“She is racist! You been here so long you can’t see it,” I said, still staring through the glass.
“Jim, can you calm down?” he asked. “What does racism have to do with this?”
“That racist bitch—”
“Jim, take a deep breath,” he suggested. “Do you remember the skill of expressing your feelings appropriately?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled.
“Okay, let me hear it.”
Once I was revved up, it wasn’t easy to bring me down. Reluctantly, I began, “Remain calm and relaxed.”
“What else?”
“Look at the person you’re talking to, tell them how you feel.”
“And?”
“Don’t curse, and tell the person you appreciate them hearing you,” I said. Just saying the steps aloud helped me follow them, which in turn calmed me down.
“So you just proved to me you’re intelligent by telling me these skills. You need to practice what you already know. You need to check yourself and give yourself credit. Can I be real with you?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“One of the skills was look at the person you’re talking to, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, turning to look at Mario for the first time.
“You forgot to take responsibility for how you feel. You feel you’re stupid because that is how we describe our struggles of not knowing something. Raising your hand proved you’re not stupid. Ms. Oglio’s been doing this a long time. Don’t project how you feel about yourself onto her. The only thing that’s stupid is giving up, like a punk. You a punk?” he asked.
“Hell no. I’m no punk,” I said.
“Then fight for your future. You can win only with proper training. We believe in you, but that means nothing if you don’t believe in yourself.”
I quietly soaked in what he said, but I was all in the moment. I couldn’t see the future, even the immediate future. I couldn’t see the very next thing, like returning to the classroom.
“Now, straight, that cost you five thousand points and you owe her an apology. She wants you to use your own brain. People cheat on tests but fail to realize that they don’t know what they’re supposed to know. Would you want a doctor that cheated on his board exams to operate on you?”
“No.”
“I’m going to bring you back in there so you can apologize. Ms. Oglio is gangster. She might look like a little white lady, but don’t get it twisted.”
After that incident, I cooled down toward Ms. Oglio and she went out of her way to teach me basic things like how to write a sentence. I’d always had an interest in history and politics so I was drawn naturally to what went on in her class. I had an appetite to know what happened before me. I was always asking why, and when there was an answer, it was history that provided it.
Ms. Oglio wouldn’t let me hide or slip by. She was tenacious and had a kind of X-ray vision, seeing me as more than my file. She had a habit of touching my shoulder when she was proud, and warmth flowed out of her. Teaching wasn’t just about imparting information for her; it was about connection and relationships and love. Ms. Oglio understood there was a brain, an experience, and a soul on the other side of her instruction.
She was a small woman so I became protective toward her and tried to make her job easier. There were authority figures—in school, at Dean Street, back home—whose job I wanted to make harder. Part of acting out was about creating resistance for those I didn’t respect, exerting my power and influence. With Ms. Oglio I wanted to do the opposite.
But the truth is that I was nearly illiterate and mostly overwhelmed in those classes. I had been truant for so long, with such a weak foundation, that things were difficult. English was my second language, I lacked basic knowledge of history, and I had a background in a different math system. I either tried to hide what I didn’t know or, if put on the spot, made it hard to teach me. I wore the bully cape sometimes, intimidating other kids and initiating conflict with the Boys Town staff and teachers. Survival instincts are like concrete; it takes a long, sustained force for them to crack. Asking questions meant showing my vulnerability and as a kid you never want to do that—you just nod your head and go along with the teacher. Plus, it was all so overwhelming; I didn’t even know where to start.
After school we’d return to Dean Street for our prescribed study hours. Then we’d total up our points for the day. If you made your privileges (“privs”), you’d get television time or a sweet snack—another indication we had our feet in two worlds. We were young enough that cookies and milk was a reward yet we were escorted in and out of a van like state property.
Behind a high white fence in back was an enclosed courtyard with a basketball hoop, and thick leaves drooping down. We’d have barbecues back there in the summertime and play three on three before dinner. Our math teacher let us play chess in class so we got into that for a while. There was also a basketball court on the other side of Dean Street, but we needed permission from the city, state, and Boys Town to go there. Even then we’d get escorted and staff would stand at all exits around the gates.
Lights out was 8:30 unless you were on the highest level, Achievement, and you got to stay up later. That was another psychological and biological wall I hit. I was used to being out on my own, doing what I wanted, staying up late hustling, getting high and drunk, and sleeping in. Now I had to be in bed at 8:30, which was usually before my night even got started. And then I was up with the sun, which I only ever saw on the other side of the night. The point system reset every day, so no one was ever so far in the hole that it was hopeless to climb out. The next day was literally a brand-new day, which spelled something rare: hope.
Boys Town broke me down, forced me to relearn how to behave in the most literal sense. It went against everything I’d ever known. I got tired of early bedtimes, not being able to eat what I wanted, shut off from TV or video games. When I did fall in line, it was often in a superficial way, like I was gaming the system. I got my points, earned my privs, but mostly through tricks.
Once I mastered it, it was easy. Even if I had a horrible day, I knew how to still earn my privs. Before Total Up, I’d ask people if they needed help, every little thing. If someone dropped a pen, I’d rush over and grab it; I’d walk up to a new person and greet him properly. I knew which staff had which sweet spots or weak spots. And I developed keener negotiation skills that allowed me to work myself out of negative consequences. I started to follow the model, but I would not call it buying in at all.
In my heart of hearts, I knew what I was doing. I had turned it into my new hustle.
9
Scars
People pay for what they do, and still more, for what they have allowed themselves to become. And they pay for it very simply: by the lives they lead.
—JAMES BALDWIN
A few weeks into my time at Dean Street, I had a court date where the judge was going to offer me a plea deal. This time Christine was accompanied by a gentleman with shaggy hair. Shaggy for a lawyer. She introduced him as Marty, the deputy attorney in her office. Marty was older than Christine, early fifties, smart but loose with a silver earring in his left ear. He didn’t have that stoic mask worn by so many officers of the court. Before we saw the judge, the three of us sat on wooden benches toward the back of the courtroom.
“So, Jim,” Christine began cautiously, “as I mentioned, I’m moving to another job, so I have to hand your case off. Marty is going to take over. He already knows a lot about the case because we work together so anything you can tell me, you can tell him.”
“You’re leaving?” I didn’t hear much else of what she said, panicked that my one life vest was being tossed.
“Yes, but I’m not disappearing,” she said. “Marty is just going to take over the case. He’s going to do everything he can to keep you out of jail. Get you into the right situation. Placement.”
“But I didn’t do it,” I said.
Christine sighed. She and Marty exchanged a look and then he
drilled into me. “First of all,” he said, “you have to stop saying that. Seriously.” He was direct, without any of the false empathy I was accustomed to. It took me aback: part of me wanted to ask him who the hell he thought he was, but I kept silent. I knew I had no choice but to put my faith in him.
“Now,” he said, “the prosecutor is offering you a deal to plead guilty to possession instead of sale, which we think is beneficial. Their evidence against you is compelling.” Right off the bat I saw how stern he was, more pressing than Christine ever got.
Marty also spoke in a much more sophisticated style than Christine did. After we became friends, he confessed to me that because my English was good, and he didn’t know my background, he thought I was “slow on the uptake.” In reality, English was still relatively new to me, so I had to take that extra beat or ask that extra question.
“Look, I can’t tell you what to do,” he said. “I don’t want to manipulate you. I think maybe one of the reasons you’re in here is because you’re susceptible to that.”
I looked at Christine, who kept her eyes on Marty. I started to protest: “But I didn’t—”
He put his hand out. “Look, Jim, you have nothing to lose by being honest with me. Remember that acknowledging you did something wrong doesn’t mean you have to plead guilty to the judge. Our conversation stays here. I’m your lawyer. Honesty just makes sense for our relationship.” Marty was blunt and direct. He knew he was delivering medicine and didn’t see the point in pretending otherwise.
I was hesitant. “I don’t know. What about going back home?”
“That’s not really—” Christine began. Marty put his hand out to interject.
“It’s not an option, Jim. That’s just not on the table.”
I again looked over at Christine, hoping she’d argue for the other side, but it was clear she was with Marty.
“Look, we don’t want you to hurt yourself,” Christine said.
“Hurt myself?”
“It’s straightforward. You’re going to lose this trial and you could be locked up for five years. We’re not going to let that happen.”
“Five years?” The words alone smacked me in the face.
“The evidence they have is unimpeachable,” Marty added.
I crumbled after that. They went through the details of the offer, the kind of placement that they would look for. I decided to go along with it. I trusted Christine completely, with my life even, which is what was on the line.
Christine never really left me. She stayed heavily involved in the case, would call Marty for updates, check in on me when she could. But it was a tough adjustment and it took some time for me to get over my feelings of rejection and abandonment. The system itself is a never-ending cycle, but all the players are temporary. Christine had made me feel whole again, provided my main connection to the world, and her leaving hit me hard at a time when I couldn’t take many more hits.
Though I’d always had issues with male authority figures, I was lost and confused enough to put my trust in Marty. We had no history, and he had a different style and approach, but I could quickly tell he had a giant heart, and sincerely wanted what was best for me. Marty came from real affluence but, like many others, he had dedicated his life to working for those who couldn’t afford justice. He took on America’s most forgotten and vulnerable youth. Such a righteous quality erased any assumptions I might have had about him.
Out of habit, at Dean Street I treated every interaction as a battle. My relationships there became as contentious as those on the street and in school, so I was constantly deprived of privileges. Despite markedly better surroundings, things were deteriorating. I was headed in the opposite direction, railing against everyone I encountered on the way.
As I became increasingly angry, isolation became my coping mechanism. I would cry in the confines of my room until my eyes were bloodshot. I would defy adults’ instruction and be quick to attack my peers. I worked to alienate those who tried to bring love and normalcy to my life. I had decided that life had to be a battle.
The Boys Town program gives each kid specific skills to work on; one of mine was impulse control. If someone cursed at me or took something from me, I’d black out and overreact. I usually came back down and apologized, realizing how out of balance my reaction was. But soon enough it would happen again. I had trouble stepping out of the moment. Quick, angry responses were laced into my sense of self. It was the demon that was always chasing me.
For this exact reason I never engaged in any play fighting, which was common at Dean Street. I was vocal about not participating. The line between playing and real fighting was way too thin, especially at Boys Town, where every action had a tangible consequence.
LaDanian was a light-skinned kid of about seventeen, heavyset with a low haircut. He had been at Dean Street for a year, which was unusual. He was given a great deal of leeway and almost treated like junior staff. The rest of us would get jealous because LaDanian was on Achievement, the highest level at Boys Town. Even though they explained the levels (Daily, Weekly, Achievement), we still complained about the special treatment. LaDanian was tight with all the staff, especially David, who would horseplay with him regularly.
David was not that tall but a solid two hundred and thirty pounds, shaved head and earrings. The horseplay was never serious but it was always intense and physical. David and LaDanian were play wrestling once and LaDanian’s head accidentally cracked on the side of a cabinet, cutting a big gash back there. Everybody froze. David ran downstairs and got a staff member to take LaDanian over to the hospital to get stitched up.
When David returned, he came over to me and two other kids who had been in the rec room. “He all right?” I asked.
“Yeah, he’ll be good.” David took us out of earshot of the kitchen. “Listen,” he said, “it’d be easier if y’all say it was you play fighting with LaDanian, not me.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Cause you know, then the boss lady comes into it and it’s like a liability issue.”
“Sure,” one of the kids said.
“No problem,” said the other.
I could see them all looking at me. “Uh uh,” I said. “Hell no.”
David turned to me, almost hurt. “What’s the problem, Jim?”
“Nothing. I’m just not saying I did something I didn’t do.”
“Nah, man. It’s not like that,” David tried to explain. “Just if they ask. I’m not gonna take your privs away. It’ll be me and—”
“Nope. Not doing it.”
David glanced at the other kids and back at me.
“C’mon man,” David said, now annoyed. “Just if Carolyn asks, say you were messing around and he slipped.”
“I didn’t do anything and I’m not saying I did.”
“Oh so, you wanna get me fired?” David asked.
“Nothing to do with that. I don’t horseplay, I tell you I don’t horseplay, and you can’t get me to say I was.”
“C’mon Jim, it don’t even matter—” one of the kids started.
“Fuck outta here,” I snapped.
David’s temperature rose, and so did mine—no one understood me. The whole thing was unjust; it didn’t sit well and I was stone, unwilling to budge.
We addressed all the women in Boys Town formally: Ms. Lorraine, Ms. Carolyn, but we called the male staff by just their names. It was unconscious, but based on the world we knew: Black males were competition, or people looking to take advantage. It was hard to see them as “Mister.” That tension was present no matter what their role. Unaccustomed to positive male images on our block, we put our guard up when we met one.
David was from our neighborhood and lived according to the rules of protecting your own and never snitching. To him, I was breaking that code. “So you’re a snitch now,” he said.
“I’m not gonna snitch,” I said. “I’m just not saying I did anything.”
The no-snitching code is like the Bible where I’m
from. When someone presents a situation to you under those terms, you often fold; the snitch label is a giant stamp on your forehead. But I didn’t see it as snitching. I wasn’t involved, wasn’t participating, and was only failing to say I was. There was no snitching involved at all. But I paid for my independent streak.
After that, I became a pariah. All the kids teamed up with David, singling me out. “You gonna snitch,” they said. “You’re not down with us. You’re gonna get David fired.” Some of the other staff joined them and the whole house turned against me.
Eventually it all spilled out. I got interviewed and I told the truth from my angle. I didn’t say what happened; I was just adamant that I wasn’t a part of it, that I wasn’t going to accept consequences, that I was going to raise hell if they tried. It was frustrating on both ends—the staff and kids thought I was snitching, and the higher-ups could tell I was hiding something. I found a middle ground where I could adhere to my own principles; unfairness had always meant more to me than customs and rules. Even when I was engaged in the criminal life, there were things I just wouldn’t do. It’s why I stole from Macy’s, not local businesses; why I felt the need to protect the other bilingual kids in school; why punching that kid in the face in the elevator sat with me for so long. Bryan Stevenson calls it restoring your “peace quotient”—a need to reset any imbalance that’s been created.
That incident—and the fallout from it—spurred my anger, which was always like a beast kept tenuously at bay. I was acting out so often the staff suspected I had psychological issues. They made me talk to a therapist, who tried almost to intimidate me into talking.
“You seem angry,” she said. “Why are you so angry?”
I’d been asked this more than a few times. And usually what I thought was: If you’re a young black man in America and you’re not angry, there’s something wrong with you. But I didn’t say that. Instead I said, “I don’t know.”
I couldn’t even articulate it then. I was born from anger. My dad was an angry person, a strange mix of always around but never there: not for any of our births, not even when my mother was nearly dying in the hospital. His life was in the streets, smoking marijuana, playing poker and dice, getting drunk with his friends. So I had to be self-sufficient from a young age—making money, finding places to sleep, surviving. And when we moved to New York I had to do it all over again. It took its toll. I don’t think my dad envisioned that bringing me to America was going to be another war. He was as swayed as I was by the dream of American prosperity.
A Stone of Hope Page 12