon as I stepped onto campus at UCSD. It just seemed like the practical thing to do. Have a long distance relationship? I didn’t think so. He had cheated on me with some light-skinned girl from Oakland High because she was giving up the… Besides, I was out of his league anyway.
I thought some more. My final answer came. “It’s one of Arthur’s friends!” I watched my mom’s body language for a hint that I had guessed correctly. From time to time, my brother’s friends would give me a second look, so…
“Close.” She laughed.
“Dang, mom!”
“Give up?”
“I guess. Who?”
“Billy.”
I held my breath. “… Choyce?” I let the air out.
“Yep, he wants you to call him.”
“Me?” I looked at myself from the inside out; it’s just something I do sometimes.
“Yes… you!” She pointed.
Silence.
“I thought he had gone off to the army?” Had I heard that somewhere?
“He did. He’s home on leave.”
More silence.
I couldn’t hide my confusion. I scratched my head. “I don’t know his number.”
“I do!”
Yet, more silence.
“Did he…ummm… say what he wanted?”
“No,” mother replied playfully. “Just call the boy.”
Once I got over my shock, I called William Choyce.
All the while I was wondering— what was his trip? What would he want with me? I thought deeper. He was probably the only boy I knew who could act like I didn’t exist even when I was standing right in front of him. What? I had to wonder. Because it was strange how William responded to me back when we were teens. Most of the time, it was hard to figure out whether he hated me, or whether he was trying to conceal a crush for the sake of his and my brother’s relationship. But before I left my neighborhood to go about life, I just chalked William up to being a puzzle— with a few pieces that I liked.
Anyway, I soon found out what the “mysterious” Mr. William (Billy Boy) Choyce wanted with me; he was at our door less than an hour after I called. This is how things went: William walked into our home like a gentleman; he gave my mom a big hug, and after we sat for a respectable amount of time in our living room, the gentleman announced that he had tickets to a Whispers concert. Once I got over being stunned and
then impressed, I asked my mother for permission. She briefly turned around and then nodded her approval.
“Have a good time!”
It was like a whirlwind had found me and swept me up. I couldn’t believe it. Even the periphery of the moment felt curious and surreal. I walked nervously down the stairs behind William. It wasn’t because I was afraid of anything. It was because I thought (at the time) that perhaps he was “better” than I was. I reminded myself: He came from a “good family.”
I got in William’s cherry red convertible Mustang; he also had access to it in high school. Yeah, he was cool. Off we went. I was quietly pleased; he seemed so mature and just a little less aloof. The bit of silence that sat down between us was absolutely necessary in the initial moments of our “new” acquaintance. We hadn’t seen each other for a while. Plus, we really didn’t know each other. But before the silence could totally own the space in the car—
“You do like the Whispers, don’t you?” William’s head didn’t turn towards me.
Strange…maybe he’s concentrating on driving… “Yeah, I’ve seen them before. They’re pretty cool.” That was the word back then.
He had opened my door. Damn, what a gentleman. His breath smells all good n stuff. Nice full length crème colored maxi leather coat with the initials on his lapel. “WJC”. For real, for real! He looked cool even though his natural was cut considerably down compared to the last time I had seen him.
Quickly and quietly we rode down Peralta Street; we went straight past William’s home. It seemed like it only took five minutes to arrive at our destination. The last time I had gone to the Oakland Auditorium, an Oakland landmark, was to see Dick Gregory with my mother, and before that, she treated me to Mom’s Mabley. It was an experience that I would thoroughly appreciate— years and years later.
Once inside the auditorium, William and I sat as close as the side by side seating allowed. We listened to slow songs that had real meaning, and if we were lovers, every song would have been ours. But the soldier barely said ten words to me. He focused on the entertainment with such intensity, I wondered if he remembered that I was sitting next to him.
Conquering Darkness Memoir of the Serial Killer's Wife Page 4