Black Male
Author’s Note
Black Male was originally published in 1995, however, its basic storyline of “survival with dignity” still resonates in today’s society.
Black Male offers a pragmatic look and gives an endearing nod to the many teachers in the classroom, who are standing strong for their students.
Black Male is an invigorating chronicle filled with wicked suspense, unparalleled twists and turns and side-splitting humor. Black Male is a Compelling Saga about Black Men, who like the oak tree are solid and strong.
Black Male reaches into the lives of Black men and tells a poignant story of survival, victory and success. It provides a strong and forceful, yet sensitive and humane characterization of Black men. It is a Love Story nestled within shock waves of adventure and mystery. Truly a haunting tale that will capture your heart and chill your soul.
BOOK EXCERPTS……
Chapter One
….Russell Thomas High…
….Friday afternoon….
Bang! Bang! Bang! Blood covered his chest. He fell to his knees grimacing with pain. Bang! Bang! Bang! A spray of bullets gutted the young man’s body. He crumpled to the ground and drew his last breath.
Cut! Wow! Tyrone I’m scared of you. That death scene looked too real,” said school counselor, George Good-Bye.
“Tyrone you even made me feel sorry for you and I absolutely, positively swear on your big, pointed, knotty, ugly head that I sho nuff don’t like you”, hooted Little Willie, the trigger man, breaking up with laughter.
The young men were rehearsing their lines for a school play. Tyrone stood and gave Little Willie a playful shove.
“Thanks Mr. G,” responded Tyrone, as he wiped the fake blood from his head and chest. “This is just acting. It don’t even come close to the real horror we see in our neighborhood everyday.
The young men were juniors at Russell Thomas High, located in the city of New Plankton. Dedicated students and best friends, Little Willie and Tyrone excelled in academics and stayed out of trouble. A noteworthy accomplishment, especially when you consider the youngsters lived in a war zone.
“There he goes! Run Scooter run!” exhorted a surprised and amused Little Willie.
“Catch him!” shouted Mr. Good-Bye.
The furry, four-legged critter ran in circles. Round and round he went. Suddenly he stopped. Tyrone tried to scoop him up. The little fur ball would have none of that. For a fleeting second he glanced at Tyrone, made a cute, funny noise, shook his head and wiggled his body. Sounded like he was trash talking, styling and profiling. When the hairy speed-ball finished jammin, he raised his teeny, tiny head and took off like a bat from hell.
Mr. Good-Bye hooped with laughter. “Tyrone your hamster has been watching too much television. You had better catch your pet and put him in his cage.”
Adella, the school nurse, poked her head inside George’s office. Scooter scurried over her feet and out the door.
“Aw sh..,” screeched Adella. “If I ever get a hold of that rat, I’m gonna barbecue his butt!”
Tyrone and Little Willie went chasing after Scooter. “Excuse me, excuse me,” they both hurriedly mumbled, running by Ms. Adella.
George looked at Adella with a silly grin on his face.
“I’m proud of you Adella,” kidded George, “at least this time you didn’t threaten to blow up the building with Scooter in it. That shows real maturity.”
“George read my lips!” Adella mouthed an obscenity and backed out the doorway grumbling, “nothing worse than a smart a.. man.”
George chuckled. He and Adella were true and honest friends. Together they waged mighty struggles for and with the children of Russell Thomas High.
A few minutes later Tyrone and Little Willie returned.
“Where’s Ms. Adella?” asked Little Willie.
“She’s getting her barbecue grill ready,” Mr. Good-Bye responded with the best straight face he could muster.
“That’s not funny,” replied an anxious Tyrone. “Mr. G, you’ve got to help Little Willie and me fix Scooter’s cage. I like Ms. Adella but when it comes to Scooter, she’s worse than a hit man.
Mr. Good-Bye smiled. “Did you catch Scooter?”
“Yes sir and we put him in his cage,” said Little Willie. “Scooter is now safe from Ms. Adella the terminator.”
“What’s happening this week-end? Anything special going on?” Mr. Good-Bye took an active interest in his students.
“Staying alive,” Little Willie declared matter of factly.
A pained look crossed Mr. Good-Bye’s face. He knew Tyrone and Little Willie lived in an environment where Black on Black crime frequently punctuated their lives with random and constant violence. Yet somehow the two youngsters managed to survive.
“Mr. G, I’m sixteen and so is Tyrone,” spoke a pensive Little Willie, “don’t know if we’ll live to be seventeen.”
Tyrone’s head dropped. “We’re scared Mr. Good-Bye. Real scared. Guns go off every night on our block. The police don’t even bother to show up, unless somebody’s been shot. And when the cops finally do come, they treat everybody real bad.”
“They treat us like graveyard dogs,” blurted Little Willie. “The police think we all have guns and do drugs, just cause we live in public housing. No Respect. They dis us all the time.”
Mr. Good-Bye listened intently to the young men’s woeful description of life in their embattled community.
Tyrone lifted his head. “The police come on our block cursing and hollering at everybody. Like they’re so perfect, like they’re some kind of little gods or something. They’ve got real nasty attitudes and don’t think nothing about shoving a Black man’s face into a brick wall, just cause they feel like it.”
As far as I’m concerned there’s no difference between the police, the drug dealers and the gangs,” said Little Willie. “They’re all destroying our neighborhood. It’s like war has been declared on us. Why don’t the politicians and ministers try to do something. Something that will make a difference in our neighborhood.”
I’m sick of politicians,” proclaimed a discouraged Tyrone. “They never come to our neighborhood except during election year. And then they promise to give you the world if you vote for them. After the election is over, they disappear and pretend like we don’t exist.”
“Oh man, the politicians are bad but some of these ministers make drug dealers look good!” exclaimed Little Willie sarcastically. “If they’re not chasing tail, they’re busy building churches, while some members of their congregation swim in a cesspool of blood. These ministers just don’t give a d…”
Tyrone nodded his head in agreement. “Mr. Good-Bye, what good is a minister or politician, if when trouble comes they’re nowhere to be found? Little Willie and I are caught in the middle. We don’t know what to do or where to go and we definitely don’t trust nobody.”
Mr. Good-Bye placed one hand on Tyrone’s shoulder and the other on Little Willie’s back. He looked into their young, worried faces and said with all sincerity, “you can trust me my sons, you can always trust me.”
Tyrone’s eye moistened. A feeling of hope and sense of relief quickly descended upon him. George Good-Bye was becoming the father figure in Tyrone’s life.
Little Willie was not convinced of Mr. Good-Bye’s trustworthiness. Filled with skepticism, Little Willie was growing into manhood in isolation.
The school bell rang. Students spilled out of the classrooms. Empty hallways came alive with animated youngsters. The school day had come to an end at Russell Thomas High. Tyrone and Little Willie made a quick exit. The week-end was here.
“Mr. G you have a phone call. It’s your wife,” announced Tameika, the lean and lanky student aid.
Tameika was scampering out the door when she twirled around in a hurry. Tameika never did anything slowly. It was against her nature and probably against her religion. If she were a hurricane, Tameika would be the eye of the storm. To hear Tameika’s mother tell it, her birth was not so much a labor of love, as much as it was a track meet.
“Mercy me,” laughed Tameika’s mother, “a track star could not have sped through my birth canal any quicker. One minute I was in labor and the next minute Tameika was screaming at the top of her lungs. I’m sure someone heard her in the next county.”
Sixteen years old, five foot nine, long arms and long legs, Tameika cornered her favorite counselor. This jazzy, fast-talking, finger-popping, bubble-gum-chewing, adolescent ball of fire felt compelled to share her thoughts.
Mr. G don’t forget my volleyball game Saturday morning, said Tameika. “I know it wasn’t your fault you missed the last game cause you had to attend a funeral. So I guess I’ll excuse you. But tomorrow, no excuses. You can sleep till eight, then come to my game at nine. I expect to see your face around the place, front row and center. Right here at the Russell Thomas Gym. We are gonna kick butts and take names, cause we’re the baddest volleyball team in the hood and the burbs. And that’s a fact. Period. End of discussion. Alleluia, Amen.”
Before Mr. Good-Bye could say anything, Tameika raised her hand above her head, snapped her fingers twice in the air, then bolted out the door. She was ready to get busy with the week-end.
Tameika’s rush of words left George in a daze. It was never easy to dialogue with that child. At times George needed an interpreter. He hoped his wife, Rosalyn heard part of Tameika’s ramblings. Maybe she could serve as his English interpreter.
George picked up the phone, “Hey baby did you hear Tameika talking? Did you understand …?”
“George I want a divorce! I’m sick and tired of your pitiful counselor’s salary. I need a real man with real money!” shouted Rosalyn Good-Bye.
With no further explanation, Rosalyn hung up the phone.