Chapter 2
Success is to be measured not so much by the position that one has reached in life as by the obstacles which he has overcome while trying to succeed.
—Booker T. Washington
BY 1977, WE WERE LIVING IN the Gowanus area of Brooklyn where the neighborhood had a remote feel, like we were on our own island within the city. There were modest rowhouses surrounded by large industrial warehouses and a canal that was almost two miles long and at one point was the nation’s busiest. Unfortunately, it was also unregulated, so by the time we lived there, it was very polluted from the area factories and rumored to be a mob dumping ground. The color of the water got so bad that we called it “Lavender Lake.” In the summertime, you could smell it from blocks away.
One of the things I liked about the neighborhood was that, just as when I was growing up, the people were very diverse. There were Blacks, Whites, Asians, all different types of folks. I liked that my kids were exposed to other people and other cultures. My grandmother’s focus on racism always stuck with me. I felt fortunate that we didn’t seem to face that issue nearly as much as she had.
I was twenty-six when my husband passed away, and even with the help of grandparents on both sides and other family, it was not easy for us. The money Bernard brought into the house wasn’t a lot, and it wasn’t always steady income, but it was something. Without him, I felt like I was drowning financially. I didn’t feel right moving our family into Gowanus public housing and living on government assistance, but I realized that I didn’t have any other options. We referred to it as “the luxury projects.” The fact was that I couldn’t earn enough money on my own to support all of us, which included not only my three kids but also my three stepchildren: Lorraine, Ella, and Elliott Bernard.
Taking care of them by myself was beyond difficult, but I was determined to make sure all the children had a fair shot at a good life away from the dangers of the street. Living in that small apartment with my three children was an exercise in patience and organization. In addition, my stepdaughter, Ella (who we called Lynette), lived with us and the other two visited often. I worked hard to keep everyone on their schedule and make sure they got along under the crowded circumstances. Without a lot of money, I did the best I could. Despite the crowded conditions, I didn’t mind it so much. I was raised with so many relatives around all the time that it felt natural. My parents and other family members pitched in often to help. That was one thing I could always count on. We would all come together when one of us needed help.
No matter what struggles we had to overcome, I was very focused on everyone getting a good education and taking school seriously. My stepchildren (whom I just referred to as my kids) were older, so they started school first. Then Eric began public school in 1976, and in 1979 he was bused to PS 27 across town. Emery began school two years later, and then Ellisha. Finally having them all in school allowed me to work and start earning a little money. That gave me hope that one day we would be able to afford a place of our own.
After high school, my first job was with the New York Telephone Company, and then I worked at the New York Stock Exchange and at the World Trade Center. Once Bernard passed, I managed to go back to school to get a degree. I knew I was going to need one to care for the children properly. I finally got a job at the post office and was promoted to account technician. Working there helped me start to get on my feet and provide for my family. Later I was able to get the position with the New York City Transit Authority.
As the years passed, despite the difficulties, one of the true joys for me was watching the children develop and grow. Their personalities really started to come out, and as a mother, it was wonderful to be a part of that. When I had time I dated sporadically, but I didn’t have a serious boyfriend for a while, so it was mostly me and the children.
With the boys being just two years apart in age, as they grew up it was hard to remember who was oldest because Emery saw himself as the man of the house. He had more of a take-charge personality, and he was always getting into something. He would often come home with an animal he had found somewhere. One day he brought a garden snake into the house as a pet. I sometimes gave in to him because he did step up and assume responsibility for the family. He was a very bright child and a natural leader.
Eric was much more laid back; he was not as intense and driven as Emery. With Eric it was more about relationships with others and making friends. As he got older, he was also more politically aware than the rest of us. Eric would watch the news and read the paper, always talking about what the government was up to and keeping us informed.
The one thing that Eric and Emery agreed on was that they needed to watch over their baby sister and help her to make good choices. Ellisha complained that they were overprotective, and I’m sure it felt like that to her, but they did not want her getting mixed up with the wrong crowd. They were strict about when she could go out of the house and always had to know where she was going and who else would be there.
When my stepchildren got older and moved out, I thought things would get easier because there were fewer children to care for, but then my brother passed away. I took in his three children—Stevie, Kimberly, and Lil Joe—because they didn’t have anywhere else to go and I was very close to them. I loved them like my own anyway and wanted to do what I could to help. The other children probably weren’t too happy about having to share their apartment and their mother again, but they realized that was what we had to do to get by. When one of us needed help, everyone pitched in without question.
I did such a good job of shielding the children from our impoverished conditions that they often made comments about how rich we were. I said, “How can we be rich? We live in the projects!” It was true that our Christmas celebrations were a sight to behold. It’s surprising that even without a lot of money, I was able to scrimp and save throughout the year to make sure they had a special day. One time, a friend of mine brought over some money and used them to decorate our Christmas tree. It had a $50 bill on the top and tens, fives, and ones on the lower branches. No one had ever seen anything like it, and the children stared at it for hours, never daring to touch the dollars that tempted them.
Eric was very much into sports as a kid, especially basketball, and when he got older his attention shifted to football. I was always cautious about athletics because of his past health problems, but he could run. Eric wasn’t in the Boy Scouts, but he was in the cadets. He went to a local center where they taught how to march in formation. I was always impressed that he wasn’t afraid to try new things like that.
We were in public housing until Eric was in the ninth grade, and I was excited when he went to the same junior high that I had attended. He had been attending PS 27 on Huntington and Columbia Streets in the Red Hook section of Brooklyn, which is where a lot of kids from the projects went. After he graduated from PS 27, he found out he would be attending MS 51 on Fifth Avenue in Park Slope. He came home and said, “I’m going to be going to 51. Mom, didn’t you say you went to that middle school?” I said, “Yeah I did.”
In fact, I had a great time attending William Alexander Middle School and got good grades. There was a diverse mix of students, and they offered lots of programs to keep the children interested in learning. It was mostly working-class folks when I went there, but today the area has been gentrified and the school is celebrated for its gifted and talented program and its dedication to diversity.
I wondered whether any of my old teachers were still there. When I went back to visit, I found out my vice principal had a new title: “Dean of the Boys.” He had the thankless job of chasing us kids off school grounds if we were out there goofing off or playing punchball. When I saw him, I said, “You may not remember me, but my son will be coming here, and you will be his dean.” He said, “Oh, yeah, I remember you.” I asked where all the teachers were, and most had moved on or retired. We had a nice conversation, and I felt very comfortable with Eric going to the school. I was especially excited when I found out that Eric loved junior high. One of his favorite classes was home economics, where the students learned basic skills like how to cook. The teacher said that any time they were going to cook, Eric would volunteer to help out whenever he was needed. He really flourished in that school.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying my son was perfect. Well, he was in my eyes, but I knew that there might be problems in school. In fact, one day he came home and said, “Ma, you gotta come up to the school.”
Oh, no , I thought, here it comes. He has gotten into some real trouble. I remembered some of my classmates who were always acting up, and I hoped Eric would not take that path. I asked, “What did you do?”
He said, “The teacher will tell you, but it wasn’t my fault.”
“Have you been disrespectful? What is it?”
He said,
“No, it wasn’t me.”
I was not in the mood for any foolishness, and I didn’t want to find out that Eric was playing around in class. When I got over to the school, the first thing the teacher said was “It wasn’t Eric’s fault.” I guess she could see that I was a little upset. I did not want to get into the habit of having to take off work for a school visit. Eric’s teacher was quick to calm me down. “We were in the cooking class, and we were going to bake cakes. I told all the boys to write down the recipe. Eric was sitting at his desk and writing as he was instructed. I think he had just gotten a haircut.” I nodded yes. “Well, this boy came by and popped him in the back of the head. Eric turned around and yelled at the boy. I told them that if anyone throws a lick, they are suspended. Eric looked over at the other boy and then took the cake mix off the table and slung it out of the window. That was his way of getting out his frustration without getting in a fight, but I still had to let you know what happened.”
I was relieved that he never really had any trouble in school. Eric would always do his homework; in fact, he would even do it in other classes. In math class, he would do his science homework. In science, he would do his English homework. The teachers would constantly tell him that they appreciated that he kept up with his studies, but he needed to do that at home. When I would ask him if he’d done his homework, he would always say yes, and he would show it to me. Here’s what one teacher wrote in his yearbook: Eric, good luck in high school, work hard, and you will succeed. Remember, if you want to get that piece of paper (diploma) you’re going to have to make some changes. You can do it! Remember the T.H.S. code you recited at graduation, it will help you in high school. Mr. Russel.
In the summer, Eric loved swimming. “Mama, are we going to the pool?” I wasn’t crazy about those pools because as a mother I always felt they were dirty, but of course the children did not care. As a compromise, I would let them go once in a while. My mother lived across the street from the beach, so in the summer they went there a lot. They got to visit the beach, and my father took them fishing. They loved experiencing such a different way of life when they visited their grandparents.
While Eric was easygoing and Emery was always looking for a way to begin a career in business, Ellisha was my activist. When she was barely a teenager, she developed a strong interest in justice and the fair treatment of others, especially Black folks. When she was only around twelve years old, she even convinced me to let her go with a friend to march through the streets of Howard Beach to protest the treatment of the White defendants in Michael Griffith’s death. I admired her drive and commitment. I was much too reserved to even think about getting involved in something like that. It just wasn’t on my radar, but I learned a lot from watching Ellisha.
In 1987 when Eric was seventeen, he graduated from my high school exactly twenty years after I had graduated from there. I was very proud that he chose to attend Ohio Auto Diesel Technical School after high school to learn a trade. My firstborn was going to college! In preparation, I shopped every day leading up to the time for him to leave. I was going back and forth to the store buying pillows, sheets, and even raincoats.
“Ma, why are you buying all this stuff? I don’t need no raincoat,” Eric said.
“Yes, you do,” I insisted.
We were equally excited when it was time to visit the school and see the room he would stay in. I had a cousin in Cleveland who said she would take us over there. We went and stayed at her house, and she drove us to the school the next day. It was a beautiful place, and I couldn’t have been more excited for my college student. It was a four-year program, and I was sure he could do it since he had always enjoyed school.
He was studying car mechanics, and when he came home over Christmas break, of course I went overboard to celebrate the holiday with our new college student. He spent the next summer at home and then went back in the fall, but when he returned the next Christmas, he told me he was quitting. We had never imagined that there would be issues with his breathing, but when he worked on cars during the program, the fumes and smells severely triggered his asthma. Unfortunately, he would not be able to follow his dream. I respected his decision, but inside I was crushed. I wanted the best for my children, and that meant a solid education. One thing I do know is that the world is wide, and the world is tough. As young Black adults, they would need every possible advantage to have a fighting chance at a good life. I just hoped his asthma would finally get under control and he could get “off the pump” at some point. I know he didn’t like using those inhalers.
It always amused me to see how different my children were. I knew they had their own distinct personalities, but as they matured, their interests did as well. Emery was the artist, and he loved to draw. As a child, one of his favorites was Snoopy, and he continued to develop his talent. He eventually got a job doing some freelance artwork for Forbes magazine. Emery was always on his grind and would do anything to earn money. During high school he took many odd jobs, including a stint as a doorman, which he enjoyed because of all the celebrities he would meet. He had big plans for his future, and I couldn’t wait to see how far he could go.
In the meantime, Eric worked for Greyhound for a little while and even in some auto mechanic shops, but his asthma returned, and those places weren’t good for his health. He loved being involved with cars, but the chemicals and smells didn’t agree with him. Eventually, he worked at the Parks Department, and he was a natural thanks to those summers of gardening with his grandfather. Then life changed dramatically in 1988 when Eric got married, and two years later he had his first child. He was a natural father, but supporting a family proved difficult. Without any marketable skills, the most he could hope for were minimum wage jobs that barely paid enough to support one person, much less a family.
I understood his situation completely because I had been through it myself. I had worked various jobs to make money after the children got older, and in 1993 I started at the Metropolitan Transportation Authority as a conductor. It was shift work, mostly overnights, but it was steady money, and I hoped that it showed all the kids how important it was to have a good job. I was trying my best to set a good example for them as a single parent, especially for Ellisha. I wanted her to see that as Black women we can make our own way despite the obstacles.
My Ellisha was very independent and headstrong. I would hear Emery and Eric scold her about making sure she behaved in school and got good grades. Whenever she was in trouble, Emery would warn her, “Keep it up. Look at what everybody else is out here doing and you’re not doing anything. You’re going to be left behind.” He was trying to fill that fatherly role and was genuinely concerned. His words had an effect on her briefly, but then at seventeen she got pregnant and left school to have her daughter. When my granddaughter, Chayla, was born I thought she was the most precious baby, and I was there when she came into the world.
As was typical of their personalities, Eric shrugged off her pregnancy while Emery and her cousin Lil Joe were worried for her and her future. Of course, I was too. Raising a family without a partner was not something I wished on anyone. The struggles and worries had been overwhelming for me, and I didn’t want that for her. When she was nineteen, Ellisha and her daughter moved out on their own. She worked in various positions at places like the New York State Division of Veterans Affairs and Philip Morris.
We all go through tough times, and we usually come out on the other side. We learn a valuable lesson about perseverance and determination. I’ve had my share, but I can honestly say that 1996 was just a horrible year. It started out bad and ended even worse. Someone told me about that trick where you write down a bad memory on a piece of paper and burn it as a way of healing and moving forward. If I had thought of it, I would have written down “1996” and burned it in the biggest fire I could have found. In January of that year, I had to say goodbye to my father, Joseph Flagg. He was the patriarch of our family, the rock, my biggest supporter. He and my mother had helped me raise the children from infancy to adulthood. They welcomed them for weekends and summers and came to my place when I needed them. They were always there until January 31, 1996, when my father passed away.
It had been many years since my husband had transitioned, and I had almost forgotten how painful that gaping hole in the heart can feel. Navigating a landscape that did not include my father was unimaginable. He was such an integral part of the family that his loss was difficult for all of us. That was how the year started out, and in October yet another tragedy befell our family.
Sometimes, as an escape, I would take some money that I had saved and go to the casinos. It was a way to relieve stress and feel that jolt of adrenaline when the alarm went off and lights swirled around in a world of manufactured excitement. On some trips I won and on others I lost, but that feeling of infinite possibility was heady. I couldn’t get that feeling anywhere else. My life was structured and routine. Granted, that was by choice. With most of the kids doing their own thing, my focus was on work and seeing everyone on the weekends. Gambling allowed me to escape my everyday life and enter a world of excitement and glamor. Being in the vicinity of high rollers and big money somehow gave me a greater sense of worth. I was there along with everyone else. My wins and losses were not even in their league, but that didn’t matter. I had a seat at the table.
These casino trips were a brief diversion, an exotic escape bookended by the realities of life. Winning gave me confidence and boosted my self-esteem. I’d get an electric charge when I won, and that was a feeling I couldn’t duplicate while driving a train for the MTA. I had my little tricks too. I’d set my limit before going and would only surpass it if I won small amounts that I would use to continue playing.
In October 1996, Ellisha and I made our way to Atlantic City for one of those casino getaways. She was fun to travel with, and she enjoyed a little gambling as well. However, during this trip, I had an odd sensation; something didn’t feel right. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I have always followed my instincts, and something just felt off.
When we returned home, ready to assimilate into regular life again, we got horrible news: Emery had been in Harlem and was shot five times. Apparently, five guys had robbed him and then shot him. Ellisha told me to stay home while she went to the hospital to assess the situation. I appreciated that because my intuition had been right; something was wrong. I needed to get myself together. Ellisha told me that when she saw Emery, he looked huge in the small hospital bed and his face was severely swollen. He told her that he was fine, but of course I had to see for myself.
The next day I went to the ICU to see my boy. I couldn’t believe how horrible he looked. I knew it would be bad, but he was almost unrecognizable. We both started crying immediately. For me, it was a release of all the anxiety and worry that had gathered in my heart. It was horrible seeing my child in such pain.
Always the protector, Emery told me, “Don’t worry. The worst part is over with.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “You have a long way to go. How did this happen?”
“I told you, I was robbed.”
Now, I was not as innocent and oblivious as my children often thought. I knew what went on in those streets. It was hard out there, especially for young Black men. Jobs were not easy to come by, and the jobs that were available didn’t pay much. I knew it was a frustrating position for my children to be in, but that was their hand in life and it was up to them to play it to the best of their ability.
The brutal attack on Rodney King and the rioting that followed in Los Angeles in 1992 reminded us of the dangers of being Black in America. Police brutality was talked about, but when the chaos and savagery was finally captured on a camcorder, there was undeniable proof of the treatment that we had to endure as Black folks. When those images were transmitted to every living room in the country, it was a wakeup call, especially to Whites, to see how our people were treated. I was fascinated by the fact that someone had been able to film those horrors and expose America’s ugly secret.
After those officers were acquitted of the crimes against Mr. King, the crimes that had been caught on film , we were all shocked. I could not understand how anyone could look at that and decide that they should not be punished. No one should ever be treated the way Mr. King was. It was like his life was meaningless to them, like he was nobody. How could anyone ever watch a film of such cruelty and not convict the perpetrators?
We all understood why the riots began. I had some familiarity with these issues because of Eric’s interest in politics and Ellisha’s activism. I was proud of them for their passion and dedication to racial equality, but I was scared too, and that video was what I feared most. As a mother, I couldn’t imagine how the King family felt watching that happen to their kin. At the time I didn’t think that I’d be able to survive if something like that happened to one of my children.
I had tried to keep the channels of communication with them open as they grew up. We talked about what it was like out in the streets, the brutality and inequality that seemed to become more of an issue with each passing year. I told them that there were things police do to people of color, especially men, and it was important for them to be very careful when they were out in the city. It was the talk all mothers in the Black community are forced to have with their children—an unfortunate tradition.
If any of my children did run into trouble, they would usually tell me about it, saying they hadn’t done anything wrong. I knew that it was very possible that they were innocent, but I also knew what teenagers could get into, and I’m sure that sometimes it was warranted. I tried to stress that it was important that they do the right thing. Both of my sons sold drugs when they were young men, though I didn’t know it at the time. Of course, they never brought it to the house—they knew better than that—but I started to hear things.
There was a neighbor around the corner who was a conservative type of guy. He was usually quiet, but when he got drunk it was a different story. He would walk through the neighborhood searching for someone to talk to. Actually, that was how we found out a lot of the neighborhood gossip. He was a real talker. One day he came knocking on my door. I wasn’t going to open, but I was curious what he would say.
“Gwen,” he said with breath that smelled of the devil, “I need to talk to you. I hope you know your son is selling drugs.”
Now he had my attention. “Who?” I asked.
“It’s Emery. I know for a fact that he’s out here selling them drugs and running with that rough crowd. I thought you already knew. Everybody else does.”
I guided my tipsy neighbor to the door and said goodnight. I knew he was as drunk as he could be, but I did wonder if what he said was true. A few weeks later, I found myself alone with Emery and knew it was the right time. “So, you’re out here selling drugs, huh? You think I don’t know what’s going on? Remember, that’s what took your father out when you were just a toddler. If that’s what you are really doing, it will come to light.”
He would never admit it to me because he didn’t want to disappoint me, but I knew I was right. Emery ended up getting arrested a few times. Eric also had a few run-ins with the law. Eric had been arrested for pot possession in 1988 and had a few more incidents over the years. I would tell both of them that if they went to jail, I would not come to see them. I was not coming down there because they knew I had a phobia about those bars. I did not what to hear that heavy metallic clang behind me as the bars closed, locking me inside. Despite my fears, of course I went, and I helped them if I could. If they had to serve some time, I wrote them letters and sent care packages like they were in camp, but I didn’t like what they had done. I was so upset they would choose that road in life. Later, they would say they didn’t mean to hurt me. They never really used hard drugs that I knew of, but they did sell them to earn money. I never liked that, but I also realized that there wasn’t much I could do.
I understood the struggle that young Black men face when it comes time to go out on their own. In too many places, racism and preconceived stereotypes prevent them from being able to find decent jobs. They are expected to be the provider for their family, but that becomes difficult when they can’t get a job that pays a decent wage. Being young and impatient, they find other ways to make more money, even when they know it’s not right. I’m not an expert, and I don’t know how that cycle got started, but to create real change we need to come together to find a way to stop it.
When Emery was in the hospital that October, I was sure that it had something to do with drugs and hanging around the wrong people, but the only thing I could do at that point was help him get better. He was twenty-four years old and his own man. I would give my opinion, but it was his life to lead. Once he was able to move around, he was on the go again. He took another trip upstate with a girl he was seeing. I wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, but I knew that Ellisha was concerned as well. Emery did like his wine and Hennessy, and Ellisha warned him to go easy because he was still healing.
After he got back from that trip, he seemed to be feeling a little better, and he was back to being a baller, showing everyone that he could earn that paper. One way that he tried to placate us when we asked too many questions was to buy things. He paid for Ellisha’s room to be painted and even got her pink carpet. He did other things around the house, too, and his latest promise was that he would buy me a new washing machine. Lord knows that I needed one, but I was not interested in dirty money, and I expressed that. He assured me that I was worrying for nothing.
On December 8, 1996, I came home from work at 6:00 a.m., as usual, to find that the family had gathered at my apartment. I felt my stomach flip-flop inside me as I pushed through the front door. “Where’s my mother?” I thought maybe something happened to Mama after we’d already lost Daddy. I was so scared. My sister Sharon told me to sit down, and I said, “No, just tell me what happened. Something bad has happened, hasn’t it?” She couldn’t do it, so Ellisha told me three words that changed my life forever: “Emery is dead.”
You know what that moment felt like? It was as if I had been swallowed up by an ocean wave, like I had been smothered with so much force that I couldn’t move. Like the undercurrent was pulling me out to sea forever. They said that I let out a bloodcurdling scream that was so full of pain that everyone broke down crying. I don’t remember that. I just kept picturing little Emery growing up, taking charge of the family, comforting me when I was stressed or upset about something. Picturing him like that was the only way I could cope. I just used my memory to push reality off into a dark corner.
Ellisha and the others handled the funeral arrangements because I could barely function. I wasn’t sleeping or eating. I didn’t talk to anyone, didn’t go out, and didn’t go to work. It was December, so my house was fully decorated as usual in anticipation of our favorite day of the year. After I got that news, Christmas lost its meaning for me. How could I celebrate when one of my own children had been taken from me? It was simple—I couldn’t. The fact was that I couldn’t let him go. I was not willing to accept it, because I knew that once I did that meant it was real, and I wasn’t sure I could survive that.
Much later, Ellisha and the others gave me the details about what had happened. They told me more about some of the things he had done. He had been swallowed up by the dark side of life on the streets. It was a side he never allowed me to see. Apparently, his trip upstate with the lady was not just a vacation but also a “business opportunity.” He had said that he needed to pick up some things and would be right back. Then Ellisha got a call from a friend of Emery’s and he was crying. He told her that Emery had died in his sleep. Ellisha was livid. “What was y’all doing? Did he drink alcohol? He was still healing!”
Ellisha called the local police, and they told her that they couldn’t give her information over the phone, but they confirmed that her brother had passed away and someone needed to come identify the body. Ellisha called her uncle, who was a cop, and he went up there with Eric and cousin Stevie. They found out that my son, my little Emery, had been shot once in the back of the head. I still can’t make sense of that statement. I see the words, but together they don’t mean anything to me. Emery will always be my son, and I won’t think of him in any other way. I can’t.
I had just spoken to Emery before I went to work that night. He had a son and told me that he had put all his boy’s Christmas toys on layaway. “I know you told me you need a new washing machine, so I’m buying you one for Christmas,” he reminded me. I said, “Oh really?” After his death I tried my best to find the store that had those toys on layaway. I know it didn’t make sense, but I thought that if I could find them and get them, I would somehow have a piece of Emery. I would have the last things he bought, things he had put thought into. I called and visited every store I could think of. Other family members told me to give up, that maybe there wasn’t a store, maybe there weren’t any toys, but I didn’t believe them. I still don’t.
The only way I was able to cope was to shut down. It was the only thing I could control. I fell into a depression that was as dark and scary as any hell could ever be. I lost more than sixty pounds because I just didn’t have an interest in food, or anything else for that matter. Eric was destroyed by the news, too. He tried to be stoic and strong, but he had moments when I could see that he was hurting. Someone had murdered his brother, my son. It was incomprehensible. Eric wasn’t the vengeful type, but he was definitely angry about it.
Eventually, Eric did get better, and talking to him even helped me get to a place where we could at least acknowledge what had happened. It was still a tender subject, and I could only touch on it briefly and then move on, like a finger on a hot stove. I felt that if I lingered too long, the pain would come back again, even stronger. I was just glad that I had Ellisha and Eric close by. We found out that the police caught the man who was responsible on another charge and he was locked up. It wasn’t really the closure I thought it would be, though, because it didn’t alter the fact that my life had been changed.
Emery was gone.