8
I was trembling. My knees were so
weak I thought I would buckle if he
turned to me or screamed. Somehow
his cohorts knew this was a different
ball game, a different confrontation.
No one moved forward to challenge us.
The people I came in with were about
cashing in wolf tickets, calling people’s
bluff. And their courage was so great,
they would walk into your project,
your block, in front of your hangout,
and wait for you to come down and
prove that what you said — the threat
you issued publicly — had substance,
had merit, and that you could back
your shit up…win, lose or draw. These
were Canarsie Chaplains, outcasts as
far as the mainstream Chaplain gang
was concerned. While other chapters
reveled in the glory of their project
base — Fort Greene, Marcy Avenue,
Albany Avenue, Breevort, etc. — these
motherfuckers lived in the asshole of
the world. It was still farmland; you
could hear the cows, smell the shit.
The subway stop was primitive. It had
a clanging bell fifteen-foot toll arm
that came slowly down when the train
pulled into the 105th Street stop and
when it rained you had to squish your
way through the mud because there
were no goddamn sidewalks. It was the
Black Gulag. No one ever placed as
his or her first choice on the Housing
Authority application, “Brookline
Projects.” In fact, for most, it wasn’t
their second or third choice. It wasn’t
close to Black or Puerto Rican
communities, was a long, long ride
from factory jobs in the garment center,
and had an Italian core that was serious
about preserving “neighborhood
integrity,” and proved it by dumping
dead bodies in new cars amidst the tall,
reeded marshlands of Flatlands Avenue.
No, you didn’t choose Canarsie.
You got exiled there. You fought every
day against kids whose fathers were
“made men” in organized crime. These
Sicilians had guns, cars, beehive
hairdo girlfriends, pocket money, and
bravado. If you were Black or Puerto
Rican you had to develop a serious
gang fraternity because the cops were
useless: sometimes they worked for the
gangsters, most times they identified
with them, so there was no reason to
have faith in their authority.
BRN-SPRING-2015.indb 8
What Larry couldn’t have known was
that their outcast status had forced the
Canarsie Chaplain division to get past
the ethnic, nationalistic, skin color
question. The bonds for this gang were
born of a desperate need for protection,
and it didn’t matter where you were
born or what language you spoke in
the house, Gullah or Spanish. What
mattered was your heart, your loyalty,
your skill in fist fighting. This was
a generation of black kids, baby-sat
by Puerto Rican mothers, who only
spoke Spanish, cooked with Crisco
lard, homemade sofrito and tocino,
until their parents came home from
work. I’ve met many of these kids,
now adults, over the years and they
speak and understand Spanish, dance
their ass off to a Cuban mambo and
love Puerto Rican women. The same
is true of those of us raised with black
families. My second mother was
Kathryn Keeles, a beautiful Geechee
from Charleston who praised the Lord
and cooked like the devil. All over
Brooklyn and Manhattan these bonds
were developing and they evolved
into true, everlasting love. This was
more than “necessary united-front
coalition-building” political bullshit.
This was family. So when my cousin,
Jose, president of the Little People
Chaplains, told the guys in Canarsie
that my brother Paul had been
pummeled into semi consciousness,
there was no debate. They knew
my family. And even if they didn’t,
their loyalty to my cousin superseded
all doubts.
How was Larry to know all this shit?
He was dead before he got killed.
He thought these guys were a hastily
put-together crew. That’s why he acted
like this was a corner neighborhood
squabble. He couldn’t pick up on the
fact that these Chaplains exuded an
attitude of “I don’t give a shit. I’ve
been to hell, live there now, so unless
you’re God, your ass is mine.” Larry
kept playing pool, never taking his
eyes off the cue ball, never validating
the presence of the Chaplains even as
they took strategic positions around
the room so no one could leave. An
eerie silence descended on the place
where there was loud back-slapping,
five-slapping noise before we entered
the space. The men I was with were
not the kids Larry was used to bullying.
These were warriors: kangaroo shoes,
pressed chino pants, Blye knit sweaters,
leather coats (long or short, hard or
soft) bought with their own money,
toothpicks in their mouths, Fred
Braun belts, no smiles, no unnecessary
conversation, ashiness on their knuckles,
Dixie Peach perfect, stocking cap wavy,
shiny hair covered by stingy brimmed
hats that they blocked neatly, perfectly,
and Jade East cologne on their cheeks
offering the only pleasant smelling
oasis in this shit -hole. The ritual was
that you only took your hat off to hurt
somebody and then you had to make
sure your hair was tight and it wouldn’t
get mussed in a fight. The fight should
end in three minutes. Any longer than
that, you’re wasting time or getting
your ass kicked, badly. Didn’t Larry
know? These were not your normal run
of the mill, dilettante “colored guys.”
They were young, but they were black
men, forged and tempered in battle.
3/29/15 11:41 AM