Whenever and wherever, they fall around each other, whether it’s through the cell bars on the “highway,” yelling from fence to fence if they are anywhere remotely close to each other, or clashing on the same yard. Best case scenario, it’s always raw and rugged.
Especially if you’ve got two heavyweights. Two legends clashing would be talked about for years. Like old folklore. And the objective is always the same. They battle until one or the other grabs the crowd and emerges the victor. Thus, taking the other’s props. His hype. His power. The more rappers a lyricist outshines, the stronger he becomes. Powerful.
It gets deeper than that, though. Much deeper. Many of the rappers and hip-hop heads have life sentences, or number sentences equivalent to life. It’s nothing to be standing next to someone who’s been sentenced to two lifes and 495 years. The prison farm’s warden keeps upping the percentage of the inmate population expected to die here with every successive speech. Shit is real. They’ve all regularly sat in assemblies and heard this shit spoken over their heads.
So, of course, the environment is highly charged. The music it churns out is intense. And sincere. These are young men. Ages 17 to 38, sometimes older. They make up more than three-quarters of the population. The large majority of them are Black. Many of them come to prison frustrated, backward, and degenerate. The music speaks to them. Comforts them. Teaches them. Encourages them. To both the speaker and the listener, the music is a lifeline.
The battles are not what one would expect them to be. Yes, there is a large amount of “shoot-’em-up-bang-bang” gangsta and street commentary. But that’s just at the broad entry level. If a rapper wanna be a member of the elite, he gotta step up his game. Legends and heavyweights alike spit poetic. They spit flames. Knowledge. Awakening. The realest say things that mandate studying and self-awareness to even understand, let alone to compete wit’. The legends provoke thought. They push people to keep up with them. The heads quote their lyrics in troublin’ situations like Bible verses. Proverbs.
So what has developed is a bunch of young men soul-searchin’ and playin’ the library to keep up. The bar is high. The elite make up a small society and are separated into two primary orders. These two be lookin’ through the masses for prospects and prodigies. They pull them and polish them up. Prepare ’em to be positive agents in the struggle. Then they push ’em back into the population to inspire, encourage, and enlighten. To help they people adopt the proper mindset needed to strengthen them spiritually, mentally, and emotionally. With the right morals. To also help them develop the necessary tools and reasoning faculties to study law independently and appeal the game.
This is the legacy that No Love is a part of. Since they’ve been talkin’, he has not necessarily been givin’ Lil Chris the whole rundown. He has more or less been hipping him to the bigger picture. Showing him how real go-getters hop. Alerting him to the possibility of another level to this shit, an enriched way of life to be pursued by the lyrically elite all around him.
“It’s way bigger than rappin’, lil bro,” No Love says, and beckons him to come on in.
CHAPTER TEN
“SAY, HALL MAN!”
“Who that is?” somebody calls out. “Hey, who that is on the tier? … Hey!”
A slow, throaty voice replies, “Oh, man, that’s umm … ah, ah, ya boy. You know. Ole boy be wit’ that be-boppin’.”
“Say, Bama!”
“Wow!”
“Putcha peeper out and see who that is.”
“Alright!” Bama sits up on the bottom bunk and pulls his mattress back to reach a piece of glass about the length and width of a fingernail. It is mounted on the tip of a plastic white spoon. Old gum for adhesive. He leans against the cell door and sets the peeper just beyond the cast iron bars.
“Yeah, man, like I was sayin’. A great deal of my life has been spent craving. I’m hungry, straight like that. Sooner or later, they go’n have to let me eat.”
Rise looks at the brother standing at the cell bars speaking. Sees the hurt and frustration in his face. Passion and disappointment play hand in hand behind the chests of most of the brothers in the system. If it weren’t necessary to follow the unspoken guidelines that govern this mass cult of masculinity, then it would be commonplace to see brothers breaking down. Showing all emotion.
“I put in work for everything I got and all I am,” the frustrated brother says. He waves his arm over the interior of the man cage that has him trapped. “You think I ’on’t want more than this? Rise, I grew up in this place. I’m a hard-knock vet. I got a lot I could contribute to society out there in them streets.”
“I understand fully. Don’t get sidetracked. Stay focused. Content to prepare yourself. Without waver, homie. And, when the time comes, execute.”
With this statement, Rise takes one last look at the man he’s talking to. He looks him in the eyes. They are the only part of him that is distinct. Everything else about him is similar or identical to every other brother trapped in these blocks: dingy white jumpsuit rolled down and tucked at the waist, shower shoes, nappy hair, and ashy skin.
There is a stale stench on the tier because the brothers that can’t get their homies to slide them deodorant have to put state soap under their arms, and that only works for so long. Their breath is straight, though. If they don’t give you anything else, the state gives you toilet tissue and toothpaste.
Still, the eyes are the expression of the man. They tell you of his mental and spiritual condition, his health, his objective. His intentions. It is so very hard to train the eyes to deceive. Few are capable of doing this. The eyes tell where the man has been. Who and where he is. And where he’s going.
Rise looks the man in the eye. The man in the cell places his fist to the cell bars. Rise meets his gesture with his open palm.
“Oh, that’s Rise! Hey, Rise, come down some! Holla at the homie!” Bama, with his childlike voice.
“Who that is, Bama? That Rise?”
“Yeah! Flag him down here!”
“Say, Rise!”
“Look, man, I’ma let you get to yo’ people down there.”
“Yeah, they wildin’ out for real, huh.”
Rise has been on the cellblock unit for about an hour now. Being a tutor, he comes to teach the brothers who are in cells and out of reach of the learning programs. He can also see about the needs of his brethren. Sometimes, serving these needs calls for a little violating. Nothing major, just not allowing the threat of disciplinary action to stop him from answering certain calls that need to be met.
Rise understands that he is a power piece. In the system, everyone is a write-up away from the cells. No matter how much favor one may have garnered with the administration. Few in Rise’s position understand this. Or, they don’t acknowledge it. So when one of the real homies ascends to a position of comparable privilege in the institution, it’s his responsibility to keep it solid with his team. To make sure that the benefits of his post are circulated through the general brotherhood. At the end of the day, you don’t climb your way out of prison. You work your way out. So, the power piece does good to recognize that these are the only people who will remain when he falls out of favor. Which is inevitable if he’s living right with his people.
On the other hand, it’s on his team to protect his interest. Make sure that his path is not littered with nonsense and carelessness. They’re supposed to restrain from asking him to pull off frivolous acts or transport major contraband. This is for pawn homies, lil soul-jahs with dues to pay.
Each day offers another set of issues and goals the homies want or need to address. Rise is the hand up. A voice with the administration when they need to be heard. A resource when for whatever reason a homie is dealt a bad hand. He’s the mobility when they can’t move. This is why they protect him. He’s just a bolt in the machine, true. But a valuable one.
“Wow! What’s up with the brothers?”
“What’s happenin’, Rise? I knew you was comin’ ’round after
a while,” Bama answers. “I just was tellin’ yo’ two homies about you.”
“What’s happenin’ with you, mayne?” a familiar voice asks.
“Is that No Love? I was just asking Black about you. I hadn’t seen you in a minute.”
“Yeah. I was on my way down the walk but I got somebody in my enemy jacket down there. I’m still tryna figure out who dat is.”
“If you want, I can look into that for you,” Rise offers.
“I ’preciate the offer, Rise. But you know you can’t check my enemy jacket.”
“Don’t sweat me. Do you want me to see what can be done or not?”
“Ay-ay-ay! Al’ight, you got that, homeboy. Do ya thing. Like I said, I ’preciate you.”
“Just be cool, and don’t catch no more write-ups while you in here waiting. And stop thanking me for doin’ what I supposed to do, anyway.”
“Yeah, you right. It’s supposed to be done, but ain’t but a few playin’ it like it go. So you gotta feel the ones that do.”
“Say, Rise,” Bama puts in, “you know they got Lil Chris in cell 9, huh? You need to holla at him, Rise. He cool people. He can say them raps, too.”
“Yeah, I’m hip to the lil brother,” Rise says. No Love’s cell, where Rise is standing, is right next to Lil Chris’s cell. Rise takes the few steps over to stand in front of the C’ster’s cell.
He sees Lil Chris sitting in the bottom bunk, staring at the wall. “Whaz happening wit’ you, lil bro?” Rise greets him.
“I’m cool.”
“I know you ain’t still in here from that lil car wreck you had a few weeks back, huh?”
“Yeah, they wrote it up aggravated. They wanted to send me to J.”
“Nawl, lil man. If they wanted to send you to Camp J, they would have.”
“Nawl, I’m just sayin’—”
“I believe I know where you at,” Rise cuts him off. “These cells are a necessary evil, though. Don’t sweat it. You need to concentrate on turning the cage into a laboratory and focus on building yo’self up.”
Rise stops. Looks at Lil Chris. Lil Chris says nothing in response. Stares at the wall in front of him.
“You know,” Rise starts again. “You can move that wall if you want to.”
“Wit’ what,” Lil Chris says.
“Your mind.”
“Look, my nigga. Don’t play wit’ me. I don’t play.”
“I may laugh, but I don’t play either,” Rise assures him. “All we have, right now, is our minds. But the thing is, that’s all we’ve ever had. There is a deeper truth that abides. This will do for you for now,” Rise trails off, more to himself. Adds, “What type of education do you have?”
“What?”
“Did you finish school?”
“Oh, yeah. My GED. I got it when I was 16. I was even in college for a minute.”
“Good. Where did you study at?”
“Southern, on the Cooper Road.”
Rise frowns. “Oh, SUSBO! I know where you at. That community college. A junior program.”
“I don’t know what it was, but I went.”
“Okay. That’s a start. Do you remember what you studied?”
Lil Chris smiles. “Yeah. Tashona. Danyell. Tammy. Kris. Oh, and Samantha—she was off the chain.”
No Love, who’s been lying in his bunk listening in, starts laughing.
“Alright, alright,” Rise says. “I get ya point.”
Silence. Rise studies Lil Chris, who’s still studying the cell wall. After a long pause, No Love mumbles, “To touch without feeling is the ultimate sin.”
Rise stiffens. Makes his mind up.
“Just … stay out of trouble, lil brother. I’ll be around to see you when you get where you goin’.”
Silence. Not a word from the C’ster.
Rise walks over and pulls a bunch of candy and a pack of Bugler tobacco out of his front two pockets. He gives them to Bama. “I got your kite. You need anything else just shoot me another one. I’ll be up from time to time. You can holla then. I’ma talk to some people to see if anything can be done about your situation. Be cool, big homie.”
“Okay, Rise. And, I ’preci—”
“Uh-uh, Big Homie. Don’t ever thank me for doing what I supposed to do.” Rise stops to look at him, as if thinking to himself. He says, “I gotta go. I love you, Big Bro. Holla when you need me.”
As he walks past the cells, he speaks a goodbye to the brothers. “A’ight, Lil Chris, No Love. Y’all be cool. I’ma handle that.” He walks a few steps further. He speaks to everyone he passes as he makes his exit. “Be strong, my man. Peace out, brother. Alright, alright, keep ya chin up, kid.” He feels their pain.
As Rise stands by the bars at the end of the tier, waiting for the turnkey to come open the door, he looks back at the cells. They’re warehousing us, he thinks. The C.O. finally comes to open the door. A few heartbeats later, he’s walking out of the cellblock unit.
As he steps away, he says quietly to himself, “Indeed, far worse than blasphemy.”
“Say Lil Chris,” No Love shouts as he beats on the wall that stands between them. “Lil Chris! Where you at, mayne?”
“There ain’t too many places I can be. What you want?”
“Where you at?! Stick ya head to the bars.”
Lil Chris comes to the front of the cell, where the wall separating them pulls up short of the bars. If they stand real close, they can see each other’s face.
This implies that the conversation is private. Though it doesn’t necessarily mean that no one is listenin’.
“Say,” No Love starts. “Rise a real nigga, man. Don’t play him off like that.”
“What you mean—‘play him off?’” Lil Chris asks.
“Come on, kid. I was listening the whole time. The dude ain’t lame, noo.”
“I ain’t say he was,” Lil Chris is perplexed.
“No. It’s a reason I’m telling you this. If he didn’t have no intention of dealin’ wit’ you, he would have never told you to be still. He go’n holla. Expect that. But, if you wit’ the foolishness, he go’n back up. You’ll lose out in the long run. Trus’ that.”
Silence. Lil Chris doesn’t respond.
Rise lays awake in his bunk, looking out the window. He’s thinking about the homies from earlier that night. Going over the best means to remedy some of the problems they face. This is his burden. When he comes across adversity, whether it challenges him directly or indirectly, through someone else close to him, his spirit won’t let him turn it loose. He has to attack it.
Often, he strategizes. Dissects each soul-jah’s character in an effort to really understand them and their plights. Ain’t but one struggle. He knows this. His thing is to figure out how best to help them. He’s always been like this. It’s the reason he’s still in prison.
His thoughts turn to this young brother, Lil Chris. There is something about the boy’s spirit. He feels drawn to this kid. As if in ministering to the youngster, he’ll somehow correct a disservice he’s done another soul in a past life.
He knows, just off instinct, that helping Lil Chris won’t be easy at all. The kid is definitely gonna fight him. But, the prospect of releasing the boy’s strength—that much power, liberated … It’s too much to allow to lie dormant. He may need to be shook a little, but in a conscious state the lil brother stands to be a major force. The struggle needs Lil Chris.
And Lil Chris needs to struggle.
With this thought, Rise feels a creative drive. He reaches over and grabs his pen and pad. Begins to jot out a few loosely constructed thoughts:
Winds whisper
Through the corridors of life
With unseen forces
Combat boots stomp in cadence
Dust rises.
Were nature to rebel
In frustrated response
To men’s feeble attempts to defy universal law,
Then who would lend a hand to raise the sun?
Who wo
uld water the soil?
Who would breathe on us
That we should breathe, again.
To touch without feeling
Is the ultimate sin
Far worse than blasphemy
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I placed my hand
On the concrete wall.
Felt the heartbeat
The pulsatin’
The passion
The cellblock aura.
My cellblock state mind
Utter despair, where I come from
Mingled wit’ a conviction to overcome.
Explore my beginnings
From a ghuttah mentality
But, peep my vitality, vibe wit’ me
Follow the growth of a hooligan
Come up from hard livin’ without
I was driven…
“YO! RACK THE DOOR BACK!”
The cell door slides open and C-Boy looks up from the toilet bowl where he is crouched over, doing his white laundry. He can hear the boxes sliding down the tier. Damn, I’m finna get a cellie, he thinks to himself.
“Ay, ay, ay, lem’me push my boxes up to the front of the cell,” C-Boy says as this new cat comes into view.
Whether he heard him or not is debatable, but this dude just continues workin’ his property into the cell. Eventually, he lodges his two footlockers up front, by the cell bars.
“Say brah, you ain’t hear me?”
Silence. The lil dude walks out the cell and comes back a few minutes later carrying his sheet bundle wit’ everything that he didn’t leave in the dungeon. As the door slides shut behind him, he swings his bundle up to the top bunk and busies himself with breaking the metal seals security placed on his boxes during storage.
That done, he takes up half the space on the cell floor, trapping a frustrated C-Boy in one corner while he’s opening up his boxes and rummaging through their contents. A moment later, Sergeant Willis steps in front of the cell.
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