MY FIRST PERCEPTION OF A MAN

EPISODE 1

Rochelle Washington

Room 210 Grade 4th

Mary C.Terrell School February 1969

“Dear Mom and Dad,

I’ve thought of running away and getting away from it all, but there is nowhere to go. Besides, I love you too much to run away from you. I hate my life. I wish I was never born.” (An actual excerpt from a letter written to my Mom and Dad.)

I was born the middle child of five children. My Mom and Dad were not educators, but I learned a lot from both. I was a Daddy’s girl. He was everything to me. My Dad taught me how to survive on the streets, while my Mom taught me how to cook and make ends meet… Boy, she could make ends meet no matter how tough times were. We were never hungry. She could stretch a dollar and still have change left.

I remember at the tender age of seven, my family moved into the Robert Taylor Homes Housing Projects in Chicago. We moved around a lot. We even stayed with a few people, so I was happy to finally have a home of my own. My Dad was a handyman. He didn’t have a steady job; in fact, he never worked on a job. He was a hustler, a carpenter, painter, street gambler, and boxer. We even thought he would play professional baseball at one time; he was that good. In other words, he didn’t have a job and we were poor. So, we looked for affordable housing and moved into the projects.

Now this was the late sixty’s, early seventy’s, and the buildings were

brand new. There was green grass, tall trees, a playground with swings and slides … and I can’t forget about the famous monkey bars and the merry-go-round. We had programs to participate in like tap dancing, girl scouts, drama, and karate. Each building had a captain who would oversee representing their building. Each month, inspections would be held (yes, we had inspections) and the cleanest building would get to place a beautiful blue and gold eagle on their building so everyone could see.

Every Saturday we would clean the brick walls with Comet cleanser. The janitors would clean and rinse the halls and elevators with some type of pine solution. It would keep the stairways smelling clean and fresh. We all worked hard and loved every minute of it. My building would win all the time. Can you believe it? The Projects were a positive place to live.

I remember we lived on the seventh floor. Everyone was like family. After the building inspection, my friends and I would celebrate. Often, we’d perform dances and skits for other children. We would go behind the grocery store across the street and get the used milk crates that they would throw out. Then we would carry them back home and sit them by the elevator so our audience would have a place to sit. Together, we’d then practice songs and different dances and make our costumes out of newspaper. We made hats, shirts, pants, skirts, and we wore them over our clothes.

There were sixteen floors and we would go to each one and invite other children to come and see us perform … the cost, twenty-five cents. We’d take our earnings at the end of the show and buy junk food … popcorn, pies, and sodas were just a few items on the list. We would perform every week after inspection and we always had a full house. There were many fun times, but times began to change.

More people began to move into the building. After a while, the programs started to fade out. We didn’t do our shows as much because gangs began to form, and a shootout could happen at any time of the day. It was new territory, which caused a war between the Gangster Disciples, the Vice Lords, and the Stones for drug distribution. They were constantly at war. It was like the old western shootouts that would come on TV early Saturday mornings … except it wasn’t just on TV, it was on our playgrounds, on our school grounds, at the candy store … shots at any given moment would be fired in any given place.

Eventually, the programs ended and so did our innocent lifestyle. Times got worse, not only outside but inside for me as well (my home.) I don’t know when it started, I just woke up one day and not only was my Dad the biggest dope dealer on the south side of Chicago, he was one of the main leaders of one of the gangs that were destroying our community.

Now it made sense why my sister and I received so much favor. Adults would treat us better than their own children. Little did I know, it was a fear of my Dad that started that behavior. We didn’t want for anything. We had all the clothes and toys that we could imagine. Everything we asked for we received, but inside I was so sad and so hurt that the secure world that was creating happy childhood memories for me, was being destroyed by the man I loved the most.

As times got harder for my friends and their families, my Dad got richer and my friends became fewer. After a while, the perks of my Dad’s dirty money began to override the source from which it came. It was accepted and that’s how we lived … selling drugs to the community that gave me the only stability that I could remember ever having.

While we were living large, the violence got worse. Rumors started about my Dad and other women. I was nine years old and dealing with children who were once my friends, now teasing me about my Dad. I fought every day on the way to school, at recess, and on the way home. Some were friends and some were children of rivals of my Dad.

My school was in a different gang area than the one I lived in, so I was out of my territory. When I say I fought every day, I mean I fought every day … more boys than girls. His power, reputation, and status made my life a living hell. But I still loved him. He was my Dad.

I never told my mom about the fights to and from school, we didn’t have that type of relationship. Why? I looked just like my Dad and was constantly reminded of how one day I would be just like him; creating my destiny by releasing the powerful words into the universe, “You’re gonna be just like your no good Daddy.” Words that pierced my heart and sowed a negative seed into my soul. The frustrations my Mom had with my Dad was carried over to me. You see, my Mom was married before meeting my Dad. She told me the devastating news, at the tender age of eight, that I was the pregnancy that caused her divorce. That sent me on a guilt trip that took years to return from. When she realized that the grass wasn’t greener on the other side, I became the scapegoat for the poor choice she’d made … and the fact that I loved my father despite who he was, didn’t help… I would have loved her equally if I’d been given the chance.

Through the years, I became the black sheep, the rejected, the butt of all jokes, the less than, the estranged, the loser, the invisible, the teased, big nose, big teeth, dumb little girl with a nasty nickname. They called me “Roach.” Not Candy or Sweetie or Precious… I was called the most disgusting bug on the planet. Rumor has it that I ate a roach at the tender age of two and the name originated from there. All this was inside the home. I had yet to face the world. At a very young age, my self-esteem was murdered, and self-hate was born. I felt like a broken down, unloved, unworthy, motherless child … and no matter how hard I tried, I just didn’t fit in with them (my family). I now understand that rejection is just a prerequisite for greatness. My pain was a major part of my Purpose.

Mom was finally fed up with my Dad. Our family was so dysfunctional. Tension was so thick in our home. My Mom and Dad fought all the time. I developed a bad nervous condition. I’d bite my nails until they would bleed and, at times, while sitting my legs would shake out of control.

Eventually, Mom asked Dad to leave and he did … right downstairs to his other woman’s house. She had four boys, of which three attended my elementary school. How embarrassing. The same kids that I went to school with every day were now living with my Dad and calling my Dad their Dad. One of the boys was in my classroom. He would tell the other classmates that we were brother and sister. Not only was he a terror in the projects, he was the dumbest in our class. He and his brothers would steal, break into houses and rob people … yes, they were in the fourth, fifth, and sixth grade. They made it their mission to tell everybody that we were related. I wanted to die.

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, I found out that my Dad was using his own product. How did I know? My Mom told me. Why? I don’t know. I just know it was too much information for a fourth grader to try and process. Heroin was the drug of choice and he was shooting up every day. Even though he left our apartment, he would still come back when he got ready to … and every time he came back, he’d argue with my Mom, which would always escalate into a fight.

I’d watch him beat my Mom night after night. I would scream and holler ” please break it up!” I once woke up in the middle of the night just in time to see my Dad holding my Mom as she sat on the ledge of her seventh story bedroom window … with her legs dangling on the outside. The room was dark, and the screen was missing from the window. I stood in their bedroom doorway like a little four-foot black silhouette and watched him shout obscenities, while threatening to push her. I shouted for him to stop and to leave her alone. He turned and looked at me and told me to return to bed. With crocodile tears slowly rolling down my cheeks, I turned around and obeyed my father.

There were many nights and many fights, but none as terrifying as the night he came home and sat my Mom, my sister and myself on the sofa … as his deep...