A Moment of Silence: Midnight III (The Midnight Series Book 3)

by Sister Souljah

  Yesterday I looked up the word revolution. I realized I liked going to class from listening to the reasoning of Teacher Ali and the skillful way he dragged the cats into a convo they probably would normally not give a fuck about. I have good, strong, clear, warm, and useful memories of love of my friends, my teachers, my family, my women, my life. What happens, though, to young heads who have no memories or feelings or bonds or an uncorrupted sense of real love? Could men really be bonded by murder, money, and mayhem without anything else like love or truth mixed in and holding it together? When I was in the box, I realized the reason that isolation was torture to them and preferred by me. They were left in the box without memories of true love. What was revolving in their minds? Did they have only memories of the crimes they committed, or fucked-up families and dirty living? When they thought of their women did they only recall arguments, fights, and betrayals? Did only images of their disappointing and disappointed mothers flash through their thoughts? Did they only think of hate? Hatred of their mother’s boyfriends or their disappeared deadbeat dads or hatred for themselves? What would I be like, what condition would I be in, if when boxed for three months, I could only recall the faces of dirty cops and detectives and racist judges and the abuses I had done and the abuses I had suffered?

  Revolution, in my dictionary was defined as “an overthrow; a complete rejection and replacement of a government, or a system of control.” I don’t desire to be a politician or to replace the government of the USA or of Sudan. However, I realized in this situation where I was sleeping with sixty-six confined males who were obviously about taking action, but who were without the tradition or example of faith, respect, love, or discipline, that either I had to overthrow them, or they would naturally try and overthrow me.

  * * *

  Dimension, facilitate, hypothesis, legislate, parameter, pause, psychology, scenario, subordinate, synthesis; the GED English class vocabulary words were written on the blackboard.

  “Gentlemen, open your notebooks,” Teacher Mack said. We did. “I’ll be walking down the line checking to see who took the time to write out the vocabulary word sentences. There will be a mock test next week on all of the vocabulary words I have assigned and you have studied since September. If you are behind, or if you just arrived, or whatever your attendance and circumstance, if you are here next week you will be tested. Ask any classmate for help or for notes. I also have a few copies of the complete list of all of the GED vocabulary words.”

  The classroom door opened and Lavidicus entered, escorted by a CO. His face was wrapped. The bandages went around the side of his face, over his hair, and underneath his chin.

  “His jaw is broke. He won’t be able to talk, Mr. Mack. So go easy on him,” the CO said with a smirk.

  “Luckily his hands are not broken. Long as he can write, he can participate,” Teacher Mack said. “Take your seat.”

  All eyes followed Lavidicus to his seat. Imperial and One Punch shot me a look of praise.

  “When is the real GED test?” a student asked.

  “Two weeks after the mock test, the GED test will be available to those who are ready for it. If you blow the mock test, don’t ask to sit for the GED. The State of New York has to pay for each applicant.”

  Teacher Mack pointed to YesYesYall to get the new vocabulary word sentences going for the day. YesYesYall looked around the room dramatically, like he believed he was a film star in a comedy flick.

  “Mr. Mack, I’m sorry, man,” he said, then inhaled, waiting to capture everyone’s attention. “It seems like we need to pause and peep the scenario.”

  “What?” Mr. Mack asked him.

  “It seems my classmate has been punched into another dimension. It’s only my hypothesis, though,” he said, pointing to Lavidicus and bringing the class to laughter. “That’s four vocabulary words: pause, scenario, dimension, and hypothesis,” YesYesYall explained. “I’ll take my extra credit.”

  Lavidicus could not laugh, move his mouth, or even speak.

  * * *

  After mathematics class Lavidicus was not in the lineup for lunch, where he normally would be. I ate my meal in silence as the M3s spoke confidentially about Rory. “He should thank us. I heard they’re gonna hold him in the hospital for three days. We helped him get the fuck out of here. The hospital is like a vacation from this joint.”

  “He won’t be back to our area. After his hospital stay he’ll join the ‘pussy club,’ ” Slaughter said.

  “You right,” DeSean added, “his snitching ass will switch right into protective custody.”

  “Lavidicus got the short end of the deal. No hospital stay for him and he gotta suck his food through a straw, applesauce and peas. Heard he’ll be fucked up for six weeks,” Puerto Rican Paco said.

  “He’s a good look for us,” Imperial said. “Every time he shows his face, anybody looking knows to watch his mouth. I don’t know what he said to Black, but whatever it was, he won’t be saying that shit no more.”

  “He won’t be saying nothing,” DeSean said. “One of us is gonna have to make that call and calm his psycho-ass moms.”

  “That’s you, god,” Mathematics said to DeSean. “You the diplomat.”

  * * *

  “Brother, are you okay?” Teacher Ali asked Lavidicus.

  “He can’t answer you,” another student said.

  “I see,” Teacher said, and took a long pause to survey Lavidicus’s face. “Deprived of your freedom of speech,” Teacher remarked afterwards. The class responded with complete silence, including Lavidicus, who didn’t shift his head, eyes, or body or react in any way.

  “Yesterday, Brother Lavidicus identified one of the roots of revolution for our class. He said the forcing of strangers into homes of civilians was one cause. It may also be called the ‘quartering of soldiers,’ because the British government was forcing colonists to house soldiers in their private homes. From your handout, readings, and thoughts, let’s discuss the additional causes.”

  “Plain and simple,” Imperial said. “Them British dudes was tryn’a run the American ’hoods.”

  “The American colonies,” Teacher Ali corrected.

  “True dat—same thing, though. The British were sending in their troops dominating, shooting and killing. And them British boys had real cannons,” Imperial said.

  “The main thing is that the British were fucking up their money. That’s gonna bring war into any territory,” Nino said.

  “Give me the details,” Teacher Ali pushed.

  “Too much taxes, closing down the seaports so ships couldn’t bring in the product. Shit like dat,” Nino answered.

  “Perfect,” Teacher said. “These were referred to as ‘The Intolerable Acts.’ Now, who can define what the word intolerable means?”

  “It’s like when you so used to shit happening a certain wrong way. You expect the cops to roll through, stop you, search you. That’s everyday bullshit. But when they order you to lay facedown on the pavement, that shit is intolerable.”

  “Fuck that, when they bussing shots at your back when you are unarmed and standing still, that shit is intolerable.”

  “Nah, when they shoot your moms or your grandmoms, that shit is intolerable. Remember Grandma Eleanor Bumpurs? Two years ago the NYPD hit her up with a twelve-gauge shotgun ’cause she was late paying her rent. When they went with the fake-ass housing authority cops to evict her, Grandma wouldn’t open up her door. She knew what time it was. NYPD executed her, an old lady. That was my BX ’hood,” the kid from the Bronx said, and I remembered his face from the riot.

  “Just to clarify, the NYPD did say that the old lady was crazy and threatening,” Teacher Ali provoked.

  The class laughed, a frustrated, angry laughter.

  “They say that about all of us,” YesYesYall said. “That don’t give them the right to shoot us, though.”

  “C’mon, man, the cops don’t give a fuck about anybody’s rights. What you mean it doesn’t ‘give them the ri
ght’? They taking it!” Slaughter said.

  “The cops are crazy and threatening. Maybe we should shoot them too,” the kid from the Bronx fired back.

  The sound of silence paralyzed the room. Even Teacher Ali didn’t have his usually quick comeback. Then he said, “The circumstances that you brothers are describing right now were the roots of the American Revolution. You must remember, however, that these identical circumstances, happening anywhere on Earth where humans live, are the same causes of revolution.” He looked around the room. There was a force behind his eyes.

  “The American colonists, whether they were relatives, friends, or complete strangers to one another, were bonded together by their mutual interest, and in their mutual rejection of unreasonably high taxes, of murder, of unfair trials not by a jury of their neighbors or peers, of military force and might and poverty. The colonists were not secure in their livelihood or safe in their own homes. They effectively experienced the withdrawal of their core rights and freedoms,” Teacher summarized, and then began writing one word on the blackboard: contradiction.

  “What were the contradictions in the American Revolution? Let me back up. Who knows the meaning of the word contradiction? he asked all of us.

  “A lie,” Bobby Ransom called out.

  “That’s part of it,” Teacher Ali said. “But not all of it.”

  “A hidden lie,” the kid from the Bronx answered.

  “Nice,” Teacher said, and then repeated, “A hidden lie.”

  “A hidden lie by a liar who presented himself as the truth, but for his own benefit,” I said.

  “That’s beautiful, brother, almost perfect! A contradiction is an inconsistency. In plain speech, however, we can summarize it as ‘a hidden lie that doesn’t match up with what a person, a group, or a government said they represented in the first place. In many cases, the contradiction may be the exact opposite of what a person said or pretended to represent or to have been pushing, politicking, and fighting for. We will end our discussion right there,” Teacher Ali said. Then he added, “Your assignment for tonight is to think about this: what was the hidden lie of the American Revolution?”

  “I already know it,” Mathematics said calmly.

  “Brother, it sounds like you need to say it right now rather than tomorrow,” Teacher pointed out.

  “The hidden lie was that all them white devils who were fighting for freedom were supporting slavery over the black man and woman at the same time. Meanwhile, the black man was helping them white devils win their freedom, and the first freedom fighter to get shot down was a black man.”

  “That’s fireworks!” Teacher Ali said.

  I had heard the breakdown of the “white man is the devil” philosophy. The Quran does not say that. I don’t believe that way. True believers in Islam believe that all humans of any race are capable of both good and evil. Every soul is in a struggle to separate itself from niggardliness and evil. And it seemed to me that that war around the world is always about power, money, land, gold, and women.

  Teacher Karim Ali pushed Mathematics to make himself clear. “But define the word you are using, devils.”

  “The British were white devil people. The colonists were white devil people. That’s white-on-white crime right there.” The class laughed. “One set of whites wanted freedom from the other set of whites. So they called themselves freedom fighters. But the British, who were the dominant whites, wanted to keep profiting from the weaker white colonists while ignoring their complaints and demands and taxing and giving them hell and giving up next to nothing. The contradiction was that the British whites and the white American colonist freedom fighters both believed in, participated in, and profited from the enslavement of the black man and woman in Britain in the American colonies and all around the world,” Mathematics said, summarizing his take on it.

  “Outstanding! That definitely was an inconsistency, ‘the hidden lie,’ a disregarded and buried truth. Thus it was definitely one contradiction of the American colonists who dubbed themselves revolutionary freedom fighters. The assignment for tomorrow, then, is to . . .” The class groaned, interrupting Teacher. “The assignment is to write one paragraph and be prepared to discuss it in class tomorrow, answering the question, ‘Are you a revolutionary or a contradiction?’ ”

  * * *

  “Lavidicus?” I called him over. He looked intimidated, lowered his gaze, then began to approach me slowly. “Look a man in his eyes when he’s talking to you. That’s what men do,” I told him. His nervous pupils jumped around before he could straighten them to look at me.

  “I apologize, man, for damaging your jaw. I’ll back my apology up with a favor to you. Ask me for one thing. If it’s within my reach, I’ll grant it. If it’s not, you can ask for something else that is. Something equal to the damage I did to you.”

  He was fidgeting. “Stop moving,” I told him. “Straighten your two legs and make your stance firm in the ground.” He began adjusting himself. “Breathe—you can’t spend your whole life holding your breath. That’s not what men do.” He inhaled, exhaled, inhaled. “Calmly—be calm, not dramatic.” Then, he began breathing normal. “Take some time and think about my offer. In as few words as possible, write down what favor you want. Hand it to me only in Teacher Ali’s class whenever you’re clear. Understand?” He nodded painfully.

  “Last thing,” I said. “Mention my mother one more time anywhere, any place, any time to anybody, no matter who it is, even if it’s only one word, one sentence, or even a compliment, I’ll kill you.”

  * * *

  Talking while locked up, the she-officer had already put me up on that. She said that the authorities would send you an inmate who is tagged an informant to them, and known as snitch to any prisoner. Their informant is a locked-up inmate, same as you, so your guard is down. He may tell you something about himself, then ask you something about yourself, your case, or some previous incident that occurred that you may or may not know anything about. “In casual conversation, you will say something that might result in new charges being added on to the ones you already have. In one word, or one sentence out of your own mouth to another inmate, you may be shocked when he suddenly appears testifying against you at your trial or could simply, with the information he gathered and you told him, be guaranteeing your own conviction.” I thought it was hard to believe, doing an extra five, ten, fifteen years because of a conversation. But I thought about how even in my case, the number-one thing the detectives and prosecutor did not have was evidence and eyewitness testimony. I believed that they would easily plant someone beside me to collect information that they were incapable of gathering on me on their own and that I was never ever going to hand them.

  Informants oftentimes are inmates who have a pending case. Since they face conviction, and as their trial date draws near, their fears stretch out and explode in them. They would trade another inmate’s freedom to secure their own, even if they have to do dirty deeds, lie and invent details, or simply tell something that had been said, agreed to casually, or confided.

  More than the murder I committed, any information that connected me to my Umma was what I intended to squash, avoid, eliminate. That reasoning led to my impulse to crash my fist into Lavidicus’s face. I needed him and anybody else to know not to get casual or sloppy with me. Don’t mention my mother or my women, or ask me any personal questions. Not one of these cats is a friend to me.

  I’m not a man who makes threats. I execute. Whatever the truth is in my soul, heart, or mind, I take action over words. In my young life, I have never told any man, “If you do this or that, I’ll kill you.” However, the circumstances of this situation were different. I wasn’t sorry that I silenced Lavidicus. I thought the hit he took would cause him to never mention Umma again. And in the extremely slim chance that he slipped up, to me that would mean that he was either stupid, or he was being used to gather or confirm information on me or my family. I meant what I said when I told him the consequences of that
. So why did I apologize for smashing his face? Why did I agree to grant him a favor, especially not knowing his mind or what he would ask for?

  I had to. In order to live with myself, to define myself, I had to apologize to Lavidicus. When I saw the M3s grouping me up with themselves and praising me for a deed well done, I knew I had done something that I wanted to do, but something that was wrong. I knew also that just admitting it to myself was cowardly. I could not accept myself as a coward. I hate that. I needed to apologize to him face-to-face, and I needed to back that apology up with something that I was willing to sacrifice, as a form of repayment for what I had done.

  How did I decide that I had done wrong? Like in a math problem or an equation where we must show our work, our thinking through numbers, calculations, and answers and conclusions, I had to do the math of life. First, Lavidicus is a victim. The word victim has about three definitions. A victim is a person who suffers because of a destructive action. A victim is a person who is deceived or cheated by his own emotions or ignorance or by the dishonesty of others. A victim is also an animal served up as a sacrifice. Lavidicus was all three.

  Lavidicus’s mother had a legit job where she earned; I knew this because I used to see her wearing her work uniform. But she also carried herself like a whore. This caused her to participate in disrespectful arrangements and relationships with men. This meant that Lavidicus had been raised in the presence of men who didn’t love or respect her, who also fought and beat her and consequently didn’t love or respect him. He loved his mother. However, he was so young when the parade of her disrespectful boyfriends began, that he couldn’t protect her or respect her from early on. I figured it must burn a continuous fire in his chest to love a mother he couldn’t or didn’t respect.

  I used to see him around our Brooklyn block, looking embarrassed, vulnerable, and weak. For a few years I didn’t see him at all. When I encountered him again here at Rikers, and he was grown and had the male physique, I did not know the details of what had happened to him. After I hit him was when DeSean told me that DeQuan caught Lavidicus on the back stairwell with Lance’s dick in his mouth. Lance, the same trash who I murdered. As a man, I couldn’t envision or fathom or accept or even imagine that. Only thing I knew was that Lance was at least three or four years older than Lavidicus. Still, Lavidicus was old enough at that time, eleven or twelve, to know better, to fight back and to retaliate. I can only assume that what Lance did to him was forced. Who would do that voluntarily? What I did know for certain was that Lance was a predator.