If I Grow Up (13 page)

“He's clean,” I told William.

Rance nodded toward the poker table. “Let's get this over with.” He gestured for me to sit on his right and William on his left. Just as he did every week, he unzipped a dark green First National Bank bag and dumped the contents onto the table. Out tumbled neat stacks of bills held with rubber bands. Instantly William and I saw that there was less money on the table than in previous weeks.

Without a word Rance divided the stacks, then leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. William was glowering.

“Why don't you tell me what's buggin' you,” Rance said.

“You know what's buggin' me,” William replied.

“You talking about how the shares work?” Rance said as if we didn't know. “The same as always. Each month one third goes to me. You two split one third, and the last third goes to the rest. Ain't nothin' new about that.”

“Except it seems like you're taking more than one third,” said William. “There's a lot more gwap that comes in than what's on this table right now.”

“That's cause you ain't figured in the administrative costs of running this operation,” Rance said. “There's a lot of expenses you don't see.”

William nodded at the cards and poker chips on the bar. “I think I see one right now.”

Rance narrowed his eyes. “I think you see wrong.”

“I don't think so,” William said. “I think you been losing a lot of our money playin' cards, and my guess is, the cost of that fancy crib of yours also comes out of our share. And I'm saying that from now on, you gotta divide the money up
before
you take out your so-called administrative costs.”

Rance glanced at me, then shook his head slowly. “I don't think that's gonna happen.”

“DeShawn and I think it should,” William replied.

Rance gave me a feigned look of surprise. “Is that so?”

That was my cue. I reached under the chair where the gun was taped, pulled it out, and aimed it at William, whose jaw dropped and eyes bulged. Rance seemed pleased by the result. “See, there are certain things you don't understand, William,” he said. “I worked hard to get where I am. Every gangbanger I started out with is dead or in jail. I'm the only one left. And that means I've earned certain privileges. I'm in charge of this gang. I handle the finances. I decide what the administrative costs are. And…I decide who lives and dies.”

William was trembling. “I…I thought we were blood,” he stammered to me.

Rance laughed harshly. “Blood? That don't mean
nothin'. Where you been, boy? This is about money. It's about who gets what. And too bad for you, it looks like from now on, your share's going to someone else.” He nodded at me. “Do it.”

I slipped off the safety and looked into William's wide eyes. “DeShawn,” he whimpered. “How you gonna face Tanisha?”

“Don't be stupid,” Rance chuckled haughtily. “DeShawn's gonna be second in command of the Gangsta Disciples. He don't have to worry about facing no one. They gonna have to worry about facing him.” He looked at me again. “Now do it, boy. You want it, you gotta earn it.”

Keeping the gun aimed at William, I turned my head and stared at Rance.

“You want an equal share, do it,” he ordered.

I swung my arm around and aimed the gun at him. “You killed LaRue. Father of my sister's babies. Here's how I get my equal share.”

Rance's eyes widened. He reached for his ankle.

I pulled the trigger.
Bang!

Rance fell back and tumbled to the floor with a thud. I got up and stood behind the door as Big D burst in, gun drawn. By the time he saw Rance lying in a pool of blood, the barrel of my gun was pressed against the back of his skull. Big D raised his hands. William took the gun from him.

Antwan and some of the hood rats raced in next
with their guns drawn. I held my gun to Big D's head. “Drop 'em.”

Guns clattered to the floor.

“Rance had an accident,” I said calmly. “William and I are the leaders of this gang from now on. Everyone understand?”

Big D nodded slowly. The others followed his example.

“Whatever he was paying you, we'll pay you more,” I said. “Big D, how's that sound to you?”

“Good,” the big man said.

“You sure?” I asked.

Big D nodded at Rance's body. “Never liked that man. He was as mean and nasty as they come.”

I lowered my gun. “What kind of ride you got, Big D?”

“Well, I ain't actually rollin' right now,” he said.

“How'd you like a Range Rover?” I asked.

“Serious?” Big D gasped.

I pointed at Rance's body. “I think you'll find the keys and registration on him. And take whatever cash is in his wallet and share it with these fellows.”

“Yes, sir,” Big D said. “Thank you, sir.”

“And from now on, if anyone asks who's running this gang?” I said.

“You two,” said Big D.

Recent studies have shown that the huge pool of poorly educated black men is becoming ever more disconnected from mainstream society, especially in the country's inner cities where work is scarcer than ever and prison is routine.

In 1995, 1,585,400 people were in American jails. By 2005 that number had increased to 2,320,359.

Three times more black men live in jail cells than in college dorms.

 

“We all gonna die someday So, die hustlin for yourself Or die hustlin for millions of your people.”—from “Fo Da Money” by Coup

Four months later, a week after I turned eighteen, I was picked up and charged with the murder of Rance Jones. They also got me for racketeering, money laundering, and drug and weapons trafficking. Before I killed him, Rance had made a deal with the cops, and the back room of the club had been wired with video. It was supposed to have shown me killing William. That way Rance would have gotten rid of both of us.

Instead it showed me killing Rance. And thanks to the video, the cops didn't need the testimony of any snitches.

That was ten years ago. Today I sit in a prison cell, where I will almost surely spend the rest of my life. For much of each day, my view of the outside world is through a narrow sliver of window six inches wide and two feet tall. I will never get to play with Simon. I will never feel the softness of Tanisha's skin. I will never eat a steak or good crispy french fries or a milk shake again. Compared to this, living in the Frederick Douglass Project was paradise.

Do I wish I'd listened to Mr. Brand and my other
teachers and done things differently? Darn right, I do. But that's one of the biggest problems impoverished, young black men face in the hood. We don't know who to believe or trust or listen to.

According to statistics, black Americans represent 13 percent of the overall population in this country, but we make up 50 percent of the prison population. Many of the young men who get sent here were in gangs on the outside, and they join them on the inside, because there are gangs in here, too. Just like on the outside, these young men feel they have no choice and are afraid of what will happen to them if they don't join.

Is our situation hopeless? Sometimes it feels that way. But I cling to the idea that there is hope in education. Not necessarily the “education” they're giving inner-city kids in schools today, but an education that relates to their lives; one that helps them understand why their world is the way it is, and what they can do to change it. If kids understood why their parents and older brothers and sisters can't find work, and why so many take drugs and join gangs, then maybe we could begin to educate our way out of poverty and self-destruction.

But I also know that this isn't a problem that's going to be solved overnight. It's going to take generations. It's going to take vast amounts of money. It's going to take a government that is willing to acknowledge the overwhelming failure of this country's inner-city public
schools, and is willing to dedicate a larger part of its energies and resources to rebuilding them.

 

I still hear from some of the folks from my past. Detective Patterson's retired. But he writes me letters now and then, mostly about what his grandchildren are up to. He's also written to the parole board on my behalf. But he says I shouldn't get my hopes up.

I hear from Nia. The twins are almost twelve, and her daughter DeShawna is almost ten. They're all in school, which is good. Nathan's long gone. Gramma still spends most of her days in front of the TV. Lightbulb writes now and then. He still lives with his momma and works as a janitor. Probably will for the rest of his life. Last time he wrote, he said Sechelle had some kids but they were put in foster homes because she was messed up on drugs.

Darius got out of prison and became a recording engineer. He's worked with some semifamous rap stars. Tanisha is a saleswoman in a department store. She's married, but she sends me photos and news about Simon. She's a good woman, and I miss her. Precious is a registered nurse. Ms. Rodriguez is
still
an assistant principal.

So a few made it, but just about every other guy I grew up with is either dead or in prison. You get plenty of time to think in here, and sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I'd been born in a small town or some nice suburb. If I had, how many of my
friends would have been murdered? How many would have wound up in jail?

There's one other person I hear from: