A Moment of Silence: Midnight III (The Midnight Series Book 3) (55 page)

Seven hours later, I was awakened by a dream that I could feel but could not remember. My memory tried to chase down threads of blurred images that melted into nothing but a stream of colors. I heard only breathing interrupting the silence of the sixty-six sleepers. I sat up. Although my mind’s eye now drew a black blank, my soul somehow recalled the instructions it had received through the dream. I stood up.

Looking through the glass of the COs’ command center, I saw the one in charge of watching, asleep on the job. That meant the second officer was somewhere roaming. My eyes scanned the room. I counted two sleepers missing. Probably, they got picked up and moved in the middle of the night for stabbing up Rory, I speculated.

When I walked around to the only toilet washroom area in my section, I ran right into Slaughter hiding behind the wall. I kept moving like he wasn’t there, but could not miss that the CO was standing there with him. I ignored them, peed, and washed up.

*  *  *

“What up, Black?” DeSean called out to me as I walked back to my cot. I nodded my acknowledgment. “We got a quick cypher before the count,” he said, and I checked that a lot of heads that were down before were now up. I heard him but kept moving. In the slim space between my cot and the next one nearby, I spread my towel
on the floor and stood for prayer. Closing my eyes, I eliminated my concern for my own security and my mental blueprint of where each youth was situated in my surroundings. I rested in my intention to submit my prayer and raised both of my hands to my ears, my palms facing forward. I began . . .
Bismillah, in the name of Allah.

The noise of the movement to the count didn’t reach my ears until my forehead was raised from the floor, my knees no longer on the ground, my feet now firmly in the standing position and my eyes wide open. I removed my towel, folded it, then stepped into my kicks and fell into the start of the count, very aware of the authorities’ wasted menacing glares, the youths’ curious eyes, and the M3s’ looks moving from deciding if I’m crazy or “right and exact.”

I was solid and sure. In my soul was the message for me to no longer conceal my Muslim identity in population. I would continue using the false name, but I am forbidden from false behavior or taking any action that doesn’t line up with what a true Muslim man would do, as guided by the Holy Quran. In my soul was the message to make my prayers to Allah out in the open without concern for intervention or interruption by the lions, wolves, hyenas, or even the snakes. I thought it was a dangerous idea in an explosive environment. But, my duty to Allah is higher than any thought or fear that my mind might manufacture. The message in the dream was that if all of the other males were living foul and in chaos, naïvely and boldly and out in the open, and the Muslim males were concealing our Muslim demeanor, there would be no light in the darkness. The message was for me to be a light, a reminder, a warning to them and even a warning to myself. And to do it without fear.
Allah is your only protection.
So I’m doing it.

*  *  *

“I’m glad you chose our regular table this morning,” DeSean said. “If you would’ve moved one table over from the one you chose last night, we would’ve ran head up with the Dominicanos. We been to war with them before, but it’s bad for business.”

“Fuck being boxed for the winter,” Slaughter said. “Word,” the other M3s’ agreement with him came in a chorus.

“Where’s Ditch?” I asked. DeSean smiled.

“Good looking out,” he said. “But they snatched him in the middle of the night, sent him upstate. That’s how they do it in here. The body snatchers grab a convicted ‘yo’ in the middle of the night and move them anywhere in America they want to move ’em to. But wherever it is, it’s a fucked-up place. Jail and prison both fucked up but two different things, that’s the word,” DeSean said.

Ditch’s rhyme in class yesterday had me thinking. I could feel his heart woven in the words of his story and thumping in his cadence and delivery. That was different. Wasn’t used to feeling shit from these types of niggas. The whole day yesterday had my head bombed. Were these youth all sons of bitches? ‘Bitch or bitches,’ that’s how they referred to their mothers and pretend wives and girlfriends and to all women. Is that what they really think and feel about them? Are their women just to be used as their workers and mules, fucked and abandoned? Are they familiar with the feeling and power of love? Are their women all scandalous, disloyal bitches, and their fathers, either unknown and absent or present and untrustworthy, motherfuckers that fucked the bitches they lusted after and then left them in the lurch? Maybe it’s both. Their fathers are motherfuckers. Their mothers are bitches. Meanwhile they are the sons of bitches, the miserable bastards that resulted from sex, without marriage, love, or faith or any real and true intent or tight bond.

It is not that I was surprised. I grew up in it. However, if I wasn’t forced to face it now, concentrate on it, study it, then I wouldn’t. I was busy building my own world, loving my wives, enjoying my family, and handling my business guided by faith.

I learned from the few classes we shared that these cats had talents and were not dumb. They were clever with their words. At the same time, they were not smart, either. Same as in mathematics class, we are challenged to show our work and solve the problems with accurate precision. These cats could not do the math of life or solve their own
problems. They were calculating, but performing the wrong functions, using the wrong formula, and coming up with the wrong answers. The fact that I’m in here same as them, interacting with them, is my hard reality.

Yesterday I looked up the word
revolution
. I realized I liked going to class from listening to the reasoning of Teacher Ali and the skillful way he dragged the cats into a convo they probably would normally not give a fuck about. I have good, strong, clear, warm, and useful memories of love of my friends, my teachers, my family, my women, my life. What happens, though, to young heads who have no memories or feelings or bonds or an uncorrupted sense of real love? Could men really be bonded by murder, money, and mayhem without anything else like love or truth mixed in and holding it together? When I was in the box, I realized the reason that isolation was torture to them and preferred by me. They were left in the box without memories of true love. What was revolving in their minds? Did they have only memories of the crimes they committed, or fucked-up families and dirty living? When they thought of their women did they only recall arguments, fights, and betrayals? Did only images of their disappointing and disappointed mothers flash through their thoughts? Did they only think of hate? Hatred of their mother’s boyfriends or their disappeared deadbeat dads or hatred for themselves? What would I be like, what condition would I be in, if when boxed for three months, I could only recall the faces of dirty cops and detectives and racist judges and the abuses I had done and the abuses I had suffered?

Revolution
, in my dictionary was defined as “an overthrow; a complete rejection and replacement of a government, or a system of control.” I don’t desire to be a politician or to replace the government of the USA or of Sudan. However, I realized in this situation where I was sleeping with sixty-six confined males who were obviously about taking action, but who were without the tradition or example of faith, respect, love, or discipline, that either I had to overthrow them, or they would naturally try and overthrow me.

*  *  *

Dimension, facilitate, hypothesis, legislate, parameter, pause, psychology, scenario, subordinate, synthesis
; the GED English class vocabulary words were written on the blackboard.

“Gentlemen, open your notebooks,” Teacher Mack said. We did. “I’ll be walking down the line checking to see who took the time to write out the vocabulary word sentences. There will be a mock test next week on all of the vocabulary words I have assigned and you have studied since September. If you are behind, or if you just arrived, or whatever your attendance and circumstance, if you are here next week you will be tested. Ask any classmate for help or for notes. I also have a few copies of the complete list of all of the GED vocabulary words.”

The classroom door opened and Lavidicus entered, escorted by a CO. His face was wrapped. The bandages went around the side of his face, over his hair, and underneath his chin.

“His jaw is broke. He won’t be able to talk, Mr. Mack. So go easy on him,” the CO said with a smirk.

“Luckily his hands are not broken. Long as he can write, he can participate,” Teacher Mack said. “Take your seat.”

All eyes followed Lavidicus to his seat. Imperial and One Punch shot me a look of praise.

“When is the real GED test?” a student asked.

“Two weeks after the mock test, the GED test will be available to those who are ready for it. If you blow the mock test, don’t ask to sit for the GED. The State of New York has to pay for each applicant.”

Teacher Mack pointed to YesYesYall to get the new vocabulary word sentences going for the day. YesYesYall looked around the room dramatically, like he believed he was a film star in a comedy flick.

“Mr. Mack, I’m sorry, man,” he said, then inhaled, waiting to capture everyone’s attention. “It seems like we need to pause and peep the scenario.”

“What?” Mr. Mack asked him.

“It seems my classmate has been punched into another dimension. It’s only my hypothesis, though,” he said, pointing to Lavidicus and bringing the class to laughter. “That’s four vocabulary words:
pause, scenario, dimension,
and
hypothesis
,” YesYesYall explained. “I’ll take my extra credit.”

Lavidicus could not laugh, move his mouth, or even speak.

*  *  *

After mathematics class Lavidicus was not in the lineup for lunch, where he normally would be. I ate my meal in silence as the M3s spoke confidentially about Rory. “He should thank us. I heard they’re gonna hold him in the hospital for three days. We helped him get the fuck out of here. The hospital is like a vacation from this joint.”

“He won’t be back to our area. After his hospital stay he’ll join the ‘pussy club,’ ” Slaughter said.

“You right,” DeSean added, “his snitching ass will switch right into protective custody.”

“Lavidicus got the short end of the deal. No hospital stay for him and he gotta suck his food through a straw, applesauce and peas. Heard he’ll be fucked up for six weeks,” Puerto Rican Paco said.

“He’s a good look for us,” Imperial said. “Every time he shows his face, anybody looking knows to watch his mouth. I don’t know what he said to Black, but whatever it was, he won’t be saying that shit no more.”

“He won’t be saying nothing,” DeSean said. “One of us is gonna have to make that call and calm his psycho-ass moms.”

“That’s you, god,” Mathematics said to DeSean. “You the diplomat.”

*  *  *

“Brother, are you okay?” Teacher Ali asked Lavidicus.

“He can’t answer you,” another student said.

“I see,” Teacher said, and took a long pause to survey Lavidicus’s face. “Deprived of your freedom of speech,” Teacher remarked afterwards. The class responded with complete silence, including Lavidicus, who didn’t shift his head, eyes, or body or react in any way.

“Yesterday, Brother Lavidicus identified one of the roots of revolution for our class. He said the forcing of strangers into homes of civilians was one cause. It may also be called the ‘quartering of soldiers,’ because the British government was forcing colonists to house soldiers in their private homes. From your handout, readings, and thoughts, let’s discuss the additional causes.”

“Plain and simple,” Imperial said. “Them British dudes was tryn’a run the American ’hoods.”

“The American colonies,” Teacher Ali corrected.

“True dat—same thing, though. The British were sending in their troops dominating, shooting and killing. And them British boys had real cannons,” Imperial said.

“The main thing is that the British were fucking up their money. That’s gonna bring war into any territory,” Nino said.

“Give me the details,” Teacher Ali pushed.

“Too much taxes, closing down the seaports so ships couldn’t bring in the product. Shit like dat,” Nino answered.

“Perfect,” Teacher said. “These were referred to as ‘The Intolerable Acts.’ Now, who can define what the word
intolerable
means?”

“It’s like when you so used to shit happening a certain wrong way. You expect the cops to roll through, stop you, search you. That’s everyday bullshit. But when they order you to lay facedown on the pavement, that shit is
intolerable
.”

“Fuck that, when they bussing shots at your back when you are unarmed and standing still, that shit is
intolerable
.”

“Nah, when they shoot your moms or your grandmoms, that shit is
intolerable
. Remember Grandma Eleanor Bumpurs? Two years ago the NYPD hit her up with a twelve-gauge shotgun ’cause she was late paying her rent. When they went with the fake-ass housing authority cops to evict her, Grandma wouldn’t open up her
door. She knew what time it was. NYPD executed her, an old lady. That was my BX ’hood,” the kid from the Bronx said, and I remembered his face from the riot.

“Just to clarify, the NYPD did say that the old lady was crazy and threatening,” Teacher Ali provoked.

The class laughed, a frustrated, angry laughter.

“They say that about all of us,” YesYesYall said. “That don’t give them the right to shoot us, though.”

“C’mon, man, the cops don’t give a fuck about anybody’s rights. What you mean it doesn’t ‘give them the right’? They taking it!” Slaughter said.

“The cops are crazy and threatening. Maybe we should shoot them too,” the kid from the Bronx fired back.

The sound of silence paralyzed the room. Even Teacher Ali didn’t have his usually quick comeback. Then he said, “The circumstances that you brothers are describing right now were the roots of the American Revolution. You must remember, however, that these identical circumstances, happening anywhere on Earth where humans live, are the same causes of revolution.” He looked around the room. There was a force behind his eyes.