Warm blood was oozing from the two knives that I had clenched between my bloody palms. I stood in disbelief, looking over Brandon as he writhed in pain. I glanced down at his intestines; they resembled twisted and contorted snakes covered in crimson. Reality sunk in, and I understood that this true rage had just taken the most important seconds of my existence. I quickly came to a surrealistic cool. Brandon was bleeding to death, and pleading between his last gasps of air, he whispered through the pain and gurgles, “Dave, get me some help, I’m dying, bro.” Compassion and understanding stepped back in. I began to immediately plea for help from anyone within the range of my desperate and exhausting screams. My body was in extreme pain. I was bleeding from a knife wound to my arm and head, and I also had other damage to my body. I felt the deep puncture wound to my arm as the blood was pumping out. My arm resembled an oil can that had just suffered a leak. I felt weak, and my knees began to buckle. I began to plead for help, “Please, somebody call the police! I’ve just been in a knife fight. Somebody, help us, please!” I was short of breath and could barely walk or breathe. I did not find out until later that I had also suffered broken and bruised ribs, and that the sharp pain to my chest came from Brandon’s bites of desperation. I knew that Brandon needed help, but I did not know to what extent. I recall stabbing him six to seven times. I would later find out that my calculation was terribly off. I spotted a car headed down the dimly lit street. I began to flag the car down. The car slowed, and I stumbled my way to the driver’s door. I said, “Please call the police, I’ve been in a knife fight.” How was I to know that the driver was the neighbor from across the street, the same neighbor with whom I had a violent encounter earlier in the day? The driver told me to “get the fuck away from the car.” In disgust, he said he would call the police. I turned and stumbled my way back into my house. The police would be called by the neighbor, and help would soon be on the way. I made my way to the bathroom sink and began to wash the blood from my eyes, body, and head. I wrapped my arm with a ripped t-shirt and placed a wet towel on the gaping head wound. After slowing the blood from departing my body, I fumbled my way to my dining room table and spotted a half-rolled blunt, which I consumed in confusion and pain. I tried to rationalize what had just transpired. I also wondered if Brandon was still lying outside or on his way into my home to finish off his assault that had just taken place on my broken and bruised body. Panic and fear began to set in, and then I spotted red, white, and blue lights. Flashlights were being shone into every crevice of my home, and then there was a knock on the blood-soaked screen door. It was a police officer; he was demanding that I come out and meet him at the front door. I rose from the dining room table and, with the help of the furniture, made my way to the door. The officer met me at the threshold of my home and escorted me by my arm. With his support, he ushered me from my home to an awaiting ambulance. I looked toward the yard where I last recalled seeing Brandon, and he wasn’t there. I asked the officer, “Did he make it? Is he alive?” The officer paused before he answered, and then he responded with the answer I would forever dread to hear, “No, sir. He didn’t. He’s dead, Mr. Hall.” I was born on October 21, 1969, in Omaha, Nebraska. The natives call it The Big "O". When speaking about my hometown, the two questions I usually encounter are: "Are there any black folks in Omaha?" My reply is usually the same, though not always in order of importance. One of the most prolific black men to ever walk the Earth, Malcolm X, is from Omaha. Omaha is also home to Gabrielle Union, Terrance Crawford, Senator Ernie Chambers, Johnny Rodgers, John Beasley, and me. The second question I usually get relates to the movie "Belly" with DMX. When that comes up, the conversations tend to get more serious. We don't tolerate jokes or sneak disses in North Omaha. My heart is, and always will be, a part of my North Omaha community. I will always represent my city to the fullest. The people I mentioned are like family to me. I appreciate that they never denied our city, no matter how dysfunctional it has been or can be. I learned early on, moving from town to town, that every hood is the same, but each one has its unique quirks; you just need to adapt. On the mean streets, the game rarely changes, but the players always do! In North "O", as a kid, my nickname was Sweetie. I still smile when older friends and family members call me by that moniker. They must have named me Sweetie for my love of sweets because it certainly wasn't for my demeanor. My family, originally from Mississippi, has a tradition of nicknames. To the newer generation in Omaha, I'm also known as a flatlander because the side of North Omaha where I grew up has no hills. Growing up in North Omaha, we had red brick roads, the Vietnam projects, Celumn pool, and Sacred Heart School. The only things that have withstood the test of time are that old Catholic school and the red brick roads on Emmet Street. The Vietnam projects and Celumn pool are long gone. My dad and his family grew up in the Vietnam projects and swam in the pool that has since been covered by concrete. That project mentality, though long gone, has left lasting damage and still looms over Omaha with the grim reaper close by. It's proven that if you stack people on top of each other, add poverty, and confine them to a certain area, it creates a powder keg that will eventually explode. Living in a state of war, poverty, powerlessness, confusion, and crime puts immense pressure on the psychology, personality, spirit, and soul of a person. It's well known that Malcolm X's dad was killed in Omaha for trying to better his family and for following the ideologies of Marcus Garvey. The Klan pulled him out of his home in front of his family. They later chained him to those same red brick roads that still exist in the city, where he was dismembered by a passing trolley. Emmet St. is where I got my street education as a child. It was my grandma's street; those bricks weren't all naturally stained red. Many have shed blood on Emmet. Those players are long gone, but the bricks remain strong. Lining Emmet are hundred- year-old oak trees and homes built eighty to ninety years ago. These homes are spacious enough to house large families. My grandma still lives in and owns her home on Emmet. She not only cared for her family but also for others over the years. My two cousins, Steve and Derek (the self-proclaimed "player D"), and I would stay at grandma's after school until my parents returned from work. Mom and pop would pick up me and my baby sister, Terri Lynn, after work. Steve, Derek, and I went to the only Catholic school in North Omaha, Sacred Heart. We would walk home together from Sacred Heart, which is in the center of our hood. Sacred Heart had full-fledged nuns, and yes, it also had its share of troublemakers. It's true what they say about Catholic school kids being the worst, and I ended up being one of them. The school is a two- story building surrounded by barbed wire fences. Looking back, I still don't know if the barbed wire was to keep people out or to keep us inside. In the summer, that big old brick building felt like an oven. It didn't have air conditioning, and the nuns opened the windows when they deemed fit, the ones that weren't painted shut. Keep in mind, the nuns wore full dresses with matching caps. I learned from them that the Lord gives you what you need, not what you want. But don't be mistaken; a nun will discipline you if you step out of line. I also learned from them to use anything at hand as a weapon. Rulers, books, bags, staplers – a nun will correct you with anything and won't hesitate to get physical. The school was situated across the street from a candy store and a bookie joint disguised as a gas station. My uncle Raymond, my dad's older brother, worked at that gas station/bookie joint. That was my childhood as I remember it, and those were the good old days. Kids could be kids. We could walk home alone without fearing perverts in the early seventies. My mom and dad were both together, and they had jobs. We had our rooms, and sadly, this was the closest to normal I would ever experience. I was five when things began to change, and they changed faster than expected. I had to grow up quickly. Goodbye innocence, and hello death. "Mamma!" There was a scream from the living room, followed by silence throughout the house. I was the only grandchild at home because I was deemed too young and difficult to handle. The family believed I might jump in the river or get lost in the woods. Earlier in the day, my granddad called my mom by her nickname. "Sista, let the boy go. Ain't no need to be babying the boy." My mom's reply was firm: "The answer is no, Daddy." I learned the hard way that if my mom said no and I persisted, as she would say, "you got tore up where you show up." All the kids went fishing that day except for me. That's the first time in my life that I felt a surreal sensation, like Dali's melting painting on the wall. The troubling part is that this feeling would resurface in my life many times over the subsequent years. One of my aunties screamed, "Oh no, please not Daddy." I didn't know that the last time I would see my granddad would be on an afternoon when he went fishing on the Little Sioux River with his kids and grandchildren. My granddad drowned trying to save one of the kids on the fishing trip that day. A young girl had gotten caught in an undercurrent; she was pulled to safety. My granddaddy was a big man, and he couldn't be helped. My granddad wasn't found for days. When they did find him, I was told that the only way to identify him was by his front gold teeth. His body had spent days in the water, and the damage was extensive. For his sacrifice, my grandfather received the highest possible civilian award: the Carnegie Medal, awarded posthumously for heroism. They could have kept the award; I wanted my granddad back. He was already my hero. That event set into motion the downfall of the Landrum clan; many remain emotionally scarred to this day. I'm grateful to my mom for not letting me go on that last trip with my granddad, or I might have been blamed for the death of a hero. I still don't fish or swim to this day. That was also my first encounter with death, just an appetizer for the full meal and dessert I would face in the years to come. Scene two of my childhood would get even more confusing for a young boy. One afternoon, while playing basketball, my cousin Steve held the ball as we heard someone screaming. Scottie, a neighborhood friend, paused the game abruptly. Listening, we could hear faint screams for help, and it sounded like Scottie's sister. We came around the house and found the source of the disturbance. I stood with Steve, Derek, and Scottie, dumbfounded at our discovery. Scottie's sister was being choked by a man who, to our young eyes, looked like a 250-pound gorilla. Before we knew it, Scottie leaped into action, shouting, "Get off my sister, punk!" He swung and punched as hard as a young boy could. The man barely noticed. With a powerful blow to Scottie's forehead, Scottie was sent flying. Scott recovered from the blow, ran into his house, and returned with a butcher knife in hand. The man, so consumed with attacking the girl, didn't notice her younger brother. That was a grave mistake. Scottie lunged at the man, and in what felt like the longest three seconds of our lives, his knife sliced into the man as if he were cutting through tender steak. The man stumbled down the stairs and collapsed. He groaned a few times before succumbing to his injuries. He had underestimated the young boy and paid the price. At seven, I learned not to take anyone lightly and to always be on guard. Fight, flight, or freeze are all automatic defense mechanisms, and as Richard Pryor would say, "I ain't no motherfucking track star." I couldn't believe what had just transpired. My grandma, stoic yet calm, gathered all her grandchildren. She huddled with us in her front yard, scanning us with a stern look. Her words were sharp as she spoke, "Ya didn't see shit, got it?" We understood the message loud and clear. When the police arrived on the scene, we kids didn't know anything. In the hood, the policy is that you don't snitch on your neighbors. The police showed up, and all was quiet from the Landrum Clan. Scottie was taken to the police station and later released. No charges were filed against him. I believe it was considered self-defense since the man was attacking Scottie's sister. I would see Scottie from time to time, but usually when he briefly emerged from his home to do yard work. I'm sure he suffered from undiagnosed PTSD. Years after the assault, when Scottie spoke, his spark was gone. I don't recall ever playing basketball or any game with Scottie again. That summer, Scottie became a man, having taken a life at the tender age of, I believe, thirteen. Of all my childhood life lessons, one that most impacted me was that of my uncle, Roy Lee Landrum. Roy Lee was my mother's second-youngest brother and my first real "O.G." He would come home from his hustling and pimping to spend time with all his nephews and his kids, Shawn and Andre, until he hit his next lick. Shawn was my first female cousin. She played and fought as tough as the boys. My uncle Roy was also the first player to sprinkle me with the game. This was in the '70s, and I was five or six years old. My grandfather's death had left the family without a male leader, and Roy stepped up. Roy Lee was known to be cool, funny, and always had money. Not to mention, he was impeccably well-dressed. Everyone loved Roy Lee; he was hood famous, and I wanted to be like him. Some days, I still find myself emulating his style. It was late in the afternoon, and Roy went to check on my grandpop's gas station. The family-owned gas station was left behind when Granddad drowned. The police also showed up on the scene. Word has it that the neighbors called the police to report a break-in. My uncle Roy was mistaken for a robber and shot in the back by the police. To say the least, it was a coincidence. I was later told that one of the cops that fired the fatal shots was in love with Roy's prostitute. The cops involved went to trial, and my grandma was offered a settlement. It was a slap in the face because, in the '70s, a Black man's life was worth $10,000. Some say she was lucky to get that. After researching and reading the case for this book, I'm not sure that she received a dime for the untimely death of her son. I'm still not surprised that African American men are killed by police in record numbers, close to fifty years after my uncle's murder. When Philando Castile was killed in Saint Paul, I knew some of his family and friends. Minnesota became a powder keg waiting to blow, and everyone wanted to march. The state was under a national microscope, but what did that change? I did not participate; I was done with marching and protesting in '77 when my uncle Roy died. I wanted revenge, and then George Floyd was killed in 2020. Living in the center of the madness, I witnessed the blowback, and the devastation was massive. When George Floyd's murder happened, it took me back to my childhood injustice. George Floyd resembled my uncle Roy, and I also have an uncle named Floyd. What an eerie coincidence, I thought. I imagined what would have happened if my hometown had stood up for my uncle. Could we have saved a few black lives if we put our foot down years ago? I do hate that my Minnesota community was destroyed, but the wick was lit by Officer Chauvin. A message had to be sent: enough was enough. We still have a long way to go. Another young black man was killed during the George Floyd trial. Nothing changes if nothing changes, and I explained to friends that I felt what the Floyd family was going through. Cameras now shine a light on the injustice we have endured for years. My family wasn't privy to that technology in '77, and the justice system protects its own. My distrust for the legal system was ingrained in my psyche. As a kid, I never saw the police help anyone. All I saw the police in Omaha do was beat, steal, kill, and occasionally take someone I loved to jail. I was taught as a kid that it was the people vs. the police. I researched Landrum vs. The United States online, and this is what the police report and court say happened. On August 15, 1975, at 2:40 a.m., a police dispatcher informed officers Rockwell and Moats that a burglary was in progress at a service station located at 4501 Florence Boulevard, Omaha, Nebraska. The officers proceeded immediately to the address. As they entered the driveway of the station, they saw the decedent, Roy Lee Landrum, exit through a window on the north side of the station, jumping onto some tires and debris, and then down to the ground. Both officers leaped out of the car, and Officer Rockwell shouted, "Stop, police!" Landrum heard the shout and crouched down, looking directly at the officers. He then turned to the east and ran. Officer Moats fired a single shot at him while standing by the police car. The shot missed, and both officers chased Landrum, shouting at him to halt until they reached the northeast corner of the station. There they stopped and began firing at Landrum as he ran away, each firing two shots almost simultaneously. One of the bullets struck Landrum in the back, killing him. No weapons were found on Landrum. At trial, both officers testified that they had no reason to believe that Landrum was a threat to their safety or anyone else's. The officers justified the use of deadly force because they believed that Landrum would escape unless they shot him. In doing so, both relied on a directive of the Omaha police department, effective at the time of the incident, that among other things permitted a police officer to use his firearm in the performance of his duty to effect the arrest or capture, or prevent the escape or rescue, of a person whom the officer knows or has reasonable grounds to believe has committed a felony when all other means have failed. Shortly after the death of her son, on November 7, 1975, Leslie Landrum filed the present action in the United States District Court for the Eastern District of Nebraska. In count I of her complaint, she contended that officers Moats and Rockwell had deprived her son of constitutional rights. Every person who, under color of any statute, ordinance, regulation, custom, or usage, of any State or Territory, subjects, or causes to be subjected, any citizen of the United States or other person within the jurisdiction thereof to the deprivation of any rights, privileges, or immunities secured by the Constitution and laws, shall be liable to the party injured in an action at law, suit in equity, or other proper proceedings for redress. She claimed that the acts of the defendants, John Moats and Robert J. Rockwell, under color of law and their authority as police officers of the City of Omaha, deprived Roy Lee Landrum of his rights, privileges, and immunities guaranteed to him as a citizen of the United States, by Amendments 4, 5, 6, 8, and 14 of the Constitution of the United States, to the plaintiff's damage for $1,000,000.00, and $3,000,000.00 in punitive damages. Although the complaint did not specify either the nature of the right violated or exactly which constitutional provision protected it, each of these amendments could be plausibly construed to forbid the use of deadly force on a fleeing felon who has not used violence in the commission of the felony and who poses no threat to anyone. As stated above, the parties essentially agree on the important facts of the case. Officers Moats and Rockwell conceded at trial that they had no reason to believe that the decedent, a burglary suspect, had used violence in the commission of the burglary or that he posed a threat to anyone's safety. Both testified that they shot at the decedent to prevent his escape from arrest. In making an arrest, a police officer may use whatever force is reasonably necessary. They were attempting to arrest the decedent, Roy Lee Landrum. The court, however, failed to instruct the jury that they must consider the good faith defense regarding the police officers' use of unreasonable force. Dismissing the action, the jury determined that police officers Moats and Rockwell exercised "reasonable force" in shooting at the fleeing Roy Lee Landrum. But, as we have held in part III of the opinion, such deadly force was excessive under the circumstances as a matter of law. On the theory upon which the case was submitted to the jury, the jury verdict stands unsupported by the evidence and is contrary to the instructions. The parties all agree that either officer Moats or officer Rockwell fired the fatal shot, but whose bullet killed Landrum was not conclusively established at trial. For while Landrum brandished no weapons and did not physically confront the defendants, the situation itself represented a threat to their safety. The circumstances as a whole — flight into a darkened night in a black neighborhood, concern whether the felon was accompanied by another party — were factors properly causing the defendants to be apprehensive for their safety. In the end, neither officer was ever charged with my uncle's murder, and along with his death, we lost close contact with my two cousins, Shawn and Andre. My family during one of the many stages of grief. Along with Steve and Derek, I made my choice on what type of young hustler I was going to pattern myself after at an early age. I had already been emotionally affected by three deaths and the system's corrupt ways. The police, who I thought were supposed to protect me, were instead getting away with murder. All I had been taught prior to what I was witnessing seemed like a lie. It was then, at seven, that I chose to be the bad guy and to cheer for the underdog. From then on, when we played cops and robbers, I was the robber. If we played Cowboys and Indians, I was the Indian. My pop witnessed my changes and wanted me out of Omaha and away from all its injustices. Pop decided to head north to Minnesota, the Land of 10,000 Fakes. It took years to prepare for the move. In the transition to a new town, my mom moved first with dad and left me and Terri with my grandma to care for us. My grandma did just that, but she also had other family to care for. Terri and I got caught up in the shuffle. Without my mom and pop, I was the next in charge. If Terri got chastised by family, I got chastised, and if she got whipped, so did I. I was very protective of my baby sister. Those years without mom and pops made me acutely aware of how untrustworthy, mean, and distressing the world can be. I began watching the neighborhood players and pimps even more closely. Uncle Raymond, my dad’s oldest brother, worked at the bookie joint across the street from Sacred Heart School. The location was a gas station on 24th street. After school, I would sit with Raymond for a bit and soak up the game from the gamblers coming in to place their bets. When Raymond thought I had observed enough, he would send me on my way with a few quarters in my pocket for snacks and video games. Ray ensured that with dad out of town, I wouldn't get caught up running with the young hoodlums in the neighborhood for candy and video game money. It was after class, and I was at the bookie shop with Uncle Ray. A pimp rolled up with a car full of fine women, all different races. A young man, he was pristine, flaunting the best jewels money could buy or one of his women could acquire. What was this guy's angle? I imagined what it would be like to be him. The idea consumed me immediately. I had witnessed successful restaurant owners, barbers, bookies, salespeople, and slaughterhouse workers; those were the people in my neighborhood. None of those occupations appealed to me. I didn't know any stockbrokers, bankers, or lawyers. I aspired to be a sports star and buy my parents a big home, then ride off into the sunset. It doesn't always go as planned; I was a realist at the age of ten. I had just discovered another vehicle to help make my dreams come true. A realistic plan, and I could be the man. I was fascinated; it was something I might be good at. That was my realization when I met Karo the pimp. I said to my Uncle Ray, "Does he always have a lot of fine ladies, Unc? Are they all his girlfriends?" Ray looked at me, hesitant to answer, and said, "Yeah, boy, they're all his ladies, and all that man's money smells just like pussy. Now take your young ass on home to your grandma's." Ray padded my pockets with a few coins, and I was on my way home. Instead of taking the path home that I was taught, I took a scenic route down 24th street, walking by prostitutes, hustlers, pimps, and drug addicts. I felt at home and comfortable around the action and the so-called degenerates. This would become my new after-school routine. I would visit my uncle, walk the deuce, and head to grandma's like a good little Catholic schoolboy. While waiting for mom and pops to send for us, I would pray for my reunited family. My prayers were answered. I arrived at grandmas, and she was packing my things. My grandmother said, "Your dad's got a house ready for y'all." I was overwhelmed with excitement and ready to finally be a family again. I vowed not to miss anyone in Omaha and to never return. While packing, I remember my grandma and aunts talking about how worthless my daddy was and how we would be back by the month's end. I was reminded that I was "just like him and I would never amount to shit." I had made up my mind to show them and the entire world that I was like my dad. Unfortunately, my grandma and the Landrum clan had planted a poisonous seed into my subconscious. I began to dislike my dad based on the discouraging remarks I had heard, not because of his actions. It started a rippling effect in my life. I figured if I didn't amount to anything, who cared anyway? I was reminded daily that I was slick and the “Ringleader.” These names were used as motivation, but the family's reverse psychology backfired. I didn’t have a bar that I was expected to cross. I believed it was expected of me to be a loser, and in time, I would prove them all wrong. We transferred schools, and Terri and I rejoined my mom and dad in Minnesota. We had our own rooms, a dog, and a bird. We portrayed the perfect little Huxtable family. We lived across the street from Como Park, walking distance from our elementary school, Como Elementary. I was starting the sixth grade, and Terri was in kindergarten. As usual, my dad was working on a community project. Dad also had a nighttime job doing security work for F.M.C., some corporation in Fridley, Minnesota. The job market in Minnesota was excellent; if you wanted work, you could find it. My dad took it upon himself to start a second "Great Migration." He let his friends in Omaha know about the Promised Land, and friends and families flocked to his advice and relocated to Minnesota. I had one friend in the neighborhood; the rest were white boys. Landon was bi- racial; his mother was white, and his father was black. Landon lived comfortably. They had the first big screen I'd ever seen, a projector TV. I frequented Landon's place until I began taking his things, and he caught on. I was from the old neighborhood, while he was spoiled. His bedroom resembled an aisle at "Toys R Us." I had to wait for holidays to get new items, but I grew impatient. Around Christmas that year, my Uncle Bill moved from Omaha to stay with us. My Uncle Butch had briefly lived with us before moving in with his girlfriend Sherry and her children: Toya, Johnny, and Cassius. Butch met Sherry through Terri's kindergarten friend, Cassius. Mom worked with Tommy K in St. Paul, who owned a popular beauty shop in the neighborhood. "Carefree Curls" was the trend then. Alexander O'Neal was robbed at Tommy K's when I was young. During an after- party, some young guys came in and made everyone strip, including Alexander. Tommy K and mom became fast friends. Both shared a southern background and a penchant for drinking. This marked the beginning of my mom's many drinking episodes. When drunk, she'd yearn for Omaha, then lash out at everyone, including our dog and bird. School was easier than my time in Catholic school. That year, I made lifelong friends in Minnesota, including Kathy Battle, my first girlfriend. Kathy's family reminded me of the Huxtables from "The Cosby Show." Her father was an insurance agent, and her mother was a homemaker. Whenever I visited, there were always treats like cookies or cake. My cousins, Big Dave and Chucky, moved in with their father, Butch. Big Dave was protective, like an older brother, while Chucky was the typical older bully cousin. Interestingly, Chucky recently retired from the military. That year, I met Roger Lynch. While many might not recognize his name, they'd know his father, Roger Troutman from Zapp. Roger and I became friends. He had naturally curly hair and a light complexion, as did I. With my mother being a beautician, my hair was always styled according to the latest trends, and curls were in. Rodger and his father were tragically killed a few years ago. Rodger from Zapp was murdered by his brother over a financial dispute. My friend Rodger was lured to a house and assaulted with either a pole or bat. Although he recovered slowly, the damage was irreversible. He later died from complications related to his head injuries. Rodger had just embarked on his own music career and was making strides on the west coast, collaborating with Dr. Dre. That year at Como was uneventful; the daily routine of school and dealing with my mom's homesickness strained my parents' relationship. Tired of the constant arguments, they decided we should return to Omaha. However, this "we" didn't include my dad. My mom packed up my sister and me and headed back to Omaha. During my seventh-grade year, I attended Sacred Heart and desperately wanted out of Catholic schools. I felt trapped and yearned for the freedom of public schools. After a year of my complaints about Sacred Heart, my mom finally allowed me to attend a public school in Omaha for the first time: Morton High, where all my neighborhood friends went. My year in Minnesota and the summers spent with my dad had emboldened me, or so I believed. However, my neighborhood friends began to distance themselves from me. I couldn't discern if it was jealousy or animosity. I felt I had nothing that would incite jealousy. My mom worked two jobs, and I didn't have more than any other kid. In fact, I was either shoveling snow in the winter or mowing lawns in the summer. I'd steal bikes or anything not securely fastened. I did whatever it took to have gambling money and snacks, all to fit in. My eighth-grade year at Morton wasn't the smooth transition I had anticipated. I faced expulsion for various reasons, ranging from theft to fighting, and was eventually expelled after a physical altercation with a friend. Charles Harris shoved me into a locker over a rumor one day, and I retaliated. After the fight, I was instructed to gather my belongings. My mom was called, and I was told not to return. I completed my 8th-grade year at Norris Jr. High and then moved to Horace Mann for my 9th-grade year, where I encountered even more adversaries. As if dealing with fellow students wasn't challenging enough, the principal harbored a strong dislike for me, and the feeling was mutual. Mr. Barbee was a 5'7", bald, and stern man. His demeanor was a challenging mix for a young person like me to handle. He seemed determined to negatively impact my high school experience. To make matters worse, I later discovered I'd be attending a high school where his wife worked after leaving Horace Mann. Central High was located downtown and boasted an open campus. However, this freedom proved to be a bit too much for me and my crew. At Central, the group consisted of me, Player D, Steve D, and Jeff, a white boy from the neighborhood. Player D was my first cousin. Given that he was older and this was our first experience in a public school together, I naturally followed his lead. In hindsight, this was a decision I'd come to regret. Outside of school, Derek, Steve, and I worked part-time at Hinky Dinky Grocery Store, a quaint establishment situated just four blocks from my grandma's place on Emmet Street. Our positions at the store became an opportunity for mischief. Steve manned the cash register, Derek bagged groceries, and I was responsible for cleaning and restocking. I also had a side gig with the care-free curl supplies. With my cousins keeping an eye out, I'd discreetly take items and later resell them at school. Given my mom's profession as a beautician, no one suspected the products they were purchasing from me were illicitly acquired. Derek and I always sported the latest trends. At the time, Lagoon shorts were all the rage, and I proudly owned a pair in every color, as did Derek. Many mistook our flashy attire as a sign of affluence, not realizing the reality at home where my mom, exhausted from working two jobs, often sought solace in solitude. As word spread about my ability to procure various items, my reputation grew, and so did my earnings. By the time I was in 10th grade, I had become a notable figure in my high school. It was about Ten at night and Jello sent me on a Liquor run. June volunteered gleefully with the transportation. June was a white Chick from the Rich side of town that would go slumming in the hood to get broken off from some Mandingo Dick. On the way to get the liquor June asked if I could cop some weed. I was in the hood and from the hood; of course, I can cop some weed I told her. Back in the day, we could get ten joints for ten dollars. I took June to the weed spot and pealed a little of her sack for myself, then picked up the liquor and headed back to Jello’s. June suggested that we stop and enjoy our pleasantries before we returned, and I quickly obliged. As we pulled into the secluded space that we chose next to Malcolm X Park. I rolled the joint while June sucked down a couple of beers. I lit the weed and slowly exhaled the venom; June went wild with excitement. She was with a bad boy and loved every minute. I gave June a shotgun with the joint and her lungs exploded. June began to cough uncontrollably. June then laid her head on my lap and unzipped my pants; she then consumed my long, skinny, hairless dick in her mouth. Now up until this time, I had had my dick sucked but not by a white girl. I began to fumble with her titties, and she sat up, licked her lips and began to slip out of her tight Jordache Jeans. I looked on and acted like I had been this far before. I pulled down my pants; my dick was hard enough to cut diamonds. June was partially naked and she stuffed my man back down her throat to make sure that it was hard enough to penetrate the juicy lips of her womanhood. As June lay across the front seat of the car, I straddled on top of her with my dick ready for action. I felt the warmth of her lips and slid inside to investigate the unknown. I’ve had a lot of practice using my hand as a kid. Nothing could have prepared me for the warmth and moisture that only God can perfect. I just knew that I was going to fuck June dry with the pumping I was providing. Unfortunately, I was pumping too fast and way too excited. I came in June faster than I started. I laid on top of her and waited on my manhood to return for round two. Before my dick could get hard again, June pushed me off and quickly exited the car while still half-naked. “What the fuck is this bitch on,” I thought? I sat up to look across the steering wheel to see June puking her guts out. What the fuck was that about? Was it my sexual healing, the liquor, the weed, or… oh shit, this white chick better not say I took her pussy. All the stories mom warned me about dealing with white women and Emmet Till was about to come to fortition. June returned to the car and then apologized. June said, “Dave, it was the drinking and the weed; I am sorry; what can I do”. I had a thousand thoughts and pussy wasn’t one of them. The main thought was to get my young ass back to Jellos and rid myself of this chick. I thank God that I broke my virginity like that. I could have grown up to be a chump for pussy instead of the man that I am. I continued to invite June and her crew around the hood for pussy here and there. I was also into Arts at the time. The young ladies loved my comedy and curly hair. I was a short dude and a game to boot. I made my acting debut at Central High. It was in the play Maxwell smart. I played a young break dancer in the bus station. I had a routine where I pop-locked. The only twist was all of the Homeboy’s knew that I couldn’t dance but the white Drama teacher didn’t. The shit was hilarious; It was so funny that they had two matinees at school. It was my moment to shine. I went home and told the whole family of my success and waited on opening night when the family would show up to enjoy my stardom. Night came and the curtains rose. I looked out to the crowd; it was packed. I continued to scan, but where was my family? Then I saw my family, my Uncle June; he was the only one to show up. It was hard to perform, but afterward, my uncle’s approval was all that I needed. My Uncle June is still the coolest uncle in the Landrum crew. Some kids would have said poor me, but not me. That night I decided to prove them all wrong. No support from my family, I’ll find my own support; God bless the child that got his own. I found my support that year and it came from the streets! The streets took care of me, and I took care of the streets. June and her crew were buying us shit and taking us out to eat. I’m still credited on Emmet as the first brother to bring white girls into the hood. These white girls took us to all the parties, and we turned them out. We stole everything that wasn’t locked down in these big ass homes. Who was going to tell their parents why they were out of town, Young hoodlum’s from the other side of town was eating their food and drinking their liquor. Not to mention stealing their shit fucking their daughters in their beds. Life was good, I wasn’t going to school. I was skipping Steve D, Derek, and Percy. I was also gambling during the day and stealing my mom’s car at night to cruise the Ave. with Derek. Dad got word of my schemes and started making more frequent visits to Omaha, it was too late. I started beefing with the home boy’s my 11th-grade year over one thing or another. The Sr. class the year before had treated me so good and my peer’s decided to bring me back down to earth. Derek had older cats in his crew that had us out there badly doing their dirty work. My cousin Dave Myers was my dad’s sister Jackie’s son. Dave had just gotten a girl pregnant at 13. My other cousin Dave Brice was still in Minnesota and on dad’s side; he had a new baby boy also. David is a popular name on Pops' side. It’s about eight of us David’s. Mom didn’t want me running with my pop’s side of the family because they was fighting and getting pussy, regular bad guys. Both David’s would remain in the growth of a young hustler, years later. Mom saw to it that I would hang out with my cousin Derek. I started stealing early on. By the age of 8, I would steal anything not locked down from anyone. My mother's family put a scarlet letter on my hand early on. I would have to clap my hands when I was left in stores alone. I also started smoking weed with Derek. My uncle Lee lived with my grandma, and he always had ashtrays full of roaches. The first time I smoked, Derek had stolen a few roaches, and we were walking down the alley on our way to the Larry's Corner Store. Derek showed me the roaches in his hand and pulled out a lighter. I looked up to Steve and Derek as big brothers and always tried to prove myself to them. I was young and impressionable; it was an easy sell. When Derek sparked the roach, it hit me hard, and I passed it to him. I followed suit, and my chest imploded as I began to cough uncontrollably. Derek..."We spent what change we had on snacks and sodas and walked back to my grandma's. When we got there, my mom and pop were there waiting to talk to us. I got in the back seat next to Todi and the penny I'd set there. On the drive home, it felt like I was inside a video game. Everything was on hyper speed besides my parents, who kept looking back at us with this weird expression. I thought it was the funniest thing I'd ever seen, even at the age of 8. Little did I know that they were studying my appearance, and they knew that something was off. I just sat there, laughing when Michael Jackson's "Billie Jean" came on the radio, and that was the straw that broke the camel's back. My mom shouted, "Boy, what the hell is wrong with you?" how was she to know that this was the start of me smoking weed. "I became defensive off the rip. "Mother, I just hung with them." She wasn't going for it. "What was you in Derek up to before we came?" Mother, I responded, my heart felt like it was going to bust through my chest. She continued, "I'm going to get to the bottom of it, so you might as well come clean!" Then my dad chimed in, "You better start snitching' when we get home. Lemme get in your chest!" Oh no, I thought. The jig is up, and I spilled the beans. I played the victim to a tee, "People said something and he made me swear." I knew damn well what I was smoking but since they were playing' good cop bad cop, I was going to play the innocent victim." Derek was slick as my other cousins but my grandmother’s favorite grandchild. Grandma had raised Derek since his momma went off to Atlanta for schooling. Derek lived in Atlanta for one year but was shipped back because of that in the day that was dude in the day that was killing young black boys. After they captured the killer, Derek stayed with Grandma. The family has always felt sorry for Derek because of his mom and dad's situation. Derek still plays that sympathy card to this day. Derek’s dad denied him in front of him all the way up until the paternity tests were provided. I soon became the natural, in my grandmas’ words, “Rang Leader.” My first friend got murdered during my junior year at Central. I met Eric Holmes through Derek. Eric looked like Easy-E. He was years older and pushed a fancy Camaro sports car. I stole Carefree Curl products, I actually sold all of North Omaha stolen carefree curl products. That was my first hustle besides stealing liquor for Jello and his after parties. Eric always had the advice to prepare me and Derek for the streets. He ran with my cousin Dave Myers so he took a liking to me. Following Derek was like the blind leading the blind, so I would listen to his O.G’s. Steve and Eric. Eric once told me, “Stay out of other people's business”. I wish that Eric would have taken his own advice, along with many others. Eric was shot in the back over a dispute between a woman and her man. Eric managed to walk home and call my cousin Dave Myers. Eric died waiting on the ambulance to arrive. The hood came together as it does that lasted two days. I was being raised in the same streets that dad was tiring to save me from. I was young, bitter, drunk, high, and mad. I started running the street more frequently with the usual suspects. My momma’s young, innocent boy was running the streets nightly. I forged a few documents and Central High was more than obliged to grant my transfer. A few High schools later, I landed at Burke High. Days turned into weeks, and I realized that I was not going to graduate on time. It was too late to change course, all the skipping school, moving from School to School and drinking that I did. Fortunately, enough in my major classes, I still received a passing grade. I paid a visit to my counselor during my 12th-grade year at Burke, and she confirmed my worst fears. No matter what I did, I wouldn't graduate on time, at least not in Omaha. I went home that day and called my dad with a solution. "Dad, I think I want to move to Minnesota." My dad was elated to hear that I wanted to be with him. He loved the idea of playing an active role in my life again. My father agreed to let me move in with him. It was the beginning of my senior year, and a month later, I was living in St. Paul, Minnesota. Dad lived in a one-bedroom flat above an elderly couple, Mr. and Mrs. Hunt. Central High was within walking distance and seemed like the most probable school for me to attend. Fresh out of Omaha, I still had a bit of a country vibe when I arrived. On my first day of school, I wore an all-red Levi's jean outfit. In Omaha, the outfit was trendy. In Minnesota, I might as well have been from Mars. Regardless, I still had my good looks, and I relied on that until I could figure out a way to get some new clothes. I was thrilled to be reunited with my cousin, Big Dave Brice. Dave had already graduated and was living in a small commune of misfits. When Big Dave found out I was back in town, he arranged for me to meet up with his crew after school. I sat in the waiting area of my new guidance counselor's office, hoping we could devise a plan to ensure I graduated on time. Mrs. Renee Ransom called me in. Standing at 5'6", Mrs. Ransom was a light-skinned, impeccably dressed woman. Her glasses framed a smile that could light up a room. She was beautiful, and not just because of her perfect teeth. Behind Renee's smile, I sensed genuine care, even though she barely knew me. She introduced herself and asked for my transcripts. As she reviewed my grades, she occasionally looked up at me. "Well, David, it seems you're pretty strong in liberal arts." "Yes, ma'am." "Looks like you need a few math classes." "Yes, ma'am." "Your English grades are above average, and you've taken some advanced classes. How about taking Honors English?" I wondered if she was joking or if Mr. and Mrs. Barbee had influenced this decision. Were they trying to make me fail here too? Jellos' long high school tenure came to mind. "Well, Dave, if you're going to graduate on time, I'll need 100% from you, but we can make it happen." I was puzzled. She was black, not my mother or aunt, yet she genuinely cared about my success. She earned my respect. I wasn't going to let her down, and I was tired of disappointing myself. Renee structured a schedule filled with arts classes and my mandatory electives. She also enrolled me in night school to catch up on some classes I had neglected. I had a full schedule and couldn't afford to fail a single class. Yet, I now had a chance to graduate on time. Throughout the day, I eagerly anticipated sharing the good news with my family and meeting up with Big Dave after school. The school bell echoed through the hallways, signaling the end of the day. During lunch, I had bumped into my cousin Toya. She asked me to wait after school so we could catch up and address the rumors about my escapades in Omaha. As I exited the building, I found Toya surrounded by five or six of her friends. She was popular, and it seemed she was introducing me to the school's "it" girls. We chatted briefly, and all the while, I was acutely aware of my outdated outfit and the growing urge to impress one of Toya's friends. My dad pulled up to pick me up, and Toya decided to hitch a ride with us. He still worked night shifts as a security guard at F.M.C., a machinery company located in the suburbs. After dropping Toya off, we headed to his apartment. Handing me some money for food, he tried to catch a few hours of sleep before his shift. I decided to use Mrs. Hunt's phone to call Big Dave, but I could feel her eavesdropping on our conversation. After hanging up, she warned me, "Watch out, 'cause Minnesota guys are wild." I brushed off her advice, thinking she was just another elderly woman like my grandma back in Omaha. But she wasn't family, so what did she know? Reflecting on it now, I realize that sometimes it really does take a village to raise a child. "Big Dave, where are you?" I asked when he picked up. He gave me directions, and to my relief, he was within walking distance. When I arrived at Dave's place, it was bustling with activity. All his roommates were there, each with their own set of guests. The air was thick with the scent of alcohol and other substances. Everyone seemed to be under the influence of something. I hesitated at the door, taking in the scene and contemplating my priorities. Was it my education, my future, or the allure of the streets and the temporary highs they offered? It was one of those defining moments, a crossroads that would shape my path. That day, I also met Carl West. From that moment on, we became inseparable, like brothers.