AT DIFFERENT INTERVALS IN ONE’S LIFE GOD ALWAYS sends someone to take a meaningful interest in you. I don’t care who you are. From the pillars of society to the inmates serving life sentences, God will send you an angel. If someone’s too stupid to take the angel’s advice, that’s their problem. When I was a little kid, He sent Booner and Junior. I didn’t listen so I got myself thrown out the Beans. This time He sent my stepmother, Lynn.
My father was home for only a couple of weeks before he was sent back to prison. He was living the hustler’s life, as people call it. It was one of the more than ten times he made it back to prison. So Lynn was stuck with me and my yet unborn brother, Non Stop. She didn’t run from the responsibility. Like Pearl, Lynn had that type of die-hard resiliency that black women embody. I believe God knew the hardships faced by black men would leave their women out in the cold. So he made them strong. The strength black women possess can’t be found elsewhere. Throughout history they’ve had to defend households while their men were carted off to slavery and later the industrial factories. In my hood the dope game was to blame for the absenteeism.
Lynn was a Seventh-Day Adventist. She spent weekends in church. When she wasn’t there, she worked the graveyard shift. We alternated days to take care of the household. I took some days off at school. She took some days off at work. Lynn tried to provide the best home possible for me where Pearl left off.
Meanwhile, in the classroom Mr. Fudge worked hard to get me back into high school. The school board had actually given me another shot. I won’t ever say something too damaging about the Miami-Dade public school system. They really tried with Maurice Young. After I left Jan Mann, I was sent to another alternative program, called JR Lee, but sure enough I was kicked out of there, too. Project Lee was the last stop on the dropout train. It was where they sent your sorry ass when no other school wanted you. I thought the place would be a mini-vacation before I got permanently thrown out of public high schools. The streets were waiting. I was looking forward to hustling a full twenty-four-hour day. I went to my first class and did what was expected of me. I went to sleep.
“Boy, get your ass up! This look like the damn Holiday Inn to you?” The hand at my shirt collar woke me indeed. Mr. Fudge was bearing down on me like a pit bull at his last meal. I clutched my pen. “I wish you would try and stab me! I’ll knock your ass out!” Fudge yelled. “Walking round here looking like the sorry nigga folks think you are.”
Everyone in the class sat upright. I thought Fudge was out of his mind. The guy had to have a screw or two loose. Didn’t he know the last teacher brave enough to use me as his manhood sounding board ended up with a concussion and put on bed rest for two weeks?
He answered my thoughts. “Trust me, I ain’t Tuttle’s punk ass! I’ll get me evil on you, boy. If you wanna fuck your life up, do it on your own time!” he fumed.
I straightened up, then contemplated fighting. But something about Fudge intrigued me. The dude came to class wearing Dickies shorts and a Malcolm X T-shirt. His shoes were cream-colored wallabies. He reminded me of a hustler in the street. He also had heart.
Fudge was no more than five feet one inch, if he was even five feet. In that class, filled to capacity with misfits, he was taking a big risk by threatening a student. Gangs of students jumped teachers routinely. A good number of teachers spent time in the hospital. Teachers in those alternative programs were actually risking their lives, showing up for an ungodly $30,000 annual salary. But that’s another story. I could spend hours discussing the exploitation of the folks we entrust to educate our kids.
When Fudge noticed he’d got my attention, he fixed my collar. He walked back to the chalkboard, grabbed a piece of chalk, and wrote in cap-size letters: S-T-U-P-I-D. Students squirmed in their seats.
“That’s how you look to folks. You look like a bunch of dummies,” said Fudge. “You walk around laughing while you throw your lives away. Are you stupid, young blood?” Fudge pointed the chalk my way.
“Nah,” I replied.
I aced most math quizzes when I gave even a 10 percent effort. English and grammar were my favorite subjects. With all the bullshit going on in my hood, I enjoyed writing short stories. Those fictional characters I made up took me far away from the Beans. In minutes, Fudge got all of us teenage misfits to sit transfixed, hanging on every word he uttered.
His story mirrored most of ours. He told us about growing up in the projects. We could relate to Fudge. Folks think ghetto children always need some ballplayer or movie star to pop up in the hood for kids to listen. Kids see right through that. They may be excited for the first ten minutes, but they know that celebrity is going back to his fantasy life far away from where they are. It doesn’t take a million bucks in your bank account to be a hero. All one has to do is take an interest. Fudge gave a damn.
Most of the kids in Project Lee just wanted someone to piss their way. They wanted someone to take notice for five seconds. That’s why you have to pay attention to kids when they begin to misbehave. They spend years kicking and screaming for attention. When that doesn’t work, they shoot and rob. By that time the courts say lock their sorry asses up. They can get all the attention they need staring eye to eye with a crazed cellmate. Fudge told us about our roots in Africa.
“That’s right. We were kings and queens before they hauled us over here in chains,” Fudge would say. “Young blood, you got royal blood flowing through your veins.” Fudge said I was related to kings and queens. For a kid growing up in the Beans amid the addicts, hookers, and winos, this knowledge was earth-shattering. That some young dude my age who looked like me back in Ghana was being called prince rocked my world. He probably had some hot girl powdering his pecker.
Up until that point, we only learned that we were slaves. Black history began and ended with my ancestor calling some white guy massa. Fudge’s lessons gave me confidence. I really looked up to Fudge. He made me believe I could become something worthwhile. I completed my eighth-grade requirements and earned my seat in the ninth grade. I was there only several weeks before the inevitable happened. I just wasn’t cut out for the classroom.