But I can’t swim

As you already know if you’ve been following along, I joined the Navy in ’95. In boot camp there are many different skill assessment test, like the gas chamber (check my archives for that story), firefighting, arms readiness, and of course swimming.
Out of all of the military branches I decide to go into the Navy… but I can’t swim. (I see the look on your face.) I know, I know, but I figured if I was going to join one of the Armed Services it wasn’t going to be one where I had to shoot someone, or if I was going to be a casualty they would have to shoot a missle at me versus a hail of bullets or a land mine. I went into the military because I felt I had no other options. But I digress.
Anywho, on the day of the first swim assessment, nerves betraying us and faces full of fear my division walks into this huge pool house of sorts. There were people in front of us when we got in line, and watching the fear on some of their faces before taking the plunge didn’t help. (Of course the majority of people that were having “water issues” were black. (Chris Rock should do a documentary on that. Lol)
So I climb this ladder to this platform which is 12 feet up. Now we’re adding into the mix my little fear of heights, and wait there’s more, now I have to jump into 12 feet deep water.
I was called forth to the edge of the platform. “Put your toes over the edge, cross your arms over your chest, so your hands rest on your shoulders, and then step off” the swim instructor instructed. I put my toes over the edge and looked down… and backed right the fuck up. I gave him the look of “you want me to do what.”
He repeated the instructions, my feet were not interested in moving, actually neither was the rest of my body. Again, he repeated his instructions as I’m sure he did multiple times before and after my turn.
“Look there are professional divers down there, you think we’re going to let you drown” he asked. Fear would not let me speak. “There’s only one way down” he says. “Well then” I thought to myself, “I guess I have to do this.” I stepped to the edge, again placing my toes just past the edge of the platform, crossed my arms, looked down… and backed right the fuck back up again, arms still crossed, shoulders clenched. (Maybe if it wasn’t so high up then it wouldn’t be so hard for me.)
“If you don’t jump, then I’m going to push you” the instructor yells. Pep talk to self: “okay dude, we have no choice here, we gotta do this and get it over with. Those people down there are not going to let you drown.”
Again I step to the ledge… step off, sank like a rock, arms flailing under water fighting to get back to the top, and had to be pulled up and out.
Giddy because it was now over, but so embarrased that I had to be pulled from the water, I went and sat on the bleacher seats where the other soggy people were.
If you were able to step off into the pool and swim back to the top, your next phase was to wade in the water for five or ten minutes, I forget which. (I probably would have remembered if I went through it.)
After everyone had their first assessment we went back to our barracks. If you didn’t pass that first assessment you had to come back to take a less strenuous test until you have some type of swim rating. I got the lowest rating because the extent of my water survival was being able to float on my back. Which, as the instructor who was there the last time I went to get assessed said, is all I really need since I was going to be in a submarine anyway.
There’s no swimming if your already 1500 feet under water.

Chalk it up to an eventful day

Last Friday started off as many a day before. I kissed my wife and oldest son goodbye and wished them a good day. Wearing olive green tshirt and sweater, blue jeans and brown boots I waited for my bus to take me to New York. (Subconsciously I must’ve dressed in army colors because I knew I was going to have a war with my patience.)
When I arrived at work I sent my wife a text message to tell her how much she means to me and that I thank God that we have eachother. (Again, subconsciously I must’ve been preparing her for the news coming later.) I did my usual morning routine of running reports on the previous day’s business and handed those reports out. As I was heading to the restroom, a coworker pulled me to the side and asked me if I had seen the email. He showed me the email which told the adressee to report to the auditorium at 8:30; it was adressed to everyone in my division.
At this point I knew what I had been expecting to come for the past six months (since my company did a reorganization and moved people around but didn’t affect their pay) was now about to go down.
The division sat in the auditorium waiting for what seemed to be forever but was only a few minutes. The CEO and chairman of the company as well as the president of my division entered the auditorium with worry written all over their faces. The CEO told us how business had been failing as most of us already knew and that this day there would be some changes in the organization. Some of us would be continuing our employment and some would not, due to division mergings. He instructed us to go back to our desk where there would be an envelope on our desk informing us where we were to go next. He wished those who would be leaving good luck in their future endeavors.
The mood was quite melancholy on the elevator ride back to our floor. We wished eachother good luck upon exiting the elevator and went to our desk to see what our envelopes said. Mine instructed me to meet in one of the conference rooms on my floor at 9:30. I was about 90% sure that it meant I was getting laid off. I wasn’t 100% sure, but I packed my stuff up anyway.
The meeting confirmed my assumptions. I went into the conference room with a smile and my head held high. I even joked with the corporate HR person that was delivering the “bad” news. I wanted to make her a little more comfortable, at least for one of her meetings that day. It wasn’t her fault, and I can only imagine how it feels to have to look someone in the eye and tell them that they no longer have a job. She gave me my package and explained what was inside and we talked a little about how crazy all of this was. I wished her luck in the rest of her dreadful meetings and got my stuff, said my good byes to friends and left, not knowing what the future had in store for me but fully confident in God’s power.
Later that day my wife and I picked my five year old son up from afterschool where we were informed that he had said to another child “if I had a girlfriend, I would suck her dick.” (Yeah that’s the same face I had on when they told us). When he came out of the gym and saw us taling to the facillitators he knew why and went straight for his coat and bookbag. I called him over and asked him if he said what they were saying he said, and he admitted it. (He doesn’t lie, even when he knows he’s wrong. For now anyway. We’ll see when he gets to those teen years. Lol) I asked him where he got that from. (We don’t use that language in my house.) He told me his friend in his class during the day told him that, and he justwas repeating it. Being that he is only five I know that he has no understanding of what he is saying, which the facilitators agreed. I explained to him that he wasn’t in trouble but he had to be sure not to repeat everything that other people say, especially if he doesn’t know what it means, and next time he would be in trouble. (This was his first offense.) We left after explaining that he wouldn’t be back to afterschool, because of my lay-off we needed to cut all possible cost. My little prince cried after we left because he felt badthat mommy and daddy had to talk to him. (He’s really a good kid. I’m sure all parent say that about their kids. Lol)
We went home and packed up the stuff the kids would need for the weekend because they were spending it with my mother and sister. We drove them to the Bronx, dropped them off and headed back home. Upon entering the on-ramp of the highway that would take us to the George Washington bridge to get back to New Jersey, I ran over something that I saw tumbling in my side view mirror afterwards. A mile or two down the road that tire went completely flat. We pulled on to the shoulder. (The thermometer in my truck said it was 19 degrees outside.) At this point my patience tank is on “E” and the warning light is on. I setup my hazard triangle and proceeded to try to get my spare tire down from under the truck. (This took me and a neighbor two hours to do this past summer.)
After an hour of trying to get this tire down, and my wife begging me to take a break I wanted to punch something. I’d had more than enough for one day. I sat in the truck and warmed up a little but needed to explode. I walked about 10 yards away from the truck and let out the loudest scream I have ever and then rinsed and repeated twice. Lol
I gave up my efforts and we called a tow truck that took us to a local tire shop in the Bronx that was open at midnight; Thank God.
He replaced the flat tire and we went home to go to bed and put an end to this “eventful day”. With that said, I know God is good and it could have been a whole lot worse.

Let me upgrade you

Six months after dating my wife, I knew I wanted to make her my wife. One day after work, we were walking to her car and I got on one knee and proposed to her… without a ring. She said yes (I wonder what was going through her head at that point). Asking her these days, she says she didn’t mind, but I don’t know.
About six months later, after I had been layed off from the job I had been at, and collecting unemployment, I bought her an engagement ring… if you can call it that. It was a nice LITTLE ring that I bought from a jewelry store in the South Bronx (ewww). It had a sub par diamond on the crown with three tinier ones (I know that’s not a real word)on each side. Although the ring was little and had it’s flaws, there was a lot of love behind it.
That ring had it’s issues though, a few times a side diamond had to be replaced because it had fallen out. I can only imagine the look on some of her coworkers and friends faces when they saw that ring. (Where’s the diamond? Lol)
Her jewelry got a lot nicer and diamonds more visible as I kept buying over the years. And I hadn’t bought her another piece of jewelry from South Bronx anymore. I found a jeweler in Manhattan and still use him to buy her jewels.
She still had that ring when we got married, but her wedding band was much nicer, with diamonds you could actually see. A year or so after we were married, around valentines day (not that we celebrate this holiday), I took her little ring and her wedding band to get cleaned at our jeweler. This was really a ruse because I was finally upgrading her to a beautiful carat + ring that rivaled the rocks in her wedding band. I informed her that her rings would be nice and clean by the time she was getting off work and that she could go pick them up before she went out with her girlfriends that night.
After leaving work, she went with one of her girlfriends to the jewelry shop to pick up her cleaned rings. She said that she asked for her rings and was talking to her girlfriend, and when Sammy (the jeweler) gave her the ring, she wanted to take it, but instead sadly told him that he must be mistaken because that wasn’t her ring. “No mistake, this is your ring” he told her. She tried to explain to him that her husband bought in a ring to get cleaned that looked nothing like the ring he was trying to give her. He explained to her that I bought it for her, and gave her the little ring as well. (A great way to start a night of hanging out with the girls huh?)
She said she had to keep showing off the ring that night and telling the story about how I surprised her with it.
From no ring, to a little ring, to a medium sized one, and in a few years, I’ll probably take it up another notch. By the time we’re in our rocking chairs on the porch she might need a sling for her arm so she can wear her ring. I truly hadn’t planned the progression and growth of her engagement ring, but if I had to do it over I think I would have taken the same route, and I will tell my sons to do the same.

Termination

In ’98 I was dating a Peruvian girl from Jersey, and had been dating her for about a year or so when she told me she was pregnant. I was 21 at the time, she was 22 if memory serves me. A week later she tells me that she’s going to get an abortion because there’s so much she wanted to do with her life, and she wants to be married first.
At 21 I was not ready for marriage, but was ready and willing to stand up to the responsibilty of raising this child (that for a week I thought we were having.) I went through different emotions when she told me, from sadness to relief. I only expressed to her the former.
We went to the abortion clinic a few days later. This trip was a little eerie I must admit. When we arrived at the clinic there were people outside with images of unborn and mutilated fetuses (which were quite graphic), as well as having pictures of perfectly healthy babies. Inside, she filled out the forms that were given at the front desk. The thoughts that were going through her mind had to have her shoulders feeling heavy. My thoughts were spinning their own web of confusion in my head. Honestly I was a little bitter at her for deciding to go through with this procedure before discussing it with me, as if I had no say. But what I put on display was support for her and her decision.
Once the procedure was complete and she came out, she looked like she was drained of everything but sadness. We left the clinic and I took her home.
Though the resentment and bitterness was growing within, I still comforted her and tried to be there for her emotionally. But the resentment and bitterness started making me question her motives of getting an abortion. Had she slept with someone else? Could that possible someone else been the father of that aborted fetus?
Needless to say the relationship went downhill from there. I think I no longer trusted her after that and we just started fading away from each other. Nevertheless I am not regretful for her decision, because that could have prevented me from being where I am now, which is in love with my beautiful, wonderful wife of six and a half years and my two little boys.

Disciplinary action

Growing up, I used to get a lot of ass whippings and beatings, with a rare spanking thrown in every now and again. If you’re saying to yourself “those are all the same things”, then I would have to disagree with you. You see, an ass whipping is an uncontrolled spanking; the spanker is caught up in emotion and going to town because they are mad or angry. A beating, if you ask me is when skin is broken and blood is visible from an ass whipping. And a spanking, in my opinion, is a controlled disciplining of a child.
I told myself that I would never beat my children, and I have stuck by that. A child should not get beat. As a parent though, I know that children need a spanking every so often to put them back in line. A non-spanked child winds up screaming and throwing tantrums in aisle three on a Sunday afternoon in your local supermarket.
Here’s what “a friend of mine” does with his five year old son. His son knows that he only has two responsibilities, to listen and not get an attitude when things don’t go his way. He tries to give his son everything in his power, everything he didn’t have, including a father that plays with him, and shows him affection, and allows him to enjoy his childhood. I try, I mean “my friend” tries to instill gratitude and understanding in his son, so when his son doesn’t get what he wants at a given time he understands that he won’t always get what he wants, and there’s no need to get an attitude about it. And that his mommy and daddy tell him things not because they just want to ruin his fun, but because its in his best interest, so he needs to listen.
But as children go, his son tries to test the boundaries, and doesn’t always do the two things he’s responsible for. So when he racks up multiple incidents of catching an attitude, or not listening to his parents, doing what he wants instead, he gets a spanking. “My friend’s” son has had maybe five spankings this year. He says he made sure that he wasn’t angry or upset at the time of the spanking, and he explains to his child after his spanking why he received it. He also explains to his son that he loves him and that it makes him sad to have to spank him. He then gives his son a hug and a kiss and again informs him that he loves him.
I personally like “my friend’s” approach. He and his son have a fantastic relationship in spite of the spankings. I might have to use that approach with my five year old son.

As I previously stated and firmly believe… Children should not be beat, or get beatings!

My first car

Shortly after arriving in Norfolk, Va. in ’96 where I was stationed by the Navy, I got my first car. Credit is thrown at young seamen just as heavily as it is to college kids, so getting a car was quite easy. A buddy of mine who lived in the same barracks had just bought a Geo Tracker as his first car and now could go and please as he saw fit. I needed that mobility in my life, so he took me to the used car dealer where he bought his vehicle.
When we got to Virgina Beach boulevard there were dealerships galore, but somehow it seemed that we ended up at the shittiest looking one of them all. Albeit the cars weren’t horrible and the sales man that I dealt with was cordial enough and determined to sell me a car.
The first car he showed me was a blue honda civic sedan which I believe was an ’88 or ’89 model. I was in love, and was going to buy it… until the bank denied that purchase, as the asking price was too high for them to cover me on. So I had to look for another car. The next car I tried was a red Hyundai Scoupe (this is before Hyundai was a reputable company), which drove beautifully. I took it for a test drive with the salesman in tow. He very quickly realized that I did not know how to drive and didn’t have a license. Do you think he cared? Not in the least. He gave me some pointers during the test drive and told me that if I come back with my learner’s permit he would be able to work the sale.
The next day my buddy with the Geo took me to the local DMV and then back to the dealership. My buddy Edgar was tagging along as well because he was planning on getting a car of his own. I was beaming that I actually passed my written test and excited that I was going to have my first car.
After a little while of paperwork filling out, and faxing and waiting for the bank to fax back I was on the road. Edgar was still riding in the Geo because he didn’t trust my driving. That was a wise decision because I got into a little accident on the way back to the barracks.
Another vehicle passing on my right and I scratched it a little. I was changing lanes and he must’ve been in my blind spot. It was nothing major, but the other driver wanted to make sure the police were involved. As we were waiting for the police to arrive, I’m shitting bricks and wondering what’s going to happen to me. The officer after hearing both sides gave me a ticket for unsafe lane change, and driving without a licensed driver. Edgar got into the car with me after that, so I could drive back to the barracks.
That car was such a headache for me from that day forward. I wound up having to replace the altenator, starter, and engine at different times in the one and half years that I owned it. And of course the warranty had expired. Finally, one day I was pulling out of a parking lot after enjoying a chicken parm sandwhich and the transmission stopped working. Someone helped me push the car back into the parking lot, and I walked away from that car, never to see it again and promising to never, ever, ever again buy a Hyundai.

Don’t answer the phone

My first year or so after arriving at the Naval base in Norfolk,Virginia I lived in the provided living quarters called barracks. One day while sitting in the common area of my barracks watching t.v., one of the pay phones down the hall kept ringing. Annoyed that the ringing was interrupting my watching of MTV, I walked over and answered the phone prepared to tell the persistent person on the other end to go get a life. (This coming from the person who was sitting watching t.v. lol)
A sexy voice on the other end asked for a guy I didn’t know. Accomodating her, I knocked on the door of the room the sexy voice told me the fella would be in. There was no response and when I came back to the phone and informed the sexy voice that the dude wasn’t there I proceeded to give her my mack daddy vibe (yes I stole that from Eddie in Boomerang). Of course she was caught up in the fold of the silk I was spinning over the phone.
I suggested coming over to her house, which she agreed to. She inquired as to whether I had a friend for her sister. Of course I did.
(Red flags should should have been waving all over the place, but at 18 years old and bored I’m sure I wasn’t thinking with the head on my shoulders.)
Excited and anxious to get me some, I go find my boy Edgar that I knew from bootcamp in Illinois. I gave him the run down and he agreed to assume wingman duties. “They better not be ugly” he says.
We get into my car and drive over to the girls’ house. (Their residence was in a part of town I wouldn’t want to be in as a stranger, at night.) An older person let us in and told us to wait in the living room and then they yelled up the stairs to inform the girls we were there. My buddy and I, looking at the pictures on the wall, start getting paranoid. We were truly hoping that the girls we saw in the pictures were not the ones on their way down.
Damn, damn, damn… as the lead girl was coming down the stairs and body parts started coming into view, it was clear that the unattractive obese girls in the pictures were the ones that we were there to meet, and as I thought, get some from. (Picture female “Professor Clump” twins.)
We both began individually thinking about an exit plan. We were cordial, and asked for something to drink, which to our good fortune, they said they had nothing for us. “Oh that’s okay, we’ll go get something from the store, would you like something?” We said, both knowing damn well we would not be returning. After asking for directions to the nearest store, we ran to the car and headed back to the barracks with a story to tell.

For the record, I know that what I did could be looked at as wrong… but ask me if I would do it again.

Sad Anniversary

In ’92 my parents started letting me spend the weekends with my cousin Jamel who lived in a different section of the Bronx. This was big because I really didn’t have much of a life. I didn’t have friends that I hung out with. It was school, home, helping with my younger siblings, and working with my father on 125^th street.

Jamel was almost two years older than me. He was really my mother’s cousin, but his mother was the youngest of my grandmothers’ siblings, so we were closer in age than he and my mother.

It was then that I started living life, and getting into trouble. lol It’s not that he was a bad influence, it was that I was experiencing life. I really looked up to Jamel. He was that cool cousin that I wanted to be like. He had swagger and the chicks liked him. He taught me a lot about myself. I remember squeezing my feet into smaller size sneakers and boots to try to be like his “Mr. Small feet.” We learned a lot about life together.

After a while Jamel began working with me for my father on 125^th street. I believe it was there that our bond became solidified. We became men on 125^th street. We had great adventures together which for the most part either began or ended on 125^th street. We joined the Navy at the same time and both decided to go on Submarines.

Our lives started going in different directions after the Navy, but we always stayed in touch. (I just wish that we had hung out more in our adult lives.) When he decided to join the Fire Department I was a little shocked, but when he told me why I totally understood. He wanted a stable career that would take care of his family, and good insurance. Can’t argue with that.

We spoke little while he was in training because he was working so hard to be the best in his class. He would tell me how he felt like they were singling him out and making him do extra runs up and down stairs with weights on him, but he wasn’t going to let them win. I had asked him when we would be able to hang out… he wanted to wait until he finished training.

The next time I saw him, he was lying in a hospital bed sustained by machines, and the next day he was gone. Today November 11th is the one year anniversary of the death of my brother/cousin, Jamel Sears. I miss him and love him terribly.

http://sosaidhe.wordpress.com/2009/01/29/goodbye-for-now/

Close up view of death

I don’t know if he deserved it, but on that cold winter night on 125th street, I saw him get shot to death.
He couldn’t have been older than 30. He stood in front of Mart 125 in full North Face gear as if he were going on an expedition up mount Everest. I was envious of him because I wanted the North Face pants and matching coat myself. lol
He stood there on his motorola flip phone (You remember that big ass black or grey flip phone from the early nineties) styling and profiling as most dudes on 125th street did, for it was the place to meet chicks if you were looking for one. They all seemed to come through there at some point or another.
I don’t know if he had seen the shooters because I sure didn’t. I just heard the shots, and ducked between some cars. After the gunfire ceased, I checked on my grandmother and joined the crowd that had gathered around to see the mix of blood and brains that was pooling around this young man. The police arrived a short while later to find no witnesses of course.
I wasn’t too excited about getting North face pants and coat after that.
God bless and R.I.P. stranger – you inspired this poem:

Curtain Call

The summer of 93 was hot; it was like hell up in Harlem

On 2-fif with a spliff, your boy was a problem

I’d claim that me and the dude that invented the game were one in the same

You could say those were the days I perfected my hustling ways

For, I’m a baby of the eighties

You know… The hustling days

It was a hot Wednesday night, you hear me

Funny enough, I blacked out but I remember it clearly

I thought I built my team strong, still… They were able to get near me

I got hit hard, and it seemed that scenes of my life flashed before me

I called on God, but since it was the first time I guess he ignored me

I was shocked because unlike other crews mine’s loyalty wasn’t enforced by fears

They rang out loud; I felt them before their notes hit my ears

All four hurt like a hell, but I’m a soldier so… I hid my tears

The crowd that had disappeared when the bullets were flying

Now crowded around me, many asking if I was dying

Crack heads going in my pockets, a child in the distance crying

I can’t move a muscle, yet I see my arm twitching and jerking

I don’t feel a thing the I.V. He’s giving me must be working

Wait that’s a knife and he’s continuously sticking me

That’s when I realized I was no longer living “physically”

Just then a black old school Caddy pulled up to the curb

And a dude with a pimp perm stepped out smelling of herb

He motioned for me to join him in his vehicle

I started floating towards him, almost as if… I needed to

Passing my body lying there in a pool of blood and the crowd

When I sat in the car, there were lyrics coming from the speaker

The driver turned it up loud

 It’s… Hardly a party when the brain over flows… And explodes… And
the blood, it… Trickles down your nose… And no one knows… you’ve
been exposed… To the truth unclothed… And you loath… those days
and the lies you told… Your hand you fold… You can no longer hold…
You want to walk away… No… you want to run…
Your body gets cold… You’re no where near old… The times were good
while they lasted… It sure was fun
crack sold… blunts rolled… cars stole… heart cold… you blame
pops for not stopping you… from being rotten too… for, you were made
in his mold
here and now you lie… on the pavement with minutes to die… you
uncontrollably cry… asking God why… although you know… you know
the answer… its not cancer… but… then again it is… This is the
poison for the life you didn’t live. U didn’t support your kids. Treated
others like $hit…. because u… thought u was the…
Time to take that last breath
The curtain is closing… exit stage left
When one door shuts another opens… Welcome to death!!!!  

   Copyright © 2007 Lhegend Carter. All rights reserved. 

Chasing the cat almost got me bit by the guard dogs

During my years of being a street vendor on 125th street I honed my talents of meeting girls. My cousin and I would sit out there in between sales and try to get all the phone numbers we could. Quite a good time we had doing it. One Sunday I met a girl and had been talking to her for a while. We were hitting it off, and feeling each other to the point she invited me to come over to her apartment when I was done working.
When work was finished, I convinced my cousin to go with me to this girl’s apartment.
We got to the block she lived on, 126th street off of Lexington. This is a very rough neighborhood, with drug dealers and thugs everywhere.
As we approached the building address I was given, we were approached by a couple of thugs. “Who you here to see dawgs?” one of them asked us. My cousin being as quick witted as he is says “Black, we came to see my man Black.” “Black? Black who?” we were challenged. “You know, ‘tall’ Black” my cousin continued, trying to jog their memory of this imaginary person. “Nah son, we don’t know Black” they replied. (Which we translated into “you have ten seconds to disappear before we start kicking your ass”) “You don’t know Black son?” my cousin continued. “Alright, he paged me. We gonna go to the payphone and call him and tell him to meet us downstairs.”
We walked back to Lexington, passed the pay phone and went down into the train station. As we’re sitting there waiting on the platform for an uptown #4 train, we see the thugs that were questioning us looking around… for us. Fu(k!
Before they saw us we went downstairs and caught a downtown bound train, to catch an uptown bound train. Phew! We avoided getting jumped, and needless to say, I never contacted the girl that lived in the thug guarded building. I asked my cousin why he said “black”. His response, “there’s a dude named “Black” in every hood.”
lol. (If you have ever lived in the hood, you can probably attest to this. I can.) Apparently we found the one hood where there is no “black”.

2′s company

On Halloween eve I attended a birthday party of a friend of mine from work. This friend is of a different ethnicity than I, and I made the assumption that I would be the only “black” guy attending his party, so I decided to go as “The token black guy.”
Upon arriving at the door of my buddy’s house, the people that were standing near the door inside the home were looking at me through the storm door as I approached with a hint of apprehension. I rang the bell and was greeted by a familiar face, which after she told me who she was I realized I had seen her picture, while my buddy was showing me his niece and nephew, her children.
Some awkward looks still from the hallway dwellers in the few seconds it took before my buddy came to greet me. Aladdin greeted me, I wished him a happy birthday, and handed him the bottle of liquor I brought (Patron… Black, of course. lol).
He introduced me to some of the party dwellers and guided me to the kitchen where shots of Hennessy were being poured. (I’ve officially broken up with Hennessy but, when in Rome…)
After that shot was digested, my attention was pulled to the living room where DJ Hero was set up and being played. While standing there watching the two DJs going at it, Aladdin called me out to the patio where the caterers were grilling up some quite scrumptious food. And guess who was out there, another “token black guy.” (I now owned black guy #2 credits. Lol)
We looked at each other and gave each other the basic 5-point handshake that most black men know. He says, “What are you doing here? I’m supposed to be the token black guy” and turns around to reveal a huge gold colored oval attached to his back with a “T” in the center. “No, I am supposed to be the token black guy” I say, and then pull a Chucky Cheese token out of my back pocket. We all had a really good laugh, and the two token black guys took pictures for our fans.
The other token black guy was actually married into the family, and had also brought Patron “black” to the party.
We all had a good time as the shots kept flowing, and the delicious food kept coming off the grill. By the time I had to leave I felt very much like part of the family, and vowed to come again next year with an actual costume.

I’m not a black guy

My wife took our dog out for a walk last night, after I’d taken him out twice in the past hour to try to get him to go. He’s the nosy type of dog that will forego releiving himself for the chance to figure out where the voice is coming from of the Hatian guy talking on the phone near his window across the street. Herbie had just seen a black cat that taunts him regularly by strolling through the backyard, while Herbie barks at him from the window; So he’s on high alert of course.
Two young boys approach her. They are walking a little dog, a Shitszu or some shit. Lol. These two brothers, are no older than 8 and 12, are very light-skinned, and my assumption is that they are of a hispanic descent, with possible “black” mixed in somewhere in the past.
Our dogs like to sniff each other when they see each other, usually when I run into their mother in the mornings.
My wife, sees Herbie’s spine rise at the younger fair-skinned boy who is wearing a black hooded sweashirt, hood over head, who is howling as he approaches. Claudia tells the younger boy that Herbie doesnt recognize him, because he has his hood on, so the young boy removes his hood and says to Herbie “see I’m not a black guy.”

The day I broke up with Hennessy

Back in 2001 some friends and I went out to this club in Manhattan called Club Creme. At the time I was living with my girlfriend (currently my wife) in Parkchester, The Bronx. Through one of my friends we had secured open bar from 10-12 PM. So of course as soon as we get there we start drinking. We had a VIP section with couches and a tv on which we were able to play playstation. It was a very nice set up.

For two straight hours I had been drinking Hennessy shots. At about 11:55 I went to the bar and got 2 glasses of Hennessy. (Can’t let open bar go to waste.) This is what I remember after that. I’m not sure if I had finished those two drinks or not, but something told me to leave. Don’t stop at go, don’t get your jacket from coat check, dont tell your friends… just go. As you can imagine I was quite f$#%ed up. I got up and drifted out of the club.

We had driven down to the club… in my car. I remembered parking a block away. But for the life of me I could not find my car for over an hour. I circled the same block numerous times. I stopped on someone’s stoop and took a little unintentional power nap. Upon waking I realized I had also vomitted there. But when I woke up I also had a more clear sense of direction, and was able to find my car. Which was good because I was now freezing. (Remember I had left my jacket in the club.)

The next thing I remember was my hip vibrating, and I’m waking in a strange place. Ohhh, its my car. And I’m nice and toasty, and the sun is up and fully at work. Wait, what time is it? Oh shit, its 8:00. Wait, I’ve been sitting here in my car, windows rolled up, with the car running for hours…. and I’m still alive?

Oh shit… the vibration on my hip reminded me that I had bigger issues. I checked my pager, knowing damn well what I was going to see. There were a multiple of pages from my house. How am I going to explain this one? I called my house, and my girlfriend calmly asked me where I was. “I’m sitting in the car, right where I parked it last night. I must’ve gotten in the car and turned on the heat, locked the doors and fell asleep.” I apologize. She then tells me how she’s been trying to contact me for hours and she hasnt gotten any sleep because she’s been worried sick about me. She tried calling my boys that I went to the club with, but they were telling her that they had no idea where I was. This of course she believed to be bullshit. She assumed they were covering for me while I was probably with some chick I met in the club.

I drove home and I retraced my steps and told her the events of the night before. I’m sure she was listening intently looking for holes in my story as every detective, I mean woman, does. Lol I think it took her a few days to absorb that story and randomly throw questions at me to see if my story changed at all before she decided I was telling the truth.

Just another crazy ass story out of the many crazy ass stories that make up my life.

Religion… as seen through the eyes of Lhegend

As a young child growing up, I was raised muslim. I went to an Islamic school for kindergarten and first grade, Sister Clara Muhammed school on 116th street in Harlem, NY. Then I attended a different Islamic school (which had the same name as the first) in Queens, NY for all of my high school years. It was all public schools in between.

We were made to pray to the east the obligatory five times a day. When really we(the children) were just going through the motions. There were five prayers throughout the day, which all had their own signature routines of bowing, bending, and touching your head to the floor. And in between each movement there were prayers to recite in arabic.

The pig and any by-product of it are banned for consumption. We woke up ass-thirty in the morning during the holy month of Ramadan to eat breakfast and read the Quran, and went around starving with foul breath until sundown when we would break our fast. On Fridays we would attend Jumah (this is Mass so to speak), men in the front of the room, women in the back.
The men wore Kufis (bigger yarmulke) on their heads, while the women donned scarves on their heads. Some of the women were in full coverings where you could only see there eyes.

Now during my junior high years I was living with my grandmother who was christian. This meant that I was now going to church. I was just as bored with this religion as I was with Islam (as I’m sure most children are bored with religion, whatever one they may be exposed to.) Yet, there were differences, Christianity was easier. All I had to do for God is go to church on Sunday. And I finally tasted pork (good stuff if cooked right. Lol) But all that I had learned that was “BAD and EVIL” was allowed in Christianity which really just threw me for a loop. Pork, Calling someone God other than God, not praying five times a day and putting my head to the floor, all became allowable, some encouraged.

In my high school years I returned to my parent’s house and back under the Islamic religion and routines, now exposed to something other than, and wiser because of.
During these years my dad also tried to invoke the “up to four wives” allowance into play, which was kind of the straw that broke the camels back for me as far as Islam goes. God is not sexist so why would he invoke a law that men can have up to four wives, but a woman is only allowed to be married to one man.

It started to become clear to me that all of these religious books were written by man’s hand. And although they were inspired by God, they were interpreted by man, with their own ideology sewn into the interpretations. Therefore how can I take any of the “Holy Books” as anything more than novels.

When I joined the Navy at 18 they asked me what religion I was so they could put it on my dog tags, I opted for “Nospecrel” which means No Specific Religion. To this day I am very close with God, She is my best friend, so I feel no need to join any religions to feel close to Him.

Run away

From a young age (around 4 or so) my sister taught me how to run away. She would run away from home and take me with her. Finally she had run away solo one time and wound up at my maternal grandmother’s house. My mother had had enough of her and her antics and asked my grandmother to keep her. She would run away mostly because of the beatings we would get (most of them deserved). Once she was out of the house the focus was on me, and I had continued her legacy of getting into trouble. And then I started running away.

One of my runaway adventures sticks out in my mind because it was so well planned out, so I thought. We lived on the eleventh floor of a nice co-op building in North Bronx. I had been planning for a week to run away. I had no idea where I was going, but I was getting the hell out of there. I had packed some clothes in a plastic bag that you would get from the supermarket and a pair of shoes.

The day I was making my great escape I carefully dropped the bag of clothes out of my bedroom window. They landed almost perfectly behind one of the bushes that were on the ground floor. I thought about tying sheets together and climbing out of the window, but my fear of falling cancelled that plan. (and now that I think about it, I probably would not have had enough sheets to traverse down 11 flights). I had a little bit of money that I can’t remember how I had it. I either stole it from my parents or saved it up, but it’s probably the fore-mentioned.

My mom was on the phone and I told her that I was going to take out the trash. (It was known throughout the years that you could get away with a lot by asking my mother while she was on the phone.) I dumped the trash in the incinerator, and ran as fast as I could down the stairs. I stopped on the third floor to visit a friend who would let me borrow one of his bikes from time to time. (little did he and his mom know that I wasn’t planning on returning) With a good story I was able to get the bike. I collected my bagged clothes and started on my trail. I had no idea where I was going, but I was going.

The first night I spent sleeping on these boulders outside of the projects on Gunhill road. The second night I slept in a park. This was of course during a warmer part of the year. (I think back now and realize that God has always been looking out for me, because I don’t know how something didn’t happen to me.)

The third day, I decided to visit a friend of mine who was in my class in school. He lived over on Burke Avenue which was about half mile away. I told his family that my parents were away on business and would be back the next day. They fed me, but I wasn’t allowed to stay over. My friend let me sleep on the fire escape, unbeknownst to his parents. The next day I decided to go to my grandmother’s house. I was tired of running the streets.

Sitting on the stoop of my grandmothers building waiting for her to come home, I had no idea what was going to happen to me next. Finally that evening, my sister showed up and was surprised to see me sitting there. I told her what happened, and she had understood completely. We went upstairs to their apartment and waited for grandma to come home. My grandmother came home and I told her how I had run away. She told me I couldn’t stay, but after talking to my mom, she told me I could stay.

I wound up staying with my grandmother for two years during my Junior High school years until my parents decided that they wanted me to come back home (which I believe was really only to help out with my younger siblings.

The Gas Chamber

As I stated in a previous story, I joined the Navy in ’95. While you’re in boot camp you are put through numerous tests and trainings such as swimming, firefighting and the infamous gas chamber. I’ll talk about the swimming in another story. This one is about the gas chamber.

I cant remember for sure but I dont think we knew that day that we were going to the gas chamber. We had heard many stories about it from more advanced boot campers. And those stories were not the kind to make you say “ooooh that sounds like fun, sign me up.”

Anywho I was always in the front of my division (not sure if that name is correct, but I mean the group of guys in my barracks that I went through boot camp with) when we marched (you march instead of walking to wherever you are going if in a group). We had just come from a class and had eaten before that. At this point we would usually be heading to the barracks to change into our workout uniform, but we were going past our barracks and wound up stopping in front of this shack of sorts.

There was a petty officer there who welcomed us with this menacing grin. ( I think he really liked his job) “Welcome to the gas chamber boys” he said. His smile even bigger now, probably from the pool of faces now filled with fear.

He gave us the instructions on how to don and remove our gas masks and then walked us into this shack that was no bigger than a 10×20 ft measurement.

When I realized where we were and why we were there, I thought this would be a breeze. I figured since I’m at the front of the line I’ll be able to get in and get out. WRONG! We filed into the shack, all thirty or so of us with our gas masks on. Since I was in the front of the line, I was in the back of the shack.

Once we’re all crammed in, the door closes and the fun begins. I hear something sizzle and pop like bacon cooking. Then I see the guy waving a trash can lid to fully saturate the room with the gas that was rising from the sounds I heard. Through his gas mask he instructs the front line to remove their mask, and one by one state their full name, rank, and division. (I told you he enjoyed his job) A couple of us on the last line started laughing because as each line went it was getting harder and harder for people to spew out the information he requested through their gagging. (This is a funny sight until you’re the one breathing the gas.)

Sooooo we’re the last line to go and by now my neck is burning because I think the gas reacts to your sweat (dont quote me on that). “Remove your mask,state your full name, rank, and division” he tells us. We remove our mask, and the guy to my left gags and gets through his spiel. I’d been holding my breath since removing my mask, and was able to deliver my spiel with no inhale yet.
“Breathe recruit” he barks at me. I looked at him like he was crazy. “Breathe recruit” he says again. “You and your ship mates are not leaving here until you breathe.”
Aint this some shit?
After you’ve been holding your breath, you’re more likely to take a deeper breath than you normally would. I inhaled, and I swear it felt like my lungs, throat, mouth, nostrils and eyes were being sprayed with a solution of ammonium and bleach.
Once he saw me gagging, trying to spit out my lung he dismissed me.

I ran out of the chamber hacking and gagging, but once I was in the open air everything started to calm down. After about two minutes or so, I was okay. The other two guys spilled out of the chamber not too long after me. “You now have an idea of what it feels like if you are under chemical attack” the Petty officer tells us. “Now you know that gas mask could save your life. Congratulations”

We marched back to our barracks and took a shower, all feeling a little stronger and wiser for what we had just been through, and I’m sure praying that we never have to go through anything like that again.

God let me off with a warning

One day back in the early 90s my friends and I had the bright idea that we could sell weed. We had a great connect to buy from, the same person we were buying our nicks($5 bags) and dimes($10 bags) from for our personal use.

We bought a couple of ounces from the guy and took it back to my friends house to bag it up. We then decided that we should go to 161st street and try to sell it there. Back in the day that was a very live spot on Friday and Saturday night. You could see a flick, grab a bite to eat and get your picture taken in front of the coolest backdrop of the time.

We got on the #4 train at Kingsbridge with bags of weed in our pockets and a blunt lit. As soon as we pulled into the Burnside station (which is 2 stops away) the blunt had been passed to me, and a cop was looking right at me when the doors opened. He told me to get off the train and had me wait near the wall on the platform. He then went on to look for the suspect he was originally looking for who hopped the train.

While I’m standing at the wall, I am trying to decide whether I should throw the weed thats in my pocket over the wall. I walk over to my buddy who is still in the train while the cop is two train cars away still searching for his fare evader. I handed the drugs to my buddy just as the cop started walking back towards me and the train doors closed.

The officer started asking me questions and lecturing me on the effects of weed and how stupid it is. “Are you going to stop smoking weed?” He asked me. “I sure am” I responded. “Okay, I am going to give you a ticket for smoking a cigarette on the platform. If I see you smoking weed again, you will be locked up.” The cop threatened.

I never did smoke weed again… on the train that is. (lol) I did see that as a sign though that I am not a drug dealer. That incident could have turned out a lot worse had he realized that I had bags of weed when he first saw me with the blunt to my lips about to inhale.

Thanks God for keeping me out of trouble, even when I tried my best to get into it.

My first day of Boot Camp

In the summer of 1995 I joined the Navy. I enlisted as a submariner, because the recruiter in the 125th street recruiting office told me that it would pay more. (It did, but very little). Boot camp for me was in Great Lakes, Illinois (or Great Mistakes as it is sooo fondly called amongst seaman). This is the story about my first day in boot camp.

From the moment the bus that brings you from the airport to the boot camp, and those doors open, there’s someone yelling at you. I had watched enough military movies that had boot camps in them to know this and mentally prepare for it so this really didn’t bother me.

You get lined up and taken into a building where you are processed, paperwork-wise. Then you are placed in a room where you are told “If you have used drugs you might as well admit it, because we will find it. If you have used drugs and have taken something to hide it, we will find it.” And funny enough there are hands that are raised, ready to admit their sin. I had a party the day before coming to boot camp, and there was some toking going on, but there was no way I was going to point at myself. (Long story short they never approached me about it appearing in my test.)

Then they take those who are still standing into a room where you are told to strip your clothes off, and put them in the box in front of you. You are given blue “Navy” sweats and a pair of New Balance sneakers. As well you are given a laundry bag and toiletries. (There were a couple of toothbrushes, and some other stuff.)You then have to fill out your mailing address, so that the clothes that you came in can be mailed back.

Then you are taken to eat at the “Galley”, which you have minutes to finish your food, while the more advanced recruits laugh at you and call you smurf. (That is the term for the “blue sweats” stage.) You are then taken to a temporary barracks (big ass room lined with bunk beds.)

We were told to get some sleep because we would be up early. About three in the morning a trash can is thrown on the floor and all hell has broken loose. This is our wake up call. “This place is filthy; this is not a pig sty. Clean this place up. Wake up. Get up.” There were about five Petty Officers yelling and making noise. “You’ve got an hour to get this place cleaned up. When we get back this place better be spotless. These beds better be made, the bathroom better be clean. I don’t want to see a speck of dust” The lead yeller said. (I paraphrase of course.)

The only thing is they didn’t tell these people who are still trying to wake up (in an unfamiliar place no less) where the cleaning supplies were. So I had the bright idea from watching enough movies that they probably wanted us to use the spare toothbrush that we were issued to clean the tile in the bathroom. There were a couple of people who looked at me like I was crazy. But my argument was do you want them to come back and find out that we didn’t use our brains and get it cleaned.

When the yellers, I mean Petty Officers came back, they could not contain their laughter. As it turns out, they had never had any recruits come in and try to clean the bathroom with their toothbrush. They then showed us where the cleaning supplies were, and left to get some other yellers to come in and get a good laugh.

The few people that followed me with their toothbrushes to the floor looked at me like I was stupid. I looked at them as if they were stupider… they chose to follow me.

After we finished cleaning we went to breakfast at the Galley… Darkness was still upon us as we made our way into day 2.

My first Love

My first love was a pretty Pakistani girl named Shama who was a year behind me in high school. We both attended the same Muslim school in Queens, NY. We started dating when I was in the eleventh grade. Our “dating” consisted of sneaking kisses during school, taking the bus to main street in Flushing Queens from school (where we would go our seperate ways), and talking on the phone on the rare chance that either of us had where our parents weren’t around.

There was a deep passionate love that we had for eachother. We never had sex, although an opportunity arose. We wanted to wait until we got married. And then we started thinking about actually doing that.

Something happened though… somehow her mother found out about our relationship. One afternoon I was called to the Principal’s office, and already there were the Principal, Shama and her mom. The principal begins to question us on whether we are having a relationship, and what our intentions were.

I professed my love for Shama and my intentions to marry her (to the suprise of both adults in the room.) Her mother looked at me and said “No, you can not marry Shama, I wont allow it.”
Shama through her tears asked her mom “Why mama, why?”
Her mom said “You know why Shama, lets not be silly.”
“No, I want you to say it, why cant I marry Lhegend.” Shama demanded of her mother.
“Your father wouldn’t allow it Shama, and you know it.” Her mother responded.
“Why mama, say it” Shama again demanded of her mother.
Her mother very frustrated said “You know why Shama, he’s black.”

My heart and face fell on the floor. I was angry, sad, hurt, and in shock all at the same time. The Principal then stepped back in the conversation and told us that this little thing Shama and I had needed to end and she dismissed me.

Shama and I spoke that night by her calling her friend and having her friend conference call my house. She apologized about her mother’s comments, and we agreed that we still wanted to get married.

In May of that year, she was leaving for her family annual trip to Pakistan. I gave her a shirt she had bought me that had the fragrance of the cologne she had bought me (Joop) to have something to remind her of me. She also took with her my hollow 3D name ring. She was going to fill it with gold since it was much cheaper in Pakistan.

I have not heard her voice or seen her face since the last time I saw her on Main street that May. She had written me a letter from Pakistan that had said that she was looking at wedding magazines and trying to pass the time until she saw me again… but that never happened.

(You know how every time you break up with someone, there seems to be a sad song on the radio that becomes the theme song of that break up? Well that song for me is Aaron Hall’s “I Miss you”. I can hear that song today, and it takes me on a little trip down memory lane).

To this day I still dont really have closure on that relationship. I still wonder what happened when she went to Pakistan.

My first job outside of the family

At the tender age of eleven (that was ‘89) I got a job working in the Everyone’s health and beauty aid store on 125^th street between 7^th and 8^th avenue. The manager of the store loved my grandmother’s hot sausages. (If you haven’t read previous post i.e. “How I lost my virginity” and “Harlem Week” that probably sounds weird). Anywho one day after purchasing a hot sausage he asked me of I wanted work in his store.

He taught me how to use the bale (it’s a big ass machine that crushes the boxes for trash). That became my task as well as restocking the shelves. I think I worked about three or four hours a day. (This was during the summer time). Sometimes I would help out behind the counter with bagging the customers’ purchases.

There was a code word to yell out if you’ve found a thief stealing. It was Kipee (pronounced as it sounds). One day I saw this guy stuff something in his shirt, and swiftly head for the door. I yelled “Kipeeeeeeeeeeeeeee” at the top of my lungs. They caught his ass took him in the back of the store and slapped him around after they took the stuff out of his shirt. They took a Polaroid of him for the wall of thieves in the back office and let him go.

I worked there for a little over a month before that manager got moved to another location on Third Avenue in the Bronx. That ended my first job outside of working for my family. It was back to the frank cart fishing for sodas in the ice chest to go along with the hot dogs and sausages.

Harlem Week Circa late 80s – early 90s

Although I was born in the Bronx and my family lived in the Bronx, I grew up in Harlem. From 116th to 145th street, Harlem had a big part in making this man. 125th street has the biggest chunk of my “Harlem sculpting”.

From the late 80s to the early nineties I was a vendor on 125th street in one fashion or another. In the late 80s I assisted my grandmother on her hotdog stand, and in the early 90s I ran my father’s vending business. We sold everything from bootleg movies to clothing (more on that in a later post).

Every August in Harlem there is a fair or flea market of sorts called Harlem Week. Currently it is much better managed, so it seems much safer. But back in the day when it was held on 125th street, it was a dangerous, yet fun affair if you werent a teenager who had to work it.

We woke up ass-thirty in the morning to get the hotdog stands and bigger hotdog stands that had grills into our designated spots for the event and set up shop. We had two to three stations along the span of the fair. My grandmother, her sister, and her son all manned a station. I would play courier between the stands and our headquarters which was in a garage five blocks away. (That’s where the inventory was kept, and the stands housed for the evening.)

I was there to work so I couldnt actually enjoy the festivities. But watching from the sidelines, it looked like a lot of fun was being had… until someone would fire a shot into the air, or someone would yell gun. Then all hell would break loose. And it would happen every year without fail. Sometimes it would be everyday of the event, sometimes more than once.

I am probably well prepared to run with the bulls, because I have seen many a stampede during Harlem Week. (Just stand up against the wall). It got quite ridiculous after a while, seeming sometimes as if we were just having a stampede just for the hell of it.

But once the stampede was over and everyone set themselves back up, it seemed as if nothing happened at all… until someone yelled “gun” again.

I believe I can fly

Back in the second and third grade, I went to Parkway school in the Bronx on Gunhill road. At recess we would go outside on the side of the building and play (the street would be blocked off from traffic.)
I remember having this new blue Yankee baseball jacket, and I thought I was the coolest thing since ice. So while we’re outside at recess one day I decided that I knew I could fly and it was time to share this secret with the world.
The jacket had snaps, so I snapped close the top fasten only. Now with my Yankee cape hanging from my neck… I was ready. I took off running and then jumped into the air and flew… about four or five feet. I must have not been concentrating hard enough. lol

The scrapes I received on my hands and knees from landing were my only injuries, but the second or two that I was in the air I really felt like I was flying.
So yeah, I can fly. I just don’t want to show you. lol

My High School years turned out to be a joke

I could have had a really great four years of high school but… my parents yanked me out of a public school in the Bronx that had a five to one ratio of girls to boys(damn,damn,damn), to put me in a Private Islamic based school in Queens. This is the story about that school.

Sister Clara Muhammed School located in Corona Queens was where I attended high school. At the same time, my brother and sister (twins) who were five years old when I began high school attended the same school. No they are not geniuses (they’ll debate that if you ask them), they were in Kindergarten. The school went from pre-k through twelfth grade.

The building which housed the school was no bigger than 7500 sq ft, if it was even that big. In the basement is where Math and Social Studies was taught to the junior high school & high school children (not at the same time.) These classes were separated by a curtain. When it was time for martial arts (one of the many efforts at a gym class), we moved all of the chairs to the side. Also in the basement was a poor excuse for a lunch room, and a kitchen which I believe was smaller than the kitchen in my current home (which is quite small.)

The first floor had the principal’s office (which I was quite familiar with) as well as about six or seven classrooms for the elementary grade classes, and a nurse/secretary office.

The second floor had three classrooms, the Imam’s (equivalent to a pastor in Christianity) office, and the Masjid (the space in which sermons and prayer was conducted). The three classes that were conducted in these classrooms were English, Science, and “Computer class” (yet I have no recollection of actually working on a computer).

There was one class per grade, and in each grade I had no more than ten classmates. Oh and by the way we had to wear uniforms; my family especially, because my mother made the uniforms. The only highlight of my high School years was meeting my first love (Look for that in another post).

So here’s the funny part… after graduating from this school (in a class of six or seven) in nineteen ninety four, when I attempted to go to College, what I was told by the CUNY and SUNY system is… wait for it, wait for it… they did not recognize my high school as a New York State Board of Education Certified school. And they handed me a pamphlet on how to get my G.E.D. Well aint that about a b*%$#?

I went to that school for all four bloody years of high school and I wish I could get them all back.

The scariest day of my life… so far

The scariest day of my life started out as a beautiful Tuesday morning. My wife and I went to work as normal. I was working in the same company we had met in. She had moved on to another company. Both companies were in buildings that were only two blocks away from each other located in the fashion district of New York.

Not long after I had gotten to work, a panic started to emanate throughout the offices. A plane had hit one of the twin towers. “Holy shit, that’s some crazy shit.” I thought to myself… then said out loud. The TV that belonged to the CEO of the company was wheeled out of his office and into another office so that everyone could follow this incredible and sad story. All news channels were focused on this event. We all sat there in shock.

Wait, where’s that plane going? No, no, no, no, that plane can’t be going… the second tower had been hit by a second plane. What the fuck? Did I just see what I thought I saw? “Oh my God, another plane flew into the second tower” the reporter said. I thought I saw litter flying out of the tower… until the news reporter came on, crying slightly through her slight panic to inform us that there were people jumping out of the windows to escape the fire. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit… this can not be an accident.

At this point I am ready to leave work and get out of dodge. My girlfriend (who is now my wife) and I were back and forth on the phone to each other trying to figure out what our companies were going to do. In my office there were some people crying, all of us in shock; staring at the TV, waiting to see what would happen next. Then reports started coming in that the Pentagon was hit with a plane as well. At this point I am more scared than I have ever been before or since, because at this point it seemed that planes were just raining down and there were other planes in the air; some that they couldn’t locate.

“Baby, we gotta get out of here” I said to my girlfriend who was again on the other end of my cell phone as I stared at the TV. “This shit is no accident; we gotta get out of Manhattan.” Then the first Tower fell. Oh Shits, screams, and cries all filled my office as we watched this gi-hugic building turn into a huge cloud of smoke and dust; and that camera went black. “Let’s go baby. I’ll meet you in front of your building.”

We met in front of the building that she worked in and walked with one of her friends to another building to make sure that her friend’s sister was okay. Then we started our trek to the Bronx.
All trains were shut down, and buses were too full to take any passengers. Traffic was crawling at a snails pace, so walking was the only real option. There were seas of people walking in different directions, but most were going uptown. Every now and again you would see a person covered in dust and soot who must have been pretty close to the whole thing.

We walked six miles to the Bronx, where we were able to finally catch a cab, which took us the rest of the way home.
I really want to cry right now as I reminisce back to that fateful scary day. So many lives lost, and even more lives affected.

My prayers go out to anyone who lost someone in those towers, in the Pentagon, or on any of those planes that went down that day.

Going against the “Man Code”

Two years ago a friend of mine decided that he really was no longer interested in the young lady he was dating. (Personally I thought she was the best thing that happened to him.) He didn’t know how to tell her that he didn’t want to be with her anymore so he made up a story.

One morning my wife calls me and tells me that the young lady emailed her and asked her to call her. She also stated that it was quite urgent and asked that my wife didn’t contact my friend about her trying to get in contact with her. My wife asked me if she should call her, and I told her I didn’t think so, but she should do what she feels.

My wife calls me back a few hours later and asks me if my friend is dying. (Huh?) Confused, I asked her why she would think that. She tells me that this is what the young lady told her when she called her. And that my friend had asked the young lady not to say anything to his friends because he didn’t want to trouble them with his issues. I assured my wife that my friend was not dying, or at least as far as I knew anyway.

On my bus ride home from New York I called my friend to ask him if what this young lady was telling me was true. He tells me he told her nothing of the sort. (But he had trained me to take everything he said with a grain of salt.)

I called the young lady after that because I needed to hear exactly what she was telling my wife. Ok, so this dude tells this young lady that he is dying from a tumor on the brain, and he only has (I think it was a month) to live. (I’m thinking to myself this dude couldn’t have gone this far could he?) She continues to tell me how she was looking into refinancing her home and cashing some accounts while she was also trying to find a specialist for him at John Hopkins hospital. I am in total shock and awe at what I am hearing. (This whole time she is frantic and crying.)

There was no way I could let this young lady go on believing that her boyfriend was going to die. And I felt if I didn’t put an end to this insanity right now, by the time she might have found out, she could have already sold assets that she didn’t need to. Soooooo going against “Man Code” I layed the cards out on the table for her. “No he is not dying, he’s lying.” “Please stop crying my dear, you are wasting your tears” (I could literally hear her jaw drop). “What do you mean Lhegend, I don’t understand.” Again I said “He’s not dying, and I’m sorry to be the one who tells you this, but this is probably all his way of breaking up with you. He just doesn’t know how to tell you so.”
“What are you saying to me Lhegend? Why would he say something like this if its not true?” She asks. “I don’t know, but I have no reason to lie to you.”I answered and told her about a few incidents before her coming along where he didn’t tell a girl straight out that he didn’t want to be with them anymore.

She, he and I went back and forth the rest of that evening. He was quite upset with me for telling her. My view was, if he would have simply told me “yeah I told her that crazy shit”, I would have told him “yo dude, go handle that because you’re making waves in my calm and peaceful little pool.” (I am not one for drama in my life)
I spoke to the young lady’s mom in one of the conversations I was having with the young lady that night, and she was grateful as well as her daughter that I told them the truth.

Since that day my friend has decided that he wasn’t my friend anymore (that’s life ain’t it?). I’m not sure if he and she went any further with that relationship, but it wouldn’t shock me… I’ve seen stranger.

Welcome to KFC, may I take your order?

Back in late ninety seven I was working in a KFC in Harlem; on 145^th and Lenox Avenue. The neighborhood was a little on the rough side. The drug dealers, the thugs, and the wanna be thugs hung out on the corner… every damn day. So when I got to work, they were there. When I left work, they were there. A familiarity was shared between us.

One evening my coworker Patricia and I were at our registers when I saw one of the dudes from the corner come in. He looked around and then went back outside. After the customer that was there left the store, the dude came back in, face covered with a bandana. He was accompanied by the fat dude from the corner, who also donned a bandana. Fat dude was at the door.

“Give me all the money in the registers.” he says waving a gun at us. Patricia begins crying uncontrollably and fumbling with the register. This wasn’t the first time I’ve seen a gun pointed at me, and for some reason I knew this dude wasn’t trying to hurt anybody. I helped her get her register open; we put the money (including the change) in paper bags. Then I put the money from my register in a paper bag. I gave them the bags and they left. They only got about one hundred dollars or so.

Patricia ran to the back of the store screaming, and crying even more uncontrollably, trying to tell the manager what just happened. The manager came to the front where I was still standing, and I told him what happened. The cops came, got the story and needed someone to come to the station to look at mug shots. Patricia couldn’t do it, she was too distraught, so who gets to walk out with the police? (Aint this about a b*&%^?)

I sat there for about half hour looking at pictures, and told them that I didn’t see them. The fat friend was on one of the first few pages. (And if you grew up where I grew up, or anywhere like it, you wouldn’t have said anything either.) They drove me back to the store, where the manager, the cook and I rehashed the crazy night. Patricia wasn’t there when I got back and she never returned.

The dude that actually did the “sticking upping” didn’t show his face around those parts for a good six months. The fat friend though, got caught up on drug charges… just couldn’t keep his fat ass off the corner.

I worked at that location for some time after that… watching the same ol drug dealers, thugs, and wanna be thugs hang out on the corner.

I could have had a really great 4 years of high school but…

After graduating junior high school in nineteen ninety, I really was looking forward to going to highschool. I was scheduled to attend Jane Addams vocational High school in the south Bronx. This school had a rumored five-to-one ratio, girls to boys. (My type of highschool)

The summer before I was to begin highschool, I had broken my arm, which led to me losing my virginity (read “how I lost my virginty” post), so my swagger was on 10. Education was no where close to being on my mind when I thought about the new school I would be attending.

The first month of school I had my fresh new clothes, my swagger from just popping my proverbial cherry, and the sympathy vote because my arm was in a cast and sling. The girls were liking what they saw, and so was I. And yes it seemed that the rumored ratio of boys to girls was quite accurate. I was in heaven.

In typing class, there were girls that helped me type with my one arm. In gym there were girls in short shorts. At lunch there were girls that would offer to carry my tray. Yes I had a great first month of highschool… then it all came crashing down.

At this time I was still living with my grandmother in the south Bronx. Meanwhile back in my parents house there were three younger siblings, a set of twins who just turned 5, and a three year old. There was a baby boy that had been born in the summer, but he died of s.I.d.s. that same summer.

I’m not sure what was the reasoning behind it but my parents wanted me to come back home. And what’s worse is that I was now going to have to attend this Muslim School in Queens. I had pretty much done everything that goes against Islam while living with my grandmother, like eating pork. (My first porkchop was like heaven. lol)

I literally cried the last day of that great month at Jane Addams. The new Muslim school I was attending had a uniform (which my mother was the maker of the uniforms for the whole school), so I couldn’t wear my cool clothes.

I had completely lost my swagger, and it took me about a year and a half to find it again. (But that’s for a later post)

What’s in a name?

So as you may or may not know, my name is Lhegend(pronounced “legend”) Carter. Everyone always compliments me on my name. I think it’s a great name, if I do say so myself. I even passed it on to my first born. (This was a boy, if I need to clear that up for you.)

The meaning as my mother has told me over and over is: A Legend in my own time. That works for me. And by the looks of the stories I have to tell from my life, I think I am living up to that.

I hated my name all through school until high school. The dudes still made fun of my name, but the girls were starting to like it. (Yeah buddy) Often time I’ve had to pull out I.D. to prove that I wasn’t giving a nick name. (No, for real, what’s your name?)

Now the story of how my mother came up with the name, I so wish was more interesting. Mom tells me that she was watching TV or listening to the radio and heard something that said the “Legend of somebody”. She can’t remember who it was, but when she heard it, she immediately knew that my name would be Lhegend. She added the “H” because she wanted to make it unique and her name (before she became Muslim and changed it) began with an “H”.

So there you have it… the back story of how I got my name. Are you still awake?

How I lost my virginty

My grandmother that I lived with between the years of eighty eight and ninety owned a hotdog stand, which she would set up everyday after school (she was/is a teacher) on 125th street between 7th and 8th avenues; right next to Mart 125. So of course, I was her helper after I got out of school and on the weekends… And all damned summer long.

So, in nineteen ninety there was an electronics store a few doors east of Mart 125. There was a man that worked in this electronics store who would bring his son to work with him some times. His son and I became friendly and when my grandmother would let me, he and I would go play in the basement of the electronics store.

One day in late August or early September, he and I decided we were going to test our gymnastics skills.(of course neither of us had any gymnastic skills). The competition was to run down the flight of stairs that led to the basement, jump from the highest step you could to grab this pole that ran horizontally, swing, jump, and land. (Easy right?)

So we went through a few rounds, each time taking the challenge to a higher step. But something went awry. On this particular turn, I ran, jumped, swung, released… but my body was horizontally positioned when I let go, so that is how I landed, except my left arm was under me, positioned to try to break the fall. Instead my arm got broken.

I went outside to tell grandma what happened. Of course she was screaming at me for being so stupid, meanwhile the ambulance is on the way. The whole time I was sitting on the ice chest that had the spare ice in it for the sodas, waiting for the ambulance, trying to hold my arm in position, staring at this bone protruding out, I felt no pain. But once that ambulance dropped me off at the St. Lukes hospital emergency room, I experienced pain like I never have before or since. (I guess the shock had worn off) After a while I was seen by a doctor who reset my arm, (which even with the drugs they had given me hurt like hell) and I was checked into the hospital.

 I remember waking up the day after, and there was this teenage girl in a hospital gown, just sitting there watching me. (I know, scary.) She was a cute girl. We sat there and talked for a few hours and then I fell asleep. The next day I went to visit her and we watched TV and talked for a while after my grandmother had left. We got to know each other pretty well those two days.

The third day my family was there in and out all day, so we didn’t get to talk until that night. (Interestingly enough, the other kid that was in my room got discharged that afternoon.) The conversation took a different direction when she told me she thought I was cute, and wanted to know if I had a girlfriend. No I didn’t have a girlfriend (although I was crushing on someone). Later that night and the next night were quite interesting… I’ll leave it at that. (A gentleman never tells… all of the details.)

I was discharged on the fifth day. We had exchanged phone numbers two days earlier. She wrote it on my cast. I went to see her once at the group home she was in (yes, you read right),and she was only able to come out front and talk for a few minutes. Later on the phone she told me she got in trouble and that I couldn’t come around to visit anymore. (Aint that some shit? I thought I had a girlfriend. lol)

So…. we might have spoken a time or two after that, but that waned fast.

And there you have the long ass story (that had more to do with me breaking my arm than it did with me losing my virginity) about me losing my virginity.

Robbed by a kid in a wheelchair

Between the ages of ten and twelve I lived with my grandma over on 158th street and Jackson ave in the south Bronx. She would often send me to the grocery store for what we needed in the house, and to take the recyclable bottles in for their refund.(very embarrasing as a child).

One day she sent me to the store, and I must have taken a detour after buying the groceries, because I was definitely off of the route from the grocery store.

A kid who was about my age or maybe a little older, sitting in a wheelchair with a cast on his leg, rolled up to me and demanded my groceries. I thought he was joking until I saw the gun.

I left the groceries, still in my shopping cart, right there and kept it moving.

Pretty unbelievable huh? Yeah well that’s exactly how my grandmother and everyone else that she told the story to felt about it. She was quite upset at me and had assumed that I had spent the money she had given me on video games. And there was nothing I could say to persuade her assumption. My cousin still laughs at me about that story.

I actually got to know that kid years later through a mutual friend, (he hadn’t changed his ways)and needless to say he is now in jail for robbery and assault.