The Pen-v-The Sword

I come to those of you in life’s struggle, those within ‘the life’ and those who choose to fall prey to the agendas of the ‘streets’. I feel a need to share with all of you chapters within my life that I have shared with men judged within the judicial realms of society. I want to share with you history, knowledge, wisdom and characteristics… the elements of which I refer to as ‘psychological foreplay’ for the conditioning of social and judicial hostages within our civilization. 

“The pen is mightier than the sword.” My perception and insights to this quote follow. ‘The sword is only a tool of power to the man who holds it. The empowerment of the tool can only be implemented as long as the individual has the strength to wield it.’ The old phrase, “A man who lives by the sword, dies by the sword,” is soundly noted and appreciated. Within the history of the world we have had men who have been called ‘great conquerors’, they lived, ruled and many times as not, died by the sword 

The pen on the other hand, has forged Nations, has given us the ‘knowledge and wisdom’ to survive life and time as a civilization. It has brought the ‘whole of the people’ within the history of the world the ‘answers’ and ‘strength’ to survive life’s struggles, trials and tribulations. 

Mankind since the creation of our presence here on earth, has always had an inbred necessity to be challenged. Those who were physically or mentally depraved, often perished or failed in life, unless another member of society took up the challenge to be responsible for the survival of said person. 

Life today is chaotic and some what crazy, almost pathetic for those of us who love and respect life for both its weaknesses and strengths. Life is like a pyramid. Today those in life’s capstone are on a constant diligent search for what those in the base possess within their character. Those within the base of life are insistently in pursuit of what those in the capstone have in their closets. 

For those within the base of the pyramid, the impoverished, disenfranchised, oppressed and suppressed , our purpose within life has been revealed to us many times over since the beginning of time. We are the strength which supports eternal life here on earth. Our strength has often been suppressed and oppressed through mental conditioning, instilling inferior complexities that deter and hinder our advancement within life’s pyramid. Those within the capstone are forced to reign more and more by the Sword, lacking the character which they seek in the base. They continually embrace materialism. 

The greatest power that we possess as a ‘whole’ in the base is within our character. While the power that those in the capstone cherish is in their closets. I give to you the following analogy: In the great stock crash of 29 and the ‘Great Depression’, the following should be taken within the wisdom of all. Those within life’s capstone, who saw their lives come tumbling down around them that day, it was too much for them to bare within their character. Many jumped from buildings, out windows or pulled a trigger. You didn’t see that being done within the base of life. We ate less, stood in soup lines, slept outside…for those from the south who felt that the men to the North had freed them and became servants in their homes. I want it known that many men and women of color, not only took reductions in pay because they knew their employer didn’t have the strength to survive alone. But often, they lived right in the house and took no pay whatsoever. They had compassion for the man with little strength and displayed more humanitarian efforts and traits than those within the capstone themselves. That’s right, if it was not for the strength within our character, our compassion and passion for life itself, there would be no capstone. Such events as these have occurred throughout the history of mankind. I have noted it as far back as Roman times. 

The greatest power that we in the base possess that those within the capstone seek and envy is within our character and its traits. We have an inbred ability and talent to change and adapt, to bob and weave. Note taken, you may take a man from the base, a self-righteous, meek and humble individual and place him within life’s capstone and he will prevail. But if you take an individual within life’s capstone and place him within the base with his closets empty, he will perish unless individuals within the base pick up the challenge and help him to survive. There were not people within the base taking their lives in 1929, there were not individuals within life’s base taking their lives when Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomattox . But there were individuals within the capstone who succumbed to the weaknesses within their character. 

With this knowledge and wisdom within life’s capstone of the strength within the base of life’s pyramid, there has always been suppression and oppression within surviving life. There has always been slavery. This has been accomplished by restricting the flow and distribution of knowledge and wisdom for those in the base. Our options for a higher education and advancement lack not only diversity, but the level of quality. The need of those who wield the sword and seek a lifetime for our character, to suppress and oppress the mental frame work of those in the base. 

Throughout the history of past and present civilizations, there has always been some form of slavery and imprisonment. I don’t believe it has ever been about color, race or creed, but more so, ignorance and weaknesses possessed by those in the capstone. To further the depth of this insight and revelation, I will reveal a fact of our own slavery here in the United States . During the days of slavery throughout our budding Nation. Those who possessed slaves had no conception of the strengths within their characters in the base. They whipped, abused, starved, isolated, raped and preyed upon the mentality of slaves. They sold off their seeds from the loins of their women. They sold off the men within families thinking that they would weaken the nucleus of the Black family. Despite all of these Swords that the slaves suffered from within life, every day when they went to the fields, the smoke houses, the main plantation houses, they all did one thing. They sang their praises to life. This irritated those who possessed them to no end, not comprehending why individuals praised life, when if the shoe was on the other foot, they themselves would not be singing praise or surviving. No matter what type of Sword they created, they could not break their spirit and will. 

With this knowledge and wisdom in hand, let us apply it to the ‘life’ and ‘struggle’ today. For those of you who have sought me out in search of knowledge in the stages within the ‘life’ that are often referred to as ‘top dogs’ and OG’s, pay close attention. If your ass is numbing out, let me know and I will sink my teeth a little deeper. 

Those within life’s base not only ‘struggle’ to survive the Swords which are wielded today, but we have compounded our burdens by restricting our options and advancement in life. Those of us in life’s base, have become our own worst enemy. 

We assist the Swords in draining our characters and resources for advancement. We went from communities and neighborhoods to just ‘hoods’. This was accomplished by the elite and those within the capstone by the erection of projects and slums. My definition of projects and slums follow. “It is modern man’s concentration camp, developed to suppress and detain a certain class of impoverished and disenfranchised citizens, to deter and dishearten their ‘spirit and will’ to advance within life’s pyramid.” 

Certain individuals within these environments and developments, envious of what the elite and those in the capstone had hanging in their closets, decided to pick up the Sword and embrace its false strength. We began to limit our options and advancement by placing judgments and boundaries on others within our base. We boxed ourselves in life even further by creating boundaries, ‘hoods’ and ‘turf’. We picked up the Swords for those within the capstone to rid ourselves of our strength, to prey on and further delete the resources within the base. 

Every time another life within the base is taken, we lose 2 grains of sand from our strength and within our investment for the future. We lose one grain by the taking of blood. We lose the other through imprisonment within the walls of time. Thus weakening the character within even the ‘hood’. Everyday across this country, grains of sand leave the base, like the sand which runs through an hour glass. 

When our mentality shifted to installing boundaries, the strength within our character began to diminish. Weakening the elements which give our character strength. The elements of Roots, Heritage, Wisdom, Compassion and Passion for life itself. When those within the capstone recognized this shift and character trait, they further capitalized on it, by removing the self-implemented Swords from our ‘hoods’ and isolating the ‘Pen’. 

The greatest advancement and victory seized within the base of the pyramid is well noted with the Civil Rights and Human Rights victories of the 60’s and early 70’s. These victories were not accomplished by the Sword, but by peaceful movement and the Pen. Seeing that the base had captured the Power of the Pen, they removed some of our greatest leaders and mentors within the base. Over the history of our time the greatness of individuals like Medgar Evans, Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, Larry Hoover and others were not only isolated, but removed from life. All of these men understood, that one of the ‘Golden Keys’ to the ‘Temple of Life’ was in the peaceful demonstration of the Pen and within singing the praises of life itself. Today, many have tried to advance life by the ‘false’ portrait of power displayed by the Sword and have failed. Their efforts resulting in death, destruction, imprisonment and the advanced weakening of life’s base. 

There is a difference between a bad leader amongst the base and a good leader within the base, both distributing the advancement of life by the Sword. One may feel that the Power of the Sword maybe their only option for relief from the ‘struggle’. The other may see the Sword as an effective tool in advancing his own self-serving agenda of capturing what the elite hold within their closets. When the Sword is used to seek relief, it sends a negative portrait of weak desperation. Thus I give to you the organizations of terrorists and ‘freedom cells’ which distribute acts of violence to portray their struggles. In the end, the social realms only perceive destruction and annihilation, not the journey or the portraits of pain and misery which led them to pick up the Sword in the first place. 

You can often tell the difference between the two classifications of Sword baring men. One will be righteous in his judgments and decisions, ruling not only with ‘knowledge and wisdom’ but compassion as well. The other will rule by the ‘Sword’ only, with little wisdom and seldom with the exertion of compassion or empathy. A man who wields a sword for the whole of his people or those under his care, to seek peace and advancement, will be a man with a legacy in the history books. But a man who wields the Sword with little thought or consideration for those within his realms or under his care, on a self-serving agenda, will fall when his arms get to heavy to swing the sword himself. He lives by the motto, “It’s a dog eat dog world”, thus displaying no respect for those within the base or life itself. 

When a leader directs his cause by the ‘Pen’ his intellect and understanding of life and man will prevail. His strengths of ‘knowledge and wisdom’ will be victorious and leave a legacy for generations to come. He will recognize the weaknesses within those who follow. If he has an individual with treachery and larceny in his heart, the Sword will not touch him. He will not let the individual get any bigger within ‘the life’ itself, he will not allow him to eat from his dish, but have the wisdom to know that the individual can still bring sustenance to his well of knowledge and put water in his dish. On the other hand, The Sword, will rid himself of the individual, displaying the ‘fear’ factor as a message to others, begin his search for another to take his place and rule by the Sword to put water in his dish. 

The differences between these two are further detected by their displays of mentality. While one thinks of himself and ‘living for the moment and today’. the other thinks of living for tomorrow and how many from the base will see the sun rise on the horizon. A ‘top dog’ who does not think of our ‘Seeds for Tomorrow’ the youth, the future which will entertain the ‘strength of our character’ in the base, is on a self-serving agenda. He will not care if those who put food in his dish, eat themselves or not. 

A man who rules out of ‘fear’ and wields the Sword lacks the ‘character’ which gives strength to the base. He is often insecure due to his lack of ‘knowledge and wisdom’. He is often paranoidal to the effect that he believes that everyone who follows in his foot steps, are after what he also seeks and has in his ‘closet’. His greatest tool to advance his agenda are the tools of ‘fear’ and ‘The Sword’. He often asks others to do the deeds which he himself does not have the strength to carry out or stomach. He uses portraits and vices of negativity to condition and lure his followers or subjects. His subjects not realizing they drain their own strength to fuel their leaders ego and shortcomings, are soon discarded when they also lose strength and the stomach to carry out horrendous acts against humanity and heinous crimes. 

The ‘Pen’ on the other hand will look for peaceful tools and options which will further advance the growth of his subjects. He will have compassion and empathy for his fellow man. He will make sure that those within his ‘hood’ also have food on their plates. He will enlighten those within his realms in regards to the vices, weaknesses and false portraits, so they do not fall or succumb to elements which will drain their individual strengths. For when individuals within his community are weak and disheartened, the ’whole’ withers and dies, losing the elements and traits which make our survival possible as we ’struggle’ to advance life. Thus draining his own strength and blessings bestowed upon him by life itself for tending to the preservation of those within the base and life. 

Men have always had judgments passed upon them in regards to self worth, materialism, friends, family and spouse. In choosing a spouse, sometimes referred to as ‘your better half’, or ‘within’ the life as “your best line of security‘, the mate is often chosen as a reflection of the man’s self worth in character. 

Always remember that your mate should be just as strong or stronger than your own character. For they are not only ‘your best line of security’, but also referred to as your ‘weakest link.’ Often an individual who rules by ‘fear’ and ‘wields the sword’, will choose a mate with greater weaknesses than his own. Relying on that absence of strength to protect his own agenda and make his mate totally dependent on his character and position. Not realizing that a mate who was just as strong, would further advance his agenda and enhance his own strength. 

An individual who rules by the ‘Pen’ however, searches for someone with strength akin to their own or more so. They recognize the strength and power within their unity and advance life through mutual co-operation and respect. Men who rule with fear and by the Sword, are not above violence on their own and mates. Men who rule by the ‘Pen’ realize, if they have to abuse the ones they love, then they don’t need them! 

Over the years, I have come to the conclusion, that those in the base have more than their share of life’s trials and tribulations visit them. It is due to the strength which they possess within their character. We embrace the challenges, survive, exist and live to dream of peace, an oasis for a civilization. In meeting the challenge, we expound our strengths and self character. We cherish and respect life, all its blessings and failings, beauty and ugliness. 

The Sword-v-The Pen…which has the greatest strength? The Sword who does not have the strength to survive a challenge and therefore slays it. Or the Pen, who accepts and embraces the challenge, uses their own intellect and strength in character to successfully overcome life’s challenge? 

You decide where your character will take you, whether you will survive long enough to endure life and its challenges, to write your own legacy for the generations to come. The ‘old folks’ have a saying, “You made your bed, now you lie in it!” In this case, it’s between a bed and a coffin…feathers or silk? Legacies…or empty photo albums, b-days, your children’s first steps, prom, marriage, or your seeds giving the gift of life? 

Are we not all share croppers in life….we get out of life, what we invest in it. We harvest, what we have chosen to sow….. 


I leave you as I came, with a great deal of love and respect for life….. 

Lady Gray

"Profiling Political Thuggism"..Lady Gray

Hmmmm.....Lady Gray here.  Well, I have tried to spread knowledge and the mentality of those on the hill.  Nothing that the social masses hasn't known for some time, just things they often put on the back burners though to simmer and forget about until the pot is ready to boileth over. Let the shit hit the fan!  I've discussed this phrase over the years with some of the men incarcerated, a phrase of darkness often used with judicial proportions and ramifications. I never worry about shit hitting the fan myself, it really doesn't spread very far, of course that depends on the size of the fan and wind velocity.  What I worry about more is shit on the street...everyone walks in it and it travels far, much harder to clean up....from a social and political view, ha ask the boys on the hill about that one. Top dogs within street orgz are no different than the men we have on ladders in the political realms of the government structure....in other words if the "thug" shoe fits then wear it. Always remember that a man who rules with fear and without compassion will have a short tenure and destructive legacy.  They often sit and lay with cronies of the same mentality on their porches.  The problem is they use puppies to do their bidding, underlings who have them under their thumbs and rely on them for survival.  But when puppies get scared they start to whine and yelp, if they do it long and loud enough sooner or later someones going to hear them. In regards to dissension....this isn't an issue about races, not if one uses logic and wisdom, it's about the elements of survival. It's about the impoverished, the disenfranchised, the down trodden and the disheartened.  It's about the will within an individual to write his own legacy over time, to change, to excel, to move life in a positive and productive direction to leave something standing for tomorrow. We were once the number one industrial nation in the world, we're now ranked number five...our monetary system was once one of the strongest in the world, now we have all we can do just to dog paddle and keep our heads above our brothers to the south and I'm not talking about the Bushies in TX either.  This is about the masses struggling now to merely exist, remembering what it was like to live and having the wisdom to know the difference between the two.  The problem is our numbers are swelling and now we want to be counted and heard by the chosen few who live. In regards to dissension and aggressive positivity through demonstration, I want everyone to remember the PLO, IRA, etc. knowledge of one's plight is often over looked by the social masses when there is violence, they often only see portraits of destruction and not the pain or strife that painted them.  Thus my staunch beliefs in strength in numbers and collective wisdom and knowledge to excel life in positive growth and development. I only ask people to remember that a dog or thug who rules in fear, often casts a shadow that he himself can no longer outrun or live with. When that happens you have a scared and dangerous animal on your hands, one whose often lonely and becomes isolated....you can always tell he's an element in the social structure of life that's ready to go down because you can see him biting and chewing on his own ass........ Two negatives don't make a positive, and when a dog gets too many fleas he can't enjoy life because he's too busy scratching!!!! I leave as I came with a great deal of love and respect for life. Lady Gray/bossladyjmc

Life in Detroit's Tenth Precinct..1969

Life in Detroit’s tenth precinct

I was awakened by the sound of sirens and ambulances passing by my bedroom window just before noon on this warm sunny July afternoon in 1969. This was nothing unusual, except the fact that I anticipated the rushing sounds to diminish as the caravan pushed further away, unfortunately, it didn’t. Rising, I looked out my bedroom window and saw several neighbors rushing up Linwood Avenue on Detroit’s Northwest side. Without brushing my teeth or washing up, I grabbed my pants, tee-shirt and gym shoes, jumped out my bedroom window and ran towards the crowd that had slowly amassed on the corner of Linwood and Whitney Avenue. Breezing through the crowd, I saw several Detroit Police Officers standing around a 1965 red Cadillac with handkerchiefs over their faces. Several other Police Officers about twenty-five feet away were ordering people in the area to disburse. The red Cadillac was hitched to the back of a Police tow truck. From the center of the crowd, people were yelling:

“F..k you pig, you disburse.”

As I eased closer to the scene, I caught scent of one of the most foulest odors you could ever imagine smelling. The people next to me had already got a scent of the pungent odor because many of them had their shirts and blouses wrapped around their faces. Caught off guard by this smell, it slowly seeped through to my nostrils until it reached my stomach, when it did, I began to throw up the remains of the hamburger and French fries I had eaten hours earlier. Falling to the ground, I rolled over holding my stomach for the next impact of the violent eruptions the smell had caused. For reasons beyond my understanding, it never came. As I slowly backed up, several bystanders still covering their mouth’s were laughing at me and pointing to the food on the ground that I had just regurgitated. I then heard a loud chilling scream from the front of the crowd. Standing only 5”1” at the time and unable to get a clear picture of what was happening, I pushed my way towards several cars parked less than 20 yards away and stood on top of an old Buick. 

Finally having a birds eye view of the entire area, I saw several women trying to restrain Mrs. Meadows whom stayed just three houses from where my parents lived. Bucking and kicking like a wild horse, Mrs. Meadows broke loose from the three women, pushed past two police officers and grabbed the sheet from the gurney that two ambulance attendants were escorting exposing several pieces of a human corpse. At the top front end of the gurney was the head of a young black man. A man whom we later discovered, was to be the head of Mrs. Meadows youngest son Will.

Grabbing the head of her dead son off the gurney, I watched in horror as she took flight through the crowd screaming, “murderers….murderers” while waving her sons head in front of several Detroit Police Officers. Out of panic and fear, people standing around scattered away as she stood in the middle of the street screaming and waving her dead son’s head high above her own. I was devastated at the sight of seeing this human head unattached from its body. Will’s long black hair appeared to be knotted up with scabs of his own blood. Both of his eyes seemed to have been punctured out, leaving two black holes in the front of his skull and the stringy dark brown flesh hanging from his neck looked like black thin slices of raw liver. Directly to my right, I noticed several women falling to the ground on their hands and knees praying and moaning in unison. For several seconds, violence took over, and you could feel her chilling screams crawling all over your body leaving you momentarily breathless. I didn’t know whether to run or stop. Some unseen force would not allow my eyes to escape the sight before me.

Two Police Officers attempted to approach her with their guns drawn ordering her to get on the ground. Mrs. Meadows appeared to be in somewhat of a trance, oblivious to the two armed white men standing in front of her with their guns pointing directly at her head. Spinning around in circles with the head of her dead son firmly in her hand, she continued to scream and scream while waving her son’s head in the air. Moments later, several more squad cars of Police arrived. In the third squad car that pulled up, out stepped the most notorious, brutal and racist Police Officer in our neighborhood, Sgt. Rincek.

As more and more people began to gather, the Police attempted to place a barrier between Mrs. Meadows and the crowd y positioning their squad cars between here and the ensuing crowd. Although there was a commanding officer on the scene, Sgt. Rincek immediately took control by ordering three officers to take Mrs. Meadows down. In a flash, three officers rushed towards her, slammed her down to the ground, smashed her head into the pavement and handcuffed her. One of the ambulance attendants wrapped the severed head of her son in a sheet and took off in his ambulance. All of a sudden, somewhere from the back of the crowd, a bystander hurled an empty beer bottle into the street striking one of the officers on the back of the neck. When the officer fell, one of his partners grabbed him and began pulling him over to one of the empty squad cars positioned just ten yards from where I was standing on top of this old Buick. I could see the red blood oozing from a gash on his neck. Gathering that he had been cut, the officer, in a fit of rage pulled out his revolver and began shooting wildly into the air yelling, “clear the fucking streets right now!” Hearing the shots and not knowing exactly where the bullets were flying, people in the crowd began running in all different directions, some falling, while others attempting to evade a possible gun shot wound stepping on them and over them. Those whom were near several other buildings in the area, hid behind them, others ducked behind parked cars and took shelter under them. Laying in the middle of Linwood Avenue was Mrs. Meadows, still handcuffed and bleeding from the head.

Having now partially cleared the area, Sgt. Rincek ordered the three officers to place her in a squad car. Rather than pick her up and carry this 52 year old woman, they dragged her by her arms on the rocky pavement which tore most of her dress off her back. Despite being dragged, she continued to scream until one of them pulled out a six inch flashlight and smashed it dead center into her head silencing her. From a distance, people began yelling,” leave her alone, leave her alone.” Then I heard the crackling of bottles everywhere, then rocks and anything else they could find available to hurdle at the officers. Sensing that the crowd was growing enormously large, Sgt. Rincek ordered his officers to clear the area immediately.

 Like scampering cats, they all ran to their squad cars rolling up the windows to escape the fury and anger of the crowd. The first officers escaped virtually unharmed, but the last three remaining vehicles were bashed with bricks, bottles and stones. One of the police officers caught a brick head on through his vehicle’s windshield, causing him to crash into a parked car just a quarter of a mile away from where Mrs. Meadows was beaten and dragged away. Running to the crash site in groves, the crowd bombarded the squad car with bricks, rocks and bottles until every window in the vehicle looked as if it had been in a six car pile up. Seconds later, one of the other squad cars that escaped in the first caravan returned. Hanging outside the passenger window like a gunman riding a horse firing at a posse in hot pursuit of him, Sgt. Rincek was firing his pistol into the crowd. Running away in all directions, the people in the crowd disappeared into the alleys and run ways in the area. Sgt. Rincek retrieved the two injured officers whom fell prey to the mercy of the violent crowd.

Peering through a small hedge of bushes across the street from the crash, I noticed both officers were bleeding profusely as Sgt. Rincek ordered them to grab their gear and get inside his squad car while the other officer stood guard watching the area with a 12 gauge shotgun. Abandoning their squad car and heading north up Linwood Avenue, everyone knew where they were headed…The infamous Detroit Police Tenth Precinct.

Still pumped with adrenaline and seeking revenge for the treatment of Mrs. Meadows with nothing else to do, the crowd demolished the squad car. Local thieves stripped the battery, radio, seats, siren, radiator and whatever was salvageable from the squad car in less than fifteen minutes. Later that afternoon, all that was left of the squad car was the burnt frame of a 1967 Plymouth Fury.

Out of the raging hail of bullets fired by Sgt. Rincek, only one of them found its mark. Old man Jake was hit in the thigh by one of the bullets and leaning up against the walls of an abandon building holding his leg asking the people running by to take him to Rex’s Pool Room just up the street on Gladstone Street. Three Samaritans picked up Old Jake and carried him to his desired destination. Rex’s Pool Room was more than just your ordinary pool room. After the pool room closed at 10:00 p.m., it turned into an after hours joint where all the neighborhood hustlers and players gambled. Prostitutes hung out and picked up most of their customers in the alley out back. Most of the prostitutes customers were factory workers and middle class white men whom often times ventured through the area seeking to satisfy their sexual cravings. Rex was allowed to operate his illegal establishment by paying hefty pay offs to Sgt. Rincek and his band of enforcers whom made sure that Rex was never ripped off or harassed by any other officers from the Tenth Precinct. Everyone knew that Rex was well connected and everybody knew that if they caused any trouble that disrupted his business, they would surely encounter the wrath of Sgt. Rincek and his immortals as they were colorfully named by many in our neighborhood.

About ten minutes or so later, I came across one of my running buddies Tyrone, whom was there from the start. Tyrone explained to me that about an hour or so before I had arrived, people were complaining about a Red Cadillac that was stinking up the area and called the Police. When the Police arrived, they noticed that the smell was coming from the trunk of the Cadillac and when they pried the trunk open, they found Will, Mrs. Meadows’ son chopped up in pieces inside a plastic bag. Tyrone also enlightened me to recall the night before when we were hanging out by the Linwood Hotel drinking Ripple Wine, that the Cadillac was not there. Some time during the night, someone had driven the Cadillac there and dropped it off. A local prostitute named Mary saw Will’s head pulled out of the plastic bag and sent a message to Will’s mother that her son was dead. By the time Mrs. Meadows arrived, attendants from the morgue had already placed his butchered body onto a gurney to be taken to the City Morgue.

On the corner of Whitney and Linwood, people were still gathering and discussing the fate of Mrs. Meadows. Mrs. Meadows was a sweet and loving lady. Her husband died ten years earlier from complications in World War II, leaving her to raise three sons and one daughter alone. Mrs. Meadows was also the toast of the neighborhood to everyone. Every summer since 1963 me and some of my buddies in the neighborhood would raid the lush fruit trees in Laselle Gardens just east of Linwood Avenue. In the gardens, many wealthy people grew apple, cherry, pears, peach and plum trees in their backyards. Some also had lush grape and mar berry vines. We often used old pillow cases from the Rio Grand Motel to carry out our cache of fruits from daylight raids of these trees. We would deliver all the fruits we didn’t eat or take home to Mrs. Meadows. In return, all of our neighbors would supply her with jars and she would make the sweetest grape, peach, apple and cherry jelly, jams, pies, cakes and biscuits you could ever imagine tasting. Most of the neighborhood soup joints and restaurants would buy jars of her jelly, jams and pies and sell them. No one in the neighborhood would have to pay a dime. Everyone loved, respected and adored her. Will was her youngest son, Clarence and Bobby were enlisted in the Army and presently serving in Vietnam and her only daughter Clarice was married at the age of eighteen and had dropped out of school and stayed three blocks away with her husband and two children.

Her son Will was at least ten years older than I was and he stayed in a lot of madness. Unbeknownst to her, or what we perceived to be unknown to her, Will used heroin, sold heroin, robbed other drug dealers and had a fierce reputation as an enforcer for a small time drug ring that operated up on Twelfth Street. Many people knew of his haunts and character, but no one had the heart to tell his mother. Will would come around the neighborhood from time to time driving all sorts of different new cars. He kept a pocket full of money, a gun and a knife. Several days before he was murdered, we were playing basketball on the small court just three blocks from where he was found. Will drove up, pulled out a wad of money and told us that he would pay us five dollars for every shot we made in the basket from the foul line. There were three of us there and we fought each other trying to be the first one to take the shot at his offer. Seeing the greed among us, he pushed us apart, threw three five dollar bills on the ground and said:

“One at a time, whom ever makes the shot gets to keep five dollars, if you miss, you lose.”

Tyrone went first and missed the shot. Will picked up one of the five dollar bills. Box Head shot next and also missed the shot. It was my turn next. I grabbed the ball, focused deeply on the rim, closed my eyes and shot the ball. The ball spun around the rim and fell in the basket. Will picked up the five dollar bill and handed it to me. Looking around, I could not see, but I could feel the anger my two buddies felt when he handed me the money. Will patted me on the back, smiled, jumped into his Thunderbird and took off. Breaking the tension, I raised the five dollar bill high in the air and told my buddies that fried chicken and beer was on me tonight. This seemed to relieve them.

                                                      CHAPTER 2

As the crowd was clearing out, I heard another scream coming from a distance. Tyrone and I turned around and say Mrs. Meadows daughter Clarice choking and screaming at another elderly lady asker her what happened to her mother. Just as they had restrained her mother, several older women restrained Clarice until she was calm enough to be told what had actually happened. Clarice was a beautiful young woman and full of life. Her skin was golden brown matching her succulent brown eyes. Her small frame was delicately proportioned to fit her elegant body. Most of the young men her own age adored her and showered her with gifts in Junior High School and High School up until the time she became pregnant at age fifteen by an older man whom her mother forced to marry her when she reached her eighteenth birthday. Behind the small crowd, I heard the crying of a young child, the child was Clarice’s three year old daughter running up the street half clothed crying out for her mother. One of our neighbors picked up the young child and carried her inside the small circle the women had formed around Clarice.

The sight was becoming so emotional that every house on the block and the surrounding blocks, people were sitting on their porches and discussing what had happened. People were crying and praying in the streets. I was taken back by the support and prayers that were being delivered, however, there was a greater unsuspecting pain ahead of us all that no one ever could have imagined.

Around two o’ clock that afternoon, our neighbors began assembling together up on Linwood Avenue. Easing our way through the mass, we overheard many of them getting together to drive up on Elmhurst and Livernois Avenue where the 10^th Precinct was located to inquire about fate of Mrs. Meadows. There were over twenty cars, trucks and vans loaded down with people from ages 8 to 80, willing to embark upon this journey. Walking from car to car, Tyrone, Box Head and I were looking for any space where we could fit in. At the last moment as all the engines began to start, Benford pulled up in his old tow truck and we hopped in the back and sat down beside the pulley on the back of the truck. Leading the humanitarian caravan was Brother Salamm. Salamm was a neighborhood activist whom had served ten years in prison. Upon his release, Salamm returned to the same neighborhood where he once was a pimp and drug dealer and preached against drugs, violence, prostitution and corruption. Many of the people whom knew him before he went to prison respected him and honored him, but many of his old comrades and those whom knew of his prior reputation, laughed at him, scorned him and called him a fraud. Salamm never once allowed them to discourage his new found love for peace and spiritual awareness, and everyday you could see him in the midst of a crowd of children coming home from school my age and younger, explaining to them the values of education and religion. He often pointed to the prostitutes, hustlers, and thieves walking the streets as examples of Moses’ lost flock. Many parents embraced his gallant efforts and many more often times summoned him over to their homes to lecture their sons and daughters whenever they were caught with drugs, weapons or alcohol. No one else in the neighborhood showed as much interest in the youth as he did, or as consistent, be it winter, spring, summer or fall, he was always there. Many people in our neighborhood would argue over whom would cook him a big Sunday dinner. In an effort to appease everyone, he organized a schedule for those whom wanted to cook for him. This didn’t settle all of the disputes, but it brought about a sense of harmony to all.

Tooting his horn five times and turning on his lights, Salamm gave the signal that their journey was in session. At first glance, it looked as if a funeral procession was in progress. Salamm led our caravan at barely ten miles per hour down Joy Road Avenue. Sitting on the back of this truck, people we were passing at stop signs and red lights began asking us what was going on. People in our caravan began yelling out the windows that we were heading to the 10^th Precinct to see about an old woman the police had beaten and taken there. Throughout the entire route we had taken, it was the exclusive jurisdiction of the notorious 10^th Precinct and many people were aware of the brutality, harassment, torture and fear many of the officers there had inflicted upon them, their families, friends and neighbors alike. Seeing this small procession of vehicles systematically winding its way, many people began to follow us, some in cars, some on bikes and some on foot. By the time we reached Elmhurst Avenue, the caravan had increased from 20 to 45 cars, trucks, vans and people on foot. When we finally reached the front of the 10^th Precinct, Salamm stood on top of his car and yelled to everyone to remain calm and collective. Jumping from the back of Benford’s tow truck, we ran to the front where Salamm was standing on the top of his car. Seeing the large congregation outside, several officers, armed with shot guns stood in front of the Precinct. Salamm yelled to them to speak with whomever was in charge. One of the armed officers took off running inside and returned with a gray haired commander whom we had never seen before. Salamm jumped off the hood of his car and met the commander on the front lawn of the Precinct. With his back to us, we could not hear what Salamm was saying to him. Everyone appeared to be silent, absent a few among us whispering to each other. What seemed like an eternity, Salamm shook the commander’s hand, turned to us and yelled:

“Mrs. Meadows is okay, they are going to get her.”

Everyone began cheering and hugging each other. To them Salamm had just performed a miracle.

Mrs. Meadows was escorted out by two officers. Her head had been bandaged, and she was wrapped in a blanket. Feeling the rush from the joyous crowd, she mustered a smile and waved to them as Salamm walked her to his car. Behind her smile, I could see the long drawn pain and agony deep inside her soul. Not knowing what it feels like to lose a son, I could not even begin to imagine what she may have been feeling, but what I did know, is that her face did not express the compassionate facial features we all loved and depended upon each day to bring us a smile.

By: Tony Phish