Flashback

PART 1

If only Richard had left that doll alone. Ginger had turned the doll to face the wall because her three daughters were terrified of it. They swore the doll’s eyes followed them around the room, no matter where they stood. But no, his curious nature had to take a look at the doll’s face to see if the eyes really did follow you. He regretted it immediately as he stood there in the upstairs bedroom, scared out of his wits. He had turned the doll around, and sure enough, the doll’s eyes seemed to follow you no matter where you were.

It was just two weeks ago when he met Ginger to get the keys to the house. He had been on a roll for the last four years, attending AA and getting his life back together. He had convinced his wife not to leave him, made amends to his children, and revived his career. Getting his consulting company back on track was part of the reason he found himself in this situation now.

After being arrested for a DUI and possession of cocaine and marijuana seven years ago, he was proud of himself for making a remarkable comeback. If only he could survive the night, he could be on his way back home to Florida.

For a moment, Richard tried to convince himself that this was all a dream, but he couldn’t wake up. After turning the doll around, he began to understand why Ginger’s daughters had her turn it away. Even when he went upstairs to use the bathroom, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, sensing someone was right behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something move and ended up peeing on the toilet seat and floor.

He loved reading Stephen King’s books, especially The Dark Tower series. He was looking forward to reading the latest installment that had just been released last month. He remembered joking with his wife about the doll, saying he was considering not house-sitting for Ginger while she took her daughters on vacation for three weeks before school started.

After cleaning up the mess in the bathroom, he headed downstairs and looked up at where the doll had been, but she was gone. He closed his eyes and tried to refocus on the spot where the doll was supposed to be. Sure enough, she was gone. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of white passing by the bottom of the steps toward the hallway leading to the downstairs bedrooms. He stood frozen in place for what seemed like an eternity, unable to believe what was happening. Slowly, he retreated to his bedroom and locked the door.

He recalled turning the doll around earlier; she was beautiful, dressed in a white southern belle dress like those seen in old movies about the South. She wore a big white hat and had a matching white handbag. She reminded him of Marietta, a contractor he had worked with on an assignment in Houston, Texas. Marietta was from Atlanta and embodied everything he imagined a southern belle would be—charming, intelligent, but most of all, very feminine. Richard snapped out of his walk down memory lane and focused on the problem at hand.

Richard reached into his pocket for his cell phone, but it was empty. He remembered he had left both his phone and cigarettes in the cup holder of his car. He pondered whom he would call if he had his phone. If he called his wife, she would think he was a coward or, worse, accuse him of being drunk or on drugs. Dialing 911 crossed his mind, but what would he say? He had to think. This couldn’t be real. He didn’t believe in that Bride of Chucky nonsense. He recalled a flashback of a doll they had bought for the kids that looked just like Chucky, which had been quite popular before the movie came out. He wondered what happened to that doll. He couldn’t remember seeing it after the movie was released.

Feeling increasingly foolish, he reflected on his long day at work, followed by nine holes of golf. Normally, he would be asleep by now. For the past four years, he had faithfully attended an early morning AA meeting. When he was at home in Florida, he attended the 7 AM meeting, but on the road, he went to the 6 AM session. Adjusting his schedule to wake up early and go to bed early helped him get through the year of probation he had to serve, and he continued the routine even after probation ended. Besides, he found spiritual fulfillment in the early morning meetings.

Richard lay on the bedroom floor with his feet pressed against the bottom of the door, as if that could keep the doll out. If she could get down from the mantel, she could do anything. He started reciting the Lord’s Prayer and the twenty-third Psalm, both of which he had gotten into the habit of saying every morning during and after rehab.

He opened his eyes to sunlight streaming through the windows and realized he was lying on the bed in just his boxers. His mind was fuzzy, and he panicked, thinking he had missed the 6 AM meeting and would be late for work. His first thought was to jump out of bed, get dressed, and head straight to work. Then, out of nowhere, he remembered it was Saturday. He gradually began to calm down. Suddenly, he felt very tired and tried to recall his dreams from the night before.

Richard had always been in the habit of trying to remember his dreams since childhood. His mother was an avid number player and would ask Richard and his sisters every morning at breakfast what they had dreamed about. While his sisters rarely remembered their dreams, Richard always tried to recall something because it brought so much joy to his mother. She would grab her dream book of numbers and brainstorm about which number to play that day. The “number man” would make his rounds through the project every morning. It seemed funny now, but you could play the numbers for as little as ten cents. Richard wasn’t sure how much his mother bet or how much she won, but there was always a buzz in the project when someone hit the jackpot. Even his grandmother played the numbers. It was common knowledge whenever someone won, as their children would be sporting new clothes or even a new bike. New furniture would be purchased, or perhaps even a new television. Richard had written a Poem about the number man.

The Numbers Man

The numbers man
is Black people’s best friend,
’cause if you play with him and win,
a brand-new life you can begin.

Rent due tomorrow,
furniture bill due today,
but five more days until your pay.
Put your last dollar on 258,
and if you hit, you’ll be out of this shit.

Here he comes, his numbers to run—
box this, play that,
race, old stock, and the new.

Mrs. Jones hit yesterday, and
for five dollars, what you say?
“What was the number yesterday?”
“256,” is what you say.

Shit, I played 356, but
one of these days, I will hit—
and be out of this shit

 

 

Richard tried to recall his dream. It had been one of those scary dreams, which explained why he felt so tired. It was something about that doll downstairs. He had joked about it with his wife and friends. When Eric called to inform him that Marietta’s husband had died from a heart attack, Richard remembered joking about the doll as they caught up on things. Richard had worked with Eric in Chicago, and they had become very good friends. They hung out a lot and even went on road trips together. The trips weren’t just about getting away from Chicago. When Richard’s only living aunt on his father’s side was dying in Ohio, Eric joined him to help with the drive. Richard found himself in Alabama, visiting Eric’s grandmother for reasons he couldn’t quite remember. The doll, that’s what he was dreaming about and it was a nightmare.

He stood about six feet two inches tall and weighed around two hundred and fifty pounds. If he could manage to get rid of his gut, he wouldn’t look too bad physically. Every time he started a serious exercise program involving sit-ups and weightlifting, his hemorrhoids would act up. Losing his gut just didn’t seem worth it compared to dealing with hemorrhoid flare-ups. He laughed to himself, thinking, “You can’t do anything if your ass ain’t right.”

His mother was a beautiful woman, and she had two sisters who were also very pretty. When he was younger, he would often spend time staring at her high school graduation picture and other photos of her on the coffee table. She looked as good as, if not better than, the movie stars he saw on television back then. She had two children from her first marriage, his older brother and sister. Somehow, his older brother lived with their father and grandmother in Ohio. So, the family in the projects consisted of his mother, his older sister, his younger sister, and Richard. His life in the projects would last eighteen years.

He could never understand the family dynamics, but he knew that the three families involved were all high-strung, and the grandmothers ran things. The Smiths, his older brother and sister’s family on their father’s side, were fair-skinned folks who didn’t want anything to do with anyone with dark skin, and they made it known. He had no contact with the Smiths. His brother would sometimes come and spend time with them in the summer. He loved those summers when his brother came to visit. Living in the projects could be rough, but having older siblings could keep you from getting into trouble. However, sooner or later, you would have to fend for yourself, as he learned regularly. There was no question about who ran the Smith clan—it was his older brother and sister’s paternal grandmother. His mother wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything, but he could feel the respect she gave Mrs. Smith by the way she said her name. His older brother didn’t refer to her as grandma but as Ms. Smith. His older brother and sister’s father ended up in jail for shooting and killing one of his nephews while they were both drunk. His brother’s father had a reputation for having a bad temper. From what Richard could tell, he was beating up on his mother when his father stepped in and beat him up. Richard thought he moved to Ohio after that, and his older brother went with him.

Grandma Walker was the head of his father’s family. He could remember his father and grandfather letting her know when they left the house, and she would always reply with a sentence that included a time. “Dinner will be ready at,” or “I want to be downtown before.” He loved hanging out with Grandpa Walker, whom everyone called Pops. Pops would take him to the bar where he hung out, and he would go to professional baseball games with Pops and his father on weekends. He remembered eating hot dogs and cotton candy at the games. When Richard went to the bar with his grandfather, he would be introduced to all of Pops’ friends. Their replies were always the same: “Your son can’t deny him. Don’t be a coal miner when you grow up.” As he got older, they would add, “Stay in school and get a good education.” They all worked in the mines, steel mills, or coke ovens. He learned later on that it was a tradition to stop at the bar right after your shift, have a couple of drinks, and then head home. Richard took a quick inventory of his favorite bars. He had started young hanging out in a bar and had spent his fair share of time in them.

Richard fondly remembered his Grandmom Walker’s meticulous care when preparing lunch for his father and Pop. Every sandwich was a masterpiece, with crusts removed and complemented by slices of cake and fruit. She placed everything carefully in the steel lunchboxes that were iconic among miners. Despite having a TV and numerous radios, she seldom indulged in them, always busy cooking, cleaning, or reading the Bible.

Richard thought about his children. His son, Richard III, was twenty-six and known to everyone as RB. Richard was immensely proud of him. RB had gone to college on a basketball scholarship and was now a personal trainer and a graduate student. Richard had taught him how to set up a corporation and manage the bookkeeping. Although they used to argue about it, Richard was now content that RB consistently filed his quarterly taxes on time. Richard would gather all the bank statements and receipts to file the yearly corporate taxes, hoping to avoid an audit.

His daughter, Sharon, was twenty-five and had also graduated from college with a degree in Computer Science. She was working for a company that did consulting work for the military. Their childhood had been nothing like Richard’s. They enjoyed the stable family environment Richard had always dreamed of, growing up in a two-parent home, never wanting for anything. Sharon participated in all the activities young girls dreamed of, like tap dancing, gymnastics, modeling, and any other class her mother could enroll her in. Sharon was very intelligent, like her mother, and earned mostly A’s in her classes. However, in ninth grade, she rebelled against everything her parents wanted for her. That year was particularly challenging for Richard, who was often on the road while his wife and daughter fought daily. Richard attempted to mediate their disputes from afar, using the landline in his apartment and his cell phone. He was relieved when that tumultuous phase ended, as his wife and daughter eventually grew closer by finding a common enemy in him.

Richard toughs drifted back to when he had stopped traveling after 911, doing what little consulting work he could find in Florida, and had started drinking heavily. His constant presence at home disrupted the household, as the family had grown accustomed to seeing him only on weekends. Richard missed the freedom and income he enjoyed while working in big cities, where he billed over a hundred dollars an hour, earning six figures annually for the past fifteen years. His wife was also struggling with their son. Despite having built a nice nest egg and a large line of credit, Richard quit traveling to straighten things out at home, only to end up partying for two years until he got a DUI. He found AA as part of resolving all of the changes he had to go through to resolve it. It would take about eighteen thousand dollars, one year probation and a journey through the twelve steps of AA to get his life back on track.

Richard poured a cup of coffee and looked at the doll again. From this angle, he could see more of the doll’s face and almost glimpse her left eye. He laughed and thought, did I move, or did she? He was getting used to the doll now and even considered continuing to read the Stephen King book of short stories. He was currently on a story about a ghostwriter staying in a haunted hotel, which reminded him of his children’s Ghost buster years. They had all the Ghost buster toys, including backpacks, ghost traps, slime, and uniforms for Halloween. The kids had memorized the original movie almost word for word. They still had all those toys boxed up somewhere in the garage. Richard loved watching them play, so serious about trapping ghosts. He wished all children could grow up the way his kids had, exposed to so much of what the country had to offer at an early age. They had traveled by train and airplane, visiting Los Angeles, Houston, and Chicago before they were ten years old. His son had gone to Hawaii for two weeks to attend a basketball camp, and Richard had flown him to Chicago one week so he could see Michael Jordan and the Bulls play. They had dinner at Michael’s restaurant, and Richard bought RB a bunch of Bulls clothing. The children had even been to South Africa to install solar lights in the bush.

Richard considered himself smart, but he had become friends with some very intelligent men. One of them, Robert Mason, was the head of a department at Frederic Douglas University in Texas. Richard met Robert at Marshall University, where Robert was on leave to pursue a doctorate in education. Richard was impressed that someone could get paid and have their expenses covered to further their education. Later, Richard helped Robert and his wife move back to Texas after Robert completed his doctorate. Richard would also move to Texas, get married, and become the godfather to Robert’s children.

Robert, originally from Alabama, had a unique perspective on the world. Richard rented an apartment next to Robert and his wife Patty and often joined them for dinner. Richard could listen for hours as Robert discussed his views on local and world politics. It was Robert who took Richards’ wife and children to South Africa to install solar panels in the bush. They took a class on campus for a week on how of installing the panels and then flew off to South Africa. Whenever Richard felt comfortable at Ginger’s house, a new noise would disrupt his peace. While sitting in a Lazy Boy chair, he heard a knocking noise from the patio, and his thoughts of Robert vanished. The knocking noise turned into a creak, then the sound of wood separating. Just as he was about to investigate, the noise changed to dripping. Craving a cigarette, Richard went outside to the patio, where he only heard cars passing by in the distance. It was probably a deer they were all over the place here.

Richard’s thoughts then drifted to another intelligent friend, Larry Cherry, the first male from their neighborhood to attend college. Larry’s birthday was in August, and Richard’s was in January. They started first grade together, but Richard failed third grade, putting Larry a year ahead. Larry attended Duke University and majored in education. After college, he spent twenty years in the Air Force, retiring as a Major. Larry traveled the world with his college sweetheart, and they had a son who also joined the Air Force.

Last month, Richard and his childhood friend, Samuel McGee, spent the weekend at Larry Cherry’s house in Dayton. Larry’s large two-story house had rooms everywhere, including a spacious kitchen, a formal dining room, a show living room, and a lived-in living room. Each room had just the right amount of furniture. There were four bedrooms and two large bathrooms upstairs, as well as another bathroom downstairs. The basement was any man’s dream, with a large office, a pool table, a big screen TV surrounded by leather chairs and a sofa. The house had a two-car garage, a large front yard, and a huge backyard. Larry needed hip surgery but still cut the front yard himself, while a lawn service handled the back, which extended about forty yards and then went downhill for another ten, extending another thirty yards and about thirty-five yards wide, surrounded by trees. Out back was a nice, large wooden deck, where they spent much of the weekend.

Larry met his wife, Kimberly, in college, and she had a taste for nice things, as evidenced by the beautiful and well-organized house. Although they engaged in occasional petty arguments, the weekend at Larry’s was great. Richard remembered telling a coworker about his plans to spend the weekend in Dayton, and the coworker remarked that Dayton was not what it used to be. Richard had grown to tolerate negative people but preferred not to be around them. He enjoyed the weekend from the drive up to the drive back, which took about an hour.

Larry had given Richard his address, and Richard used OnStar to program the route. Richard was driving a new CTS, about a year old, fully loaded with a Bose stereo system, phone, satellite radio, and leather seats. He slipped Stevie Wonder’s “Innervisions” CD into the player and set off. The drive was scenic, with rolling hills and large company headquarters lining the highway. He arrived at Larry’s house without any issues. As Richard pulled into the driveway, Larry and his wife came out to greet him, making a big fuss over his car. Richard humbly brushed off their compliments.

Larry’s house was even more impressive than the car, laid out just like Richard’s dream home. He knew, however, that he would never live in such a house. His wife was a pack rat and never cared much for material things or maintaining a “good housekeeping” type home. Their house felt lived-in, which was a polite way of saying it would never win a Good Housekeeping award. Richard’s home reflected the aftermath of raising two children, nieces, and nephews, and at one point, they even considered adopting five children from their church who had been abandoned by their mother after she returned to smoking crack following her mother’s death. They kept the children for about six months before their grandparents from Texas came to claim them.

RB and Sharon were in high school at the time, and initially, it was fun having a large family. Everyone pitched in to help, but the daily routine of fixing lunches, changing diapers, giving nightly baths, helping with homework, dealing with bed-wetting, and combing the four girls’ hair was wearing them down. They might have managed if they were younger, but before the extra kids moved in, they had been looking forward to their own kids going to college and leaving the house. Richard thought that if he could work for another two or three years, they could fix their house up like Larry’s. However, he reminded himself to take things one day at a time, as he had been doing for the last four years. Whatever will be, will be. After all, he was happy with his cluttered house.

Larry and Kimberly helped Richard unload his car and showed him to his room upstairs. They then gave him a grand tour of the house. Kimberly had dishes and silverware from around the world on display in one of the basement rooms. Larry had even brought back a London telephone booth that sat on a slab of cement beside the patio. As they toured the house, they exchanged stories about their children.

Richard had called Larry on Thursday to confirm he would be driving to Dayton right after work. An hour later, Larry called back to ask what Richard drank and was quite surprised when Richard told him he no longer drank or did drugs. The conversation was quiet for some time before Richard said he would fill him in when he got there on Friday. After the tour and some small talk, Larry informed Richard that he smoked cigarettes and suggested they go out on the patio. Richard was pleased with this suggestion because he also smoked. Richard glanced at his watch—it was about 8:30. Kimberly said she was going to bed because she had some things to do early in the morning.

Richard had brought a basket of dirty clothes with him, confident there was no need to go to a laundromat. He had looked up Larry’s house online and knew that a house like that had to have a washer and dryer. He smiled, thinking of two project boys living the life. They had spent their childhoods knowing nothing but the laundromat. If you needed something cleaned between laundromat days, you would wash it in the sink, put some newspaper over the radiator, and place your clothes on the newspaper. If you didn’t use the newspaper, the radiator would leave brown streaks on your clothes. He recalled when people started getting washing machines but no dryers. He remembered his mother drying clothes on the clothesline in their front yard, the fresh smell of sun-and-wind-dried clothes that no dryer could replicate.

After putting the clothes in the washer, they headed down to the basement. Larry settled into one of the brown leather Lazy Boys, while Richard plopped onto the couch. Richard asked Larry to switch to the football game—the first pre-season match of the year. Richard’s Buccaneers were up against Kansas City, and Richard was eager to see how quarterback Josh Freeman would perform. Freeman had an impressive rookie year; Tampa Bay had gone ten and six and almost made it to the playoffs. Larry mentioned that their other project alumni, Carl, would be arriving in the morning, and then he went to bed.

Richard felt immense pride in Larry and Carl. They had all been married for over thirty years. He didn’t know all the challenges his friends had faced over the past three decades, but he understood the difficulty of staying married to the same woman for that long. Richard figured they were like him—having seen the struggles a single mother endures to raise children. The last thing he wanted was for his children to be raised by a single mother. Richard’s own mother had done her best to raise him and his sisters. A line from one of his favorite Funkadelic songs, “Cosmic Slop,” perfectly described her: “Father, father, it’s for the kids; any and every thing mother did, please don’t judge her too strong. Lord knows she meant no harm.”

Richard’s mother had become a resilient survivor of life in the projects. She shielded him and his sister from the dangers children in the projects might face. She emphasized the importance of graduating from high school and made it clear that his sisters shouldn’t get pregnant, nor should he get a girl pregnant. Though he wasn’t sure if his sisters were on birth control, she gave him his first pack of condoms. Richard’s mother ruled with an iron fist; her favorite saying was, “I brought you into this world, and I’ll take you out. Go across the street, have a beer, and make another just like you.”

The breakup with Richard’s father had hit his mother hard. During their first two years in the projects, she drank heavily, and they would listen to Ray Charles singing “I Can’t Stop Loving You” all night. Occasionally, he or one of his sisters would try to turn it off once they thought she was asleep, but she usually woke up and cursed at them. Eventually, they learned to live with the nightly ritual. Thankfully, Richard’s mother got over his father in time, as the kids feared she might have a mental breakdown.

The projects spanned two acres and consisted of eight rows of parallel houses and one vertical row, totaling fifty houses. These rows, named with historical African American references like Tuskegee Terrace, Booker Way, and Howard Court, started at the top of Feather Avenue and ended at a large field used as a playground. The playground had a jungle gym, swings, and a spray pool for cooling off in the summer. At the bottom of the hill, attached to a row of houses, was the community center, known as the Hall. Residents rented the Hall for various social events, including graduation parties, birthdays, and teen dances.

Life in the projects was tough, but everyone was in the same boat. Borrowing a cup of sugar or some milk from a neighbor was never a problem. When everyone is struggling, there’s no need for pretense.

Richard once believed that project housing was designed to keep Black families apart. But as he got older, he saw it differently. It became clear that many women ended up there after having children with men who were either married or going nowhere. There were no strict rules against men living with women in the projects—except that they had to be married.

As rare as it was, all the kids in the projects were happy whenever their fathers came to visit. The lucky ones might see their dads once or twice a year. When they did show up, they often came bearing gifts—big-ticket items like a bicycle or an expensive toy, a temporary token of their presence.

Richard was one of the lucky ones. A new court order meant he would spend his summers with his father. He didn’t mind; it meant new clothes and a glimpse into how the other half lived. But as much as he loved his father and grandparents, he couldn’t wait to get back to the projects, where he felt like a man-child in the promised land.

Summers with his father mostly meant staying with his grandparents. There, his freedom was limited—he had to stay inside or close by. As he got older, he started sneaking off with boys his age to explore the neighborhood. When caught, he’d get a stern scolding and a warning that he’d be sent back to the projects without his new school clothes. He quickly learned to follow the rules; after all, it was only for a month or two.

Still, he had his cherished outings with his grandfather—trips to the bar where he soaked in the atmosphere of grown-up conversations. His father would stop by occasionally, taking him for a haircut, introducing him to friends, or bringing him along to his brother’s house. Richard especially loved visiting his Uncle Bill. Unlike his father, Bill was soft-spoken and deeply involved in the coal miners’ union. Richard admired the way his uncle talked about workers’ rights—how the union had fought for better pay, safer conditions, and solid health and life insurance.

One day, Richard tagged along with Uncle Bill as they visited white bars out in the country. Everywhere they went, his uncle was treated with deep respect, almost like royalty. Everyone was welcoming, reinforcing how much influence he had.

But union work was dangerous. During one coal miners’ union election, the candidate Bill supported was murdered—along with his entire family—on Christmas Eve. It shook Uncle Bill to the core; he and some other miners had visited the family just hours before the tragedy. The killers were never caught, and the opposing candidate won.

Everywhere they went, alcohol was always present. The only exception was church on Sunday.

During his visits, Richard never attended Sunday school, and the church services felt dull to him. His only memories were of people dressed in their finest clothes and the parking lot filled with fancy cars. It wasn’t until he started spending time with Reverend Ross’s sanctified congregation that he truly experienced Sunday school and a spirited church service.

As a project boy in a middle-class environment, Richard struggled to adjust. One Sunday, frustrated by the lengthy sermon, he blurted out for the preacher to shut up. His grandmother immediately dragged him outside and gave him the beating of a lifetime. Later, his father reinforced the lesson with a coal miner’s belt. It was the only time he could remember being disciplined so severely.

Despite the tough lesson, Richard continued his summer visits for the next three or four years, slowly finding his place between both worlds.

Over time, Richard’s relatives on his father’s side all passed away. His uncle died from a brain tumor, followed shortly by his wife. His grandparents went next, one after the other. His father was the last to go, battling liver disease for years.

Richard loved them all dearly and missed them. But he found comfort in the rare moments they visited him in his dreams.

Richard captured his passion for the project and the people involved in a thought-provoking poem, which he included in a collection of poetry he created on his computer during high school. He compiled all the poems he had written at the time, printed copies, and distributed them to those connected to the project. Additionally, he dedicated a poem to his mother and older sister.

Fuzzy had been his protector throughout his life. When his mother struggled with depression, it was Fuzzy who cared for him and his baby sister. Fuzzy also took on the role of caregiver for their grandmother, mother, an uncle, and anyone else in need. Neighborhood children who ran away from home often sought refuge with Fuzzy, drawn to the warmth and safety that Fuzzy provided.

He had also recorded some 8-track tapes where he recited his poems over music by Grove Washing Jr. Occasionally, he would encounter people outside the project who complimented his poetry. They had either heard his recordings or read a copy of his poems. This made him consider doing something similar with his current writing—perhaps creating a PDF and sharing it online.

 

Jets: Black Women and Men

Living in the jets is wonderful,
Man, it’s so beautiful.
We don’t have much, but we have love,
Everything I need to grow—
My soul’s aglow.
If you don’t know,
Better ask somebody.

What was that you said?
The jets are full of roaches?
Yeah, they’re here,
But it’s not as bad as you fear.
Dig it—they eat after you, not before.
Gotta be careful, or you’ll take one to school.
Most of the cats stay on the floor,
And they only come out at night—
Not even then, if you keep on a light.

What do you mean all Black women do is lay up and have babies?
Man, you must be crazy.
White women have just as many,
They just pay a pretty penny
To eliminate there many

Black women can’t win—
Don’t get me wrong,
The problem is Black men.
After using these queens,
They leave them lost in the wind.

Black men, quit the Four-F Club.
Really learn how to love.
Give your sons and daughters your last name,
Quit the hit-and-run game.
Stay together through trouble and pain,
Let love, peace, and happiness reign.

Mom, you are beautiful,
And so are the rest of the mothers in the jets.
All of you strong women pulled us through,
Doing the best you could do.
There are some men who deserve respect too—
The preacher, the businessman, the fisherman—
All examples of how to be a man.

To the other missing fathers,
Do you not see what’s wrong?
Leaving your woman lost and alone,
Forcing her to fend for herself?
To you men, and especially my dad—
You jive-time dudes make me mad.
The sadness the children bear,
No man around to show he cares.
Would have been nice to have your name and address
On my school forms,
To see you on Parent Day,
Instead of feeling the stares
When my mother’s name and mine didn’t match.
Now what am I supposed to do
If someone calls me one,
Because of you it’s true

Dad, I’m grateful for what you do,
Even if I don’t know what you’re going through.
I may be a little selfish,
But thank God He provided me with men to take your place.

Project people, I love you.
We have no reason to be ashamed.
We played the cards we were dealt,
And we played them well.
A place to stay,
A monthly welfare check—
And we got by.
Thanks—
It takes a project to raise a child.

 

My dear,
While you still live,
there’s something I want you to know—
that next to God’s love,
yours is the greatest love I know.

My dear,
From conception to year 18
it’s been your love that has kept me alive.
You made a life in what some call a ghetto,
a life where there was little sorrow.
And that’s the kind of love
that makes you want to live until tomorrow.

My dear.

 

 

When Richard returned home, it was time to start school and show off his new clothes—though they wouldn’t last long. Within a few months, they’d be worn out. He’d be out playing street ball in his shiny patent leather shoes, and the suit pants would become his everyday wear. At this point, he hadn’t yet started going to church with Reverend Ross.

School integration had reshaped the Black community, scattering students across different neighborhoods. The project kids were bused to well-funded schools from elementary through high school. Richard was fortunate—by the time his generation started school, most of the major struggles of integration had been settled. The fights between Black and white students had died down somewhat, and school spirit had taken over. With Black athletes now part of the teams, the school’s sports programs thrived. The high school had even won the state championship in basketball.

For the most part, teachers no longer seemed to care about a student’s race—they just wanted them to succeed. This shift had come after years of Black parents showing up at schools, demanding fair treatment for their children. Still, some issues lingered. Richard remembered hearing about the school system placing Black students in special education classes at an alarming rate.

One of his fondest memories was the daily “Here comes the bus” call. As soon as the school bus approached, someone would yell, “Here comes the Micken Mack bus!”—a signal for any kids still at home to hurry up and get to the stop.

Richard’s thoughts drifted to his journey toward sobriety. Court-ordered to attend three AA meetings, it turned out to be one of the best things that ever happened to him. From the moment he walked into that room, he felt a connection. The meeting hadn’t started yet, and as he sat down with the group, he boldly declared that he wasn’t like them—that he wasn’t an alcoholic or a drunk, just someone who liked to party. They all just laughed, and for Richard, it was one of the best moments of his life. It was a realization that struck deep: as smart as he thought he was, he wasn’t smart enough to recognize he was an alcoholic. It also dawned on him that alcohol had run in his family, claiming the lives of many loved ones.

The group decided to have a Step One meeting since Richard was there. One by one, each person shared their experience of life as an active alcoholic and how it had changed since they embraced sobriety. It had been a long time since Richard had heard such raw honesty. From that day forward, he made a commitment to attend morning meetings. He found a sponsor who guided him through the 12 steps, and in turn, he helped sponsor others and walk them through the same process.

As he sat there, Richard picked up his laptop and started writing a poem about the 12 steps. Writing poetry had been a part of his life since his senior year in high school. He’d always struggled with expressing himself, especially when emotions ran high. But when he needed to process his feelings, he would find a quiet place to meditate and put his thoughts on paper, sharing them with others. He appreciated this method because it kept him from engaging in heated arguments. More often than not, people were left speechless, only to offer congratulations for how well he captured the moment in his words.

                                                           Walk the Room

Crawled into the room

Beat down and broken hearted

Didn’t want to be there

Didn’t really care

Hear Laughter in the air

Saw people without a care

They extended their hand 

And helped me stand

Said you can do it

We know you can

Drop the gloom and

Walk the room

 

 

Tell us your story

We will tell you ours

That is how this thing works

Take it one day at time

In  time,  you will be fine

Many stories they did tell

Of death, jail, and an assortment of crimes

After a while I told them mine

And that was the start of feeling fine

Got me some hugs and they said

You come back tomorrow

Drop the gloom and

And walk the room

 

Came back again

Greeted by friends

They said let’s begin

Take a step with us my friend

Realize you manage to unmanaged your way

Into the room                                                                                         

But you never have to feel that way again

You help us and we help you

You can leave but can’t get kick out

 It works if you work it

You can walk again

One step one day at a time

This we do for free

Please don’t holler

But we suggest a dollar

Drop the gloom and

And walk the room

 

Another day and

Back again in the room

With my new friends

People of all professions,

All religions, all nationalities,

Women and men

Boys and girls

People who would never mix

Was talk of religion

It was nicked

They said this is a spiritual thing

Pick your God of your understanding

Search deep with in

You will find it my friend

We really don’t care

Somehow you were lead here

What you choose is up to you

We just hope that you do

We do only one thing here

And try to do it right

Rightest thinking leads

To no drinking

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

Were we all

Who are you

Are you the person you really want to be

Or are you putting on a show for me

There is one who

Can set you free

You chose

The one for thee

Let it/he/she/them whatever

Be your guide

Let go

Feel inside

Think about it

Let go of yesterday and the sorrow

And come back tomorrow

Drop the gloom

And walk the room

 

Here again a new day

With new friends

Concerned about how I feel

And the concern is real

Some big steps taken

In the pass days

I feel the fog

Starting to drift away 

I think I will stay in the room

And walk some more

They noticed that I was walking better

Talking better

Had a smile on my face

People newer than me, I would greet

As they crawled in the door

Just like me

They said times a wasting

Let’s move on

You manage to unmanage

And found a higher power

And getting stronger by the hour

Look at the pass

And free your ass

Write it all down

The truth will be found

Be honest as you can

Accept that you can change it

Move on

It will only make you stronger

Drop the gloom

And walk the room

 

 

Wrote it all down

Day and night

The good the bad

The happy the sad

Felt grateful for those

That got me here

In this place and in this time

Didn’t do it by my self

I had lots and lots of help

Funny think happen

I do longer wanted to run the show

Didn’t want to direct where people should go

Just want to enjoy today

In my own way

With those that wanted to play

In a rightgest way

Had a desire to help someone else

And put my selfishness on the shelf

Walking much better now

Talking much better now

Thinking way better now

Drop the gloom

Walk the room

 

Came into the room

A little congested and constipated

My pass was heavy on my mine

Some relieve I had to fine

So I sat down with a friend of mine

Told my story

And what I had written down

He told me his

I felt better

Congestion and constipation

Went a way

I feel so much better

Even to this day

The pass is the pass

There only today

Only right now

The future will be

What it will be

I have to do the next right think

Be all I can be right here right now

Just want to help someone else

With their drinking

And their thinking

Like my friends helped me

Drop the gloom

Walk the rooms

 

Been walking the room

For some time now

Depending on my higher power

To lead me

One day at a time

Feeling fine, doing fine

Myself I have found

Helping others

 Keeps me out of self

But there is still more I have do to

The people I hurt

When I wrote my story down

I have to make amends 

As they are found

Clean the slate

Don’t wait

O what a relief

To be free

From the old me

Drop the gloom

Walk the room

 

How proud

My work done

Came to the room

To get my congratulation

But was told

There be no graduation

No cap

No gown

I had to keep coming round

Walking the walk

Talking the talk

Daily inventory of thing said and done

Depending on my higher power he’s the one

That will help me help another

One world

We are all sisters and brothers

My higher power gets the glory

And that my story

And I’m sticking with it

Drop the gloom

Walk the room.

 

It had been a long day, and Richard was starting to feel the weight of exhaustion. He was proud of the poem he had written, knowing he would use it to share his own experience with others as he sponsored them through the 12 steps of AA. Reflecting on the day, he found joy in revisiting his dreams and taking a walk down memory lane. With Sunday ahead of him and no plans on the horizon, he decided to spend the day writing. He was feeling incredibly creative, enjoying the solitude and the space to connect with his thoughts, isolated from the world around him.

Richard glanced at the clock as he settled into bed—it was 9:30 PM. He soon drifted off to sleep and woke up at his usual time, 4:30 AM, feeling refreshed. There were no dreams to recall, but he was eager to write down everything from the previous day. After a quick shower, he headed downstairs.

He popped Aretha Franklin’s Amazing Grace CD into the player, then tossed some leftover pizza and wings into the microwave. As he devoured the food with a cup of coffee, he briefly considered stepping outside for a smoke, but the darkness outside made him hesitant, unsure of what might be lurking in the shadows. Instead, he poured himself another cup of coffee, grabbed his laptop, and sat down at the kitchen table to get to work.

It was 1:30 AM when Richard finished reading through what he had written for the third time. The only interruption had come earlier, around 9:30, when his wife called to check in on him. She was eager to have him home soon. It felt good to know that someone cared, that he was missed. They chatted for about fifteen minutes, with her mentioning she was getting ready for church and didn’t want to be late. After the call, Richard dove right back into his work.

He was happy with what he had written, but still not fully satisfied. There was so much more he wanted to say about each topic he’d covered. He longed to expand on his life in the project, to share more about the people he loved—the bond with his father and grandparents, his religious experiences traveling the tri-state area with Reverend Ross, his family, his time in college, and his life with his wife. But that would have to wait for another day.

A sense of sadness settled over him as he realized he would be heading back to Florida in just five days. The quiet, isolated space he had now, where he could focus and write without distractions, would soon be gone. He began to understand why writers sought out remote, secluded places to work—there was something about that isolation that allowed the words to flow.

Richard pondered what he should do with what he had written. Should he try to turn it into a book? He wasn’t quite sure. He had been writing poetry since his senior year in high school, back when the world felt electric with change. It was a time of civil unrest, riots, and the assassinations of Malcolm X, Martin Luther King, and the Kennedy brothers. What a moment to be alive—being Black was something to take pride in. The music of the time reflected it all. James Brown belted out “Say It Loud, I’m Black and I’m Proud,” The Last Poets and Gil Scott-Heron raised voices of revolution with songs like “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised,” Aretha Franklin sang “Young, Gifted and Black,” Roy Ayers brought out “Red, Black, and Green,” and Marvin Gaye asked, “What’s Going On?” And that was just the tip of the iceberg. It was an incredible time to be Black.

But it wasn’t just Black Americans making waves; much of the country was in revolt. The youth were adamant about not wanting to fight in Vietnam. Muhammad Ali gave up his boxing career in protest, and everyone seemed to be challenging the status quo. Women were burning their bras. Hippies roamed the streets, with marijuana, free love, and Woodstock shaping the counterculture movement. It was a time of immense change, a time when it felt like anything was possible.

It was a time filled with togetherness and sharing. Soldiers returning from the war came back changed, not the same person who had left, but some were willing to share their experiences. The main message they conveyed was clear: stay in school, because war was hell. Richard often thought back to those days—when he and others protested on campus against the war and the injustice Black people faced in the college town.

Off-campus housing for Black students was severely limited, and less than one percent of the student body was Black. Richard had never had a Black teacher until he went to college and enrolled in a Black History class. That class was a real eye-opener. He had never fully realized the immense contributions Black people had made to this country. But it also sparked a deep resentment that would take years to work through.

That class was the beginning of Richard’s journey into social awareness poetry. Writing became his outlet, his way of processing the world around him.

A Poem to My People

I am young, but I will grow old.
Will I grow old as a violent man,
Fighting to make America a free land?

Will I be like Rap Brown,
Going town to town,
Putting every white man down?

Will I be like Cleaver, a Panther leader?
Will I shout “right” when I know I’m wrong?
Will I have the strength to carry on?

Will I be like King and die in pain,
Or be a failure and die in vain?
Will they call me an Uncle Tom,
For trying to be strong,
And doing my own people wrong?

One thing I know, one thing for sure—
I will try to open up some doors
For all my people, stolen from Africa shore.
To plowing fields, and work the land,
For a God-fearing Christian white man,

We were put to shame, and robbed of our names.,
Because of this disgrace
That was brought to our race.

I will try my best to give a damn.
And be a dedicated Black man.

The Baton Rouge Blues

Brothers! Sisters!
Did you hear what happened in Baton Rouge,
On the campus of Southern U?
What are we going to do to avenge the fallen two.
The man has already taken his stand.
He doesn’t give a damn.
About anything that doesn’t put money in his hand .

Brothers! Sisters!
What are we going to do?
It could have been me,
It could have been you.
Did you hear the bullets scream?
Did you see the shattered dreams?
Did you hear the cries, the shouts?
Did you see the blood pour out?
Did you feel the pellets tear their backs,
All because their skin was Black?

Brothers! Sisters!
In Baton Rouge, they could have run,
But with bottles and rocks, they stood as one.
Because of this they were cut down by the man
Two of them died,
And everyone cried.

Brothers! Sisters!
What are we going to do?

“A Poem to My People” was the first poem Richard wrote, inspired by a conversation with a brother who had just returned from Vietnam. “The Baton Rouge Blues” came next, written in the tense hours before a campus protest for the four students killed in Ohio.

As he reflected on his words, Richard felt as if he had just completed a deep AA Step Four inventory—unpacking truths he hadn’t fully faced before. He glanced at the clock. 10 PM. A familiar wave of sadness settled over him. Deep down, he knew how much he was enjoying this process—this act of writing, of taking inventory—but he also knew it would be a while before he could return to it.

PART 2

Richard had just logged off from the Early Riser AA Zoom meeting. It had been a great meeting, as most of them were. Attending an early morning AA meeting had kept him sober for the past eighteen years.

The group was originally formed during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic when in-person meetings were canceled to prevent the spread of the virus. For about a month, they met exclusively online until restrictions eased and in-person meetings resumed. When that happened, half of the group returned to in-person meetings, while the other half chose to stay on Zoom.

Richard sat there, idly browsing through his documents folder. His eyes landed on a file named Flashback. He wasn’t sure what drew him to it, but as he clicked it open, he felt a surge of excitement. It had been eleven years since he wrote those words, isolated in the woods.

The last paragraph stirred something deep within him. Inspiration flickered—perhaps he could finally finish what he had started.

He had just completed a four-year contract with a major bank, working on a team that had successfully delivered four major projects. So far, those projects were the highlight of his career in computing. He had been programming since the tenth grade, and his passion for technology had only grown stronger.

Recently, the bank had introduced a new policy requiring contractors to take a three-month break after two years of continuous work. If he could find a way to isolate himself for at least a couple of weeks, he might be able to complete the book. After all, he had written the first draft in just two weeks.

Finding solitude and quiet time was going to be a challenge. His days were packed—he had his 7 AM meeting, his wife, four sponsees, and a full schedule of miscellaneous activities. Fortunately, his wife was still working, which meant she would be out of the house during the day.

Richard did his best work early in the morning. He was usually up and at his computer by 6 AM. In his last assignment, he had served as the project lead, working closely with offshore programmers in India. While they were wrapping up their workday, people in the U.S. were just starting theirs. He enjoyed collaborating with them, exchanging knowledge and technology, and learning about their holidays and cultural traditions—just as they learned about his.

To make time for writing, he decided he could skip the 7 AM meeting and attend a Zoom session later in the day instead. With that settled, his plan was clear: after his morning meditation, he would sit down and finish his book—a project that felt less like writing and more like a deep, introspective Fourth Step.

Much had changed over the past eleven years. Many of the elder members of Richard’s original AA group had passed away, including his sponsor of thirteen years, Owen. Owen had battled liver disease and endured dialysis, yet despite his struggles, he remained a constant presence in Richard’s life. Every Wednesday, they met for breakfast—a tradition that had started when Owen first guided Richard through the Twelve Steps.

Richard reflected on the deep bond that forms when one person walks another through the steps. But from his experience, that bond was only truly forged when all twelve steps were completed together. He had sponsored many people over the years, but the connection he had with Owen was unique—reserved for those who had walked the full path side by side.

He understood that AA wasn’t for everyone and often said so. There were many ways to get sober; AA was just one of them. Still, he deeply missed Owen and their Wednesday breakfasts. He remembered a time, early in his recovery, when he had told Owen that his wife and children were the reason he drank. He was convinced that moving out would make it easier to stay sober. Owen had listened and then advised him not to make any rash decisions—to wait until they had worked through more of the steps before taking action.

Richard was profoundly grateful that he had listened. With each step completed, it became clearer: the real problem wasn’t his wife or his children—it was him. Sobriety had given him a new perspective, and in the years that followed, he cherished the life he had rebuilt. He had been present for birthdays, holiday gatherings, his son’s wedding, and the arrival of three grandchildren. His daughter had thrived in her career and even introduced a “grand-dog” into the family, bringing them all joy. There was no way he would ever walk away from that.

Owen, on the other hand, had once confided that he wished he could have saved his own relationship with his family. Though there had been dysfunction, he never stopped trying to make amends with his children.

Richard realized that sponsorship was a two-way street—it wasn’t just the sponsee who benefited, but the sponsor as well. Over the years, he had written poems for many of the people he had lost. Here is the one he wrote for Owen

Thank You

Thank you
for walking me through the steps of life.
I could see, yet I was blind,
living a life that wasn’t real,
caught up in material things,
cheap thrills, and selfishness.

Step by step,
the journey began—
honestly facing the past,
answering the questions:
Who am I?
Where have I been?
Where am I going?
I was a slave without chains,
going nowhere,
and I didn’t care.
No God, no country, no me.

Step by step,
you held my hand,
encouraged me to be a man,
helped me to take a stand.

I faced my fears,
shed my tears—
what a fight,
learning to do what’s right,
finding the God within me,
and holding on with all my might.

Step by step,
I continued to grow,
made amends for the past.
Freedom came from a King who said:
“Free at last, free at last,
Thank God Almighty, I’m free at last.”

No more chains on me,
free of the need to feel free.

Thank you.

One of the things Richard loved most about his original AA group was its simplicity—there was very little organization or rigid structure. Group consensus or business meetings were rare. Instead, everyone just stepped up and did what needed to be done. The only official title belonged to the treasurer. Whenever an issue arose, most were settled right then and there during the meeting.

Richard recalled how, when a new treasurer was needed, someone simply volunteered, and that was that. The same thing happened when the person responsible for opening the meeting and making coffee grew tired of the role—people took turns filling in. Richard himself volunteered for Wednesdays and faithfully handled that responsibility for years. Members would purchase necessary supplies, submit receipts to the treasurer, and be reimbursed. The group was well-funded and had already been around for about twenty years when Richard joined.

He felt completely at home among his fellow rebels in this group. They used non-approved AA literature in their meetings and were one of the few groups that provided newcomers with a copy of the Big Book. The meeting followed an opening format, but there was no assigned chairperson. At seven o’clock, someone would simply start the meeting. They encouraged newcomers who had a little time in sobriety to step up and lead, reinforcing the belief that the newcomer was the most important person in the room. Titles and professional backgrounds were left at the door—everyone was simply an alcoholic trying to stay sober, one day at a time.

The group consisted of both men and women, and Richard often went to breakfast with a few of the men, many of whom had an average of twenty years of sobriety. Through these conversations, he learned the value of honesty and open dialogue.

Richard also loved how the group emphasized that AA was a spiritual program, not a religious one. Each person was encouraged to find their own higher power—some called it God, while others took different approaches. However, there were occasional individuals who felt the need to preach their personal religious beliefs to the group. Over time, this dynamic pushed Richard to seek out a new meeting after ten years of attendance. He understood that everything changes, and one must appreciate a good thing while it lasts.

Through his discussions with Owen, Richard realized he leaned more toward Buddhism than any other spiritual path. He had read extensively about Buddha and was deeply drawn to the concept of enlightenment. To this day, he continues to pray and meditate every morning before starting his day.

As Richard reflected on his time with Owen and his journey through the steps, his eyes caught another recovery poem…

Rebirth

Three years ago, I sold my soul to the devil.
He took me to places I’d never been,
Gave me plenty of money to spend,
Lied and told me he was my friend,
And that our bond would never end.

I had what I wanted wherever I looked,
And the more he gave, the more I took.
Soon, I had no concern for my sisters and brothers,
Gave away my mind, body, and soul to others.

I looked in the mirror, but what did I see?
The devil staring back at me.
My soul cried out, “Please set me free!”
So I gave him back his fame and his cash,
Picked up my pen—and killed his ass.

Now I don’t have much money,
And I may not dress as fine,
But I have my soul—
And proudly, it’s mine.

Richard stopped attending his old meeting for the reasons mentioned earlier and began going to a new 7 o’clock meeting just a few minutes from his home. As the old-timers liked to say, “All you need to start a new AA meeting is a resentment and a coffee pot.”

At first, the meeting was small—on a good day, eight people would show up. But over time, it grew, eventually drawing more than forty attendees. Richard enjoyed watching the group flourish.

Then COVID-19 hit, and everything changed. The group split into in-person and Zoom meetings as the pandemic swept through the country. With over 1.2 million lives lost in the United States—including more than 95,000 in Florida—it was a time of masks, isolation, and grief. Nearly everyone got sick or knew someone who had died from the virus.

Richard was already working from home when the pandemic began, but soon, nearly the entire IT department at the bank he was contracting for joined him. He smiled, reminiscing about those strange, uncertain times.

Now, a “return to office” movement was underway—another reminder that everything changes, and then changes again.

He had yet to capture the adventures he experienced while traveling with Reverend Ross and his family. His college years remained unwritten, as did the exhilarating highs and lows of his journey through corporate America. He hadn’t documented the vast knowledge he had gained about Africa through the works of Robin Walker, Dr. Clark, Anthony Browder, Zindara Nyirenda, and other scholars. Through his reading, he had discovered so much about himself and the history of Black people.

Despite the bittersweet feeling of returning to work, he was grateful—for his thirst for knowledge, his love of reading, and the endless stories waiting to be told.