A Moment of Silence: Midnight III (The Midnight Series Book 3) (56 page)

“The American colonists, whether they were relatives, friends, or complete strangers to one another, were bonded together by their mutual interest, and in their mutual rejection of unreasonably high taxes, of murder, of unfair trials not by a jury of their neighbors or peers, of military force and might and poverty. The colonists were not secure in their livelihood or safe in their own homes. They effectively experienced the withdrawal of their core rights and freedoms,” Teacher summarized, and then began writing one word on the blackboard:
contradiction.

“What were the contradictions in the American Revolution? Let me back up. Who knows the meaning of the word
contradiction
? he asked all of us.

“A lie,” Bobby Ransom called out.

“That’s part of it,” Teacher Ali said. “But not all of it.”

“A hidden lie,” the kid from the Bronx answered.

“Nice,” Teacher said, and then repeated, “A hidden lie.”

“A hidden lie by a liar who presented himself as the truth, but for his own benefit,” I said.

“That’s beautiful, brother, almost perfect! A contradiction is an inconsistency. In plain speech, however, we can summarize it as ‘a hidden lie that doesn’t match up with what a person, a group, or a government said they represented in the first place. In many cases, the contradiction may be the exact opposite of what a person said or pretended to represent or to have been pushing, politicking, and fighting for. We will end our discussion right there,” Teacher Ali said. Then he added, “Your assignment for tonight is to think about this: what was the hidden lie of the American Revolution?”

“I already know it,” Mathematics said calmly.

“Brother, it sounds like you need to say it right now rather than tomorrow,” Teacher pointed out.

“The hidden lie was that all them white devils who were fighting for freedom were supporting slavery over the black man and woman at the same time. Meanwhile, the black man was helping them white devils win
their
freedom, and the first freedom fighter to get shot down was a black man.”

“That’s fireworks!” Teacher Ali said.

I had heard the breakdown of the “white man is the devil” philosophy. The Quran does not say that. I don’t believe that way. True believers in Islam believe that all humans of any race are capable of both good and evil. Every soul is in a struggle to separate itself from niggardliness and evil. And it seemed to me that that war around the world is always about power, money, land, gold, and women.

Teacher Karim Ali pushed Mathematics to make himself clear. “But define the word you are using,
devils.
”

“The British were white devil people. The colonists were white devil people. That’s white-on-white crime right there.” The class laughed. “One set of whites wanted freedom from the other set of whites. So they called themselves freedom fighters. But the
British, who were the dominant whites, wanted to keep profiting from the weaker white colonists while ignoring their complaints and demands and taxing and giving them hell and giving up next to nothing. The contradiction was that the British whites and the white American colonist freedom fighters both believed in, participated in, and profited from the enslavement of the black man and woman in Britain in the American colonies and all around the world,” Mathematics said, summarizing his take on it.

“Outstanding! That definitely was an inconsistency, ‘the hidden lie,’ a disregarded and buried truth. Thus it was definitely one contradiction of the American colonists who dubbed themselves revolutionary freedom fighters. The assignment for tomorrow, then, is to . . .” The class groaned, interrupting Teacher. “The assignment is to write one paragraph and be prepared to discuss it in class tomorrow, answering the question, ‘Are you a revolutionary or a contradiction?’ ”

*  *  *

“Lavidicus?” I called him over. He looked intimidated, lowered his gaze, then began to approach me slowly. “Look a man in his eyes when he’s talking to you. That’s what men do,” I told him. His nervous pupils jumped around before he could straighten them to look at me.

“I apologize, man, for damaging your jaw. I’ll back my apology up with a favor to you. Ask me for one thing. If it’s within my reach, I’ll grant it. If it’s not, you can ask for something else that is. Something equal to the damage I did to you.”

He was fidgeting. “Stop moving,” I told him. “Straighten your two legs and make your stance firm in the ground.” He began adjusting himself. “Breathe—you can’t spend your whole life holding your breath. That’s not what men do.” He inhaled, exhaled, inhaled. “Calmly—be calm, not dramatic.” Then, he began breathing normal. “Take some time and think about my offer. In as few words as possible, write down what favor you want. Hand it to me only in
Teacher Ali’s class whenever you’re clear. Understand?” He nodded painfully.

“Last thing,” I said. “Mention my mother one more time anywhere, any place, any time to anybody, no matter who it is, even if it’s only one word, one sentence, or even a compliment, I’ll kill you.”

*  *  *

Talking while locked up, the she-officer had already put me up on that. She said that the authorities would send you an inmate who is tagged an informant to them, and known as snitch to any prisoner. Their informant is a locked-up inmate, same as you, so your guard is down. He may tell you something about himself, then ask you something about yourself, your case, or some previous incident that occurred that you may or may not know anything about. “In casual conversation, you will say something that might result in new charges being added on to the ones you already have. In one word, or one sentence out of your own mouth to another inmate, you may be shocked when he suddenly appears testifying against you at your trial or could simply, with the information he gathered and you told him, be guaranteeing your own conviction.” I thought it was hard to believe, doing an extra five, ten, fifteen years because of a conversation. But I thought about how even in my case, the number-one thing the detectives and prosecutor did not have was evidence and eyewitness testimony. I believed that they would easily plant someone beside me to collect information that they were incapable of gathering on me on their own and that I was never ever going to hand them.

Informants oftentimes are inmates who have a pending case. Since they face conviction, and as their trial date draws near, their fears stretch out and explode in them. They would trade another inmate’s freedom to secure their own, even if they have to do dirty deeds, lie and invent details, or simply tell something that had been said, agreed to casually, or confided.

More than the murder I committed, any information that
connected me to my Umma was what I intended to squash, avoid, eliminate. That reasoning led to my impulse to crash my fist into Lavidicus’s face. I needed him and anybody else to know not to get casual or sloppy with me. Don’t mention my mother or my women, or ask me any personal questions. Not one of these cats is a friend to me.

I’m not a man who makes threats. I execute. Whatever the truth is in my soul, heart, or mind, I take action over words. In my young life, I have never told any man, “If you do this or that, I’ll kill you.” However, the circumstances of this situation were different. I wasn’t sorry that I silenced Lavidicus. I thought the hit he took would cause him to never mention Umma again. And in the extremely slim chance that he slipped up, to me that would mean that he was either stupid, or he was being used to gather or confirm information on me or my family. I meant what I said when I told him the consequences of that. So why did I apologize for smashing his face? Why did I agree to grant him a favor, especially not knowing his mind or what he would ask for?

I had to. In order to live with myself, to define myself, I had to apologize to Lavidicus. When I saw the M3s grouping me up with themselves and praising me for a deed well done, I knew I had done something that I wanted to do, but something that was wrong. I knew also that just admitting it to myself was cowardly. I could not accept myself as a coward. I hate that. I needed to apologize to him face-to-face, and I needed to back that apology up with something that I was willing to sacrifice, as a form of repayment for what I had done.

How did I decide that I had done wrong? Like in a math problem or an equation where we must show our work, our thinking through numbers, calculations, and answers and conclusions, I had to do the math of life. First, Lavidicus is a victim. The word
victim
has about three definitions. A victim is a person who suffers because of a destructive action. A victim is a person who is deceived or cheated by his own emotions or ignorance or by the dishonesty
of others. A victim is also an animal served up as a sacrifice. Lavidicus was all three.

Lavidicus’s mother had a legit job where she earned; I knew this because I used to see her wearing her work uniform. But she also carried herself like a whore. This caused her to participate in disrespectful arrangements and relationships with men. This meant that Lavidicus had been raised in the presence of men who didn’t love or respect her, who also fought and beat her and consequently didn’t love or respect him. He loved his mother. However, he was so young when the parade of her disrespectful boyfriends began, that he couldn’t protect her or respect her from early on. I figured it must burn a continuous fire in his chest to love a mother he couldn’t or didn’t respect.

I used to see him around our Brooklyn block, looking embarrassed, vulnerable, and weak. For a few years I didn’t see him at all. When I encountered him again here at Rikers, and he was grown and had the male physique, I did not know the details of what had happened to him. After I hit him was when DeSean told me that DeQuan caught Lavidicus on the back stairwell with Lance’s dick in his mouth. Lance, the same trash who I murdered. As a man, I couldn’t envision or fathom or accept or even imagine that. Only thing I knew was that Lance was at least three or four years older than Lavidicus. Still, Lavidicus was old enough at that time, eleven or twelve, to know better, to fight back and to retaliate. I can only assume that what Lance did to him was forced. Who would do that voluntarily? What I did know for certain was that Lance was a predator.

A predator is defined as someone or something that preys on others. The nastiest of all human predators use the nastiest tactics and prey on the weakest and most helpless among others. I know the laws of the jungle. I know every beast and every man has to eat. But I also know that there is a difference between men eating to live and men who have a perverse thirst to destroy and conquer and a love to kill. I have never been a predator. In my faith it is wrong to
kill for sport, to satisfy a perverse desire or insatiable ego, or a heavy pride. However, in Islam we do have the right to defend our lives and loved ones from oppression and mischief and evildoers. Defense sometimes results in murder. I believe in that, solidly.

Yet, I had a need to define and distinguish and separate myself from any and all predators in my mind and in the mind of others, even though I already knew that only Allah is the judge and that Allah is the Best Knower. Once I saw Lavidicus all bandaged up, for a slight second, I felt like a predator. And even a slight second is too long for me to carry that feeling, especially when I am striving to be true.

I hit Lavidicus before I knew his mother was being used as a mule. Before I found out that Lavidicus did not know that she comes up here to see other men on visitations, not only him, her son. Before I knew that she delivered contraband, to prisoners. Before I knew he was an animal being sacrificed, a young man being cheated, a deceived victim. Once I knew, and once I saw the result of my hit, which added to his suffering, I felt guilty, wrong, and responsible. There was nothing left except for me to take responsibility for my part in that.

After all of that, why did I still say that I would kill him if he mentioned Umma in any way ever again? Because I would. Even if it was wrong, to protect Umma I would carry the burden, even the burden against my own soul. I also believed that I had done,
Insha’Allah
, enough good deeds and strivings in this life that Allah, the Most Compassionate, would forgive me for this immense love for my mother that caused me to protect her fervently.

Furthermore, since I apologized, I needed him and any onlookers to not see my apology as a weakness or an opportunity. I know these guys have no faith, no culture, no worthy traditions, and fuck it, no fathers. Therefore I knew that the streets, and these youth and many men, see and saw both prayers and apologies as soft.

In Islam, we have “tajweed,” a requirement to strive to a level
close to perfection. We have a consideration, a responsibility to think and rethink, to evaluate and weigh and make honest and careful decisions. We have a responsibility to pursue the truth, live the truth, be the truth, yet we know that we can never be perfect. We have a responsibility to remind and warn others. However, when we fall short we must seek atonement. Atonement is more than apologizing or feeling sad or sorry about a doubtful or wrong choice. Atonement involves reparation or a repayment to the victim of your wrongful choice, and in the case of death, to the victim’s family. A spiritual atonement can be in the performance of a fast or sacrifice or several deeds of charity. In addition to that, a spiritual atonement involves a sincerity expressed from the soul of the wrongdoer to Allah. That sincerity is word and deed combined.

The favor I extended to Lavidicus was a portion of my repayment to him and of my striving for atonement.

*  *  *

Two words were written on the paper that Lavidicus dropped on my desk in Teacher Karim Ali’s class the following day: “Teach me.”

In the yard I called him over, knowing that he wouldn’t approach my territory anymore unless I gave him permission.

“One for yes, two for no,” I told him, at the same time holding up one, then two fingers to demonstrate.

“Do you believe in God?” I asked him. There was a pause. He didn’t raise one or two fingers. Instead he started fidgeting again. “Stop moving. Stand still,” I said calmly. He stopped rocking. I knew he had something to say but couldn’t. “Do you pray?” He raised two fingers for no. I looked at him. The math in my mind was being sorted. A Muslim prays five times a day. If I have been praying five times a day since I was five years young, I had made almost twenty thousand prayers to Allah, and this guy, based on his answer, had made none. For me it meant that this guy was without spiritual protection other than the grace of Allah, because Allah does as He pleases. But seeing Lavidicus’s condition, he had
suffered a lot from his own unawareness. Subtract twenty thousand prayers and minus ten Ramadans, and minus one good father, as an example of a man.
Damn.