Auteur: Donald T. Williams

When I reflect on my baby boomer childhood and youth, I consider myself fortunate in that I was raised by loving, hardworking parents who strived to better themselves and give their four children a satisfactory life. I recall finally growing tall enough to see out of our 9th floor apartment windows and the fanciful time spent daydreaming about what it will take to someday buy one and park my cars outside. The Albany Projects of Brooklyn, NY was a tough place to grow up during the late fifties on into the sixties but love lived there and that made it home. Family, good neighbors, and good friends made my immediate world a basically pleasant place despite the possible dangers lying within and beyond the domain and surrounding territory of the Albany Chaplins. According to the gang members I revered but was never completely accepted by, I was College Boy, Mrs. Williams son. I was the kid who could hang on the fringes of thug life until his curfew time. Holding my Orange Rock, hitting and passing the joint, but most importantly, passing on those chucks like a motherfucker, I had a place at the concrete checker and chess tables of St. Johns Park next to the OGs who looked out for me because I made them money and a bit for myself. I was Mr. Williams son at a time when very bad young men werent so bad and still respected their elders and a mans family. Being half ass in things like basketball, ranking, street fighting, and school work had its merits, but my father in his circle was good with cards and I in my circle was good with dice. Somehow, I think that saved me a few butt whippings in the park but very few at home. I often stole money from my father and mother to make more money gambling and it broke their hearts until one day I acknowledged their tears of pain and I stopped. Stopped stealing from them at least but never stopped gambling or any of the street hustling ventures of the day. What I did manage to do was graduate from high school, land a praiseworthy job, with the US Postal Service and serve as a window clerk in my neighborhood Post Office. It was my first full-time job after graduating and my mother was proud. She was even prouder when I entered The City College of New York, met my college sweetheart whom I married, graduated from CCNY, and was hired by the NYC Board of Education as a teacher for thirty three years. Attending the New School for Social Research in New York City and graduating from Wesleyan University in Middleton, Connecticut with a Masters Degree was an experience Ill always cherish. Somehow, living a double life worked for me. Being a College Boy, street hustler, and married man paid dividends and my wife, who also earned a career in education and conquered the challenges of administration, liked the stability and all the little extras I would dole on her because thats what a man does. He takes care of his lady and his mistresses too. As in any relationship, there were rough patches, mostly made rocky by me, but I married young against my wise mothers and Smokeys advice. I did a lot of shopping around after the fact and can only blame myself for messing up a good thing. A woman scorned is one of natures sneakiest creatures Ive sadly discovered. Lessons learned from the snake I imagine. Mine might have waited decades or could have been getting even all along. Truth is I took my eyes off the prize. In any case, when she decided to break free after thirty three years, I suppose I got what I deserved but if you asked me, Id have to say it was overkill. Like the singer, Blu Cantrell sang, If he mess up, you got to hit em up and I was shot down, left for dead, and forgotten before I hit the dirt. My daddy used to say, The bitch aint been born who can take my money and my aunt used to say, A woman can wrap and sell a nigger in a minute. I respected their frankness and wisdom. So as far as Im concerned, I chivalrously let her have my dough and didnt mind the plain brown paper she wrapped and sent me packing in because after all, I did and do love her. She will always be