by Nephew
We give second chances in hopes that one would get it together. That piece of humanity within us seeks to pull it out of others. With tough love that shouts louder than for those whose team is losing, we yell:
“God, if you give me a second chance I promise I won’t do it no more!” And if not yelled, then whispered to yourself… For a second I ask that you imagine, using your imagination will take you there and beyond.
The youngest of eight boys, no father figure, so I mimicked everything that I found to be of influence. With innocent and impressionable eyes that capture other people and talk slicker than the bottom of one’s shoes. I became a people person. Never did I see race or gender as a means to not connect. Yet ten people in a two-bedroom apartment with the phone bill in my sister’s name was home.
So I would walk outside and be influenced by dealers whose autobiography appeared as if they don’t eat Doritos, Red Hot Burritos and Sprite. It was then that my appetite to live better increased. At thirteen years of age, I gravitated towards the streets. I’d be present at school, but not all classes. I could remember the names of the players in the game before I could remember thirty classmates names in an unsuccessful game led by the teacher. I soon became an ad-lib to education and replaced schooling with street smarts.
“To rob myself of a childhood in an attempt to grow up faster,” just reflecting because I’m at an age now that is right before those who scream: “If they knew what they know now, back then…”. Present me says: “I know,” but let me finish and go back then.
At fourteen years of age, I moved out and shared rent with a woman claiming to love me. My mom disapproved of the bond only because she was older than my mom, while those in the fast life and peers gave praise and approval. I’d be driving past my generation, bus stop waiting, with a pager on the visor for clientele, that keep getting unnoticed due to loud music and feel like I’m riding first class. Didn’t know around the corner, as I parallel parked and got out that I’d be face to face with a familiar face.
Sitting on the hood of candy apple red ‘67 Mustang was a homeboy who shouted “he cool” which was street slang for letting me know that it was okay to conduct business with the face in front of my face. This occurred at the time when Governor Jerry Brown was the Mayor of Oakland. I was just seeking a shortcut and wanted the life of Pablo Escobar. I didn’t know the Major was assisting the Oakland Police Department in a drug ring operation.
When it dawned on me, my heart rate increased louder than hands with callouses that beat with a rhythm on a Congo. It’s too late! I had already given the Major, the “he cool” guy, whose face is in front of my face, a controlled substance. Anger filled my heart towards my home boy for bad advice. Next I was detained, sober and more faith than Creflo Dollar, in a juvenile hall cell by my lonesome on both knees with my hands clasped together. The streets adopted my mom and siblings so there was no guardian to visit or pick me up.
I was taught a man isn’t supposed to cry! It doesn’t define masculinity. So I allowed one tear to escape and with glossy teenage impressionable eyes that capture other lenses, I prayed:
“God, if you give me a second chance, I promise I won’t do it anymore.”
“Bam, bam, bam,” interrupted by a loud knock at the cell door that many urban people associate this particular knock with being the police.
I hopped up off my knees as if I knew karate, dried my face, and replaced it with a tough looking mask and yelled “What?!”.
A voice much deeper than mine with more authority sarcastically said, “You can come out, but only to participate in The Beat Within Workshop.”
“That’s one hour and thirty minutes that I can stretch, breath, get out of the cell, interact with other teens, trade books and magazines,’ I thought to myself. So I humbled myself and respectfully responded by saying, “Let me out, I appreciate it!”
As the staff was unlocking the door, I whispered in the air, while looking up as if God and I were making eye contact, that I’ll be back. Once a week, every week for six months, I’d attend meetings, writings held by The Beat Within. The Beat Within became the family that visited me and gave recognition to my voice and talent. With music being my first love, until The Beat, I had no other outlet. Before I wrote my own music, I’d memorize songs of other inspiring artists which taught me how to creatively articulate myself.
Five and a half months later, with homesickness and resentment, I finally returned to the prayer. “God, I’m gonna make mistakes. I’m far from perfect. Life ain’t easy, but know I’m trying. I can’t tell you a bunch of excuses but I’m not. To be honest, I need your help. If you get me out of this jail, I’m going try to fly right. I need your help. Please, give me a second chance.”
Just as I was getting up off my sore, red, numb knees, that loud, aggressive, authority like knock pounded the cell door. “Boom, boom, boom”.
“What you want?” I yelled loud enough to be heard by teen neighbors so they would look towards the front of their cells to witness my rebelliousness.
“Tomorrow morning your aunt is picking you up so have your bed rolled, clothes packed, and things borrowed returned,” replied the voice again that was much deeper than mine.
Just then, my true age showed, and a smile grew where a tough mask once was. Joy replaced resentment. No letters, no visits, and all was forgiven.
Loud Marine boots echoed down the hall as the staff left. I tried to sleep, but couldn’t so I just laid there on my back, both hands clasped behind my head, mumbling to God with faith and thanking Him for that first second chance.