by Wahida Clark
“You mean: faggot,” Craze-zo interrupted them, tired of hearing all the gay shit being spoken in his presence. He was ready for whatever with his knife with him. Everybody looked at him questioningly as Britney let the commissary bag fall to the ground again.
“Islam Moor,” Atwater said, trying to keep everybody's temper calm. “Sometimes foolishness goes faster than wisdom and sound judgment. Excuse us.”
“What! That fool don't want no wax with me!” Craze-zo said as he snatched his barber bib off his neck.
“You disrespecting my friend, Cali?” Black said as he placed the clippers down.
Craze-zo looked confused for a second, and Atwater came to his aid. “He straight, Black. He's with me. I just need to have a word with him. He's like family to me.”
Black was reluctant as he said, “Islam.”
Britney picked up the commissary bag, and they walked out as Butterfly followed.
Black was about to follow them when he stopped and said, “Don't be mad, Britney. Shit! See you later, Butterfly.”
“Bye, Black,” Butterfly said as they left.
Black looked at Craze-zo, who stood there still heated. But Atwater shook his head at Black to suggest that he understood his frustrations with Craze-zo.
“I said I got him, Black. Don't trip off that shit.”
“What was the disrespect for?” Black still couldn't understand. E and Berry were ready to put in some work anyways, especially on this nigga who didn't have any homeboys from Cali and was a thousand miles away from home.
“Moor, let that die down. Islam,” Atwater bid him.
“Islam, but hey, champ, don't be so quick to judge the next man till you've walked a mile in his shoes.”
Black recommenced cutting hair, but you could tell he was thirsty for blood, as well as E and Berry. And to cool everything down, Atwater took Craze-zo outside, and they walked to the other side of the Commissary.
“Craze-zo, what kind of idiot shit was that?” Atwater asked once they were by themselves.
“Homie, I ain’t tripping or worried about no fag or no fag-lovers. I hate faggots!” And I told you I’m waiting for one of those fags to jump out there.”
“It wasn't that fag you would have had to worry about. You would have had to worry about E and Berry, who were strapped to the teeth waiting for you to jump out there. They would have butchered us in there.”
“Us?” Craze-zo asked.
“Yes-us, because I wouldn't have let them do anything to you. You were with me. Just like Black couldn't allow you to disrespect his people, because they were with him. You gotta step your game up if you're kicking it with me. I can't have you jeopardizing my life with that 'I don't give a fuck' attitude. I've built too much shit in my life to have it torn apart on some bullshit. You could have fucked up all the shit I have going on, my plans for the future, in a couple of seconds of being out of control of yourself.
“Now go back in there and apologize to Black.”
“What for? I didn't call him a faggot?”
“Craze-zo.” Atwater realized it was going to take longer than he thought to make him understand. “It's called finesse. Never ever allow yourself to use disrespectful words, not even to your enemy—not even if you're going to kill him. If you compliment the man you're going to kill, he'll never put his guard up to you. And trust me, you don't want the likes of Black, E, and Berry sitting around with unresolved issues with you.”
It took a minute for Craze-zo to capitulate, and it was largely out of the respect he had for Atwater, whom he saw as an older brother, or better yet, a father.
They went back into the barbershop and Craze-zo said, “Black, I didn't mean to disrespect you. I just called it how I seen it. My bad. I was out of pocket.”
“Apology accepted, Cali.” And Black meant it. “They throw us all together in here, and we have to learn to have respect for people who are different, that's all.”
Craze-zo finally understood. “That's real talk.”
Atwater looked at Craze-zo through the mirror and smiled on some big brother shit. But he knew the feeling was only temporary because Craze-zo was hot headed.
Chapter Ten
The Making Of Greatness
Would you like to share the meat and mead of an old man, young black scholar?” Old School asked Atwater as he was heading to his unit after leaving the barbershop at 7:30 p.m.
It was obvious that Old School referred to Atwater as the young black scholar, and Atwater would never pass an opportunity of sharing meat and mead with Old School. Although he was on his way to shit, shower, shave, and then put in a call to Shonda, those things could wait.
“You're going to break bread with me?”
“The breaking of bread is for Lords and disciples, while the sharing of meat and mead is for friends and family. Come on and take a lap with me.”
On their way to the yard, Atwater told Old School about his conversation with Shonda when she told him she had been raising the kids all by herself. Old School laughed and attributed Shonda's statement to the unique station of a woman, their frailty. Atwater couldn't help but laugh at how Old School summed matters in a few words, and although Old School was fifty-seven years old, he seemed far beyond his years.
They got to the yard and walked the track. It was nice out and very few people were out and about. This was usually the time when Old School took advantage of the peace and tranquility of the yard. He'd come out every night around this time and walk and think and plan. He was always planning and plotting.
“Do I see a worry crook in your forehead?” Old School asked.
“What?”
“That wasn't there when I saw you yesterday. You're letting Shonda stress you out?”
“No, Old School.” Atwater laughed.
“You know the youngster I'm always with? Craze-zo? He got into it with the homosexual, Britney Spears. He called him a faggot, and Black, E, and Berry were going to back Britney up.”
Old School assessed the situation before he would speak. People usually gave bad advice, not because they couldn't have given good advice, but because they didn't fully appraise a situation by first listening and getting an understanding.
“Why would Black back the homosexual?”
“Because he came to see Black, and Craze-zo butted in their conversation and called him a faggot.”
“I see. Being a young man is very hard. We both were there, and it always seemed like we had to prove ourselves in an effort to become our own men. Being Black and young and in jail, we think the only way to prove ourselves is by hitting or stabbing somebody. How many of these brothers do you remember has written a National Best-seller or did some Don King moves once he got out of jail? You see, it's hard to think of that, but I'm sure you can think of more than enough examples of when somebody stabbed or hit somebody upside the head.”
“You're right about that.”
“You're about to go home, Atwater. I don't want you to go to the streets and get drowned in the sea of the economic crisis. But to leave here and go out there with no plans or saving grace would mean that the eighteen years you've just put behind you were all for naught. And when you go back, remember this: a man who fails to plan plans to fail.”
“I got some plans, Old School, but they're scattered in my head.”
“I know you have that partner of yours out there and he's still selling drugs and he's probably knee deep in the streets. So do you know what that means for you?”
“No.”
“It means that that's all he can offer you, a spot in his dope territory. And believe me, he'll share it reluctantly. It's cool to send some funds and take care of your wife, but he's been out there practically surviving by keeping people out of the game. And friendships are easily broken when you have to be a real friend.
“But it means more for you too. If you go back out there and get in that game, it means that if you come back here, your sentence is going to jump from doing another eighteen years
to something harsher like thirty years or more. The crackers have set this game up for us to lose, and the more we try to get-over, the deeper the shit gets.
“Riddle me this: the President, a terrorist, and a wise man; what do they have in common?”
“That's a trick question, Old School. They don't have nothing in common.”
“You're very wrong, pupil. All three of them want to persuade an overall theatre full of a certain audience—an audience they intend to control to make a decision, action, or to behave a certain way; one through wisdom, the other through fear, and lastly, one through lies and empty promises. I'm sure you can put faces to each of them.”
“You're saying that it's the President who persuades his audience through lies and empty promises?”
“I never said it, Atwater Bey. Their actions throughout recorded history says it. I'm just a scholar, as you yourself. But yes, it would mean that it's the President who fits the bill. But he has two faces, because his executive orders are carried out through the threat of violence: he wears the faces of the haloed-politician and the terrorist.”
“That's real.”
“I know it's degradable when we have these high-power conversations and then we descend to talking about pimping. But there's no better way to understand the relationship between rulers and the ruled. Everything is a pimp/ho/trick relationship, and within those three divisions two pimps become brothers, two hos become sisters, and two tricks, brothers. You and I are brothers, but the rest of these fools in here and their weak minds, puts them in another division of hoes or tricks. They become hos by their weak minds and their inability to hold abstract thoughts and concepts. That's why the white man holds so dear to mathematics, physics, and all other pure sciences. Because that's where abstract concepts and theorems thrive; and their advancement with technology and civilization continues in an upward swing. These cats in here become tricks by being undisciplined and unorganized.
“But even if you organize a trick, he's still a trick operating under the guise of something bigger than himself. These COs are still tricks, and even if the rules and laws that they abide by are geared to rid them of trick characteristics, they're still tricks. And it's our jobs as pimps to find out what wets their beaks—and we own them. The President, the judges, all of them can have trick tendencies. But it's for a true pimp to find out what they are, and exploit them. That's where the power lies.”
Old School brought their stroll to a stop as something became clear to him. What he’d say next, he hoped would help Atwater throughout his life. “When you get out, make sure you do what all great people do: build yourself an intelligence-base. Get you a think-tank that keeps you informed about everything.”
Atwater chuckled. Old School had just given him an idea that made his mind spin. If people in powerful places were tricks, then they could be exploited and used.
It was the beginning of all the scattered plans in Atwater’s head coming together. And what he envisioned would make peoples’ teeth shiver from the chill as if they were in the harsh cold of Antarctica. But his plans couldn’t be as twisted as he was considering now. Because that would mean . . . that would mean . . . he couldn’t even bring himself to say it. But he played with the thought for the remainder of the day.
Chapter Eleven
I cried my heart out.
Butterfly arranged everything she bought at commissary, and it proved to be a test to load everything in the semi-full space. And she didn't know what she would do with all the food she ordered, because she didn't know how to cook, and she wasn't really a big-eater. But she bought the things that Britney picked out.
Britney lay sprawled across the bottom bunk and wouldn't stop talking about how he wished he could have had a crack at Craze-zo for five seconds.
“I should have kicked his ass in there!”
“For what?” Butterfly asked. This was their tenth time going over it.
“So that he'd have to live with getting his ass whipped by somebody gay,” Britney said.
Butterfly sighed.
“You're going to have to put some of that stuff in my locker.”
Britney helped Butterfly put some of the things up, and he had come across Butterfly's receipt.
“Damn! You robbed a bank?”
Butterfly snatched the receipt away.
“Everybody in here ain’t a flea-rotten prostitute.”
“That's true. It's only us gorgeous ‘hos. But you had money out there?” Britney asked, kind of shocked.
“I still do. I'm a model. I've ripped the runway, did the venue of all the Black magazines. I've done commercials and videos. I've done it all.”
“How did you manage to get locked up then?”
“It's a long story.”
Britney looked at her as if they didn't have anything but tons of time to waste.
“Identity theft and somebody talked me into cashing some checks for them, and I didn't know it was a set up. If truth be told, I've been using other girls’ identities since I was young, but I had stopped busting checks.”
“I believe you, and I know you're not lying. You're a pretty bitch, and it would be impossible to tell you apart from any other girl. But you were never scared that when you were modeling they would find out that you were a man?”
“Not really. I mean, besides, with this tiny appendage attached to my body, it's impossible to tell.”
“I don't know—your hair is looking a little messed up.” Britney laughed.
“That ain’t fair. I don't know what to do with my nappy hair without a stylist in sight.”
“Why don't you use mayonnaise?”
“Why would I do something stupid like that?”
“I don't know; I thought that was an Aunt Jemima's recipe. Plus, a lot of guys in jail do it to get waves.”
“I'm not that desperate.”
“I'm just making fun of you. You're gorgeous no matter how you wear your hair.”
“Thank you, I really needed that. All of this prison stuff can really kill a person's spirits. I don't hate much, but I hate this place.”
“Have you been feeling down?”
Butterfly shook her head.
“Here, have a seat and tell me all about it.”
Butterfly left the remainder of the commissary to one side of the bed as she recounted the story of how her life had turned into a nightmare.
“My ex's name is Clayton. I met him through his cousin Peyton, who I met while modeling. Peyton knew I was dating Clayton, but she didn’t know I was a pre-op transgender. And I don't know how she found out about me, but it was like she found it out, and now I'm not so sure that she didn't know about me from the start.
“But she told their whole family,” Butterfly said as she cried.
“Take your time.” Britney consoled her as best as he could.
“After his family found out, they demanded that he leave me alone. When he realized that his family was against us, we packed up and moved to Richmond, Virginia. I was so happy.” The thought of it choked her up all the more, and Britney pat her on her back.
At the time she didn’t ever think that Clayton’s family would take it out on Peyton. Butterfly couldn’t have known, because Peyton never changed toward her, even though they didn’t speak much after Clayton and Butterfly moved to Richmond.
“I was so happy living with him that I felt I had opened a new chapter in my life. But it hadn't been a month after we had left when one of his friends called and told him that his mother had died.” More tears cascaded from Butterfly's eyes, and she couldn't hold back the flood. After she had gathered herself, she continued.
“Can you believe that his family didn't even tell him about his mother being in the hospital or dying or anything about the funeral? After he found out, everything went downhill from there. He blamed me for everything!”
“Don't cry about that. It's all behind you now. Don't cry, Butterfly.”
“Life is so hard! Why is life so hard? Please tell me
why life's so hard?”
“I can't tell you. I just know that you have to be strong, and every time you fall, you have to get back up, brush yourself off, and keep going like nothing happened.”
“But I can't,” Butterfly said. She wasn't even finished telling her story. “When Clayton found out about his mother, he beat me up so bad that I had to stay in the hospital for two months. He just kept hitting me and calling me sissies and fags and queers and gay and all types of horrible things! I just wished he would have killed me, because I still miss him so much, and I'm not mad at him for all the pain he caused me. I forgive him, because if this world is half as crazy for him as it is for me; I understand his pain and hurt.”
“Don't say that. Nobody deserves to get punched on for whatever reasons. Don't say that, ever. You'll find somebody else.”
Butterfly mended her heart as she cried on Britney's shoulder. The night outside had zapped the energy from her, and all she wanted to do was crawl in the bed and sleep a long, soundless sleep, and she didn't know if she'd want to wake again.
She thought about her childhood and all the negativity and hate for no other reason than people didn't understand who she was and that she had a beautiful heart that was generous, sensitive, and gentle. She wouldn't hurt anybody—it wasn't her nature. But for all the good she had, she attracted that much more evil, and she couldn't help but wonder why people reacted like Clayton and nearly beat her to death. Or vengeful like Peyton to go through all that time faking a friendship to eventually set Butterfly up. Or people like her father, so hateful that he spurned the love of his own son. Or people like her uncle, who were so twisted in perversion that they would contaminate a kid’s innocence. Could God be so cruel? And was there some other foreseeable plan for her future that would turn everything that had gone wrong in her life into something that could atone and amend for all the pain and suffering she had endured? And, as with life and all other complex questions, they seemed to go unanswered.
Chapter Twelve