A Stone of Hope

by Jim St. Germain

  The Bookings is like a factory. It’s the most literal example of the system being a machine designed to treat people as objects. You start at the first-level floor and eventually you are herded up with others attached to a long chain to see your court-appointed lawyer, who is buried in cases he or she can’t keep straight and has about three minutes to walk you through yours. Through a thick window, my lawyer read off to me what I was charged with and what I was looking at. Then she presented me to the judge, who told me to stay out of trouble for six months and then they’d wipe it. What do you think I’ve been doing? I wanted to say. But I knew enough to keep my mouth shut.

  Just being there is an issue. I look like them. I was them. I am them. Black and brown teens do not get any margin for error. That net comes down and drops on all of us the same.

  15

  Exposure

  It struck me perhaps the defining feature of being drafted into the black race was the inescapable robbery of time, because the moments we spent readying the mask, or readying ourselves to accept half as much, could not be recovered. The robbery of time is not measured in lifespans but in moments . . . It is the raft of second chances for them, and twenty-three-hour days for us.

  —TA-NEHISI COATES, BETWEEN THE WORLD AND ME

  My arrest was due to a confluence of factors—racial, geographical, and socioeconomic—but it still felt like a setback. In response, I constructed a thicker wall. My behavior had once been based on the fact that I had nothing to lose. Now I was getting an education, with an honest dollar in my pocket and hope for the future. I grew hard the other way. I had things worth protecting, not the least of which was my freedom. What happens when “wrong place, wrong time” means your own community? When heading home after work becomes sufficient grounds for arrest?

  I developed a habit of giving a wave to my old friends from across the street—like a politician—and just keep moving.

  “Hey, Buffett!” they’d yell. “Yo, Buff!”

  I’d have headphones or a hood covering my head to block my periphery.

  “Yo, Buffett!” they’d yell out. “Where you headed?”

  “Sorry man!” I’d say. “Late for class. I’ll holla later, man!” I’d dart down into the subway station.

  “Okay, I’ll holla!” I’d hear as the words were overtaken by the whoosh and rattle of the train. I’d get on the 2 train and crack the spine of a book, zeroing in as we flew into Manhattan, to streets that left you alone, to a place where the bars weren’t so visible.

  Coming up the subway steps on the Manhattan side felt like a kind of rebirth, washing me in the bright sights and sounds. Even a year in, I still felt like a visitor at BMCC. The picturesque views, the upscale neighborhood, the confidence of kids who knew where they were headed—it was hard to shake the feeling that I didn’t belong. After class I’d go to those pristine courts and play ball with the mostly white crowd. The differences from the hood were stark: rims with bright white nets, trash talk without fighting, the comfort of play without threats. Those guys were always inclusive, but only as much as they could be. I felt like they had extended out as far as they would go with me.

  I wasn’t immune to the envy and anger that came with it: Why couldn’t my situation resemble theirs? Why couldn’t I come home to a decent living environment? Why did I have to still look over my shoulder because bullets had no names on them? When it got to be too much, I would walk over to the Hudson and find a bench to sit on. Overlooking the river flowing into the ocean, my tears would run down my face and I would hold out hope for better days.

  One time I was leaving Marty’s house and as we were saying good-bye on his steps, I noticed a stack of thick books, with MCAT written on the side, on the curb.

  “Those yours?” I asked.

  “What, those? Nope. Med school was not for me.”

  “Is that what it’s for?”

  “The MCAT? Yeah, it’s the standardized test you take for medical school. The LSAT is the one for law school. It’s a beast.”

  To a kid from Brownsville or Bed Stuy—where there are never any books on the sidewalk—those things are like a portal. An inquisitive five-year-old walking by might ask his mother “What’s MCAT?” Then her answer potentially sets the kid’s mind going. That right there is schooling, an education from just walking down that street.

  Once a month I took the subway out to Park Slope to visit the Sixth Avenue residence. It was strange sitting down with Iza or Damon in that living room, feeling no longer in it but still a product of it. I’d scan the faces of young boys coming through, all testosterone and immaturity and false swagger. Those visits were about seeing Iza and Damon, whom I considered family, but also about them seeing me: letting them know that their hard work hadn’t been in vain. I had a duty to hold up my end of the bargain. Gratitude has nothing to do with words; it’s a potent and resilient force that binds you to someone.

  Marty and Christine continued to extend their hands and allowed me into their personal lives. They too took me in like family, educated me, let me educate them. I would hone my skills debating with them on race, politics, and criminal justice issues. And our dynamic shifted. It was no longer them looking out for a young client; it became a mutual relationship.

  They invited me to their homes to have dinner with their families and get to know their children. Christine brought me out to Long Island for Thanksgiving dinners at her mom’s house. Marty took me to strange plays in Greenwich Village that thrilled me with their audacity and the newness of the experience. He trusted me to dog-sit Hamlet in his brownstone, where I’d kick back on his plush couch and watch his giant television. I’m gonna get me one of these, I’d think, fingering some piece of art or fancy leather-bound book. He had a line of pressed Brooks Brothers suits in his closet like they were the most normal thing in the world. It was something I’d only seen once before, in Mr. Walton’s closet.

  But it wasn’t about the experiences or the things, it was about the people. Marty and Christine both taught me how wide and open the word “family” can be.

  One time I was leaving Marty’s after dog-sitting and heading to the subway when I heard someone yelling my name, which was unsettling. I was used to hearing “Buffett!” but never my actual name.

  “Jim! Jim St. Germain!”

  I turned around to see a statuesque man, nice dark suit gleaming in the sun, and did a double take. It had been about seven or eight years but the figure was unmistakable: Dean Walton.

  “Mr. Walton, how are you, sir?” I said, heading back toward him.

  “Good, good. It’s Carlos now. You’re not in eighth grade anymore, big son.” That’s what he called all of us.

  “Right,” I said. We stood there on the corner. He looked the same, a bit more filled out, but I could see through his eyes how different I looked. They focused on me, conveying a mix of concern and disbelief.

  “How are things? I thought I heard you were arrested?” he said, almost hoping it hadn’t been true.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said. “That was—it doesn’t matter. I’m out now.”

  “Good. That’s good. Seriously. You got plans?”

  “Some. Yeah. I’m working and I have one semester left at BMCC.”

  His eyes popped. “Phenomenal, Jim. That’s great, son. I heard what happened to Serge and—” I could tell he didn’t want to say what he was thinking. He knew Jigga and I were tight.

  “And you thought I’d be next?”

  He laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t put it that way. But, it’s just good to see you. Glad you’re moving forward.” It felt genuine. The last time I saw him I was a troubled kid, staring down a short and tumultuous life. He pulled me close and gave me one of those long hugs where you can feel another person’s love as a physical fact, the energy from one body communicating without words. Mr. Walton knew me better than I knew myself. We exchanged numbers and kept in touch after that day. He became something of a friend, something of a mentor.

  Mr. Walton to
ld me after I had disappeared from school, he would drive through Crown Street and see me on the block hustling, but I wouldn’t see him. He’d look at me and want to reach through that car window out to me, stop and show me love. He was afraid that if something terrible happened to me that he’d not be able to live with himself. But he also felt like as long as I was in that world, he had to draw a line. Mr. Walton was poetic about it. He told me that if you love a bird that’s learning to fly you must allow it to do so. He was unsure if I’d vanish like Jigga, which bothered his conscience during the years I was away. But if the bird returns, he said, you know it’s here to stay.

  Joan Margolis, founder of the Brooklyn Learning Center, allowed me to stay on for tutoring, and Joanna continued to be my life vest in turbulent waters. I struggled mightily during my time at BMCC, particularly with math, which always felt like a giant ocean I couldn’t traverse. I was also fortunate to find professors who understood my background and challenges, and went out of their way to help. After class I’d pick their brains about the subject, the college experience, the world of Tribeca, the divisions of New York at large. I was a sponge and eager to learn anything from anyone; each person had something to offer. I continued to try to build myself through them all. After my political science class, I’d follow Professor Ron Hayduk like a puppy to pepper him with questions about the Constitution, the Electoral College, our representative democracy, the branches of government.

  Two years after filling out financial aid forms on Iza’s dining room table, I stood in a blue gown on a hot day and heard my name called. I was still miles away from fulfilling my purpose, but the idea that I even had one energized me.

  After the graduation ceremony, Marty, Christine, Mr. Walton, and Joanna and I went out to a big family-style Italian dinner to celebrate. It was fascinating seeing so many of my mentors together in one place, observing how they interacted and where they intersected. I felt like the nucleus of something special. Watching their faces, I realized that any failure would no longer be mine alone.

  I had been talking to Christine for a while about visiting relatives back in Haiti, and she kept bringing up the fact that I wasn’t a US citizen. She was motherly about it, worried that if I went I might run into immigration problems upon my return. She set me up with a colleague at Legal Aid and I applied for citizenship, partly as a result of her badgering.

  The day I became a citizen Marty joined me at the federal courthouse to watch me get sworn in with other new citizens. In that courtroom, I felt like things were falling into place for me. I felt freer, accomplished, carrying one less burden. There was a sense of safety too, like I belonged and therefore had the same rights as the next person. I felt a piece of a puzzle, surrounded by immigrants of all colors and homelands, all of whom had come here for a better life. I thought about my grandfather and grandmother, my father, my eventual children. One of the things I love about New York City is that you’re constantly reminded that you are part of a much larger story.

  Marty came up to me afterward in tears and hugged me. His face showed this change in color, like he had been sideswiped. “That was something,” he said, unable to elaborate. “That was really something.”

  A few weeks after graduation I was hanging out at the local barbershop where one of my friends worked, right around the corner from my apartment. While we were talking, I noticed my friend Shawn out front and heard some muffled yelling coming from behind him. I peeped through the window and saw Shawn walking ahead of his girl, who was turned around and screaming back down the block. “I’ll fuck you up!” she yelled to someone in the distance. I stepped out to check on Shawn.

  I grew up with Shawn, though he was a bit older than me, in his late twenties at the time. We used to play basketball together and throw dice. He was short and dark-skinned with earrings and a goatee. He was wearing his trademark red do-rag that day, walking around in flip-flops.

  “What’s good?” I gave him a fist pound. “You all right?”

  “What up, Buffett. Yeah, I’m good,” Shawn said. He looked distracted more than concerned. But he kept an eye down the street while we spoke. A pair of girls were farther back behind Shawn’s girl, screaming and threatening her.

  “You better shut the fuck up!”

  “Keep walking, girl! I’ll fuck you up!”

  The two other girls were coming toward us up Nostrand Avenue, past the car wash, in front of the church. They kept at it, yelling at Shawn’s girl.

  She turned around to scream back. “Fuck out of here! I’ll fuck both of you up!”

  Their voices were carrying down the block, but Shawn seemed separate from it and wouldn’t engage. This kind of raucous scene wasn’t atypical.

  “All cool?” I asked. “You good?”

  “Yeah, I’m a’ight,” he said. “Some bitches just tryn’a front on my shorty.” It wasn’t my business, and Shawn seemed fine. I said good-bye and went back inside to the barbershop, thinking nothing of it.

  When things happen in the street, you can sense it long before you see or hear anything. There’s an invisible shift in the air. The energy outside flows in one direction and then people begin to follow it. You see them all headed one way, then you hear the noise, the sirens, windows opening up (or slamming shut) and voices from all directions. About fifteen minutes after Shawn passed the barbershop, I felt it. Through the window I saw people heading up Nostrand.

  I stepped outside to head up the sidewalk, along with the flow of people walking toward Carroll Street.

  When I reached the intersection, the crowd had formed in a circle, a familiar ritual. “What happened?” I asked one of my neighbors.

  “Someone just popped Shawn.”

  “Wait, what? Shawn Jackson?” The name felt foreign on my tongue.

  “Yep. Fucked up, man.”

  An ambulance was just taking off, its white door shut and silent. Yellow tape cut across the street between lampposts. A few cop cars were blocking the intersection and as I pushed my way through I caught sight of thick blood pooling on the pavement.

  The crowd was mumbling about what they saw, what they heard, what they heard that someone else saw. Everyone had the same version: Some guy had pulled up in his car and put four bullets in Shawn’s back, killing him right there.

  All murders are senseless, but this felt even more so. It wasn’t even Shawn’s argument. One of the two screaming girls had called her boyfriend—a known shooter in the neighborhood—and put a target on him. She might’ve already called him when I was talking to Shawn. His murder was a click on the clock, minutes ahead, a point in front of us already set into motion. There was a train barreling right at him—and he had no idea.

  I watched the ambulance drive off, Shawn’s lifeless body behind those doors. The sound of my neighbors’ whispering pulled away into the air. I stared at the dark pool in the street already blending into the asphalt, some of it making its way to the storm drain. The rest would be gone by nighttime.

  The crowd dispersed, but I was frozen in place: killed just for being there. Another young black man vanished, the streets to be wiped clean before the next one. I have known sixteen people who were killed this way. I stayed there until the last bystander wandered away, like as long as I didn’t leave, Shawn was somehow still alive.

  I thought of Jigga, then Breeze, then Breeze’s mother—who lost her sense and then her grip on reality after her son died. If I could, I’d carry her pain as my own. She became unemployed; she lost her apartment, lost custody of her other son, who ended up in the child welfare system. The momentum of the falling dominoes unstoppable. I would run into her on the streets, and she had dropped all this weight and seemed completely gone; she didn’t recognize me at all. She talked to herself, slept in train stations, and wandered the streets like a ghost.

  16

  Outward

  Souls are like athletes, that need opponents worthy of them, if they are to be tried and extended and pushed to the full use of their powers, and rewarded
according to their capacity.

  —THOMAS MERTON, THE SEVEN STOREY MOUNTAIN 9

  In its mission statement the John Jay College of Criminal Justice proclaims its goal is to “educate fierce advocates for justice.” Packed into that one phrase was so much that captured my young mind and fired up my imagination. Those words gave me a sense of what force I wanted to embody in the world. I’d be a warrior, freedom fighter, and soldier in this larger battle that touched so many communities like my own. Immediately after completing BMCC I enrolled at John Jay as an undergraduate, majoring in political science. I couldn’t waste any more time. “When you’re starting behind in the race of life,” Dean Walton once told me, “you have to run twice as hard.” BMCC was like getting out of the starting block. With John Jay, I kicked into gear and picked up speed. In those classrooms I discovered a passion for public service.

  Matter can’t be created or destroyed; only its state can change. That’s exactly how it was with my anger. I never really lost it; I just learned to channel it in a different way. My anger transformed from a chain holding me back to an engine, an igniter of passion in myself and others. It would become a tool, a motivator, and the well I tapped into to make a difference. On the John Jay campus I developed a clear-eyed focus, and a plan of how to turn my pain into a force that could move mountains.

  I had always had an ingrained sense of justice. Whether as a little kid not letting myself be exploited in exchange for food or a couple of dollars, to my time in Brooklyn protecting my siblings and bilingual peers. As a member of an underprivileged group I had built a path forward, largely through the efforts of others. I felt like I had no choice but to pay it all back, become a voice for the downtrodden, a vessel for others as so many had been for me.