Book Excerpts

America The Black Point of View: An Investigation and Study of The White People of America and Western Europe & The Autobiography of an American Ghetto Boy – The 1950’s and 1960’s – From the Projects to NAACP Image Award Winner, Volume One (Amber Books) by Tony Rose

PART 1

AMERICA 
THE BLACK POINT OF VIEW 

The Poverty, degradation, humiliation, murderers, rapists, drug addicts, child abusers, alcoholics, pimps, prostitutes and the horrendous hunger, that I lived with, grew up with and write about in this book is all a by-product of Cultural Destruction or as it’s called, American Slavery, American Racism, American Segregation, American Jim Crowism and the American Isolationism of millions of poor African Americans into Ghettos and Projects.

CHAPTER ONE 

A STUDY AND INVESTIGATION OF THE WHITE PEOPLE OF AMERICA

OR THE UGLY WHITE GHOSTS – WHEREVER THEY GO DEATH FOLLOWS.

The horrific murderers, pimps, gangsters, child abusers, rapists and thieves, along with hard working decent working class Black families that I grew up with, lived with, called family and write about in, ‘The Autobiography of an American Ghetto Boy–1950’s and 1960’s, as do the murderers, pimps, gangsters rapists and thieves who live in our urban African American communities today, are nothing in comparison to the white collar murderers, pimps, gangsters rapists and thieves, posing as politicians, who embody the United States of America Congress, the United States of America Government, The United States of America City and State Governments. They systematically place our Black communities under siege and commit murder, physical and emotional destruction over tens of millions of poor people in America with the stroke or the non-stroke of a pen every day.

After careful study and research I have found that 70% of White people in America hate me, dislike me and my culture, wish I didn’t exist, want me to go back to Africa, think that I am not human, and if there were not hundreds and hundreds of laws to prevent it, would castrate me, burn me, cut my dick off and lynch me.  The other 30% tolerate me, love me and my culture, love my culture, but don’t like me, like me, love me and think I could do much better.

While I was writing this book it occurred to me that I could not write the story of my childhood, my youth and the murderers, rapists, drug addicts, child abusers and insane people I grew up with, without writing about the people who made us who we were, without writing about the White people who had shaped our lives and forced us into hunger and poverty, by their laws and greed, 

While attending Asa Grey Elementary school we were taught about White history and how brave and wonderful they were, we pledged to the United States of America our allegiance;

I pledge Allegiance to the flag
of the United States of America
and to the Republic for which it stands,
one nation under God, indivisible,
with Liberty and Justice for all.

We were taught how smart White people were, how intelligent and how heroic they were, we were taught that White people were all inclusive, all powerful, we were given their history books, their writers to read, lives to know and be proud of, but us little colored children were not taught why we were segregated against, why we had to live in projects and ghettos. We were not taught that there were thousands of laws in America written for us, most of them against us.

We were not taught why we were hungry, why we had to live on top of each other and why we couldn’t live with them. Why we were hated and why we were thought of as nothing or animals in America. Why we were not heroes. Why we had no power. Why we had to live together, all poor, all Black, all hungry, all desperate and without hope.  The White teachers were all nice as nice as they could be and I wonder did they know that they weren’t teaching us anything about ourselves and who we were. So I thought that I would write about these White people who made us who we are and shaped us and our values in America.

In Western Europe there were hundreds of cultures and sub-cultures, from the English, French, Italian, Dutch, Spanish, German, Scandinavian.  In America all of these cultures became known as White people or the White Race.  Their combined one and only real enemy is African Americans.

Every White person no matter where they were from in Western Europe, Eastern Europe, the Scandinavian countries, Canada, South America, Russia, no matter where they came from, once they came to America, they became a White person and the ordained beneficiary of privilege, entitlement and respect. Brought to them exclusively by the murder, massacre, enslavement, rape, killing, segregation and isolation, of Africans, African Americans and Native Americans. They and their White American forefathers are responsible for the murder, massacre, enslavement, rape, killing, segregation, isolation, of African Americans and Native Americans, that legacy gives them their privilege, entitlement and respect, from the United States Government and City, State and County, law enforcement agencies. While Black people are entitled to have no respect from any White man, unless we are entertaining them in sports, music and film.

Black people can never be just regular, average people in America, just working hard for their family. Just walking home with some candy.  Just having a bad day. Just playing music a little too loud. Just standing on a corner talking to friends. Just knocking on someone’s door to ask for help. Just going for a walk or a run to exercise. Just being an average human being.  We always have to be damn near a superhuman athlete or superstar entertainer in order to be respected and survive as a human being and not be told we are up to no good, and subject to suspicion and death from any white person in America.

The Poverty, degradation, humiliation, murder, rape, drug addiction, child abuse, alcoholism, pimps, prostitutes and the horrendous hunger, that I lived with, grew up with and write about in my Autobiography of an American Ghetto Boy, is all a product of Cultural Destruction or as you call it American Racism, Jim Crow and Segregation.

 CHAPTER TWO

Someone once said that we should spit on every white person that we see. 

And I said, well no, not everyone that we see, just 70% of the ones that we see. 

I do believe that the Universal Creator of the Universe and us, (GOD) allows some of us, not all of us, to come back to Earth again after we die, and that we get five seconds to remember who we once were, and that Hitler, when he came back as a termite, remembered that he had been Hitler for four seconds before a gorilla ate him, and that the White Transatlantic Slave Ship Captain had three seconds when he came back as a roach to remember all the fun he had raping and killing Africans, before my mother’s slipper slapped and squashed him.  You don’t get to come back twice.

White people are always asking, what’s wrong with them, what is wrong with Black people, why can’t they get it together, the Jews got it together, the Irish got it together, the Italians got it together, the Polish got it together, we all got it together, what is wrong with those black people.  What’s wrong with us?   

What’s wrong with us Black people is that we didn’t come over here on the Mayflower or a fuckin Steamship in 1st, 2nd, or 3rd class steerage. 

We came to Europe, to Paris, to France, to London, to Liverpool, to England, to Amsterdam, to the Netherlands, to Madrid, to Spain, to Lisbon, To Portugal, to Berlin, to Germany, to South America, to the America’s, to Jamaica, to Bermuda, to Cuba, to the Virgin Islands, to Aruba, to the Dutch West Indies, to Haiti, to Santa Domingo, to Brazil, to Central America, to the United States, to Antigua, Anguilla, Barbuda, to the Bahamas, to Barbados, to Belize, to the British West Indies, to Mexico, to the Cayman Islands, to the United States Virgin Islands, to the Dominican Republic, to Martinique, to Grenada, to Guadeloupe, to Honduras, to Montserrat, to Puerto Rico, to Saint Barthelemy, to Saint Kitts, to Saint Lucia, to Nevis, the Netherlands Antilles, Saint Martin, to Saint Vincent, to the Grenadines, to Trinidad, to Tobago, to the Turks and Caicos islands, to Pelican Island, to San Andres and Providencia, to Nicaragua, to Venezuela, to Guatemala, to Honduras, to Costa Rica, to Panama, to Alta Velo, to the United States of America, not on a fuckin vacation, but on a slave ship, packed in by the thousands, with naked African women and young girls menstruating all over the slave ship, while being raped by white men over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again.

Babies being born on slave ships, their heads being bashed against the bull works and then being thrown overboard to the waiting sharks.  That’s how we came to Western Europe and America.

My Great-Great-Great Grandmother, on my mother’s side, was on that ship, along with the tens of millions, hundreds of millions of African men, women, boys and girls who made the trip to Western Europe and the Americas in those slave ships over a four hundred year span.  

She started her day out in a Sierra Leone village in 1829 as an eleven year old girl. She was captured and brought to Bunce Island in Sierra Leone, where she was raped, beaten, sodomized, made to give blow jobs to many White Englishmen, Dutch and Portuguese traders and sailors. Starved, naked, un-bathed, and forced to live in blood, shit and urine, day and night, only being bathed before she was brought outside the dungeons of the castle to service the many more White men who clamored for her affections. Spoken to in words of love and affection by ghost men in languages she didn’t understand.

All of this was before she was chained with thousands of other men and women and boys and girls and brought in terror to the slave ship that would take her to her vacation spot and new home in the America’s, where the white monkeys lived. Where she would be beaten, raped, starved, sodomized, and worked to death in Alabama, Florida, Georgia, Louisiana, Mississippi, South Carolina, Texas, Arkansas, North Carolina, Tennessee, Virginia, Kentucky, Washington, DC, and Maryland.

Forced to watch as her daughters were raped, beaten, and impregnated by white vermin and watch as her sons, her slave husbands, were tortured, beaten, terrorized, sexually abused by White men and women alike and humiliated, lynched, burnt, castrated physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually of their manhood. Their manhood taken by vicious, inhuman, barbaric and primitive White men, year after year, decade after decade, century after century, to this very day, this very minute, this very second, in relentless poverty and degradation.

Tens of millions, hundreds of millions of African men, women, boys and girls made the trip in these slave ships over a four hundred year span.  Kept in hundreds of dungeons and castles built and used, up and down the West African coast by the United States of America, Britain, France, Portugal, Spain, Holland, and other Western European nations, to hold and keep these gentle, captured, African farmers and builders, keepers of the land and fishermen of the lakes and oceans, toilers of the land, these gentle African people.

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

The British traders based at Bunce Island shipped hundreds of thousands of African captives to South Carolina, Georgia, Florida, and other Southern Colonies during the mid- and late 1700s. Rice planters in South Carolina and Georgia were particularly anxious to buy captives from Sierra Leone and other parts of the “Rice Coast” where Africans had grown rice for thousands of years. Slave auction advertisements in 18th century Charles Town (South Carolina) and Savannah (Georgia) often mentioned ships arriving with slaves brought from the “Rice Coast,” “Sierra-Leon,” and “Bunce Island.” African farmers taken from the Rice Coast region made rice one of the most profitable industries in America.

Henry Laurens, a wealthy South Carolina slave dealer and rice planter, was Bunce Island’s business agent in Charles Town before the American Revolutionary War. After the war began, Laurens became the President of the Continental Congress, and when the fighting finally ended, he was named one of the American Peace Commissioners who negotiated U.S. Independence under the Treaty of Paris. Amazingly, Richard Oswald, Bunce Island’s London-based owner, was appointed head of the British negotiating team in Paris. In other words, United States Independence was negotiated, in part, between Bunce Island’s British owner and his American business agent in South Carolina. The relationship between these two men reflects Bunce Island’s importance in the commerce that linked Britain, North America, and West Africa during the Colonial Period.

Bunce Island was also linked to the Northern Colonies. Slave ships from Rhode Island, Massachusetts, Connecticut; and New York frequently called at the castle, taking their human cargoes to the West Indies or back to the Southern Colonies. These Northern slave ships often purchased their African captives with rum produced in New England with molasses brought back to North America from the West Indies. – From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

 AFRICA’S SLAVE CASTLES
                         -The Los Angeles Sentinel

The last place an African would ‘reside’ before going through the “door-of-no-return” to slavery in the Americas.

It is virtually impossible to write about the Slave Castles without describing the brutality of the African slave trade, the most evil and insidious holocaust of human beings in history which was perpetrated primarily by White Europeans on the Black African (men, women and children).

It was not only the physical being that was captured and destroyed, it was the mind, soul and spirit of millions of Black people who were uprooted and transplanted. According to research, what is referred to as the African slave trade began around the latter half of the 15th century when Europeans captured and sold Blacks to White traders as porters.

Looking at a map of Africa at the beginning of the 20th century–when slavery was supposedly abolished–it can be described as the United States of Europe. These human traffickers may have proclaimed the end of slavery but colonialism and imperialism lingered on in Africa as a way of life for Blacks. The continent was divided up among the Belgians, the British, the Dutch, the French, the Germans, the Italians, the Portuguese and the Spanish and in many ways controlled by the United States of America.

The European slave traffickers had castles built along the West Coast of Africa close to the sea to facilitate easy access of their human cargo onto ships. The conditions of the castles reflected their attitudes and treatment of Black slaves. To be able to eliminate vacancies, and to ensure a constant supply of slaves, the Europeans instigated conflicts between the tribes which led to continuous wars. The ensuing wars produced able-bodied men, children-bearing women and even children who were yoked together and held for weeks in the dungeons of the slave castles until ships arrived, ships that took the slaves to Europe, North and South America, and the Caribbean.

Life in the castles for the slaves was a living hell on earth before the perilous voyage across the ocean in the hole of a ship. At the beginning, the need for the slave trade appeared to be basic economics; Whites needed lots of free labor to work their colonial possessions and they surmised Blacks would fill that labor void. The stay in the dungeon lasted about four to six weeks and it was not subliminal; it was real and it was physical. The men and the women were separated. Some of the women were used as servants in the castle. Conditions in the castle were wretched; the slaves were packed in literally like sardines in a can. One of the purposes of the stay was to break the spirit of the men so by the time the ships arrived, they would be docile and ready for what was next. It was an unknown prelude of what was to come on the ship on the other side of the infamous door-of-no-return. That doorway was aptly named.

Europeans who came to the Gold Coast built castles and forts (fortified trading posts), and they engaged in serious competition among themselves over the natural resources of the continent. But that competition paled in comparison to the bitter rivalry they engineered among the tribal chiefs. They employed the divide-and-conquer mechanism to the maximum. What started as a trade commerce evolved into the slave trade.

Gold was one of the most precious metals sought after in those days as the only reliable means of conducting international trade–it was common in all countries. The name Gold Coast was named for the reservoir of gold it contained. It seemed natural that the combination of gold and slaves would create the ideal place for the Europeans to “set up shop” and build permanent lodgings: castles for “Black” gold and natural gold. Gold Coast was located more strategically than any other African coastal area. Referred to as the “Land of the Blacks,” word went to European monarchs of the fertile and populous land rich in gold, ivory and other natural resources, and they sent their explorers out to search for this land. The trading started off as commercial ventures dealing mostly in gold and ivory. Then it attracted so many different European nations that the castles (and forts) became a necessary form of survival and protection, just as they had been in Europe. In addition, it gave the marauders front row access to a profitable market and easy access to the sea.

During the period of active, trans-oceanic slave-trading, hundreds of slave castles were built along the coast of West Africa–from Senegal to Ghana (formerly Gold Coast) however, slaves that were brought, bought and housed therein were also from the interior of the continent. In addition to Cape Coast Castle, other castles and forts included Elmina Castle, Osu Castle aka Fort Christiansborg, Bunce Island and Goree Island. Sometimes villages and towns would arise around the castles and forts which were considered the focal point of the settlement–the civic center. The plan called for traders to purchase, capture or barter for the slaves, imprison them in the castles and finally transfer them to waiting ships as the ships arrive to begin the slaves’ last ride along the infamous Middle Passage. The castles were dubbed “warehouses of Black humanity.”

The Cape Coast Castle was built initially for commercial trading between Africans and Europeans. (It was similar to the American Indians “greeting” the Pilgrims on the other side of the world). It was first built in timber and later rebuilt in stone. Its ownership changed many times as the Europeans battled for dominancy of the region. At various times, it was occupied by the Dutch, the Swedes and the British (1664), who used it as the seat of their colonial administration. (It is important to note that though the British boasted about abolishing the slave trade, they kept a colonial grip on countries throughout the world infusing them, including parts of Africa, with their white superiority agenda. So too, did their European brethren.) Not until 1957 did Ghana achieved its independence.

In the dungeons, there were hundreds and perhaps thousands of slaves housed at the same time awaiting transportation; there were no toilet facilities. Slaves ate and slept in the same place; they urinated and relieved themselves in the same place. A channel in the floor would carry the waste away from one point to another along the floor. Taking baths was out of the question and there was barely enough ventilation to keep them alive.

Elmina Castle was established prior to Cape Coast Castle centered around a fishing village port. Before the slave trade thrived, the village was a hub of commercial and social activity centering around a fort that had been built by the Portuguese. As the need for slaves was becoming more apparent, the castle was built in anticipation of the pending mass trafficking of the Black cargo. Even though the Portuguese may have been the ones who entered the slave enterprise on a mass scale, the British took it to a whole new level. They (the British) became innovators of the business and made it into a highly specialized industry; they made it white and “respectable.”

The operation of Elmina Castle was used as the model from which many of the other castles took their lead. Those castles were the last place tens of millions of Africans would see of their homeland. The slave trade continued for over four centuries and at the peak of the trafficking, the average castle would account for approximately 150,000 bodies per year. And to fully understand the scope of this human atrocity, life in the slave castle was a mild microcosm of the slaves’ future–the journey across the oceans was the beginning of eternal horror and slavery, for those who survived the voyage.

In order to keep the castles’ dungeons filled with a consistent flow of Black bodies, Europeans employed many devious means including goods for slaves, the basis of the triangular trade. Finished goods and other imports were brought to the Coast of West Africa, on the first leg of the triangle. On the second leg, slaves, usually housed in the castle dungeons, were transported to Europe, the Americas and the Caribbean to be sold. The ships then returned to Europe filled with monetary rewards to be filled up again as the third leg of the triangle.

One of the way-stations along the route was Goree Island, one of the first places in Africa that was settled by the Europeans. The island was more significant as a memorial to the slave trade than the activities that transpired there. It was said to have been more of a transient port-of-call than a permanent location. However, the trading of slaves did go on there and from that perspective, it could be considered in terms of guilt by association. (In modern times, Goree Island has been visited by many prominent westerners to dramatize the horrors of the slave trade across the Atlantic.

Though it was not as well known, Bunce Island was the site of one of the largest slave castles on the West African Coast, located in Sierra Leone. Its location was considered vitally and strategically important as a shipping port for slaves; it was West Africa’s largest harbor, which made it important for shipping purposes. The modern computer, through enhanced technology, has been able to produce life-like renditions of images of Bunce Island as it was during the days of slave trading.

As was previously stated, though the Europeans and the United States proclaimed the abolition of slavery and by inference, the castles became residential rather than commercial, the Europeans still occupied most of Africa and brutally enforced their will on Black Africans. This was evidenced by the Berlin West African Conference of 1884-1885 where the Europeans laid claim to virtually all of Africa. Parts of the continent had been “explored,” but now representatives of European governments and rulers went into the continent to create and/or expand strangleholds of influence for Europe. This conference laid the groundwork for the now familiar politico-geographical/physical occupation of Africa, and many of the slave castles became civic centers from where they administrated their ill-gotten colonial possessions.

Unlike many other horrible human tragedies, there was no photography during the slave trade therefore, much of what has been reported came through stories passed down, drawings and scrolls that were left, archaeological diggings, advancement in technology and most importantly through the souls of Black folks. –The Los Angeles Sentinel.

CHAPTER THREE

THE NUMBER ONE PROBLEM IN AMERICA IS 70% OF WHITE MEN.

It would seem, that one hundred and fifty two years after Abraham Lincoln Emancipated the Confederated Southern States Slaves, 99% who because of the strict southern laws against educating slaves, could not read, write or do math, held no land, did not know where they were, had no money, did not have any understanding of the American or European financial system, had no real understanding of the power of money, and held no power over their lives whatsoever. And so with all that against them, you would still think that 150 years after the civil war, that the great majority of African Americans should have been assimilated into the American dream of economic middle class wealth and prosperity. 

But, imagine ten million slaves freed and out on the road in the American South for the first time, but not really free, all different skin colors, because of the sexual ferociousness of the plantation slave master, slave farmers and White men in general for African and Black women. There were hundreds of thousands, millions of just about white slaves, high yella light skinned slaves, light and bright skinned slaves, light brown skinned slaves, brown skinned slaves, slaves of all different colors mixed with the millions of White men who had raped and impregnated the mothers, grandmothers, great grandmothers, great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandmothers of these slaves for over two hundred years in America.   

And then imagine, ten million freed slaves. Hated by just about every White person in America, especially in the south. Hated and beaten, maligned, despised, used, abused, spit on, made fun of, talked about, no money, no clothes, no horse, no buggy, no housing, no lodging, homeless, lynched, burned, starving, stinking, unwashed, disrespected, no jobs, no work, no money, segregated against, terrorized, no citizenship, shot, killed, hunted, raped, sodomized, arrested, blamed for theft, and a million things like rapes that they didn’t do, then lynched.

Hated by every White man you see, because they can’t get over what they had done to us and it made them hate us even more for being in existence, taking up space, trying to take jobs away from decent White folks, breathing the very air that White people breathe, they kept them out, segregated against them. White men passed laws against the Coloreds very existence, until they went back into slavery as sharecroppers with no economic security whatsoever, and no financial knowledge of the White American financial system at all.

My Great-Great-Great Grandmother would have been on that same road, where some slaves went west to find their manhood working on the railroads or becoming what would be called Buffalo Soldiers for the United States Army and others went north on what would be the first mass migration of African Americans in America. 

My Great-Great-Great Grandmother who was now forty seven years old, black skinned as Africa, had birthed eight children, some for her slave masters and some from her husbands, five who had been sold. She went north, walking from the cotton fields of Georgia, with her three all different colored, remaining children, one of whom was my Great-Great Grandmother born in slavery in Georgia and having her second child, my Great Grandmother born in Virginia in 1866. 

A freeborn girl named Daisy, who I would know in the fifties as a skittish, tall, skinny old woman, who talked in a high pitched voice and who along with her husband named Daddy Herbert, and her assorted sisters and aunts, had come down through the ages, through Virginia, Baltimore, Maryland, to Boston, Massachusetts along with my Grandmother and her two sisters and one brother, where they would face like millions of other African Americans, thousands of laws passed legally and illegally across the south and north that would stop them from attaining decent jobs, a decent education, decent housing and restricted to a life of poverty inside a city ghetto or rural ghetto, where they and their men, for the least offense, could be lynched, burnt, castrated and their limbs pulled apart for the enjoyment of White people. 

There are a tens of tens of millions of White people in America today, who’s grandparents, great grandparents, great-great grandparents, great-great-great grandparents had picnics, barbeques, and social gatherings while watching black men being lynched, burnt alive, castrated and pulled apart, and black women, disfigured, lynched, burnt alive, and shot numerous times as sport for White men. 

The movies “Birth of A Nation” and “Gone With the Wind”, became the foundation of what White people thought Black people were like and has rippled down White family through White family for over a hundred years.

Every White family in America from Montana to Arizona, from Wyoming to California to Florida. From Massachusetts to Georgia, from Alabama to Illinois, from Mississippi to New York, every White family, every White person, in every state and city and town and village in America saw The Birth of a Nation.  A 1915 American silent drama film directed by D. W. Griffith and based on the novel and play The Clansman, both by Thomas Dixon, Jr.  

  1. W. Griffith co-wrote the screenplay with Frank E. Woods, and co-produced the film with Harry Aitken. It was released on February 8, 1915. The film was originally presented in two parts, separated by an intermission. It was the first 12-reel film in America.  The film chronicles the relationship of two families in Civil War and Reconstruction-US era: the pro-Union Northern Stonemans and the pro-Confederacy Southern Cameroons over the course of several years. The assassination of President Abraham Lincoln by John Wilkes Booth is dramatized.

The film was a commercial success, but was highly controversial owing to its portrayal of Black men played by White actors in blackface as unintelligent and sexually aggressive towards White women, and the portrayal of the Ku Klux Klan whose original founding is dramatized as a heroic force.

There were nationwide African-American protests against The Birth of a Nation including in Boston. The NAACP spearheaded an unsuccessful campaign to ban the film, while thousands of White Bostonians and millions of White people across the nation flocked to see the film.  The film is also credited as one of the events that inspired the formation of the “second era” Ku Klux Klan at Stone Mountain, Georgia, in the same year. The Birth of a Nation was used as a recruiting tool for the KKK. Under the segregationist Ku Klux Klansman Democratic Party President of the United States of America, President Woodrow Wilson, it became the first motion picture to be screened in the White House.

Despite the film’s controversial content, Griffith’s innovative film techniques make it one of the most influential films in the commercial film industry, and it is often ranked as one of the greatest American films of all time and every White person in America saw it.

With Gone With The Wind every white family in America from Montana to Arizona, from Wyoming to California to Florida, from Massachusetts to Georgia, from Alabama to Illinois, from Mississippi to New York, every white family, every white person, in every state and city and town and village in America saw Gone With The Wind a 1939 American epic historical romance film adapted from Margaret Mitchell’s Pulitzer-winning 1936 novel.

It was produced by David O. Selznick of Selznick International Pictures, directed by Victor Fleming and starred Clark Gable, Vivian Leigh and Hattie McDaniel, both films have shaped the thoughts of every White American and every White American family towards Black Americans and how White Americans think Black people act, talk, think, what we think about, who we are and how White Americans related to Black Americans in a very negative way for three generations.

Only the advent of MTV and possibly the Bill Cosby show both created in the early 1980’s began to change the thinking of how a new younger generation of White children and teenagers began to see Black people in a more positive light, as human beings, as more Black people began to show up on National Television.  Well, that is until Gangster Rap took over.

CHAPTER FOUR

We have lived with so much terror and terrorism from White people in the United States of America that the World Trade Center bombing, 9/11, although horrific, was nothing compared to the terror that has been imposed on our African forefathers and African Americans throughout the history of America.

The Transatlantic Slave Trade was just during the first 100 years from 1500-1600, bathed in a horror, brutality and violence so vast that the human mind cannot really comprehend or understand that One Hundred Million human beings were killed, abused and raped in ways so horrific that in this world, and I know this will be hard for you to believe, that the nice people that you see in Spain, Portugal, England, Holland, Belgium, France, and other Western European countries are the direct descendants of the monsters who raped, destroyed, killed and enslaved millions of African people a year in just West Africa alone.  

The funny thing is that although tens of millions of White Western European and after 1776 White American men, women, corporations, institutions, insurance companies, etc., participated in the Atlantic Slave Trade and Slavery in Western Europe and the United States of America, that just like Nazi Germany after World War Two, you cannot find one white person who will stand up and say, yes, in my family, in my family tree, in my corporation, there were people who were slave ship captains and sailors, in my family tree there are men who participated in the horrors of African Chattel Slavery in the United States of America, South America, the Caribbean and Western Europe. 

As in Nazi Germany where every German citizen benefited from the extermination and destruction of Jews until Nazi Germany was destroyed. So has every White person in America, to this very day, benefited from the pain, suffering and slave labor of my Great-Great-Great Grandmother and my Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great Grandparents on both sides of my family and their children’s, children’s, children’s, children’s, children’s, children’s, children’s, children’s, children’s, children’s, children. To this very day, to this very minute, to this very second, the pain, suffering and blood of my Great-Great-Great Grandmother still exists today in the housing projects, in the ghettos, in the people that I write about in this book.

It exists in the tens of millions of inter-generational poor black people in America today, right now, and there is nothing the United States of America can do about it, except apologize for the horrors of slavery and pay reparations in the form of free economic, business and financial courses for every African American, born from the blood of slaves, 17-25 years old, at the college or university of their choice. And that would include Harvard and Stanford Universities. Because in America although my ancestors were freed from slavery and began their long walk to freedom, almost one hundred and fifty years ago, we are not yet freed from social and economic oppression.

White people always point to President Barack Obama as a, see how much you have attained, you should be satisfied.  But President Barack Obama is not from the blood of slaves.  His mother was a White woman and his father a pure bred African from Kenya with not one drop of White blood in him. I’ll only be satisfied when there have been, two, then three, then four and then maybe five, African American Presidents of the United States of America, all from the blood of American Slaves.

But, what makes President Barack Obama a great man and one of the greatest Presidents of the United States of America is that he was born into a country that gives no privilege, that gives nothing to people born non-white and yet he a non-white became the leader of that nation and fought for those who have no rights or privileges. He fought alone, without backup, knowing that the people he fights for, the poor, the weak, the hungry, the medically uninsured, the underprivileged Black, White, Asian, Native American, and Gay people, with no real power, could not protect him from those who wished to destroy him and his policies. Yet he fought every day, every second of his presidency for them, for us.

As I said in my book, ‘African American History in the United States of America – An Anthology –  From Africa to President Barack Obama, Volume One’, “Because of the past horrors of American History, those four African American people, living in the White House at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, DC; President Barack Obama, The First Lady Michelle Obama and their children, Malia Ann Obama and Natasha Obama are the four bravest people to ever live there and the four bravest people in the United States of America.”

CHAPTER FIVE

During slavery the white man looked at and touched our dicks, our pussies, our souls and

took are lives, and they wonder why they are despised.

The fact is whole countries and a new culture of people arose from the millions of African and African American woman raped each year for five hundred years and more, and forced to bear the children of these White savages and a new human being of lighter color and texture called a Mulatto – The term mulatto was used to designate a person who was biracial, with one black parent and one white parent.

A Quadroon – Quadroon was used to designate a person of one-quarter African ancestrey, that is one biracial parent (African descent and white) and one white parent; in other words, one African grandparent and three white grandparents.

In South America, which had a variety of terms for racial groups, some terms for quadroons were Morisco or Chino.

The term Octoroon referred to a person with one-eighth African/Aboriginal ancestry; that is, someone with family heritage of one biracial grandparent; in other words, one African great-grandparent and seven European great-grandparents. As with the use of quadroon, this word was applied to a limited extent in Australia for those of one-eighth Aboriginal ancestry, as the government implemented assimilation policies. In Latin America, a term for octoroon is albino. 

Terceron Terceron was a term synonymous with octoroon, derived from being three generations of descent from an African ancestor (great-grandparent).  

The term Mustee was also used to refer to a person with one-eighth African ancestry, while mustefino refers to a person with one-sixteenth African ancestry. The terms Quintroonor or Hexadecaroon” were also used.  

In some cases, it became a general term to refer to all persons of mixed race.  In Latin America, the terms Griffe or Sambo were sometimes used for an individual of three-quarters African heritage, or the child of a biracial parent and a fully Black parent.

In the American South, before, during and after the antebellum period, African and African American slaves, male and female, were used as sex slaves by White women and White men. Sometimes whole plantations and sections of the South swarmed with the interbreeding of just about white, almost white and light skinned children of these so-called sexually taboo relationships that never seemed to be against the law for white men. Although a white woman caught fucking a Black slave could and was often killed along with the slave, usually by her husband or neighbors. 

She was usually whipped first and then made to watch as her Black lover was burnt alive, while his dick was cut off. She was then usually hanged, and more than not, with his Black dick hanging from her mouth.

During the antebellum period, abolitionists featured thousands of mulattoes and other light-skinned former slaves in public forums and lectures in the North, to arouse public sentiments against slavery by showing Northerners the hypocrisy and sexual degradation the Southern White Male was capable of doing during slavery.

85% of every light skinned or brown colored African American person in America is the direct result of millions of American White men brutally raping African American Women slaves from 1650-1865. That would include the first and second Presidents of the United States of America, George Washington, Thomas Jefferson and many other American Presidents after them.

Presidents of the United States of America who owned slaves:  President George Washington; President Thomas Jefferson; President James Madison; President James Monroe; President Andrew Jackson; President Martin Van Buren; President William Henry Harrison; President John Tyler; President James Polk; President Zachary Taylor; President Andrew Johnson; President Ulysses S. Grant.

Known Presidents of the United States of America who raped Black women who were slaves:  President George Washington; President Thomas Jefferson; President Andrew Jackson; President William Henry Harrison; President John Tyler; President James Polk; President Zachary Taylor.

Known Presidents of the United States of America who raped and fucked Black women who were slaves and had children by some of the Black women they raped: President George Washington; President Thomas Jefferson; President Andrew Jackson; President John Tyler.

Presidents of the United States of America who tried to do something and better the plight of Slaves and African Americans in the United States in order of importance: President Barack Obama; President Abraham Lincoln; President Lyndon Baines Johnson; President Richard Nixon; President John F. Kennedy; President Franklin Delano Roosevelt; President Bill Clinton; President Teddy Roosevelt; President George W. Bush; President George H. W. Bush; President Harry Truman; President Jimmy Carter; President John Adams, President John Quincy Adams; President Dwight D. Eisenhower.

Presidents of the United States of America who were slave holders, racists, segregationist, Ku Klux Klan members or former Ku Klux Klan members, include President Woodrow Wilson who was all of the above and included all but some of those named in the immediate above, and that would include Johnson and Nixon who in some ways repented of their segregationist ways and helped pass laws that helped the plight of African Americans.

Most of the Founder Fathers of the United States of America were slaveholders and slave traders. They fucked as many Black slave woman as they could. Their first sex when they were fifteen or sixteen was by raping a Black slave girl.  Their light-skinned children were usually sold for huge profits for them and their families. And they explored the deepest recesses of inter-breeding and medical experimentations with their slaves to make lighter and more profitable house slaves for the Deep South.

When a White man or White woman had sex with an American Black slave woman or man during the Two Hundred and Fifty years of slavery in the United States it was rape, because that Black slave had no power over anything a White man or White woman did to them.

PART 3

AMERICA 
THE BLACK POINT OF VIEW

70% OF WHITE AMERICA DEMONIZES AFRICAN AMERICANS AS ANIMALS

JUST SO THEY CAN PRACTICE SEGREGATION, DISCRIMINATION,

INEQUALITY, POLICE INJUSTICE, POLITICAL INJUSTICE AND

ECONOMIC INJUSTICE AGAINST BLACK PEOPLE

CHAPTER ONE
THE BLACK COMMUNITY AND
POST-TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER

There are two major problems with the Black community. 

Teenagers who do not leave the community and police who do not come from Black communities.

Most poor African American children who live in or come from the real projects and ghettos of America, like Chicago, Los Angeles, Miami, St. Louis, Boston and hundreds of other American cities need psychiatric help for PTSD, depression, and mental illness.  I believe there is no difference between the children living in the housing projects or ghettos of America than soldiers going off to war in World War One, World War Two, Vietnam, Iraq or Afghanistan. 

Most poor people living in ghettos and housing projects live in a shell-shocked world where violence is an everyday occurrence, where death is common, where the most horrific aspects of sex and violence are synonymous with everyday living.  When a White child commits atrocities in America it must be because he fell through the cracks and didn’t get the mental help he so deserved. When a Black child commits horrific crimes and murder, it’s because he’s black and by birth is a brutal animal and gets life and forever in jail, where his or her abuse and life continues to be one long night in hell.

The White man taught us everything we know. How to disrespect ourselves, our women, our culture and our communities.  How to kill each other, how to disrespect each other, how to hate each other, how to be jealous of each other, how to not support one another, how to be afraid of one another. 

After 350 years of having to live with white people, we have become just like them in the way that they treated us, so do we treat one another. And that’s why our Black ghettos, our communities are so full of hate. We sell each other drugs and death in the housing projects and in the ghetto. We are living the way the white man has made us in his image.  Full of hate and loathing for one another, killing each other slowly with drugs, painfully with humiliation, and fast with guns and violence. 

Every African American who was born, raised or has lived more than five years in the real projects or real urban or rural ghettos of America suffers from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.   Every African American who lived through segregation in the south suffered from Post- Traumatic Stress Disorder.   Every African American who lived through segregation in the north suffered from Post- Traumatic Stress Disorder.  Every African American who marched for their civil rights in the south and north suffered from Post- Traumatic Stress Disorder.   Every slave in the south or north suffered from Post- Traumatic Stress Disorder.   

Every African American slave who was freed and walked to freedom in the south suffered from Post- Traumatic Stress Disorder.   Every African American who lived through segregation in the south suffered from Post- Traumatic Stress Disorder.   Every former slave who lived through reconstruction in the south suffered from Post- Traumatic Stress Disorder.   Every African American, slave or otherwise who has lived or lives in White America to this very day, this very minute, this very second suffers from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and needs professional help.  And that would include me.

Hundreds and hundreds of millions of African Slaves and African Americans have lived for the last three hundred and seventy five years in America, being terrorized, living in trauma, humiliated and hated by White Americans and suffered and still suffers from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. This Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder has like intergenerational poverty, been passed down from generation to generation, it is a serious cultural and mental flaw and needs to be addressed by America. 

If anyone needs proof of this than you need look no further than our urban cities and prisons where millions of African Americans destroy one another every day in many horrendous and violent ways.  Tens of thousands of inner city Black People in every major American City are self-medicating themselves with heroin, crack, cocaine, marijuana and alcohol. The drugs are provided by the……and take your pick… the Government, the CIA, the Mafia, the Columbian Cartel, the Mexican Cartel, the White man, the drug man, the boogieman and the corner man. All of these entities are trying to destroy you and the community, all because you are poor, angry, helpless, homeless, jobless, no real money, no hope, no nothing. You got just enough to pay for your drugs and stay poor, black, hungry and angry, with nothing. 

The thing is at this point is everyone who works or is trying to help people in the ghetto is suffering from PTSD and that would include the cops, the firemen, the paramedics, the community hospital health workers, the welfare system, and the city government. Everyone in or close to the ghetto has now become mentally and emotionally disabled.

But as the old laws against education for black people stated, “The White system needs a slave work force, and Black people are it”.  The prison system needs a criminal work force, and you’re it.  When you don’t have an education or skill everyone profits except you.  When you’re in court everyone is making money, except you.  When you’re in prison, everyone is making money, except you.  When you don’t have an education or skill, everyone is making money, except you.  The only thing you can do is work a slave job for minimum wages and be poor for the rest of your life or you can make money the street way and go to jail and or die violently. 

Those are your choices when you are born and raised and live more than seventeen years in the housing projects or ghetto.  When you don’t have some type of job skill or education at something that somebody wants, those are your choices and remember rapping is not a job.  Becoming a musician, playing piano or guitar can be a job and you can make money with those skills. 

But rapping is not a job, and won’t make you any money unless you can find a manager, an attorney, a publicist, an agent, a record company, a distributor and sell two million cd’s and everybody in the world, promoters, agents, managers, record company makes real money off of you, and maybe some of that money will trickle down to you. On your next million seller you might make a lot of money unless you owe your manager, agent, record company even more money and then you will still make nothing. 

So unless you are very lucky, your best bet is to get a scholarship, get an education or go into the military from high school while you’re still working out life, unless you’ve already fucked up and didn’t graduate or got locked up for doing something stupid, and now you have a felony and can’t do shit.  Those are your choices when you come from the real ghetto, from the real projects. 

My advice is to simply stop doing stupid shit. Learn what’s real, don’t terrorize and disrespect your own community, your own brothers and sisters by selling them drugs and committing crimes against your own community, and don’t forget, if you do crack or heroin or drugs like that, you will never get out. A drug addict can’t live no more than five miles from his or her drug dealer and once again the white man will have you, since he’s the one providing your drug dealer with the drugs so that you can be addicted. He’s the one putting the crack pipe, zig zag papers and alcohol in the community so you can do some crime, commit a felony and get sent to prison where you can be a slave of the state for 3-5, 5-10, 10-20 or 20-life and then you will never get out, even if you’re out you will live in poverty and be a slave hustling in the ghetto for the rest of your life, until you die violently or slowly. 

Go to school, and no matter what, get some type of education or skill.  If you are not going on to college, community college or have no academic or athletic scholarship to a University and you are seventeen or eighteen years old, you can still go into the United States Air Force, Navy, or Marines, and get out of the ghetto.  Stop living off of your mother or grandmother and grow up while you get paid in the military.  But get the fuck up out of the projects, the ghetto, they are death traps.  Join the military, learn a job skill, meet a lot of girls, travel around the world and get paid while you are figuring it all out. 

So, because I come from the real projects, the real ghetto, I can tell you this.  Don’t let the White system define you, don’t let the ghetto define you, don’t let the projects define you. Don’t let them lock you in and have you thinking that the streets are your life, that, that corner defines you and you are locked in to poverty for the rest of your life.  You can get out, you can escape, don’t let those White people laws of red-lining and segregation define you. Segregation and red-lining still exists, but don’t let it define you.  Fight, be the hard bad-motherfucker you think you are, break out, before they trap you with a felony and then you can’t go anywhere. 

I was eighteen years old on the verge of stepping up to my first felony, gun in hand, and a voice   whispered to me that I had been graduated from high school by a man who said I just had to swim four laps at the Boys Club, and that I didn’t have to be at my mother’s house anymore, that I didn’t have to be in a gang anymore, that I didn’t have to do crime anymore, that I could leave now. Then, God took my hand and rode with me on the bus down to the United States Air Force recruiting office and I began my journey out. 

Remember this, the odds are that you are average, nothing special yet, because you have not defined yourself.  The odds are that you don’t have any money, no academic or athletic scholarship, can’t get into college because you don’t have the grades. You can’t really rap or sing that good, no job, no real father, no real mother, no real education, no real social skills. You get high too much, you drink too much alcohol, you have no real girlfriends, just some sex, you’re going nowhere and you’re sixteen, seventeen, eighteen or nineteen.  The solution isn’t the drug game, that’s the White man’s trap.  The solution is to get out.

The solution isn’t crime, that’s the White man’s trap so he can send you to prison to be his slave.  The solution isn’t being sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one and terrorizing your community with your presence, that’s the White man’s trap to define you and keep you in poverty.  The solution is to use the White man and his system and go to Community College and get an education and get some skills that can take you to the next level or go into the Military and have the United States of America pay for your education or job skill, and educate yourself with a skill that somebody will want and pay for. 

What happens in the poor black communities of America where I am from and write about in my autobiography, The Autobiography of an American Ghetto Boy, is a form of genocide, suicide if you will. Where because of the daily, hourly, struggle to survive, to eat, to pay rent, to pay bills, to raise children in poverty, in fear, no jobs, and the degradation of being black and poor in America causes one to embrace the horrors of heroin, crack cocaine, weed and alcohol, which all live side by side with you in the form of liqueur stores and your community drug dealers who prey upon you day and night, and have the power to corrupt and destroy whole neighborhoods with prostitution, rape, petty and violent crimes. 

They get their heroin, crack cocaine, weed and alcohol from the White man.  The needles to shoot heroin come from the White man, the pipe used to smoke crack comes from the White man, the alcohol comes from the White man’s liquor store, the papers and apparatus used to smoke weed come from the White man’s stores.  None of these items, the needles, the pipe, the papers, the alcohol, nor the liquor stores are owned by Black people or manufactured in the poor urban Black communities. 

In fact no one seems to know where the crack pipe is manufactured or how it miraculously appears in every Black community in America.  Every major Black community in every poor Black city, town and village in America is surrounded by and under siege by liquor stores and drug dealer’s. They turn our children into alcoholics and drug and crack addicts, every day, across the country, from Boston to Los Angeles, by the thousands, every day.  

Most of our African American leaders like Reverend Al Sharpton, National Action Network; Reverend Jesse Jackson, Operation Push; Ben Jealous, former NAACP, President/CEO; Corey Booker, Senator, New Jersey; and even Barack Obama, the  President of the United States have attempted to help the poor and at risk children of this country through their words and example.  The problem is that 99.9% of these leaders don’t come from where these children come from…they haven’t lived their lives, and aren’t able to truly understand the dangers that are all around these children.  

These leaders haven’t lived day after day, night after night, year after year as children, with violence, poverty, degradation, drugs, and the horrors of prostitution, drug dealing, depravity and no hope all around them; with the stink of poverty all around them, the evil of poverty surrounding them, the stink of death all around them.  The reason we don’t have leaders coming from such an horrific place is that the majority of the people who come from this bad environment – bad parents, bad schools – living with no hope, are mentally, physically and emotionally unable to perform as leaders; or they’re in jail, or they’re on drugs, or they’re on alcohol, or they’re still living on the fringes of society in a bad condition in a bad way…in poverty.

These leaders did not come from dysfunctional and violent families and have no clue why one child will kill another child, one child will rape another child, one child will torture another child, one child will sell drugs to another child, one child will set another child on fire, one child will gang rape another child. They don’t know that, that child has been beaten, abused, starved, raped and suffered from bad food and a bad education, year after year. They don’t know that child has never been on vacation anywhere, no summer vacations to Disneyland, no summer home, no boat rides, no boat trips, no camping trips, no plays, no nothing. 

These so-called leaders have no idea why these children act out in school, rob other children, destroy their communities, sell pussy, sell crack, sell PCP, sell heroin, pimp, prostitute and hustle.  They do not understand that these children are bombarded by television and the outside world showing them wealthy beyond belief athletes, entertainers, and corporations, while they live in a world of trauma, violence, death, poverty and hunger; suffering every day from the effects of mental, physical and sexual abuse and yet they are expected to go to school and pretend that everything is okay, pretend that everything is normal, that they are living a normal American life; and expected to achieve in school where they are basically learning just how wonderful White men and women are. That they are just like some White kid from a middle or upper class home. 

Our leaders need to work on changing American school curriculums in the African American community to match and better reflect that African American child’s reality of self and self-esteem. Then maybe this countries Public Schools will be an interesting learning center for that child.

I have always felt that since slavery and colonialism was a global affair initiated and practiced by the Western European powers of the 15th, 16th, 17th, 18th and 19th Centuries and White North and South Americans of the 17th, 18th and 19th Centuries who committed horrendous atrocities that included rape, murder, enslavement and the displacement of tens of millions of Africans and African American slaves.

That Africans and the freed descendants of slaves and that would include 95% of African Americans in the United States of America should petition for reparations in the Hundreds and Hundreds of Billions of dollars from the United Nations. African Americans should begin the process by declaring our American Urban Cities our ghettos, Third World Countries, and petition the United Nations for relief in the form of education, jobs and decent housing.

How to win against the White man when you’re a child.  Get a strong education and don’t commit crimes against your community.

There are two problems with the Black community.  Teenagers who never have a chance or reason to leave the community until they are shot, killed or go to jail; and police who do not come from Black communities. Our medical care is often secondary and third rate.  When we are sick, we are often not believed and very often get miss-diagnosed.  All African American children want go to school, work and go to colleges, universities, and trade schools, but because of the extreme poverty, high unemployment and widespread cultural and community destruction, terror, trauma, and fear in our communities, they drop out.

Black on Black crime occurs because our major American cities are overrun with tens of thousands of poor, undereducated, hungry, degraded, unemployed, people all living on top of one another, preying on one another, living in poverty, the good people, the working class people, living with drug addicts and criminals of all types.

REPARATIONS
WHY AMERICA NEEDS TO PAY REPARATIONS
TO AFRICAN AMERICANS

CHAPTER TWO

Slavery, Segregation and White Male Oppression are the legacies that formed

Extreme Poverty – High Unemployment – and widespread cultural and community destruction in the African American community. 

The United States Government, and its Corporations and Institutions who participated in Slavery, Segregation and Jim Crow in this country need to give reparations and an apology to all of the descendants of Slavery. Every African American person in this country needs to be given a free education at the career, trade or skill they desire by the United States Government and every Corporation and Institution in this country and that would mean Institutions like Harvard University and Corporations like New York Life should pay for this education and physiological therapy for African Americans.

This education would go a long way to help correct a self-destructive condition resulting from a black state of mind that was created during our forefathers enslavement in America and the colonization by Western Europeans, with their guns and cannon, of West Africa, Africa and the all the darker peoples of the earth. This would help cleanse the horrendous conditions of life among poor Black people living in the housing projects and ghettos of the United States of America. A way of life that has emerged from White supremacy and the slave master mentality that is the vestige of a three century chattel slavery system in America, forcibly imposed upon Black people by the White people of today and their forefathers of yesterday, along with another century and a half of Jim Crow, segregation, discrimination, inequality, and injustice which continues to this day. 

My belief is that every African American should be given a free economic and financial education in the higher education schools of America. A free education at the community colleges, colleges and universities of their choice from the age of seventeen – twenty five and particularly at all of the schools that participated in the slave trade.  America, the United States of America, say you’re sorry and give some reparations, it would help still the pain and help create a new generation of confidence in America for African Americans

We as African Americans have been subjected to a level of murder, lynching’s, burnings, cruel and inhumane treatment, lies, deception, disrespect, jealousy, treachery, betrayal, and sabotage from within America that no other culture, except the Native American has ever experienced, and still we succeed and our success always makes America better, and so it shall be and always will be, always and forever.

One of the major problems with African Americans is that we need to hear an apology from the United States Government for the mass enslavement and slaughter of African Americans and the mass slaughter of Native Americans in this country.  If you live in America and your ancestors were of Western European heritage and came to America only one or two generations ago, then you are reaping the privileges and benefits of the horrors of African American slavery and the mass extermination of Native Americans. 

Tens of millions of my fellow African American, brother’s and sister’s, forefathers were cast adrift in the millions from the blood, sweat and bondage of slavery in the United States of America in 1865.  Not knowing where they were, where they were from, who they were, where they were going or what they were; with no money, no land, no nothing; no wealthy cousin or rich father to see to them; no love for America, no food, no jobs, no education, no understanding of the white system of money; no understanding of the law, no understanding of land and power, no understanding of American government, no understanding of America, no real understanding of the White people who hated them. 

Migrating all over America, North, West, East, anywhere but South, and somehow forming unions of oneness, of communities and businesses.  We made a way out of no way and survived, even flourished, only to have filth, death and drugs rammed down our throats and still we continue to survive without the proper education and understanding of language and finance to fight it off. 

Why reparations for the victims? The children’s, children’s, children’s, children’s, children’s, children’s, children’s, children of genocide and the mass murder of hundreds of millions of Africans and African Americans; for slavery, slave trading, racial apartheid of housing and economic laws and the one hundred and fifty years of Jim Crow laws that caused economic, physical, emotional abuse, harm, suffering and crimes against humanity; to the entire African American community by the 70% of White people today who’s father’s, father’s, father’s, father’s, father’s, father’s, father, committed these horrors and abuses against Africans and African Americans for the benefit of their children today.

From The Internet

In 2006, Brown University issued an extraordinary report detailing the university’s relationship with the slave trade and acknowledged the deep, intertwined history of the slave trade and the university and the role slave labor played in the very construction of the school.

But Brown is hardly the only venerable university in the United States that is reckoning with its hidden legacy of slavery, practically every college and university founded during colonial-era America — Harvard University, William & Mary, Yale, Princeton, the University of Pennsylvania, Columbia, Brown, Rutgers, and Dartmouth, has a history of slavery to confront, and most older institutions of higher education in America were built on the back of slave labor. The first eight presidents of Princeton – then the College of New Jersey – were slave owners, and enslaved people lived in the presidents’ houses and served the presidents and students.

In the evolution of the Harvard / Yale / Princeton faculties, and the founding moment of Yale, when the founding trustees gathered to plan out the organization and wrote the bylaws of the new school, they were accompanied by their slaves to that meeting.  It was interesting to see how much these academic institutions depended upon enslaved people, but also on the broader economy of the slave trade.

Many of the founders of these universities became quite wealthy as merchants profiting off of the slave trade. When you think about Columbia or the University of Pennsylvania, or Dartmouth, you think of them as wealthy, historic institutions. But these were pretty lean institutions in the eighteenth century, when they were founded. They were local institutions. The ministers and local activists founded these schools turned to local sources of wealth, and in the mid-Atlantic and New England, that meant they often turned to families who made their fortunes in the Atlantic trade, and a significant proportion of that trade was in African slaves.

Harvard University turned to local merchants in the seventeenth century, many of whom were British suppliers who sent fish, for instance, south to the West Indies. The cheapest quality fish was what was sent down to feed the enslaved population of the West Indies. Not only did Harvard’s New England backers have close ties to West Indian slavery, the school also followed these commercial networks south to seek out wealthy West Indian slave owners.

At Brown, when the original trustees were raising donations for the school, local residents of Providence and Newport donated cash, lumber, and other goods, and they donated the labor of their slaves. At the College of William and Mary, teams of slaves were used for the upkeep of various buildings, and the College actually held a fairly sizable population of slaves for use as campus servants, dedicated at times to specific buildings.

Some of the students at William and Mary brought slaves to campus with them. Eleazar Wheelock, the founder of Dartmouth, arrived in New Hampshire in 1770. He brought with him eight enslaved black people, and he wrote in his memoir about the early struggle to build the college.  He wrote about the use of his slaves to help lay out the fields and raise some of the original structures of the college to get things going. He has several places in his memoirs about the things he’d assigned his slaves to do to improve the campus and expand his ability to take in students. – From the Internet

As I have stated before the use of slave labor was highly prized in America, as slaves were the best builders and agriculturists in America.

Slave labor built the White House, Washington, DC and every major institution in every major city and state in America’s Northeast, Mid-Atlantic and South between 1626 and 1865. 

Without Benjamin Banneker, a freed slave, our nation’s capital would not exist as we know it.  After a year of work, a Frenchman hired by George Washington to design the capital, L’Enfant, stormed off the job, taking all the plans.  Benjamin Banneker, placed on the planning committee at Thomas Jefferson’s request, saved the project by reproducing from memory, in two days, a complete layout of the streets, parks, and major buildings, including the White House. Thus Washington, D.C. itself can be considered a monument to the genius of this great man.

REPARATIONS
WHY AMERICA NEEDS TO PAY REPARATIONS
TO AFRICAN AMERICANS

CHAPTER THREE
Our forefathers have earned us reparation rights by their blood.

SOME INFORMATION IS FROM THE INTERNET – 95% of the African American freed slaves in 1865 could not read, write or do any kind of math. It was against the law for the White man’s property to read or write. If a slave was found to be able to read or write from 1650 – 1865, he or she could by the laws of the state be subject to 100 lashes from the whip or death by hanging, castration, and being burnt alive.

President Barack Obama is a true African American.  He is the embodiment and look of five hundred years of White men raping African women, he is the look of slavery in the United States, Europe, South America and the Caribbean. But his blood is not the blood, sweat and horror of American slavery.  He does not have one drop of the blood of slavery in his body.  His mother was a White woman and his father was an African man from Kenya.  Unlike 99% of African Americans not one ancestor was an American, Caribbean or South American slave.

Slavery rests at the foundation of American capitalism and is often synonymous with the sugar, tobacco, and/or cotton plantations that fueled the Southern economy.  What many may not know is that slavery also rests at the foundation of a great many notable corporations.  From New York Life to Bank of America, to JPMorgan Chase to AIG to Wells Fargo, several American banking and insurance corporations have benefited from slavery.  Many of these companies have acknowledged their involvement in slavery and offered apologies in an attempt to reconcile their tainted history but, is an apology enough?

History has consistently shown that slavery and segregation destroyed the family life and the quality of life for American slaves and our African American descendants and simultaneously enhanced the quality of life for White Americans.  From institutionalized racism to blocked social and economic opportunities, African Americans as a whole have been excluded from a way of life that all White Americans take for granted.

Apologies cannot compensate an entire people for all of the social and economic ills we faced as a result of our forefather’s enslavement. Apologies alone cannot address the residual effects of slavery and American segregation.  Apologies cannot provide job opportunities to people who for over one hundred and fifty years have experienced high unemployment rates. 

Had it not been for slave labor, many corporations would not be where they are today and for these companies to acknowledge their involvement in slavery and then simply say ‘Oh, I’m sorry”, is to downplay their role in and is little more than a futile attempt to correct a wrong by just an apology. 

Instead of apologies, American Corporations could give back to the African American community by donating billions to Historically Black Universities and Colleges so that every African American child who wants a tuition free College scholarship can have one at a Black University. 

And it’s not just American corporations. Profits from the slave trade accumulated the huge amounts of money in the Western European banks and in the Western European insurance companies needed to finance not only the global shipping companies that put Europe and America at the head of highly lucrative world trade, but profits from slavery in the western hemisphere and profits from the Atlantic Slave Trade also financed both the scientific and industrial revolutions of the entire Western and American world.

Slavery and the theft of Africa made Western Europe and America great.

Slavery and the slaughter and wholesale extinction of most of the Native Americans and tribes were the water and fertilizer of the whole modern era and is the source of global Western Europe and American power, economically, technologically and militarily. The whole modern technological era was watered and fertilized with the bones and blood of hundreds and hundreds of millions of dead Africans and dead Indians. American Slavery was not just in the American south but lasted in the north until the 1840’s

Slave holders and the commodity crops of the South had a strong influence on United States politics and economy; New York City’s economy was closely tied to the South through shipping and manufacturing, for instance. By 1822 half of its exports were related to cotton.

By 1810, 75 percent of all African Americans in the North were free. By 1840, virtually all African Americans in the North were free. Vermont’s 1777 constitution made no allowance for slavery. In Massachusetts, slavery was successfully challenged in court in 1783 in a freedom suit by Quock Walker as being in contradiction to the state’s new constitution of 1780 providing for equality of men. But freed slaves were highly subject to racial segregation, isolation, economic deprivation, social ostracism  in the North, and it took decades for some states to extend the franchise to them.

Most northern states passed legislation for gradual abolition. As a result of this gradualist approach, New York did not free its last slaves until 1829, Rhode Island had five slaves still listed in the 1840 census, Pennsylvania’s last slaves were freed in 1847, Connecticut did not completely abolish slavery until 1848, and slavery was not completely lifted in New Hampshire and New Jersey until the nationwide emancipation in 1865.

Many of the White Americans today who claimed their families arrived after slavery ended or were here during slavery, but had no real benefit from slavery are mistaken.  There would be little to nothing in America, in terms of infrastructure for the later immigrations of White people to come over and add to it, if it were not for the slave labor from Africa and the later African American Slaves and descendants who built the two hundred and fifty years of White American privilege and entitlement.

Slave labor cleared away the huge forests, built the early ports and shipping docks for trade between the Americas and Western Europe. Slave labor loaded and unloaded the departing and arriving ships. In the American continents in general, both in north and south America, slave labor dug the canals for commerce. Slave labor drained the swamps to clear away the habitat of the swarms of mosquitoes. Dramatically reducing mosquitoes and swamps made greater White settlement across America possible because of the wide spread malaria carried by large swarms of mosquitoes from Virginia to Brazil.  Blacks were used for this work because they were seen as more resistant to malaria than Whites and White diseases killed off the Indian slaves in droves.

Slave labor built the early roads and bridges in America. Slave labor laid down the cobblestones for wall street itself in New York City.  Four centuries of slave trading and slave labor built up the United States and Western European banking system, so that these same banks and financial institutions could later make the loans needed to build the industries and manufacturing plants that slaves built and free Blacks could not get a job in.

Slaves were also artisans and craftsmen and not just farm laborers . On the large plantations Slaves were the iron workers, carpenters, brick layers and builders. Often these skilled African American Slaves were “rented out” for profit to other whites by the slave owners and did skilled non-farming work.  We did not just plant, tend and harvest cotton, tobacco, rice and sugar cane.

Slavery was a source of wealth for many nations, and had been for centuries before the Western European and White American slave trading began. But the Western European and White American slave, segregation and racism system was especially evil, cruel, vile, and vicious. 

It was based on hundreds of thousands of Western European and American White men with guns and cannons, killing, beating, raping, torturing, humiliating and degrading Black men and women.  99% percent of African slaves brought from Africa, were docile farmers, agriculturists and skilled craftsmen.  Think of it as an alien race coming to America, destroying the military machine with superior weaponry and taking back to its planet only docile, White American water irrigators and farmers, because that’s what they needed. 

America and Western Europe didn’t need Africa’s warriors, they needed and took tens of millions of Africa’s farmers and laborers, men, women and children and put them and their descendants into a worldwide slavery and bondage, inside and outside Africa. A Slavery that would last more than five hundred years, destroying the fabric of Africa, Africans, those of African descent and African Americans to this very day.

Our ancestors were worked, and worked and worked and worked and worked and worked and worked and worked to death, into early graves, for five hundred years building America’s and Western Europe’s trillions and trillions of dollars of intergenerational wealth.  Africans and people of African descent and color all over the world, including African Americans in America got nothing in return.

Yet one of the first things I can remember hearing as a child is how I have to pull myself up by my own bootstraps, and I remember replying to that in a poem I wrote as a child by saying, “But, Mr. Man, we ain’t got no bootstraps to pull ourselves up by”.  Intergenerational poverty, year after year poverty, everyday poverty in the United States of America is a bitch.  Just ask anybody in any poor black community, in any poor white community, in any city, in any town, in any village, in any housing project, in any ghetto in the United States of America, the so-called richest country on the face of the Earth, ever. Everyday poverty, until the day you die in poverty, is a bitch!!!

Never forget that the majority of the 14th century Western European common men and women were poverty stricken, disease ridden, malnourished, generally unwashed and
horrifically nasty people who killed everything in their path and except for their ships and firearms, remained relatively technologically and economically backwards. That is, until the theft of Africa, India, the Americas and the five centuries of the Atlantic Slave Trade and White colonialism.  The murder, raping and theft of Africa and most countries of color under colonialism made White Western Europe and America as rich and powerful as they are today.

PART 9
CHAPTER FOUR 
WHO I’M FROM

I was born on the Planet Earth, a place of great water and oceans, where all life on Earth had come from. I am an air breather, who can no longer breathe underwater or anywhere outside of this planet, in this Solar System, except in this planet’s atmosphere, with something called gravity, on a land mass, a continent called North America, in a place called the United States of America, at Boston City Hospital, in a town called, Roxbury, the colored part of Boston, Massachusetts, where violence, liquor stores, crime, heroin, welfare, pimps, gangsters, hustlers, serial killers, drug addicts, rapists, murderers prevailed and lived alongside college educated, bourgeois, middle class lawyers, doctors, school teachers, and good black working people and families. 

It looked a lot like a small village, but it was a ghetto full of Black people some doing real good, most doing real bad.  Just like in the days of slavery, living in the slave quarters was set up the same as living in the ghetto. Some slaves did real good, but most slaves did and lived real bad.  Those that did real good usually had some dealings with the White man, usually the plantation owner and worked in the main or big house, tending to household duties or the owners children or tended to the white man’s other property like his horses and specialized in carpentry and other building, farming or plantation skills and were usually the plantation owners children of slaves or in-bred lighter skinned slaves. 

The ones who did real bad were the slaves that were worked to death, the do or die slave, the menial worker slave, the cotton, tobacco, and farm field hand slave and they were the majority. They were the workers and they made the plantation owner wealthy.  They were usually darker skinned slaves and were treated badly by everyone, slave owner and the so called house slaves alike. 

But all the slaves had one thing in common, they all had to live in slave row, they all had to live together, in a ghetto of sorts and so they formed a hierarchy of those who did well and those who did not do well, with the lighter skinned slaves lording it over the darker skinned slaves and the darker skinned slaves hating the lighter skinned slaves. In other words the plantation owner treated the lighter skinned slaves with some leniency and kindness and the darker skinned slaves as mules and so the lighter skinned slaves treated the darker skinned slaves the same as the owner and his family did, and kept the darker skinned slaves in line by telling the owner of any uprisings, or discontent, or any bad talk a field slave might have or feel towards his or her enslavement. 

It was a perfect situation for the owner because a slave could not trust another slave with his or her life, none of them had any power, but the lighter skinned slave had power over the darker skinned slave and neither trusted the other. It followed the Willie Lynch letter to the tee and inside that slave ghetto, the white man wasn’t the only one doing the raping. There was in-breeding, incest, the strong preying on the weak and the weak finding ways to survive. There were gay slaves, pedophile slaves, crazy slaves, evil slaves and jealous slaves; anytime you have a lot of people thrown together in an uncompromising situation all the vices available are going to happen. The whole plantation, Southern and American way of life was corrupted.  The system of slavery was so evil, that everyone Black and White was tainted by the excess of sexual and immoral behavior. 

Unlike the films that I mentioned earlier The Birth of A Nation, which portrayed Black Americans as sexual deviants and corrupted individuals and Gone With The Wind which portrayed slaves as always thinking about and worried about white peoples happiness. The truth is somewhere in between, white people had corrupted black people with their own White sense of corruption and deviancy, and black people who had no sense of hope or power, used whatever means they could to survive.  

It’s really simple, the strong preyed on the weak, the same as White America preys on it’s weak, uneducated and poor people.   We are all children of those slaves, we are all, Black and White, children of those slaves. We are all part of America’s horrors, its wars, its poverty, its perversions, its corruption, its hypocrites, its politicians, its slaves. We are all children of the slaves that America made in its image. Its weak, uneducated, poor, corrupted and vile children.

Well, the ghettos of America in the 1950’s and 1960’s were pretty much run and made that way, with the even poorer and more destitute and undesirable colored people being thrown together in places that were even below the ghetto levels of poverty, they were called the projects, and most of the families and people were poor and on welfare.  So now you have tens of millions of Black people across the United States living on top of one another in high rise or low rise buildings all poor, Black, destitute, on welfare, with no jobs, no hope, no self-respect, living in death and violence, and no love for one another, living together all lumped up in a ghetto and housing project. 

Although my mother’s family, her mother and father, her grandmother and grandfather, her great-aunts, her aunts and uncle, her brother and sisters, her nieces and nephews all lived in the ghetto; and although we lived in the projects with my mother; my sister and I had one big thing that differentiated us from the multitude of other real poor ghetto and project kids. We had a grandmother, our father’s mother, who lived in a standalone home that her father had built, three miles from Harvard University, on a street off of Massachusetts Avenue, in North Cambridge, Mass and where she lived was not the ghetto. Although her son, our father, would become one the most infamous and notorious criminals and gangsters in Boston and New England, she did not live in the ghetto and made sure everyone knew that; and my sister and I would have access to her and her home out of and away from the ghetto.

MY FAMILY: 
THE GOOD – THE BAD – THE UGLY AND THE BROKEN

CHAPTER FIVE
ROBERT AND EFFIE FAULK
THE UGLY AND BROKEN

 

My mother’s family came from my great-great-great grandmother who was stolen out of Africa, and my great-great grandmother, while on that long road to freedom on 1866, gave birth to my great grandmother, Daisy, in Virginia.  Daisy, the granddaughter of a tormented, beaten and raped slave woman from Africa and the daughter of a tormented, beaten, and raped woman from Virginia, would live a long life and end her days in Boston, MA. 

She would birth three daughters and one son, and have the companionship and marriage of an African American and Native American man, named Daddy Herbert, who would return to her forty year after he had been put out of her life for molesting one of her daughters, my grandmother, Effie Faulk.  She would marry another man during that time named Mr. Brown and he would be accused of the same thing by her.  She would have the companionship of her three sisters; their mother was my great-great grandmother and they would all live long lives as I knew my great aunts also.

One of the sisters, Aunt Rosie, a very, very fair and light skinned woman whose father could have only been a white man, ran a house of ill repute and prostitution on Shawmut Avenue in Roxbury, back in the 10’s, 20’s, 30’s and 40’s. My mother would take my sister and I to see her from time to time in the 1950’s and she was a very sweet, but business like old white looking woman with what looked like growths on her face, and always looked like she didn’t take no shit from anyone.

We would walk over from my projects and walk up this road from Madison Park, it was like a short cut to Tremont and Hammond Street where two of my great aunts, Aunt Lillie and Aunt Mamie lived, right around the corner from Aunt Rosie.  Aunt Mamie was real, real old and always had a shawl on, she was a short dark woman, looked like what the slaves must have looked like, she, and I would bet on it, looked exactly like her mother, the daughter of the slave from Africa. 

Aunt Lillie was a big boned light brown woman who also looked like she meant business.  She could look right through you and know if you were a bad kid, but she always offered me and my sister a glass of ginger ale, while she always drank a glass of something, from a green bottle that said Ale.  My mother seemed to know them well and to like her aunts very much, and I the great-great grandson of an American Black Slave and the great-great-great grandson of that eleven year old little girl from Sierra Leone, Africa, an American Black Slave, would have the extraordinary privilege at five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten and eleven years old of knowing, talking, being touched, looked at, kissed and hugged, by my great aunts, the daughters of an American Black Slave, the granddaughters of an American Black Slave from Africa.

As I have said, before, I knew their sister, my great grandmother, Daisy, in the 1950’s & 60’s. She lived on Ellington Street in Dorchester with her husband Daddy Herbert, her son’s family and a few second and third cousins of mine.  She never touched me like her sisters did and never had much of anything to do with me. She was a strange old lady, skinny and skitterish, like a race horse with an extra step of high energy. She had a high pitched voice and speech that I could never understand. 

Like all old people like that do, all five would faded away from me, and then I guess they were no more. Anyway, I never saw any of them again after I turned thirteen, they probably all died around 1959-1962.  I think Aunt Mamie was the second oldest and my great grandmother would have been 96 or 97 when she died, Daddy Herbert, who I don’t remember ever speaking to me, would have been a little younger than her, but like most old people like that, he faded away from my view and I never saw him again either.

My grandmother had two sisters and one brother.  They were all very opinionated, uneducated, smart women, who were always arguing and fighting and not speaking to one another.  Aunt Adelle who was the oldest was also the darkest along with her brother who was called, Brother. She was also the smartest and whatever she did and however she raised and taught her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren, they thrived and were ambitious people, most of them became successful businessmen and women.  I remember her as a dedicated chain smoker who looked, seemed and talked mean, but she really wasn’t. 

They all lived in the ghetto, in Dorchester, but not in the projects.  Aunt Eva was the second oldest, she was a very light skinned woman, which meant that her father was not my Great Grandfather, Daddy Herbert.  Daddy Herbert was a dark brown man with what black people called straight Indian type hair, a matter of fact type of man, with a real stone chiseled face, in his 80’s and 90’s when I knew him.  Aunt Eva was mostly a pleasant woman who was married to a nice man I knew as Uncle Al.  She like Aunt Adelle, disliked my grandmother and stayed away from her. 

I would know and see her more as I got older, I never knew much about her, but she lived in the what was then the new Elderly Homes building at Warren Street and Melnea Cass Blvd, in Roxbury, so I would go and see her and Uncle Al from time to time in the mid-sixties. They did not as far as I could see have any children.  I liked them a lot.   

Uncle or Brother, as he was called by everyone I knew, was my grandmothers younger brother.  I knew him pretty well as a child and teenager.  He lived up the street from the Whittier Street Housing Projects where I lived, on the corner outside one of the liqueur stores on Tremont Street.  Uncle was a dark skinned man who looked like his mother and grandmother and was the same color as my mother.  He was a nice man who liked to drink a lot, but married a nice woman named Harriet and had a number of children, one of whom Richard would marry into a family I would marry into years later, thus his children would be my cousins and the cousins of my second wife. They are eclectic, interesting people and for the most part very well educated.  

Uncle’s main claim to fame as told by my grandmother was that when the women he lived with in the 1980’s died, Uncle or Brother was so drunk that he didn’t know that she was in their apartment dead for a week. They were all these, children and grandchildren of slaves, is some ways all broken people; but the worst was my grandmother.

CHAPTER SIX

When you have the type of evil that slavery was then the degradation of that evil slowly manifests itself in the sexual degradation and depravity between master and slave and it worked both ways. When you have a brutalized and  predatorily sexually degraded slave, man or woman, then they are bringing that brutality and predatory sexual degradation back to the Slave quarters. 

The Slave quarters were not a place of great happiness. Slaves were living in a brutal world of whips, chains, castrations, shootings, killings, lynching’s, rapes, and violent death.  There was no happiness, no joy, and even though the children and Black concubines of the slave master had it somewhat easier, by working in the big house of on a more skilled job, they still had to live and sleep together in the slave quarters with the field slaves. 

The Slave Quarters were a mixture of slaves, all living together, just like in the ghetto or projects of today. A mixture of good and evil, predator and prey, gay and straight, pedophile and God fearing slaves, good and bad.  Violence and sex were dominant in the slave quarters, sex because it was the only joy and relief available to the average field slave, and violence because it was the only way for slave men to express their diminished manhood; and just like any poor community in the ghetto or project, everyone lived on top of one another. Think of the slave quarters as the ghetto or projects of today, except there’s no jobs in the neighborhoods.

The family life of slaves was diminished by the breaking up and selling off of mothers, fathers and children. It was best not to become too close to one’s child, it was better not to bond or love a child or a man or a woman, and so the brutalizing of children, and slaves committing incest with their children and other children, and the fighting and killing of one another was not uncommon. Jealousies, class distinctions and hatred between slaves who were lighter and slaves who were darker dominated slave row, thus the slave quarters became a place of distrust and mistrust. 

Some slave quarter households on slave row would have multiple types of children. There would be the mother and she would have some children by the master and some children by the various men she would have during her childbearing years, some men dark skinned, some men brown skinned, some men very light skinned, and so the connection between mother and child and father and child grew distant, the bonding levels of black men and women almost became non-existent and the breakdown of Black families began as early as the 17th century in America, as the children of mothers and the men of mothers were sold to distant plantations, distant cities and different southern states.  

By 1800 in America many Black people were not Black, unless they were just brought over from Africa on the Slave ships, more Black people than not, were a mixture of Black and White blood on the plantations and farms of the South and lower South, and along with some Native American blood, there were various colors of blackness, much like you see today. The book and film The Color Purple, by the great Alice Walker and Catfish Row in Porgy and Bess, even though both the musical, the book and film were based on characters who lived in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, they were not far from the way it was during slavery and even worse because just like in the ghetto’s and projects of America’s urban cities, you had thousands of poor people living on top of one another, feeding on one another in small confined spaces, where physical hunger and sexual hunger were the same thing, and the weak are prey for the stronger and more powerful black and white predators. 

As the Nazi’s in Nazi Germany portrayed to the world that the Jews living in the Jewish Ghettos and those working in the concentration camps were happy, safe and often just normal, well paid skilled workers. So did the American antebellum Southerner, as in the film Gone With the Wind, portray the American Black Slave as a happy, dancing and singing all day nigger, their only worry was being what white folks wanted or needed, and 70% of white people in America today still can’t understand what all the fuss about slavery was, them niggers didn’t pay no rent, had job security, free meals and free clothing, what was the problem. 

Well, the exact opposite in both cases was true, the horror and trauma of everyday living in the Jewish case maybe lasted for ten to fifteen years of oppression, not even one generation of horror, and in the African American Slave and my descendants case more than twenty to thirty generations of oppression, one hundred lifetimes of horror, and as in the Jewish Ghettos and Concentration camps where the strong preyed on the weak, sexually and physically, there were Jewish SS troops and collaborators, who contributed greatly to the horror of six million exterminated Jews, and in the Slave quarters, there were Black slaves who worked against the wellbeing of the Slave, by telling the master or overseer of any up-risings, any slave revolts, any conspiracies, any runaways, any abuses against the authority of White people and contributed to hundreds of thousands of lynching’s, castrations and killings of slaves, throughout the South for over two hundred years.

You have to remember that North American slavery lasted for two hundred and twenty some odd years and produced the worst in all involved, and as in every community, city, nation and culture across the world, there are good people and there are bad people and because violence, brutality, rape, and death do not usually bring out the best in people, American Black Slavery produced generations of not only intergenerational poverty, and institutional trauma, but also, intergenerational violence; and although religion was used to subjugate the American Black Slave, the American Black Slave used the words of God and the Bible against the slave system, freeing him and herself of slavery long before the Emancipation of Abraham Lincoln. Those slaves were usually able to produce people whose   intergenerational belief in God and the words of the Bible sustained them through, slavery, reconstruction, Jim Crow, The Ku Klux Klan, segregation, the civil rights era and today, and church and the preachers and marching for our civil rights became a central theme and way of life for those descendants of Slaves, and those descendants produced the best and brightest African Americans devoted to the Church and it’s teachings. Martin Luther King, Jr, came from that group of Slaves.  

I did not in my mother’s family that raised me come from that American Black Slave group, I came from the former.  Until, God found me and took me to St. Francis de Sales church and school, there was no church on Sunday, there was no singing in the choir, there was no God at the Whittier Street Housing Projects, 159 Cabot Street, Apartment 157. There was no marching with or mention of Martin Luther King, Jr., My people were too busy with petty jealousies, who’s hair was better, who’s skin was to dark, who’s skin color was just light and right, who was ugly, who’s hair was good hair (good hair meaning white peoples hair), who needed to be beaten, who needed the strap, who’s head was going to be beaten against the wall, who was better than who, who thought they were better than someone, who was lighter then who and thought they were better than everyone else and who was blacker than who, as in why would Maria Cole marry that black and ugly Nat King Cole. 

The conversations from my grandmother, mother and aunts, were pure evil, just old negative slave talk, never instructive, didn’t teach their children or us grandchildren a damn thing, and after I left St. Francis de Sales, I never went to church or heard about God again, until my California days in the early seventies, but that’s another book.  As I said, my grandmother was the worst!  Well maybe my mother was, but then she was raised by my grandmother.

ACT EIGHT – PAGE 391

THE DRUG STORE ROBBERY – 1965-1969
PART ONE AND PART TWO

CHAPTER ONE

This story about the drugstore robbery is only important because most crime committed by kids in the ghetto is not thought out, it happens in the spur of the moment, nothing is really planned, it’s just there’s an opportunity and you just do it and it’s not that important to anyone outside the ghetto unless you die. 

Shit happens so fast in the ghetto, that you’re dead five days before you know you’re dead, and you’re in jail five years before you know you’ve really fucked up, and you’re doing life without parole.  Kids die in the ghetto because there’s no thought about, oh I’m going to die if I do this shit, kids die all the time, but, your always thinking, not me, so you do stupid shit, real stupid shit, that you never think you will die over.

You do that drug deal with another asshole, never thinking that asshole is gonna rip you off, shoot and kill you; you do that drug rip-off because you think, ‘I can get away with this shit; you pocket a cigar from a store, because you think no police is gonna blow my head off for doing this light shit; you talk back to a police because he ain’t gonna pull out a gun a shoot you dead in the street; you rob the store down the street, because you ain’t gonna die that night; you do all kinds of stupid, fucked up shit all the time in the ghetto, because you either don’t give a fuck, or fuck, life is so fucked up and full of shit and poverty and low class jobs and shitty apartments and no fuckin car and everybody you know from miles around is all fucked up and sometimes your just high and fucked up and sometimes there just ain’t nothing else to do but fuck up somebody else’s life. 

Sometimes for a young poor black teenager, after a lifetime of poverty and abuse, living in the ghetto or projects, life isn’t worth living, fuck it.

CHAPTER TWO

When I was fourteen during the spring and summer of 1965, I just stopped going to the Boy Scouts, I don’t think there was any reason, except I just stopped going, Maybe it was girls, maybe it was the gangs, maybe I was growing up and I wanted something else.  I dropped my childhood friends and started hanging out with another group of boys from the projects. 

That summer instead of going to my Grandmere’s house for a week or Adams Pond Scout Camp, I went to a camp called Agazzis Village and got thrown out and then got a job with an organization called ABCD or Action for Boston Community Development.  It was a new program, started by the City of Boston to help Inner City kids. My job was to, along with other kids, clean up the neighborhood vacant lots and condemned buildings.  It was good outside work and I enjoyed it.  A lot of the kids were from outside the projects and lived in the tenement buildings that surrounded the projects, some of the kids lived in other parts of my project and I knew them by their faces, but, all of the kids myself included were kids who saw this as something different that we were a part of, something big that we could belong to. We were all 14 and 15-year-old ghetto and project kids trying to grow up, trying to figure it out and if you were working for this program, you were still a good kid, working for a paycheck, learning how to collect a check every two weeks for doing a job that you were proud of.  It was like a real job, except that it was also about our love for the Roxbury community. It might have been one of good ol Lyndon Baines Johnson’s War on Poverty Programs. 

I remember that our supervisors were nice Black and White politically-orientated liberal college kids, who supplied us with rakes, shovels, garbage bags and gloves and every day we would meet and sign in at a different vacant lot or building that we were to clean up or clean out that day.

When it happened we were at the top of a vacant building, cleaning up the rubbish and debris and had been working together all day.   We were sweaty, a little tired and alone.

CHAPTER THREE

Her name was Renee, she lived across the street from the projects in one of the tenement apartments on Tremont Street and was a sweet, pretty, tall, skinny, brown skinned girl. She was not a ‘home girl’, she was a ‘round the way’ girl.  Round the way girls were all skinny, had long legs and could out run most boys. They were exotic and beautiful young girls of twelve to fourteen-years-old and there were hundreds of them in and around the projects that summer of 1965.

When we kissed the first time, we looked at each other, when we kissed again, we kissed with our eyes closed, when we kissed the third time, we kissed with our eyes open, our lips just touching, and smiled at each other.  I had reached puberty the year before and though I sort of knew what to do with it, the only thing I had available was my hand. But, when we kissed again, she allowed me to touch her budding right breast and her smell overwhelmed me, and for the first time, in my first real kiss, I tasted and smelled a woman, although a girl, Renee would one day be a beautiful woman, and in that summer, late afternoon, her eyes, although closed, and it was just a kiss, she said yes, and I found my first girlfriend. 

We worked together all the rest of the summer, we held hands, talked about silly stuff, made things with our kemp ropes and sang and danced to The Four Tops, The Supremes, Marvin Gaye, Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, The Marvelettes, Martha and the Vandells and The Temptations, on the little portable radio with batteries, that I had while we worked, that summer of 1965.   

At night I sang songs like Billy Stewart’s, “Sitting in the Park”, with the fellows out back on the benches while drinking and smoking.  I had taken my first drink from the bottles of wine that Randy kept in the kitchen cabinet. I kept drinking them and refilling them with water and would take one or two cigarettes a day from his pack. I had tried to throw my mother out the fifth floor window, earlier that summer and so she was leaving me alone. I had also finished my first year at public school, the ninth grade, at English High Annex and was scheduled to go to English High School for the tenth grade that September and that August we moved to a three bedroom apartment on the Whittier Street side of the projects at 15 Whittier Street, one of the small buildings in the project, on the third floor, next door to Deleno and his brother and sisters. Deleno would be the first person I knew to go to college, Northeastern University, that’s why I was so surprised when I used to see him in Grove Hall copping and shooting heroin, that summer of 1967.  

CHAPTER FOUR

One night, shortly after dusk, after I had started the tenth grade at English High, I was across the street from our new apartment on Whittier Street playing basketball by myself at the Health Unit basketball court and I saw about eight guys and a girl walking towards me and getting ready to go into the tall building next to my building on Whittier Street.  The girl was staggering and the boys were nudging her along, like in a playful way.  Nobody was paying attention to me so I just stood still and watched.  As they came closer I could see that the girl was Renee and the boys I knew. They walked into the building, down into the basement, and within about 30 seconds Renee began to scream.

CHAPTER FIVE

Earlier, at the beginning of summer in June, I had been outside playing and another kid came up to me and said, they got your sister in the hallway on the third floor, I knew what that meant and I without a word to the kid ran into my building on Cabot Street, ran up the stairs to the fifth floor, opened the door, grabbed a long fork, the kind you use to lift a pot roast out of the pot, a long fork, with long silver blades and ran down to the third floor and busted through the door into the inner hallway and there they were like roach’s crawling all over my sister who was spread out on the hallway floor.

I started yelling and screaming and punching out with my fork and the boys scattered off of my sister, who was just lying on the hall floor, her clothes ripped off and she’s just lying there, not making a sound, not even crying and the boys who were just a little older than me started running out the different sides of the hallway. 

I chose one and ran after him. We ran down the stairs and out the building into the project courtyard. I chased him around into the middle of the project that day and with the whole it seemed project yelling and screaming at me to catch him, I did catch up to him and with a swoop of my arm and hand, over and down, on the run, I plunged my long bladed fork into his back and became a project legend for two weeks. The police never came and life went on in the projects. 

CHAPTER SIX

The boys that were trying, and I never knew to this day if they had before or after succeeded, because my sister has never talked about it, the boys that were trying to gang rape my sister were a part of a larger project gang that lived on the Ruggles and Tremont side of the project.  They had been gang raping young girls in the project for about a year that I knew of. These gang rapes were planned and more than a few of my friends’ sisters had been gang raped. 

The girls that were being gang raped by these boys were between eleven and fifteen years old and a lot of these girls were turning up pregnant and some of them were being turned out and began to like the big boys pulling trains on them.  All of this was happening and nobody was saying or doing anything.  So when Renee was pulled into the building and started screaming at 25 Whittier Street, I knew exactly what was going on. But, I also knew that for me to go into the building that night and try to save her would be the death of me, that I would die that night, because the boys that had her were the leaders of the Tremont and Ruggles Street gangs and they were killers.  

The leaders of these gangs were 18, 19, 20 and 21 year olds, had all been to jail and had been running the projects for many years.  They were the same boys that robbed me of my paperboy money and had held me over the seventh floor roof and threatened to drop me when I was younger, they were the same boys who had gone on a very famous murder spree in Boston and robbed and killed eight taxi cab drivers, they were the same boys who ran the heroin drug trade in the projects, they were the same boys who robbed and killed people for miles around the projects, they were the same boys who had robbed and killed Mrs. Parker. They were young heroin drug users meaning they were not yet fully strung out, and so when they got high, they did not yet, just nod out, they became violent and very dangerous. 

If you grew up in the real ghetto, the real projects, in any urban city in America, you know who they were, you remember them, they were the real gangsters, the real killers, the ones the police leave alone, the ones that the police are afraid of, the ones that prey on and viciously rape and kill eleven and twelve year old girls and stab, rob, shoot and kill elderly people, you know who they are, they live right in the ghetto with you, they are evil vicious cowards who destroy your community, who you allow to sell drugs to your children, rape your daughters, steal your lives and your dignity.  They live right with you, every day. You know who they are and you don’t do a damn thing about it.

And so, at fourteen and then fifteen I had been living with these bigger boys most of my life, I knew who they were and they knew who I was and so while Renee’s screams from being brutally gang raped that night in the basement at 25 Whittier Street in The Whittier Street Housing Projects in Roxbury, Massachusetts rang out into the night, I and nobody else did nothing because we were all scared.

So while Renee was screaming that night, Renee’s life was being changed, and Renee would learn to love being gang raped and soon she would love guys coming up to her apartment right across from the projects and pulling trains on her and soon she would learn to love sucking White men’s dicks in Boston’s Combat Zone alleys.  I never really saw Renee after that night, that summer. The gangs had her and she was turned out. 

CHAPTER SEVEN

Soon after that night I just stopped going to school and began hooking school with other kids in the Fenway. We would hang out there in the marshes and on the benches and drink and smoke cigarettes and sometimes I would hook up with a girl and we would lay in the bushes and grass and fool around.  When it started to get cold, we would go up one of the kid’s houses whose mother worked and hang out at his or her house for the day. 

Soon English High expelled me and life moved real fast after that.  The ghetto enveloped me, the alcohol engulfed me, the weed found me, the horror of the projects, of how I had been living, of all that I had seen and gone through at only fourteen and  fifteen-years-old, finally embraced and pulled me in.  I went into shock and had a mental breakdown and wouldn’t get out of bed for two weeks. My mother called the welfare department and they sent people to evaluate me medically and psychologically.   

When I re-emerged, I was new. It was like my blood had been drained and I like a Vampire awakening, knew who I was for the first time. The things I had already felt were there, were now enhanced and I knew what they were for the first time. The God that I had learned about at St. Francis de Sales had given me strange, visual, colorful dreams of wealth when I was a child and now with prayer (I was now praying for the big boys deaths, as I was always praying for my mother’s death) was showing and giving me strange gifts of the power of suggestion, mind reading, invisibility, speed, endurance, courage, wisdom, the ability to be in many places at the same time, the ability to visualize, to have visions, to see the future and the brain and the body that would use these strange abilities, came alive.

The doorway to help the underdog, to help those who needed me, to help the hundreds and thousands of people I would meet on my journey and the heart and courage I would use to attack my enemies and win many battles for others and myself for the next forty-five years, opened up. Some feats you have heard of, and most you haven’t, but they would all begin at the Whittier Street Housing Projects that fall and winter of 1965 and 1966.  

CHAPTER EIGHT

The first thing I did after my transformation and with my new powers, was to align myself with some new friends from the Cabot, Whittier and Lower Ruggles Street sides of the project, the second thing was to process or straighten my hair and I took to wearing a doo rag, the third thing was to go downtown to the knife store in the Combat Zone and buy two long silver switchblades, the fourth thing was to start a psychological war against the big boys by telling everyone I knew that we needed to do something about the big boys gang raping girls in the project, the fifth thing was to with great stealth and courage write the words RAPISTS in chalk all over the projects. 

CHAPTER NINE

In the meantime, in early 1966, I learned from my mother that my father was coming out of jail again and he wanted to see me, and if I wanted to, I could see and meet with him.  The last time I had seen my father and spent any time with him was in late 1956 or early 1957 when he had unexpectedly showed up at my first grade class at the Asa Grey elementary school in Roxbury and took me out of class so that we could go to the movies and see Walt Disney’s Song of the South based on the Tales of Uncle Remus, He got in a lot of trouble for that, as he had just gotten bailed out of jail by my Grandmere’ for threatening to kill my mother and grandmother that time he had been dragged out by the police with the shiny things on, but I had never forgotten that day sitting in the movies with my dad eating popcorn and watching the enchanting old darky world of Br’er Rabbit and Br’er Fox with Uncle Remus in the deep south after slavery and during reconstruction. I had never stopped loving my dad, so damn right I wanted to see him and besides I wanted to tell my dad all that you had done to me when I was little boy. 

The day finally came early February 1966, it was a cold Boston winter Saturday and I had been waiting outside the 15 Whittier Street building all day, sitting on the benches around the corner. They said he was coming at 11:00am, but it was 12:30pm before a car rounded the Cabot Street gym and made its way down Whittier Street. My brain said, “it’s my dad”, and I took off leaped over two fences and met his car before it was halfway down the street.  Since I didn’t know anything about my dad, I didn’t really know what he looked like, how he sounded, who he was, if he would like me, I didn’t know anything and didn’t care. I just knew whoever he was I had missed him, for some reason that I didn’t know about. 

But, there he was. I didn’t recognize him, but I sensed a familiar presence in that car.  There was a woman with him and he told me to get in the back.  I got in the back and pulled my doo rag off so that dad could check out my process and me real good.  The woman said, “Is this him”, like I was some smelly, dirty, motherfucker, under her shoe and my dad told her to shut the fuck up.  Me and what I learned was his main bottom lady and soon to be wife, never got along from that day forward, but ol dad beat her so bad and so often and fucked with her mind enough for both of us through the years, so I managed to disregard her from that day forward until that miserable bitch died. You should have seen her face when ol dad died in 1989 and she found out that he had signed the deed to Ten Clarendon Avenue over to me and my sister in 1986. 

The last time I had seen my dad he was a man of 26 and now he was 36 years old, he looked older and much fatter, but he also looked a little tame and little weary to me, which I was to find out later was just because he had just got out of jail, so all that was just the bad jail house starchy food and the whipped look was the inmate look. 

Just about everybody I knew below the age of seventeen had been to Concord reformatory and Lyman Reformatory in Shirley, Mass, I mean all of the Ruggles and Tremont Street gang had been there and most of the mothers boyfriends in the project were always coming in from or going out to jail.  So the projects were run by weary looking former inmates on heroin, and we were all living in jail, everyone I knew was a criminal, and that included my dad and my step-dad.  In fact Billy, one of the big boys younger brother had just asked me in January 1966, when I was going to jail. I said soon. 

We drove out of the projects to Tremont Street, turned left and drove up Tremont Street, Dad said that we were going to him and Lou’s (that was that miserable bitch’s name) favorite restaurant. It was a place I knew well, up Tremont going towards downtown Boston in the South End, Lew Changs, a Chinese Restaurant.  We went there and I had my first meal with my dad in…; since I don’t remember us having any meals together whenever he was around before, which was hardly ever, I’ll just say it was the first meal I can ever remember eating with him. And then, that was it. He took me back home and I wouldn’t see him again until he came to save my life.

CHAPTER TEN

By March on my way to Trade High Public School, near the Annunciation Road Projects, where I had ended up in the 10th grade paint department because my cousin Philip went there and I had to be somewhere, I had taken to going into the buildings where the big boys lived in the morning and yelling their names, saying shit like, “D, rapes little girls” or “Mak rapes little girls” or “Stevie rapes little girls”, shit like that I would yell out loud in their buildings on my way to school. 

This went on until one day near the end of March, one of my new friends, probably the one who was ratting me out, telling the big boys that it was me who was making all this noise in the projects about them gang raping girls, told me that Stevie wanted to have a sit down with me and talk about the shit I was doing and I was so crazy and fucked up on alcohol and weed at this point that I actually believed that I was going to negotiate, a new word for me at that time, actually this was going to be my second major negotiation outside of my deal with Al’s grocery store, which had ended because we were now getting these big motherfuckin cans and blocks of welfare cheese, welfare powdered milk, welfare beef, welfare macaroni, welfare butter, food stamps and other welfare food shit from the Boston Welfare Department, so my deal with Al’s was no longer needed. 

I remember Al shaking my hand and wishing me well when I thanked him that summer of 1965 for the deal and told him that after seven years we could no longer keep the deal because with all the welfare food and food stamps we got, they had cut way back on our welfare check, so we had to go straight welfare. Anyway at fifteen-years-old, I actually believed that I was going to negotiate a deal with the big boys, so that they would stop gang raping the girls in and around the projects. 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The sit down with the big boys, specifically Stevie, was set for early April at night in the middle of the projects on the benches near the wading and shower pool.  Now, Stevie I had known nearly all my life. He was the older brother of about six siblings, one who was about my age, and Billy who was a couple of years older and who I had some type of relationship with. The brother my age, when we were about six years old was picking on a real skinny kid named Paul who live around my way in the bigger building on Cabot Street and who was a friend of mine, I had pushed this big boys brother off of Paul and flipped him over to the ground, at that time his older brothers, Stevie and Billy, came after me and pushed me to the ground and told me not to bother their brother again.  So this was how I met those brothers and like I said I had known them most of my life that April night when Stevie and I were to meet in the middle of the projects. 

Finally the day came. I don’t remember what I did that day, but I do remember what happened that night.  That early April night at the Whittier Street Housing Projects was stiller and quieter than it usually was, I remember that, it was as though everyone knew something different was going to happen that night.  I just knew that something was about to change forever. 

As I walked to the middle of the projects I saw Stevie sitting on the bench alone.  I walked up to him and sat down.  Stevie was a short, built, dark-skinned man, about nineteen-years-old. He shot heroin, raped little girls and robbed, stabbed, shot and killed people. I was a tall, skinny, fifteen-year-old kid, and I was not afraid of him or the other big boys, because I had known them most of my life, from my early newspaper selling days when they used to rob me, and I knew who they were and what they were. 

He offered me a drink of alcohol and so we drank together, while he was asking me what I was doing, why was I fucking with them.  I started to tell him about Renee, when some other guy came up on us. I was a little drunk by now and heard the guy say to Stevie, “Is this him”, and Stevie said, “Yes”.  Stevie said to me, “No hard feelings, but you got to learn your lesson”. he said to the guy, who I didn’t know and would never know or see again, “Don’t kill him, he fucked up, but he’s still one of us”.  With that Stevie got up and walked off.  The bigger, older guy, who I didn’t know, stood over me, right in front of me and his fist smashed into my face and broke my nose immediately, his next hit broke my right jaw, his next broke the left side of my face, my cheekbone, the next hit busted my mouth and my lips, the next hits I couldn’t feel anymore. 

When it was over, I remember hearing Stevie’s voice, saying to the guy, “help me with him”, and they dragged and carried me over to 15 Whittier Street, up the three floors of steps, knocked on my door, my mother opened it and Stevie said, “Mrs. Rose, here’s your son” and dropped me in front of her.  The ambulance came, I was rushed to Boston City Hospital, I almost died twice they said, but I was brought back to life.  The doctors that worked on me were dedicated people and they saved my life.  The police came and interviewed me in the hospital after a week.  I told them about the gang rapes in the projects and didn’t name any names. They kept asking me who had done this to me and because ‘I was one of them’, I gave no names. 

What I knew was that because it was Stevie, I was alive. He and his brother Billy, had some empathy for me and probably fought for my life in whatever meetings the big boys had about me, because if it had of been up to D. and Mak, I would be dead. They had no love, no empathy for me whatsoever.  The police investigated, talked to the project people, the activist people in the projects stood up, had meetings and the big boys stopped gang raping the young girls in and around the projects. 

CHAPTER TWELVE

I stayed in the house recuperating for about a month and then one day my dad came and walked me out of the projects to his car and we drove off. It would be the first time I would live outside the brick walls of the projects since I was three and I would live with my dad until he would go back to prison.  We would have many adventures, some recounted in these pages and some not.  I would repeat the tenth grade at Dorchester High that September 1966; Mak would die violently, shot to death a few years later at twenty- four-years old; D. would move to California and find some real black gangsters who would shoot him dead in the streets of Compton in 1973; and Stevie, well he just disappeared and nobody, including me, ever saw him again. 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I did see Renee again.  I was in New York City recording my band Prince Charles and the City Band with Prince Charles Alexander at Intergalactic Recording Studios, 84th Street and Lexington Avenue. It was January 1982 and I had a huge hit out called Beat the Bush we had produced and written on a group we called Slyck, that record was getting a lot of radio play and sales across the country, especially in New York City. We were recording a follow-up track and I was staying at the Holiday Inn on Eighth Avenue and Forty Eighth Street in the Times Square area in Midtown Manhattan. 

While walking down Eighth Avenue one night on my way to catch the #7 train at 42nd Street over to get the #4 or 6 train at Grand Central Station going uptown, I saw her.  I knew it was her, I hadn’t talked to her or really seen her since that summer and fall of 1965, but I knew it was her, same cupid pretty face, except she had on this funky wig and looked emaciated, but it was her and she saw me too.  We walked over to each other, looked at each other in the middle of the Times Square area on Eighth Avenue, near 42nd Street and hugged and looked at each other closely. 

It had been almost seventeen years since that summer we had kissed, held hands and worked for the ABCD summer program; but, my heart felt the same joy as it did that last day I saw her. She had on a short waist rabbit jacket and her wig, short mini skirt and high heel shoes in the dead of a New York City winter said it all. I had on my Burberry coat, leather black pants, almond silk shirt and carried my music industry briefcase.  She asked me what I was doing in New York and I told her that I was recording a record in a studio uptown.  I asked her what she was doing and she said that she worked across the street at the Peep Show Theater on Eighth Avenue and Forty Second Street.  I asked her if she wanted to come with me to the studio and she said yes. 

So she locked her arm in mine and we went underground taking the #7 crosstown train to 42nd Street to the #4 express uptown to 86th Street. We didn’t say anything to each other on the way to the studio and when we got there I introduced her to my partner and friend, Prince Charles Alexander; my main man and bass singer, Edmond Harris; and Jay Burnett, my recording engineer, as a background singer.  Gina G. our main vocalist for the session was already there and ready to go.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Jay set up a mike for Renee in the vocal booth, while Prince Charles and I coached Renee on the chant we wanted her to sing with Gina G. When Renee was ready she went into the vocal booth and we turned the track on. The music played and we cued Gina and Renee and they chanted/sang, in a call and response verse, “He’s just a Freak”, and Edmond sang, “Video Freak”, and the girls sang, “He’s just a Freak”, and Edmond sang, “Video Freak”. 

This went on for about six takes, three overdubs and a couple of measures worth that we could use and then those particular backgrounds were done. It still remains after all these years one of the best hours of my life. To see and be with Renee that night doing something that we could have never known we would do, something so outside of what had happened to her, something that seemed to make her happy, is still one of the best feelings I have ever felt.  That night at the studio we drank and sang and did a little cocaine and drank some more and sniffed some more cocaine and kissed again, and looked at each other and marveled at what was happening and that night when we left the studio we went back to the Holiday Inn and finally, we concluded what we had begun as fourteen-year-old children in 1965. 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

That June 1982, the record, “Video Freak (Defend It)” came out and I moved to New York City from Boston that month with my wife Yvonne.  One day I took the record, it was one of those old “12 inch” disco long playing records from the 1970’s and 1980’s, and went over to Eighth Avenue and Forty Second Street to the Peep Show Theater and asked for Renee. The manager took me to the back where the naked girls were waiting for someone with five dollars to put it in a machine and they could then go into a room and do their thing for one minute. 

Renee was sitting down and stood up when she saw me. We hugged each other and kissed with just our lips touching softly and I held her and looked at her warm brown face, with that ugly wig on, and held her naked body close. I then reached down and handed her a “12 inch” record of “Video Freak”, and showed her where her name was on the record. She just shook her head and looked and said thank you.  We hugged again and I think I cried a little because it was all I could do. I said I had to leave and walked out, when I turned around just before I turned the corner, she was standing there looking at me and that would be the very last time I ever saw Renee. 

I know, I won’t lie. I went back there again looking for her and the manager told me that she had quit and he didn’t know where she was.  I lived in New York City for the next twenty two years, as well as living in Los Angeles and Phoenix and would often return to New York City all through the years and I would look for her on the trains, walking down the street, in a store, anywhere, but I never found her again, but wherever Renee is, her name is forever on the record, now a cd, and that record, “Video Freak (Defend It)”, is still being played today all over the world and she is still singing, “He’s just a Freak”, forever!

 

THE DRUGSTORE ROBBERY – PART TWO

CHAPTER ONE

 

By October 1967 at sixteen years old I hadn’t really been back to Dorchester High School since my father went back to jail and I had to go back to the projects. I was pretty much safe in the projects, but I was hanging with a gang in Grove Hall for companionship. We were all somewhat violent kids looking for trouble and I am usually high on alcohol, weed and bombers and so is everyone I know.  I know a lot of kids who have gotten killed.  I’ve been violent with and fought many other kids and other kids have been violent with me; and yet I’m still living, still walking around.

 

So the Almighty Hawk was with me one night and there was this drugstore we hung out at every day getting stuff. My gang had a territory, and everything in that territory belonged to us. Whether it was girls, stores, money, people or food, it didn’t matter, if you were in our territory you belonged to us as a gang. So in this particular gang, which was in Dorchester starting from Grove Hall within a radius of about 3 miles, everything in that area belonged to the gang. We had our headquarters at a Chinese restaurant, directly across the street from Ma Dixon’s Country Style Restaurant; the Muslim place and in the center was a barbershop. We knew everybody there and everybody knew who were.  The drugstore that we hung out in that was in our territory had prescription pills like bombers and shit like that, so the Almighty Hawk and me decided that we would rob this drugstore up on Washington Street and Columbia Road, and so we did.

 

One night after midnight around 2:00am we were just hanging out it and we did it. The drugstore was facing Columbia Road on Washington Street, and on the side street going up Washington Street there was a door that led into a basement, which we figured was underneath the drugstore. We were gonna go in there into the drugstore and steal the all the drugs that made you high. The Almighty Hawk who was sixteen also, knew which ones to get, so we up went up Washington Street to the side back door and figured out how to open it. I think the Almighty Hawk had been working on it for a few days. Anyway we got in and went down the stairs to the basement and I opened another door and went up some steps into the drugstore, went into the back rummaged through the drugstore area and found some pills and this and that.

 

We went back out the way we came in and as we were coming up the stairs we saw at the top of the stairs that people were talking outside. The Almighty Hawk said, Oh shit that might be the police! And when they didn’t leave, I said, We better get the fuck out of here! We need to get the fuck out of here! If they come in we’re caught; we might have a chance if we can get the fuck out of here! So we slowly crept up the stairs and we looked at each other and understood what we had to do…something that was gonna take a tremendous amount of energy and strength. We were two 16-year-old street-wise kids and we knew what was out there and what we had to do. As we moved up the stairs we could see them with the lights and we just moved at the speed of sound so fast we could have been just a blur, and we were. We busted through that door into a sea of police cars and policemen and moved past them faster than they could blink, faster than a locomotive, faster than a speeding bullet, like superman and shit, and ran right past them, right down to Washington Street, around the corner, around the next corner. And we were gone.

 

And I happened to think that in this day of police killings that are so prevalent across the United States is that, what if some policeman had just pulled his gun, took a quick aim and fired at us like they do to black kids who are mostly doing stupid shit, either me or the Almighty Hawk would have been dead that early morning night as so many of my other friends were. In fact, one had been shot dead not more than a block away from where we were doing the same thing in another store a few months earlier. But for some reason, either we were moving that fast, or they couldn’t think in time, nothing happened to us, we didn’t get shot and killed.  But, what I really know is that if a policeman really wants to kill you, because he hates Black people, especially Black kids, he’s going to have his gun out in a second and shoot and kill you. So one or two stupid motherfuckers like us would have died for nothing but a few pills to get us high.  And so I know that night, no Boston Policeman wanted to kill a Black kid for nothing.

 

We called ourselves different names. I called us the Grove Hall Gang. At that time if you had a formal name, you were a sissy gang. We were real hard core fighting street gang; we really didn’t have a name. At that time, if you were in a gang and had a name that was when you gave parties and stupid shit like that. We got in fights, did drugs, talked shit and had a good time. We we’re getting a kick by just roaming the neighborhood and fucking with whoever we wanted. Our leader was Petey. He turned into a hardcore heroin addict, so I had to be the leader sometime. But Petey was the real leader. He killed three people in a gas station robbery, a friend of mines father was one of them, and went to jail for life and died in jail in 1980. 

 

God kept me from heroin. Before I left for the war in 1969, the gang was just starting to get into heroin really bad. Heroin wasn’t a drug of my choice because it has too many things necessary to use it, so I would just sniff it. It never really became a drug of my choice because it was just too much trouble. You have to do a lot to get ready for that; there was a needle involved, a spoon involved and you need to involve a wrap. My father was a heroin addict and my father’s main claim to heroin was if you stop using heroin you died; so he had told me that and heroin just never appealed to me. But there was one time that I remember that I might’ve just been drawn that way.

 

They were in an alley and they were my best friends, more or less. Petey was a bigger kid and he was some type of natural leader, but he liked heroin and when I looked in this alleyway and they had a girl in there with them with some hot pants on and she looked good and she was going to shoot up with Petey and CP. It was on Blue Hill Avenue, actually it was Cheney Street and Blue Hill Avenue and they were all there in an abandoned building and I was near the corner. I had just come from hanging out and I saw CP in there with Petey. They were going to do their thing and shoot up and the girl was in there because after they shot up she was supposed to be sucking their dicks, she was going to give them some head, and I’m looking at that. She was begging me to come back there with them and then we could shoot up and I could get my dick sucked. While I was looking at them, and this was just before I was going to go over, it was in my mind and then I’m not wanting to go.

 

It was probably about June 1969 and I’m eighteen-years-old. I’m not sure if I’ve already been downtown to the Air Force recruiter yet. I’m just not sure, but I do know that God intervened in my life again.  God showed me a vision, that if I shot that shit into my vein that for the rest of my life I would be a scroungy rat looking junkie, hiding in condemned buildings, shooting heroin, until someone mercifully shot me in the head and ended my life. I thought that my life was worth something more than this thing. Something was changing me at that time. I had been through a lot of things and seen a lot of things; and my father was saving my life again. A number of things were shifting. I was understanding something. Some kind of shift was going on, one way or the other.

 

It was a few weeks before the White Stadium robbery, when I robbed the stadium with a gun and could have been shot and killed if a policeman had been nearby or someone at the concession stand would have had a gun and they would have started shooting because I had a gun in my hand while robbing the place. And so life was shifting, although everything I knew about life was still going on. Everything was still happening, but it wasn’t going to be enough to throw me over to the other side. I was straddling something that was going to end up good or bad. All the way bad or all the way good, one way or the other.

 

And at this particular time when Petey and CP beckoned me, I made a motion to come. I saw the girl in the hot pants; I wanted that. I liked Petey and CP. We had done a lot of crime together, so I wanted to do that with them too I guess. Then all of a sudden, right before my eyes God showed me the rest of my life, it was a vision. I had a strange situation in microseconds and in that vision, God showed me that if I went in an alleyway with them, I would forever be in that alleyway fumbling around looking for them and shooting up until someone just shot me and put me out of my misery. So in that vision, I became a heroin addict who was eventually killed, and I saw it as clear as you can see anything. I saw that thing, one of many, many visions that I’ve had in my life. Always a vision has taken me to a good place and I’ve always followed my visions, seeing them for what they were and they always showed me the right path. There’s a good and evil path. It was a good thing and in this case it showed me the evil path; and if I wanted to take that path all I would have to do was go back in that alley and let them tie that rag around my arm and put that needle in my vein and shoot that heroin and that would have been the end of me.

 

I could have chosen that path I could have easily chosen to go to hell; but God showed me what he showed me. The path I wasn’t shown was what would happen if I didn’t do that; I was just shown what would happen if I did do that, and I said no. I would have been a different person and that would have done it for me. Heroin would have been my favorite drug.

The gun came from Petey. He gave me the gun.  We didn’t need guns during that time, I never did. I was very good with a knife, I had always kept two knives. From fourteen years old on, I had a switchblade knife. I had knives that clicked open in micro-seconds. I was really good with a knife. Petey had a small caliber type of gun. Petey was so high when we were robbing White Stadium, and he give me the gun. We were at White Stadium robbing the place and it was underground at White Stadium. The stadium was this place where they played football – high school football games – and the concession stand was under the ground. I guess Petey had made the decision that we were going to rob the concession stand and the Almighty Hawk and he were there with me. Petey was high on heroin and when we got to the concession stand, he got the gun pointed at the people behind the concession stand, but he couldn’t move; he froze and all that was coming out of his mouth was off just a loud noise…AH, AH, AH….

 

Petey was making all this loud noise. He was standing there robbing the place and all these white kids were behind the counter at the concession stand serving people. Petey was standing there holding the gun, pointing it at them, so I just took the gun from him. He didn’t hand me the gun; I just took it from him and leapt over the counter and jumped down and pointed the gun at the guy behind the counter at the cash register.   Then I opened the cash register, grabbed the money and handed the money and the gun to the Almighty Hawk.  

 

They ran one way and I ran the other. I had on flip flops and I was running up the other end of White Stadium tunnel, which opens right into Humboldt Avenue. I got to Seaver Street and there was a bus waiting and I ran up to the bus with my flip flops on and jumped on the bus and sat down. About two or three minutes later the bus was still sitting at the top of the hill and two policeman get on the bus. I looked nonchalant, like every black kid knows how to look when he sees the police. I looked like I was chilling on the bus looking out the window.   I had a dead look on my face. I was breathing kind of heavy when I got on the bus, because I had run up that tunnel with flip flops on, but I was just looking out the window, and again some kind of a divine intervention was with me because I was scared and I couldn’t show it, and I couldn’t breathe because I couldn’t look like I was breathing hard. I was just looking out the window and not even looking at the bus driver or police. I was looking out the corner of my eye and saw them say something to the bus driver and the bus driver just looked around. He glanced at me but he wasn’t looking at me and back to them again real fast and he shook his head no. I was looking out the window looking at them like nothing’s going on here and then I looked and they got off the bus. Then the driver closed his door and began taking the bus route down Seaver Street and it was a white bus driver. He could have said anything he could have said I had just jumped on. But, he didn’t say nothing.

 

The Almighty Hawk and I later met at my cousin’s house – well not my cousin but we called ourselves cousins. His place was on Washington Street. I don’t know what happened to Petey that day. But, within a year he had killed three people at a gas station and would go to jail for life. He probably got away that day, but I didn’t see him much after that…and soon after I went in the military and never saw or heard from him again.