But For The GRACE of GOD

AuthorHouse

Chapter One

It was another one of those mornings when I was absolutely consumed by stress. Sleep had never come for me as I had lain awake all night wondering how the hell I was going to feed my family. For hours I could hear my father's words, "son, you are a failure" echoing through my conscious. He had been dead for a few years but those words were as alive to me as if he were right there saying them. No matter how much I tried to quiet my mind, the mantra wouldn't cease. The damning words only grew louder, hardening like cement upon my reality. Only a few months before, everything in my world seemed beautiful and complete. Yet there I was, tormented by the wreckage of my damned past ... again.

As always, when I found myself in trouble, my thoughts drifted to my father. I had no doubt that my pops loved me, but when he felt that it was time to set me straight, his honesty was cold, brutal and uncompromising. He was old school and he knew no other way but to make it plain. Whenever my "get rich quick schemes" or my "big ideas" exploded in my face, which they often did, he would tell me I needed to "stop my damned foolishness" and handle myself like a man.

Money was very important to my pops, and he didn't respect a man who couldn't keep a dollar in his pocket. I learned this about my pops as a child, when, filled with pride, he would sit me down on his bed and make me count the money he brought home from his paycheck, down to the penny. I hated this weekly ritual because he would be drinking and losing track of my count, making me start over, and over again. It drove me crazy. I was good at math, so I didn't understand why I had to go through that. But it was never about the math. It was his way of showing me what was important in this world.

He knew I was a bright child but, as I grew into a man, he doubted if I ever understood the wisdom he was trying to impart. "Son, if you don't stop taking all of these risks you're going to die with nothing to show for your life" he would say. At thirty, I tossed those words like feathers to the wind. But, at forty four, with a family of my own, and not a dollar in my pocket, the wind tossed those words back to my ass with vengeance.

The "failure" he spoke of certainly dealt with the financial aspects of my life, but he was also speaking on my lifestyle. I didn't place much importance on his disapproval about how I was living because I was always focused on money. When the money was rolling in, it was so easy to dismiss the alcohol drenched jewels he dropped on me.

I also disregarded my pops' words because of the way he lived; busting his ass every day on a thankless job leading to what I felt was nowhere. He was a hardworking man. I respected what he did to take care of his family but I also understood that like 93% of the people in this country, he would always be a slave to the jobs that would leave him destitute. To me, my pops was like the "poor dad" that Robert Kiyosaki talked about.

Besides, when it came to the way I lived my life, who was my father to talk when his own lifestyle left a lot to be desired? I was no different from him in many ways, so how could he pass judgment on me? When it came to how I dealt with women, and how I partied, I got my teachings at his feet. My pops was definitely a rolling stone, constantly cheating on my mother. So if he didn't like what he saw in me, he couldn't like what he saw in himself. However, staying focused in that mess, I never heard his message. I would waste several years of my life lamenting the actions that I took after deciding to ignore my pops' warnings.

Also, despite the self destructive ways he possessed, there was always enough food to eat, clothes on our backs and shoes on our feet. As a man, my "poor dad" was "rich" with knowledge that the essential parts of life covered. Sadly, I could not say the same thing for myself.

It was approximately 9:30 in the morning, when my heavy thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing upstairs. Each ring felt like someone was plunging a knife in my chest because I knew there was nothing but drama waiting for me on the line. That's the only kind of calls I got, non-stop, all day, all night. Even when I didn't answer, which was often, whatever fragment of peace I had was shattered. I could avoid the words over the phone but I couldn't do a damn thing about the words that constantly poisoned my mind, shaping my wretched reality.

My wife picked up the phone and I strained to listen. After a few seconds I heard her howling and I knew something terrible had happened. My first thought was that someone must have died. Feeling an immediate sense of panic I raised up from the couch to meet her at the foot of the stairs where she was sobbing uncontrollably. My 2-year-old daughter, Shadaje and my 5-year-old son, Malcolm, sensing something tragic and momentous were screaming too.

"Stanley, the phone is for you ... It's your brother Alvin. He's asking me some damn questions about whether or not the FBI has put you in jail!!! What the hell is going on? What the fuck did you do Stanley?

Her words sucked the life out of me. I knew that the Feds were investigating me concerning my business affairs, but hearing her shout those words suddenly took my predicament from the realm of possibility to the grimmest reality. There are few words or acronyms that strike more fear in the hearts of Black people than the "FBI." When a Black man thinks of the FBI we think of the blatant execution of the Black Panther Party leadership in a campaign of terror against the Black community. That campaign led to the proliferation of gang violence in our inner cities. When we think of the FBI, how can we not think of the unlawful persecution they heaped upon Malcolm, Martin and any other leader deemed to be "the next Black messiah" during the Cointelpro campaign? For most Black folks, Hoover and the FBI are nothing more than symbols of the government's systematic oppression of us. They are the legal muscle in the government's genocidal campaign against the Black community.

I first got wind of the investigation a few weeks earlier when Manny, one of my business associates, stopped by my house unexpectedly, after ducking my calls for days. We had deals on the table worth a lot of money to both of us, so I couldn't understand why he wouldn't take my calls. Manny was a cool Italian cat and even though I knew there were no friends in the business I was in, my relationship with Manny was something of an exception. Like most people in business, I kept a keen eye on him when it came to splitting up the profits, but I couldn't deny that the product he brought to me was good. He was a wholesaler with sweet connections and I got my money in a timely fashion. As long as the paper was straight, it was all good, and Manny kept the paper flowing, baby. When he finally showed up, I felt excited. The news had to be so sweet he had to tell me in person. I greeted him warmly but he barely looked me in the eyes. He was nervous as hell and his eyes were red, like he hadn't slept in days.

The first thing he told me was that all the deals we had been working on were dead. He gave a lot of lame ass reasons why the deals couldn't work, but in the game I played reading people was...