Better, Not Bitter

by Yusef Salaam

  This was hard. The guys and I had just barely come together in a brotherhood. I didn’t know Raymond before the charges and I knew of Antron only because he lived right up the block from me. He was another guy from the neighborhood. In fact, Raymond was really more of the glue when it came to keeping the doors of this burgeoning relationship open between us all. He was the one saying, “Hey, let me make sure this guy is good.” Admittedly, I was more of the I’m going to do this time and not let time do me person.

  I was an outsider because I was out on bail. I was going back and forth from home to court from, say, nine in the morning to five in the evening, like a job. And then I would go back home, take off my suit, and hang with my friends. But some of the others weren’t as fortunate. I remember saying to them, “I’m never going to agree to something that I didn’t do. You could give me the rest of my life in prison before I’d do that.”

  I still was very much an individual at that point. I didn’t yet feel part of the group. I knew that we were all being railroaded but, no matter what, I wasn’t willing to profess guilt for something I didn’t do. We were the Central Park Seven and then Six, before we became the Central Park Five. They had rounded up seven guys. And while Steven Lopez copped out to a lesser charge, received just one to three years, and came home almost immediately, the rest of his life is forever changed because of his acceptance of the plea deal. At the same time, there was the hard reality that we were looking at some serious time. And for some, that was a devastating pill to swallow. We were kids, so making these decisions about the rest of our lives was something we should never have had to do. Still, my stance was this: “They can give me the rest of my life in prison. I’m not going to cop out to a crime I didn’t commit.”

  If I’m honest, I didn’t know what that really meant. Nothing in my experience had taught me what “the rest of my life in prison” would actually look and feel like. But I just knew that for me, there was a very clear line. If you did a crime, you cop out. You say, “Man, how can I get the least amount of time possible for this crime I did?” But if you didn’t do the crime, you fight. You fight for as long as you have to. That was the principle that I brought into the situation.

  Now, when I think about the three of us in that room, huddled together, longing for the arms of our families and friends, I imagine us as a modern-day Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego from the Bible. We were three boys in a fire, but our innocence meant we would never smell like smoke.

  There’s another Bible story I’m reminded of when I think about that moment. A story that feels incredibly resonant in its mirroring of my life. The bible’s Joseph—Yusuf () in the Qur’an—was once falsely imprisoned for rape. Genesis 39:20b–23 (NIV) says:

  But while Joseph was there in the prison, the LORD was with him; he showed him kindness and granted him favor in the eyes of the prison warden. So the warden put Joseph in charge of all those held in the prison, and he was made responsible for all that was done there. The warden paid no attention to anything under Joseph’s care, because the LORD was with Joseph and gave him success in whatever he did.

  There was no way I could have known at the moment of sentencing just how much my story would align with Joseph’s/Yusuf’s (). But what I did understand deep down was that I needed to speak.

  We were locked up immediately. I’d come to the courthouse as a free man because we’d paid the bond. Post-verdict, I would not leave again. I had to wait months before the sentencing, and every day felt like purgatory. So when the officers came to pick us up for the sentencing hearing and brought us to our attorneys, I asked mine what I’m sure all of us were thinking.

  “I heard we have to say something before the courts. What advice can you give?”

  The attorneys were very much of a mind to “say whatever it is you want to say. Say what’s on your heart.” But we’d also heard others suggest, “Man, throw yourself at their mercy. Try to see the least amount of time possible.”

  That didn’t sit right with me. All I could hear in my heart and mind was my mother’s constant refrain: “I was born in the Jim Crow South.” I could hear the voice of my grandmother: “You’re a king. You’re a master.” They’d instilled in me a pride and resolve that would not allow me to beg for a freedom I rightly deserved. I chose a different route. I had a private moment with God and prayed: “Use me. Allow my words to be purified and put whatever I need to say in my mouth and in my head.” And then it just flowed. Lyrics that told that courtroom exactly who I was: a kid who loved hip hop and his mother and Triple F.A.T. Goose coats. A kid who’d read enough to know that the train they’d run over him with should have long been banned from the tracks. A kid who was innocent.

  Let us begin!

  Stress, stress is the anger that is built up inside

  Rage is the anger that is no longer built

  Taken on a sucker, that soon you have killed

  American freewill doesn’t mean you can kill

  And take another person’s life

  You live your life trife

  I’m a skill builder

  So on skills I do build

  Creator given knowledge to this wise black man

  Soon to enhance

  My words across the land

  I’m a smooth type of fellow

  Cool, calm and mellow

  I’m kind of laid back

  But now I’m speaking so that you know

  Got used

  And abused

  And even was put on the news

  And on cue, they gave clues selling out like fools

  Check it… who did what

  And who did who in

  You’re put in a situation that you don’t know what to do and

  Some people go wildin’

  We’re not down with them

  Who would have thought we’d have to lock in

  I stand accused

  Checking the scene from how the situation was,

  Instead of getting facts the media made you blurred

  Now the people don’t know,

  All they see is the media

  They never hear the blamed

  Cause they’re constantly deceiving us

  The D.A.’s wrong,

  This is her master plan

  This case is not a case

  It’s just a crafted sham

  Yo!!!!

  Instead of trying to get your name made,

  It’s reconstructing the crime that really pays.

  Islam, la illaha illallah,

  Born supreme over shaytan, but no man is Allah.

  Yes, I’m a science dropper on the righteous path

  So how the hell could I take a rapist path?

  Think about that and then think about this,

  All my friends it was me they dissed

  They’re dismissed.

  Because I don’t really need any friends like that,

  Like…

  When I really needed you, where were you at?

  I’m not dissing them all

  But the ones that I called

  They went and dissed me,

  like I was an inch small

  Like a rat, a mouse, not even a man

  Wrongly accused, like the knife’s in my hand.

  How does it look,

  Me clocked now I’m shook

  But like Matlock, soon the accused gets off the hook.

  It’s real when she remembers and says,

  Damn!!! the cops did you in.

  I stand accused

  You people stop… the racial disperse

  Aye yo! You seen that kid Benson? He’s in a hearse.

  And so we take it to the Benson Hurst fields,

  Whites have bulletproof vests, and we’ve got no kind of shields

  How does that look they killed a black man,

  Being black, it’s time to take a stand.

  In our situation you saw our faces clear,

  But not mine, not because of fear,

  It’
s because the black race was disgraced

  And for the Muslims, they must have felt shamed

  But I’m not to blame with the words you bought,

  The media took their words to paper

  The ones the cops distorted

  I told the cops truth like this, and then BOOM!

  Man they smacked my man Korey Wise in the next room.

  Now I know why the Rasta’s can’t stand de Babylon

  They never help they just babble on.

  I used to think the people and cops were cool…

  But who protects us from you…?

  I stand accused!

  I imagined myself not unlike Kool G Rap in his music video for “Road to the Riches.” I was flowing, going in just like he did. When I hit the last lines of “I used to think the people and cops were cool,” I conjured another hip hop hero of mine, KRS-One. I was a fan of how he’d blast the listener with knowledge through profound lyricism and artistry, and so that last sentence was an ode to him. As I opened my mouth, my eyes were barely open. Courage and confidence had taken over. This was my debut as an artist. My mother had told me, “Make sure your words are clear.” They needed to be. They needed to hear every word. Not just for me. Not just for Antron, Raymond, Korey, and Kevin. But for Yusef Hawkins, the sixteen-year-old Black kid who’d just been murdered by a white man in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. In that moment, with my heart beating wildly, I felt a kind of liberation. I felt like, If I have no words left to say ever, then I’d said them all today. I had to get it all out and let the chips fall where they may.

  I was told that the people in the courtroom were nodding their heads to the imaginary beat in the room. That’s the draw of hip hop. If you’re open to it, the rhythm will capture you. I didn’t need a DJ or a soundman. There was music in the message, and there was a message in the music. The beat pulsed through my words. They could feel my heart. I was feeling energized. Our supporters were encouraged by my fight.

  When I finished, Judge Thomas Galligan’s face was apple red. He was beyond angry. And, of course, he would be. This was the man folks referenced when they called Rikers Island “Galligan’s Island.” He was notorious for going hard on Black men and being easily “persuaded” by DAs to turn a blind eye to the truth. Ayesha Grice, a former editor for Essence magazine and a surrogate mother of mine, said he trafficked in “legal lynchings.” In our case, the prosecuting attorneys needed someone who would allow for the boundaries of the law to be overstepped. He was their guy. Galligan was handpicked to preside over our case because they knew he would guarantee the outcome they were looking for. And it’s judges like Galligan that affirm our present-day need for defunding the police and criminal justice reform. Nevertheless, his fury at my “last words” wasn’t a surprise to anyone. He banged his gavel. “Order in the court! Order in the court!”

  I sat down with my head up and back straight. Though I doubt I had any conscious awareness of it, I think my spirit was determined right then that whatever sentence came forward, it would not break me.

  The next day, my poem/rap song was covered in the New York Post with the headline “SALAAM BALONEY!”

  That hurt.

  I remember the reporter running up to the front. She asked me, “Can I take a picture of your rap song?” She said it in such a warm tone that I thought she meant well. I thought maybe this would be a moment when the portraits the media painted of us would be more honest. I was still sixteen. Still full of hope, despite what we’d already gone through. I was so deflated when I learned that, once again, I’d been tricked. It was embarrassing. Gratefully, there were people, mostly from our village, reaching out to us with comfort. They told us to “stay up!” To “keep up the good fight.” They reminded us that everything was going to be all right. I can’t speak for the other guys, but something deep in me knew that to be true. The truth would eventually be revealed.

  It’s surprising to me when I think about it now, but at that time, while I knew that injustice existed, I honestly didn’t think there were any other innocent people in prison other than us. Chalk it up to being sixteen, watching too many crime shows, or swallowing the false narratives provided by the system, but it never occurred to me that there were easily thousands of others like us, imprisoned for crimes they didn’t commit. And then I started meeting them. And not just in the youth facility. All throughout my time in prison, I met men who were clearly innocent. With the evidence to back it up. But what they didn’t have was the resources.

  Either they didn’t have the ability to defend themselves, or the price for doing so was too high. The Central Park jogger case wasn’t some anomaly. My case represents the hundreds of thousands of cases just like it. People who felt they had to cop a plea. And then those who were forced to do so. And while Kalief Browder didn’t cop out, look at what the system did to him. A Black youth from the Bronx who was imprisoned at Rikers for three years for allegedly stealing a backpack, without ever having gone to trial or been convicted of a crime, suffering the torture of solitary confinement for two years. Two years after his release he hanged himself in his parents’ home. Look at what the terror of that system made him do to himself!

  So yes, it is important for all of us to stand up for ourselves. To show up, resist, and speak up in the face of extreme adversity and detractors. But I will never pretend like that resistance doesn’t come without a cost.

  My innocence and naivete protected me in many ways. I can’t imagine how much more of this trauma I would have internalized had I understood the nuances of everything that was happening. I genuinely thought we had a chance of winning. When that was not an option, I genuinely thought that I could handle what prison would throw my way. Hope held me together in ways I’ve only recently begun to unpack. I still had grace for people. My youth protected me.

  The system capitalized on this, too. We are in a country that has chosen to traffic in Black bodies. It’s the basis of capitalism. And I know that we all participate in capitalism in a myriad of ways, but there is a baseline evil that exists in our white-led systems that dehumanizes a group of people for greed and gain. It’s the same evil that says, “Let’s take that skinny chicken over there, pump it with all kinds of deadly chemicals to make it bigger, and then sell it cheaply in Black and Brown communities.” It’s the same evil that produced government cheese and rice made from chemicals and plastic. It’s the same evil that ensures there is limited to no health care access for people made sick by the food sold in their communities. The same evil that demands these people still bring their sick selves to jobs that pay them less than a living wage. The same evil that adultifies children like me and the rest of the Exonerated Five.

  The Prison Policy Institutes wrote about the increasing mass incarceration in a study done in 2000. The study noted, “Beginning in the early 1990s, crime rates began to decline significantly around the nation. During this [same] period the number of state and federal prisoners rose substantially, from 789,610 to 1,252,830—a 59% increase in just seven years.” To feed the system of mass incarceration that in the late ’80s and early ’90s was growing exponentially, we were framed as men despite being children. This adultification is not new and still goes on today. It’s why the justification for Tamir Rice’s murder was that this twelve-year-old kid playing with a toy gun in a park looked like a man with a gun. The goal is to steal our childhoods. The systemic oppression created by white supremacy and white male dominance has to alter us in order to justify its evil work. So Black boys become men and Black girls become women well before they are actually adults. This is very important to the psyche of evil. If you can get people to believe that a child is a full-grown person, then they will not see them as children or treat them as children, and are then willing to consider them as unredeemable. They will not be given the same opportunities, benefit of the doubt, or grace that one would give a child. The justice system has never been about telling people the truth. It’s never been about our humanity. It’s only been about the b
ottom line: “They need to be killed or put to work.”

  At Clinton, our brotherhood.

  Donald Trump’s rhetoric during our trial was as indicative of that mentality as his actions are now. He took out a full-page ad in the New York Times to tell the world that we should essentially be lynched. He hated us and wanted the world to follow suit. His headline: “Bring Back the Death Penalty, Bring Back Our Police.” His sentiment allowed for the tsunami of vitriol spewed against us to continue and opened the door for media personalities like Pat Buchanan to go full racist. He wrote, “If… the eldest of that wolf pack were tried, convicted and hanged in Central Park by June 1; and the 13- and 14-year olds were stripped, horse-whipped and sent to prison, the park might soon be safe again for women.” There isn’t much distance between those words and those of Darren Wilson, the police officer who killed eighteen-year-old Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri: “[Brown] had the most aggressive face. That’s the only way I can describe it, it looks like a demon, that’s how angry he looked.”

  The framing of child as adult provides the out, the substantiation for the evil being done. And here’s the real horror: When you mark a person, once you strip away their innocence for the public, you can never undo it. It doesn’t matter that we were exonerated. The media didn’t care as much about that—about our innocence, about the role they played—as they did about vilifying us and calling us “wild beasts.” They took years of our childhood that we will never get back. And that will never be okay.

  Sadly, internalized racism is real. Adultification does not only happen at the hands of white people. There is a collective adultification that’s happened also. Too many Black people have been tricked into believing what these systems (and those who drive them) want us to believe. In all the experiments and surveys on implicit bias, particularly with law enforcement, you see that Black officers hold biases similar to their white colleagues’. Black people, maybe even out of some kind of survival mechanism, make their Black boys and girls into men and women before their time. That’s also why, in some of the most violent instances of police brutality, we’ve seen Black and POC cops watching it all go down. They, too, have been taught that this—a face and body like mine—is what a criminal looks like.