2ND CHAPTER: 2ND VERSE…
“If you do not know where you came from, it can be argued you have no past and no plans for a future.” _____________Unknown
A PICTURE IS WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS, A THOUSAND QUESTIONS
I am standing in the front row, fourth from the right. I was five years old. It was the year of the flood (1951), which changed part of the demographic on 9th Street and forced several families to seek higher ground.
It was a long time ago and in another sense it was yesterday. The conformity is as apparent as our differences, delineated only by the color of our stripes. Can you tell which ones are rich? Which ones are in the middle and which ones are not? Do you know the name of power? There are thirty-three children in this photograph, and I think I knew then I’d never make it playing by their rules. Although, there were times that I was one with them—this was one such time. It is indeed a strange world. But we can’t stop here—this is the hope-filled, starting point. And look at all of those precious, freshly scrubbed faces—- I wonder how many are still standing in lines.
Every now and then life gets really complicated and you have absolutely no one to talk to, no-one to explain it all, no one is your friend and you sink into an abyss with the swagger of a fool.
9th Street was a place without a written record. It was one block out of a thousand and unlike any other because it grew out of the carnal and perpetual seeds of sin, sex and economic necessity. It was a corridor of candor, not because of its unstained purity, but rather because of the true expression of what it was. You see the truth is the only virtue in our universe more dangerous than ignorance. It is the mirror of human nature without a filter, i.e.’ the player always gets paid.’ Absolute truth is cleansing, but only after you’ve done something you had to do. It’s a life sentence without parole, or death by hanging, and if spoken in a court room, or uttered in passion, it is often a sentence of aloneness.
I’m a fly on the wall, a nigga in the hall, a cockroach running for cover—I’m just another brother. ______________________W. E. Self
It all starts with the father…and allow me to tell you about mine. He hammered into each one of his eight sons the following mantra: “I’m the only man I want you to be afraid of in this world—because that will save your life.” Although a man of few words, he would often say: “Everyone’s life is the moral to their story.” And nearly everybody who has ever met or knew Nolan Self got who and what he was.
If there is any truth about fathers and sons perhaps it is this: the only real value between them is what they feel for and teach each other. It is one relationship that begins and ends with the immediate cognition that you give a damn. At the risk of sounding redundant, my father was hard but honest, direct but disciplined. He might say, “In this world there ain’t much sympathy for a nigga—so don’t be one. Always carry yourself like a man because the world gives its blessings to real men; men willing to carry their own manhood intact. And skin color, social status, money, or age— has nothing to do with what it means to be a man, which is a flesh and blood example of moral discipline—and the constant reaching for its hook.
East 9th Street was just another place for this social-economic ritual acted out by players and ladies of leisure, johns and squares; driven by power, profit, greed and of course survival. The powerful few and various government officials were never blind to what was happening in plain sight, but instead turned a blind eye, metaphorically shook hands and sealed the deal that allowed 9th Street to flourish. “Those people should be accepting of their place.”
They, who the hell are they? They are a voracious wildfire that burns so hot and bright it destroys anything and everything in its way. Frankly, “they” don’t have to acknowledge or deny anything that was never granted. In this world no man can give another his freedom—real-equity must be taken by any means necessary because freedom and death are ideas that can not be watered down. Despite the facts denial always played a role, especially in Junction City. Nearly everybody was breaking somebody’s rules—because we were all just trying to be free of something, and ‘get over’. But in the broader paradigm—the boys making the rules were breaking them first and probably more often. The point is there isn’t a more honest way to say what needs to be said. “Black, White, all their history, shiny, shameful, or heroic, are kindred, conjoined like arms and legs upon a single torso and our lives intertwine in much the same way—for better or for worse.
I guess the best place to start is Fort Riley, Kansas. I’ll ask you: How many young men, (18-26), get drafted into the U. S, Army and are returned to their home town for basic training? Needless to say the irony escaped me at 19, but it was an unforgettable experience. The illuminating thing about being powerless is that you get a bird’s eye of what it felt like to be invisible. But I didn’t know what invisibility really meant, or how crippling it could be once it enters the bone marrow.
After graduation I realized that my experience in the U.S. Army was basic life training. It paralleled my father’s lessons, and fleshed out the meaning of too little, too late, and if I’d only known better.
December 1965. It is late at night. I am still hunting for myself. The large skeletal barracks was filled with the unique sounds of sleeping men contrasted by an eerie silence. I idled on the second floor. The barracks flanked Custer Road. I looked across the street at the movie theater. It was cold and snowing outside. The wind was belligerent. I flicked my cigarette ashes into a tin coffee can and read the marquee “Bunny Lake is Missing.” Maybe those words were an allegory. I was only 19, and incapable of gleaning very much from anything. I was totally unaware and I couldn’t even imagine what lay ahead. Even Ray Charles could see that.
I returned home after basic as if I’d never left. Two and a half miles from my front door ain’t much of a journey. And 704 West 13th Street hadn’t changed, but a button had been pushed. 1966 was the beginning of a social, economic and political slunga-funga for lack of a better word. Highway 61 had already sold out, Martin King, Stokely Carmichael and Muhammad Ali’s sound bites were televised live, the hippie culture sprouted wings, and feminism and the civil rights movement signaled the beginning of the end of blind obedience.
The Black culture in Junction City was a strange brew of too little money, too many mumbles and not enough maybe. There were (apparently) too few men with ideas and too many that had given them up for a j-o-b.
Black women were a thorny and constant reminder for change, along with the religious community who made noise, but failed to close ranks. Consequently, there was no defining core other than frustration, isolation, and the need for us to get all the way up. On the other hand, the entrenchment of 9th Street and its culture were a constant because strong black men and women needn’t look anyplace else for their well-being. They took what the streets gave and everything the law allowed because their empowerment depended on economic freedom. Clearly, we hadn’t put our best minds to a resolution. This was further defined by our unique situation as a conquered sub-state so to speak. Because if you got off the reservation and weren’t shopping (spending money), doing Colored Night at the skating rink or a movie you were ushered back to the neighborhood. We were surrounded and held captive in spite of the pledge of allegiance and the promises inherent in those so-called inalienable rights.
I hit 9th Street in a new pair of Stacey Adams. I wore a double wide Knox, cocked east, a skinny-ass tie and bright white shirt under a money-green suede suit with a belt in the back. As I look back, I thought it was cool, I thought I was very cool—you know, in the way it makes you feel good and preserves self respect, but I didn’t see what was coming. My first trip back to the Block was in the dead of winter. My daddy always said, “Keep the devil in front of you, Bill.” Of course he didn’t explain the difference between the white devil and black devil, neither of which are to be confused with night and day. However, they are both more addicted to power and pussy than you might think.
By the spring of 1966, I had completed basic training. However, I was still waiting to attend A I.T. (advanced individual training) at Fort Eustis, Virginia.
Fortunately, and thanks to Nolan and Wilma, I owned a 1964 and ½ maroon-colored Mustang and the radio worked. In addition, I had this unforgettable scent stuck in my nostrils. Her name was Katie, and she said one of the coolest things a woman has ever said to me: “When I think of you, the bottoms of my feet burn—slowly.” She was cheerleader pretty with a body by the Goddess of Victory. Katie was the first black cheerleader at Manhattan High School, which is a distinction because we had never walked on this street before, and the black community in Junction City had made demands for one of their own a year earlier. Her name was Sharon Russell, which sure as hell doesn’t sound like much of a victory today, but we walked together. To be honest we’ve come a long way, but not far enough, because the ruling class has left an indelible impression upon our souls whether we are a willing to admit it or not.
The familiar sound of crickets could be heard above the car engine. A sweet, gentle breeze was stirring the low over-hanging branches. I enjoyed the moving art and the pale yellow glow of fireflies fluttering in the twilight. Katie flicked on the radio and settled back into the bucket seat filled with two separate intermingling energies. I parked and she waited. It was early evening on a Friday night. The weather was ideal. Katie’s energy swelled with the sounds of “Blowing in the Wind,” which followed me out of the car.
I had pulled up in front a little club, the name escapes me now, and was just going to slide in and grab a couple of beers to go.
Edges are everywhere and they are not always visible. On the other hand recognizing when you’re on the edge can also be misread. I entered the small club alone.
The sweet gentle breeze stopped at the door. The music inside was all Muddy Waters. I could see a few bodies pressed together through the fog and the music had a palpable power. I went to the bar and ordered two cans of beer to go. I did not sit down. The bartender said, “In a minute.”
My sixth sense was on point—only a few blackened shapes moved in the background. It was dark. The music dominated the mood and the dozen or so people were consumed by their own spheres. I should have left immediately, but I waited for the beer instead. What’s around the corner is very hard to know—then I heard two men arguing. Suddenly a scuffle broke out. A hair-raising scream followed, and the place jumped.
The perfect Friday had turned into one unforgettable–that’s when a black sergeant in his dress greens stumbled out of the darkness clutching a red hole in his chest. It was really ugly. He was bleeding heavily. Apparently an artery had been severed. I thought I said: “Help this man,” but it wasn’t possible. All the saliva left my mouth and what courage I thought I had went with it. The sergeant slumped to the floor. He was dying right there in front of me, and no-one came to his rescue or moved, as a paralyzing wave of fear and nausea flooded the club—checking everyone.
The sound of death rattled in his chest. It was as if he had forgotten how to cough and was no longer able to huck-up the mucus and blood pouring into his throat. His eyes rolled wide—conveying unspeakable fear. The rattle grew darker, deeper, and deadlier. He gasped as the sounds of death seemed to mesh with the music metaphorically, “I’m a mann…” The killer challenged everyone with his craziness and this absurdity. “Does anyone else want some of this?” It was rhetorical. There were no takers.
He thrust the bloody shank into the air. The large, serrated knife glistened in the dark—like rat’s eyes caught in the light. It was an in-your-face display of desperation expressed with unforgivable violence. The sergeant shuddered and his life ended with the Muddy Water’s number. I was frozen in that moment as if captured in a Polaroid. Instantly, the killer struck the top of the bar with the heel of the knife. I jumped. My adrenaline surged. I was close enough to reach out and do something. I could smell this man. But in that straining moment I did nothing but look the other way. Ever have a bloodstained hunting knife waved in your face?
The killer’s name was known to everyone. He had a dark and dangerous history. I stood—stone still–clinging to the edge. “Motha fawker call me a taxi cab!” He demanded in a voice as remorseless and as absurd as his earlier remark. The bartender yanked the receiver from the wall and starting dialing reflexively. It was a moment of disbelief. I refused to accept the plain truth—it was too bizarre—too vivid. It was like getting hit in the face with a brick, and then handing the brick back to the person who had just struck you. The killer bolted before the cab arrived. I followed him outside but this time the fire flies were invisible, the crickets silent, and the sweet breeze—no more. It was a moment ransomed and then held captive by the fetters of fear. I knew the killer.
I do not know whatever happened to him, or if justice was served, or if this episode became just another ‘nigga-story’ with an unhappy ending. Regrettably, I told no one other than Katie and made no contribution other than silence. I did, however, awaken from my bullshit dream, and accepted the fact that I would never be free of fear.
Two weeks later I left Fort Riley and Junction City. It was good-bye to a whole lot of step-in-it, step-out-of-it shit and hello to a new beginning. I was excited and looking forward to my Advanced Individual Training at the US Army Transportation School in Fort Eustis, Virginia. Finally, I was thrust into another world.
William E. Self 