Читать книгу The Roar of an Uncaged Lion - Frederick Howard Jr. - Страница 5

In 1982 at the tender age of eight, I was unleashed upon the streets of Oakland, California, and my mind soaked up all that was around me. My desire to prove myself found a playground not full of friends but tests. Until then I had never had a fight, unless you count the merciless beatings I took from Richie.

My first day outside, a kid named Tommy came up to me and asked, “What’s your name?”

I responded with, “My name is Tootie.” After his next words, which were, “That’s a girl’s name,” I had my first fight.

Due to my courage and heart, the older kids took a liking to me and let me in their circle. So while other kids my age were playing tag and hide-and-go-seek, I was sitting on the porch of the young drug dealers of the neighborhood. Vonne and Isaac were the two young men who protected and supplied me with change to go to the store. These brothers were twins who stood 6’5” and topped the scales at a cool 280 lbs. They terrorized the neighborhood. Both were light-skinned African American young men with golden blondish hair and attitudes that said they didn’t care for no one but each other. One day a man came to the porch mad about something.

Vonne calmly said, “Lower your voice.” Not understanding what was about to happen, I sat and watched.

The man said, “Fuck that!”

As a predator showing no remorse as it viciously attacks its prey, Vonne leapt off the porch and before I could process what was happening, the man was on the ground yelling, “Help!”

That day my fifth and six morals were formed: Never let anyone try to get over on me, and always react with violence.

So when Richie beat me up, I would just wait until we went outside then I would tell Vonne and he would beat Richie up for me. After two or three beatings from Vonne, Richie stopped messing with me and started to be my friend. As children from a poor family we banded together, because when people are born into poverty they learn quickly that making allies is the easiest way to find a hustle. Our hustle came from what most would think was an unlikely source, but my dad led us down the path step by step.

While I was in elementary school, my dad worked at the Mother’s Cookies factory in Oakland, California. Our house during those times was always full of all kinds of cookies. Being a kid, I never questioned why. Until one night my mom woke Richie and me up at about 11:00 PM and said, “Get dressed, I need yawl help.” When it came to my mom and her commands, we learned early not to ever question her—only to obey. Once dressed, we ran to the living room for further instructions. My mom then said, “Go get in the car.” Like good little soldiers we obeyed. After a fifteen-minute drive and a short walk, we arrived at the back door of the Mother’s Cookies factory.

My dad emerged from a side door and motioned to us to come closer. Unaware of what was happening, I followed my mom. Once at the door all was revealed, because I saw boxes of cookies. My dad started to hand them to Richie and me and said, “Run these to the car and come back for the rest.”

It wasn’t until we got home and safe in our room that Richie told me, “Daddy is stealing those cookies, Tootie.” I could not believe it. He who had whipped us countless times for stealing was himself stealing. If I had known the word I would have said, “Hypocrite!” This is where my seventh moral took root: If you wanted something and had the opportunity, then it was okay to take it (or steal it).

As my graduation from elementary school approached, my dad came home one evening and he and my mom headed for their room. Richie and I ran to the back door, because there we had a bird’s-eye view of my parents’ room.

First my mom said, “Fred, what's up?”

Then we heard my dad say, “I got fired.”

I asked Richie, “What does ‘fired’ mean?”

He said, “It means you not getting that new suit or those new shoes for graduation.”

It took the kids four months to really find out what happened, but in such a close living space there’s no such thing as a secret. One day while my mom was on the phone, Kim came running into the room and said, “Mommy’s talking about it on the phone”—“it” being the firing of my dad.

We all jumped up, ran into the kitchen, and sat at the table with the cards. We brought the cards along, because if my mom thought we were eavesdropping, we would've gotten a butt whipping for the ages. When we arrived we heard my mom say, “He was stupid for taking all those cookies.” Then it got silent, so we started dealing the cards for our cover story. Then we heard my mom say, “We ain’t paid rent in two months.”

Shawn got worried and told us, “We about to be evicted again.”

I said, “Again?”

She said, “Never mind, I don’t want to hear no more” and walked to her room.

The day of eviction came like a mighty earthquake that shook not only the family as a whole, but each individual member to the core. I had not been aware during the last three evictions, but I was fully awake for this one. It was just like what I had seen on TV. The police came out to make sure we would leave peacefully; we had to pack up the car with all that we could carry—mostly food, blankets, and some of our clothes—while we watched the rest being slung into the streets. Our life’s material accumulations were gone. I learned my most important values in this experience: Without money you were left to the mercy of others, and to value money above everything else.

The next two years were uncertain times. No one knew where the family would sleep or even if there would be food to eat. Many nights we went to bed with no food and there were times we didn’t sleep. My mom kept our spirits high for the most part, but Shawn and Richie could not be comforted: they missed their friends, schools, and belongings. We stayed in hotels, some were by the week and some were by the month, but we had to leave on the twenty-eighth day. This was done so the managers would not have to go through the eviction process, but they maintained the right to make us leave anytime they wanted us to. This they did often because our family was so big that no manager wanted us in one room, but we could not afford two rooms. My dad’s solution was to send my mom and Kim in to rent the room and then send the rest to the room one by one until we all had made it in. His solution only worked half of the time, but the rest of the time we would have to get out on the spot.

I remember one night we were awakened to a banging on the door, everyone sat up as my dad went to the door then turned and said, “It’s the manager.” My mom jumped up and rushed us into the bathroom.

Through the door of the bathroom, we heard a man say, “I know you have too many people in there. I warned you, now get out!”

My dad and mom yelled back, “Give us our money back and we will leave!” They never gave the money back, but we always had to leave.

That night we were left with nothing but distress. My mom turned and asked my dad, “What now?”

His reply was, “I don’t know.”

As children we looked to our parents, but at that moment I wondered who do they look to? My mom turned to us and asked, “Who wants to go camping?”

Kim and I together yelled out, “I do! I do!”

Richie and Shawn asked the question, “What, we gon sleep in the park?”

It just so happened that across the street from the hotel was a park that had a big play structure. Kim and I cuddled together under one big blanket and looked up at the stars until we fell asleep, but by the attitude of the family no one would have guessed that we were homeless. That was the first night we spent outside. That situation formed my next value: He who has the power controlled the people, and when you gain power show no compassion—and so I coveted power.

The next morning brought with it the problems of where to find shelter and how to feed the kids. All the food we had had spoiled, because it sat out all night. At about 6:00 AM I heard my dad say to my mother, “You take the girls to the Salvation Army to get the voucher and I’ll take Richie and Tootie to get the food.” When the sun came up the family packed up and each squad went their way to carry out their assigned tasks. When my dad told Richie and me that we were going to get food, we would have never guessed his method.

While walking to Safeway, my dad told Richie, “You get the rice and sugar,” and then looked at me and said, “Tootie, you get the Kool-Aid.” Richie needed no further instructions.

He knew what to do, but I looked up to my dad and with the innocence of a child, I said, “Daddy, I need some money.”

He looked back at me with eyes of pity mixed with sadness and regret and said, “Tootie, just put it in your pocket and then hurry up and leave the store.”

As we entered the store, we split up. As I stood in front of the Kool-Aid stand, I remember that I neither felt happy nor sad I was stealing. It was just the thought of what would happen if I didn’t do it that ran through my mind. My eighth and ninth moral came by way of our poverty: To provide for your family no matter what the cost: and never to be afraid to break the law to do it. Looking back, I don’t know how or why they didn’t just give up, but I’m glad they didn’t because through their toil they raised us.

With homelessness came a bonus for us kids: we didn’t have to go to school. This was due to the fact that we never knew where we would be staying from night to night, and we didn’t have all of our clothes or the ability to clean the ones we were wearing. But our time during the day wasn’t idle. The girls followed my mom to different shelters and agencies looking for a place to spend the night or vouchers for hotels. Richie and I spent our time with my dad taking anything that wasn’t nailed down. We took car batteries, scrap metal, potatoes from the Granny Goose factory, and anything else we could sell or eat. We never questioned if what we were doing was wrong, because we all could see our need. It wasn’t talked about to us, but we heard our parents talking and just knew it was either this or we would starve.

I remember one summer day in 1986—I was about twelve years old—and my dad, Richie, and I were out on the hunt but came up dry. So my dad came up with the idea of going by the Granny Goose Factory before we went home. We had never been there before and Richie and I didn’t understand why we were headed that way but kept silent. As we were walking, my dad started to instruct us about what we were to do once we arrived at the factory. He looked at Richie and said, “Richie, you lift up the gate for Tootie.” Then he turned to me and said, “Tootie, you slide under the gate and go pick up the potatoes off the ground and bring them to us.” It seemed simple enough, but what he forgot to explain was that there would be men walking around that I would have to avoid.

Once we got to the gate, all went well just like my dad thought: there were a plethora of potatoes all around. Richie, ever so mindful of remembering and following instructions, did exactly as my dad had commanded and lifted up the gate. I was terrified, unsure, and trembling, but slowly slid under the gate. Now standing on the opposite side of right, I looked back through the gate at Richie and my dad safe from danger on the other side of the gate, and hated I was small. I guess my dad could see the hesitancy in my steps, so he barked through the gate, “Go get them!” That was the push I needed—the thought of disappointing him shook me, and I ran to pick up the potatoes. Here is where my eleventh moral was formed. It was: Stealing was only wrong if you got caught, because that meant you did it wrong.