Better, Not Bitter

by Yusef Salaam

  I was loved well.

  Kevin’s sister, my mom, Kevin’s mom, our friend and fellow inmate John Ball’s mom, and John’s sister Teresa, bringing food on a visit to Harlem Valley, through Mother Love.

  Mom even found a way to come and cook for the prison. She created an organization called Mother Love and used it as an entry into the facility to cook for the inmates. I’m not sure how she made it happen. I know she’d built a connection with Dr. Leonard G. Dunston, who was running the Division of Youth at that time, and he was part of the same network as Elombe Brath. However she did it, everyone looked forward to the one or two days a year when she and her crew would come in. On those days, gone were the gray soups and suspicious meats. Her feasts felt like a Thanksgiving meal on steroids. She’d serve collard greens, mac and cheese, fried chicken, baked turkey, and all kinds of other sides. Everyone felt special that day, but I especially benefited. I became the guy whose mom would bring the feast. It gave me a kind of cool and garnered me respect inside. In truth, I think my mom just wanted to keep an eye on me, and this was the best way to do it.

  She was what some would call overprotective. She was determined to provide us a safe harbor, shelter. For a long while, we didn’t know any other way. She kept us safe within our village. At least as safe as a young boy in New York City could be, I suppose. And it was a delicate balance, because she wasn’t trying to prevent me from growing up. But no matter how old I get, I’ll always be her baby. Though, to Aunt Denise’s point, words matter. Especially how we use them. Having felt protected by my mother my entire childhood made the tragedy of going to prison much more painful. I suspect it felt the same for her. With the myriad of ways she kept me and my brother and sister out of harm’s way, she taught us all the things we needed to know. But she couldn’t ultimately protect me from being run over by injustice. I know that pierces her heart to this day.

  Mom uses words to speak wisdom and truth. And she is also funny. Not like a comedian, but just as someone who can talk about life in a way that is articulate, highlighting its joys and absurdities, with a turn of phrase that makes her observations unintentionally hilarious. And she never curses. Coarse language was never used inside our home.

  “Yo, your mother is hilarious,” everyone would say. “You must get it from her.”

  I don’t think either one of us thought we were funny. We were rarely trying to be. From my mother, I learned to say it like I saw it, to be real about everything. Her tone was always matter-of-fact, and I think I’ve taken on some of that. Her influence flows through me when I’m onstage and I’m telling my story.

  When I was young and would be playing around with my friends, I’d slip and curse every now and again, but it was mostly me trying to act like the people I saw in the neighborhood or at school. In prison, however, I learned that cursing was a tactic that people used when they didn’t know how to express themselves. It reinforced what my mother taught me. When I learned the power of the words we speak, I stopped cursing.

  Up until I was around ten years old, Mom wore a full hijab when we went out. She didn’t shield her face, but she honored the verse in the Qur’an that says, “O Prophet, tell your wives and your daughters and the women of the believers to bring down over themselves [part] of their outer garments” (33:59). In a strange way, when she was fully covered, I felt protected. I could hide behind her cloak, so to speak. She loves to tell stories about how we would go to the grocery store together. Usually other kids would eat a handful of grapes while their mother shopped. Not me. Mom says I ate half the bananas in the basket before we even got to the cashier line. Now mind you, these were the real, non-GMO bananas, the ones that still have the black seeds in them. When you walked by the produce stand, you could smell the fruit strong and inviting. Even though I ate them before we paid for them, she never was angry with me about it. She was my shield. If her baby was hungry, he ate.

  Growing up uptown, it was common to hear folks shooting fireworks on the Fourth of July or on New Year’s Eve. In the hood, these weren’t “oh, look how beautiful” types of explosives. At least not in the eyes of a child. Around my way, people didn’t always just shoot fireworks in the sky. They sometimes shot them at people. So the popping sounds and loud booms, to me as a little kid, were terrifying. But my mom, as always, knew how to calm my spirit. She would find a way to shift my fear into wonderment. “Wow, look at that!” Even if it didn’t always work and I was still scared, her words, her voice didn’t allow my fear to expand into terror.

  My mother raised us mostly vegan. We rarely ate meat. And we didn’t find it uncomfortable because we didn’t know anything different. When we drank milk, it was goat’s milk. And, of course, almost everything we ate, Mom made. She fed us using the eating principles found in Back to Eden, a book that explores the use of herbs, healthy foods, and other holistic practices. In fact, our entire family eating plan was based on this book. When we ate bread, we ate bread my mother made. When we wanted cookies, we ate the cookies she baked. If we wanted yogurt, she churned the yogurt from scratch. To this day, before I eat anything, my first question is “What’s in this?” She taught us the importance of putting healthy things in our bodies. Staying well for the fight.

  This would also be useful later when she began to experience her own health challenges. When my mother developed Stage 4 cancer, her first step toward healing, after surgery, was returning to her Back to Eden diet. She’s now a three-time cancer survivor.

  Because Mom worked long hours at Parsons, we had to learn how to cook as young children. She taught us how to make rice and, when we weren’t vegan, the occasional lamb chops. Despite our mostly plant-based diet, I even learned how to season and cook chicken. We didn’t often eat together—three teens in the house with a working mother meant a busy schedule. On the day I got locked up, I had those lamb chops baking in the oven. I remember my sister being so angry because she knew I hadn’t eaten anything. I was a growing boy with a healthy appetite. It was nothing for me to put away a whole plate of vegetables and then chase it with a whole plate of spaghetti. That was how I ate. On the day I was arrested, it didn’t occur to me that I had eaten my last meal the night before.

  Family is important. Love is critical. Those were the principles we lived by. We were taught to not concern ourselves as much with what people called us. My mother wasn’t a single mother. She was a mom who worked. We weren’t kids without a dad. We were kids who had a whole village of dads. My uncle was my father figure. Whenever he did things with Frank, his son and my cousin, I was always right there with them. I was thankful to have my uncle in my life, because he was truly like a parent to me. And because me and my cousin are so close and so connected, I’d always hang out with them.

  Holidays at home.

  But this didn’t stop me from thinking about my own father. Wondering why he left. Dreaming that he’d come visit us or maybe even come back for good. But I chose to focus on what was in front of me. I had a fatherly presence there, just not in my household. When I’d hang out with my uncle, there were times I felt envious, despite being so loved on by him and his family. Maybe it was jealousy. Maybe it was just awe at their relationship. Perhaps it was both. But there were moments when the wanting in my heart, that gulf, was widened from watching their interactions.

  Wow, Frank has his dad. He can go home to his dad. I don’t. I can’t.

  I never saw my mother with a man. She had male friends, but I never suspected, never said, “Oh, that’s Ma’s boo.” We were never introduced to anyone with “Oh, this is your uncle.” You know how everybody has those new “uncles,” right? I suppose this was another of the many ways my mother protected us. I don’t know for sure if she had any romantic relationships, but I know we didn’t see them. No one was going to intrude on our family dynamic. She believed in stability; that was what she was determined to give us, and she did.

  What I love most about my mother is she’s a no-nonsense kind of person. As I watched Aunjanue Ellis’s
portrayal of her in When They See Us, I said to myself, Oh shucks, that’s my mom! Aunjanue nailed it. She was beyond excellent. My mother is fierce and fearless in the face of injustice. In fact, my mom got arrested one time when I was a little boy. It was the most noble, honorable arrest, in my eyes.

  Back in the ’80s, there were so many fires in the Schomburg Plaza buildings where we lived. It didn’t seem like anyone cared about our safety. In March 1987, there was an incredibly tragic fire in which seven people died, including three young people who jumped to their deaths in a vain attempt to escape. I knew them. In an incredible twist, fire dispatchers had assured those calling as the fire and smoke took hold that it was under control.

  When the next bad fire rolled around, a man named Daoude Woods took action. Daoude was well over six feet tall, his eyes dark with determination. He just exuded strength. To look at him was to see raw power. During this particular fire, Daoude was racing in and out of the buildings, helping to get people out. When the fire department came, they tried to stop him, even though he told them there was an old man trapped on one of the higher floors. “I need to get him. I know he’s there. I got to go get him.”

  The firefighter responded, “You cannot go in the building.”

  Daoude shrugged. “Y’all going to have to do what y’all got to do.”

  When they tried to block him, he knocked one of the firemen down and ran into the building. Many excruciating minutes later, he came running back out, carrying that older gentleman on his shoulders. The courtyard erupted in cheers, full of admiration for Daoude and the selfless act we’d just witnessed.

  The police arrived and were not as impressed. When they arrested Daoude, he didn’t fight it. It was clear that he was just grateful to be able to save the people he did. He was like, “Okay, cool, no problem. Arrest me. I had to save that man and I’ll go back and save more if you let me.” They put him in the back of the squad car parked in the circular driveway. Then the cops climbed into the backseat and repeatedly punched our handcuffed hero. With everyone watching.

  Then my mother jumped into the fray.

  “Let him go, let him go!” she led us in a chant.

  From there it turned into total mayhem, with the police snatching all kinds of folks.

  “Let him go, let him go!”

  Practically every Plaza tenant joined in, with everyone, including my mother, shaking the cop car. That was when she was arrested.

  They took her to the jail on 103rd Street between Third and Lexington. When we arrived, we found her handcuffed to the wall.

  I never told my mother about lying on my coat that first night at the precinct after they took us all in, but I suspect if I had, she would have known what I was feeling. The idea of being righteous and standing for your truth while paying the price for it was likely familiar to her. All she ever tried to do was protect her family and her community.

  There were many heroes like Daoude and my mother in my neighborhood. Korey Wise saved a man’s life once. When one of our neighbors was going to jump off his balcony in a suicide attempt, Korey showed up to the man’s unit, gently talked him down off the ledge, and convinced him to come back inside his house. That incident was high-profile and dramatic, and I’m sure it was covered by the newspapers. People like Daoude and Korey were our heroes.

  With my grandmother at graduation.

  During the thick of the fighting for justice for me, Mom was naturally stressed and stretched thin. Most people would have reached for a drink or ten to take the edge off, but that wasn’t my mother’s way. She’d tasted alcohol only one time in her life, when she was young. She told her mom, who would occasionally have a drink, “I want to taste that.” So my grandmother made an especially disgusting version of a cocktail and passed it to her daughter.

  My mom took one sip. “Ugh! This is nasty. I’m never drinking that mess again.” And she didn’t.

  When things were at their craziest, and Mom was trying to hold it together, one of my relatives said they wished my grandmother had given her a sweeter drink way back then. Maybe she’d have an easier time coping. My mother was certainly the glue that kept my hopes alive while we were at trial. But I often wondered what she did for herself. When did she lay her cape down, if ever?

  I struggle with calling my mother a superhero, not because she isn’t one, but after all that she’s lived through, she deserves to be able to rest. Black women are often saddled with the “strong Black woman” trope, and it can undermine their humanity. We have tasked Black women with the pressure to play this part of the superwoman, a protective measure in order to cope with the constant stressors of racial discrimination. Yes, they are resilient. Yes, they seem to come to the aid of the whole world. But Black women cry. They feel. They grieve. They hurt. They deserve their own healing. My mother deserves her healing.

  Even when things were out of her control, when the system literally stole me right out from under her, I knew that my mother would always be there fighting for me. Everything about her always made me feel safe. I just want her to feel the same. Patrisse Khan-Cullors, cofounder of the Black Lives Matter movement and author of the memoir When They Call You a Terrorist, captures the feelings that I know still explode my mother’s heart to this day:

  Is this what it is to be a mother who has to carry the weight of having to protect her children in a world that is conspiring to kill them? Are you forced to exist within a terrible trinary of emotion: rage, grief or guilt? What of the joy and the peace that loving a child brings? What of pride and of hope? Could it really be true that my mother has been given no door number four or five or six or even seven to walk through in order to know the wholeness of motherhood? Is she one in a long line of Black mothers limited to survival mode or grief?

  Mama is my Harriet Tubman, yes, but she is also Joanne Chesimard. She is also Angela Davis. All of these women, these sheroes, are examples for her of how not to go down without a fight. But now, I want her to rest.

  Our family was known to be close-knit. While we were involved in acts of “good trouble,” as the late congressman John Lewis called it, for the most part we lived quiet lives. Then suddenly we were placed in the middle of a major crime and media circus. While I was the one facing conviction, what was happening to me was happening to all of us. In light of the worst trouble ever, the only lawyer my mother found who was willing to take up our case was a divorce attorney.

  Mom met Robert Burns through a family friend. I didn’t know the difference between a criminal defense attorney and a divorce attorney. In my mind, they all went to law school. They all sat for the bar exam. They all received licensing credentials from the state. To me and my family, that meant they were equally credible.

  The court of public opinion disagreed. They viciously attacked Robert, claiming he wasn’t worth his salt. We had no way to gauge a good attorney from a bad one. We also didn’t have much money. Yet when Mom called on him to help, he answered. He was the only one who stood up to represent us before the judge.

  She met with Robert at a bar. Desperate and exhausted, she recounted how she’d come home from work to find my sister, Aisha, frantic. “They took Yusef!” No one knew how to find me. The whole situation was so unreal that she actually thought my sister and I were playing a joke on her. She walked around the house, crawling on the floor, searching underneath the couch and then under the bed. She thought I was hiding.

  The police did not come here and take my boy.

  When she realized that it wasn’t a joke but everything she had ever feared, she got herself to the precinct.

  The hardship that my mother endured that night, beginning with the cruel treatment she experienced at the hands of the police officers, simply for trying to find out basic information about my whereabouts and charges, is the reason we believe she got cancer. I know what that sounds like. But as Bessel Van der Kolk describes in The Body Keeps the Score: “Long after a traumatic experience is over, it may be reactivated at the slightest hint of dange
r and mobilize disturbed brain circuits and secrete massive amounts of stress hormones.” Stress hormones impact the body’s ability to fight off a number of illnesses.

  My mother encountered a sick justice system, and that sickness was contagious. How does a mother engage self-care under these terms? A massage at a fancy spa was not the answer. And because there weren’t any easy answers, not to mention the Goliath we encountered in the justice system, we believe all that worry and anxiety likely metastasized into cancer. We would eventually slay that giant, but not before it did its best to slay us.

  Very few things comforted Mom when I went to trial and was later sentenced. She grieved heavily for me. She feared for my safety. She worried that injustice would win. Instead of sitting idle on the sidelines, she founded her nonprofit Mother Love, now called People United for Children. But it wasn’t just my mom and me going through the fire—it was our whole village. While one mother can do a little bit, a “people united for children” can wield incredible power. She began to research how the system worked, then began to teach others how to work the system. That was how she learned about opportunities for people to serve inmates and was able to work as a cook at the facility. Our bodies were imprisoned, but every year, thanks to my mom, we went Back to Eden. It was another moment of mental freedom driven by her love.

  When people are trying to paint a picture of you, when they are trying to assess if you’re worthy of justice, they poke around your influences, beginning in your early home life. Our home was orderly, and my mother was no-nonsense. We were typically good kids who did regular kids’ stuff, usually nothing serious. But if we got into trouble that was bad enough to require a spanking, it was rough. First, we’d be told to take off our clothes, because my mom knew that we would try to outwit her by wearing multiple layers. Eventually we learned it was easier to obey.