THE TRUTH
08-07-2004, 08:38 PM
I was working on this and my phone rang when I got to where the piece ends. I won't finish it because I was sidetracked and lost the inspiration; but I thought I'd post it up to get feedback.
Chapter One
I should be proud of myself; I went from a lazy, drug-dealing, unintelligible lowlife to a highly paid professional liar who doesn’t really care about any of his clients. It’s a step up I’d say. Of course I wasn’t any of those things they made me out to be then; and similarly I’m not any of those things they make me out to be now. Instead I remain a victim to the same stereotypical, poisonous antics that the hood digested when I was growing up—and what’s worse is that we bread our babies and had them grow up on that same shitty formula. It’s only obvious those children don’t develop at a rapid enough pace, or with enough self-worth to speak out against the corruption that rages around them. But then there’s always a handful of people that were kept away from that formula—or who got smaller doses—striving to do better, who understand that life didn’t begin this way for us and it sure as hell won’t end this way either.
I smiled as he told me the story. Again.
“I aint done nothin’, man,” he said, “the police rolled up on me started diggin’ through my pockets talking some shit bout the Misuse ah Drugs Act. Some fuckery like that.”
“Yeah, you’ve told me the story at least fifty times already,” I responded.
“Juss makin’ sure you got ‘em facts straight ‘cause I can’t have you fuckin’ up when we get inside.”
“Nah. I don’t fuck up; but you have to remember this: you shot a policeman.”
You can call me just another head-case—or maybe even extremist—but I was proud of my client. Deep inside I felt his actions were more of what we needed as a people. Not to become criminals, but to stand up for ourselves in whatever way we knew how. I never expressed those sentiments to him, and I would never, but his story lent me encouragement. After all, how many abuses by the police—which are just another faction of the run-of-the-mill oppressors—how many abuses does it take before the abused is supposed to strike back?
“Listen, I understan’ what ya sayin’, but I can’t be going to jail for life,” my client said.
“You’re already in jail. It’s just that where you may be going the jail has bars—and if you’re lucky a toilet in your room.” I didn’t know if he would understand the reality with which I was speaking.
“Whateva, man.” My client shook his head, his hair an impressive array of cornrows met at the back with long braids.
[SHOULD BE, BUT WON'T BE, CONTINUED]
Chapter One
I should be proud of myself; I went from a lazy, drug-dealing, unintelligible lowlife to a highly paid professional liar who doesn’t really care about any of his clients. It’s a step up I’d say. Of course I wasn’t any of those things they made me out to be then; and similarly I’m not any of those things they make me out to be now. Instead I remain a victim to the same stereotypical, poisonous antics that the hood digested when I was growing up—and what’s worse is that we bread our babies and had them grow up on that same shitty formula. It’s only obvious those children don’t develop at a rapid enough pace, or with enough self-worth to speak out against the corruption that rages around them. But then there’s always a handful of people that were kept away from that formula—or who got smaller doses—striving to do better, who understand that life didn’t begin this way for us and it sure as hell won’t end this way either.
I smiled as he told me the story. Again.
“I aint done nothin’, man,” he said, “the police rolled up on me started diggin’ through my pockets talking some shit bout the Misuse ah Drugs Act. Some fuckery like that.”
“Yeah, you’ve told me the story at least fifty times already,” I responded.
“Juss makin’ sure you got ‘em facts straight ‘cause I can’t have you fuckin’ up when we get inside.”
“Nah. I don’t fuck up; but you have to remember this: you shot a policeman.”
You can call me just another head-case—or maybe even extremist—but I was proud of my client. Deep inside I felt his actions were more of what we needed as a people. Not to become criminals, but to stand up for ourselves in whatever way we knew how. I never expressed those sentiments to him, and I would never, but his story lent me encouragement. After all, how many abuses by the police—which are just another faction of the run-of-the-mill oppressors—how many abuses does it take before the abused is supposed to strike back?
“Listen, I understan’ what ya sayin’, but I can’t be going to jail for life,” my client said.
“You’re already in jail. It’s just that where you may be going the jail has bars—and if you’re lucky a toilet in your room.” I didn’t know if he would understand the reality with which I was speaking.
“Whateva, man.” My client shook his head, his hair an impressive array of cornrows met at the back with long braids.
[SHOULD BE, BUT WON'T BE, CONTINUED]