High Price

in ever more serious crime. None of it was violent; all of it was calculated to minimize risk while getting extra money beyond what we could earn at our minimum-wage jobs. My friends and I regularly stole batteries and rims from cars and sold them to garages and gas stations. And earlier, during my freshman year, I’d started hanging with some kids who burglarized houses.
    By then, my family had moved to the projects, which were in Dania. Since most of my friends were still back in Carver Ranches, however, that’s where I spent most of my time. Sometimes I’d stay with my girlfriend Marcia, Big Mama, or Grandmama; alternatively, I’d try to get a ride home or just hang out all night on the corner.
    My cousin Larry; a guy known as Pink, who was light-skinned enough to be mistaken for white; and one called Dirty Red, who had freckles and red hair but was a bit darker: these were the brothers I hung out with at that time. We’d hang at the intersection of Twenty-Sixth Street and Forty-Sixth Avenue; the neighbor folks called it Junkie Corner. But it wasn’t what you might think: no one shot heroin, nodded out on their feet, or sold smack there. It was just the spot where young men drank Private Stock and smoked reefer. It was also where we bragged about our sexual conquests and made half-assed plans to steal TVs or other property from unsuspecting white folks.
    “Yo, I know some people who are out of town; let’s go to their crib and get some shit,” someone would say.
    “Yo, you down?”
    “You know I’m down.”
    “I’m down,” everyone else would say.
    “Cool,” we’d agree, and then pile into two cars and roll to the white section of town as if no one would notice us. I’d always stay in the car. If we’d been busted, I now realize, I’d have been considered the lookout, but I didn’t think of it that way. Sometimes, I was just trying to get a ride home. Other times, I’d get a share of the loot, like a camera that was smaller than my hand, which was probably extremely expensive back then.
    I always tried to be alert to the potential risks as well as the benefits of the crimes I committed. Though it may have looked like teen impulsiveness (and, of course, I did have the adolescent cockiness that creates risk-blindness—pointing the gun at that white man wasn’t exactly a smart move), I wasn’t usually stupid, either. I wouldn’t do things that I’d seen people catch a case for; I wouldn’t risk shoplifting at that mall filled with cameras and security guards and I wouldn’t do anything violent like mugging people. My goal was to stay in school so I could become a professional athlete.
    Once, while the guys were burglarizing someone’s home, they had to fight off some girls who came back unexpectedly and caught them. But fortunately, that was the closest I ever got to getting into trouble with those guys. We laughed it off, not even thinking how our behavior might have affected those girls. In fact, we mercilessly teased Larry, who had punched one of them while trying to get her purse. He’d hit her so lightly she didn’t even drop the bag—and then he’d had to run to the car before we drove off without him.
    As with my earlier lawbreaking, these activities had nothing to do with drugs and everything to do with street credibility. Even as I participated in burglaries and stole batteries, I also worked whatever job I had. I diligently showed up when required and always did what needed to be done, not seeing any contradictions in my behavior. I worked hard because you were supposed to work hard; I stole because there was never enough money; I went to school so I could get a basketball scholarship. At sixteen, I still thought I was going to play in the NBA, though earlier, the dream had been the NFL. The main career plans I ever had as a kid were these hazy visions of becoming a professional athlete. Fortunately, they had the side effect of keeping me in school.

    Standing in the hallway at Miramar High School during my senior year.
    I also felt justified taking from those we viewed as having excess, like we were Robin Hood. My highest paid job in high school barely earned me four dollars an hour. (Though the older guys made money from deejaying, I was just glad to be up front and part of that scene with my brothers-in-law. I got my money elsewhere.) When I later learned about psychologist Lawrence Kohlberg’s stages of moral development, I felt vindicated. I’d reached the