High Price

difficulties of dealing with the three different mothers of his children. At the same time, he was extremely proud to be a father five times. It was his badge of honor, something that “real” men do, even though he was unemployed. And unless there is some radical change in this society, his chances of getting a legitimate job are extremely bleak because these irrefutable facts remain: he is a black male who has a drug conviction and limited marketable skills. Like Louie, he too is trapped.
    Don Habibi, my old mentor from the University of North Carolina Wilmington, was fond of saying, “Once you know, you cannot not know.” There was a period in my life when I was unaware of the forces preventing Tobias and people like him from legitimately competing in mainstream society. That time has passed; I have come to understand that the game is fixed against them. That’s why I am frequently disheartened and stressed when asked what to tell someone in Tobias’s position. I recognize that I can’t give up on him or our society. So when we met last, I again encouraged him to get his GED and a legitimate job. I told him about my brother Gary, who had also dropped out of high school and dabbled in cocaine sales, but would eventually graduate college and own a multimillion-dollar company. I didn’t tell him that Gary had never been convicted of a crime, nor did I tell him that Gary had only one child when he started to turn his life around. That contextualization might have been too daunting. After all, I was trying to convince Tobias, as well as myself, that he too could do it.
    Along Gary’s journey, I had given him a copy of Nathan McCall’s Makes Me Wanna Holler . It was the first book that he had ever read cover to cover. He found it inspirational. So I bought Tobias a copy, too, and asked him to read it so we could discuss it. I also got him Bob Marley’s Survival CD, printed out the lyrics, and asked him to listen to it with a particular focus on the track “Ambush in the Night.” I explained that the song poignantly describes how the system is stacked against people like him and how sometimes it’s nice to know that someone else gets it. Still, this felt insufficient for what he faced. It felt like giving a Band-Aid to a gunshot wound victim who is profusely bleeding when everyone knows that a surgeon is needed to remove the bullet so the healing can begin.
    A redeeming aspect of writing this book was that it afforded me an opportunity to mend family relationships that had been damaged by years of unspoken words and distance. On several occasions I met separately with MH and Carl and got to know them as people and not just parents. From MH, I’m sure I got my twisted sense of humor. She’d frequently poke fun at her grandchildren: “Malik wants to be thug and don’t know how to be one. He ain’t even man enough to pee straight. He better sit his light-in-the-behind-ass down.” She made me laugh constantly when we got together. Another thing that she did was to help keep me connected to people from my past. “You remember Lil’ Mama?” she’d ask. Invariably, I’d say no. MH would continue: “She told me to tell you hello and to remind you that she saved you from getting many ass-whippings.” “Oh yeah, now I remember her, Lil’ Mama,” I’d reply.
    My interactions with Carl were equally rewarding but centered primarily on sports. He wanted to make sure that I continued to support the Miami-based professional teams. “What do you think of those Heat?” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I’ve never been a Heat supporter. The Miami Heat joined the NBA for the 1988–1989 season, four years after I had left the area. So I never developed an emotional bond with that team as I had with the Dolphins. Nonetheless, it’s clear to me that Carl spurred my interests in athletics, and were it not for athletics, this book probably would have never been written. My participation in high school athletics required that I maintain a minimum GPA, which ensured that I would graduate. Carl and I reminisced about the time when we went to see the Muhammad Ali–George Foreman fight, 1974’s “Rumble in the Jungle,” on closed-circuit television at the convention center. It was a special night; it was our birthday. I also learned that he speaks with Tobias on a regular basis, offering guidance and support, and that he hasn’t had a drink in nearly twenty years.
    As I spent time with my parents, I