Meeting my Dad in Prison

As a young man growing up in crack-era Harlem I bore witness to the havoc and mayhem that crack reigned in my community. The separation of mothers from daughters. The sale of daughters by mothers. The separation of fathers from sons. The sale of drugs by sons to fathers. The grandparents left alone. The prison industrial complexes it allowed Pataki to create in rural farmlands of NY — dystopian. The corruption and illegal convictions justified and rationalized by law enforcement in a war on drugs. 

Today I realized that the few chances I thought I had to alter my trajectory were constantly being deflected by external forces far more powerful than I could ever have imagined. Looking back, I try to understand the things that brought me here. The social consequences and cultural conditioning that crack created. Today, I ponder what new forces have been initiated at the cost of my son and grandson’s lives, for the sake of some foreign or domestic war classified: TOP SECRET. 

I am standing on the sidelines of a movement that is geared to address the inequalities and racist policies and procedures that have been utilized to systemically maintain the status quo. I have heard talk of change on many different levels: reparations, distribution of wealth, healthcare-education equality, COVID stimulus relief. Yet, everyone seems to have forgotten about CRACK. The hundreds of thousands of felony convictions associated with possession or sale of Crack. The sentencing disparities. Felony convictions that resulted in underlying felonies that later supported sentencing enhancements. The joblessness and homelessness connected to these felony convictions.

“There’s a deaf dude in the building trying to cop,” Troy said to me. I stopped dead in my tracks, “a deaf dude?” I asked to be sure I heard him correctly.

“Yeah, a deaf mufucka” he affirmed. I headed to the building. Everyone knew my mother was deaf and, because of this, whenever someone with a disability showed up, I was the designated go-to guy. I walked into 71 and locked eyes with a man that looked like my father. The closer I got, the more I could see my father’s Milky Blue eyes. I felt a sense of rage building in me as I began recalling memories of abandonment. Images of my mother pinned to the wall and my father’s hands around her neck. This was the man who left us for dead.

He reached to hug me and I stopped him with a firm elbow to his chest. I could feel my friends watching, confused, unsure of what was happening. My father and I stood eye-to-eye and I could see the pain etched in his features. As bad as I wanted to hug him and ask him why he left us, I couldn’t. I stepped back and gave him a fist dap. He looked at my hand stunned. Perhaps he was suspended in time. I’d like to believe he was lost in thoughts of regret. I didn’t wait for him to come around.

“What’s up? What you want?” I asked him in sign language. I guess the addict in him took over and he proceeded to tell me that he was selling drugs in NJ. Buying them from NY for a cheaper price then taking them across to Jersey to charge double. He gave me a 100 dollar bill. I checked its authenticity in the dimmed stairwell light and then counted out 35 Red Top trey bottles. Three dollars a pop. He could not even look me in my eyes. He didn’t say bye, see you later or anything. 

I have finally forgiven my father for his transgressions. Yet, these memories of trauma growing up in Crack-era Harlem are forever etched in my spirit. Today, in 2021 when I hear that in order to heal a people — a nation, we have to first confront nasty truths. Crack is a nasty truth that must be confronted. Interestingly, everyone in the Contra-Nicaragua Freedom Fighter scandal were pardoned. Pardoned for their crimes against generations of minorities. The fact that they were pardoned is a testament to what really happened. But, where are the pardons for the hundreds of thousands of minorities who were convicted of Crack related offenses? 

Sheldon Johnson has been released.