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.
“There is only One God,” I told him. “And, it is not any man who ever hurt you, or any man you’ve ever met. It’s not DeSean, Imperial, Jamar, or Mathematics, and it’s definitely not me. Look at the sky.” I pointed. “Look at the sun. The sky, the sun, the moon, and the stars were all created by the same One who created your soul. If you have never made a prayer to the One who created your soul, you are not only lost, you are ungrateful. But more importantly than that for you is that you are unprotected. Up to now, you have gotten on your knees for all the wrong reasons and for all of the wrong people. On your knees for filthy men, on your knees for the police, on your knees out of fear. Ungrateful and lost, never on your knees for the One who created your soul and gave you life, to say a prayer of appreciation, a prayer for guidance, a prayer for vision, a prayer for protection. Is that right?” I asked him. He held up one finger for yes.
“Having heard what I think, are you still asking me to teach you?” He raised one finger for yes. “Are you asking for help with your classwork or the GED or the SAT?” I asked, wanting to be clear. He raised two fingers for no. “Are you asking me to teach you how to fight?” He raised two fingers for no. “What do you want to learn? What do you want to be?” I asked him, already getting impatient. He pointed to me. I paused. “You want me to teach you how to be me?” He raised one finger for yes.
In the washroom before dawn, I was preparing for prayer. Lavidicus was standing over the sink beside me, doing what he saw me doing: washing my face, rinsing my mouth and cleaning my ears and nostrils, washing my hands and forearms, and washing my legs from the knees down and the tops and soles of my feet.
“You have to be yourself. You can never be another man. Starting today, I’ll help you in the library for the next six weeks, to figure out who you are and who you can become once you strive for understanding. After the six weeks, your jaw should be healed and you will have all else that you need to guide yourself. I recommend that you make your first prayer with your eyes open and in complete silence. Watch me to learn and watch my back. Once you learn how it’s done, you can begin to close your eyes and I’ll watch your back.”
26. LIGHT
“You fucking with that soft kid,” DeSean said.
I looked up from my tray and locked eyes with him. “Each one, teach one. That’s your belief, right?” I said.
He cracked a smile. So did Mathematics at the other end of the M3 table. I knew they were Five Percenters, same as my man Ameer and his father. Of course I had heard their talk. It wasn’t my way, but some of the Fives claimed to be Muslim and others denied. Yet, I knew even the ones who denied felt a connection and a respect for Islam. They had to.
“You a teacher or a cold-blooded Murder Money soldier?” DeSean spit. “You cracked the soft boy’s skull and then took him under your wing. That’s cold, but it’s smart. He definitely won’t be diming you out in exchange for the protection.”
“I’m just doing your job,” I said.
“Non cypher, my job?” he repeated, and all the M3s were watching our convo closely.
“I’m the poor righteous teacher, civilizing the eighty-fiver. That’s your job. Instead, you caked up and chilling with the ten percent,” I said, and all the gods leaned back, mood moving from surprise to laughter to anger.
“Is that a challenge?” DeSean asked me.
“What would DeQuan say?” I replied, knowing he was heavily invested in admiring and pleasing his oldest brother and living up to his brother’s orders.
“You know the god DeQuan don’t fuck with no soft motherfuckers,?
?? he said solemnly.
“DeQuan would say that you and me should fight a fair one. DeQuan would set it up, promote it, and be standing right there to watch it go down,” I said. “It’s either that, or DeQuan would appreciate you reporting to him that we got this whole dorm on lock. Let him know I’m soldiering for the eighty-five and you holding it down and running the industry and the paper.”
“That’s word,” Jamar said. Slaughter grimaced.
“We should hold them down. They ain’t doing nothing but praying to their mystery god,” Mathematics said.
“And they ain’t fucking up the business,” Narcotic said.
“Word,” Imperial said.
“Don’t be quick to hop on his nuts,” Slaughter warned. “Peep how he’s raising up a little army. First it was him praying for delf. Now it’s nine of them motherfuckers. And he got Karim Ali all on his tip. The COs ain’t feeling none of that talk—how they be talking and the prayers they be making. That shit got COs on edge.”
“The COs,” I said. “Are they the ten percent or the eighty-five?” I asked, knowing Slaughter wasn’t a Five Percenter, and dividing DeSean from his right-hand man. DeSean looked at me.
“We definitely don’t give a fuck about what the COs think,” DeSean said, feeling and knowing the importance of separating himself from the authorities. It was a mean game of chess I was playing with him. But, I wasn’t playing. “Stay out of the way like you been doing. The M3s definitely gon’ protect the poor righteous teacher,” DeSean announced. Checkmate, I said to myself.
* * *
I had gotten Lavidicus to meet me in the library every other day, and the down days were for reading on his own. The Quran was his first and most important book. Lavidicus learned the short first chapter, “The Opening,” by heart. It has seven ayats. The key was that once he understood and accepted that there is only one God, and that it’s not none of these dudes, it helped to strengthen him and diminish his fears slowly as the days and weeks dragged by. At the same time, it helped him to learn not to worship his mother, hold her as his standard, or expect her to be his source of protection. His confusion over her began to clear up. It is important for fatherless sons to know that it is okay to love their broken mothers, but to separate that from what they should respect and view as an example. Otherwise their relationships would forever be fucked up. Confused sons would choose to love a woman who is a whore same as his mother. Or, confused sons who hate their mothers would hate women all together.
In his notebook, I had seen some random scribble that in tiny letters said, “I have loved you since I was twelve.” I was happy to see that considering all he had been through and struck up a convo with him about girls.
“You have a girlfriend?” I asked him.
“No,” he signaled.
“You liked her but didn’t tell her?” I asked.
“No,” he signaled, and opened up to a blank page and wrote, “I like you.”
“That’s cool. You can like me, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about girls.” I flipped the pages and pointed to what he had scribbled. He wrote underneath his words, “I have loved you since I was twelve.” I watched.
“You were my first and only love,” he wrote.
“Who?” I asked.
“You,” he wrote. I didn’t break his jaw all over again. I was caught completely off guard and couldn’t process or do the math on anything like what he was expressing.
“You hurt me, but I admire you as a man and feel love for you in my heart,” he wrote to me. I looked at him. There he was, the same as his mother, with her same emotions. She wanted a man. He did too. She loved men who hurt her. He did too. I told him, “Your confusion comes from your bad experiences. You admire me and that’s okay. But as far as affection and intimacy, that’s a man-woman thing. You have to move everything into its right and original category. Put everything back where it belongs and where it was before you got hurt and confused the first time,” I told him.
“The Rikers counselor said I should just accept myself the way I am,” he wrote.
“Think about it: for any other pain or illness or trauma, the doctor would give you medicine and treatment, to put things back the way they were before you got sick or hurt. Even with your broken jaw, the doctors worked hard to put your bones back into place, and have your face as it was before. How come, for this one thing that came from your being hurt and taken advantage of by dirty men, the counselor advises you not to try to fix it?” Lavidicus looked like he was thinking about something he had never thought of before.
“Did he try and touch you?” I asked Lavidicus. “Did the counselor put his hands on you?” Silence was his answer.
“Word is bond” is real for me. I stuck with Lavidicus because I said I would. I continued to teach him and read Quran with him and make the prayers with him because it was my word and my atonement. Besides, Lavidicus was no threat to me. I even got Teacher Karim Ali to organize a visitation between Lavidicus and a nice sixteen-years-young female who had recently become a believer, from his mosque. I wanted Lavidicus to be able to break the everyday routine of seeing and being surrounded by only male prisoners and guards, and just sit with her and talk and look and feel, which is all that could be done while locked up. I wanted to see how he would react to meeting not one of the three girls photographed topless in their panties whose pictures circulated around the jail dorm, but a female who had humbled herself and was striving, the same as he was. More importantly, I wanted him to see, feel, and explore for himself and for his healing. Alhamdulillah, slowly but surely, by the end of his six weeks of studying with me and being visited by her, he changed.
* * *
“You have a visitor,” the CO said to me.
“No,” was all I replied.
“You’re not interested in the pretty girls?” he asked me, but more like he was trying to call me out in front of the other inmates. “Going once . . .” he counted down.
“What’s her name?” DeSean called out.
“Strange name, exotic beauty,” the CO said sarcastically, and my chest got tight. “Going twice . . .” I was one hundred that it wasn’t one of my wives. They wouldn’t overturn my order.
“Go meet her, man. What’s the problem?” YesYesYall said. “You could send me by proxy—I’ll give her a message. It’s better than just leaving her hanging.”
“Simanique, going three times, done!” The CO had called out her name and walked away.
“No visitors,” I spoke up as he left, reminding him. I’m the inmate who wants zero visitors. Still, I was thinking how the Red Flamingo, aka Simanique, could have found me under the name Jordan Mann. Was it in the newspaper and she had peeped it all out? No matter, I told myself. She definitely doesn’t know my true name or my street name, Midnight. She had my washed murder clothes that I left behind, but she wouldn’t do or say anything. I was certain.
* * *
“You got a kite from ‘His Majesty,’ ” Imperial said six days after the Red Flamingo had attempted to see me on a visit.
“Stop fucking around,” I told him.
“Word to mother,” he said, letting me know he was serious.
“That’s his brother,” DeSean said. “He’s locked over in C-74, same as DeQuan.” I took the kite. Couldn’t believe Imperial’s brother was named “His Majesty.”
“I’m headed up North, same location as my man Verse. Before he got sent up, he wanted me to relay to you his gratitude. Verse said ‘You is the supreme soldier. You under his protection wherever his arms got reach,’ ” the note said.
That’s crazy, I thought to myself. I never met this Redverse cat. Just walked into his Laundromat the night of the murder and somehow shit got turned upside down. I looked up.
“I already know what’s in the letter. That’s big,” DeSean said. “Verse’s operation is huge. Different territory and product, but larger network and greater influence and reach than my brother. That’s what Quan told
me.”
* * *
“Puerto Rican Paco, you don’t say much. But you speak Spanish. Is that right?” I asked him.
“Somewhat,” he said.
“I noticed the Latin Kings speak Spanish and the Dominicans and the two dudes from Nicaragua. What’s the deal? You all speaking Spanish but not speaking to one another? Just curious,” I told him, but I had a plan more than a curiosity.
“The niggas is all speaking English but all ’hooded and ganged up and not speaking to each other. What’s the deal with that?” he replied.
“True,” I admitted. “I try and give the peace to each man, regardless. Thought I’d send a simple greeting to the Kings and the other Spanish-speaking brothers with your help.”
“I can help you with that. But, just so you know, they all divided for different reasons but united about one thing,” he said.
“What is it?”
“Jesus. So if you trying to get them on your prayer lineup, money it ain’t gonna happen, even with your clout.”
I smiled. “Muslims respect the Prophet Jesus, Peace Be Upon Him. I’m not at war with Jesus or the Christians. I’m planning to get up a soccer game, though, and want to invite all of them to play.”
“Play soccer?”
“Something different for cats like us that been doing the same routine every day,” I said.
* * *
“I’m a criminal. I’m your man, DeSean. I’m better than these other dudes. I’m not pretending to be God. I’m not poor. I’m not righteous. I don’t give a fuck about teaching the next man shit. These niggas gotta teach theyself. I raised myself. On the streets, I prowl. I see what I want. I take it. ‘Don’t move!’ I warn them. If they cooperate, I don’t slit their throats or put a bullet in their head,” Slaughter said.