March 24, 2011 9:54 p.m.
Ha! It just keeps getting better! You guys really are serious! I mean, I’m thinking “if a book comes about…” Ya’ll are already formatting it. And you work ethic is contagious. I’m finding stuff written and stashed all over. Looks like we’re keeping each other busy and inspired.
Not only did I hear from your today, but a bulky letter also come from my aunt. Correction--The Aunt, the one who started it all.
Needless to say she’s proud, happy and supportive. She seemed hard pressed to believe that the seed she planted over two years ago has grown into this. Included in her letter was the forwarded emails between you and my mom. Good start.
Yes, I’m man enough to admit that I was wrong. Everyone looks to be in my corner at this point. Not what I expected, but sometimes it’s good to be proven wrong.
Your letters are still happy. I’m waiting for the back draft from the denied legal pads. As kind as you are, you are a lady who does not like to be denied.
Are 100 hits good? A guy I was just talking to was telling me that younger kids probably won’t read it (the blog-the book) but parents will and direct their kids to it. I can reach and possibly prevent others from making the mistakes I made, from coming to this dreadful place.
I can remember famous/motivational speakers coming to our school when I was younger and they always said the same thing, “If I only reach one of you, then it’s all worth it.” Back then, I thought that was so corny. Now….well it’s exactly how I feel. If I reach anybody, and make them second guess an act of stupidity, then yeah, it’s all worth it.
Just today, while I was sharing my joy about the progress of this writing expedition with one of the few sensible kats I know, another guy was a few feet off, promising his Crip homies that he was going to kill “murder” the guy who did whatever. Then he got on the phone and told his mother. Yep, that’s the call every mother expects to receive from her incarcerated son.
And it’s never about the “money,” (usually soups and meat pouches) it’s always the same bullshit line, “It’s ‘bout the principle!” Sad? Half these guys couldn’t spell principle, 75% of them couldn’t give you a sensible definition. Sadder? The drama, the violence, the strife is inevitable. Whoever is set to be “murdered” is a lost cause. Not my business unless I want to ride the gurney out the back doors with him. No, the first thing that came to mind was, “I hope he doesn’t kill him until after Monday. I can’t stand a lockdown right now. We haven’t been to commissary in a month!”
”Momma, don’t let yer babies grow up to be outlaws!” Ha, if I could go back and be a veterinarian or entomologist (which is so cool that Joe was one! I meant to ask him about it but I forgot). Really, I’ve always loved animals and insects, collected them, studied them, but in the end, sought the cooler, more deadly, less rewarding calling of a street kat.
A shame, too, because my son inherited the love for all things native. I pray that I can encourage him to follow his passion for him and not worry what others may think. I can see him out in a game reserve photographing the lions he adores so much. What I won’t tolerate is for him to follow in my footsteps, if I can ever get back into his life. Sometimes I hate his mother.
You’re right. It would do no good to offend the family when we’re asking for their support. Still, please don’t change what’s in the blogs. I don’t want my feeling edited when it comes to that, okay?
My, my, my aren’t you eager to get the show on the road?! With each letter, seeing all that is being accomplished, I’m wowed by the determination with which you are attacking this project. I feel detached, like ya’ll are doing it all and I’m observing. Oh, I’m not complaining, just saying that I’m appreciative of the work being put in. I’m simply writing down my thoughts. It’s you and Joe that are bringing it to life.
Uhh, about the kitchen….I turned the job down (my flinching away from a whack to the head). I know, but hear me out? You know I love to cook, everyone knows that. But right now, it’s not a good time. Period. If I get stuck in the kitchen for 9-10 hours a day, my already hectic schedule, how productive do you think I’ll be writing?
Exactly. That was what drove me. I kept thinking about squandered opportunities in the past. In my view, it would be wise for me to focus the majority of my energies into what I’m doing right now. Cooking will be there, it is a worthy sacrifice.
Plus, the politics in the kitchen alone would be more of a burden than anything. It’s just not a good move at the moment. Hell, yesterday, my government teacher told us to study chapters 15-20 for two upcoming tests, a combined 90 questions! And this is material you really have to study, not to mention boring. I prayed on it and in my heart I know I made the correct choice.
You’re getting some more blogs, some I wrote recently, some are old and I found them. Gotta’ keep you busy…
Again, I thank you for being you and so much more! The “sunshine and chirping birds” made themselves quite welcome.
Love,
P.S. The book cover is awesome. I know it’s still in the works, but seeing it gave me a natural high!
Blog Women
I love women! If you’ve ever been a friend, a girlfriend, a jealous boyfriend…a jealous girlfriend, or you’re family, you know that women do it for me. Yeah, I adore my children, my passions are cooking and writing…the female species though, that is my weakness.
Since this is my story, the way I remember it, I was girl crazy in the womb, emerged and fell in love with my carrier (smile, Momma). Seriously, my aunts tell tales about how mannish a child I was, how only pretty women or women with big breasts were allowed to hold me. For most of my life, I laughed along with everyone else at those stories, blushing but never believing. Then my son was born. An amiable baby, he’d let an unattractive woman hold him for mere seconds before doing the reckless baby lunge, arms stretched dangerously away in want of rescue. A man holding him was out of the question. My brother, myself and a few uncles only got that privilege.
For a pretty woman, my boy would “coo” and blow cute little bubbles, or hum and smile that charming toothless smile. Really, I was amazed at all of the action he got. In the mall, ladies as old as 80 and girls as young as three would swarm us, leaning over his stroller, cooing back, making offers to take him home while Daddy got ignored. Okay, okay, sometimes they offered to take Daddy home, too, but I couldn’t compete.
My cousin, Carissa, my heart, whom I’m closer to than any of my many cousins, is my son’s Godmother. Jason Tyler (my son) was enamored with Carissa from day one. Carissa’s lifelong friend (whose name I won’t use only because I’ll butcher the spelling—you know who you are, Lady Sauls) is very pretty, always has been. You know, the type of pretty that makes you happy just to look upon? Well, her pretty gave her powers over my child that tickled me and made his mother insecure. We could be having a good time, boiling crawfish, watching The Lion King, anything, when “Yay-Yay” showed up, Jason Tyler would adhere himself to her and without fail, leave with her. No kisses for Mommy or Daddy, shoes or no shoes, he was gone.
Seeing this behavior in my child, a child who is so much like me, I put new faith in the tales told of my own mannish behavior. Then of course, there’s the rest of my track record to consider.
As far as I know, I’m the only “child” of our generation in my family who had his own song. A pigeon-toed kid, my silly uncles, Juan and Carlos, would tease, “Jay Walker, tha woman stalker…” “Jay Walker” because I’d dray my feel all over everyone else’s. “Tha woman stalker.” Well that you know. I was “Jay Walker,” “Mr. Affectionate,” “Mr. Loving and Caring” and my uncles never let up.
My first girlfriend came to me in my toddler years. Alice had pale blue eyes and fair blond hair that she wore straight back under a white cotton sash. She looked like the “Alice” from the cartoon “Alice in Wonderland;” as far as I was concerned, she was. I can’t remember us ever talking, but I know we rode our training wheeled bikes, made plenty mud pies and ate some too.
My first serious relationship…I think I may have been seven (don’t laugh, I was in love with this girl). Her name was Sugar and she was sooo sweet to me. Sugar lived a few houses down from my Aunt Melba’s house in Sugarland. At 13, Sugar might as well been a grown woman. Nevertheless, I was crazy about her. To make it worse, my cousin would sing ever time she stepped out of her house, sounding like some pre-adolescent low-budget boy band, “ Hey-ay-yay guurl…in the Gucci!” Looking back on it now, it’s real embarrassing, but what does a seven year old boy have to be embarrassed about? She’d kiss on me and hug me, calling me “Webster,” which is not the complement now that I thought it was then. Still, that was all the love I needed. Sugar was my girl…. “in the Gucci!”
It goes without saying that my Momma was my baby, always has been, always will be. My Grandmother Merce was “Momma,” too, as was my Aunt Joni, who’s the poster child for our Creole blood, appearing to be a white lady. She and I made quite a couple. My Aunt Deidra also, widely known as “Dee Dee.” (thanks, Fallon) was just beautiful. That was enough for my love.
But there were many more…there’s always more. “Aunt” Carolyn, as smooth and dark as jazz played at midnight, Trish, the gorgeous Angel Sauls (Yay-Yah’s mother), all friends of my mom or the family. And I loved at least one of my female teachers, all through elementary school to high school (hello Mrs. McCain and Mrs. Kearse).
Middle school was a whirlwind of romances for the kid. Toshi was my first date. My mom dropped us off at the movie theater to see Menace to Society. We didn’t behave too badly. It’s a good thing Toshi didn’t know I had a crush on her older sister, Tabitha.
Jasmine Watson trumped all my other middle school loves, though. Kelly (who I knew a Kelendria, sorry if I misspelled you, Boo) Christen and Domonique were close seconds, but Jasmin had my nose open. Wide. We were a couple, then enemies, then “play cousins” and eventually lovers in high school. I would ride by BMX at least 10 miles round trip, all the way down Richmond, just to stand outside and flirt until her mom came home and ran me off. If my favorite girl (my momma) had known where I was, she would have whupped my behind.
High school raised the stakes. Yeah, the rewards were greater, but the losses were too. Freshman year, my path made easier for my by big brother’s march through the hall of Alief Hastings High School, was wild. Still, I was just a “fresh fish” and got taken quick and hard by the pretty and fully developed juniors and seniors. Without much regret, I’ll admit that those young ladies took advantage of me. The seasoned me, let me marinate, chewed me up and spit me out, vicious man eaters. But while they picked their teeth with my bones, my reputation skyrocketed like the price of crude oil has since the 80’s.
With that beefed up muscle-bound status, I had my pick of underclassmen…um…girls. Yup, it was all good until I got sick. “Mono.” Can you believe that? “The kissing disease.”
After several days in West Houston Memorial, maybe a few weeks, (I was out of it) where my momma sat by my bedside loving me through the mask of snot that was perpetually clinging to my face, I was released. I spent a month convalescing in the care of “Momma” Joni, “Momma” Merce and my Uncle Juan. Then due to circumstances I didn’t, couldn’t understand at the time, I moved to Austin to live with Uncle Mike, Aunt “Dee-Dee” and cousins Carissa and Taylor.
Healthy at 6’1” and twenty pounds heavier (thanks to the Cortisone and being fed and pampered) at a solid 160 pounds, I was indeed “the new boy” when I arrived at Pflugerville High. It was like I’d never broke stride. I may not have been there a month when Brandy “Big Bird” and I were caught making out under the stairwell. Aunt Deidra probably wouldn’t have been so upset if I hadn’t lied and said I had study hall. Just for the record. We were studying anatomy.
Uncle Mike is the only consistent father figure I’ve ever had, but you talk about strict. Uncle Mike was not having it, not even. You get a few Natural Lights in him, you had free reign. Sober…full court press, shut down defense (the steel curtain), the Gestapo…nothing happening.
Some of my craftiest lies were employed against my uncle’s formidable military tactics. Fueled by hormones, I was able to, on several occasions, slip past his sentries and into trouble of the female nature. Just so you know though, it wasn’t flaws in your defenses, it was determination. My motives were shallower but definitely stronger. Anyways, what do you expect from a 16-17 year old boy?
No serious affairs in Austin. My reemergence into the street life would not be tolerated in Uncle Mike’s house though. When I went to Houston to spend the Christmas of 1997 with my mom and brother, Uncle Mike drove my stuff down two weeks later. Point made.
From 1991-1995, my experience in the streets was greater than you’d think. I was fascinated by the streets, the money, the respect, the excitement, and there’s only so much “policing” a single parent can do. So don’t faulty my mother, she did more than most. My choices were my choices and I was hardheaded.
Upon my return to the Big City (no offense, but the small time Austin girls were easy pickings for a Big City boy), I fell face first into the streets. Rumor was that I had died two years before, so my reemergence was more of a resurgence, a resurrection. Rebirth made me a legend.
When I ran into Jasmin and former girlfriend Ayana in West Oaks Mall, their jaws dropped to their waists. Learning of the rumor, I was “fish grease!” If I was supposed to be dead, why had no one attempted to contact my mom or brother to console them, to see if it was true? Already harboring anger from seeds planted long before, this was to be the harvest of me against the world.
No longer thin or in the least bit timid, my voice deep, hair on my face, big diamonds in my ears, a huge chain and cross on my neck, my ego swole to galactic proportions. Factor in that, wherever we went (I usually rolled with my older brother and his friends), I didn’t even have to try to talk to girls, they got at me. In hindsight, it was really crazy! I mean, I could be walking out of the school, sent home for not shaving or coming to school high, and girls I’d never seen before would walk up to me.
“Are you Jason Hall?” they’d ask with a teenage girl’s natural attitude, as if I was public enemy number one.
I never answered straight, full of my ego and seeking entertainment, I’d say, “Why? Wassup?” or “Maybe, who’s asking?” It never failed. Never.
With a lot less attitude, they’d say, “I know you’re Jason, because you’ve got that big cross on your neck.”
Smiling, eyes low, I’d deliver the coup d’grace, “Well, if you know, then why’d you ask, Boo?” Those who didn’t go home with me then, gave me their numbers. Maybe twenty times a day, different girls would stalk up to me, snitch my pager from my waist and count numbers. A lot of dudes would have caused a scene. I didn’t care, and dare not blow my high arguing. People in control don’t argue, I was too cool for that. Plus, no girlfriend of mine could be upset about numbers in my pager. I sold drugs. People were always paging me. Really, they knew I didn’t care either way.
The less I cared, the more attention I got, like indifference and nonchalance made me more attractive. The other guys flipping and flopping at girls’ feet were clowns to me. No way was I going to play myself like that. Naw. Not J-Hall.
From the outside looking in, it may have appeared that I was narcissistic. The truth though, I just didn’t give a damn. Don’t misunderstand; I cared about my day one homeboys, too. It was me who didn’t matter. I think I loved my image more than I loved myself. Now that I can see it for what it was, that’s sad. But back then…I can’t even remember being sober. I was so high I was numb, simply going through the motions, living every day like my last, “if I die tonight, even better, no more pain.”
If you are wondering where the pain came from, it was everything. When my grandfather Ira passed, my mom went into a walking coma, like part of her died, the warmth and affection…dead. That’s when my anger started to blaze. I began to see the world through ice blue lenses. I saw how cold the real world was. My rebellion was internal.
Ebonie was a turning point for me (quite a story between us). She was everything I was not. She represented the good, the pure of the world, Ebonie was love, my high school sweetheart. Seriously, I cared for her so deeply that I was faithful to her. There wasn’t time for other girls, we were always together. At least four nights a week, school nights and all, we were together, crawling through windows, walking home at 5 a.m. on a Tuesday night only to sneak back in my own home and get ready for school.
She brought out the best in me, exposed the silly affectionate Jason of my childhood. Other girls resented Ebonie but didn’t dare try anything. Not even other boys would try her. I was fiercely protective with a reputation that wasn’t to be tempted. What can you do to someone who’s not afraid to die?
Our love was clean, refreshing, no drama. My affair with the streets though…two women that wanted my time. Eventually the streets caught me slipping and took me down. My first bid in jail turned into boot camp, out of the streets, away from Ebonie.
The eleven and a half months I was locked up matured and humbled me….some. Boot camp scared me straight. Yeah, for about three months after I got out I was clean as a whistle. Ebonie and I went through a rough patch, but bounced back and were closer than ever.
The “game” still had her hooks in me though. I still wanted the flyrides, the jewels, the status. My mom got me a job at a Smoothie King, and that’s where I was working when I bought my diamond and gold grill. Yeah, that job paid crap, but I worked for my probation officer. My middle maning on drug transactions kept me afloat. I still had the connections and the reputation. Major players would deal with me before they‘d trust others.
One day, Ebonie asked me to take my gold teeth out. At first I didn’t, angry, for no particular reason, that she would ask. So she sat next to me begging in her sweet voice. I pulled the six piece fronts out of my mouth only to be hit with a 10,000 watt smile and an arsenal of kisses. She told me that she loved “Jason,” not “J-Hall.” She wanted to know why I couldn’t be the sweet and outgoing guy who wrestled with her younger siblings, who planned picnics…she wanted that guy all the time. I didn’t have a good answer so I just didn’t say anything.
When I cheated on Ebonie…damn…I can’t believe I cheated on Ebonie. When I cheated, I used some idiotic reason to justify it, but the reality was, it had become easier to be “J-Hall,” the guy living to die, that to be “Jason,” my momma’s baby boy.
The girl I cheated with didn’t have any hell of expectations for me. Khristen had never met “Jason,” so “J-Hall” was good enough for her. I could be high and ignorant around Kirsten, who was completely unfazed by it. As silly as it sounds, I loved her for that. In my warped mind, it wasn’t as clear to me then as it is now that Ebonie wanted more from me, not for her, but for me. She saw my potential and couldn’t stand what I had become. All I saw was her asking me to be somebody that I wasn’t. In reality, I had become somebody that I wasn’t.
A love that strong doesn’t just go away though, so Ebonie put up with me…or um…whoever the hell I was, even after she found out that Khristen was pregnant.
For seven months I was back and forth between the two, exhausting myself, tangled and tripping on my own lies. The truth is, I didn’t want to let either of them go.
Khristen had her certain charms. Sometimes, a snake doesn’t know it’s a snake. When my son came, none of it mattered. I was going to be where my little boy was.
She didn’t give up right away, but somewhere along the way, Ebonie realized that she deserved better. The night she gave me my wings and set me free, I drove from U of H to Braeswood with tears running down my face, my chest feeling like I was caught in a vice, struggling to breathe. Khristen answered the phone that night and could hear the torment in my voice. She asked where I was, then told me to come over.
That night Khristen took pity on me, cried for me, then made love to me.
One thing I’ve become an expert at is seeing the good in people. I could see her in my son which opened the door, made it easier. I learned to really love her despite all of her psychotic ways, put up with here sour moods because the good moods were such a relief. I fell in love with her. The mistake in all of it, I kept falling.
Love is a wonderful emotion (ask Al Green). Love is powerful…it can be beautiful and it can be dangerous. Love can take you to the heavens and love can drop you into a bottomless pit.
When I got locked up, I was still falling. My self-worth was already fragile. Somewhere along my descent I crashed into misery, bouncing off, plummeting. A broken man.
Things in that relationship went really foul, like four day old fish heads and dirty diapers. The woman I’d married had systematically stripped me of all concern for myself. She manipulated, massacred my confidence, then stood over my carcass, tearing what was left from the bones.
There’s such a thing as being “in too deep.” This woman was the mother of my kids. We’d gone through the struggle together. Didn’t I owe it to her to make it work? Didn’t I owe it to my kids?
Confused, depressed, I could see what she was doing to me. I was living the verbal, mental, emotional abuse…she actually introduced me to a dude at her job that she was having an affair with, but I couldn’t pull myself free. She’d taken me apart, dismantled me. I was no longer that arrogant, cocky, confident street dude, but just a shell of him, and she didn’t want him.
Yeah, after stealing me from my family and then me from myself, she wasn’t interested anymore.
It took me damn near three years to get me back, two years to get her out of my system, then one year to find myself, reinvent me. Now approaching my sixth year in the pen, I love myself more than I ever have.
Am I a narcissist now? Naw, it’s not that kind of love. This is a rich, fulfilling, all encompassing love, a love that allows me to love others. Too much too late, I’ve become the man Ebonie was looking for.
You can love someone so hard that the feelings crystallize and become hate. It almost came to that with Khristen, but I don’t fault her as much as I fault myself. All I had to do was leave. Saying that I ended it for my kids is a cop out. I loved her more than I loved myself so I stood under those blows, punch drunk and stupid. Part of me will probably always love a part of her, but I’ll never let anybody hurt me like that again. Life’s a journey, it ain’t all peaches and cream. You live and you learn. Hopefully, what you learn makes you a better person.
Often I dream of a time machine, so I can go back and undo my mistakes, undo the damage and hurt I caused. The problem is I can never decide where I’d go back to. Undoing my kids is not an option, and the pain, trials and tribulations that came after my kids has molded me into the man I love, the man I’m supposed to be.
It’s just a silly dream. I can’t go back. What I can do is clear the air, apologize to some people ands say some things I should have said…but never did.
So if you’re out there, there’s something I want to tell you:
Cindy Acosta
Christian Givens
Jasmin Watson (you deserved better, hope you found it)
Amanda Flores
Ayana Andrews (thanks, Boo)
Tiffany Harrison,
Domonique Hawkins
Sonya Cole
Pamala Kumar
Toshi
Ameia Brown
Nicoleta
Tanisha and Jalante
Kelly Rowland (yes, that Kelly!)
Tyra Dockery
Jessica Grey
Tasha Guidry
Leslie Westmoreland
Ryan Mitchell
Raven
Joann Najera
Ne-Ne (I’m so sorry)
Nikki Bates (now you know)
Alva Hampton
Eyoy Jackson
Vera
Monai
Elizabeth Quinim
Kedra
Nancy and Ralong (yeah, you Ralon!)
Kesha Jones
Of course Ebonie Floyd
Maybe I never said it. Maybe I never showed it…the past is the past, it can’t be undone. I can’t take back, but I can give. I give ya’ll my love! All of ya’ll. I love all of ya’ll! I don’t’ want anything from any of you, just thought you should know how I feel.
I lied. I want you to smile.
Shara Wakefield, I didn’t forget you! It wasn’t that I didn’t like you. I didn’t like myself enough to be what you needed. Still, I wish I would have asked you to dinner, something…perhaps Eryka Badu had it right? Maybe I’ll see you next lifetime…we might be butterflies? You never know, it might be this lifetime. We don’t have to be lovebirds, just so long as we fly across each other’s paths.
