Explain the meaning of each underlined word in the context of the quotation.

Explain the meaning of each underlined word in the context of the quotation. Use complete sentences. The page numbers noted in parenthesis refer to a hard copy of the book not the PDF. read the instructions carefully be specific with the quotes 1. “When she moved from public housing to a three-­‐bedroom home in a suburban area…she was trying to create more distance between her and the city’s imploding center”(29). 2. “Fear and apathy had become the new norm in what had once been a close-­‐knit community” (40). 3. “We increased our pace; neither of our mothers would condone us coming home late” (52). 4. “He hadn’t lived there long, but the closeness of the homes allowed Wes to get to know the neighbors and their idiosyncrasies well” (56). 5. “He wasn’t exactly excelling in the classroom, and his disenchantment with the school was beginning to wear on him” (58). Part 2 – Choose 4 of the following 6 questions and answer using your own words and your knowledge of the text. You must write full sentences and indicate which question you are answering. Some of these questions will require that you write a paragraph or more. (80 pts) 1. Write at least two paragraphs which compare and contrast Joy’s and Mary’s relationships and their parenting styles. 2. Both Joy and Mary move away from the center of Baltimore. Why do they move, and where do they move to? Be very specific. What was different about the places each family moved to? Include at least one direct quote to support your answer. 3. In Chapter 2 we are told that Tony “was desperately trying to give his little brother information he thought he needed, the kind of information that Tony never got.” Explain what Tony was trying to do and why. What specific advice did Wes take to heart? What was the outcome? 4. Compare and contrast the level of supervision and rules that the author experienced in the first three chapters to what the other Wes experienced. Write at least two paragraphs. Do you think the level of supervision had an effect on their decisions? 5. What do you think of the author’s claim that some governors used third-­‐grade reading scores to project the number of beds they would need in prison facilities in the future? Why would reading scores be a predictor? Do you think that is type of profiling is accurate? 6. Why did Wes Moore, the author, avoid the drug dealers in his neighborhood and the other Wes Moore did not? What specific influences or factors led to their decisions to get involved with drugs or not? Use at least one direct quote in your answer to this question.

Requirements: 400 words

 

 

For Mama Win, Mommy, Nikki, Shani, and Dawnthe women who helped shape my journey to manhood

ContentsIntroductionPART I: FATHERS AND ANGELS1. Is Daddy Coming with Us?2. In Search of Home3. Foreign GroundPART II: CHOICES AND SECOND CHANCES4. Marking Territory Photo Insert 15. Lost6. HuntedPART III: PATHS TAKEN AND EXPECTATIONS FULFILLED7. The Land That God Forgot8. Surrounded Photo Insert 2EpilogueAfterwordA Call to Action by Tavis SmileyResource GuideAcknowledgments

Reader’s Guide

IntroductionThis is the story of two boys living in Baltimore with similar histories and an identicalname: Wes Moore. One of us is free and has experienced things that he never evenknew to dream about as a kid. The other will spend every day until his death behindbars for an armed robbery that left a police o}cer and father of yve dead. Thechilling truth is that his story could have been mine. The tragedy is that my storycould have been his. Our stories are obviously specific to our two lives, but I hope theywill illuminate the crucial in{ection points in every life, the sudden moments ofdecision where our paths diverge and our fates are sealed. It’s unsettling to know howlittle separates each of us from another life alogether.In late 2000, the Baltimore Sun published a short article with the headline “LocalGraduate Named Rhodes Scholar.” It was about me. As a senior at Johns HopkinsUniversity, I received one of the most prestigious academic awards for students in theworld. That fall I was moving to England to attend Oxford University on a fullscholarship.But that story had less of an impact on me than another series of articles in the Sun,about an incident that happened just months before, a precisely planned jewelry storerobbery gone terribly wrong. The store’s security guard—an oƒ-duty police o}cernamed Bruce Prothero—was shot and killed after he pursued the armed men into thestore’s parking lot. A massive and highly publicized manhunt for the perpetratorsensued. Twelve days later it ended when the last two suspects were apprehended in ahouse in Philadelphia by a daunting phalanx of police and federal agents. The articlesindicated that the shooter, Richard Antonio Moore, would likely receive the deathpenalty. The sentence would be similarly severe for his younger brother, who was alsoarrested and charged. In an eerie coincidence, the younger brother’s name was thesame as mine.Two years after I returned from Oxford, I was still thinking about the story. Icouldn’t let it go. If you’d asked me why, I couldn’t have told you exactly. I was struckby the superycial similarities between us, of course: we’d grown up at the same time,on the same streets, with the same name. But so what? I didn’t think of myself as asuperstitious or conspiratorial person, the kind who’d obsess over a coincidence untilit yielded meaning. But there were nights when I’d wake up in the small hours andynd myself thinking of the other Wes Moore, conjuring his image as best I could, aman my age lying on a cot in a prison cell, burdened by regret, trying to sleepthrough another night surrounded by the walls he’d escape only at death. Sometimesin my imaginings, his face was mine.There’s a line at the opening of John Edgar Wideman’s brilliant Brothers andKeepers about the day he found out his own brother was on the run from the police foran armed robbery: “The distance I’d put between my brother’s world and mine

suddenly collapsed… Wherever he was, running for his life, he carried part of me withhim.” But I didn’t even know the other Wes Moore. Why did I feel this connection withhim, why did I feel like he “carried part of me with him” in that prison cell? I worriedthat I was just being melodramatic or narcissistic. But still, I couldn’t shake it. Finally,one day, I wrote him a simple letter introducing myself and explaining how I’d cometo learn about his story. I struggled to explain the purpose of my letter and posed aseries of naïve questions that had been running through my mind: Who are you? Doyou see your brother? How do you feel about him? How did this happen? As soon as Imailed the letter, the crazy randomness of it all came {ooding in on me. I was surethat I’d made a mistake, that I’d been self-indulgent and presumptuous and insulting,and that I’d never hear back from him.A month later, I was surprised to ynd an envelope in my mailbox stamped with apostmark from the Jessup Correctional Institution in Maryland. He had written back.“Greetings, Good Brother,” the letter started out:I send salutations of peace and prayers and blessings and guidance to you forposing these questions, which I’m going to answer, Inshallah. With that, I willbegin with the first question posed …This was the start of our correspondence, which has now gone on for years. At thebeginning of our exchange of letters—which was later expanded by face-to-face visitsat the prison—I was surprised to ynd just how much we did have in common, asidefrom our names, and how much our narratives intersected before they fatefullydiverged. Learning the details of his story helped me understand my own life andchoices, and I like to think that my story helped him understand his own a little more.But the real discovery was that our two stories together helped me to untangle someof the larger story of our generation of young men, boys who came of age during ahistorically chaotic and violent time and emerged to succeed and fail inunprecedented ways. After a few visits, without realizing it, I started working on thisproject in my mind, trying to ygure out what lessons our stories could oƒer to thenext wave of young men who found themselves at the same crossroads we’dencountered and unsure which path to follow.Perhaps the most surprising thing I discovered was that through the stories wevolleyed back and forth in letters and over the metal divider of the prison’s visitingroom, Wes and I had indeed, as Wideman wrote, “collapsed the distance” between ourworlds. We deynitely have our disagreements—and Wes, it should never be forgotten,is in prison for his participation in a heinous crime. But even the worst decisions wemake don’t necessarily remove us from the circle of humanity. Wes’s desire toparticipate in this book as a way to help others learn from his story and choose adifferent way is proof of that.To write this book, I conducted hundreds of hours of interviews with Wes and hisfriends and family, as well as my friends and family. The stories you will read arerendered from my own memory and the best memories of those we grew up with,

lived with, and learned from. I engaged in extensive historical research andinterviewed teachers and drug dealers, police o}cers and lawyers, to make sure I gotthe facts—and the feel—right. Some names have been changed to protect people’sidentities and the quiet lives they now choose to lead. A few characters arecomposites. But all of the stories are painstakingly real.The book is broken up into eight chapters, corresponding to eight years that had adecisive impact on our respective lives. The three parts represent the three majorphases in our coming of age. Opening each of these parts is a short snippet ofconversation between Wes and me in the prison’s visitors’ room. It was veryimportant to me that we return again and again to that visitors’ room, the in-betweenspace where the inside and the outside meet. I don’t want readers to ever forget thehigh stakes of these stories—and of all of our stories: that life and death, freedom andbondage, hang in the balance of every action we take.The book also features a resource guide listing more than two hundred “ElevateOrganizations” that young readers, their caregivers, and anyone who wants to helpcan use as a tool for creating positive change. One of the true joys of this project hasbeen learning about and creating bonds with some of the organizations that are onthe front lines of serving our nation’s youth.It is my sincere hope that this book does not come across as self-congratulatory orself-exculpatory. Most important, it is not meant in any way to provide excuses forthe events of the fateful day February 7, 2000. Let me be clear. The only victims thatday were Sergeant Bruce Prothero and his family. Rather, this book will use our twolives as a way of thinking about choices and accountability, not just for each of us asindividuals but for all of us as a society. This book is meant to show how, for those ofus who live in the most precarious places in this country, our destinies can bedetermined by a single stumble down the wrong path, or a tentative step down theright one.This is our story.

PART I

Fathers and AngelsWes stared back at me after I’d asked my question, letting a moment pass and a smirk {ickeracross his face before responding.“I really haven’t thought too deeply about his impact on my life because, really, he didn’thave one.”Wes leaned back in his seat and threw an even stare at me.“Come on, man,” I pressed on. “You don’t think about how things would have beendifferent if he’d been there? If he cared enough to be there?”“No, I don’t.” The lower half of his face was shrouded by the long beard that he’d grown, anoutward sign of the Islamic faith he’d adopted in prison. His eyes danced with bemusement.He was not moved by my emotional questioning. “Listen,” he went on. “Your father wasn’tthere because he couldn’t be, my father wasn’t there because he chose not to be. We’re goingto mourn their absence in different ways.”This was one of our yrst visits. I had driven a half hour from my Baltimore home into thewoody hills of central Maryland to Jessup Correctional Institution to see Wes. Immediatelyupon entering the building, I was sternly questioned by an armed guard and searched toensure I wasn’t bringing in anything that could be passed on to Wes. Once I was cleared,another guard escorted me to a large room that reminded me of a public school cafeteria. Thiswas the secured area where prisoners and their visitors came together. Armed guardssystematically paced around the room. Long tables with low metal dividers separating thevisitors from the visited were the only furnishings. The prisoners were marched in, dressed inorange or blue jumpsuits, or gray sweat suits with “DOC” emblazoned across the chests. Theuniforms reinforced the myriad other signals around us: the prisoners were owned by thestate. Lucky inmates were allowed to sit across regular tables from loved ones. They couldexchange an initial hug and then talk face-to-face. The rest had to talk to their families andfriends through bulletproof glass using a telephone, visitor and prisoner connected by receiversthey held tight to their ears.Just as I was about to ask another question, Wes interrupted me.“Let me ask you a question. You come here and ask me all these questions, but you haven’tshared any of yourself up with me. So tell me, what impact did your father not being therehave on your childhood?”“I don’t know—” I was about to say more when I realized that I didn’t really have more tosay.“Do you miss him?” he asked me.“Every day. All the time,” I replied softly. I was having trouble ynding my voice. It alwaysamazed me how I could love so deeply, so intensely, someone I barely knew.I was taught to remember, but never question. Wes was taught to forget, and never ask why.We learned our lessons well and were showing them oƒ to a tee. We sat there, just a few feet

from each other, both silent, pondering an absence.

ONEIs Daddy Coming with Us?1982Nikki and I would play this game: I would sit on the living room chair while Nikkideeply inhaled and then blew directly in my face, eliciting hysterical laughs on bothsides. This was our ritual. It always ended with me jabbing playfully at her face. She’drun away and bait me to give chase. Most times before today I never came close tocatching her. But today, I caught her and realized, like a dog chasing a car, I had noidea what to do. So, in the spirit of three-year-old boys everywhere who’ve run out ofbetter ideas, I decided to punch her. Of course my mother walked into the room right asI swung and connected.The yell startled me, but her eyes are what I remember.“Get up to your damn room” came my mother’s command from the doorway. “I toldyou, don’t you ever put your hands on a woman!”I looked up, confused, as she quickly closed the distance between us. My mother hadwhat we called “Thomas hands,” a tag derived from her maiden name: hands that hit sohard you had to be hit only once to know you never wanted to be hit again. Thenickname began generations ago, but each generation took on the mantle of justifyingit. Those hands were now reaching for me. Her eyes told me it was time to get moving.I darted up the stairs, still unsure about what I’d done so terribly wrong. I headed tothe bedroom I shared with my baby sister, Shani. Our room was tiny, barely big enoughfor my small bed and her crib. There was no place to hide. I was running in circles,frantic to ynd a way to conceal myself. And still trying to comprehend why I was in somuch trouble. I couldn’t even ygure out the meaning of half the words my mother wasusing.In a panic, I kicked the door shut behind me just as her voice reached the second {oor.“And don’t let me hear you slam that—” Boom! I stared for a moment at the closed door,knowing it would soon be {ying open again. I sat in the middle of the room, next to mysister’s empty crib, awaiting my fate.Then, deliverance.“Joy, you can’t get on him like that.” My father’s baritone voice drifted up through thethin {oor. “He’s only three. He doesn’t even understand what he did wrong. Do youreally think he knows what a woman beater is?”My father was in the living room, ten feet from where the incident began. He was avery slender six foot two with a bushy mustache and a neatly shaped afro. It wasn’t hisstyle to yell. When he heard my mother’s outburst, he rose from his chair, his eyes

widening in confusion. My mother slowly reeled herself in. But she wasn’t completelymollified.“Wes, he needs to learn what is acceptable and what is not!” My father agreed, butwith a gentle laugh, reminded her that cursing at a young boy wasn’t the most eƒectiveway of making a point. I was saved, for the moment.My yrst name, Westley, is my father’s. I have two middle names, a compromise betweenmy parents. My father loved the sound and meaning of Watende, a Shona word thatmeans “revenge will not be sought,” a concept that aligned with his gentle spirit. Mymother objected. Watende sounded too big, too complicated for such a tiny baby. Itwasn’t until later in life that she understood why it was so important to my father thatWatende be a part of me. Instead, she lobbied for Omari, which means “the highest.” I’mnot sure what was easier or less lofty about that name, but I was well into elementaryschool before I became comfortable spelling either.My parents’ debate continued downstairs, but their words faded. I went to the room’sonly window and looked out on the world. My older sister, Nikki, and I loved to lookthrough the window as families arrived at the swap market across the street. Our homewas on a busy street that sat right on the border of Maryland and Washington, D.C.,stuck confusingly between two diƒerent municipal jurisdictions, a fact that wouldbecome very signiycant in the near future. I pulled back the thin diaphanous curtainthat covered the windows and spotted my friend Ayana outside with her mother. Shewas half Iranian and half Italian, with long, dark hair and warm eyes that alwaysfascinated me. They were light green, unlike the eyes of anyone else I knew, and theytwinkled as if they held stars. I wanted to tap on the window to say hello as she walkedpast our house to the tenement building next door. But I was afraid of making moretrouble for myself, so I just smiled.On the dresser by the window sat a framed picture of me with Nikki. I sat on her lapwith my arm wrapped around her neck, a goofy smile on my face. Nikki is seven yearsolder, so in the picture she was nine and I was barely two. Colorful beads capped thebraided tips of her hair, a style she shared with my mother, and large, black-framedeyeglasses covered half of her face.Nikki’s real name was Joy, like my mom’s, but everyone called her Nikki. My motherwas obsessed with the poet Nikki Giovanni, in love with her unabashed femininestrength and her reconciliation of love and revolution. I spent nearly every wakingmoment around Nikki, and I loved her dearly. But sibling relationships are often fraughtwith petty tortures. I hadn’t wanted to hurt her. But I had.At the time, I couldn’t understand my mother’s anger. I mean this wasn’t really awoman I was punching. This was Nikki. She could take it. Years would pass before Iunderstood how that blow connected to my mom’s past.My mother came to the United States at the age of three. She was born in Lowe River in

the tiny parish of Trelawny, Jamaica, hours away from the tourist traps that line thecoast. Its swaths of deep brush and arable land made it great for farming but lessappealing for honeymoons and hedonism. Lowe River was quiet, and remote, and it washome for my mother, her older brother Ralph, and my grandparents. My maternalgreat-grandfather Mas Fred, as he was known, would plant a coconut tree at his homein Mount Horeb, a neighboring area, for each of his kids and grandkids when they wereborn. My mom always bragged that hers was the tallest and strongest of the bunch. Theland that Mas Fred and his wife, Miss Ros, tended had been cared for by our ancestorsfor generations. And it was home for my mom until her parents earned enough moneyto bring the family to the States to fulyll my grandfather’s dream of a theology degreefrom an American university.When my mom yrst landed in the Bronx, she was just a small child, but she was asurvivor and learned quickly. She studied the other kids at school like an anthropologist,trying desperately to yt in. She started with the way she spoke. She diligently listened tothe radio from the time she was old enough to turn it on and mimicked what she heard.She’d always pull back enough in her interactions with her classmates to give herselfroom to quietly observe them, so that when she got home she could practice imitatingtheir accents, their idiosyncrasies, their style. Words like irie became cool. Constablebecame policeman. Easy-nuh became chill out. The melodic, swooping movement of herJamaican patois was quickly replaced by the more stable cadences of American English.She jumped into the melting pot with both feet.Joy Thomas entered American University in Washington, D.C., in 1968, a year whenshe and her adopted homeland were both experiencing volatile change—Vietnam, aseries of assassinations, campus unrest, rioting that tore through the nation’s cities, andan American president who no longer wanted the job. Joy herself was caught betweenloving the country that oƒered her and her family new opportunities and beingfrustrated with that country because it still made her feel like a second-class citizen.At college, Joy quickly fell in with the OASATAU, the very long acronym for a veryyoung group, the Organization of African and African-American Students at theAmerican University. The OASATAU was rallying AU’s black students into engagementwith the national, international, and campus issues roiling around them. The battlingorganization elevated her consciousness beyond her assimilationist dreams and sparkeda passion for justice and the good fight.A charismatic AU junior named Bill was the treasurer of OASATAU, and two monthsafter they met early in the exciting whirlwind of her freshman year, Joy was engaged tomarry him. Despite the quick engagement, they waited two years to get married, bywhich time Joy was a junior and Bill a recent graduate looking for work. Marriagebrought the sobering realities of life into focus. The truth was, they were both still tryingto find their feet as adults and feeling a little in over their heads as a married couple.As the love haze wore oƒ, Joy began to see that the same qualities that had made Billso attractive as a college romance—his free and rebellious spirit, his nearly paralyzingcontempt for “the Man”—made him a completely unreliable husband. And she

discovered that what she had foolishly thought of as his typical low-level recreationaldrug use was really something much worse. In a time of drug experimentation andexcess, Bill was starting to look like a casualty.As the years passed, Joy kept hoping that Bill’s alcohol and drug use would fade. Shewas caught in a familiar trap for young women and girls—the fantasy that she alonecould change her man. So she doubled down on the relationship. They had a childtogether. She hoped that would motivate Bill to make some changes. But his addictionjust got worse, and the physical, mental, and emotional abuse he unleashed becamemore intense.One night things came to a head. Bill came home and started to badger Joy aboutwashing the dishes. His yelling threatened to wake up one-year-old Nikki, and Joy triedto shush him. He kept yelling. He moved in on her. The two of them stood face-to-face,him yelling, her pleading with him in hushed tones to lower his voice.He grabbed her by the shoulders and threw her down. She sprawled on the {oor in herwhite T-shirt and blue AU sweatpants, stunned but not completely surprised by hisexplosive reaction. He wasn’t done. He grabbed her by her T-shirt and hair, and startedto drag her toward the kitchen. He hit her in the chest and stomach, trying to get her tomove her arms, which were now defensively covering her head. Finally, she snapped.She screamed at him without fear of waking Nikki as he dragged her across the parquetfloor. She kicked and scratched at his hands.Bill was too strong, too determined, too high. Her head slammed against thedoorframe as he ynally dragged her body onto the kitchen’s linoleum {oor. He releasedher hair and her now-ripped T-shirt and once again ordered her to wash the dishes. Hestood over her with a contemptuous scowl on his face. It could’ve been that look. Or itcould’ve been the escalating abuse and the accumulated frustration at the chaotic life hewas creating for her and her daughter. But something gave Joy the strength to pullherself up from the {oor. On top of the counter was a wooden block that held all of thelarge, sharp knives in the kitchen. She pulled the biggest knife from its sheath andpointed the blade at his throat. Her voice was collected as she made her promise: “If youtry that shit again, I will kill you.”Bill seemed to suddenly regain his sobriety. He backed out of the kitchen slowly, nottaking his eyes from his wife’s tear-drenched face. Her unrelenting stare. They didn’tspeak for the rest of the night. One month later, Joy and Nikki were packed up.Together, they left Bill for good.My mom vowed to never let another man put his hands on her. She wouldn’t tolerateit in others either.My parents ynished their conversation, and it was obvious that one of them washeading up to speak to me. I turned from the window and stood in the middle of theroom, mentally running through my nonexistent options for escape.Soon I could tell by the sound of the steps it was my father. His walk was slower,heavier, more deliberate. My mother tended to move up the stairs in a sprint. He lightly

knocked on the door and slowly turned the knob. The door opened slightly, and hepeeked in. His easy half smile, almost a look of innocent curiosity, assured me that, atleast for now, the beating would wait.“Hey, Main Man, do you mind if I come in?” I’m told that he had many terms ofendearment for me, but Main Man is the one I remember. I didn’t even look up butnodded slowly. He had to duck to clear the low doorway. He picked me up and, as hesat on the bed, placed me on his lap. As I sat there, all of my anxiety released. I couldnot have felt safer, more secure. He began to explain what I did wrong and why mymother was so angry. “Main Man, you just can’t hit people, and particularly women.You must defend them, not fight them. Do you understand?”I nodded, then asked, “Is Mommy mad at me?”“No, Mommy loves you, like I love you, she just wants you to do the right thing.”My father and I sat talking for another yve minutes before he led me downstairs toapologize to my sister, and my mother. With each tiny step I took with him, my wholehand wrapped tighter around his middle ynger. I tried to copy his walk, his expressions.I was his main man. He was my protector.That is one of only two memories I have of my father.The other was when I watched him die.My dad was his parents’ only son. Tall but not physically imposing, he dreamed of beingon television—having a voice that made an impact. Armed with an insatiable desire tosucceed—and aided by his natural gifts, which included a deeply resonant voice—hemade his dream come true soon after finishing up at Bard College in 1971.As a young reporter, he went to many corners of the country, following a story or, inmany cases, following a job. After stints in North Carolina, New York, Florida, Virginia,California, and a handful of other states, he returned home to southern Maryland andstarted work at a job that would change his life. He ynally had the chance to host hisown public affairs show. And he’d hired a new writing assistant. Her name was Joy.Their working relationship evolved quickly into courtship, then love. She appreciatedthis up-and-coming reporter and the professional partnership they shared. Wes wascalm, reassuring, hardworking, and sober. In other words, the antithesis of Bill. Wes wasintensely attracted to this short woman with a broad smile who mixed a steel backbonewith Caribbean charm. And he loved Nikki. Despite her not being his own child, heforged a sincere friendship and, eventually, an unbreakable bond with Nikki. It allbecame o}cial when my mother and father married in a small ceremony inWashington, D.C. I entered the world two years later.On April 15, 1982, my father ended his radio news broadcast on WMAL, a stalwart inthe Washington, D.C., market, with his traditional sign-oƒ—“This is Wes Moore, thanksagain, and we’ll talk next time”—as the on-air light faded to black. His smile was hidingthe fact that for the past twelve hours he’d been feeling ill. His every breath was astruggle.He came home to the smell of his favorite meal, smothered lamb chops. It was almost

midnight and we kids were already in bed, but my parents stayed up, sat together, andate. That night he couldn’t get to sleep. He tried taking Tylenol, hoping it would help hissevere sore throat and fever, but the pill lodged in his throat, refusing to dissolve. At7:00 A.M., he woke my mother to tell her he thought he should go to the hospital. Hethrew on a tattered blue {annel shirt and a pair of worn blue jeans. He got in his redVolkswagen Rabbit and drove himself to the hospital. After my mother took Nikki toschool and dropped Shani and me oƒ with the babysitter, she rushed to meet my father.In the emergency room, she was shocked by the disoriented man before her. My fathercould not keep his eyes open. His head {opped from side to side. The doctors thoughtthe cause of his discomfort was a sore throat and blamed his lack of neck control on alack of sleep. To reduce the pain, they anesthetized his throat. In retrospect, that wasthe worst thing they could have done. He could no longer feel it closing.The doctors didn’t know what to make of his symptoms. They questioned my motherabout my father’s medical history, then shifted to questions about his mental state.“Does he have a habit of exaggerating?” “Is there anything going on in his life thatwould force him to make up symptoms?”At 4:40 P.M., my father was released from the hospital and told to get some rest athome.By six that evening, my mother was in the kitchen with Nikki, holding Shani as shecooked potato pancakes for our dinner. I sat at the dining room table adding colors tothe black-and-white clown in my coloring book. I was months away from my fourthbirthday. I heard my father coming down the stairs. His steps were slower than usual. Igot up from the chair so I could be picked up as soon as he reached the yrst {oor. Then Iheard a crash.His body was sprawled and writhing at the foot of the stairs. Hardly any sounds camefrom his mouth. I heard another crash, this one from the kitchen. The clattermomentarily stole my attention from my father. My mother heard his collapse and, inher rush to see what had happened, dropped the sizzling cast-iron skillet and potatopancakes on the {oor. I looked back up to my father and saw him gasping for air,holding his throat. His normally strong features sagged in exhaustion, as if he were inthe ynal hours of a battle he had been yghting for years. I stared at him, looking butdoing nothing.Mommy pushed past me and told Nikki to call 911. Nikki rushed to the phone andbegan speaking with the emergency personnel on the other end. I could hear herrepeating again and again: “I don’t know what county we’re in.” Minutes passed. Shaniwas crying hysterically. My mother attended to my father, improvising her own versionof CPR while also minding Shani. My baby sister’s screams only seemed to get louder.And I just stood there, staring.Finally my mother told me to go outside with Nikki and guide the ambulance crew in.My older sister took my hand and led me out to wait. Minutes later, police andambulance crews arrived. Nikki ordered me to stay outside while she led them into ourhome.At this point my memories get less distinct. It was like standing in a yeld when a

powerful gust of wind suddenly blows: everything around you vanishes, all you hear isthe wind filling your ears, all you feel is the wind on your skin. Your eyes tear, and sightblurs. Your mind all but empties.I stayed outside with the collection of neighbors who had come to see what was goingon. Through my uncertain eyes I saw my friend Ayana holding her mother’s hand. WhenAyana caught my eye, I could see she was trying to force a smile, but all she got out wasa look of uneasy confusion, which I mirrored back to her.The ambulance crew loaded my father onto the gurney and raced back out. By thispoint dozens of people lined the street. They watched as he was placed in the back ofthe ambulance. The doors slammed shut behind him. The loud sirens and {ashing lightsbroke the silence of the neighborhood. Mommy quickly loaded us into the car andfollowed the ambulance to the hospital. The car was full of sound—Shani crying andNikki making goo-goo noises to try to calm her down, and the roar of the ambulance infront of us—but it felt as silent as a tomb. No talking. No questions. Just the white noiseof the ambulance, one sister crying, and the other struggling to comfort her withoutwords.The hospital was only yve minutes from where we lived, but it seemed like a longride. We rushed out of the car and ran inside. They were already working on my father,so we were sent to the waiting area. Shani had quieted down and was playing with hershoestrings, while Nikki put me on her lap. My paternal grandfather and my auntsDawn, Tawana, and Evelyn had all arrived to join our vigil.Eventually an ER doctor walked into the waiting room. He asked to see my motheralone. “He’s dead, isn’t he?” my mother said before he could begin speaking. “I amsorry. By the time he got here, he was gone,” the doctor said. “We tried, we tried hard. Iam so sorry.”Then my mother passed out.My father was dead yve hours after having been released from the hospital with thesimple instruction to “get some sleep.” The same hospital was now preparing to send hisbody to the morgue. My father had entered the hospital seeking help. But his face wasunshaven, his clothes disheveled, his name unfamiliar, his address not in an a€uentarea. The hospital looked at him askance, insulted him with ridiculous questions, andbasically told him to fend for himself. Now, my mother had to plan his funeral.He died on a Friday night. We were told at yrst that the hospital wouldn’t be able todetermine the cause of death until Monday, when they would perform the autopsy. Butmy father’s radio station wanted to issue a news release about his death, so it leaned onthe morgue to perform the autopsy sooner. The morgue acquiesced, and by Saturdayafternoon we found out that he had died from acute epiglottitis, a rare but treatablevirus that causes the epiglottis to swell and cover the air passages to the lungs.Untreated because of the earlier misdiagnosis, my father’s body suffocated itself.Nikki took his death worse than the rest of us. Not just because she was the only one oldenough to really understand what was going on but because her biological father, Bill,

changed abruptly after my father died. While my dad was alive, Bill supported Nikkiynancially and took the time to see her. After my father died, Bill no longer called,wrote, or bothered to check up on her. My father’s love of Nikki had forced Bill to stepup to his parenting responsibilities—it was almost as if Bill cared more because anotherman did. With my father no longer in the picture, the pressure was oƒ. It was as if mysister lost two fathers that day.While I knew something bad had happened, I still wasn’t sure what it meant. Allweekend, people came in waves to our home. The phone rang nonstop. I saw the hurton people’s faces but didn’t fully understand it. I was still in the wind tunnel. I heardthat my father had “passed on” but had no idea where he’d gone. At the funeral, myuncle Vin escorted us to the mahogany casket in the front of the church to have our ynalviewing of the body. The celebration of my father’s life took place at the FourteenthStreet Baptist Church, the same church my parents had been married in six years earlier.We stood in front of my father’s body for the ynal time. He lay in the casket with hiseyes closed. It was the yrst time I had seen him in days. He looked more serene than heappeared at the bottom of the stairs. He looked at peace. I was holding my uncle Vin’shand when I looked into the casket and asked my father, “Daddy, are you going to comewith us?”Wes, get up here and get your backpack together. You’re going over to yourgrandmother’s house.” Mary Moore’s raspy voice echoed through the house. Wes was inthe living room watching television with the volume turned almost all the way up. SpeedRacer was almost over. Packing his backpack could wait.“You hear me talking to you?”Wes reluctantly got up from the red plaid couch and turned oƒ the television, but thetruth was that he liked going over to his grandmother’s house. He had never met hisfather, at least not that he remembered. But his father’s mother spoiled him. She alsohad a rabbit living under the kitchen sink that he always played with when he visited.He climbed the stairs and caught the scent of his mother’s perfume before he even hither doorway. He saw her sitting on the bed with her back to him. She was wearing thewhite dress he liked. Clearly, she was going out tonight.Wes asked her what he should bring to his grandmother’s house, but he was losing thebattle with the radio, which was blasting George Benson’s “Turn Your Love Around.” Hereached over and turned the volume down.“Ma, what do I need to bring?”When she saw Wes standing there, one hand {ew to her face to wipe her eyes. Theother slid a sheet of paper under her leg. Something was wrong.“Ma, you all right?”“Yes, Wes,” Mary automatically responded. “Just bring some stuƒ to play with for

tonight. Hurry up, go pack your stuff.”He wanted to ask what was wrong but decided against pressing his mother. He slowlyturned around and headed toward his bedroom to pack.The letter Mary was hiding explained that the federal budget for Basic EducationalOpportunity Grants—or Pell Grants—was being slashed, and her grant was beingterminated. Pells—need-based ynancial awards for college—were part of a largerfederal budget cutback in 1982 (during his eight years in o}ce, Ronald Reagan reducedthe education budget by half). Mary realized the letter eƒectively closed the door on hercollege aspirations. She had already completed sixteen hours of college credits andwould get no closer toward graduation.Mary was the yrst in her family to even begin college. After graduating from highschool, she enrolled in the Community College of Baltimore. When she completed herassociate’s degree, she decided to pursue her and her parents’ longtime dream ofcompleting her bachelor’s.Johns Hopkins University was only yve miles from where Mary grew up, but it mightas well have been a world away. To many in Baltimore, Johns Hopkins was thebeautiful campus you could walk past but not through. It played the same role thatColumbia University did for the Harlem residents who surrounded it, or the Universityof Chicago did for the Southside. It was a school largely for people from out of town,preppies who observed the surrounding neighborhood with a voyeuristic curiosity whenthey weren’t hatching myths about it to scare freshmen. This city wasn’t their home. Butafter completing her community college requirements, Mary attempted the short butimprobable journey from the neighborhood to the campus. Her heart jumped when shereceived her acceptance letter. It was a golden ticket to another world—but also to thedizzying idea that the life she wanted, that she dreamed about, might actually happenfor her.She worked at Bayview Medical Center as a unit secretary in order to supplement thegrant that was helping her pay for school. The $6.50 an hour she was making atBayview was enough to keep the balance of her tuition paid, the lights on, and the kidsfed, as long as her Pell Grant was in place. But with that grant now eliminated, itwouldn’t be enough. The next day she called Johns Hopkins and let them know she wasdropping out. That part-time job at Bayview would become permanent.Wes got himself ready and went to check on his mother again. He felt he had to takecare of her: his father had been a ghost since his birth. His older half brother, Tony,spent most of his time with his maternal grandparents or with his father in the MurphyHomes Projects in West Baltimore. Wes was the man of the house.As Mary wiped her still-damp face, she told herself she was down but not out. She justhad to quickly recalibrate her ambitions. She still had big dreams—maybe she couldbecome an entrepreneur, open a beauty salon or her own fashion company. Growing

up, she’d worked at a grocery store in West Baltimore owned by an older black couple,Herb and Puddin Johnson. She remembered looking up to them and wanting to ownsomething the way they did. The Johnsons had achieved a level of independence thatothers in the neighborhood didn’t know existed, let alone understood how to obtain. Andtheir example had long driven her. But she couldn’t deny it: without schooling she wasworried.She gazed out the window, down the same streets she’d been staring out at her wholelife. The same streets she’d walked down when she began her yrst days at Carver HighSchool. The same streets that had cared for her family, taught her family, looked out forher family for so many years. She wondered how long she would have to call thesestreets home.This section of Baltimore had never fully recovered from the riots of the 1960s. Afterthe death of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Baltimore burned. No street saw moredestruction than Pennsylvania Avenue. Mary could remember the days after theassassination when her parents forbade her and her seven siblings from leaving thehouse because just outside their windows a war was unfolding. The bitter riots weresparked by King’s assassination, but the fuels that kept them burning were thepreexisting conditions: illegal but strictly enforced racial segregation, economiccontraction, and an unresponsive political system. Looters ran free as the city explodedwith anger. White neighborhoods in Baltimore blockaded their streets, attempting toconyne the damage of the Riots to its poorer, darker jurisdictions. National Guardtroops patrolled the communities, but their presence created more resentment, not tomention fresh targets for rock-toting kids. Soon it became clear that the Riots wereabout more than the tragic death of Dr. King. They were about anger and hurt soextreme that rational thought was thrown out the window—these were people soderanged by frustration that they were burning down their own neighborhood. The Riotsin Baltimore, particularly West Baltimore, got so bad that “Little” Melvin Williams, alegendary drug dealer and one of the most powerful men in the city at the time, wasrecruited by the mayor to help quell the violence. Tellingly, his in{uence hadconsiderably more effect than the efforts of any politician or soldier.By the end of the Riots, Baltimore stood eerily quiet. Almost $14 million in damagewas recorded, and nearly yve thousand men, women, and children were arrested,injured, or dead.Mary was only a kid, but she made a pact with herself at that moment: she would gether education and leave the neighborhood no matter what it took.Wes watched his mother as she moved from the window to her closet to look for a pairof shoes to wear with her white dress. She yanked the already stretched telephone cord afew feet farther so she could keep talking while digging through her closet. Mary wasplanning on doing what she always did to celebrate, commiserate, blow oƒ steam, orjust kill boredom. She and a couple of her friends would head out to Thirty-second StreetPlaza, a popular nightclub where Mary knew the owner. She was only twenty-seven

years old, and despite having two sons, Tony, who was eleven, and Wes, she was stillyoung enough to enjoy partying, dancing, and being noticed by men—and noticingthem back—much to the chagrin of her family and friends who ended up watching theboys so many nights. She noticed Wes walk back in her room. She sighed and told hersister she would call her back.“Wes, didn’t I tell you to go get ready?”Wes stood undeterred and again asked her what was wrong. Being the man of thehouse, he wanted answers, and he wasn’t leaving until he got them.“Mommy got some bad news about school, and I want to go see some friends and talkabout it.”Wes gave her an unsatisyed look, as if he knew that the story didn’t end there.Finally, she sat him down at the edge of the bed and shared with him, in language hecould understand, why school was so important. He listened intently as she explained tohim the signiycance of being the yrst one in the family to go to college. She told himhow much it meant to her parents that she ynish. Then she explained why she had toquit.Mary and her family had spent the years after the Riots in a house on McCullohStreet, one of the central arteries in West Baltimore. The home was a large, three-story,yve-bedroom row house with a jagged gray brick façade. It sat on a relatively quietblock lined with similarly well-appointed houses, each by trees and grass. But, like somuch in Baltimore, even this beautiful house was bloodstained.After the Riots, Kenneth and Alma, Mary’s parents, decided they wanted to move to alarger home with their ever-expanding family—they’d had eight children in elevenyears. One night Alma said to Kenneth, “Did you hear about what happened onMcCulloh Street?” He asked her to explain.“A man killed his wife in their home. Chopped her up. She was there for a few days,and when the cops came looking for him, he decided to try to hide in the chimney.That’s where they found him.” Kenneth got the point. “I wonder if they are renting itout now.” After a bit of inquiry, the landlord placed the home on the rental market witha severe discount to account for the sensational circumstances of the prior tenant’seviction. Kenneth and Alma proudly moved their family into their new home.After their move, Alma’s kidneys failed, and she began dialysis treatments three daysa week. The painful and tiring treatments took their toll on her physically andemotionally. She maintained a cheery outlook, her hair pulled back into a bun thatrevealed her smooth, dark skin and bright smile. She was always a small woman, buther dialysis was forcing her to lose weight fast, and soon her short, gaunt frame was analmost comical mismatch with her husband’s bulk.When Mary told her mother that she was pregnant, at age sixteen, Alma said, “I don’tcare! You are going to ynish school and go to college.” Alma had never been to college,the great regret of her life, and like Mary, she became a mother well before she enteredher twenties. As tears rolled down Mary’s face, her mother told her she would be thereto support her no matter what happened. Always the optimist, Alma kissed her

daughter’s forehead and gave her a reassuring smile.One morning soon after, Alma got news: it looked like they had found the matchingkidney she had been waiting for, praying for. Kenneth was elated. Alma was his heart.He needed her. But Alma seemed disturbed.Alma called her mother before she went to the hospital and for the yrst time openedup: “I don’t trust them, Mommy. They have never really given very good treatment, so Ijust don’t feel like I will get it now.” Her mother told her not to worry and launched intoa diatribe about the medical technologies of the seventies until Alma interrupted her.“Mommy, I need to know that if something happens to me you will take care of mybabies. I really need to know that.” Without hesitation, her mother replied, “You know Iwill, baby.”Alma went to the hospital for the transplant, and the family did its best to maintaintheir routines. Mary longed for her mom’s return. Learning the basics of child rearing isdi}cult at any time. When you are only three years past the start of puberty, thechallenge is exceptionally daunting. Tony cried too much. He required so muchattention. He was awake when she was trying to sleep, and he slept when she wasawake. She could no longer see her friends, and her father wasn’t much help. The baby’sfather was a neighborhood boy who had no interest in helping out with his son. Maryneeded her mom back.Three days later, Kenneth received the news that Alma’s body had rejected the newkidney and she had died earlier that morning. Kenneth had to tell his children what hadhappened. But how do you share something with kids that you have not fully absorbedyourself yet? Kenneth, usually a gregarious and fun-loving person, also fought thedemons of alcoholism. He would spend Thursday through Sunday getting drunk. Then hewould spend the rest of the week recovering from a monster hangover, waiting forThursday to arrive again. He was a “weekend alcoholic”—in his case, a long-weekendalcoholic—who battled over which version of himself he preferred, the drunk one or thesober one. He drank especially heavily when he needed drunk Kenneth to engage inconversations that sober Kenneth wouldn’t dare.He took one final swig of rum before calling the kids together.“Sorry, guys, Mom’s dead,” he finally blurted out, blunt to the point of absurdity.The silence that sat over the room wasn’t broken until Mary ran out with Tony, tearsstreaming down her face. Weezy went over to hug their father, and the rest of thechildren simply sat in their places, still not sure if they fully understood what they hadjust heard, and not knowing how to react.The morning of the funeral, Kenneth did an admirable job of trying to comb the girls’hair. He made sure all of the kids were dressed and ready to go on time, and he cookedbreakfast, all jobs normally reserved for Alma. A few pieces of burnt toast later, thefamily was ready to pay their final respects.Kenneth held everything together until he saw the casket at the altar. It was the yrsttime he had seen his wife’s body since he viewed her at the morgue. Something hadchanged, but not what he had expected. Now she looked more like his Alma. Themakeup made her cheeks rosier, her skin more even, more alive. It looked almost as if

she was {ashing her trademark smile as she lay in the brilliantly polished woodencasket.When he saw his partner of sixteen years stretched out in the co}n, Kenneth’s eyeswelled up. All of his strength evaporated. The weight that sat on his shoulders—theburden of losing his partner and raising this family without her—became unbearable.He wept, choking for air. He reached into the casket and grabbed her shoulders. Heyanked Alma up and, supporting her head with one arm, tried to pull her body out ofthe casket. Some of the other mourners ran over to him, trying to loosen his grip fromhis wife’s lifeless body. After a struggle, Kenneth was pulled from his wife’s small frameand she was laid back down in her casket. He screamed as he was escorted out of thechurch. The congregation began to sing “Blessed Assurance.”Alma’s parents soon moved into the home Alma and Kenneth shared, and they didn’tleave until the last child was out of the house.Mary was the yrst of the kids to leave home. Education was her escape in more waysthan one.After listening to his mother describe her letter, Wes quickly volunteered to get a joband help out. Mary laughed. “You can work later and make money. Right now I justneed you to go get your bag so I can drop you oƒ.” Wes, ynally satisyed, moved fromhis mother’s bed so he could put the last of his toys in his backpack. Mary watched as hewalked out of her room. Tall for his age—he was over four feet tall at six years old—andmuscularly deyned, he looked amazingly like his father. They were the same shade ofdark brown and even wore the same short, even haircut. Like his father’s, Wes’s grinstretched across his entire face and had a way of putting everyone at ease. Where theydiƒered was in personality. Wes carried himself with a reserved, quiet dignity, while hisfather was always loud and rude. At least he was like that when he was drinking, whichseemed to be all the time.Mary met Bernard, Wes’s father, at her job after he showed up to visit one of her co-workers at Bayview. Bernard was struck by Mary’s ygure. She had that new-motherthickness and still-young-enough-to-{aunt-it conydence. Her smoky voice andwelcoming smile all enticed Bernard. Within minutes of meeting her, he asked if shewould see him again. She agreed.It turned out that for most of their lives they’d lived only a few blocks apart. Bernard’sparents lived on McMechen Street, which ran adjacent to McCulloh. A few months laterMary was pregnant with her second child. In 1975, Wes came into the world.But the relationship between Mary and Bernard didn’t even make it to their child’sbirth. Since leaving high school years prior, Bernard hadn’t found a steady job. He spentmost of his time searching for himself at the bottoms of liquor bottles. Mary was leftwith two alcoholic, abusive men who shared the DNA of her two children but nohusband or dad for her boys.Once, Bernard tried to be involved in his child’s life. About eight months after Wes’sbirth, Mary was awakened by a loud banging on the front door of the home she shared

with her sister on Pennsylvania Avenue.“Mary, what the hell is going on?” her sister asked.“It’s Bernard’s crazy ass out there. I ain’t going out to talk to him. He’s drunk andcrazy.”Bernard continued to bang and scream. He stood on the other side of the door infaded jeans and a plain white T-shirt, his beard scruƒy and his eyes bloodshot. He wasslurring out demands to see his son. Mary simply sat on her bed, peeking through theblinds at the father of her younger child. All the noise woke Tony up, but when hearrived at Mary’s bedroom door asking what was going on, she snapped her yngers andhushed him, telling him to go back to bed. Wes, not even a year old yet, slept onpeacefully. Bernard kept up his racket for another twenty minutes, while Mary justpeered out at him, disgusted. Finally, admitting defeat, he stumbled back home. Thatwas the last time he tried to see his son.Wes waited downstairs for his mother to take him to his grandmother’s house. It wasalready late, almost six in the evening, so he wondered how long he would have to staythere. Mamie, Wes’s grandmother, liked Mary, but she loved her grandson. Wes alwaysfelt true love when he went to her house. Despite the fact that her son had nothing to dowith Wes, Mamie didn’t want Wes punished for the circumstances through which he wasbrought into the world.Wes sat in the front seat of the car for the short drive to Mamie’s. Mary ran down therules of the house, as she did every time Wes visited. No running indoors, no talkingback, don’t eat too much. Wes nodded at each commandment.Minutes later, they arrived at McMechen Street. Wes ran up the three white marblestairs that led to the front door. He got on his toes and reached up to push the doorbell.Mamie’s scintillating eyes met Wes’s as she opened the door and her arms for a big hug.Wes loved the house. It was large, three stories, which gave him plenty of things to getinto and out of. He sprinted inside the house and made a beeline for the kitchen. Thesmell of fried chicken cooking and the excitement of playing with the pet rabbit underthe sink increased his pace.He was running through the living room when he saw someone he had never seenbefore. A man sat on the couch leaning precariously to the side, his right elbowsupporting his body and his head nearly {at against his shoulder. The strong smell ofwhiskey wafted from his clothes and his pores. Wes and the man returned each other’squizzical looks.Mary entered the room and stopped in her tracks. She would have recognized that“hangover lean” anywhere. The man looked through his partially opened eyes and sawMary.A wide smile appeared on his face. “Hey, Mary. Damn, you look good,” he loudlyannounced.“Hey,” she responded, her voice as emotionless as she could make it.Wes looked at his mother, hoping she would explain who this man was. He moved

closer to his mother’s hip. Not only did he feel safer there than in the middle of the roombut also because the smell coming off the man was beginning to bother him. The man onthe couch looked up at Mary and asked, “Who’s this?” Mary smirked and rolled her eyes.She could not believe his audacity.Wes didn’t understand why, but he felt a tension in the room. Mary looked down ather son and uttered the words she had never said before and never thought she wouldhave to say.“Wes, meet your father.”

TWOIn Search of Home1984The phone was up to its eighth ring. It was nine in the morning, and Wes hadn’t seennine in the morning since his summer break started. He climbed out of bed slowly,irritable, his eyes still half-masted when he picked up the phone in his family’s narrowhallway.“Hello?”“Where’s Mom at?” Tony asked.“Probably at work already. Try her there.” Their mom was usually out of the house by8:30 and didn’t come back until well into the evening. Wes, now eight years old, wasfree from any adult supervision till then. His brother, six years older, was the closestthing Wes had to a caretaker during the daylight hours and was yercely protective ofthe little brother who idolized him. But lately even Tony hadn’t been around much. Tonywas spending most of his time in the Murphy Homes Projects, where his father lived.The Murphy Homes were built in 1962 and named after George Murphy, a legend inBaltimore for his work as a groundbreaking educator, but just as often they went by aself-explanatory nickname, Murder Homes. The seventeen-story monoliths were amongthe most dangerous projects in all of Baltimore. The walls and {oors were coated withylth and gra}ti. Flickering {uorescent tubes (the ones that weren’t completely broken)dimly lit the cinder-block hallways. The constantly broken-down elevators forcedresidents to climb claustrophobic, urine-scented stairways. And the drug game waseverywhere, with a gun handle protruding from the top of every tenth teenager’swaistline. People who lived in Murphy Homes felt like prisoners, kept in check byroving bands of gun-strapped kids and a nightmare army of drug yends. This was whereTony chose to spend his days.The conversation between brothers quickly turned to school. Tony knew Wes had justynished elementary school and asked him what he was doing to get ready for the startof middle school at Chinquapin, pronounced “Chicken Pen” by all of its students.Chinquapin Middle was 99 percent black. Close to 70 percent of the kids were on theschool lunch program.Wes mumbled the verbal equivalent of a shrug. Tony was enraged. “Yo, you need totake this shit seriously, man. Acting stupid ain’t cool!”Wes sighed into the phone. He had heard it before. He loved his brother but hadlearned to ignore his occasional “do as I say, not as I do” tirades. Tony, by contrast, wasdesperately trying to give his little brother information he thought he needed, the kindof information that Tony never got. Tony felt his brother’s life could be saved, even if hefelt his own had already, at age fourteen, passed the point of no return.

To Wes, Tony was a “certiyed gangsta.” Tony had started dealing drugs in thoseshadowy hallways of Murphy Homes before he was ten. By the time he was fourteen,Tony had built a yerce reputation in the neighborhood. Despite his skinny frame andbaby face, his eyes were lifeless and hooded, without a hint of spark or optimism.Tony’s dead-eyed ruthlessness inspired fear. He spent much of his time in WestBaltimore but had decided to try to open up a drug sales operation in East Baltimore aswell. Baltimore is a territorial and tribal city. Once the boys in East Baltimore heard thata West Baltimore guy was attempting to take over their corners, tempers {ared. Tonyended up in a shoot-out with a few of the corner boys. Ten minutes later, it was Tony’scorner. But no matter how tough he was, or how many corners he controlled, what Tonyreally wanted was to go back in time, to before he’d gotten himself so deep in the game,and do it all over. He wanted to be like Wes.There’s a term in the hood for a face like Tony’s, that cold, frozen stare. The ice grille.It’s a great phrase. A look of blank hostility that masks two intense feelings—the yreevoked by grille (which is also slang for face), and the cold of the ice. But the toughfaçade is just a way to hide a deeper pain or depression that kids don’t know how todeal with. A bottomless chasm of insecurity and self-doubt that gnaws at them. Youngboys are more likely to believe in themselves if they know that there’s someone,somewhere, who shares that belief. To carry the burden of belief alone is too much formost young shoulders. Tony had been overwhelmed by that load years ago. Now hewanted to help Wes manage his. Like a soldier after years of combat, Tony hated thewar and wanted Wes to do whatever he could to avoid it. He was willing to risk seeminglike a hypocrite.When Tony ynished his rant, Wes hung up the phone and went back to bed. As soonas he was comfortably under the covers, the phone rang again.“Yo, you coming out today?” a gruff voice barked out.“It’s too early, man!” Wes replied. “Wait, okay, okay, give me ten minutes.”Wes was talking to his new friend, Woody, one of the yrst people he’d met whenMary moved the family to this neighborhood a year earlier. It was their third move sinceTony was born. The yrst was from Pennsylvania Avenue to Cherry Hill to get awayfrom Wes’s father. The move from Cherry Hill to Northwood was to get away fromCherry Hill.Wes spent his earliest years in the Cherry Hill Apartments, a planned constructionbuilt after World War II to provide housing to returning black veterans. A neighboringdevelopment, the Uplands Apartments, was the white counterpart, built at the sametime under the city’s “separate but equal” policies. The Uplands became home to athriving middle class, while the over 1,700 units in Cherry Hill became a breedingground for poverty, drugs, and despair. There was never a question that Cherry Hillwasn’t built as a sustainable community for its families. Isolated and desolate, it had nomain streets. Small, poorly constructed, faux-brick homes lined the streets likedormitories. There were three swing sets in the middle of the complex that sat vacant atall times because all of the children had been taught to stay clear of them. The rest ofthe courtyard remained busy with drug activity. If you’re not from Cherry Hill, you don’t

go to Cherry Hill. Over half of the eight thousand residents lived below the poverty line.Mary shuddered every time she left the house and was plotting her escape fromCherry Hill almost as soon as she got there. When she moved from public housing to athree-bedroom home in a suburban area in the Northwood section of town, she wastrying to create more distance between her and the city’s imploding center. Comparedwith the chaos of Cherry Hill, Northwood was a paradise of neat houses with fastidiouslymaintained lawns. Black professionals constituted the bulk of the residents, many ofthem graduates of the universities that sat on its borders, Loyola College and MorganState University. Mary felt safe and hopeful here.Wes searched around his room for his football jersey. He played defensive end for theNorthwood Rams, one of the best rec football teams in the nation. Wes loved football,and his athletic frame made him a natural. Even if he was just going out to play in thestreets with Woody and some other friends, he wore that jersey like a badge of honor.The crimson “Northwood” that blazed across his white jersey gave him a sense of pride,a sense of belonging. He found the jersey in the corner of his room. Grass still stainedthe white mesh from his last game.As football became more important in Wes’s life, his performance in school declined.His test scores were high enough to make it to the next grade, but not high enough tomake a legitimate argument that he’d learned anything. He was skating by, and sincethis was his third elementary school, he was able to do so with fairly little notice. Wesdidn’t act up in class, which kept him under the radar; his teachers spent 90 percent oftheir time dealing with the 5 percent of kids who did. Wes’s teachers gave his motherreports that said he was unmotivated, but Wes just claimed boredom. He always felt hewas smarter than the other kids in class and that the work just didn’t hold his interest.Wes laced up his white Nikes, beelined to his mother’s room, and started to lookthrough her drawers and closets for change, his daily ritual after she left for work. Hismother would notice missing bills, but he could steal coins with no worries. In the cornerof her closet, there was a large green-tinted glass jar of loose change shaped like ateakettle. He permanently borrowed about a dollar, enough to grab a few quarterwaters—the colored sugar water sold in small plastic bottles at the corner store.He ran out the front door to meet Woody, who was sitting on the curb lightly tossinga football in the air.“It’s about time, man!” Woody yelled. Woody lived one street over, on Cold SpringLane. When Wes moved to Northwood, Woody immediately noticed his size and speedand tried to recruit him for the Rams. They’d since become friends.Woody came from a working-class, two-parent household. Woody’s father was aformer sergeant in the Army. During the peak of the Vietnam War, he volunteered forthe Army in logistics as an alternative to being drafted and sent to the front lines likemany of his friends. Wes loved his war stories, savoring every detail. But most of allWes enjoyed the simple fact that Woody’s father was there.Before he met Woody, Wes had never really seen a father around. Single-parent

households were the norm in his world. At best, kids would have a setup like his brotherTony’s, whereby they would get to see their fathers regularly and even stay with them alot. But a family where the father lived with the mother, happily? This was new to Wes,and he liked it. Sometimes he’d ask Woody to hang out, and Woody would reply, “Can’t,I’m with Pops today,” and Wes would feel a surge of con{icting feelings. He wasgenuinely happy for Woody, but he was also deeply envious.Wes and Woody tossed the football back and forth, waiting for other kids to show upto play. The houses on the street were large by Baltimore standards, two stories withsmall front yards. Wes’s home was among the few on the block without {owers orcolorful decoration in the front. It was also one of the few rentals on a block full ofhomeowners.Wes and Woody were soon joined by their friend White Boy. White Boy’s real namewas Paul, but everyone called him White Boy because his father was Lebanese-Americanand his mother was white. In West Baltimore, white people were a rare sight, so WhiteBoy took the brunt of constant teasing. Despite clowning him about it, they loved him.Wes would always say, “The only thing white about him is his skin. Everything else isblack. He’s a real black dude.” White Boy would just shrug and say, “It’s not my fault. Iwas born this way.”These had been Wes’s boys since he’d moved out to Northwood, and they wouldremain his boys for life. The boys approached another group of kids toward the deadend on Wes’s block and asked them if they wanted to play. Particularly during thesummertime, the streets were full of kids, and this group looked like a good match for agame of street football. Wes, always up for a challenge, relished the opportunity to beatup on a new group of neighborhood kids.Wes was playing defense, guarding one of the kids from the neighborhood who wasplaying wide receiver. The boy ran his pattern with Wes closely guarding him, pushinghim slightly to throw him oƒ-balance. Wes didn’t believe in taking it easy. If he wasgoing to play, he was going to play to win. That was his style. The boy told Wes to stoppushing him. Wes pushed the boy harder.Wes was bigger and stronger than the other boy, a fact pointedly reinforced everytime their bodies collided. The boy ynally had enough and, after the ynal play of adrive, stood toe-to-toe with Wes, bumping his chest against the bigger boy. His nosebrushed up against Wes’s chin.“Didn’t I tell you stop touching me?” the boy yelled in Wes’s face.“Make me, bitch!”The boy pushed Wes in the chest, creating a short distance between the two, thencocked his right arm and punched Wes square in his face. Wes stepped back and threwhis hands up, not just to protect himself from another blow but to make sure his facewasn’t damaged. Wes had never been punched before, not like that. And he neverexpected this little dude to swing on him. The boy stared at Wes, seemingly as shockedas he was.Woody stepped in front of Wes and urged him not to retaliate. The boy who punchedWes was still trying to maintain his strut but seemed to realize that he might have made

a mistake by punching the bigger guy. Wes was stunned. Then he tasted theunmistakable bitterness of blood on his tongue. He stuck his lip out slightly and felt theskin splitting open. Blood flowed, staining his white Northwood jersey.The sight and taste of his own blood set Wes oƒ. He clenched his ysts and forced hisway past Woody. Everyone waited for the next punch to be thrown. Instead, Wes brokeinto a sprint, running right past the kid. His focus was elsewhere. He left the kidstanding there confused, hands still up, preparing for a fight. Wes was running home.The commotion caused a stir, and neighbors began to look out their windows to seewhat was going on. Many of them were already frustrated with the boys playingfootball in the street—lost in their game, the players would curse, run through {owergardens, and scatter their quarter-water bottles across the sidewalks. It was not unusualfor the owner of a beautifully decorated and well-kept yard to wake up in the morningand see an empty bag of Lay’s potato chips or Cheez Doodles drifting through. Woodyand White Boy looked up at the neighbors’ windows and saw unhappy eyes staring backat them.Woody ran after Wes to see what was going on, while White Boy ran back to hishouse to avoid getting in trouble. Woody cut through the back door of Wes’s house. Ashe entered, he looked into the kitchen to see Wes slamming a drawer closed. With hisleft hand, Wes held a wet paper towel to his lip, trying to stop the steady {ow of blood.The lip had begun to swell, and his anger grew along with it. This was a pride issue forWes. He had just allowed himself to be punched dead in the face, in front of his friends,by a smaller guy. He could have walked away. He could have fought back on the spotand settled it. But when Wes had looked into the other boy’s eyes, he knew that he hadto send a message.Tony {ashed through Wes’s mind. Tony wanted the best for Wes, but he still felt thatpart of his mission as a big brother was to toughen him up for the battles Tony knewWes would have to yght as he got older. Some days, Tony would have Wes and Woodymeet him at the Murphy Homes, where he would assemble a group of Murphy Homesboys. The boys would circle up like they were getting ready to watch a gladiator yght.Tony would order Wes and Woody into the center of the ring. Then he would call outthe names of a few of the Murphy Homes boys. At Tony’s command, Wes, Woody, andthe boys from the projects would start wrestling and punching one another, yrsttentatively but then with increasing viciousness until Tony jumped into the circle andgrabbed the backs of their collars, separating them like pit bulls in a dogyght. If he everslackened, Tony would pull an exhausted Wes to the side, get within inches of his face,and say, “Rule number one: If someone disrespects you, you send a message so yercethat they won’t have the chance to do it again.” It was Murphy Homes law and Westook it to heart.As Woody got closer, his attention was diverted from Wes’s left hand to his right,where he held a long-bladed knife. Woody carefully approached Wes and said, “Don’t doit, man. Dude is not worth this,” but Wes moved toward the back door, which led to thealley that connected the homes on each block. The alleys were narrow, barely wideenough for a car to pass through.

Woody sensed where Wes was headed and ran to block the back door. Woody held onto Wes’s arms and tried to talk sense to him, but Wes’s rage blocked out every word hisfriend said. Wes tried to wriggle free, to no avail. He knew he couldn’t overpowerWoody, so he told him that he needed to change the paper towel stanching his wound.The moist towel that Wes held to his lip was almost solid red and beginning to dripblood on the living room carpet. As he walked back to the kitchen, Wes kept an eye onWoody.Woody turned his head away to see if the boys outside had moved from the front yardto the back alley. To no surprise, they had. What did surprise Woody was that theyweren’t alone.One of the neighbors must have called the police, because two cruisers had pulled up,{ashing their red and blue lights. They blocked oƒ the alley. The boys who wererunning from the front of the house to the back alley stopped, following orders from thepolice car that pulled up behind them. Woody began to think it was a good thing that heand Wes had come inside.The slamming front door brought Woody’s attention back to the kitchen. Wes wasgone. Before Woody could tell Wes that the police were out back, Wes was on the otherside of the front door, knife in hand, hurrying to settle the score with the boy who hadbusted his lip.Wes was now in a full sprint, clearing the yve steps of his front porch in one leap andthen running around to the alley, yguring that’s where the boys were. His pace slowedas he turned the corner. Right in front of him was the boy who’d split his lip. The angerhe’d felt minutes before rushed back. He gritted his teeth and clenched his ysts. His eyesstarted to stream with tears of anger, confusion, and fear. He began to scream. Hisvision tunneled till the only thing he saw was the boy who’d punched him. Nothing elsewas on Wes’s mind or in his sights, not even the policeman who had just stepped out ofhis cruiser.The policeman left his car just in time to see the other kids clearing out of the alleyand sprinting away. Wes was still preparing to take this yght to the next level. He tooka few quick steps toward the boy who’d punched him, holding the knife to his side. Thepolice o}cer yelled at Wes: “Put down the knife.” Wes didn’t hear him. Wes continuedto move toward the boy. His grip on the knife handle tightened. His forearms flexed.Send a message.After repeating the order one more time, and watching Wes ignore him again, one ofthe o}cers stepped forward. He lifted all eighty pounds of Wes oƒ the ground,slamming him faceyrst on the trunk of the police cruiser. Wes’s chest collapsed againstthe trunk of the car, sending pain throughout his entire body. His hand loosened. Theknife fell to the asphalt. The o}cer pinned Wes’s body to the car with a forearm hardagainst the back of Wes’s neck while he used his other hand to pull the handcuƒs fromthe right side of his belt holster. Wes was incapacitated, the side of his head pressedagainst the cruiser, but he still had the boy who’d punched him in his sights. Weswondered how it was that he was the one being arrested. He tried to plead his case tothe police officer as he closed the second cuff on Wes’s eight-year-old wrists.

Woody went through the back door. He saw Wes lying on the back of the police car inhandcuffs. “Why y’all got my man in handcuffs? What did he do?”Woody’s screams were largely ignored by the two police o}cers. They were busyplacing Wes in the back of one of the cruisers and told the other boys to go home. Theyignored Woody until he shouted out, “If y’all don’t let him go, I’m gonna have to killsomebody!”Moments later, Woody was in handcuffs too.Woody was taken to his house in one of the police cars while Wes was brought downto district booking. Wes sat there, pondering his next step. He didn’t want his mother toknow he’d been arrested. She would probably ground him at least. It was summer, andthat was the last thing he wanted. He used his one phone call to call his brother inMurphy Homes. Tony agreed to ask his father to pick Wes up. Three hours later, Weswas released under the care of Tony’s father, and he was back at his house before hismother got home from her job.It was years before Wes’s mom found out her son had been arrested that day. By thetime she did, she had bigger things to worry about.The extreme heat in my poorly ventilated room woke me in the middle of the night. Iwas dying of thirst. I crept slowly out of my room, careful not to wake Shani. Each stairlet oƒ an irritating squeak. As I reached the bottom of the alcove, I saw my mother halflying down, half sitting up on the couch, staring at me with wide eyes. It was obviousshe had been sleeping just a few moments prior, but the sound of the stairs woke her.She asked what I needed, and after I explained that I just wanted some water, sheinsisted on getting it for me. I didn’t need her help, but I didn’t say anything as she rosefrom the couch to get a glass from the kitchen.Since my father’s death, my mother had made the tattered brown leather couch in theliving room her bed. Our neighborhood was getting more and more dangerous; therehad been a rash of break-ins in the houses around us. My mother slept in the living roomto stand guard, she said. She didn’t want me and my sisters to be the yrst people atrespasser ran into if they entered the house. She was determined to protect us. The factthat sleeping in the living room also allowed her to avoid the haunted bedroom she’donce shared with my father was never mentioned.My mother still tortured herself with what-ifs concerning my father’s death. Did sheask all the right questions? Should she have pushed the doctors harder for a clearerdiagnosis? Could her CPR have worked better had she learned how to do it properlywhen she had the chance? Her protective vigilance for her surviving family hadovertaken rationality. For the past two years, she’d slept on the couch listening,waiting, protecting.

The death of my father had created a major stir in the journalistic community. He wasyoung, talented, and admired. My mother, concerned about the eƒects on her childrenof a drawn-out legal aƒair, opted to settle out of court, despite believing she had alarger wrongful death case. Intent to make some sense of the tragedy, she used themoney to create a fund that would provide equipment and training to paramedics on anew procedure for dealing with respiratory or cardiac arrest, a technique that couldhave saved my father’s life. At the time of my father’s death, none of the yrst responderswere trained in the technique. My mother hoped her gift would prevent other familiesfrom having to go through what we’d suƒered. But her act of kindness could do nothingto ease our feelings of loss.She rubbed her knees and grimaced as they straightened out. She had started to gainweight, and what had once been a sprightly step had begun to slow. Perpetual bagshung under her eyes. I watched her as she walked by me, looking worn, almostdefeated.After kissing me good night for the second time, she sent me up to my room and saton the couch. With a glance back, I saw her rub her eyes again and rest her head in herhands. People around us didn’t think she was coping well with her husband’s death.They thought she needed help, not just in raising the kids but in raising her spirits.Although we were surrounded by her longtime friends from college and my uncles andaunts from both sides of the family, it wasn’t enough. She was losing her grip. Sheneeded help only her parents could provide.A few mornings later, Mom woke up, made breakfast for us, and got Nikki and me oƒto school. Then she called her mother up in New York. Her mother had let her know thatthere would always be an open door for her in the Bronx if she needed it. But my motherhad been determined to stick it out in the home she’d bought with her husband. Untilnow.“Mom, if it’s still all right, I think we need to move up there. I can’t do this aloneanymore.”My grandmother was thrilled. Before she even answered my mother, she called out tomy grandfather, “Joy and the kids are moving up to New York!”Three weeks later, Nikki, Shani, and I all stood outside our car, staring withsomething like disbelief at our now empty home. This was it. We were actually leavingMaryland.“All right, guys, load up,” my mother cheerily yelled as she threw in one ynal bag andslammed shut the trunk of our lime green Ford Maverick. Nikki helped me get my seatbelt done while my mother secured Shani in the car seat. Even as a kid, I could tell mymother’s aggressive good cheer was for our beneyt. Before we took oƒ, she paused totake one ynal look at our house, the house she’d lived in for six years. It already felt likea past life.

My grandparents weren’t strangers to me; they’d spent quite a bit of time with us inMaryland. They were both recently retired—my grandfather from the ministry and mygrandmother from twenty-six years as an elementary school teacher in the Bronx. I wasexcited by the idea of living with them; they spoiled us like crazy. But I wasapprehensive about moving away from my friends, from the only world I’d known.My mother prepared us for the move by telling us about her wonderful childhood andthe glories of the Bronx. She told us about the neighbors who always had a hot meal foryou and looked out for you if your parents weren’t around. She told us about theamazements to be found at the Bronx Zoo, which was only ten minutes away from ournew home. She told us it was safe, that in all the time she’d lived there as a kid, she hadnot once experienced crime or violence. But when we broke oƒ the interstate andstarted navigating the burned-out landscape of the Bronx, we could feel her energyshifting. Things had clearly changed.The Bronx is an amazing place, home to over a million people. The diversity of theborough is extraordinary: areas like the Italian-immigrant-settled Country Clubneighborhood were among the most a€uent of the city but were only minutes awayfrom the poorest congressional district in the nation. When my grandparents moved tothe United States, in the 1950s, the South Bronx had already begun its transformationfrom a majority Jewish borough to one dominated by blacks and Latinos. When mymother grew up in the Bronx, despite rising poverty levels, the sense of family andcommunity were strong. With every decade that had passed since she left the area,things had gotten worse. In 1977, when President Jimmy Carter visited the Bronx, hesaid it looked like “a war zone.” Seven years later, we were moving back.We’d stopped at a red light at the corner of Paulding and Allerton avenues when wesaw a woman walk up to a young boy standing on the corner. The woman was dressedin a blue shirt and faded blue shorts that showed oƒ her scaly, ashy legs. She stumbledto the boy, with her right hand tightly gripping a wad of money. The boy, no older thansixteen, darted his head back and forth, apparently looking for cops, customers, or both.As she approached him and they started talking, the light turned green and my motherquickly hit the gas. Even craning my neck backward, I didn’t see how that scene ended.We were now only two blocks away from our new home. When I turned back around, Icould see the nervousness on my mother’s face re{ected in the rearview mirror.Moments later we arrived.When my grandparents moved to the United States, their yrst priority was to saveenough money to buy this house on Paulding Avenue. To them a house meant muchmore than shelter; it was a stake in their new country. America allowed them to create alife they couldn’t have dreamed of in their home countries of Jamaica and Cuba. Theirplan had been to return overseas once they retired, but they couldn’t bring themselves toleave. They sensed that they were needed here. Today was exactly the kind of daythey’d been anticipating.The three-bedroom home always managed to somehow stretch itself when peoplewere in need of a place to stay. The number of people who lived in the home at any

given time {uctuated between yve and nine, which made for tight living conditions.When we showed up that late summer day in 1984, we brought the number to seven.I walked up the stone stairs to see the front door open and my grandparents waitingthere. My invitingly plump grandmother stood in the doorway, her hair in a light Jhericurl and a smile settled so yrmly across her face it seemed permanently engraved.“Welcome home!” she bellowed out to us in her Jamaican accent. She engulfed myentire body in her hug, folding me into her chest in a tight embrace. My grandfatherstood directly behind her, waiting his turn to get at the grandchildren. My grandfatherwas a short man, no more than yve foot six, but his presence dominated every room heentered. He was dark-skinned with a muscular frame that made him seem much youngerthan he was. People often compared him with his fellow man of the cloth ArchbishopDesmond Tutu, but of course that didn’t mean anything to me. His mustache tickled ashe hugged me and kissed me on the cheek.After unloading the car, my mother began to tell my grandparents about what she hadseen earlier, the woman buying the drugs from the young boy. She also told them abouta telephone pole she’d noticed outside their house that had been converted into amakeshift memorial. There was a picture of a young girl taped to the pole, andsympathy cards and tiny stuƒed animals were scattered around it. Signs saying WELOVE YOU and SEE YOU IN HEAVEN were taped around the little girl’s picture. Hername was April. The shrine had unsettled my mother.My grandparents told my mother about the changes that had been taking place in theneighborhood. As I sat next to her, trying to spin a basketball on my index ynger, Iheard my grandparents talk about how drugs and violence had slowly crept in. Fear andapathy had become the new norm in what had once been a close-knit community. Theyalso talked about something I’d never heard of before. Crack.My grandmother left the table and went into the kitchen. She returned a few minuteslater with a large pot of codysh and ackee, the o}cial dish of Jamaica, and a largehelping of grits. They had spent days preparing the dish in anticipation of our arrival,my grandfather serving as sous-chef, deboning the light, salty ysh and chopping up theonions and peppers while my grandmother seasoned and cooked it to perfection.Retirement had been wonderfully relaxing for them. That was all over now.My grandparents, Rev. Dr. James Thomas and Winell Thomas, met when he was aneighteen-year-old ministerial student in a small Jamaican parish and she and herparents were newly arrived parishioners from Cuba. My grandmother’s parents leftHavana in the 1930s in search of work; at the time Jamaica was an island of relativeprosperity amid the worldwide Great Depression. My great-grandparents loaded up on aboat in Havana Harbor with six-year-old Winell and prepared to create a new life inJamaica.The two largest islands in the Caribbean were only ninety miles apart, and my great-grandparents planned to return quickly after a temporary stay in Jamaica to makesome money. In fact, my grandmother’s older sister, Lurlene, was left behind. But thefamily never went back to Cuba, and my grandmother never saw her sister again.When my maternal great-grandparents arrived in Jamaica, they searched for a church

home. One Sunday, they entered Mount Horeb Church in St. James Parish and wereimmediately impressed by the young, dynamic pastor, Josiah Thomas. My grandmother,however, was even more struck by the pastor’s son. Their friendship was quick and easy.As they got older, their love for each other developed; they were married in 1948.My grandfather had a dream to follow his father’s footsteps and join the ministry.Since he could remember, he’d wanted to lead his own congregation. But to do it, heneeded to complete school. His father used to tell him, “Being a leader in the faith isabout more than simply proclaiming the Word, you must be a student of the Word.” Theyrst step along that road was to leave his new bride and his homeland to attend LincolnUniversity, a historically black college in Pennsylvania.When he arrived in the middle of November, he had his Jamaican wardrobe: shorts,short-sleeve shirts, and a few pairs of slacks for fancy occasions. On his yrst day on thepicturesque campus, he walked briskly through the bracing Pennsylvania wind andfallen autumn leaves in open-toed sandals and shorts.“Hey, you, come here quickly!”The voice came from a man standing about thirty feet away. My grandfatherhesitated—not only did he not know the man but also because it was too cold for smalltalk. The man jogged over to my grandfather, who speed-walked to meet him halfway.“Where are you from?” the man asked. He wore an elegant black suit and black tie,and his demeanor was irresistibly cheerful, which put my grandfather at ease. His accentwasn’t American, but my grandfather couldn’t quite place it.“Jamaica,” my grandfather proudly responded.“I knew you were not from here. We need to get you some appropriate clothes. Don’tworry. When I first came here, I did the same thing.”The man took my grandfather to the store to buy him some warm clothes to wearuntil he could properly equip himself for the winter. The shopping excursion was theyrst of many encounters between my grandfather and this man, who would become amentor, teacher, and friend to him. They spent many hours talking together about thechanging world and the dawning of independence and liberation movements across theAfrican Diaspora. He tried to convince my grandfather to go into politics, as he hopedto, and change the world through that means. But my grandfather insisted that God wascalling him to serve through the ministry.The two men’s paths diverged over time. The man who mentored—and clothed—mygrandfather followed his dreams and made history. That man, Kwame Nkrumah, becamethe president of Ghana, the yrst black African president of an independent Africannation.After completing his education, my grandfather moved to the South Bronx andbrought his wife and kids with him. In 1952, my grandfather, son of a Presbyterianminister and now a Presbyterian minister himself, became the yrst black minister in thehistory of the Dutch Reformed Church. The Dutch Reformed Church, born in theNetherlands during the Reformation, had spread throughout Europe and around theworld, and even eventually became the o}cial religion of apartheid South Africa. Mygrandfather’s pioneering ascent to the ministry was met with many cheers but some

threats as well. He battled through them and made history.Thirty-two years later, he hadn’t changed. He sat across from my mother and told herthat the changes in the neighborhood had not diminished his belief in the community.He was determined to stick it out and do his part to heal what was broken in the Bronx.I continued to spin the ball on my finger.The yrst few days after the move, I became antsy. I missed my old friends and my oldneighborhood. I had thought my mother’s rules were strict but soon realized that mygrandparents’ were many times worse. They made it very clear that Paulding Avenuewas their home and their rules would apply. When the streetlights went on, we had tobe back home. All chores had to be done before we even thought about going outside toplay. If we heard any gunyre or, as my grandmother called it, “foolishness,” outside, wewere to immediately return home, no matter when it was. These were not Bronx rules,these were West Indian rules. And my grandparents ygured if these rules had helpedtheir children successfully navigate the world, they would work on their grandkids too.My restlessness was cured only by heading out into these new streets. Aftercompleting my chores one day, I got permission to play basketball at a park yve blocksfrom our house.“Go, play, and come right back!” were the orders I heard as I began to dribble mybasketball up the concrete sidewalks toward the courts. I took my time getting to thecourts, practicing dribbling the ball between my legs, but I also tried my best to absorbthe new neighborhood. There were many more people on the streets, sitting on thestoops, hanging out, than I was used to. The boom-bap of early hip-hop, still young andclose to its Bronx roots, tumbled out of the apartment buildings, mixed with Spanishmusic blaring from boom boxes. The Bronx was in its postapocalyptic phase. Wholeblocks were abandoned, buildings blackened and hollowed out by fires set by arsonists—many of whom were in the employ of landlords looking to cash out of the deterioratingghetto. I didn’t have much of a frame of reference back then, though. I didn’t know thatdrug yends were still making use of those abandoned buildings for activities thatwould’ve blown my mind, or that the swollen hands on the man leaning against atelephone pole by himself—eyes {ickering, head nodding—were telltale signs of needleinjections. I walked past neighbors whose eyes over{owed with desperation anddepression, people who had watched their once-proud neighborhood becomesynonymous with the collapse of the American inner city.With every step on those cracked sidewalks, I passed a new signiyer of urban decay.But I didn’t even realize it. I was a kid, and just happy to get out of the house. Thepeople I passed would look me up and down, and I would look back, give the traditionalhead nod, and then go back to practicing my crossover dribble.I ynally arrived at the courts and saw a handful of guys playing three on three. Theyall looked a little older than me, or at least bigger than me. I quickly realized they wereall better than me, too. The red iron rims had no nets, and since there was no real giveon the rims, every shot ended as either a silent swish or a high-bouncing brick. Although

I was intimidated, I called “next” because I knew my deadline for going back to thehouse was quickly approaching.I was practicing my lefty dribble next to the iron gate that surrounded the courtswhen one of the guys fell hard to the ground. He had been accidentally hit in the facewhile driving to the basket. Blood trickled from his mouth. He quickly walked oƒ to getsome water and clean his face. No foul was called. I would soon learn that calling foulsjust wasn’t done.The players realized they were short one man. The group looked at me, seemingly allat once, since I was now the only person on the sidelines.“You good to run?” one of the boys asked me.I dug up all the conydence I had, placed my basketball on the ground, and began towalk toward them. My oversize sneakers clopped on the court like a pair of Clydesdalehooves. My new teammates called out their names as I gave each of them a quick dap,an informal greeting of clasped hands and bumped chests.“What’s up. I’m Oz.”“What’s going on. Deshawn.”I played hard, lost pretty bad, but enjoyed every minute of it. These kids werediƒerent from my friends back in Maryland. I quickly started to pick up on their lingoand style, the swagger of my new teammates and neighborhood friends.From this yrst moment on a Bronx court, I could tell there was something specialabout it. The basketball court is a strange patch of neutral ground, a meeting place forevery element of a neighborhood’s cohort of young men. You’d ynd the high schoolphenoms running circles around the overweight has-beens, guys who’d eƒortlesslyplayed above-the-rim years ago now trying to catch their breath and salvage what wasleft of their once-stylish games. You’d ynd the drug dealers there, mostly playing thesidelines, betting major money on pickup games and amateur tournaments butoccasionally stepping onto the court, smelling like a fresh haircut and with gear on thatwas too yne for sweating in. But even they couldn’t resist getting a little run in—andGod help you if you played them too hard, or stepped on their brand-new Nike Air ForceOnes.You’d ynd the scrubs talking smack a mile a minute and the church boys who didn’teven bother changing out of their pointy shoes and button-up shirts. You’d ynd thefreelance thugs pushing oƒ for rebounds, and the A students, quietly showing oƒ silkyjump shots and then running back downcourt eyes down, trying not to look too pleasedwith themselves. There would be the dude sweating through his post o}ce uniformwhen he should’ve been delivering mail, and the brother who’d just come back fromdoing a bid in jail—you could tell by his chiseled arms and intense stare, and thecautious smile he oƒered every time a passing car would honk and the driver yell out hisname, welcoming him home.We were all enclosed by the same fence, bumping into one another, yghting,celebrating. Showing one another our best and worst, revealing ourselves—even ourcruelty and crimes—as if that fence had created a circle of trust. A brotherhood.We played that yrst night until I saw the streetlights come on, my cue to head to the

house. I asked them when they would be back out playing, and they said tomorrow,same time, same place. So would I.

THREEForeign Ground1987“Just stand next to the white people. They’ll get off by a Hundred and Tenth Street.”Justin broke down his strategy for securing a seat as we shoved ourselves onto thecrowded Number 2 train heading uptown. We had spent the day in Manhattan, taking abreak from the Bronx, prowling the city’s sneaker stores, checking for the new Nikes wecouldn’t aƒord. Now on the subway back home, we stood in a crush of executives,construction workers, accountants, and maids—a multicolored totem of hands clingingto the metal pole in the middle of the car for dear life.Six stops later, Justin’s prediction proved out. A business-suited exodus emptied thetrain when we hit 110th Street, the last outpost of a€uent Manhattan, and we wereynally able to sit down. A subway car full of blacks and Latinos would continue thebumpy ride back up to Harlem and the Bronx. Justin smiled at me just as the train’s lastyuppie scurried out ahead of the closing doors.Justin and I bonded from the yrst time I met him. We wore the same haircut, atowering box cut made popular by rappers like Big Daddy Kane, whose elegantlychiseled high-top was the gold standard. Justin loomed over me, standing at almost yvefoot six in yfth grade, and his skinny frame made him appear even taller. His voice wasdeep, an excursion into puberty that had left the rest of us behind. He lived in theSoundview Projects, just minutes away from our house in the Bronx. We knew eachother’s neighborhoods, each other’s friends, and each other’s families. There was oneother thing that helped us bond quickly: he was one of the few other black kids at mynew school.My mother decided soon after our move to the Bronx that I was not going to publicschool. She wasn’t a snob, she was scared. My mother was a graduate of the publicschool system in New York herself, and the daughter of a public school teacher in thesame system. She knew the public schools in the area. The schools she’d gone to werestill there—same names, same buildings—but they were not the same institutions. Thebuildings themselves were dilapidated—crumbling walls and faded paint—and even ifyou were one of the lucky 50 percent who made it out in four years, it was not at allclear that you’d be prepared for college or a job. Just as the street corners of the Bronxhad changed, so had the public schools. Things were falling apart, and the halls ofschool were no exception or refuge from the chaos outside.But no matter how much the world around us seemed ready to crumble, my motherwas determined to see us through it. When we moved to New York, she worked multiplejobs, from a freelance writer for magazines and television to a furrier’s assistant—whatever she could do to help cover her growing expenses. She had to provide for us,

and she was helping out her parents, who were living oƒ two small pensions and theirsmall monthly Social Security check. My mother would wake us up in the morning forschool, and before we had even ynished getting dressed, she was oƒ to work, leavingmy grandparents to get us there. My grandparents would pick us up after school,prepare dinner for the family, and get us to bed. Late into the night, my mother wouldcome in from her last job and walk straight to our bedroom, pull the covers tight aroundus, and give my sister and me our kiss good night. The smell of her perfume would wakeme as soon as she walked in, and then comfort me back to sleep.My mother yrst heard about Riverdale Country School when she was a girl growingup in the Bronx. It was the sort of school you might ynd in a storybook, a fantasy for apublic school kid. It sat along the banks of the Hudson River, and the rolling hills andlush quadrangles of its campus gave it the grand appearance of a university. The ivy-covered buildings were like a promise to its students of what awaited them. It was theschool John F. Kennedy attended as a child.When my mom visited the school again as an adult, she was immediately convincedthat this was where she wanted my sister and me to go. Riverdale was in the Bronx butwas its own little island of a€uence, a fact local residents were quick to remind you ofin hopes of keeping their property values from collapsing to the level of the rest of theborough. My mother saw Riverdale as a haven, a place where I could escape myneighborhood and open my horizons. But for me, it was where I got lost.Justin and I got oƒ the subway—covered with gra}ti tags and all-city murals—atGun Hill Road and began the ten-minute walk home. Everything about the Bronx wasdiƒerent from downtown Manhattan, more intense and potent; even the name of thestreet we walked down—Gun Hill Road—suggested blood sport. As soon as we hit theBronx bricks, our senses were assaulted. We walked through a fog of food smellsblowing in from around the world—beef patties and curry goat from the Jamaican spot,deep-fried dumplings and chicken wings from the Chinese take-out joint, cuchifritosfrom the Puerto Rican lunch counter. Up and down the street were entrepreneurialimmigrants in colorful clothes—embroidered guayaberas and {owing kente and spray-painted T-shirts—hustling everything from mix tapes to T-shirts to incense from crowdedsidewalk tables. The air rang with English and Spanish in every imaginable accent,spoken by parents barking orders to their children or young lovers playfully {irtingwith each other. By now, all of this felt like home.On the way to my house, we decided to stop by Ozzie’s to see if our crew was around.Ozzie was our boy, tall and dark-skinned, with a close-cropped Caesar and a softCaribbean accent like his father’s. His basketball skills transcended his years; he wasonly in fifth grade when high schools started to recruit him.As expected, there they were—our little crew, sprawled along the white stone steps ofOzzie’s house. Before I could properly get into the {ow of conversation, Paris turned tome.“How y’all like it up there at that white school?”Paris was a good-looking guy with a brilliant smile that he rarely cared to share. Heleaned back as he spoke—his question was a challenge.

“It’s cool, it’s whatever,” I quietly replied, looking down at the ground. It was a sorespot. In the hood, your school a}liation was essential. Even if you weren’t running withthe coolest clique, you still got some percentage of your rep from your school, and thename Riverdale wasn’t going to impress anyone. If anything, it made my crew kind ofsuspicious of me. So I quickly changed the subject.“What’s up with the Knicks this year?”Lame, I know, but I was desperate. Most of my neighborhood friends were attendingpublic schools in the area; a few were attending Catholic school. But Justin and I werethe only two who actually went all the way across town to attend a predominantlywhite private school. It would take as long as an hour and a half some days, dependingon tra}c, stalled trains, weather, and other factors, but we would make it there. And ontime. At least initially.“Nah, for real, what’s up with Riverdale?” Paris asked, bringing the topic back. Hisvoice rose on the last word, as he made his best attempt at a proper British accent. I hadto admit that Riverdale sounded a little like something out of Archie Comics. It wasembarrassing. I decided to try a diƒerent tack. “Yeah, it’s cool, man, nobody messeswith me over there. I have the place on lock,” I started, unconvincingly. My feetshu€ed and my voice lowered a few octaves. I caught Justin out of the side of my eye,shaking his head with amazement at the nonsense that was coming out of my mouth. Icould feel the burn of his skeptical stare on the side of my face, but I pressed on.“Let me tell you how I run things up there,” I said and launched into the story of myrecent suspension from school.A few weeks earlier I had been suspended for yghting. I was playfully wrestling witha kid from my grade when I decided to go for a killer move: I grabbed his right arm withmine and hoisted him over my shoulder, then dropped him hard on the ground. The fallwas awkward, and he landed on his head, opening a small but surprisingly bloody cut.After the boy was rushed to the school nurse and eventually to the hospital to get a fewstitches, I was suspended for fighting.That was the truth.For my friends, I decided to juice the story up a little. Or a lot. The story I told had theboy disrespecting me and me getting in his face to respond. When he kept jawing, Ipicked him up over my head and slammed him to the ground. Then I stood over hisbleeding body, taunting him like Muhammad Ali over Sonny Liston, daring him to getback up.My friends looked over at Justin, who had a pained expression on his face. He knewthe truth, and soon the rest of my friends did too. I became the butt of prettyunrelenting taunting. My attempt at creating a Wes Moore legend had backfired.I was saved after about twenty minutes when a man stumbled toward us. His hairlooked like it hadn’t seen a comb in weeks. There were laces in only one of his ylthysneakers.“Can you young brothers spare some change? I need to make a phone call,” hestuttered. An old and unpleasant odor preceded him.Ozzie responded yrst, his Jamaican accent a little thicker than usual. “Get the hell out

of here, man. Nobody has any change for you.”The man slowly moved away, peeking backward a couple times, hoping one of uswould overrule Ozzie’s rejection.Ozzie shook his head in disbelief. “If dude wanted to buy some rock, he should havejust said it. Who the hell was he gonna call if we gave him some change?” We alllaughed as the panhandler staggered back up the block to look for sympathy elsewhere.Drugs were not new to the Bronx. Marijuana, cocaine, and heroin all took their turns asthe drug of choice. But crack was diƒerent. After it o}cially introduced itself in theearly 1980s, it didn’t take long for crack to place a stranglehold on many communities.The Bronx was one of them. I was an eyewitness.Crack was diƒerent from the drugs that preceded it. It was crazily accessible andinsanely potent—and addictive. My friends and I would regularly trade the mostremarkable stories we’d overheard or witnessed: A father who left his family and robbedhis parents for money to buy rock. A pregnant mother who sold her body to get anotherhit. Someone’s grandmother who blew her monthly Social Security check on crack.The other diƒerence between crack and other drugs was its method of distribution.There was so much money to be made that drug gangs rapidly expanded their ranks,sucking in some of our best friends, and turf wars became deadly, aided by the in{ux ofsophisticated yrearms. The mayhem spread from the gangs to the rest of theneighborhood. Everyone felt threatened. Everyone was defensive. From the early 1980sto the end of the decade, there was an almost 61 percent jump in the murder rate. WhenI look back now, it’s almost surreal. In 2008, there were 417 homicides in New YorkCity. In 1990, there were 2,605. Those murders were concentrated in a handful ofneighborhoods, and the victims were concentrated in a single demographic: young blackmen. In some neighborhoods, the young men would’ve been safer living in war zones.We laughed at the panhandler on the block, but he wasn’t just an object of ridicule, hewas an unsettling omen.After sitting with the crew for a few hours, Justin and I decided to get back to thesubway station so he could head home. The sun was beginning to set, so we knew wedidn’t have much time. We didn’t need to check our watches—we were starting to feelthe fear that crept around the edges of our consciousness at dusk. Justin lived a fewtrain stops away from me, and taking the train home after dark was a diƒerent journeythan the one we’d made earlier in the day. Justin knew the rules: Never look people inthe eye. Don’t smile, it makes you look weak. If someone yells for you, particularly afterdark, just keep walking. Always keep your money in your front pocket, never in yourback pocket. Know where the drug dealers and smokers are at all times. Know wherethe cops are at all times. And if night fell too soon and Justin was forced to go home byfoot over the Bruckner Expressway overpass in the dark, he knew to run all the way.We increased our pace; neither of our mothers would condone us coming home late.His mother and mine were kindred spirits. Both were born in 1950, both nicknamedtheir oldest children Nikki after Nikki Giovanni, both knew all about the public schools

in the Bronx (my mother went to school in them and Justin’s mother taught in them),and both were single mothers working multiple jobs to send their kids to a schooloutside their neighborhoods. Justin’s mother looked after me like I was one of her own.The same way my mother did for Justin.The sun continued its rapid descent. We tried to keep a bop in our step, tried to keepit cool, but by now we were pretty explicitly speedwalking. Breathing a little heavily,we did our best to keep up appearances. We laughed about our day, talked about school.Riverdale. The pristine campus and well-dressed kids had stunned me on my yrst visit—the Bronx was not the homogenous ghetto I thought it was. I felt a crazy-makingcrosscurrent of emotions whenever I stepped onto campus. Every time I looked aroundat the buildings and the trees and the view of the river, I was reminded of the sacriycesmy mother was making to keep me there. And every time I looked at my fellowstudents, I was reminded of how little I fit in.I tried to hide the fact that my family was so much poorer than everyone else’s atschool. Every week I sat down to create a schedule for my clothes. I had three “good”shirts and three “good” pairs of pants. I would rotate their order, mixing and matchingso that each day I had on a fresh combination. Later I even borrowed Nikki’s clothes toshow some further variation, thinking that nobody would notice the zippers at thebottoms of the jeans or the way the hips hugged a little tight. I would just nonchalantlysay that I was trying to “bring the seventies back.” This claim was usually met withpolite smiles when I was in the room, but I can only imagine the hysterical laughter andconversations about my cross-dressing when I wasn’t around.When the kids would talk about the new videogame system that was out or how theirfamily was going to Greece or Spain or France during summer vacation, I would sitsilent, hoping they wouldn’t ask me where my family planned on “summering.” At timesI would try to join in, chiming in about the “vacation home” my family had in Brooklyn,not realizing how ridiculous I sounded. The “vacation home” I was speaking about wasthe parsonage my grandparents had moved into when my grandfather came out ofretirement to lead a congregation. Not until I got older did I learn that Flatbush Avenueinspired a lower level of awe than the French Riviera. Whenever I hung out withRiverdale kids, I made sure we went to their homes, not mine. I didn’t want to have toexplain. But, in the sixth grade, I broke my own rule.My uncle Howard was my mother’s younger brother. He had recently made a decisionwith his medical school that becoming a doctor was not in the cards for him, and hemoved to the Bronx, where he worked as a pharmaceutical salesman. He came up withthe idea to invite some kids from the neighborhood to play a game of baseball with thekids from my school in a park near our house. I think he sensed my frustration at livingin mutually exclusive worlds and thought a game of baseball would bring together myneighborhood friends and my wealthier Riverdale classmates and broaden the horizonsof both. His intentions were good. I jumped at the idea. I invited ten friends from schoolto come and play against my friends from the neighborhood.In the yrst inning, my neighborhood friend Deshawn, who was playing yrst base,started trash-talking Randy, a lanky Riverdale kid with a mop haircut, after Randy hit a

single. Innocent stuƒ—until Deshawn ynally said one thing too many and Randy, thepride of super-a€uent Scarsdale, playfully tipped the front bill of Deshawn’s hat,knocking it oƒ his head. It was as if he were a king and someone had knocked his crowninto the dirt. Before we were even yfteen minutes into the game, a brawl had brokenout. Three yghts and four innings later, I conceded that the experiment wasn’t workingout. The game was called. Everyone retreated to their separate corners, to their separateworlds. Everyone except me, still caught in the middle.I was becoming too “rich” for the kids from the neighborhood and too “poor” for thekids at school. I had forgotten how to act naturally, thinking way too much in eachsituation and getting tangled in the contradictions between my two worlds. Myconydence took a hit. Unlike Justin, whose maturity helped him handle this transitionmuch better than I did, I began to let my grades slip. Disappointed with Ds, pleasantlysatisyed with Cs, and celebratory about a B, I allowed my standards at school to becomepathetic. In third grade I was reading at a second-grade reading level. Later in life Ilearned that the way many governors projected the numbers of beds they’d need forprison facilities was by examining the reading scores of third graders. Elected o}cialsdeduced that a strong percentage of kids reading below their grade level by third gradewould be needing a secure place to stay when they got older. Considering myperformance in the classroom thus far, I was well on my way to needing state-sponsoredaccommodations.When we finally got to the train station, Justin asked me a question.“Did you study yet for the English test for Wednesday?”“Nope,” I replied.“You know they are going to put you on probation if you don’t start doing better,man.”I knew, but I broke it down for Justin: the problem wasn’t what I knew or didn’tknow, the problem was that they didn’t understand my situation. My long trip to andfrom school every day, my missing father, my overworked mother, the changing routes Itook every day from the train just so no one with bad intentions could case my routine. Icontinued throwing excuses at Justin but started to wither under the heat of his glare.Justin had it worse than I did but was still one of the best-performing kids in the class.My litany of excuses trailed off.After a moment I broke the awkward silence by telling him my mother had begun tothreaten me with military school if I didn’t get my grades and discipline together.“For real?” he asked and laughed.My mother had even gotten her hands on a brochure that she’d haul out as a visualaid to her threats. But I knew there was no way my mother would allow her only son tobe shipped oƒ to military school. Regardless of the grades. Regardless of thesuspensions. It was too remote, too permanent. Maybe she’d shift me to a school closerto home, maybe a public or Catholic school, but not a military school.My mother couldn’t send me away. She needed a man in the house to look after Shani

and Nikki, not to mention her, right? She had to be blu}ng. Plus, in Caribbeanhouseholds, boys were often indulged like little princes. Minor infractions were toleratedand “he’s just being a boy” was an all-purpose excuse for anything short of a felony.And what was military school anyway? A bunch of countriyed folks yelling andscreaming, waving {ags and chewing tobacco, forcing confused kids to crawl throughmud, preparing them to get killed in a war? My mother wouldn’t even let me have toyguns in the house. It was absurd.“We’ll see what happens,” Justin said with a smirk.“Yeah, we’ll see,” I replied.The cloudless evening sky had gone dark. Justin ran up the metal staircase to thetrain entrance. The streetlights blinking on were a silent siren. Time was up. Justinlaced up his sneakers and boarded the train, preparing for his run home.Wes walked through his new neighborhood, the fourth he could remember living in sofar in his short life. He’d called this place home for only the last four months. Despite itsbeing only ten miles from his old home, the thick old-growth trees that lined streets withnames like Biscayne Bay, March Point Park, and Whispering Woods were evidence ofhow far removed he was from the Baltimore City row houses he’d been accustomed to.They now lived in Baltimore County, which sits on the northern, eastern, and westernborders of Baltimore City, a horseshoe that yts around its more well-known neighbor.Baltimore City residents increasingly bled into it, exchanging the city for the county’sspacious neighborhoods, quality schools, and higher per capita income. Mary Moore waspart of that flight.Dundee Village, where Wes’s new home was located, was a collection of connected,whitewashed homes. The houses were modest but well cared for—{owerpots were ylledwith geraniums or black-eyed Susans, and floral wreaths hung from each wooden door.He hadn’t lived there long, but the closeness of the homes allowed Wes to get to knowthe neighbors and their idiosyncrasies well. He stared thirty yards across the road andsaw Mrs. Evers, a middle-aged black woman, standing in front of her house talking withJoyce, an older white woman from Brooklyn, Maryland, who worked at the RoyalFarms up the street. Aside from the carbon-copy houses, there was nothing uniformabout this working-class neighborhood; it was ylled with people of all shapes, colors,and backgrounds. The only thing most of them had in common was that they came fromsomewhere else, and for most of them, Dundee was a better place to be.Back in Baltimore, a new young mayor had just taken over. He ran on a platform ofimproving the school system, yghting illiteracy, and trying to ynd innovative solutionsto the metastasizing drug trade that was poisoning life in major areas of the city. MayorKurt Schmoke was himself a proud product of Baltimore City who went from the city’spublic schools to Yale University, Oxford, Harvard Law School, and then, improbably,

back to his beloved and deeply troubled city. He served as Baltimore’s state’s attorneyfor four years and at age thirty-eight was elected the yrst African-American mayor ofBaltimore City, which at the time was over 60 percent black.A few months into his administration, Mayor Schmoke was lambasted for saying, “Istarted to think, maybe we ought to consider this drug problem a public health problemrather than a criminal justice problem.” Most people heard this as a cry for druglegalization in Baltimore. But Schmoke was desperate. He knew that unless someoneygured out some way of controlling it, the drug trade—and the epidemics of violentcrime and untreated addiction it left in its wake—would sti{e any hope for progress inthe city.Change couldn’t come fast enough for Mary. Tony was now full-time in the streets,splitting his time between his father’s and girlfriend’s apartments in the Murphy HomesProjects. He was a veteran of the drug game at eighteen. He’d graduated from footsoldier and now had other people working for him. School was a distant memory; Tonyhadn’t seen the inside of a classroom on a regular basis since eighth grade.Two incidents were decisive in Mary’s decision to move. First, Tony got shot in thechest during a botched drug deal. It was the yrst of three times that he would feel thesearing heat of a bullet enter his body. Second, Wes failed the sixth grade at “ChickenPen” and had to repeat it. Baltimore City had a 70 percent dropout rate at the time.Tony had already joined that statistic; Mary wanted to keep Wes away from the samefate. And now here Wes was, walking around Dundee Village, hoping these bucolicallynamed “avenues” and “circles” would lead him to a better place than the city streetshad.Wes ynally turned from his neighbors. He was wearing his unlaced, beat-up Adidas, aT-shirt, and an orange Orioles hat with the bill facing the back. He’d pleaded with hismom earlier in the week for an upgrade to his wardrobe. Tony, he complained, waswearing all the newest clothes and was now sporting a thick gold rope chain on top ofit. His mother came back at him hard. “And you see Tony just ended up in the hospital,right? Be thankful for what you got!”It meant nothing to Wes. All he knew was that, when he got back to the city andwalked its streets, breathing in the noise and bustle and craziness he was used to, he didit in secondhand gear.Back in the county, he walked away from Dundee Village, trying to kill time on a lazySaturday afternoon. A few blocks from his house he noticed something he had neverseen before: a kid, maybe a couple years older than Wes, standing on a street corner.The boy was wearing a headset right out of the Janet Jackson “Control” video. A goldring with a small diamond cut into the middle of its crown caught the light every timethe boy moved his hand. The ring was not exactly {ashy, but the shine coming oƒ it tolda short story: the kid had some money. The whole tableau—the ring, the headset—wasthe coolest thing Wes had ever seen. The boy’s tall and muscularly broad frame madehim look older than he probably was and he had a few people around him, all of them

laughing and joking. But it was obvious, both by the size diƒerence and by his coolgadgetry, that this kid was the leader of the pack. Wes wanted to know more and, nevershy, he approached the boys.“Hey, where can I get one of those headsets—”“Who are you?” one of the boys snapped back, cocking his head and narrowing hiseyes.Wes knew to choose his next words carefully. “I just moved here. From the City. I liveover on Bledsoe.” He kept his tone level, non-confrontational, but not scared. Neverscared.The tall kid looked him over carefully before he responded. “You want one of these,it’s pretty easy. All you have to do is wear one, and every time you see jakes roll by, youjust push this button and say something. When your shift is over, you come by, and I’llgive you your money,” he said.Money? Wes just wanted to get his hands on one of the headsets. There was moneyinvolved too?After hearing more details, Wes was sold. It seemed like a sweet setup. Simply wear aheadset, hang out with new friends, notify people when you see police coming, and getpaid at the end of the day. He knew what game this was, the same game that hadconsumed Tony and put a bullet or two in him. The same game Tony continually urgedWes to stay out of.But Wes rationalized. I am not actually selling drugs. All I’m doing is talking into aheadset. He wasn’t exactly excelling in the classroom, and his disenchantment withschool was beginning to wear on him. All he really wanted to do was either playfootball professionally or become a rapper. If he could earn some cash in the meantime—just a little pocket money to hold him over till he was running in the end zone of RFKStadium or rocking a sold-out crowd in Madison Square Garden—why not? This gamedidn’t require studying or exams. It didn’t require a degree or vocational skills. All heneeded was ambition. And guts. And, as Wes was soon to understand, an ability to livewith constant fear. But Wes wasn’t focused on that yet. He didn’t bother thinking aboutTony’s warnings, that no matter what job or position you took within it, this was agame for keeps—you could be in jail or dead in a matter of months.Besides watching Tony, Wes’s yrst real interaction with drugs had taken place a fewmonths earlier, just before the move out to Baltimore County. It was late November,early in the morning. Wes was already up and showered, ynishing some cold breakfastcereal with his book bag next to his leg, when Mary left to go to work. The moment heheard the door slam, Wes rushed to the window and watched as his mother slowly pulledout of her parking spot and joined the flow of city-bound traffic.Wes had no intention of going to school. He was supposed to meet Woody later—theywere going to skip school with some friends, stay at Wes’s house, and have a cookout.Woody was bringing the hot dogs and burgers, Wes would be responsible for yring upthe grill. Just the thought of hanging out with his boys and imagining the smell of

barbecued hot dogs made Wes happy. He moved toward his mother’s bedroom. Wesbegan his ritual search for change in her closet, but the jar was not in its usual place.Wes paused. Had she caught on?As Wes rummaged through the closet, moving clothes and boxes from one side to theother, he came across a small see-through bag packed with a green substance. It lookedlike a collection of moss held together by some small sticks. But Wes knew exactly whathe had stumbled on. He had just found his mother’s weed stash. After a moment to thinkabout whether he should take it, he came to the obvious conclusion: he was going toturn this barbecue into a real party.Wes put the bag in his pocket and went outside to wait for Woody. As soon as he sawhis friend turn the corner, he yelled in excitement, “Wait till you see what I’ve got!”Woody hustled over, and after they exchanged dap, Wes pulled out the bag. Woodyinstantly knew what they were working with. His eyes lit up, and he snatched the bagfrom Wes, opened the top a crack, and took a deep whiƒ like an old pro. Then hesmiled. “Where did you get this, man?” Woody asked.Wes told the story, and they exchanged a conspiratorial look. Their plans for the dayhad changed.Within minutes, Wes and Woody had hooked up with some older kids who were alsoskipping class that day. The boys all hopped on their bikes and rode to the corner store,where they picked up some Mad Dog 20/20 and rolling papers and, within a half hour,the party was getting started.The boys found a spot under a bridge near the Morgan State University campus. SinceWes had been the one to discover the smoke, he was granted the privilege of the yrsthit. Wes knew all about weed but had never actually tried it. He cautiously put therolled-up joint to his mouth and inhaled. He broke out into a spastic yt of coughingalmost as soon as the joint passed his lips. The older boys laughed. But Wes kept at it.With each inhalation, the smoke passed more easily, and by the third toke, he wastaking deep puƒs and holding them in his lungs for several seconds before blowing awhite cloud back out through his nose and mouth.But after a few hits, Wes was disappointed. “I don’t see what the big deal is, man.”“Just wait a little while. You’ll feel it,” Woody said.The boys sat under the bridge drinking malt liquor and smoking as the morningquickly turned to afternoon. After a while they got hungry and decided to head to ABC,the fast-food Chinese food restaurant up the hill from their neighborhood. As soon asWes stood up, he stumbled back to the ground.“Told you he would feel it soon,” Woody said, laughing. Wes slowly rose again, thistime making it to his feet, and shuffled along, trying to get his bearings.The bike ride to ABC usually took around yve minutes, but this time it took the boysalmost twenty because of Wes’s slow pace. Wes joked about it, putting on a charadearound his friends, but it was the most uncomfortable and vulnerable he had ever felt.Once they entered the restaurant, Wes quickly sat down to avoid collapsing. The rest ofhis boys got in line to order their food.“You see that girl over there!” Wes shouted to Woody, as Woody stood in line to order

a carton of fried rice.“What girl?” Woody responded, looking puzzled.“The one right there, with the red dress.” Wes pointed to the other side of therestaurant. “Honey is thick!”Woody looked at Wes and then turned to look at the other guys. Once they caught oneanother’s eyes, they started cracking up.“Dude is tripping! No more bud for you, yo!” one of the boys said. It didn’t hit Wesuntil a few seconds later as he cleared his eyes. The “girl” he was admiring on the otherside of the room was actually a trash can. Wes was a lot higher than he thought.After the Chinese food stop, Wes decided it was time to head home. He began theslow, painful journey back down the hill, his stomach still empty after he’d triedunsuccessfully to eat at the restaurant, his head aching from the THC now swimmingthrough his body. Each revolution of the bike pedals was more painful than the last, andall Wes wanted to do was lie down and forget the morning. The barbecue was canceled.Lying in bed was the only thing on the agenda.When Wes got to the house, his mother’s boyfriend, who was living with them whenhe wasn’t back home with his wife, was sitting in the living room, directly next to thefront door.“What’s up, Wes, you’re home early,” Wes heard as he stumbled through the door. Thetelevision blasting in the background made Wes’s head throb even more. He closed hisarms around his head and rushed past his mother’s boyfriend with a quick “hey,”beelining it to his room. He was in bed with all of his clothes on and his pillow over hishead when he heard a knock at the door. It was his mother’s boyfriend checking on him.“Please leave me alone. I’m yne, just a little sick,” Wes yelled out, but his voice wasbarely audible through the pillow pressed tightly against his face.The boyfriend knew exactly what was bothering Wes. He’d smelled the liquor as soonas Wes staggered through the door.Hours later, when Mary walked into Wes’s room, the high had begun to wear oƒ, butWes was still in bed, thinking about the day’s events.“How do you feel?” Mary asked, intentionally speaking loudly. She gave her son asarcastic yet toothy smile.“Please hold it down, Ma! I hear you just yne,” Wes pleaded, feeling his head begin topound again.Mary laughed, watching him squirm. “Well, at least now you know how bad it feelsand you will stay away from drinking,” she said.Wes now knew for sure how powerful drugs could be. He felt a strange sense ofhaving passed a test, graduated to a new level of maturity. It was exhilarating. As helay in bed, he realized how time seemed to stop when he was high, how the drug—smoking it, feeling its eƒects, recovering from it—made him forget everything else. Andhe understood, faintly, how addictive that feeling could be, and how easy it would be tomake some money off selling that feeling to people who needed it.As Wes placed the headset over his freshly cut fade and adjusted it, he rememberedthis story. The headset now fit perfectly. There was definitely money to be made.

Part II

Choices and Second Chances“Happy birthday!”Wes gave me a half smile. “Thanks, man, I almost totally forgot.”As the rest of the country celebrated independence, Wes spent his thirty-second birthday inprison. He’s allowed to have visitors only on odd days of the year, so he was prohibited fromseeing people on the Fourth of July. I visited a couple of days after his actual birthday.When I arrived at Jessup that morning, my eyes {ickered up to the sign mounted above theinstitution’s steel front doors, the name of the prison—Jessup Correctional Institution—inkedin bloody crimson. I stopped walking for a moment and stood in silence. It was midday. Overthe towers of the prison the summer sun was high in the center of a cloudless sky. I looked upat the vast canopy of blue above, then took a deep breath, feeling the fresh air race throughme. For the yrst time in a long time I was reminded of the daily miracle of my freedom, theability to move, explore, meet new people, or simply enjoy the sun beating down on my face.After going through the requisite security checks, I waited for Wes to walk into the waitingarea. I studied the reunions taking place around me. One inmate, a young man seemingly inhis early twenties, sat across from a woman with a baby squirming in her arms—he wasapparently meeting his own child for the yrst time. His girlfriend complained that since the kidhadn’t slept through the whole night since he was born, neither had she. Another inmatelistened wide-eyed as his grandmother ran down a list of his friends from the neighborhood,updating him on what they’d been up to since he’d gone away. He hung on her every word.When my conversations with Wes had begun years earlier, we’d said only what we thoughtthe other wanted to hear. What the other needed to hear. But over time it was hard to keep upthe act, and our conversations drifted toward an almost therapeutic honesty.“When did you feel like you’d become a man?” Wes asked me, a troubled look on his face.“I think it was when I yrst felt accountable to people other than myself. When I yrst caredthat my actions mattered to people other than just me.” I answered quickly and conydently,but I wasn’t too sure of what I was talking about. When did I actually become a man? Therewas no o}cial ceremony that brought my childhood to an end. Instead, crises or othercircumstances presented me with adult-sized responsibilities and obligations that I had to meetone way or another. For some boys, this happens later—in their late teens or even twenties—allowing them to grow organically into adulthood. But for some of us, the promotion toadulthood, or at least its challenges, is so jarring, so sudden, that we enter into it unpreparedand might be undone by it.Wes, feeding off my answer, attempted to finish my thought. “Providing for others isn’t easy.And the mistakes you make trying are pretty unforgiving.” He paused. I waited. He rubbed hischin, softly pulling at the long strands of his goatee with his yngers. “And second chances arepretty fleeting.”“What do you mean?”“From everything you told me, both of us did some pretty wrong stuƒ when we wereyounger. And both of us had second chances. But if the situation or the context where you

make the decisions don’t change, then second chances don’t mean too much, huh?”Wes and I stared at each other for a moment, surrounded by the evidence that some kidswere forced to become adults prematurely. These incarcerated men, before they’d evenreached a point of basic maturity, had {agrantly—and tragically—squandered the fewopportunities they’d had to contribute productively to something greater than themselves.I sat back, allowing Wes’s words to sink in. Then I responded, “I guess it’s hard sometimesto distinguish between second chances and last chances.”

FOURMarking Territory1990“Dude, I am going to ask you one more time. Where did you get the money from?”Tony’s ysts were clenched and his jaw tense as he eyed his little brother up and down.His stare was serious, and his stance like that of a trained boxer preparing to pounce.Wes’s body language was evasive. He refused to look his brother in the eye.Tony had come by the house that morning to see Wes and his mother. When hestrolled past Wes’s room, he noticed it had changed signiycantly since the last time hesaw it. One wall was covered with a tower of sneaker boxes—inside the boxes were arainbow assortment of Nikes, each pair fresher than the last. The smell of barely touchedleather seemed to fill the room. It was like walking into Foot Locker.Tony found his younger brother and asked for an explanation for the leaning tower ofNikes. Wes stuttered out a story: he’d become a popular DJ in the neighborhood and wasmaking incredible loot DJing parties. It was the story he’d used with Mary, and she’dbought it whole. Maybe because she really believed him. Maybe because she reallywanted to believe him. She’d asked Wes about the shoes when they started to multiply,but after her first inquisition, she’d left the subject alone.Tony knew better.Tony had now spent over a decade dealing drugs and knew how much money couldbe made in the game. He also knew there was no way for someone as young as Wes tomake that kind of money DJing. There were not enough records to spin, enough beats toplay, to buy that many sneakers.Tony grabbed Wes’s shirt collar and pulled him in close. “How many times do I haveto tell you to leave this stuƒ alone, man?” His tone was low and serious, but he barkedhis words out like a challenge as the two boys squared oƒ on their front lawn, out ofsight of Mary, who was inside the house.Wes’s eyebrows arched up and his voice rose, his best play at sincerity. “I told you,man, I made this money DJing!” he repeated, almost convincing himself that it was thetruth.Tony closed his eyes and asked again, pounding out every word. “Wes. Where. Did.You. Get. The. Money?”“I made the money D——”Before Wes could even finish his sentence, Tony cocked back his arm and punched himdead in the face. Wes tumbled backward onto the grass. His left eye immediately beganto swell. Tony jumped on top of him, pinning Wes’s arms to the ground with his knees.Once he’d locked Wes’s arms down, Tony unloaded blows, striking his younger brother’schest, ribs, and face with wild abandon. Wes was trying hard to wriggle free, but his

stronger and tougher older brother was getting the best of him.Mary heard the commotion and ran outside. She rushed over to the boys and tried topull Tony oƒ Wes, screaming for an explanation. After a brief struggle, Wes wrestledfree and jumped back from his incensed brother.“What the hell is going on here!” Mary screamed.“Wes is out here hustling! I told him to leave this alone, but he won’t listen!” Tonyyelled back.“No he isn’t, he is making the money DJing,” Mary said.Hearing this, Tony pulled back his anger at Wes and turned it on his mother. “Are youserious? You really believe that? Are you blind?”Mary hesitated. Her voice was less assured when she responded. “Well, that’s what hetold me, and I believe him,” she said. Her eyes turned to Wes. He stood about ten feetaway from them, head tilted back, trying to stop the bleeding from his nose. Hesuddenly jerked his head down to spit out the blood pooling in his mouth. Mary knewher younger son was no innocent. In addition to the knife yght when he was younger,Wes had been arrested a few years back after being caught stealing a car. But the sightof Tony punching Wes in the face infuriated her. Maybe it was because Wes wasyounger than Tony and Mary knew well how violent Tony could be. Or maybe it wasbecause she wanted so much for Tony to be wrong. She knew what her older son wasinto but didn’t think there was anything she could do for him now. She hoped that Weswould be different.Wes was completely taken aback by his brother’s anger. Tony had tried to keep Wesin school and away from drugs for as long as Wes could remember. But Tony was stilldeep in the game himself. Wes didn’t think Tony was a hypocrite exactly—he knew whyhis brother felt obliged to warn him oƒ. But it was clear that Tony himself didn’t haveany better ideas or he would’ve made those moves himself. And the truth was, Wes nowhad more money in his pocket than he’d ever had before, which kept him outytted innew clothes—including the two-hundred-dollar Cross Colours set now covered with grassstains and dirt.Tony looked over at Wes, his clothes, his crisp green footwear, the laces gleamingwhite even after their tumble through the grass. They were a long way from their daysof youthful innocence: catching lightning bugs in jars, playing freeze tag on the CherryHill streets, and going to the Ocean City beach on summer days with their mother. Thedays of using a shopping cart as a go-cart, pushing it to the top of a hill, and lettinggravity pull them down to the bottom were over. He realized he was staring at a mirrorimage of himself.“You know what, dude,” he said, “I’m good.” Tony was exhausted. Tired from thebeating he just gave Wes. Tired from repeating himself. “If you won’t listen, that’s onyou. You have potential to do so much more, go so much further. You can lead a horseto water, but you can’t make him drink, right?”Tony leaned over to pick up his hat—it had fallen to the ground during their yght. Hespun it around and placed it backward on his head. He walked oƒ the lawn and into thestreet. Mary called out to him, asked where he was going. Tony yelled back over his

shoulder, “Home,” and kept walking down the block. He didn’t look back again.That was the last time Tony ever tried to talk to Wes about the drug game.Mary raced over to Wes and examined his nose. The bleeding had slowed. “I am sosorry, Wes. That’s just how Tony gets sometimes,” she said.Wes looked back at her but said nothing. They walked together into the house, whereMary wet a rag and started to clean up the scrapes and bruises Tony had left on hisbrother’s face and body. The wet rag felt good over the open cuts on Wes’s face. Thedeeper bruise, however, Mary could do nothing about. Wes knew he was disappointinghis brother, which hurt much more than the beating he’d just taken. Wes was soconfused. He loved and respected his brother. Tony was the closest thing Wes had to arole model. But the more he tried to be like his brother, the more his brother rejectedhim. The more he copied him, the more Tony pushed back. Wes wanted to be just likeTony. Tony wanted Wes to be nothing like him.Tony’s outburst did accomplish one thing, though. It motivated Mary to dig a littledeeper into Wes’s new income {ow. The next day, after Wes went oƒ to school, Marybegan searching through his drawers. She hoped that he was not involved in drugs.“Please let it be DJing money. Please let it be DJing money,” she prayed.She lifted his mattress and found a few extra shoe boxes under his bed. She placedthem on the mattress. They were light, so she knew they didn’t hold sneakers, butsomething was rattling around in them. As she reached for the top of one of the boxes,she pulled her hand back. She whispered to herself, “Don’t ask a question unless you areready to hear the answer.”She reached again for the yrst Nike box and opened it. Inside were pills, marijuana,half an ounce of powdered cocaine, and half a dozen vials of “ready rock,” or crackcocaine. She felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. She sat down on the bed,unsure of what to think. She wasn’t only upset about the drugs, she was upset about thelying. She didn’t even bother looking in the second box; she already knew all she neededto know. Both of her sons were drug dealers.She sat paralyzed on the bed for yfteen minutes before springing up, suddenlydecisive. She took the boxes into the bathroom, lifted their tops, and emptied thecontents into the toilet. She watched every ounce, every rock, every leaf, every crystal{oat to the bottom of the toilet bowl, until the water was cloudy and white. She {ushedit away once, and then again and again until the water in the bowl returned to itsnormal clarity. She put the tops back on the boxes and placed the boxes on Wes’s bed.A few hours later, Wes walked into his room and saw the two shoe boxes. His heartplummeted. These were his work boxes. He knew he was busted.He started to think about what he would say to his mother as he slowly walkedtoward his bed. Maybe he would blame it on someone else. Maybe he could say he washolding them for a friend and never knew what was in them. Maybe he could say theywere planted, that this was part of a larger conspiracy against him. But who wouldbother conspiring against him? When he reached the boxes and picked them up, he was

struck by how light they were. He opened one of them and saw that it was empty. Hadshe thrown his drugs out? His anxiety about getting caught {ipped to anger. He threwthe boxes across the room. He tried to calculate how much weight he had lost, and howmuch money he now owed the connects who supplied him with the drugs.“Damn!” he shouted. “Ma! Where are you? Do you know what you just did!”“I’m in my room,” Mary responded.Wes stepped quickly to his mother’s room, gaining anger with every creaky{oorboard. When he walked into the room, Mary was calmly folding laundry on herbed. She didn’t stop when he busted in. Wes was senseless with anger, but Mary justcoolly looked at him, eyes opened in an expression of exaggerated innocence.“Ma, do you have any idea about what you just did? Where are the drugs?”“I flushed them down the toilet.”“That was over four thousand dollars in drugs! I have to pay someone back for that!”Wes had completely forgotten about his conspiracy argument. The only thing on hismind was trying to ygure out how on earth he was going to come up with four thousanddollars—and fast.Mary was not the least bit concerned about her son’s new dilemma. “Not only did youlie to me but you were selling drugs and keeping them in my house! Putting all of us indanger because of your stupidity. I don’t want to hear your sob story about how muchmoney you owe. You will stop selling that stuƒ. I will be checking your room, and Idon’t want to ever see it in here again. Now get out of my room.”Wes was stunned. He went back to his room and desperately tried to devise a plan.He owed money but had no drugs to sell—he had to ygure out how to make that moneyback quickly. The only way to do that was to go see his connects and hit the streetagain. He’d realized very early in the game that the drug market was a simple supply-and-demand equation. The demand was bottomless. Your money was determined byhow hard you worked, and how feared you were. He focused. He knew the streets wouldget him that money back, and more. But next time, he’d be smarter about where he keptthe stash and how often he moved it around.Wes left the house and began to walk toward his girlfriend’s place a few blocks over.She was older, about seventeen. Wes complained to her about his mother’s abuse of hisprivacy. His girlfriend sympathized. Before she realized what she was doing, she’dagreed to make her home his new headquarters.As Mary heard the door slam behind Wes, she sat back down on her bed. She pressed heryngers against her temples and began to massage them. She closed her eyes; her mindraced: Who is to blame for this? Tony, the neighborhood, the school system, Wes’sfriends? She put them all on trial in her mind. She was furious at Wes for what he’ddone and knew that this probably would not be the end of it. Tony, who was about tobecome a father—making Mary a thirty-six-year-bold grandmother—had been right.

Leave the smack and the crack for the wackOr the vial and the nine; keep a smile like thatMy eyes were closed, and my hands moved along with the beat, as if I were onstagelaying down the tracks on a DJ set. I was in a zone, concert mode, even if I was only inthe front seat of my mother’s blue Honda Civic. I recited a verse from the Chubb Rocksong as it blared out of the car’s speakers.The road lost my mother’s full attention momentarily as she stared down at me. Shelooked incredulous.After a series of unsatisfactory report cards, my mother had begun to think that whatmany of my teachers were telling her was correct: I might have a learning disability. Myteachers broke it down for her more than once: “Wes is a nice boy, but he has realproblems retaining information.” She remembered this as she listened to me recitinglyrics like I’d written them myself.Anyway the shunless one brings forth the funNo hatred; the summer’s almost done“How long have you known that song?”“I don’t know, not long,” I mumbled out, lazily opening my eyes but never picking myhead up to look at my mother. I’d first heard the song two days earlier.“Well, your grades obviously aren’t bad because you can’t pick this stuƒ up or becauseyou are stupid, you are just not working hard enough,” my mother said, her voice risinginto the epiphany. My academic failures had forced her to go through the stages of grief:denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. She’d been stuck in depressionfor a long time and hadn’t quite made it to acceptance, no matter how much I’d hopedshe’d get there. It seemed like there was faulty wiring in the system, because now shewas reverting to anger.“You think I’m playing. Just try me,” she said, the last note in a short conversationshe seemed to be having with herself, and then returned her full attention to the road.As she did so, the new EPMD song came on. She must have noticed my slight head nodto the beat, because she quickly killed the radio.Hip-hop had begun to play a special role in my life. It wasn’t just music and lyrics. Itwas a validator. In my struggle to reconcile my two worlds, it was an essential asset. Bythe late 1980s, hip-hop had graduated from being the underground art of the Bronx to arising global culture. My obsession with hip-hop kept me credible with the kids in myneighborhood. It let them know that, regardless of my school a}liation, I stillunderstood. Hip-hop also gave the kids in my school a point of entry into my life: PublicEnemy’s black nationalist anthems or KRS-One’s pulpy fantasies about gunning downcrack dealers oƒered a window into a world that before hip-hop had seemed foreign to

those who even dared to look through. But even more than that, I found in hip-hop thesound of my generation talking to itself, working through the fears and anxieties andinchoate dreams—of wealth or power or revolution or success—we all shared. Itbroadcast an exaggerated version of our complicated interior lives to the world, made usfeel less alone in the madness of the era, less marginal. Of course, all that didn’t matterto my mother. All she knew was that I could eƒortlessly recite hip-hop lyrics whilestruggling with my English class.What she didn’t know was that my problem in school was much more basic than alearning disability. The problem was that I wasn’t even showing up half the time. It’stough to do well in school as an eleven-year-old when you’re picking and choosingwhich days to go.It was weeks before I had my schedule down pat. I realized the only time anyonereally cared about my attendance was during homeroom, the yrst class of the day. Twodays of the week, I had homeroom with my English teacher, Mrs. Downs, a youngblonde who had taught only one other class in her life. I sensed her weakness and spentmost of class coming up with creative ways to burnish my status as class clown. Oneday, she {atly told me that it didn’t matter to her if I showed up because the class ransmoother when I wasn’t there. From that moment, I understood Mrs. Downs and I hadan unspoken agreement, a “don’t ask, don’t tell” pact that worked like a charm for bothof us. Here’s how a typical day would go: My grandmother would drop Shani and me oƒat school or at the train stop and we would wave goodbye, book bags in hands andsmiles on faces. We would turn around and begin marching toward the school buildingor train stop until my grandmother’s car pulled away. At that point, I’d have to decidehow I would play it. Some days I would check into homeroom; other days I’d headdirectly back to the train and return to the neighborhood, where I’d meet up with one ofthe guys who had a similar arrangement. My sister, always the loyal accomplice, neversnitched.With our mother working so much, and our grandparents obviously slowing inenergy, my sisters and I were supposed to look after one another. Nikki was older, soshe was always the one looking after me, and it was my responsibility to look afterShani. But Nikki’s hands were full with her own turbulent high school experience, whichwas about to come to a close. The move to the Bronx had been hard on her. Nikki neverfully adjusted to the new social and academic environment; she attended three diƒerenthigh schools in four years. Shani, by contrast, was a prodigy. She did not go outsidemuch, except to play basketball with me and my friends, and she seemed to have a bookwith her wherever she went. In fact, by the time I hit yfth grade and she was in thirdgrade, she had overtaken me in reading scores, a distinction she carried through ourentire academic lives and probably holds to this day. As much of a screwup as I wasbecoming, I still tried hard to look after her.A few months earlier, Shani went out to play with one of the neighborhood girls,Lateshia, and came back home with her face covered in blood. When I returned homelater that day, she was sitting on the couch in the living room, a red-stained napkinstuck in one of her nostrils and my grandmother’s arms wrapped around her shoulders.

They told me what had happened: Shani, Lateshia, and a Puerto Rican girl named Ingridwere jumping rope outside the house. A dispute broke out, words were exchanged, andShani found herself on the receiving end of a punch to the nose. Shani was much biggerthan the other girl and was used to wrestling with me, but she didn’t yght back. She juststarted crying and headed into the house, pinching her nose to stop the bleeding.By the end of the story, I was furious. First, at Shani for not punching Lateshia back,but then at Lateshia, who had the audacity to go after my sister. Just recently oƒ myfirst encounter with the movie The Godfather, I pulled a Sonny Corleone and {ew out thedoor to ynd Lateshia. My actual godmother, who was standing by the door, also wantedin on the action. Aunt BB, a tall, light-skinned Alabamian who had known mygrandparents since she moved up to New York thirty years ago, was one of our family’syercest defenders, and she was not going to let me go out there to avenge my sisterwithout her being there. She had also just moved into the house with us, making it eightof us in our small row home. Just as yred up as I was, Aunt BB followed me up thestreet. In retrospect, we made a comical pair of enforcers, a forty-something-year-oldwoman trailing an eleven-year-bold boy. But we were deadly serious.When we rolled up to her house, Lateshia was sitting on the front steps with her olderbrother. She straightened up with a surprised look. Aunt BB demanded to know whyshe’d hit Shani. Lateshia stumbled through an answer, claiming that she was defendingherself. Aunt BB cut her off.“Little girl, don’t you ever touch her again. I don’t know who you think you are, butyou are really messing with the wrong one.”Lateshia stared back. She was too cool to show submission and too scared to showdeyance. As we started to walk away, I decided I could not let my aunt handle the yghtsolo, so I turned around to face Lateshia while keeping an eye on her older brother.“And let me tell you,” I said, “if I ever hear about you touching her again, the last thingyou will have to worry about is a bloody nose.”Not only was her brother older and bigger but he had a rep as one not to be playedwith. But I just stood there in my B-boy stance, empowered by strains of “The Bridge IsOver” running through my head, until I felt like the message had gotten across.Satisyed, Aunt BB and I took oƒ for our house. I was a little shaken as we walked backhome in the twilight. Little things like this had a way of escalating into blood feuds. Bigbrothers called bigger brothers, who called crews. But Shani never played with Lateshiaagain and, fortunately, I never saw her brother again.The Bronx streets had become a yxture in my life. Whether it was playing ball at GunHill Projects basketball court, heading over to Three Boys on Burke Avenue to get a sliceof pizza, running to Saul’s to get an edge-up on Bronxwood, or just sprawling out onstoops with my crew, some of the most important lessons I learned, I learned from thesestreets. I learned about girls getting periods not from biology class but from my friendParis. I learned the realities of gang violence not from after-school specials but when myboy Mark got jumped and beaten down for wearing the wrong color jacket. And Ilearned that cops were smarter than I thought on the corner of Laconia Avenue.I was rocking my Olaf’s basketball shorts and Syracuse T-shirt on an unseasonably

warm Saturday in October. I’d always wanted to go to Syracuse like my uncle Howardand play basketball for the Orangemen. I was to ynd out later that I wanted them awhole lot more than they wanted me. We’d just ynished playing a game of basketballand were leaving the courts when out of the corner of my eye I saw Shea, one of myfriends from the neighborhood. Shea was my age but shorter, with reddish hair and lightskin, light enough for a spray of freckles to shine through. I broke oƒ from my friendsand walked over to him—we met halfway and greeted each other. I asked him what hewas up to, and he said conydently, “Nothing, just ynished working.” I checked out hisgear: black jeans, a white tank top, and a black backpack. Work. I knew exactly whatthat meant.Shea was a “runner,” an entry-level position in any drug enterprise. A runner was theone who moved packages for local suppliers who needed to make drop-oƒs for thestreet-level dealers but didn’t want to carry the weight themselves. Kids like Shea wereused because they were less conspicuous, and less likely to be stopped by police o}cers.Shea was making decent money, but ever since he’d started “working,” we’d seen less ofhim.Shea and I sat in front of the Cue Lounge, a bar and billiards club whose façade waspainted black. The Cue Lounge sat next to a Kentucky Fried Chicken and an hourly-ratemotel. Cars whizzed by as we spoke. We were checking out the black wall of the lounge,which was plastered with spray-painted tags. Some we recognized as friends we knew,and others from other walls around the neighborhood. It seemed as if everybody in thehood had their own nickname and tag, some more elaborate than others. Even me. Minewas simple: a “KK” with a circle around it, standing for Kid Kupid, an alter ego Iassumed to advertise my largely imaginary prowess with the young ladies. I hadredecorated a few corners of the Bronx with it.As we stared at the markups on the wall, admiring the work of some of ourcontemporaries, Shea reached over his shoulder, pulled the backpack in front of him,and slowly unzipped it. I quickly looked inside. Beside a small bottle of water and awhite headband were two spray-paint bottles, one with a white top and one with a blue.He looked at me with a sly smirk.“You wanna tag?”I couldn’t say no. First oƒ, Shea was one of the most respected young hustlers in theneighborhood. He was a worker, we all knew that—and while some of the kids weresmart enough to be disgusted by what he did, other kids, even the ones who weren’t inthe game, respected his position. Plus, I loved throwing my name up on a wall; it feltlike splashing in the shallow end of the criminal pool.I scanned the streets for cops and nosy neighbors as I reached into his bag and pulledout the can with the white top. My eyes continued to scan as I shook the can, makingsure the contents were mixed so that the paint would come out even and clean, creatinga crisper result. Once I felt the coast was clear, I began, yrst drawing the connected Ksand ynishing with a wide circle around them, my custom style. I placed the can back inShea’s bag, satisyed with my work—and our speed. Seven seconds and done. I hadadded my indelible mark to Laconia Avenue, a testament to the world that Wes Moore

lived—or at least Kid Kupid did. Nobody could ever deny I was there. Not even me as apolice cruiser rolled up around the corner.Wuap, wuap! The distinctive sound of the police siren rang out. Shea and I looked ateach other and then sprinted oƒ in diƒerent directions. Foolishly, I headed right past thepolice car; it took one of the o}cers seconds to wrap me up and throw me against hisvehicle. Shea at least had a shot. I saw him sprinting oƒ in the opposite direction. Heturned around, saw me being patted down, and realized my escape had lasted a merefour steps. He tried to speed up, but seconds later, he too was wrapped up by apoliceman. As I lay on the hood of the car, with the o}cer’s hands pressing againstevery part of me, searching me, I watched Shea twenty feet away on the ground gettingthe same treatment.My uncertainty about what to expect ended when the o}cer reached above my headand began to pull my left arm behind my back. Now I understood where this was going.I was being arrested.“Chill, man, I didn’t do anything!” I began screaming as I tried to wrangle my handsfree.“Stop resisting,” the o}cer warned as he cuƒed my left wrist and roughly pinneddown my flailing right arm.The relationship between the police and the people they served and protectedchanged signiycantly during the 1980s. For almost as long as black folks have been inthis country, they’ve had a complicated relationship with law enforcement—and viceversa. But the situation in the eighties felt like a new low. Drugs had brought fear toboth sides of the equation. You could see it in the people in the neighborhood,intimidated by the drug dealers and gangs, harassed by the petty crime of thecrackheads, and frightened by the sometimes arbitrary and aggressive behavior of thecops themselves. On the other end of the relationship, the job of policemen, almostovernight, had gotten signiycantly tougher. The tide of drugs was matched by a tide ofguns. The high-stakes crack trade brought a new level of competition and organizationto the streets. From my supine perch on the back of the police car, I noticed an olderwoman staring at me, shaking her head.After he ynished cu}ng me, the cop opened the rear door of his cruiser and pushedmy head down while shoving me into the backseat. I was terriyed. I had no idea whatwas next. A thought raced around my head—my mother was going to have to pick meup from jail. She had just ynished talking to me about my grades, and now this. Myrelationship with my mother was in a strange place. My desperation for her support wasin constant tension with my desperation for independence and freedom. I projectedapathy about her feelings, but I wanted nothing more than to make her proud. In otherwords, I was a teenager, deathly fearful of disappointing her but too prideful to act likeit mattered. Now I was afraid this incident might turn my only stalwart supporteragainst me.Loneliness enveloped me. I felt my fate suddenly twinned with that of Shea, anaspiring drug dealer who I knew didn’t really give a damn about me. My friends seemedfar away, and in that distance I became aware of the contingent nature of my

relationship with my crew. We loved one another, but how long would we mourn theabsence of any one of us? I’d seen it happen a million times already, kids caught outthere in one way or another—killed, imprisoned, shipped oƒ to distant relatives. Theolder kids would pour out a little liquor or leave a shrine on a corner under a gra}timural, or they’d reminisce about the ones who were locked down, but then life went on,the struggle went on. Who really cared? Besides my mother, who would even miss me?My eyes watered as I sat in the backseat of the cruiser, watching out the window asthe two cops picked Shea up oƒ the ground and led him toward the backseat with me.Shea winked at me as he walked up to the car with his hands behind his back. Is thisdude serious? I thought.The car door opened, and Shea was thrown into my lap. “Fuckin jakes, man,” hecoolly stated as he straightened himself up.“Yo, shut up, man! We are in serious trouble! I can’t go to jail, man.” I was almosthyperventilating.“Just say you didn’t do anything. Just say you don’t know what they are talkingabout,” Shea said.I looked out the window, saw the two cops searching Shea’s bag with the spray-paintcans, and realized that Shea’s strategy was one of the dumbest ideas I had heard in along time. Even I, who could come up with an excuse for everything, was at a loss for agood one in this situation.The cops stood outside for what seemed like forever, discussing our fate. I wanted toask Shea if he had any of his “work” inside the bag too but decided against it, feeling itwas better for me not to know. In fact, I didn’t even want to talk to him. I wanted towait in silence.One of the o}cers, a stocky Italian with jet-black hair, moved toward the passengerside of the car and opened the front door. He folded himself in and looked back at usover his left shoulder. Shea and I sat silently, me with wet eyes and a look ofuncertainty, Shea staring back with cocky, smug indiƒerence. The cop turned backaround and began to write something on a clipboard. Finally he looked back at us andsaid, “What the hell are you thinking?”Almost simultaneously, Shea launched into his brilliant “It wasn’t us” story while Iloudly attempted to overrule him by apologizing profusely. When we were done withour overlapping monologues, we glared at each other.The cop shook his head and pointed his right index ynger in our direction. “You kidsare way too young to be in this situation. But you know what, I see kids like you hereevery day. If you don’t get smart, I am certain I will see you again. That’s the sad part.”He paused and looked into our eyes, searching for a reaction. Mine were probablyylled with tears. I was wincing because the handcuƒs were beginning to hurt my wrists,but I was also sincerely fearful about what was going to happen next. And the self-righteous look on Shea’s face was starting to piss me oƒ. I’m sure in my outlaw fantasiesI would’ve been as deyant as Shea, but something about this situation had soured me onromantic rebellion. It may have been the moment when the o}cer ynally pulled mysecond arm behind my back and tightened the handcuƒs. In that moment, I became

aware of how I had put myself in this unimaginably dire situation—this man now hadcontrol of my body; even my own hands had become useless to me. More than that, hehad control of my destiny—or at least my immediate fate. And I couldn’t deny that itwas my own stupid fault. I didn’t have the energy for romantic rebellion—the possibilityof losing all control of my life was like a depthless black chasm that had suddenlyopened up in front of me. All I wanted to do was turn around, go home, and never yndmyself at this precipice again for such a stupid reason. Kid Kupid! What was I thinking?The cop opened his car door, allowing himself out. The other o}cer began to movetoward his side of the vehicle. Within moments they’d opened the back doors. The officerwho’d been lecturing us reached in and grabbed me by the shirt until he could get agood grip on my shoulder and pull me out of the vehicle. As I cleared the door, he stoodme up straight, and I noticed the same happening with Shea on the other side of the car.The o}cer reached down and, with a quick turn of his wrist, the cuƒ on my left wristopened up.“I hope you really listened to what I told you,” he whispered in my ear, opening upthe other cuff to let both of my hands free.“Yeah, thank you,” I replied as I rubbed each wrist with the opposite hand, trying toease some of the pain of the metal handcuffs pressing against my skin.“All right, guys, the bag is ours. Now get moving.”Shea looked as though he was about to start protesting to them about keeping the baguntil I grabbed him by the left arm, telling him it was time to get moving. We began towalk back down Allerton Avenue, turning around every few seconds to see the cops,who were still staring at us. The cops gave us a gift that day, and I swore I would neverget caught in a situation like that again.A week later, Kid Kupid was on the loose again, adding my tag to another gra}ti-filled Bronx wall.

My grandparents right after they moved to the United States. They were married forfifty-seven years.Mom and Dad at their wedding. My grandmother made my mom’s dress.

My father at work. His passions in life were his family and good journalism.Me posing with my sister Nikki. I was two years old in this picture.

With my grandfather at Sea World.Leaning on Uncle Howard’s shoulder. I was eleven in this picture and having difficultyin and out of the classroom.

Admiral Funman and I during my first year at Valley Forge.With Justin at my high school graduation.

More than a dozen members of my family came to Pennsylvania for my high schoolgraduation. I felt honored to have so much support.Wes being held by his older brother, Tony. Even at that young age, Tony was Wes’sprotector.

Nine-year-old Wes on vacation with his mother.Wes on Christmas Day in Dundee Village.

Woody (number 55) playing for the Northwood Rams.

Tony at fourteen years old.Wes at home in Cherry Hill.Wes’s smile always put people at ease.

Aunt Nicey was a second mother to Wes when he was growing up.

FIVELost1991“Get up, get up, get out of your racks, plebes!”It was 5:30 in the morning, my room was pitch-dark, and the sound of half a dozenteenagers screaming at the top of their lungs startled me out of the light sleep I’d justdrifted into. I was on the top bunk of a metal bed that was more sturdy thancomfortable—and probably built during the Second World War. My roommate wasawake too—I could tell because he jumped out of the bottom bunk and stared up at me;even in the dark I could see that his face was masked with panic. He was wearing anoversize white T-shirt that draped over his bony shoulders and gray thermal underwearthat covered his legs, which were now trembling in fear.“Moore, we have to get up and go in the hallway!” he said. His pubescent voice wascracking from the stress.He stood there for a moment, waiting for me to respond, shu€ing his feet as if he hadto go to the bathroom. His face was aimed at me, but his glasses sat on the wooden desknext to the bunk bed. The lenses were as thick as Coke-bottle bottoms, so I doubt he sawmuch.I watched him do his pee-pee dance for a moment, then peeked over at our clock,which sat across the room. I couldn’t believe it.“Bro, it is yve-thirty in the morning! You tell them to come get me around eight,” Isaid and yanked my covers tighter around me. “I should be ready to go then.”My roommate somehow managed to look even more dumbfounded. Just as he wasopening his mouth to say something, another yell came from the corridor, a single voicenow, ordering us into the hallway. My roommate’s attention shifted; he wasn’t going towaste his time trying to convince me to get up. I was either really brave or really stupid,and he was not going to wait around to see which. Within moments, I was left alone inthe room.Once I had the room to myself again, I rolled over, turning my back to the door, andpulled the covers over my head to avoid the commotion coming from the hallway.Seconds after getting comfortable, I heard the yelling voice with a new clarity. It wasright on the other side of my door.“Why is there only one person outside this room?”My door slammed open, and in walked First Sergeant Anderson, a high school seniorwith an impressively premature yve-o’clock shadow, a scruƒy voice, and the postureand mannerisms of a bulldog. Still half-asleep and turned away from the door—I refusedto believe this was happening—I heard the sound of boots approaching my bunk andthen stop. And that’s when the screaming started. Anderson’s anger, e}ciently

transmitted through his sonorous, full-toned voice, had shifted from general displeasurewith all of us to a focused rage pointed in my direction.“Get your goat-smelling ass out of the rack!“I am going to smoke you so bad, they will need dental records to identify your body!“You better get that z monster off your back, turdbird!”Some of the curses he used I hadn’t heard before. But I could ygure out they weren’tcompliments or normal pleasantries.I turned around so I could face him and was met with a fusillade of saliva as hecontinued his tirade. Why in the world was he yelling so early in the morning? And whodid he think he was, screaming at me like that?I slowly sat up and wiped the cold out of my eyes. The yrst sergeant paused for amoment—he saw me moving and must’ve ygured his tantrum had done the trick. Assilence ynally returned to my room, I moved my hand from my eyes and calmly spoke:“Man, if you don’t get out of my room …”His eyes widened, then slitted. His angry face broke into a devilish smile. Just asquickly as he’d come into the room, he walked out.This was my first morning at the military school.I knew my mother was considering sending me away, but I never thought she’d actuallydo it. The ynal straw came one evening while she sat downstairs on the phone listeningto my dean from Riverdale explain why they were placing me on academic anddisciplinary probation. It wasn’t pretty. Bad grades, absence from classes, and anincident with a smoke bomb were just some of the reasons he rattled oƒ as my mothersat silently on the couch with the phone to her ear. Her conviction was increasing withevery bad report. Meanwhile, upstairs, Shani and I sat in my room watching television—or trying to. Our eighteen-inch color television, topped with a wire hanger where theantenna should have been, was a blizzard of snow. I got bored and looked around foralternative entertainment. The only thing available was my sister. I began to lightlypunch her in the arm, yrst with my right yst, then with my left, trying to get her to payattention to me. She stubbornly kept staring at the ghostly images of Pat Sajak andVanna White {ickering through breaks in the snow. Eventually she told me to stop,never taking her eyes oƒ the screen, but I kept on aiming blows at her shoulder.Boredom in teenage boys is a powerful motivation to create chaos. At that moment,Shani’s arm was my time filler.Finally fed up, Shani turned to tell me to stop and, as she did, my right knucklesskipped off her shoulder and into her bottom lip, which immediately stained red.In more shock than pain, Shani saw this as an opportunity. “Oooooh, Ima get younow,” she said. She smiled slyly as the blood covered her bottom row of teeth.The smile faded, and her bottom lip began to tremble. Her eyes ylled with tears. Andthen came the scream…“Mommy! Westley hit me in the face, and I’m bleeding really bad!”Damn.

I tried to stop her from running to my mother, but she beat me to the door and begana full sprint down the hallway. Her screaming continued as she disappeared down thestairs. Her acting was stellar, and since she still had the blood on her rapidly swellinglip and the crocodile tears streaming down her face, I knew the evidence was againstme. There was nothing left to do but wait. I sat back in front of the television andwatched as Vanna came brie{y into view, strutting across stage to turn a blank tile intothe letter R.When I heard my mother coming up the stairs, I braced myself. She walked into myroom, tired from her long day at work, disappointed by the conversation she’d just hadwith my dean, and furious after seeing her youngest with a split lip that her only sonhad given her. As soon as she came close enough, I tried to plead my case, but as itturned out, she had nothing to say. She simply pulled her right hand back and slappedme.The burn consumed the entire left side of my face. Not willing to show fear orweakness, I stood there looking back at her. I guess she was expecting tears orapologies. When neither came, she reached back and unloaded another slap to my face.She looked at me again, waiting for a reaction. My jaws clenched, and my hands balledinto ysts. By this time, I was yve inches taller than she was, and my recently deynedshoulders, biceps, and triceps made me look older than my age. Every re{ex inside saidto strike back, but I didn’t. How could I? She was my everything, the person I loved andrespected most in my world. I had no idea what to do.Neither did my mother, it seemed. Her almond-shaped eyes were over{owing withanger, disappointment, and confusion, and maybe even a little fear. I would never havehit my mother. But in my room, at that moment, she was not so sure. She looked at meas if for the yrst time. The days when she could physically intimidate me were clearlyover.She turned around and walked out of the room. She was devastated. She was losingher son, and she was not sure how to turn the tide. We didn’t know it at the time, butonce alone, we both started to cry.After my yrst sergeant left the room, I lay back down and pulled the covers back overmyself. As my head hit the pillow, I smirked to think that I could make them leave myroom so easily. I was from the Bronx, after all, maybe these country jokers wereintimidated. Maybe I could manage this military school thing.Moments later the door slammed opened again, hitting the wall so hard {akes of thecrusty blue paint chipped oƒ. My entire chain of command, eight large and angryteenagers, entered the room and, without saying a word, picked my mattress up oƒ thetop bunk and turned it over, dropping me five feet to the cold, hard, green-tiled floor.Welcome to military school.Valley Forge Military Academy is in Wayne, Pennsylvania. It’s on the prestigiousMain Line, just twenty-yve minutes outside Philadelphia, on a rolling campussurrounded by overgrown foliage. It was a more austere version of Riverdale, a far cry

from my Bronx neighborhood. Our days began before the sun came up and ended wellafter it retired. Over our yrst few days we would learn how to shine our shoes usingKiwi black shoe polish, a cotton rag, and a pretty disgusting amount of saliva. Wewould learn how to execute military commands and repeat our drill and ceremony somany times that “right face,” “left face,” and “parade rest” became as familiar as ourown names. We would learn how to “square our meals,” a way of eating that forced usto slow down and savor the sometimes unidentiyable cuisine we were forced to eat, and“square the corridors,” which required marching around the entire hallway to leave thebuilding, even if the exit was only a few steps away from your room. Our birth nameswere irrelevant, as were our past acquaintances and past accomplishments and pastfailures. We were the same now. We were nothing. In fact, we were less than nothing.We were plebes.My squad leader, Sergeant Austin, a blond sophomore from Connecticut with greeneyes and a sneaky smile, would go oƒ on one of us and then announce, “Don’t take thispersonally, I hate you all just the same.” I was given this dubious reassurance more thanothers.For those yrst few days, I woke up furious and went to bed even more livid. Thetarget of my rage was my mother. How could she send me away? How could she forceme into a military school before I was even a teenager? When she dropped me oƒ theyrst day, I was in full ice grille mode, lip curled, eyes squinting, with my “screw theworld” face on, ready for battle—but inside I was bewildered. I felt betrayed. I felt morealone than ever.By the end of the fourth day at military school, I had run away four times. I had heardthat there was a station somewhere in Wayne where I could catch a train that wouldtake me to Thirtieth Street Station in Philadelphia. From there I could transfer to a trainthat would take me to Penn Station in New York, which would take me to the Number 2subway train, which would drop me oƒ on the grimy streets that would take me home. Ihad the entire plan set. The only thing I couldn’t ygure out was how to get to this trainstation in Wayne.One morning, my roommate and I were in our tight yve-by-eight room, sitting on ourrespective wooden chairs, shining our shoes. My roommate was from Brooklyn, and wewere the only two New Yorkers in the entire unit. I partially blamed him for my beingin military school, because it was his grandmother who’d yrst told my mother aboutValley Forge. My roommate’s uncle had graduated from the school years earlier and wasnow a successful business executive. So when my mom, who was friendly with theirfamily, was looking for a new environment for me, they enthusiastically recommendedthis school. Paralleling my mom’s insistence that I attend Riverdale because John F.Kennedy had once gone to school there, she was won over to Valley Forge when sheheard that General Norman Schwarzkopf was a graduate. This was right after the yrstGulf War, and General Schwarzkopf was seen as the second coming of GeneralMacArthur. There was no military history in my family, but for them, as for manyimmigrant families, American heroes—and the schools they attended—carried a certaincachet. I glanced at my roommate, burning with resentment.

I had just ynished shining the tip of my left shoe and was scooping out a helping ofpolish for the right shoe when our door opened.“Ten-hut!” my roommate yelled, jumping to his feet upon seeing our squad leaderenter the room. I followed suit.Sergeant Austin looked directly at my roommate and told him to leave the room. Myroommate quickly dropped the rest of his shining kit and scurried out, shutting the doorbehind him. I had no idea what I’d done this time, but it couldn’t be good. I was afraidthat something serious was about to happen, and Austin had cleared the room becausehe wanted no witnesses. I stood at attention but braced myself for whatever was aboutto go down.To my surprise, Austin told me to sit down. I dropped into my chair but stayed tense.Austin grabbed my roommate’s chair, turning it around like we were old buddies aboutto have a heart-to-heart. He looked at me, almost with pity, and said, “Listen, Moore,you don’t want to be here, and quite honestly, we don’t want you here, so I have drawnyou a map of how to get to the train station.”He handed me a guidon, a manila-colored book the size of a small spiral notebookthat contained all of the “knowledge” we had to memorize in order to make thetransition from plebe to new cadet. The book included items such as the missionstatement of the school, the honor code, the cadet resolution, and all of the military andcadet ranks. More important to me at the time, the back of the book had an aerial mapof the Wayne area and, on this particular copy, handwritten notes with clear directionsto the train station.I looked at the map and was momentarily struck dumb. There was nothing I wantedmore than to join my friends, to see my family, to leave this place. To see my mother.Here was my squad leader, for whom I had no love, giving me what felt like one of thegreatest gifts I had ever received. The burden of loneliness was suddenly lifted. Someonefinally understood me. This map was my path to freedom. This map was my path home.When I looked up from the map and into the eyes of Sergeant Austin, happinessoverwhelmed me. I smiled uncontrollably and thanked him. “I will never forget you!” Iproclaimed. He rolled his eyes and simply said, “Yeah, just get out of here.” He stood upfrom the chair, and I got up and snapped to attention, showing the yrst real sign ofrespect I had given him since walking through the gates. As he exited the room, shuttingthe door behind him, my mind was spinning. I began to plan my great escape.At 10:00 every night, “Taps” was played by a military bugler in the main parade area.“Taps” denoted the end of the day. The hauntingly slow anthem played loudly as theentire corps stopped and stood in the deferential parade rest position until the final noteended. “Taps” is also played at funerals, a way of paying homage to lost comrades. Ibowed my head but couldn’t suppress a smile. I knew this would be the last time I wouldhave to endure this depressing song.I set my alarm for midnight, thinking that would be late enough for everyone to beasleep but early enough to give me a signiycant head start before the predawnnightmare of wake-up call repeated itself. I could begin my journey back homeundisturbed. My alarm clock, which was no larger than the palm of my hand, sat under

my pillow so when the alarm went oƒ, it would be loud enough for me, and only me, tohear. My night bag, which contained only a {ashlight, a few changes of clothes, and agranola bar, sat under my bunk bed, packed and ready to go. It was The ShawshankRedemption, and I was about to become Andy Dufresne.Two hours after “Taps,” I was up and tiptoeing through the hallways until I hit thebloodred door that took me into the night. With nothing but a bag over my shoulder, amap and directions written on the back of the guidon in my left hand, and a tiny{ashlight in my right hand, I was gone. I never looked back at Wheeler Hall, myresidence building, as I quietly bolted through the door. Goodbye and good riddance, Ithought.I followed the map to a tee, pacing my steps, trying to identify the landmarks that mysquad leader had highlighted. The quarter moon was not providing much light, so Itrained my pen-size {ashlight on the guidon. The map was leading me in directions Ihadn’t seen in my brief time at the school, through bushes and brush that quickly turnedto trees and forests. But I stuck to the directions, and to hope, and imagined that, in ashort time, the trees would open up and reveal the train station sitting there waiting forme. Minutes later, that hope was rapidly diminishing. In its place was a diƒerentfeeling. Terror.As I patrolled through the forest, my movie-saturated imagination began to run wild. Iwas having hallucinations. I started to hear snakes and bears and other wild animals.The a€uent suburb of Wayne might as well have been the Serengeti the way I imaginedanimals surrounding me. I was against the ropes in my battle with fear, and I lost mybearing, my pace count, my control. Finally, I sat down on a rock that I could havesworn I had just tripped over ten paces back and began to cry. I was defeated. I hadnever wanted anything more in my life than to leave that school, and I was slowlycoming to the realization that it was not going to happen.As I sat on the rock weeping, I heard the rustling of leaves and brush behind me. I hadbeen imagining wild animals for a while now, but these sounds were more intense. Myears perked up, and my head snapped to attention. I turned in the direction of thesounds and suddenly heard a chorus of laughter. Out of the darkness came the membersof my chain of command, including my new “friend,” Sergeant Austin.Bastard, I thought.The directions he had given me were fake. They’d led me nowhere but to the middle ofthe woods.Without a yght, I got up from the rock and walked with them back to campus. Withmy head bowed, we entered the main building and went straight to my tactical o}cer’soffice.Colonel Battaglioli, or Colonel Batt, as we called him, sat in his o}ce as my chain ofcommand led me in. I was broken, dead-eyed, with my night bag still on my shoulderand the utterly useless folded map in my pocket. Colonel Batt was a retired Army o}cerwith twenty-six years in the service. He had served all over the world, including combattours in Vietnam. He walked fast, his body at a forty-yve-degree angle to the ground, asif he was leaning into every step. When he saluted, it seemed like the force of his entire

body went into it. He spoke like an understudy for Al Pacino, all spit and curved vowels.He was new to the job at Valley Forge, we were his yrst plebe class, and I was his yrstmajor challenge.Plebe system is a process all new arrivals must go through in order to earn the title ofnew cadet. As a plebe, you refer to yourself in the third person: “This plebe would liketo go to the bathroom.” “This plebe requests permission to eat.” In plebe system, yourplebe brothers are all you have to make it through. And to ensure that, there is nocommunication with the outside world. No phone calls, no televisions, no radios, novisits.Colonel Batt looked at my eyes—which were downcast and barely open—and realizedthat if he didn’t bend the rules just slightly, he would lose me for good.“Look at me, Moore,” he firmly commanded. I lifted my eyes.Colonel Batt continued. “I am going to let you talk on the phone for yve minutes, andthat is it for the rest of plebe system. Call who you need to, but you had better besnapped out of this when that phone hangs up.”I looked around the room and saw four members of my chain of command lookingdown on me. I also noticed a man I had not seen before but whose presence dominatedthe room, demanding not only focus but respect. He was black, stood about five ten, andcarried a muscular 210 pounds or so. He peered down on me through his glasses with alaserlike intensity. His uniform was pressed so sharp you could have cut paper with thecuffs on his khaki shorts. He appeared to be still a teenager but carried an old soul and afrighteningly serious demeanor. He didn’t say a word, but he didn’t have to. His looksaid it all.Colonel Batt handed me the phone, and I dialed the only number I knew by heart. Asthe phone rang, I began to think about what I would say in yve minutes to convince mymother to let me back home.“Hello?” Her voice was groggy, reminding me that it was one o’clock in the morning.“Hey, Ma, it’s me!” I said a little too loud, excited to hear her voice after what hadbeen the four longest days of my life.She got nervous at the sound of my voice. She wasn’t supposed to hear from me for atleast another month. She asked if everything was all right, and I assured her I was yne.Then I started my five-minute campaign to come home.“Ma, I know I haven’t been perfect, but I promise to do better. I will pay attention inschool and go more often. I will clean my room, I will clean your room, I will—”She cut me oƒ. “Wes, you are not going anywhere until you give this place a try. I amso proud of you, and your father is proud of you, and we just want you to give this ashot. Too many people have sacrificed in order for you to be there.”I had no idea then, but I later found out just what sacriyces she was talking about.When she yrst heard about Valley Forge, she told my grandparents about her plan. Theywere strongly in favor of the idea. The problem was that military school is not free. It’snot even cheap. The price tag for Valley Forge was even steeper than that for Riverdale.My mother had written to family and friends, asking them to help her however theycould. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t really need it,” she wrote. Weeks later, she was still

thousands of dollars short.My grandparents knew that I was at a crucial juncture in my life. These forks in theroad can happen so fast for young boys; within months or even weeks, their journeyscan take a decisive and possibly irrevocable turn. With no intervention—or the wrongintervention—they can be lost forever. My mother made the decision to intervene—anddecided that overdoing it was better than doing nothing at all. She felt my environmentneeded to change and my options needed to expand. Drastically. My grandparentsagreed.They put most of their money into the home, hoping to use their equity to supportthemselves in retirement, when they would return to Jamaica to be with family andfriends. Now that my grandparents knew they were needed in the Bronx, their desire tomove back to Jamaica had faded. Their children and grandchildren were here. Theirfriends and doctors were here. And more than that, they now considered themselves notJamaicans who were living in America but Americans of Jamaican descent.My grandparents took the money they had in the home in the Bronx, decades ofsavings and mortgage payments, and gave it to my mother so that she could pay for myfirst year of military school.As I sat on the other end of the line, listening to my mother talk about “sacriyce,” I hadno idea what my grandparents had given up. The yve minutes went fast, and ColonelBatt signaled it was time for me to hang up and go to bed. “I love you, and I am proudof you. And, Wes, it’s time to stop running,” my mother said as I hung up.I was sent back to my room to lie down for the three hours before I would be drivenawake again by the same trash-can-drumming, light-{ashing, music-blaring, insult-ladenwake-up call as every other godforsaken morning in this hellhole.The next day, as we prepared to head to second mess, which was what they tellinglycalled lunch, I noticed the black man from the night before standing next to ColonelBatt. They were talking and looking in my direction. Even when I was standing atattention with my eyes to the front, their piercing gazes felt like they were burning ahole through me. Finally the two men saluted, and the black man walked back toward FCompany, the college freshmen and sophomores. It was known around the entire corpsas the most squared away, the most impressive company. Its members were the bestmarchers, the most athletic, the most disciplined. Whoever was in charge of them wasdoing an amazing job. I wondered whether that man who was talking to Colonel Battwas going to fall into the ranks, but as my eyes followed him, I heard the thunderoussound of 120 men all snapping to attention. Nineteen-year-old Cadet Captain Ty Hilltook his place at the front of F Company.In spite of myself, I was impressed. I had never seen anything like that before. I hadnever seen a man, a peer, demand that much respect from his people. I had seen Sheademand respect in the neighborhood, but this was diƒerent. This was real respect, thekind you can’t beat or scare out of people. That’s when I started to understand that Iwas in a diƒerent environment. Not simply because I was in the middle of Pennsylvania

instead of the Bronx or Baltimore. It was a diƒerent psychological environment, wheremy normal expectations were inverted, where leadership was honored and class clownswere ostracized. I was still watching Captain Hill out of the corner of my eye whenColonel Batt moved toward me.After I’d left Colonel Batt’s o}ce the night before, my mother had called back andasked to speak to Captain Hill. She had met him once, through Colonel Bowe, theadmissions o}cer who’d convinced her to send me to Valley Forge. I placed Bowe rightup there with my roommate as a person to blame for my current existence. ColonelBowe had told my mother—when she was still on the fence about military school—thathe wanted to introduce her to a college sophomore from Texas who was about tobecome an o}cer in the Army and was one of the true stars of the school. When she sawCaptain Hill on the day she went to the campus to drop me oƒ, she asked him to keepan eye out for me. That night on the phone, she reminded him.When Colonel Batt got to me, he came close to my face and whispered in my ear withhis fast-talking, raspy voice: “Moore, after you are done with chow, go over to FCompany and ask to see the company commander. He wants to talk to you.”Wes and his godbrother, Red, moved toward the cheese bus as it slowly rolled to a stopin Dundee Village. The cheese bus—yellow and boxy like a block of government-issuecheese—picked kids up from Dundee Village and delivered them, twenty-yve minuteslater, to Perry Hall High School in West Baltimore. It had taken a while, but Wes wasynally getting accustomed to the long route, the new school, and the new environment.He missed the city life, its speed, its intensity, its hustle. But Wes also came tounderstand that the county life was not exceptionally diƒerent from what he had knownbefore. Life in the county was deceptively green and quiet—but he soon discovered thatthe hood came in different shapes and sizes.Wes and Red boarded the bus, giving the daily head nod to the driver and walkingdown the aisle looking for a seat. Simultaneously, they spotted two girls they had neverseen before. They slowed to take a second look.“You see them?” Wes whispered to Red, lifting his chin at the two teenagers.“Yeah, man, I want to holler at the skinny one,” Red said.The line of students was beginning to pile up behind them, so they pushed ahead,ynally throwing themselves into two open seats a few rows behind the girls they wereadmiring. Then they started strategizing.Wes’s athletic physique and laid-back style, combined with the obvious trappings of akid with disposable income—a new pair of sneakers every day, brand-name clothes—made him very popular with the girls around town. He had a dozen girlfriends, butnothing serious. He was just enjoying his teenage years and, at the moment, he wasenjoying the view in front of him.

Both girls lived inside Dundee Village with Wes, but this was the yrst time he had evernoticed them. They looked about the same age; one was a few inches taller than theother, and noticeably thinner, while the thick one had a frame that looked more mature.The weather was warm, so their clothes were short and tight, leaving little to theimagination. Wes and Red debated: Should they wait until they got to school or make amove during the ride? It was a short debate.“You ready, man, I’m gonna go holler,” Red said. “Remember, I got the thin one.”After seeing Red jump from his seat, Wes followed, his book bag lightly slung overone shoulder. He put on his shy grin as they wheeled around to face the girls.“What’s y’all names?” Red abruptly asked, interrupting the girls’ conversation.The two girls gave each other the “how rude” face. Finally they looked up at Wes andRed and answered. They were twins, as it turned out, even though they didn’t lookanything alike.Wes was amazed. “I thought twins was supposed to be the same,” he marveled.Wes and his new friend continued to talk all the way to the school. She was a fewyears older than he was and found his shy half smile cute. He liked her sense of humor—and the way her shirt tugged against her teenage curves. Her dark eyes shone as she lether hand lightly brush against his forearms.As the cheese bus entered the school grounds, Wes asked if he could get her phonenumber. She pulled a pen out of her book bag and began to write her number down. Asshe was writing, Wes spied Red standing alone, looking agitated. Obviously, “the thinone” wasn’t working out.As Wes’s new friend left, he excitedly walked over to Red, unable to hide his grin.“What happened, man?” Wes asked.“She has a boyfriend! I knew I should have tried to holler at that thick one!”Wes and Alicia quickly became more than friends. After school they would head to eachother’s houses, since neither had parents at home during the day. Within two months oftheir meeting, Alicia told Wes that her period was late. Four tests and eight matchingplus signs later, it was confirmed. They were going to be parents.Wes was dazed. He kept the news to himself for an entire month. How could Aliciahave let herself get pregnant? He thought maybe it was a mistake. Maybe the resultwould change. Maybe she was just reading the tests wrong. Time went on, and Aliciastarted having morning sickness, her period was still AWOL, and her belly began to rise.It was undeniable. Wes ynally decided it was time to tell his people what was going on.The yrst person he thought to share the news with was Tony, who had just become afather himself. Wes caught up with Tony when he stopped by the house.“Tony, I got to talk to you.”“What’s up?” Tony replied.“I am going to tell you something, but you need to promise you won’t say anything toanybody, especially Mom.”Tony was smirking, but when he caught the weight of his brother’s voice, his face

became serious. “What’s going on, man? You know I won’t tell her.”“Alicia’s pregnant. Like three months.”Tony stared at his brother, paused for about ten seconds, and then cracked uplaughing. Their mother had had a baby a year ago, making it three boys in the Mooreclan, and Tony thought that Wes having a brother and a son—and a nephew—allaround the same age was hysterical.“This is some sitcom shit, man!” Tony declared, laughing.It was crazy. Wes smiled, but just a little. “Whatever, man, just don’t tell Mom yet.”The idea of becoming a father depressed Wes, but he wasn’t sure why. He didn’t haveto worry about feeling alone or like a pariah. Wes and Alicia’s situation was anythingbut exceptional. In Baltimore in 1991, 11.7 percent of girls between the ages of yfteenand nineteen had given birth. More than one out of ten. He also didn’t feel burdened bythe thought that early parenthood would wreck his future plans—because he didn’treally have any future plans. And he wasn’t overly stressed about the responsibilities offatherhood—he didn’t even know what that meant. But in some unspoken way, he didsense that he was crossing a point of no return, that things were about to getcomplicated in a way he was unequipped to handle.A week later, Wes and Tony took their girlfriends to their mother’s house to celebratethe yrst birthday of their baby brother. An ice cream cake with HAPPY 1ST written inicing sat in the middle of the dining room table. Wes and Alicia sat on one side of thetable, Tony and his girlfriend on the other. Mary, with her newest son on her lap, sat atthe head of the table. When Mary stood to cut the cake, Tony was struck by theabsurdity of the scene.“Ma, isn’t it crazy that you just had a baby, and we just had a baby, and there issomeone else at the table pregnant—” Tony cut himself oƒ and assumed a surprisedexpression, as if he couldn’t believe he’d let the news slip out.Wes’s eyes shot over to Tony, Alicia’s eyes shot over to Wes, Mary’s eyes shot over toAlicia. Wes whined that Tony was ruining what was supposed to be a nice familygathering.Mary didn’t bother with their squabbling—her attention was on Alicia. “Alicia, areyou pregnant?” she asked, still standing with a cake knife poised in the air.Alicia’s eyes did not leave Wes as she slowly nodded her head. Mary closed her eyesand took a deep breath. She put down the cake knife and locked her yngers behind herhead, then arched her back as if trying to work out some deep tension. After a moment,she brought her arms back to her sides, exhaled, and looked around the table.“So who wants cake?”The news of his imminent parenthood did not stop Wes from making time for othergirls. Not surprisingly, this bothered Alicia, but she knew there wasn’t much she could doabout it. She hoped that she and Wes and the new baby would become a family. Shehoped she could give her child the two-parent household that she’d never had. But beforethe baby even came into the world, she realized how unlikely that would be.

Wes’s nonexistent relationship with his father probably contributed to his seemingindiƒerence about becoming a father himself. All he knew was his mom. He had no ideawhat his role would be in this new situation—he wasn’t even sure he had a role.The third, and last, time Wes met his father had been just a few months back. Wes andTony were heading over to Shake and Bake, a popular West Baltimore roller-skatingrink. The rink was very close to the home of Wes’s aunt, his father’s sister, so theydecided to stop by to say hello. Wes would often visit his paternal aunts, cousins, andgrandparents when he went to Shake and Bake—they all lived in two houses on thesame block.But when Wes and Tony entered his aunt’s house, Wes’s father was the yrst personthey saw. He slept alone on the couch in the living room, oblivious to the blaringbasketball game on the television, or the fact that his son had just walked in the house.Tony looked at Wes and said, “You see your pops over there?” Wes nodded but thenstood there silent, as if grasping for an emotion that was just out of reach. He had notseen his father in years and didn’t know what he would say to him, or if he cared to sayanything at all. At yrst Wes considered leaving the house, just heading to the roller-skating rink, but eventually he thought better of it. This was his father. He should atleast say hello.Wes slowly walked up to the couch. His father was motionless. Wes put his handunder his father’s nose, testing to see if he was even alive. After feeling the air comingin and out of his father’s nostrils, Wes started poking his father in the side with hismiddle ynger. The yrst few nudges didn’t wake him, so ynally he just pushed at hisfather’s shoulder. He pushed so hard the man’s entire body rolled a little, but he stayedasleep. Finally, after some more jostling, his father’s eyes cracked open. He saw Wesstanding over him. Still squinting, he looked his son in the eyes.“Who are you?”Tony began to laugh hysterically. “I would punch that dude right in the face if I wasyou,” he said to his brother in between laughs.Wes again found himself adrift emotionally, unsure where to anchor. Part of him washurt, part ashamed, part relieved that the awkward conversation he had been dreadingwouldn’t be happening. Wes looked down at the man on the couch and clenched his yst,almost as if he was going to follow Tony’s advice, but then his yngers eased, and hesimply let oƒ a smirk. Without knowing it, he was mirroring the smirk his mother hadleft his father with when she saw him on the couch years earlier.Wes nodded at Tony, and they left the house without another word. He neveranswered his father’s question.Soon after hearing the news about Alicia’s pregnancy, Wes met another girl. She toldhim that she didn’t live in Dundee but her cousin did, on the other side of the complex. Itwasn’t long before Wes got a chance to see the inside of her cousin’s house, and thewater bed in her cousin’s bedroom. Wes’s visits became a regular thing. She returned thefavor and visited Wes at his house.

During one of those visits, Wes’s new girl woke up in a panic, realizing how late itwas. “Wes, I have got to get home! It’s one o’clock!”She sprang from the bed and began to put her clothes back on while Wes slowly satup and wiped his eyes. He stretched and grumbled out a groggy command: “Make sureyou be quiet when you leave so you don’t wake up my mother.” Wes’s mother slept inthe room next to Wes’s and was unaware that her son had company.“Get up and walk me out! Be a gentleman,” she replied. Wes was amused. This chickwas a jump-oƒ, a sexual time yller, and he felt she had forfeited her right to be treatedlike a lady a long time ago. He laughed to himself but got up and put on a pair ofbasketball shorts and a T-shirt so he could walk her to the door.The two tiptoed down the stairs, careful not to make any noise. When they reachedthe bottom of the stairs, they hugged and Wes told the girl he would call her sometimesoon. She stepped through the doorway, and before she could close it behind her, Wesheard another voice coming from outside.“What’re you doing coming out that nigga’s house?”A tall, muscular, older teenager had stood up from the curb when he saw Wes’s dooropen. It was not clear how long he had been waiting there, but it was clear that he wasnot happy.“Why the hell are you out here spying on me, Ray?” she yelled back, quicklyregaining her composure as she walked down Wes’s stairs. The man quickly movedtoward her, and they started shouting louder and louder, even as the distance betweenthem closed.Wes stood at alert on his porch and watched for a few moments. Once he realized theman’s anger was directed at the girl and not him, he decided to stay out of it. He wishedthey would quiet down, but other than that he ygured it wasn’t any of his business. Heturned his back on the two and moved toward the door so he could get upstairs andresume his night’s sleep. As Wes stepped into his doorway, the man ynally noticed him.He stopped yelling at his girl and launched himself toward Wes. He reached him in aninstant, grabbed the back of his shirt collar, lifted him oƒ the porch {oor, and slammedhim onto his back. Wes found himself splayed on his stairs looking up at the night sky,the back of his head throbbing, unsure of what had just happened.Ray wasn’t done. He began to take unmerciful swings at Wes’s face. His left and rightysts took turns hitting their target while Wes tried to block the blows. The girl pulled atthe man, trying to give Wes a little room to escape. Finally, Wes came to his feet andran inside, but not before the man had significantly bloodied him up.Wes went inside, but he had no intention of staying there. He ran to his room andstraight to his closet. He reached up to the top shelf and pulled out the shoe box thatheld his 9mm Beretta and a few full clips. Wes opened the box, grabbed the gun andclips, and threw the empty box on the {oor. As he left his room, he shoved a clip intothe gun and cocked the slide hammer back, fully loading the weapon. He ran down thestairs and out the door, only to see the girl standing there by herself. Her eyesimmediately trained themselves on the gun in Wes’s hand.Wes could only see red. He was blind with rage. Instincts kicked in. Tony’s words rang

through his mind. Send a message.“What are you going to do with that?” the girl demanded and tried to block Wes’spath.“Shut up and get out of my way,” Wes commanded. He pushed her to the side andstarted scanning the block for a sign of the dude who’d just worked out on his face.Wes noticed one of his boys leaning out of a window along with dozens of otherpeople, who were now curiously watching. The boy was one of Wes’s partners in hisdrug operation, and when he saw Wes standing in the night air, face bloodied, with agun in hand, he had his cue to join the yght. As Wes continued to scan the block for anyclue of where Ray ran to, his friend joined him with his own trusty burner ready toblast.The girl was still screaming at Wes, begging him to leave Ray alone, but for Wes hervoice faded into the background noise of a now alert Dundee Village. After slowlypacing his street, looking for any movement, he ynally saw what he was looking for.Ray leaped up from behind a car farther down the block and began sprinting, duckingbehind cars as he moved around the enclosed complex. Wes chased after him. As theyran, he and his friend pointed their weapons in Ray’s direction and began taking shots.Wes quickly ygured out where Ray was heading and realized that this must be the“cousin” his jump-oƒ was always visiting. Wes and his friend cut into an alley, trying tointercept Ray before he could get to his house.Every time Ray rose from a hiding position, Wes and his friend would take turnsyring shots at him, not only to try to hit him but to keep him from getting to his house.Shots rang through the development and car windows were shot out while the peoplestaring out their windows backed away, trying to avoid stray gunyre. Wes and hisfriend ran through a dark alley, jumping over trash cans and fences, trying to get to theother side of the complex as fast as possible. Multiple shots had been yred, but thefootrace to the house continued. All three of their hearts pounded—none of them wouldhave imagined hours earlier what kind of night this would turn out to be.As Ray’s house came into view for all three young men, Ray decided to make a run forit, ducking behind a row of parked cars. Wes and his friend traded shots and ynallyheard Ray scream as he fell behind a black Toyota just fifty feet from his house. Wes andhis friend stopped running. They saw no movement and ygured the job was done. Notonly that but the entire neighborhood seemed to be awake now, so they ran back totheir homes, hoping to avoid identiycation. Adrenaline was rushing through Wes’s body,followed quickly by fear, but no regret. Ray was a fool for stepping to him like that;he’d started something that Wes had no choice but to finish.The girl Wes had been with was crying and screaming when he arrived back at hishouse. She was saying she was going to tell the police on him. Wes ran right by her,ignoring her threats as he slammed his front door behind him.He was met by his mother, who was now awake and irate. “What is going on, Wes?What did you do?” she demanded.Wes ran by her and, without even looking back, told her nothing was wrong and togo to bed. The blood on Wes’s face and clothes, and the weapon in his hand, told a very

different story.Wes went straight to the bathroom. He shut and locked the door and began ylling thesink with warm water. The pool of water quickly turned red as the blood fell from hisface into the sink. He picked up his washcloth and a bar of soap and began to clean theblood coming from his nose and mouth. His mother was outside the door, knockingferociously, demanding to know what had happened. Wes continued to clean his face, asif she weren’t there.Finally, vexed and frustrated, Mary called the only person she knew could ynd outwhat had happened. “Tony, Wes was involved in something out here, and I can’t ygureout what is going on. He’s all bloody.”Tony jumped in his car and started driving toward Baltimore County.Wes ynished cleaning his face and removed his bloody shirt. After throwing his ruinedclothes into the bathroom garbage can, he went to his bedroom and closed the doorbehind him.He still had the gun in his hand and knew he wouldn’t be alone for long. In the cornerof the room was a large ysh tank that was only a quarter full, but the bottom wascovered with rocks and dark mud that clouded the water. Living in the tank were notysh but a large, green snapping turtle that took up almost half the sixty-yve-gallontank. The gun was still hot, so it created a small sizzle as it hit the cool water of thetank. Wes moved the sand around, clouding the already murky water even more, hopingit would hide the gun.Wes heard commotion downstairs and knew his time was just about up. He reachedinto the wooden drawer next to his bed and got a clean blue shirt with white stripes onit. He pulled the shirt over his head and pushed his arms through the sleeves as he hearda parade of feet charging up the stairs. Wes hurriedly smoothed the shirt down and puthis hands in the air, not wanting the cops to think he was armed. He knew how thatscenario would end. Seconds later, Wes was being pushed facedown onto his own bed,his hands locked in cuffs behind his back.He was escorted downstairs by three police o}cers, led to the back of their car, andshoved in. Wes could see police o}cers talking to witnesses about what they’d seen. Heeyed the crowd; the jump-oƒ he blamed for starting this mess was nowhere to be found.Wes’s mother walked up to the backseat of the police car where her son sat and beganto yell at him in between her tears. Through the car window and over the commotion inthe streets, Wes tried to tell his mother to calm down. While the cops were still speakingto witnesses, he told her where the gun was. She asked him if he was the one who’d shotthe boy, but Wes didn’t answer. He simply stared at his mother with a blank expression,his head still spinning from the last hour’s events. She asked him again, softly pleadingwith him to tell her something. Just then, the cops showed up and ordered her awayfrom the car.Two o}cers entered the cruiser and prepared to head back to the station. They hadall the information they needed. They started the engine and the blue and red lights ontop of their cars began to {ash. As the cruiser began to pull oƒ, Wes asked them to stopfor a moment so he could say something to his mother. The driver slowed to a stop and

rolled down the window next to Wes’s head just a crack.“Ma!” Wes yelled.She was on her way into the house when she heard his voice. She ran to him. Whenshe got closer, Wes craned his head to speak through the crack in the window.“About your question. I don’t know the answer.”The car pulled oƒ. Wes closed his eyes and leaned his head against the black, plasticseat. The street began to clear, and after watching the car fade into the distance, Maryheaded back inside her house.Minutes later, Tony arrived. His mother stared at him, her face drained of emotion.“It’s too late,” she told him. “Wes is already gone.”

SIXHunted1994The steady {ow of people entering the Northern High School gymnasium had slowed toa trickle as the three o’clock start time for graduation arrived. The wooden bleachersthat circled the {oor were full of family, friends, and supporters of the crop ofgraduates, who had yet to enter the room. Within an hour they would watch the highschool experience of their children, grandchildren, siblings, nieces, and nephews come toan end. Many in the audience had thought the day would never come, but all werehappy it did.The state of Maryland had one of the highest graduation rates in the nation. Seventy-six percent of high school students who began high school in Maryland completed. InBaltimore County, the number was as high as 85 percent in some years. But in BaltimoreCity, where Northern High School was located, it was a dismal 38 percent. For many inthe audience, this was the first high school graduation they had ever attended.The procession of black robes entering the room was replaced by a wave of forestgreen robes—the students trailed shortly after the faculty. Smiles, waves, cheers, andwhistles rang out. Camera {ashes blinked over the parade, parents and friends shootingas wildly as paparazzi. Because his last name put him toward the front of the class,Woody was one of the yrst to enter the gym, walking with a conydent strut. He saw hisparents, sister, and grandmother, and smiled. He grabbed the edge of his green capbetween his thumb and index ynger and tipped it to them. A sign of respect, andgratitude.Woody was one of the students who made it across the ynish line kicking andscreaming. He’d needed two points in the last few weeks to pass English. Gym was hisfavorite class. Every other class tied for last place. But as he entered the area where allthe students were sitting to prepare for the ceremony, he knew none of that mattered.All that mattered was that he was here. He had accomplished his mission of completinghigh school.The principal, valedictorian, guest speaker, and the rest of the graduation speakersgave their speeches as Woody fought to stay awake. Finally the moment he was waitingfor arrived. The principal asked the class to rise, and one by one they walked across thestage to receive their diplomas. If the entire class that had started the ninth grade herehad ynished, it would have been a very long ceremony. But only eighty-seven seatswere filled that spring morning. This wouldn’t take nearly as long as it should have.When it was Woody’s turn, he practically danced up to the principal. The crowdlaughed as Woody shook the principal’s hand and looked up at his family, throwing hisarms in the air in a triumphant stance. He carefully jogged down the steps at the end of

the stage. As he turned the corner and looked at the dozens of folding chairs where thegraduates were sitting, his mind wandered to the people who weren’t there. He thoughtabout Daemon, a ninth-grade classmate who didn’t make it to the end of the year. Daetook a month oƒ from school to care for his mother, who was sick with sickle cell. Thatmonth turned to two, and ynally Dae stopped being a student. Woody thought aboutWhite Boy, his boy from the neighborhood, who picked up a job working at a restaurantcalled Poor Folks. He was tired of school and decided joining the workforce was a betteroption. Most of all, Woody thought about Wes, who had stopped going to school twoyears earlier.Wes returned to Dundee Village six months after being locked up for the incident inwhich he shot at Ray. Wes caught two breaks that night. The yrst was that the bulletentered Ray’s shoulder and went straight through. No major organs were hit, and Rayleft the hospital a day later, so Wes was charged with attempted murder rather thanmurder. The second break was that Wes’s case was sent to juvenile court instead of adultcourt. His attorney argued he should be tried as a juvenile because “he would not be apotential threat to the community.”Wes went back to school immediately after leaving the juvenile detention facility, theBaltimore County Detention Center in Towson. He enrolled at Lake Clifton High Schoolin East Baltimore but knew pretty quickly that he would not last long. He was two yearsolder than the other kids in his grade from repeating a grade and losing time locked up.Teachers already dealing with overcrowded classrooms didn’t have the time to teachWes the basics he’d missed. Wes’s attendance became sporadic, and once his yrst childwas born, he just stopped going.Not surprisingly, without a high school diploma or job training—and with a criminalrecord—Wes found it almost impossible to ynd a job to support his growing family.Alicia was living with the baby in her mother’s house while Wes stayed with his auntNicey. Nicey was strict and made it clear from the day Wes moved in who was incharge: “You need to either get a job or go to school, one of the two, but neither is notan option.”Wes found another option: he decided to make himself scarce. In the mornings whileNicey was at work, Wes would play videogames in the house and then head out to checkon his drug operation. When she was home in the evenings or the early morning, Weswould normally be out, “trying to ynd a job,” as he would tell her. This charade went onfor months. Wes didn’t live there so much as he used Nicey’s home as a place to rest and,increasingly, a place to hide his drugs.Wes had his entire operation organized with the precision of a military unit or adivision of a Fortune 500 company. The drug game had its own rules, its own structure.He was a lieutenant, the leader of his small crew. Everyone in the crew had a speciycjob with carefully delineated responsibilities. On the lowest rung of the ladder and inmost cases the youngest kids on the team, were the corner boys. These were the kids,sometimes as young as seven but normally no older than eleven, who served as the

lookouts for cops. They would huddle on the corners, and when they saw a cop—oranyone who looked like a cop—they would yell “Hey, Tina,” or “Hey, Susan,” orwhatever name the crew had designated for the week. That way they could alert thecrew that cops were creeping, but if the cops questioned them, they could simply saythey were calling for a friend and walk away unscathed.The hitters were the ones who dealt with the money. This job was very important, forobvious reasons, and you needed to trust your hitter. This was also one of the mostdangerous jobs, because if the money ever came up short, the hitter was the one whoseneck was on the line.The housemen were in charge of distribution. The drugs were usually cooked and cutin a house, and the housemen would have to make sure the sellers had their supply forthe day. The housemen also resupplied the ground soldiers if they sold their allocatedamount.Last, you had the muscle, who were there to protect the crew and the lieutenant. Theywere usually carrying weapons of various kinds and were not afraid to use them. Acrew’s relevancy—their ability to hold their own corner and expand the business—wasdependent on the amount of muscle they controlled and the level of violence theirmuscle was ready to get into. Sometimes entire crews were muscle.This was the crew. They would work together, yght together, stay together. Anunbreakable bond united the crew—for many members, it was the only support systemthey had. It was family.Wes managed his team extremely well. At their peak, his team brought in over fourthousand dollars a day. He wasn’t one of the main players by any stretch, but he wasnot doing badly in relation to others in the neighborhood. There were over 100,000known addicts in Baltimore, and the real number was arguably higher. Given that thecity had a population of just under 700,000, there was an obvious glut of addicts. With ademand like that, and an ample supply, it was hard not to make money. Still, Weswould ynd himself wondering about the percentage of that money that found its wayinto his pocket. He and his team were taking all the risks; they were the ones who facedthe arrests and the danger. His bosses, the connects, and the ones bringing the drugsinto Baltimore were making the real money. They never had to show their faces on thehard corners where the supply looked the demand in the eye. It started to become clearto Wes: the drug game was raw capitalism on overdrive with bullets, a pyramid schemewhose base was dead bodies and ruined lives.Wes stood on the corner in Dundee Village. He no longer lived there, but he had alittle operation there—he would bring drugs into the county because he could sell themfor a higher premium than in the city. He was surrounded by some guys from his crew.His day was ending; it was 3:00 P.M., and he planned to pick up a girl from around theway to go to the movies. He had to get moving, but he lingered. He liked the feeling ofholding down a corner with his boys. It was the one place he felt safe, or at least in hiselement. Wes’s green jumpsuit hung over a glossy green T-shirt. His Gianni Brunellishoes matched his outfit. Wes stayed fresh.He was saying his ynal goodbyes when a man sidled up to him. He was clean-shaven,

wearing jeans and an oversize T-shirt. Wes had never seen this cat before.“Do you guys know where I can buy some rocks?” the man asked, his voiceconspiratorially gruff.There are a few major tip-offs that tell dealers something isn’t right:If a person looks unfamiliar or really out of place, it’s probably a cop.If a person you saw arrested a few minutes ago is suddenly back on the street andtrying to buy from you, he’s probably doing it for a cop.If a person is usually a dime-bag customer and is now trying to buy a brick, he’sprobably working for the cops.If someone’s lingo is wrong—if he comes up to you saying, “Do you guys knowwhere I can buy some rocks?”—there’s a good chance he’s a cop.“Nope,” Wes replied, eyeing the man up and down.The man began to walk away with his head swiveling, seemingly searching forsomeone else to get drugs from. Wes moved in the opposite direction, toward the girl’shouse. But for some reason, he couldn’t let the sale go. He paused, taking a second lookat the man. Wes thought about the small change he was turning down. The man threwup red {ags, but Wes had dealt to people like that before and gotten away with it. Hesaw the man approach another corner boy and then walk away. Wes got antsy: themovie was starting soon, and if he was going to change his mind and make the sale,he’d better do it fast. He couldn’t stop thinking about the money he could make oƒ thatsale—almost exactly enough to take care of this date. The logic felt right.Wes looked to his right, saw a public phone booth, and began to move in thatdirection. As he approached the booth, he reached into his pocket and pulled out twodime bags of crack cocaine, twenty dollars’ worth. He placed the small, clear, zipper-lock bags in the phone’s metal-covered coin return bucket. He quickly scanned hissurroundings, checking to see if anyone had seen his drop. When he felt sure that he’dbeen undetected, he moved toward the potential buyer.It was a risk, and Wes knew it. But taking risks is at the heart of the drug enterprise,and scared money didn’t make money.“Hey, come here real quick,” Wes yelled to the man, still wandering aimlessly aroundthe block.The man’s head snapped up quickly. Wes looked him up and down again, desperate torecognize him and put his mind at ease. He couldn’t. The man moved closer. Wesgrabbed his right shoulder and pulled him in close. “I don’t know who it was that toldme, but if you give me twenty dollars, you can go over to that phone booth and theysaid you would be taken care of.” The man nodded as his eyes met Wes’s.As Wes took the money, their hands touched brie{y. The man’s hands were smooth,and his nails were clean. Damn. It was time to get moving. Wes started walking, neverlooking back. He placed the twenty-dollar bill in his pants pocket and picked up thepace to the girl’s house. He popped a breath mint in his mouth.

As he turned the corner, he heard a yell behind him. “Stop moving and get your handsup!” Wes kept walking. He looked forward, hoping they weren’t speaking to him,hoping they’d just disappear. He maintained the same pace until he caught sight of twomen running toward him.Guns in hand and silver badges swinging from metal chains around their necks, themen pointed their weapons at Wes and ordered him to the ground. Wes saw anotherman, wearing a woodland camou{age shirt, crawling from beneath the bushes, reachingin his waist, and pulling out a weapon. In total, ten police o}cers moved toward Wes.He got down on his knees and laced his fingers behind his head.“What did I do, man? I didn’t do anything wrong,” Wes pleaded with the cop who wasreaching over to cuƒ him while the rest kept their weapons on him. Getting arrestedwas starting to feel routine. Wes wasn’t shocked or afraid anymore, just annoyed. Whyhim? Why now? Why couldn’t they just leave him alone? He had enough to worry about.Wes continued to plead his case as the police read him his rights.Ding, ding.Two bells rang through the mess hall, signaling the corps of cadets to leave lunch andhead back to barracks for their afternoon classes. At the sound of the bells, the corpsmoved en masse toward the cafeteria doors at the end of the building.I stood up from my chair and ordered my platoon to “stand fast,” or remain still, as Ireminded them about the room inspection that was going to take place immediatelyafter school. My platoon responded with a coordinated “Yes, Sergeant,” and began tojoin the flood headed toward the door.I was now a platoon sergeant, a cadet master sergeant, and the youngest seniornoncommissioned o}cer in the entire corps. Three years ago I’d been one of theinsubordinate kids yrst entering the gates of Valley Forge. In an ironic turn, I was nowone of the ones in charge of them.My mother had noticed the way I had changed since leaving for military school. Myback stood straight, and my sentences now ended with “sir” or “ma’am.” My militarygarrison cap was intentionally a size too big, forcing me to keep my head up, walkingtaller with every step. Our standard motto, “No excuses, no exceptions,” and our honorcode, “A cadet will not lie, cheat, or steal, nor tolerate those that do,” were not simplywords we had to memorize but words to live by. With the support of people like CadetCaptain Hill and the others in my chain of command and on the faculty, I’d actuallystarted to enjoy military school. They made it clear that they cared if I succeeded, andeventually so did I. The ynancial strain Valley Forge brought on my mother waslessened signiycantly after the yrst year, when the school gave me academic, and laterathletic, scholarships.On my way back to the barracks, I met up with my friend and “plebe brother” Sean.

Sean, from a single-parent household in central New Jersey, had lost his father when hewas young as well. We’d started Valley Forge at the same time and lived down the hallfrom each other. We were among the few still at the school from our plebe class. Wewere the “survivors,” the “old men” who were on pace to go the long haul.We stopped in the mail room. In my box were three letters, two branded with thelogos of colleges, and one from Justin, my best friend back in the Bronx.I was a starter on the Valley Forge basketball team, the only sophomore on thestarting squad that year and the yrst sophomore starter in over yve years. I was makinga name on the court, and colleges were taking notice, writing to me fairly frequently.These two letters, from Lafayette College and Georgetown, were just the most recent.I spent my summers at prestigious basketball camps like 5-Star Basketball and EasternInvitational, camps where college coaches prowl, looking for fresh prospects. I wasalmost six feet tall at the time, with a quick yrst step, a passion for defense, and anokay jump shot. But I was cocky as hell. I would sit in my room and practice the “gripand grin” that would take place the day the NBA commissioner announced my name asthe Knicks’ yrst-round pick in the NBA draft. I would pantomime putting the hat on myhead and work on just the right bland lines for the press: “Our team works hard inpractice, and it pays oƒ in the games.” “When the game was on the line, my team putits conydence in me, and I am just thankful things worked out.” “I believe we can beatany team on any given day, as long as we play our game.”One day a few months earlier, my uncle Howard took me out to shoot hoops at a parkin the Bronx. I was telling him about receiving the recruiting letters from colleges,talking about how I knew I could make it to the pros. My uncle was still much strongerthan I was and would use his size to post me up down low and then execute a quickturnaround hook shot or layup, reminding me that I wasn’t quite in the NBA yet.After he ynished beating me, we sat next to each other on the side of the court and hestarted to spin the ball on his ynger. “You know, your game is getting pretty good, andI hope you do make it to the league, then we would all be living nice,” he said with asmile on his face. “But it is important that you understand that the chances are not inyour favor, and you have to have some backup plans.” I took the ball out of his hands,wanting to practice my midrange jump shot instead of listening to a lecture about myfuture prospects. I stood up, dribbled the ball from side to side, but never took my eyesoff him, probably more to practice keeping my head up than for any other reason.“Think about it, man. It’s simple math. Only 60 players are chosen in the NBA draftevery year. There are 341 Division One schools, each with 13 players on the roster. Thismakes 4,433 college players who could declare eligibility for the NBA draft. Thesenumbers don’t even include Division Two or Three players. Or international players, forthat matter.” My uncle had obviously been practicing this speech.The dose of reality hidden in the impressive math exhibition was beginning to botherme, so I cut him oƒ and asked him if he wanted to get another game going. A smallsmile appeared on his face again, and he pulled himself up using the metal fence thatsurrounded the court as support. I thought about him now, as I stared at the college sealon the top left corner of the envelope I held.

Next, I slipped my ynger into the opening of the letter from Justin. Justin and Iexchanged dozens of letters after I left the Bronx for Pennsylvania. I was one of the fewoutlets Justin had, and my leaving wasn’t easy on either of us. We’d always been bestfriends, despite the urging of one of the deans at Riverdale, who’d once pulled Justin tothe side and given him a stern warning: “Justin, you are a good kid, you need to stayaway from Wes or you will end up going nowhere just like he will.” Justin simply shookhis head and ignored him. It amazed Justin how easily they would write oƒ a twelve-year-old.The letter opened with the normal trivial catching-up jokes, but it soon became moreserious. Two pieces of news took the wind out of me.First, Shea had been arrested on drug charges. These weren’t simply running orpossession charges either. Possession with the intent to distribute was a charge of acompletely diƒerent magnitude—with serious mandatory sentences. Justin hadn’t seenShea around the neighborhood in a while and, from the sound of it, was not sure whenhe would again.The even more devastating piece of news was that Justin’s mother was dying. We hadnoticed changes in his mother for a few years. She moved more slowly than usual andseemed just a beat oƒ. Justin’s mother had Hodgkin’s disease, a rare form of cancer. Thesurvival rate is around 90 percent for those who discover it early. Unfortunately, hismother was in the other 10 percent. With Justin’s older sister away in college, and hisfather living in Harlem, Justin’s role in the family was changing.Justin was now spending his mornings with her at the hospital, his afternoons atschool, then running to basketball practice and back to the hospital. His grades felldramatically as the burden began to wear him down.I was halfway through reading the letter when Sean’s voice broke my concentration.“You ready, man? I got nothing.” I took one ynal glance at the letter, then carefullyfolded it back into its envelope and put it in the cargo pocket of my camou{age battledress uniform. Sean noticed the look on my face and said, “You all right, man?Everything okay?” I told him everything was yne, but a few seconds later I spoke upagain. “Hey, Sean, do you ever think about what life would be like if we never camehere?”He looked at me quizzically. “I don’t know. About the same, I guess.”“Yeah, I guess.”Even though I’d grown to love military school, I still had mixed feelings about beingthere, and they were eating at me. I wanted to be home, to talk to Justin after he leftthe hospital. I didn’t know what I’d say, but at least I’d be there. I wanted to be there asmy mother and Shani moved back to Maryland and Shani began high school. Iremembered what Baltimore could be like, and I wanted to be there to protect Shani andhelp my mother through the move. I felt like being at military school was keeping me ina bubble, ignorant of what was going on with my people on the outside. There was acomfortable distance between my life now and the levels of confusion that had engulfedme just a few years ago. This uniform had become a force yeld that kept the craziness of

the world outside from getting too close to me, but I wondered if it was just an illusion.H Company was broken up into two platoons. I was the platoon sergeant for one ofthem, and a cadet named Dalio was the platoon sergeant for the other. In the Army,there is an old expression that the o}cers make the orders and the sergeants do all thework; this year, as a cadet platoon sergeant, I was learning how true that was. From themoment I woke up to the moment I went to bed, my day was consumed with thinkingabout my platoon, taking care of them, making sure they were doing well in class,making sure things were yne at home, making sure the building was clean, and on andon, an exhausting litany. Saturday evening, after “Taps,” Dalio and I put our guys downto sleep but still had a few hours of leave before we had to be back on campus.“Want to go grab a stromboli?” Dalio asked. The stromboli is a staple in Pennsylvaniacuisine, essentially consisting of a pizza folded on itself, a bread, dairy, and meatconcoction held together with copious amounts of grease, classic adolescent comfortfood. I was in.We threw on our dress gray uniforms, including the gray wool pants that scrapedevery blade of hair oƒ our legs and dark blue cotton shirts. I tightened the navy tie thataccompanied the uniform—the tie was wrapped in the same knot I’d used as afreshman.When you know how to get there, downtown Wayne is only yfteen minutes awayfrom campus. We strolled down the barely lit street, gossiping about the antics of ourplatoons. About ten minutes into the walk, a red Toyota slowly drove up to us. Thinkingthe driver just needed directions or help navigating the dark, signless streets, westopped and peered in. As the driver’s window rolled halfway down, the sound of loudrock music and the smell of alcohol met us.“What are you guys doing?” a slightly overweight teenager with unkempt black hairand a distinctive scar across the top of his forehead asked us.“Nothing,” I replied. Who is this guy? I wondered.“Don’t you mean ‘Nothing, sir’?” A voice rang out from the backseat, but with thetinted windows, we couldn’t see its source.“Nothing, sir,” I re{exively corrected myself, even without knowing who made theorder. I was so accustomed to the rules and protocol on campus that it took me a secondto realize I might be responding to the orders of some random drunk kids from town.“I am Colonel Bose’s son, and not only are you rude but your uniforms are in disarray.I am going to report you both.” Dalio and I looked at each other, confused aboutwhether this was a legitimate complaint or simply a prank.Dalio realized the pizza shop would be closing soon, so he tried to end theconversation. “Well, you have our names, so do what you have to do,” he said. The carsped away, leaving a trail of blaring music behind it. Dalio and I continued walkingdown the middle of the street, but our conversation now turned to the odd interactionwe’d just had.“What do you think?” Dalio asked me.

“Probably nothing. Just a bunch of idiots.”Suddenly a speeding car came roaring up behind us. We turned around with justenough time to jump out of the way as the red Toyota from before came within feet ofrunning us both over. We lay there in complete bewilderment, unsure what to do next.The car slowed to a creep after missing us, like a confused predator who’d overrun hisprey. Finally, the brake lights appeared. Dalio and I got oƒ the ground, looked at eachother, and broke into a sprint, running away from the car now sitting ominously a fewyards from us. Just then, another car came down the street. Our drunk attackers wereforced to keep moving.Dalio looked at me and said, “What the hell are we supposed to do?”That’s when the kid from the Bronx started to elbow the cadet sergeant aside. “Wekeep going to get our pizza. They’re done for the night, and if they aren’t, we’ll seethem when they get out of the car,” I told him. Dalio was not as convinced, but afterkneeling behind a parked car for a few minutes and not hearing or seeing any sign ofthe red Toyota, he decided that I might be right. Besides, he was still hungry.We picked up our pace as we walked in the shadows of the tree-lined sidewalks, nowavoiding the center of the street. I felt like I was doing my speed-walk to the subway inthe Bronx again. Every car that passed made our hearts stop. This was military school, Ithought to myself. We were supposed to be protected from this kind of stuff.We came to an intersection, one of the few lighted paths on our entire journey. Onlytwo hundred yards away from our ynal destination. The quiet streets and passingminutes without incident had returned our focus to the oozing stromboli and not theToyota. We were crossing the intersection when I heard a voice yelling.“Go home, nigger!”As I turned my head to see where the yell came from, a rock or bottle—somethinghard—slammed against my mouth.“I just got hit,” I yelled to Dalio, spitting out blood and pieces of tooth into my hand.My tongue searched my top row of teeth, scratching against my now sharp and jaggedfront tooth, while my mouth ylled with blood. We realized the car had been sitting withits headlights off, waiting for us.After their direct hit, they put on their lights and screeched oƒ. Inside they were stillscreaming with laughter.Going to the pizza shop was now oƒ the table. We realized who the target was. Ireached into my mouth and wiggled my loose tooth. We moved to a completely darkarea behind a collection of bushes to regroup. Dalio, not panicking, said, “Bro, we havegot to get back to campus, now.”My mouth was aching. I was beside myself with anger—and still confused. Andembarrassed. Embarrassed to be called a nigger in front of my comrade. Andembarrassed by my reaction. Because after being called a nigger and having my toothbroken, I’d decided to {ee back to campus. Should I have stayed there in the middle ofthe street, waiting for the boys to come back, somehow gotten them out of their car, andtested them blow for blow? Part of me was aghast when I decided that the answer wasno.

I’d only waded into street life in the Bronx; I never got into its deepest, darkestwaters. But I’d been around enough street cats to know the code: they hit you with aknife, you ynd a gun. And I didn’t have to be a Black Panther to know that nigger wasthe ultimate yghting word. This was the kind of knowledge we understood, the kind ofcode that was so deeply fundamental it never had to be fully articulated. But I had to letthis one go. I had to look at the bigger picture. My assailant was unknown, unnamed,and in a car. This was not a fair yght, and the best-case scenario was nowhere near asprobable as the worst-case scenario.If I was successful, who knew how the yght would’ve ended? If I failed, who knewhow the fight would’ve ended?I thought about my mother and how she would feel if this escalated any further. Ithought about my father and the name he chose for me.We sat silent for a moment, waiting for any movement or lights, but as we’d justlearned, darkness and silence did not translate to safety. I told Dalio we had to get backto campus by a diƒerent route, one where there were no lights and no streets. I told himto follow me and began to run through a series of front yards to a dark, empty yeldabout a quarter mile from where we started. Dalio was trying to ask me where we weregoing, but I never slowed or turned around to explain. We did not have time. Hidingbehind trees and cars along the way, we systematically moved closer to our goal. Theveil of security I thought the uniform provided had been lifted, and now we hustled inour black dress shoes and stained wool pants through dirty yelds and grassy yards. Ourhearts pounded under our navy blue shirts.“Where are we?” Dalio asked again when we stopped behind a large rock, staring atthe wooded landscape in front of us.“It’s the yeld that leads us back to school,” I replied. This was our chance to get oncampus without having to meet up with our attackers again. Dalio had never been here,and most cadets never had a reason to. I had, however; it was one of the yrst memoriesI had of my school. This was the same area I’d run through trying to ynd the Waynetrain station, trying to escape.“Let’s go,” I whispered and we bolted into the woods. Scared, and angry, wenavigated the darkness holding on to trees, using the moon as our guide. Minutes later,we saw the light from the cross perched on the chapel’s roof, which was only yfty yardsaway from our barracks.The irony of the situation forced me to smile, featuring my newly cracked tooth. Yearsearlier, I had run through these same woods with all of my might, looking for safety,trying to get away from campus. Tonight, I ran through the same woods looking forsafety, but in the other direction.

Part III

Paths Taken and Expectations FulfilledI sat again in that large, gray, windowless room with about thirty other people waiting to seetheir fathers, husbands, sons, boyfriends, and friends. The air in the room was heavy and cold,the chairs hard. There was a vending machine with only a few sad items dangling inside. Smalllockers lined the gray walls. We were told to place whatever we carried with us inside them.Nothing unaccounted for could go in—or out of—the secured room that would be our nextstop. Out of the thirty people in the room, I was one of only two men. The rest were womenand children.One by one, the guards called out numbers. After about an hour of waiting, I ynally heardmine. I quickly rose and walked over to a desk where bulletproof glass separated me from acorrections o}cer. The o}cer threw out the same barrage of questions they always ask.“What is your relation to the inmate? Do you have any electronic equipment or sharp items?Do you have any items you plan on passing on to the inmate?” Eventually they let me into thevisitors’ room, where I waited for Wes to be escorted in.“I wasn’t even there that day.”I looked at Wes, speechless. He still didn’t admit to the armed robbery that had led to hisfinal imprisonment.There were days when our unexpected relationship started to seem absurd. What was Idoing here, anyway? More than three years earlier, I’d written a letter to a stranger whosestory had sat with me for years. We shared a name, but the truth was that I didn’t know thisman. He was simply an address, a P.O. box, and a personal identiycation number. A manconvicted of murder. And, inevitably, as in every convict cliché I’d ever heard, he claimedinnocence.But I started to think more about his repeated defense, oƒered again and again in earnest:“I wasn’t even there that day.” Did he think that through repetition it would become true? Thatif he just incanted the phrase enough the prison walls would collapse and he’d be able to walkback home? Did he think it could reverse time? How far back would he have to go to beinnocent again?Wes folded his hands together; his broad shoulders leaned in. We were nearing the end ofour get-together. Silence now overrode the conversation. He smiled.I decided not to respond directly to this latest protest of his innocence. Instead, I asked aquestion: “Do you think we’re all just products of our environments?” His smile dissolved intoa smirk, with the left side of his face resting at ease.“I think so, or maybe products of our expectations.”“Others’ expectations of us or our expectations for ourselves?”“I mean others’ expectations that you take on as your own.”I realized then how di}cult it is to separate the two. The expectations that others place onus help us form our expectations of ourselves.

“We will do what others expect of us,” Wes said. “If they expect us to graduate, we willgraduate. If they expect us to get a job, we will get a job. If they expect us to go to jail, thenthat’s where we will end up too. At some point you lose control.”I sympathized with him, but I recoiled from his ability to shed responsibility seamlessly anddrape it at the feet of others.“True, but it’s easy to lose control when you were never looking for it in the first place.”An hour later, our time was up, and he was escorted out as quickly as he entered. I sat inthe room alone, collecting my thoughts. I had more questions than I came in with.

SEVENThe Land That God Forgot1997“Five minutes!” the jumpmaster yelled from the front of a C-130 military aircraft.“Five minutes!” my entire chalk of Airborne candidates yelled back at him in themilitary’s famous call-and-response cadence. We all knew what was next, and now weknew how long we had before it was time to face it. Five minutes.I stood toward the middle of the C-130, staring at the back of another soldier’s Kevlarhelmet. The late-summer Georgia heat beat down on the metal shell of the airplane thatwe’d been packed into for over an hour. Sweat that had been beading all over my facewas now streaming uncontrollably but, afraid to move, I simply let it fall. The onlyrelief came from the open door at the front of the plane that our instructors—the BlackHats, we called them—occasionally looked out to inspect our drop zone. A Black Hatwould brace his hands against each side of the door and stick his head into the open air,slowly turning from side to side to check for any potential obstacles. I had gotten usedto the yfty pounds of gear cumbersomely strapped to my back, torso, and legs. Mybladder verged on explosion because of the crazy amount of water we were forced todrink to stay hydrated. None of this now mattered. I was about to jump out of the plane.I was about to become a paratrooper.An excited nervousness overwhelmed me. It had been a little more than a year since Idecided to make the Army a fundamental part of my future. As my high school careerwas coming to an end, I was still being avidly recruited by college programs. The NewYork Times had even run a two-page article on my high school sports career and futureprospects. I got a yrsthand taste of the athletic campus visitation process, complete withyoung and attractive “tour guides” who showed me around and made me feel welcome—and wanted. It was a seductive ego stroke. Initially, it just reinforced my belief that Iwas special, that I was chosen. The young female admirers who seemed to come alongwith the package added to the allure. But eventually, all of these treats started to feelmeaningless.As I began to play against nationally ranked players at various tournaments andcamps, I realized that the disparity between my potential and theirs was glaring. Iplayed hard while they played easy, with a gracefulness and eƒortlessness that I lacked.When you step on the court with players like Kobe Bryant or six foot eight point guardswho can dunk from the free throw line, your mind begins to concentrate on your otheroptions.I realized that I had to make sure these schools knew my name regardless of what Idid on the ninety feet of hardwood that had brought me to their attention. Just asmilitary school had slowly grown on me, so had academic life. I actually liked reading

now. My mother, sensing my apathy toward reading, had bought me the Mitch Albombook Fab Five. The book is about the Michigan basketball team led by Chris Webber,Jalen Rose, and Juwan Howard, a team with yve freshman starters who made it all theway to the national championship game. The Fab Five sported baggy shorts, bald heads,and a swagger I recognized from the streets of the Bronx, all re{ective of the way thehip-hop generation was changing the face of sports, and college basketball in particular.I was riveted by that book. The characters jumped oƒ the page, and I felt myself asengulfed in their destiny as I was in my own. I ynished Fab Five in two days. The bookitself wasn’t what was important—in retrospect, I see that it was a great read but hardlya work of great literature—but my mother used it as a hook into a deeper lesson: thatthe written word isn’t necessarily a chore but can be a window into new worlds.From there, I leaped into every new book with fervor. My fresh love of readingbrought me to the transformative writers who have worked their magic on generationsof readers. I explored Spain with Paulo Coelho. I listened to jazz on the North Shore ofLong Island with F. Scott Fitzgerald. I was reminded by Walt Whitman to think of thepast, and I awaited “The Fire Next Time” with James Baldwin. But there was a morerecent author and public ygure whose work spoke to the core of a new set of issues Iwas struggling with: the Bronx’s own Colin Powell. His book, My American Journey,helped me harmonize my understanding of America’s history and my aspiration to serveher in uniform. In his autobiography he talked about going to the Woolworth’s inColumbus, Georgia, and being able to shop but not eat there. He talked about how blackGIs during World War II had more freedoms when stationed in Germany than back inthe country they fought for. But he embraced the progress this nation made and themilitary’s role in helping that change to come about. Colin Powell could have beenjustiyably angry, but he wasn’t. He was thankful. I read and reread one section inparticular:The Army was living the democratic ideal ahead of the rest of America. Beginningin the yfties, less discrimination, a truer merit system, and leveler playing yeldsexisted inside the gates of our military posts more than in any Southern city hall orNorthern corporation. The Army, therefore, made it easier for me to love mycountry, with all its flaws, and to serve her with all of my heart.The canon of black autobiography sensibly includes scores of books about resistanceto the American system. For instance, reading The Autobiography of Malcolm X—a bookthat begins and ends in the madness and pathology of America’s racial obsessions—is arite of passage for young black men. Malcolm never stopped pursuing truth and theright course, based on the best information he had at any given moment. His responseto the world he confronted in the middle of the twentieth century was profound anddeeply felt, but he didn’t speak to my experience as well as Colin Powell did. Powell, inhis pragmatic way, wanted what I wanted: A fair shot. A place to develop himself. Acode that would instill discipline, restrain passion, and order his steps. A way to changethe world without yrst unleashing the whirlwind. In the chaos of the world I grew up in,

those were as appealing to me as Malcolm’s cry for revolution was to his generation. Idon’t claim that Powell had it all ygured out: American history bedevils the most earnestattempts to make sense of it. And, of course, the problems of race that Malcolmconfronted have not disappeared by any means. But Powell gave me another way tothink about the American dilemma and, more than that, another way to think about myown life.As I started to think seriously about how I could become the person I wanted to be, Ilooked around at some of the people who’d had the biggest impact on my life. Asidefrom family and friends, the men I most trusted all had something in common: they allwore the uniform of the United States of America.I thought about Lieutenant Colonel Murnane, my tenth- and eleventh-grade historyand social studies teacher, who lit a yre in me about the importance of public service. Isat in the front of his class entranced as he spoke about the Constitutional Congress andthe Federalist Papers, and their relevance to our existence today. I thought about RearAdmiral Hill, the former superintendent of the Naval Academy, who served as thepresident of Valley Forge in my last three years of high school. Admiral Hill hadthousands of cadets, faculty, staƒ, alumni, and trustees to deal with on a daily basis butalways made it a point to know the names and stories of as many cadets as he could. Healso taught me an important lesson about leadership: it always comes with having tomake tough decisions.I thought about Colonel Billy Murphy, the commandant of cadets. He was one of themost intimidating but fair men I have ever met. He and his command Sergeant MajorHarry Harris demanded excellence from every unit, every platoon, and every cadet.They believed that excuses were tools of the incompetent and forced every cadet tobelieve the same. One of the last times I saw Colonel Murphy was in our chapel. I sattoward the front. The hard wooden pews forced us to sit up straight, and the messagecoming from the pulpit demanded everyone’s attention. Colonel Murphy ascended to thepodium, looking as strong as ever, his eyes still alit with a sense of purpose. Then heannounced that he was leaving Valley Forge to undergo treatment for his advanced-stage cancer. He said something I will never forget. “When it is time for you to leavethis school, leave your job, or even leave this earth, you make sure you have workedhard to make sure it mattered you were ever here.” The notion that life is transient, thatit can come and go quickly, unexpectedly, had been with me since I had seen my ownfather die. In the Bronx, the idea of life’s impermanence underlined everything for kidsmy age—it drove some of us to a paralyzing apathy, stopped us from even thinking toofar into the future. Others were driven to what, in retrospect, was a sort of permanentstate of mourning: for our loved ones, who always seemed at risk, and for our own lives,which felt so fragile and vulnerable. But I started to see it a little diƒerently that day.Life’s impermanence, I realized, is what makes every single day so precious. It’s whatshapes our time here. It’s what makes it so important that not a single moment bewasted.My next decision was clear. I wanted to stay at Valley Forge and attend its juniorcollege, which would allow me to go through the early commissioning process, receive

my associate’s degree, and become a second lieutenant in the Army. I wanted to leadsoldiers.“Three minutes!” the Black Hat yelled out.“Three minutes,” we replied with a good deal less gusto. I looked around the plane atthe faces of my fellow prospective paratroopers. U.S. Army Airborne School is acollection of soldiers, sailors, airmen, Marines, Coast Guardsmen, cadets, and anyoneelse who has received the funding and possesses the will to become Airborne-qualiyed.Some of the attendees needed the qualiycation to advance in their careers. For example,those planning to join a Ranger battalion or one of the elite Army units like the 82ndAirborne Division needed to be qualiyed as paratroopers. For some attendees, whosecareer goals didn’t involve combat, it was a way to get a taste of what the combatexperience feels like. For all of us, however, it was, at this moment, terrifying. For somein my chalk, this was the yrst genuine military activity they would engage in. For a few,this was the yrst airplane ride they had ever taken. These few, even after today, stillwouldn’t have had the experience of landing in an airplane, just taking oƒ and jumpingout.Broad smiles and hollow laughter were undermined by trembling legs and shakinghands. Our sweat-stained uniforms, still dusty from the endless push-ups and practicejump landings in man-made pits over{owing with sawdust from our yrst week, clung toour skin.My left hand grasped the yellow ripcord for dear life as my right hand pressed againstthe side wall of the C-130 for balance. That bright yellow cord was my lifeline. If itfailed, the reserve parachute that was strapped to my belly like a baby kangaroo wouldbe my last hope.A week before I boarded the most memorable plane ride of my life, Valley Forge hadselected me to be the regimental commander for the 70th Corps of Cadets. This meantthat I would be the highest-ranking cadet in the entire corps of over seven hundredpeople. I would be responsible for their training, health, welfare, morale, and success. Iremembered watching the regimental commander my yrst year at Valley Forge withsimultaneous fear and awe. On his command, the entire corps moved. Wherever hestepped on campus, cadets snapped to attention. Every cadet possessed a burning desireto be recognized, but never noticed, as his piercing blue eyes evaluated his corps. Now,days after I became a qualified paratrooper, I would take on that role.The plane steadied as we neared our drop zone. At eighteen hundred feet in the air,the large aircraft began to cruise and prepare to o€oad its twenty aspirants. I was onlyeighteen years old, the youngest in my chalk. When I was commissioned, less than ayear from that moment, I was told I was one of the youngest o}cers in the entireUnited States military. My platoon sergeant would probably be older than my mother.My company commander would probably have over a decade of life on me. It was onething leading cadets, but would I honestly be ready at such a young age to lead soldiers?My mind began racing again when a command brought me back to reality.

“One minute!”“One minute!”My mind retraced my three weeks of training in yfteen seconds. I remembered thecomponents of landing. When I landed, I needed to make sure that my feet and kneesstayed together, that my eyes stayed focused on an object in the distance, not on theground, and that my “yve points of contact” hit the ground in order (balls of my feet,sides of my calves, hips, lats, and shoulders). It seems much easier than it actually is:jumping from a plane the wrong way or landing the wrong way could lead to seriousinjuries, even the kind after which you can’t tell the war stories the next day.Step out with one leg. Chin tight against my chest. Right hand on the handle of myreserve parachute.Do I count to three or count to four before pulling my reserve?Which way do I pull my parachute slips if the wind is blowing left to right?Damn, I can’t remember.Is that minute up yet?My mind and my nerves were on edge. The Black Hats yelling “Get ready, Airborne!”brought me back to task.Our Black Hats always told us to remember three things as we were jumping: “Trustyour equipment, trust your training, and trust your God.” As we were seconds awayfrom taking the leap, the multitude of prayers that left the plane were palpable.I stared at the yellow light at the front of the plane, waiting for it to turn green; Ispoke with God, asking Him to watch over me and the others in the plane. Theexcessively hot and cramped conditions, coupled with the fact that some of the toughestschools in the military take place at Fort Benning, have earned the base the nickname“the land that God forgot.” I was hoping He’d remember us today. The formalities thatusually accompanied my prayers—“dear most heavenly father” and “most gracious andeverlasting God”—were replaced with very simple, blunt, and direct requests like“Help!” and “Please don’t let me die like this.”Before I could even ynish my prayer, the yellow light disappeared and a bright greenone lit up right above it.“Green light go!”The soldiers, airmen, Marines, sailors, Coast Guardsmen, cadets, and everyone else infront of me began to shu€e their feet toward the door; it reminded me of commutersleaving a packed subway car, an odd resonance as I approached the open door twothousand feet in the air. We had heard stories during training about people who, afterthe Black Hat yelled “Green light go,” had tried to stay in the plane. They were lifted oƒtheir feet by the jumpmasters and thrown out to keep the {ow of bodies moving inrhythm and to make sure all of us landed in the drop zone and not in somebody’s yardsomewhere in Alabama. I shu€ed my feet toward the door as the population of theaircraft methodically decreased; my colleagues, I realized, were all now {ying throughthe air beneath me. Suddenly, the only person in front of me was the jumpmaster. Hestared at me—we were so close that I could see my distorted re{ection in his large Ray-Bans. His cheeks were {apping from the wind blowing against his face. I handed him

my yellow rip cord, yelled “Airborne, Jumpmaster!” and turned my body to face theopen door. I closed my eyes and felt the air just below me {ying by. I assumed theproper position, and somehow my left leg stepped out over the edge of the doorway.Instantly, my entire body was sucked out of the plane, and I heard—felt—the aircraftspeed away. I thrashed around in the wind. It wasn’t me who controlled my movementsbut the rushing air around me. I rotated in darkness because I refused to open my eyes. Iwas counting in my mind, as I was instructed to, and as I hit the longest three secondsof my life, I felt a sudden jerk, and my body was lifted dozens of feet when my mainparachute automatically opened. With that tug, I ynally opened my eyes, looked upand, to my relief, saw a perfectly symmetrical and hole-free canopy above me. I felt acocktail of beautiful emotions coursing through me: peace, love, appreciation. I lookeddown at the trees waving in the distance, and the gorgeous brown Alabama soil thatseemed to be rising to meet me. My equipment was functional, my training was sound,my faith conyrmed. I cut through the sky, the wind whipping against my face as I keptmy eyes high, staring intently at the horizon.Cheryl, wake up! What the hell is wrong with you?”Wes took the face of his third and fourth children’s mother in his hands and began toshake her. She lay on the couch, saliva dripping out of the corners of her mouth onto herred Gap T-shirt, her pupils dilated and rolling to the back of her head, heroin stillflowing through her veins.Wes ran to the kitchen and rushed back to her with a glass of water, splashing someon her face and pouring some down her throat until she came to. This was not the yrsttime she had gotten high like this, but it was the first time Wes had seen it.Wes had met Cheryl years before, while he was still living in Dundee Village. Shelived down the street from Alicia in a two-bedroom house with her son. She was olderthan Wes, already twenty-three when they met, but a relationship developed. His twochildren with Alicia came back-to-back, born in 1992 and 1993; his children with Cherylcame in the same fashion, born in 1995 and 1996.“Where did you get this from?” Wes asked, but Cheryl just kept repeating the sameresponse, as if they were the only words she knew: “I’m sorry.”Wes cursed himself. He knew he had been turning a blind eye to telltale signs thatthings were moving in this direction. Just a month ago, he’d noticed he was missingmoney and lectured Cheryl: Stop bringing your friends into my house if they’re going to bestealing my stuff!She’d agreed and the conversation had ended, but the problem was not solved. Beforethat, he’d confronted her after ynding a pipe in her closet. “Wes, do you think I wouldbe using while I’m pregnant?” she’d asked. He’d let the matter drop. His love for her andtheir kids kept him from seeing the truth that now stared him in the face. Cheryl was an

addict.The sight of her coming oƒ her high, stumbling to the bathroom, disgusted Wes. Hesaw this every day. The people who would line up around the corner for drugs. Thepeople who would do anything to score. He knew these people because he was the onewho got them what they needed. It was his job. And it pained him to realize that themother of his children was just like them. Wes grabbed his keys and walked out thedoor. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but he knew he couldn’t stay there.Wes was tired. Tired of being locked up, tired of watching drugs destroy entirefamilies, entire communities, an entire city. He was tired of being shot at and having toattend the funerals of his friends. He understood that his thoughts contradicted hisactions; he had long since accepted that. It was just that his tolerance of his ownhypocrisy was wearing thin. He walked down the broken blocks past clusters ofabandoned buildings, the glass from shattered windows on the sidewalk, junkies on thesteps. He walked for miles through a steady drizzle trying to clear his mind whilethirteen-year-olds ran drugs up and down the streets.Wes turned down Edmondson Avenue, walking toward his friend Levy’s house. Levywas a bit younger than Wes but had managed to get out of the hustling game a fewmonths back. At yrst, Wes had been confused by Levy’s decision: why would he give upso much money to go straight? But days like today were making Wes think that maybeLevy was the smart one.The rain began to subside as Wes approached Levy’s house. He walked up the stairsand rang the doorbell.When Levy saw Wes, his face lit up. “Wes! What’s good, yo?” Levy said with hisdistinctive Baltimore drawl: a trace of a southern twang with words contracted andvowels swallowed. “Come in, come in.”Wes sat on the couch in the middle of the room. His shoulders slumped, his eyesdownward. “I’m done, man,” he said. “I want to get out. Do something diƒerent withmy life. But I’m not sure what. I’m not going back to high school. I’m too old for that.But I’m tired of running these streets.”Levy went to the kitchen for a couple of sodas and sat on the couch next to Wes.“Listen, there are deynitely some options, but I am telling you, it won’t be easy. It willtake work, and it will take commitment. Even when the days are tough, you have got topush through. Feel me?”“Yeah, man, I am ready to try something. Anything.”Levy told Wes about Job Corps, a program he was about to enter. Started in 1964 as afederal initiative, Job Corps was designed to help disadvantaged youth. It was part ofLyndon Johnson’s Great Society and was modeled after the Depression era’s CivilianConservation Corps. Levy was hoping to become its newest recruit.Levy would be entering the Job Corps as a high school dropout but was hoping toleave with a general equivalency diploma (GED) and the skills to help him land a job asa hot-water-boiler repairman. He knew the pay would be lower than what he wasmaking on the streets, but the work was steady and honest, and he would have moretime to give his family without injury, death, or incarceration looming.

Wes told him he would think about it. Levy found a piece of paper and wrote down adate and an address. “This is where to go if you are serious about the Job Corps. Itdoesn’t take much, just come through. They’ll handle all the rest.”Wes had heard about the Job Corps before. His aunt Virginia had started Job Corpsbut didn’t ynish. She said it was too much like jail. What Levy was talking about seemeddifferent, but Wes wasn’t sure which version to believe.As he walked away from Levy’s house, Wes pondered other reasons to be doubtfulabout Job Corps. He had two babies’ mothers, four kids, and his own mother to takecare of. Wes stepped along beneath streetlights and a quarter moon. The day wascoming to an end, but he knew it would be a long night.Wes looked down at his forearm, at the newest addition to the gallery of images inkedon his body. A few weeks back, Wes and three of his friends had gone to a tattoo parlorin Baltimore and all gotten the same design permanently inked on their bodies: a blackdevil’s head with horns and sinister eyes. His skin had almost healed, but the painbehind the tattoo was as fresh as ever.When the three had arrived at the shop, they’d searched for a symbol that bestrepresented their allegiance to one another and their shared situations. When he wasgrowing up, Wes would occasionally follow his mother to the New Metropolitan Churchon Sunday, but even on his sporadic visits, he never felt any connection. He wouldwatch the singing and dancing, cheering and crying, and chalk it all up to theatrics. Weswould wonder if anyone there even knew who or what they were praying to. Wherewas God when people didn’t make enough money to feed their families? Where was Godwhen kids were selling rocks at twelve years old, and their parents encouraged itbecause the kids were the main breadwinners in the home? Where was God when ayoung boy came home from a school that was as uninterested in him as he was in it?Where was God when a kid had a question and looked to his friends in the streets for ananswer because his father was locked up and his mother strung out?Wes remembered leaning back in the black, padded parlor chair and taking a puƒ onhis blunt as the tattoo artist sealed the ink into his skin.“Fuck God,” he said, drawing in a lungful of smoke. “If He does exist, He sure doesn’tspend any time in West Baltimore.”After agonizing over it, Wes decided to go with Levy to his ynal Job Corps interview.While there, Wes sat down with a counselor and began a conversation.“Do you have a high school degree?”“No,” Wes replied.“Do you have a record?”“Yes.”“Are you interested in and serious about this program?”After receiving the same deployment date as Levy, Wes understood that the onlyquestion he was asked that mattered was the last one. When the time came, he packedhis bags and said goodbye to his family. Where he was going, he had to go on his own.

Two weeks after his conversation with Levy, Wes stood in a parking lot on the cornerof Saratoga and Greene streets, waiting for the bus that would take him to theWoodland Job Corps Center in Laurel. The Sunday evening air seemed unusually still asthe baby blue school bus rolled. The bus was packed with a motley group of men andwomen who represented the spectrum of ages, neighborhoods, backstories, andmotivations. But they were united in looking for a new chance. They believed the secretto their second lives hid on the sleepy Howard County, Maryland, campus of Job Corps.Most everyone on the bus slept during the thirty-minute ride, but Wes sat up, staringout the window, wondering about the next few months. He’d been assured during hisinterview that he would be allowed to return home every weekend if he chose to, andcould make a few calls during the week. He was assured he would be able to bring hismusic and have time to work on his lyrics. He was told that, if he was willing to put inthe work, he would leave the program a different person.The bus ynally entered the Job Corps campus. The dark night appeared even darkeras they pushed down a long asphalt road. A tree canopy seemed to collapse over the busas they slowed to a creep. Wes noticed goalposts to his right and, assuming theyindicated a football field, he smiled.The bus stopped at the welcome center and unloaded. The passengers formed a line,awaiting room assignments. When Wes got to the front of the line, an attractive womanin her mid-thirties stood before him with a clipboard and a smile.“Welcome to Laurel. What’s your last name?” she said.Wes told her his name and she gave him his room assignment.He stood there smiling at the girl until she nodded at him, as if to say, “Okay, you gotyour room, now move on.” Wes got the hint, grabbed his bags, and carried them alongthe concrete walkways curving through manicured lawns that led to his dorm. As hewalked, his eyes took in the campus. He noticed a beach volleyball court complete withsand. A full basketball court with regulation lines and nets for the rims sat next to abeautiful wooden gazebo. This was exactly what Wes imagined a college campus wouldlook like. He had never seen anything like it before.When Wes arrived in his room, he found Levy lying back on the bed, his feet crossedand hands behind his head with his fingers interlocked. Smiling. Wes smiled back at him,relieved to see a living piece of home so far away. The spacious room was far from theprisonlike image his aunt Virginia had painted for him.“So far, so good,” Wes said as he dropped his bags and lay on his bed, imitating Levy’sleisurely pose.In the yrst phase of Job Corps, students are tested to place them at the right level ofGED training. One day after they took the test, the results came back: Levy needed to gothrough the full monthlong pre-GED training. Wes, by contrast, ynished near the top ofhis class. He completed the course work and received his GED a month later. He wasalready reading at the level of a sophomore in college.His quick success had Wes thinking diƒerently about his life. He proudly displayed his

new diploma at home, excitedly mounting it one weekend in a frame he’d bought theweek he received his test scores. The bus would bring him back to Baltimore City everyFriday evening, but much of his weekend was spent preparing for the next week inLaurel. Many of the other students were now looking to Wes for help with their GEDprep, for assistance with their personal issues, and for friendship. Just as he had on thecorners of Baltimore, Wes became a leader.After completing his academic course work, Wes started on his professional training.He selected carpentry as his vocational specialty. He had always been handy. Years ago,the siding had begun to fall oƒ his mother’s house. His brother, Tony, held the sidinglevel as Wes’s steady hand nailed the replacement into place. The crack of the hammeras it connected with the head of the nail. The way the body of the nail disappeared intothe siding. The joy of admiring a finished product. The quiet thrill of a job well done.He enjoyed building but was now motivated to learn true skills. After the mandatorytraining sessions on the use of the equipment and safety precautions, the teacher toldthe class he wanted them to create something on their own. The teacher made Weslaugh—he was thin and balding, and full of old jokes—but Wes appreciated his skill andhis commitment to this group of young men about whom nobody else seemed to care.As Wes thought about what he wanted to make, the image of his yve-year-olddaughter came to him. For much of her life, Wes had been gone. Whether at the JobCorps or behind bars, he had missed many of the milestones in her growing up. Thesituation at home had become even more tenuous. Cheryl’s drug problem had becomemore consuming and overt. The kids were now basically living with Wes’s mom. Cherylcomplained but never made a real eƒort to take the kids back. She knew what everyonearound her knew: she was in no position to take care of her own children. Wes had toreconsider what it meant to be a father. He wanted to protect his young daughter,shelter her.One by one, the students declared what they were going to make. The list of objectsblurred together—small pieces of furniture and little decorative items—until it wasWes’s turn. He had tuned out the conversation around him to become lost in thoughtsabout his family. The teacher repeated the question to Wes. All Wes could think aboutwas his daughter. Without a thought about what he was taking on, he announced thathe wanted to build her a house. The teacher raised his eyebrows and said, “Interesting. Asmall house?” Wes looked back at the teacher, but in his mind he was looking at thehouse he wanted to build: “No, a house big enough for her to get in. A house to protecther.”The other people in the room looked at one another and giggled. But Wes did notflinch.His teacher smiled. “Great, I look forward to seeing it.”He spent the next seven months building his daughter’s house from scratch. Hesandpapered every board, hammered every nail, leveled every edge. When it wasynished, the house stood yve feet high and an arm’s length across; it included shutters, adoor, and windows. It was by far the most complex project in the group. When it wasynished, it sat in the display room along with the projects of his classmates, including

wooden plaques and a plain box that someone called a telephone base.To Wes, the house was more than just a project to complete. It was a daily reminderof why he was there. These past months had been the most important and enjoyable inWes’s life. He’d learned skills, gained conydence, and ynally felt his life could go in adiƒerent direction. He stayed at the Job Corps Center so he could provide a better lifefor his kids. He stayed for his mother, who sat home watching Tony continue moving inand out of the criminal justice system. He stayed at the Job Corps Center for himself.After seven months, Wes met his graduation from Job Corps with as much trepidationas excitement. No longer would he have to show up at the large parking lot on Sundayevenings waiting for the blue bus. No longer would he have to share a room with Levywho, after a troubled start, was completing his GED requirements and starting hisvocational classes. Wes would now be on his own.Wes’s first job was as a landscaper at a home in Baltimore County. It was a temporarygig, and after yve months he moved on to rehabbing homes in the city—anothertemporary job. After that, he worked as a food preparer at a mall in Baltimore. A yearafter completing the Job Corps training, Wes realized the only consistency in hisemployment was inconsistency. That, and the fact that none of these jobs paid over ninedollars an hour.One day, after completing his shift chopping vegetables, Wes took a detour on theway home. He went by his old West Baltimore neighborhood to pick up a package. Hehad stayed away from these blocks because he had been so busy since getting back fromLaurel. He worked ten hours a day and came home with barely enough energy to playwith his kids and barely enough money to feed and clothe them. But the main reason heavoided these streets was that he felt they held nothing for him. He had changed. Atleast he wanted to believe that, and he continued to tell himself that as he walkedthrough the blocks. He raised his head and acknowledged the many faces he had notseen for over a year.Wes was amazed as he watched how little the game had changed: the corner boys stillpulling lookout, the muscle still looking as intimidating as ever. Wes watched as, acrossthe street, a young man no older than sixteen pulled out a wad of cash, held together bya rubber band, and began showing it oƒ to a friend. Lines of heads circled the blocklooking for their next hit. Some of the players had changed, but the positions were thesame.Wes ynally got home and went immediately to his kitchen. He was living on his ownnow, in a small apartment. He placed the package he’d picked up on the table, satdown, and put his head in his hands. The pressure was breaking Wes down. Aliciacomplained that he was not giving her enough money to provide for the kids theyshared. Cheryl was now constantly calling him about wanting more time with the kids—which meant she wanted more money to take care of them. His mother needed moremoney because she was raising both Wes’s and Tony’s kids. Wes banged his ysts againstthe top of his head as his elbows rested on the kitchen table. While at the Job CorpsCenter, Wes had felt his problems {oating oƒ in the soft country air of Laurel. A yearafter graduating, he realized they had not disappeared—they’d simply returned to

Baltimore, waiting for him to come back. In his absence, they’d compounded.Tears welled in Wes’s eyes but never fell. He’d realized long ago that crying does nogood.He quickly rose and went to the sink to yll a pot with water. He ignited the {ame onthe front burner of his stove. While the water was heating, Wes walked to the front ofhis apartment and turned on 92Q, a popular Baltimore radio station. The last few barsof a Jay-Z song filled the room.When the streets is watching, blocks keep clockingWaiting for you to break, make your first mistakeWes returned to the kitchen. He reached in the refrigerator and pulled out the bakingsoda. Muscle memory kicked in as he tapped the side of the box and poured three ouncesof the baking soda into the black pot, watching the powder swirl and fall to the bottom.He placed the baking soda back in the refrigerator. Taking a deep breath before pickingup the package, he took a bound plastic bag out of the brown paper wrapping. Hesqueezed the package, testing its density. He reached over to the drawer that held hiscutlery and pulled out a knife, brought the blade to the corner of the plastic bag. As thebaking soda swirled in the rapidly heating pot, Wes held the plastic bag with both handsand poured in nine ounces of cocaine.

EIGHTSurrounded2000The phone had been ringing continuously for three minutes. Mary sat on her sofa,un{inching. She was in no mood to talk, no mood to explain, no mood for consolation.She simply leaned forward, with her elbows resting on her knees, watching thetelevision screen flickering just five feet in front of her. Her hands trembled.Ten minutes ago, a news report had stopped her cold. Mary didn’t watch muchtelevision; she felt she never had time, but she just happened to have it on this evening.She saw yle footage of a jewelry store she didn’t recognize, its redbrick exteriorsurrounded by police and yellow tape, accompanied by the newscaster’s sombernarration of events. Mary had been so busy that she was completely unaware this storyhad gripped the city for days. But as she sat on the sofa, she got caught up on what shehad missed.Three days earlier, in broad daylight, two masked men had run into J. Browns Jewelerswaving guns at the customers, ordering them to the ground. Customers screamed in fearand quickly followed the orders as two more masked men entered. These men carriedmallets in their gloved hands. The gunmen scanned the room, their weapons trained onthe terriyed customers and employees, their heads swiveling, looking for anymovement. They barked out orders over the screams of their victims. Following therobbers’ command, the workers and customers pressed their faces to the ground.“Keep your hands on the backs of your heads! I ain’t playing with you!” yelled one ofthe armed robbers. “What do you have in your hands?” Another gunman yelled to awoman who had been talking on her cell phone when the four men ran into the store.With her arms outstretched and her torso resting on the ground, she slowly closed herphone, keeping her hands in open sight. The two men with mallets were oblivious to thepandemonium around them. They headed straight to the display cases that housed thewatches and necklaces. Their decisive movements showed they knew exactly where togo and what they were looking for.One of the people being held at gunpoint was Sergeant Bruce Prothero, a thirty-yve-year-old, thirteen-year veteran of the Baltimore County police department. Earlier thatday, he’d left his wife and yve children, ranging in age from two to six, to work hissecond job as a security guard at the jeweler’s. After his wife had triplets, he’d needed topick up an additional part-time job so she could stay home with the kids. He wassupposed to be oƒ that day but was covering for a friend who needed the day oƒ. Hewas known around the department as a man ferociously devoted to protecting his

family and his colleagues. Sergeant Prothero was now being held by the neck, a gunpressed against the back of his head, his hands high in the air. He was unceremoniouslyforced to the floor with the others.After grabbing $438,000 worth of watches and jewels from the store, one of therobbers yelled “Let’s go,” and the four ran out to the adjacent parking lot, where a 1984Oldsmobile Delta 88 and 1987 Mercury Grand Marquis waited for them. Both cars hadbeen bought a week earlier at an auto auction. Most of the people in the store kept theireyes closed and heads on the ground. A few, including Sergeant Prothero, raised theirheads to watch the men leave. Once the thieves cleared the door, these few quickly roseto their feet. Sergeant Prothero followed his instincts and ran out after the robbers.Drawing his weapon from his holster, he sprinted through the entrance. He lookedaround the parking lot for signs of the four men. He ducked behind cars, carefullypeering through glass windows and above hoods. As Sergeant Prothero scamperedbehind the Delta 88 and began to lift his head, a black-gloved hand reached out thewindow holding a handgun and let oƒ three shots, striking Prothero at point-blankrange.Even after getting shot twice in the chest and once in the head, Sergeant Protherostumbled oƒ and ran about ten feet, ynally falling in the green bushes that surroundedthe jewelry store. For the next minutes, he fought a losing battle for his life. The twogetaway cars had long since screeched out of the parking lot.Crime in Baltimore and its suburbs had spiraled out of control, particularly in the cityproper. Baltimore City was now averaging over three hundred murders a year, makingit one of the per capita deadliest cities in America. Police o}cers were consistentlytrying to solve gun crimes, drug-related crimes, domestic abuse crimes, and robberies.But this case was diƒerent, more personal to the cops assigned to it. Not only did it takeplace outside Baltimore City, in the county, an area where vicious murders were lesscommon, but this shooting involved one of their own. All hands would be on deck tomake sure that the perpetrators were brought to justice.The yrst major lead in the case came a day after the shooting. One of the suspectscalled a notorious drug dealer to oƒer him a chance to buy some stolen watches. Thedrug dealer had an authorized wiretap on his phone and, as a result, the police got asearch warrant and went to the house where the call originated. When they found oneof the stolen watches under a seat cushion, they suspected they had their man. He laterconfessed to being in on the robbery but denied that he had pulled the trigger. Throughhis interviews, the police identiyed the other three men, where they lived, and moredetails about the crime.A day later, another member of the crew was captured. He also confessed to being atthe scene but said that he was not the one who pulled the trigger. In fact, he was laterquoted as saying, “I was actually unarmed. I was just told I could make yfty thousanddollars to break some glass.” This wasn’t the first trip through the criminal justice systemfor either of them. Both men, in their early twenties, had long criminal records that

included drug charges, handgun violations, and assault charges. One of them had beencharged a year before with two counts of yrst-degree murder for separate shootings inWest Baltimore.Mary was riveted as she listened to the reporter’s dry voice. It was an audacious crime,a troubling sign of the violence that felt like it was closing in on her no matter how farshe moved away from the center of the city. Her phone started to ring. Again sheignored it. Then the reporter described the ynal two suspects. The reporter warned thosewatching that they should be assumed to be “armed and very dangerous.” Mary’s large-screen television was now ylled with photos of these suspects. Her heart broke when shesaw Tony’s and Wes’s faces staring back at her.Midnight passed, and one day turned to the next. Mary could not sleep. She feltterrible about the death of the police o}cer. She prayed her sons were not responsible.As she lay in bed, she realized that, no matter what the outcome, all of their lives hadchanged forever. Mary knew it was just a matter of time before she would become thetarget of questioning. She had not spoken to Wes or Tony for days, but after hearing thenews, she wanted to speak to them just as much as she was sure the police did.At 4:00 A.M., Mary heard a loud banging on her metal front door. “Police! Open thisdoor!”She threw on a blue robe, yelling that she was on her way. She could tell from theincreasingly frantic banging that the police were seconds away from coming in—with orwithout an invitation. She cracked open the door, her right eye peering out to see whowas waiting. She looked past the stocky man in plain clothes and saw ten—maybe more—cops lined up behind him. A few wore uniforms. More were wearing plain clothes. Allwere tense. Some had their weapons raised, some had them holstered, their hands readyto snap the guns loose at a moment’s notice. Only a thin, hollow metal door stoodbetween her and them.The plainclothesman in front of her {ashed a badge, showed a search warrant, andbrusquely asked Mary for permission to enter. She took a step back and, as soon as shedid, the door swung open and the officers flooded into her home.With weapons drawn, teams split up and searched for Wes, Tony, or any evidencethat they’d been there recently. One of the o}cers escorted Mary out of the house andsat her on the stairs outside. She hugged herself as the cold February air blew throughher cotton bathrobe.Before long an o}cer appeared before her and unleashed a barrage of sternlydelivered questions. But Mary could only keep repeating the truth: she had no ideawhere the boys were and had not seen them in weeks.“Did you know that both of your sons are on probation?”“Yes, I did.”“Tony is supposed to be on home detention for a drug conviction, and Wesley is stillon probation for drug charges from a few years ago—”“I know what they were on probation for, Officer.”

“If you knew where they were, would you tell us?”Mary ynally snapped at them. “Look, I just found out that my sons are wanted forkilling a police o}cer. If I ynd anything out, I will tell you, and I will cooperatehowever I can, but right now I don’t need to be questioned like I did something wrong.”The questions and searching of the house continued for the next hour. The jarringpercussion of drawers being opened and closed, dressers being shifted around, and bedsbeing {ipped over rattled through the quiet night and shook Mary’s nerves. Black, spit-shined police shoes with hard rubber soles cracked down on every inch of hardwood{oor. Mary sat on the outdoor concrete steps with the o}cer standing over her, the twomirroring each other’s despair and frustration.The yrst rays of morning lit up the still deserted streets of Dundalk, Maryland, whereMary’s new home was located, as the cops mounted up to leave her ransacked space.Every crevice had been inspected, every room had been searched, every secretpresumably uncovered. The police departed with a threat: they would be back andwould not leave her alone until they found Tony and Wes. To nobody’s surprise, theywere true to their word.The search for the Moores had just begun.Two days after that yrst early morning visit, Mary’s niece, Nicey’s daughter, wasmoments from walking down the aisle for her wedding. As a recording of “Here Comesthe Bride” played over the loudspeaker in the Northeast Baltimore church, the rear doorsopened and the veiled bride began her slow procession toward the altar. She walkedalone down the aisle as the well-wishers in the pews stood and smiled. Tony wassupposed to walk arm in arm with his cousin and give her away—her father had neverbeen involved in her life. Her unescorted stroll down the aisle was a subtle reminderthat the manhunt for two of Maryland’s most wanted was still on, now in day five.The family had been bombarded with interview requests, police questioning, andneighborhood stares. Both city and county police had been crisscrossing theirjurisdictions, looking for any sign of Wes and Tony. The police conducted a raid of theCircle Terrace apartments in Lansdowne, where Tony lived. Acting on a tip, theycombed the North Point neighborhood in Baltimore. A team of o}cers went by Wes’scurrent address, on the 2700 block of Calvert Street in the city—on the outskirts ofJohns Hopkins University, close enough that Wes could see and hear the constructionslowly creeping in around him. The police plastered the neighborhood with wantedposters, advertising a sizable reward. In the evenings, a police chopper with searchlightsflew over the Essex community, where Wes had lived a few years earlier.The wedding was a reprieve for the family. This celebration was the yrst time in daysthat they could simply enjoy one another’s company without the events of Februaryseventh dominating the conversation. Today was supposed to be about joy and love.Following the ceremony, the doors to the church opened to a clear and cool winterday. A hundred or so people slowly yled into the street. The snow that had fallen a fewdays earlier was now a dark slush shoveled against the sides of the road. All of theattendees loaded into their vehicles, and set off for the reception hall, ten minutes away.Each driver put on hazard lights as the slow convoy snaked its way to Southeast

Baltimore.Two of the vehicles, the ones carrying the eight members of the wedding party,decided to break from the pack and take a quick detour to a 7-Eleven on the Alameda, amain artery in Baltimore City. They wanted to grab a few sodas and some bags of chipsbefore the reception, just in case it took a while for the food to show up after theyarrived. A block away from the store, an unmarked police car pulled up behind thevehicles, red and blue lights {ashing. The same car had been sitting outside the church,its occupants observing the celebratory congregants as they walked out. The weddingparty pulled over.Doors slammed, and three policemen leaped out of the car and walked up to thewedding party’s vehicles. They forced all eight of the passengers from the vehicles andordered them to sit on the curb of the tra}c island that split Alameda. The men,wearing their white tuxedos, and the women, wearing silky silver, spaghetti-strappeddresses, complained about having to sit on the slushy curb in their wedding outyts. Theywere told that they would have to sit down or be arrested. And then one of the o}cersaddressed the group.“Y’all know there is a reward for Tony and Wes if you just tell us where they are. It’sa lot of money. You sure you don’t need that money? This would be much easier on youif you would just say where those two are.”The eight sat silently, shivering in their now soaked clothes, while the policecontinued to grill them. It had been more than thirty minutes since they were pulledover. No information had been collected, not a single idea about the whereabouts ofWes and Tony had been divulged. The wedding party simply sat on the ground, late forthe reception and, by now, tremendously agitated. The police, circling the party, feltmuch the same way.Finally, the o}cers ordered them back into their cars, but not before placinghandcuƒs on one of the drivers because he didn’t have the proper registration for therental car they were driving. The rest of the wedding party yelled at the o}cers as theyplaced their friend in the back of the cruiser. The arresting o}cer simply looked back atthe group and said, “Enjoy the reception. I hope y’all remember where Tony Moore andWes Moore are. Quickly.”Wes was walking down a street, a Philly cheesesteak in one hand and a new pair ofblue jeans in the other. His brother was by his side. Thirty feet away—at the corner—henoticed a police cruiser. As he got closer, he noticed that the engine was running, andthat the two cops inside were murmuring into their walkie-talkies. This was the samesquad car Wes had noticed twice earlier in the day, in diƒerent parts of the city butalways within yfty feet of where he and Tony stood. But no one had made a move forthem, so Wes had chalked it up as simple coincidence. He and Tony continued to movethrough the crowded Germantown streets toward his uncle’s house in NorthPhiladelphia. The crime-ridden neighborhood was where Tony and Wes had escaped justdays after the murder.

North Philadelphia reminded Wes of the Baltimore neighborhood he had just left. Thecheck-cashing stores instead of banks, the rows of beauty salons, liquor stores,laundromats, funeral homes, and their gra}ti-laced walls were the universal streetscapeof poverty. The hood was the hood, no matter what city you were in. But just blocksaway from their uncle’s house, scattered evidence of gentriycation—driven by thelooming presence of Temple University—had started to manifest. Their uncle’s block,where half of the homes sat abandoned and burnt out, represented what theneighborhood had become. Blocks away, where newly built mixed-income homes satnext to picturesque buildings like the gothic Church of the Advocate, built in 1887, wasthe direction the neighborhood wanted to go. But even that dynamic wasn’t unique; thesame thing was happening in Wes’s neighborhood, where Hopkins was the driving forceof change, aimed at improving the quality of life for students and faculty. Weswondered where people like him were supposed to go once they’d been priced out of theold neighborhoods, once the land changed hands right under their feet.When they got back to the house, Wes went upstairs to the room that housed the bunkbed he and Tony shared. Tupac’s “Keep Ya Head Up” was on the radio, and Wes turnedit up. It was one of his favorites, Pac’s voice defiant over the melancholy chorus sampledfrom the Five Stairsteps—“Ooh, child, things are gonna get easier.” Wes sat down on hisbed and opened the plastic bag that held his cheesesteak. The grease leaked from thepackaging, and the aroma of the Cheeze Whiz and grilled onions rose from a puncturein the aluminum foil.Wes had just raised the sandwich to his mouth when Tony walked into the room. “Igot to run out for a second, I’ll be back.”Wes just nodded, distracted by the cheesesteak. Under the beats from the radio hecould hear Tony’s white Air Jordans pounding down the stairs. It was midafternoon, somost of the lights in the house were oƒ; the room was ylled with shadows and the softglow of natural sunlight.Wes heard Tony yell back up the stairs, “I’ll be back, yo,” and then the sound of thefront door creaking open. His uncle was always telling them to close the door behindthem to keep the cold air outside and the warm air inside. When Wes didn’t hear thedoor close behind Tony, he took one ynal bite and ran down the stairs to slam it shut.As Wes hit the ynal stair, he looked up and saw his brother lying facedown on the {oor,a police o}cer’s knee in his back, handcuƒs being tightened around his wrists. BeforeWes could even react, a half dozen plainclothes o}cers were on top of him, the barrelsof their guns trained on his head and the lights from their flashlights blinding him.“Don’t move! Get your hands in the air!”The o}cers were now screaming orders to the Moore brothers, telling them to get onthe ground and keep their mouths shut. A task force of over two dozen Philadelphiapolice o}cers, Baltimore City and County police o}cers, and ATF and FBI o}cials{ooded their uncle’s narrow three-story row house. Within minutes of receiving wordthat the Moore brothers were back in the house, police had cordoned oƒ the entireblock. Outside the cordon, curious onlookers were kept away by Philadelphia policeo}cers as Wes and Tony were led outside in handcuƒs, and thrown into the back of a

police wagon. The twelve-day manhunt was over.Word spread quickly through the Baltimore City and County police departments aboutthe arrest. On the dispatch, a message scrolled across the top of the message board:02.19/00, DUNDALK DISPATCH ADVISED THAT BOTH OF THE MOORE BROTHERSARE UNDER ARREST IN PHILADELPHIA!Cheering responses {owed in. Their colleague had been killed just days earlier. Theynow believed that the four people responsible were in their custody. The newspapersand television networks ran nonstop coverage of the arrest. Civic leaders held pressconferences praising the work of the police o}cers. The county executive of BaltimoreCounty helped lead a telethon that raised money for the widow of Sergeant Protheroand his children. As word spread, a collective sigh of relief seeped through Baltimore’sbrisk winter air. At home, Mary wept.Wes sat still on the ancient wooden chair. His yngers were entwined, resting on thetable in front of him. His nervousness had subsided months earlier; he knew he nolonger had control over his destiny. A year had passed since the Prothero shooting, andWes was the fourth and ynal defendant to ynd out his verdict. It had also been a yearsince the governor of Pennsylvania had agreed to extradite Wes to his home state ofMaryland to await trial. Wes now sat waiting to ynd out how the jury of his peers hadruled. The foreman stood up, looked brie{y at Wes, and then his eyes darted over to thepeople in the viewing area of the courtroom. Tony and the other two defendants had allbeen found guilty and sentenced to life in prison without parole. Tony was charged asthe shooter and had avoided a possible death sentence by pleading guilty to felonymurder.Unlike the other three defendants, Wes had decided to take his case to trial. Heinsisted that he was not there the day of the murder. Twenty-yve witnesses were called,sixty exhibits were displayed, store security videotapes were shown, and photos wereemployed by both sides. Wes’s lawyer pleaded that the biggest mistake his client madewas going to Philadelphia with his brother. His lawyer argued that when Wes wasquestioned by Baltimore police the day after the crime, before he was announced as asuspect, he was calm, a clear sign of his innocence. His lawyer claimed the police wereharassing people in the neighborhood, trying to drum up shaky evidence andconfessions. He also pointed out that Wes had converted to Islam in jail and was afather of four children, whom he talked to almost every day on the telephone from jail.The prosecution cast suspicions on Wes’s argument that he’d taken the trip toPhiladelphia without asking his brother what he was on the run for. A saleswoman atthe jewelry store testiyed that she recognized Wes as one of the four men who’d robbedthe store. Also, a necklace was found at the scene of the crime that had Wes’s DNA on it.The prosecution claimed it was the “calling card” they were looking for to prove Weswas there. Wes’s attorney argued that Tony must have borrowed the necklace earlier,and it had accidentally dropped out of his pocket at the store. “There’s only oneexplanation. It came out of a pocket, it came out of the pocket of that jacket,” Wes’s

lawyer proclaimed.Wes was moments away from finding out which story the jury would believe.“Please rise,” the bailiff requested. Instructions were ordered.Wes peered over at the jury: six men and six women. They had deliberated for threehours. He looked at each of their faces in turn. No one looked back at him. He felt veryalone. He sighed deeply. A sudden apathy sapped him. He knew what the foreman hadto say before he even parted his lips. Wes stared straight ahead. He was as still as asoldier on parade awaiting his next command. As he heard the foreman begin, he closedhis eyes and leaned his head back.“On the charge of first-degree felony murder, the jury finds the defendant…guilty.”Wes stood quietly, his face set, as the foreman read out ten other charges, all with thesame verdict. Wes’s consciousness left the scene. He had spent the past year sitting in acell waiting for this day. With the knowledge of the sentences his brother and the othertwo defendants had received, he’d known his fate would be the same. He would spendthe rest of his life in prison.The widow of Sergeant Prothero hugged her father and sobbed. She had sat in thepews of diƒerent courtrooms for months, and the emotion of watching the sentencing ofthe ynal defendant in the slaying of her husband was overwhelming. About ten feetaway, Wes’s mother, aunt Nicey, and Alicia sat stunned with tears in their eyes as well.A large guard made his way over to Wes, who slowly put his hands behind his back. Hekept his head and eyes yxed on the front of the courtroom, never once looking behindhim to see the family of the police o}cer or even his own family. He winced as the cuƒsclosed around his wrists and the o}cer began to walk him out of the room. It would beover a month before Wes was in a courtroom again. On that day he would stand beforea judge and hear his fate.“You committed an act like something out of the Wild West, and you didn’t evenrealize how outrageous it was,” the judge said. “That makes you a very dangerousperson.”The sentence was indeed life in prison without the possibility of parole. The guardsplaced their hands on Wes and shu€ed him away. The hands of the state would stay onhim for the rest of his life. Wes had spent much of his adolescence incarcerated, and heknew that occasional bids in the pen were part of the game. But he’d never ygured this.Maybe it was because he’d never thought long term about his life at all. Early lossescondition you to believe that short-term plans are always smarter. Now Wes’s mindwandered to the long term for the first time. Finally, he could see his future.Wes, the mayor will see you now.”As I began walking toward the mayor’s mahogany door, I instinctively stuck myhands in my pockets and pushed down, trying to get the cuƒs of my pants lower so my

high-waters might brush the tops of my shoes. For close to a decade I’d dressed in auniform every day. Fashion was not my forte. This was my best blue suit, but because Ihad owned it since high school, it was no longer much of a fit.“Hey, General, how’s everything going?” Mayor Schmoke said as I cautiously enteredand shook his hand. General was his nickname for me, poking fun at the fact that I wasa brand-new second lieutenant in the Army Reserve—which, by the way, is as far from ageneral as an o}cer can get. Despite my being on my second internship with him andseeing him every day, the mayor still intimidated me. Every time I stepped into hiso}ce, I felt the need to genu{ect. Even his famously toothy grin failed to put me atease.Kurt Schmoke had been the mayor of Baltimore for twelve years. The former boywonder was now a seasoned and slightly cynical leader of the city he’d called home hisentire life. Progress had been made under his leadership; Baltimore had been named anEmpowerment Zone by President Clinton in 1994. On his orders, and with the help of375 pounds of explosives, the buildings of Murphy Homes were brought down in twentyseconds and soon replaced with mixed-income housing. But his frustration at the glacialpace of change in his city had worn on him. He needed to attend fund-raiser after fund-raiser just to remain a viable candidate for public o}ce. The problems he’d warned of—and prioritized—over a decade earlier were persistently di}cult to solve. The murderrate had not fallen under three hundred in years. Sexually transmitted diseasesthroughout Baltimore had risen sharply, alongside the teen pregnancy rate. The young,photogenic Yale-, Oxford-, and Harvard-educated lawyer had learned just howconfounding the problems of urban America were.Of course, to talk about the negative sections and aspects of Baltimore without talkingabout its strengths, its history, and its opportunities would be inaccurate. Baltimore isthe birthplace of Babe Ruth and Thurgood Marshall, Edgar Allan Poe and Billie Holiday.The Battle of Baltimore was one of the deciding battles of the War of 1812 and FrancisScott Key, a lawyer and native Baltimorean, penned “The Star-Spangled Banner” at FortMcHenry while watching soldiers from our new nation yght oƒ the British. Baltimore ishome of the B&O Railroad and the best crab cakes anywhere. West Baltimore was one ofthe intellectual capitals of the East Coast in the early twentieth century.At the same time, to simply walk along the pristine Inner Harbor or go see the Oriolesin action without understanding that all of Baltimore is not downtown would be equallymisleading. The truth is that there are two Baltimores. Almost every other major city inthis country leads the same double life. Those who brag about Baltimore often ignorethese substandard areas. Yet these were the areas Mayor Schmoke knew woulddetermine his legacy of success or failure.He asked me to take a seat on a couch. I’d found his o}ce imposing when I yrst sawit, but its quiet elegance had, over time, made the stronger impression. Plaques andawards lined the walls, along with photos of the mayor with presidents, prime ministers,and everyday Baltimoreans. The o}ce re{ected the man—hugely impressive andunassuming at once. His waistline had grown slightly over the years; his suspenders nowpulled his pants above his belt line. In the ynal year of his third term and preparing to

retire, he was leaving not because of term limits but because of fatigue. He could haveeasily won a fourth term had he wanted it, but he didn’t. What he wanted now was timeto spend with his family and for someone else to grab hold of the reins of the city heloved with its daunting array of problems.Mayor Schmoke eased into a chair across from the couch. He leaned back, rubbingboth hands over his thinning hair, now salted with gray, and asked me how I hadenjoyed my internship.I oƒered a crisp response: “I’ve loved it, sir.” But my glib answer didn’t do justice tothe impact the time in his o}ce had had on me. I didn’t know how to begin to expressmy gratitude.I had returned to Baltimore two years earlier, after I’d been accepted at JohnsHopkins University to complete my undergraduate degree, which I’d begun in juniorcollege at Valley Forge. One afternoon at Valley Forge I was talking to my collegeadviser about what to do after I received my associate’s degree. My adviser told me thatshe knew the assistant director of admissions at Johns Hopkins, who she wanted me tomeet. My mother had been working in Baltimore for the past yve years, and Iconsidered Baltimore home, so I knew about Johns Hopkins. I just didn’t know anyonewho went there. My perception of Hopkins was as a distant force in the neighborhood, aresearch university responsible for some of the greatest medical gifts the world has everreceived, but that had very little to do with the life of the city I knew. Hopkins was alsofull of kids who did not look or sound like me.“Ma’am, I do not want to be a doctor,” I quickly answered her.“Wes, it is much more than that. Just have lunch with him. At the very least, I thinkyou’ll enjoy each other’s company.”A week later, I sat across the table from Paul White, the assistant director ofadmissions at Johns Hopkins. I was expecting a stodgy, older gentleman who’d oƒer mecanned encomiums about Hopkins and then stiƒen and ask for the check when he foundout the details of my standardized test scores. What I found was a black man with awarm disposition and a booming voice, who bristled with energy and was constantly inmotion, his hands swooping like birds in {ight to accentuate his points. I spent much ofthe lunch telling him my story, and he spent the remaining time selling me on Hopkins.By the end of our meal, I realized that Hopkins represented much more than a chance toattend a great school with a phenomenal reputation. It was also a chance to go home.My relationship with my mother had changed signiycantly. I’d spent so much of my liferunning from her, trying to show her I didn’t need her as much as she thought. She’dspent much of the same period being an unrelenting disciplinarian. But as I got older,and as she realized her days of hard-core parenting were coming to an end, she becamemore than a mother, she became a friend.But there was still the matter of getting in. My SAT scores were hundreds of pointsbelow the average for students entering Johns Hopkins, and despite my being a juniorcollege graduate and an Army o}cer, I knew that landing admission at Hopkins wouldbe a stretch at best. So after ylling out the application, I put it out of my mind. Butmonths later, I got the large package in the mail. Not only was I accepted but I would

receive scholarship money. I read the letter aloud to my mother over the phone, and shescreamed in excitement.While reading the letter, I thought about Paul White. Having an advocate on theinside—someone who had gotten to know me and understood my story on a personallevel—had obviously helped. It made me think deeply about the way privilege andpreference work in the world, and how many kids who didn’t have “luck” like mine inthis instance would ynd themselves forever outside the ring of power and prestige. Somany opportunities in this country are apportioned in this arbitrary and miserly way,distributed to those who already have the benefit of a privileged legacy.Many of the kids I grew up with in the Bronx—including guys like Shea, who stayedoutside the law—never believed that they’d have a shot. Many in the generation beforemine believed that maybe they did, but they had the rug pulled out from under them bycuts in programs like the Pell Grants or by the myriad setbacks that came with the ageof crack. Reversals spun them right back to the streets and away from their trueambitions. For the rest of us—those who snuck in despite coming from the margins—themission has to be to pull up others behind us. That’s what Paul White did for me, and itchanged my life.I had been talking with Mayor Schmoke for ten minutes when he leaned toward me andasked the dreaded question: “So, Wes, what do you plan on doing after you ynishschool?” I really had no idea. The words “law school” escaped from my mouth, thefallback answer for many students who have no idea what they want to do with theirlives. Mayor Schmoke waved his hand at the idea.“Have you ever heard of the Rhodes Scholarship?”I had heard of it—I knew that Mayor Schmoke, President Clinton, and our state’ssenior senator, Paul Sarbanes, were all Rhodes Scholars, but I didn’t know much elseabout the award.“Let me show you something,” the mayor continued, rising from his wooden seat andmoving toward the wall. I followed him. He pulled out a pen and stretched his armtoward a black-and-white framed picture.“Right there is James Atlas, the writer from The New Yorker. Over here, that’s FrankRaines. He is the head of the O}ce of Management and Budget in the Clintonadministration.” His pen then moved a few inches over on the picture. “And there I am.This is my Rhodes class.”I stared at the photo of eighty young faces smiling into the camera. The plaid suitswith large collars, the bushy mustaches and overdue haircuts, and the thick knotted tieswere all obviously stylish back when he went to Oxford but looked a little funny throughcontemporary eyes. Then again, my high-waters and medium-size suit jacket didn’texactly qualify me as a fashion critic. I recognized a few other faces in the crowd andrealized that, whether they were household names or not, this was an exclusive groupthat held a signiycant amount of in{uence and power. People who could engineer realchange. Mayor Schmoke continued to tell me about his experiences as I listened intently.

He reminisced about the stimulating conversations that took place in rustic pubs overwarm beer. He told me about living and working in buildings constructed hundreds ofyears before the United States was even founded. He shared with me some of the tripshe took around Europe. And he told me about the odd feeling of being a minority, notbecause you were African-American but because you were an American in the widerworld.After he completed his anecdotes, Mayor Schmoke ended our meeting. He extended hislarge, callused hand, and before I could leave the o}ce, he gave me one last order.Mayor Schmoke knew that, weeks after I completed the internship with him, I would beheading to South Africa for a semester abroad. To him this chance to see South Africaless than a decade after the end of apartheid was the perfect preparation for a realunderstanding of the Rhodes experience and legacy. In his thoughtful, deliberatecadence, he said, “While you are in South Africa, admire the beauty and culture. Butmake sure you do not leave without understanding the history. Make sure youunderstand who Cecil Rhodes was and what his legacy is. Know this before you applyfor his scholarship.” Not sure what to say, I simply said, “Yes, sir,” my grip tightening inhis hand. I thanked him for the opportunity to serve and began my walk through thearchway leading me back into the waiting area.I found out years later that it was Judge Robert Hammerman and Senator Sarbaneswho gave Mayor Schmoke the conydence to apply for the Rhodes Scholarship. I hopethat, in some way, Mayor Schmoke felt like he had returned the favor. Of course, he didmore than just point me to the Rhodes Scholarship, he instructed me to learn the largerhistorical context of the award. Although I didn’t really understand it at the time, likeColin Powell, he was telling me that our blood-soaked and atrocity-littered past wasimportant but that the future didn’t have to be its slave. Even a legacy as ugly as that ofCecil Rhodes—a nineteenth-century imperialist, white supremacist, and rapaciousbusinessman—could be turned around and used by a person like me, someone CecilRhodes would’ve undoubtedly despised, to change the world that Rhodes and people likehim had left for us.I had traveled abroad before. I’d visited Jamaica often to see family when I wasgrowing up. I also went to Cuba with a group of Johns Hopkins students to study theisland’s arts and culture—a trip I used to try to ynd my long-lost great-aunt and otherfamily members. But this would be my yrst long-term trip abroad. The yfteen-hour {ightwould be just the beginning of a much larger journey.My January arrival was met with over-eighty-yve-degree heat. Because South Africa isbelow the equator, their seasons are the reverse of ours, so I boarded the plane knowingthat I would bypass the winter cold this year. I walked into John F. KennedyInternational Airport with my sweater and oversize brown goose-down jacket, and Iwalked out into the Cape Town heat with just a T-shirt, shorts, and sunglasses shadingmy eyes.“Are you Wes?” a strongly accented voice shouted toward me. The pronunciationmade my name sound like “Wez.” I immediately knew this would take some getting usedto. The voice, an unfamiliar mixture of Australian and Dutch in{ections, came from the

tall and thin but muscular man now walking toward me in khaki shorts and a Bahamashirt. A pair of sunglasses rested on top of his balding head. “I am,” I cautiously replied.He smiled and introduced himself as the director of the study abroad program. He saidhis name was Zed, which, he explained, was a nickname taken from his yrst initial, Z,which is pronounced “Zed” in much of the English-speaking world. I had never heardthat before but took his word for it. I felt a little disoriented by this smiling whiteZimbabwean with the odd accent and strange name. I don’t know what I was expectingfor my introduction to Africa, but it sure wasn’t Zed.I had applied for and received a grant to go to South Africa through the School forInternational Training, a Vermont-based program that oƒers the chance to live overseasfor a semester or more. That semester, fourteen of us left our respective corners of theUnited States and traveled to South Africa. We went to school together at the Universityof Cape Town and studied culture and reconciliation—a subject for which post-apartheidSouth Africa had become a living laboratory. Aside from the formal curriculum at theuniversity, we would spend our time learning the language, learning the country, andlearning more about ourselves than we ever imagined.I sat in the back of a spacious van loaded down with bags and a group of confusedand overwhelmed American students, staring out the window. I was dumbstruck by thenatural beauty of the country. I could see the clouds rolling oƒ Table Mountain and thecrowds of wealthy South Africans casually peering into the pristine water at the V & AWaterfront. I was impressed by the natural beauty, but I knew that Africa wasn’t just agiant safari. My grandfather, who’d worked throughout Africa as a missionary, wouldoften share the truth with me about the tremendous cultural diversity that lies within thecontinent. But I was in no way prepared for the massive skyscrapers, gorgeousbeachside drives, and awesome monuments I saw on our initial trip in the country. Thiscity could have been dropped onto any American coast and nobody would have battedan eye. Or so it seemed until we moved out of the downtown and into the townshipswhere we would be living. Our van eventually exited the expressway at Langa, theoldest township in South Africa.The legacy of apartheid was glaringly obvious in South Africa’s cities. The institutionof a legal, government-sanctioned racial caste system was overturned in 1994 with theyrst democratic elections, but its eƒects still haunted the country. Government-supported racial segregation had given way to economically enforced segregation. And,given the signiycant overlap between race and class in South Africa, whites, coloreds,and blacks all still made their homes in different locations.Langa was established in 1923 as Cape Town’s yrst black township. Similar toKhayelitsha, Gugulethu, Kopanong, and other historic townships in South Africa, it wascreated for the sole purpose of isolating black Africans in small, destitute enclaveswhere laws were instituted to control the residents and police entered to harass, not toprotect. When these townships were established, Afrikaners, or whites of Dutch ancestry,made up 9 percent of the population. Black Africans, who generally lived on only 5percent of the nation’s land, made up over 80 percent of the population. These wereSouth Africa’s “projects,” areas where despair and hopelessness were not accidental

products of the environment but rather the whole point. It was obviously a far moreegregious situation, but I could sense faint echoes of Baltimore and the Bronx in thestory of these townships.The van bounced steadily up and down as the shocks attempted to adjust to thetransition from the paved, multilane highways to the pothole-laden, dirt-covered streetsof the township. Kids, dozens of them, lined every street we drove down, staring at thevehicle as we cautiously cruised by them. Their smiles were bright, and they gave us thethumbs-up as we rolled past them, as if they had known us from somewhere else, whichjust reinforced my disorienting feeling of familiarity.A few minutes after entering Langa, we stopped in front of an understated whitehome in the middle of Mshumpela Street. Zed looked over his shoulder from the driver’sseat and shared another gigantic smile. “Wez, this is your stop.” I stepped out of the vanand walked to the back to pull out my one overstuƒed bag, my entire wardrobe for halfa year crammed into a forty-pound Samsonite. My white Nikes kicked up dust as I madethe short walk from the van to the front of the house. This would be my home for thenext six months.A short distance to my left I saw a vertigo-inducing sea of shacks, rolling out as far asthe eye could see. The walls of these houses were patchworks of wood or aluminum ormetal or whatever scraps were lying around. Spare pieces of metal were propped up asroofs, and pieces of torn cloth were hung as curtains. These shelters were lined up in asort of organized chaos; they seemed improvised and temporary, but they’d been therefor years. Well, some of them at least. I would later ynd out that, every few months orso, the yres that burned in makeshift stoves would {are out of control, jumping fromone tightly packed shack to another and burning out a whole section of the shantytownbefore they were extinguished. A week later, all the shacks would be rebuilt, and itwould be business as usual. As I moved closer to the home where my host family lived, Icouldn’t stop staring at the shantytown. Living in the Bronx and Baltimore had given methe foolish impression that I knew what poverty looked like. At that moment, I realized Ihad no idea what poverty was—even in West Baltimore we lived like kings comparedwith this. An embarrassing sense of pride tentatively bloomed in the middle of thesadness I felt at my surroundings.I was yve feet away from the door covered in peeling white paint when it creakedopen. A short, rotund woman with cropped and curled hair, beautifully clear, dark skin,and a radiant smile walked out. She was wearing a dress that reminded me of the WestAfrican–inspired kente cloth attire I had seen in the States, but hers was an intricatelymeshed pattern of black and white, the traditional Xhosa colors. Xhosa was her tribe,and Langa was a mainly Xhosa township. It was also the tribe of Nelson Mandela,Govan Mbeki, and many other heroes of the African National Congress.I smiled and extended my hand to introduce myself, and was immediately wrapped upin her arms. She hugged me as if I was a family member she had not seen in years.“Molo!” she exclaimed into my ear as our cheeks pushed against each other, the Xhosaword for hello.Her aƒection was infectious, and I squeezed her right back. Once she let go, I noticed

her children standing behind her, a son named Zinzi, who was a few years younger thanme, and a daughter named Viwe, who was eight years old, waiting to welcome me totheir home. Zinzi moved toward me, his short, dreadlocked hair spiked up on top of hishead.“Hey, bhuti, how was the {ight?” he said in a deep baritone voice. Bhuti, the Xhosaword for brother, was not used loosely. The family went out of their way to make mefeel welcomed, at home. Viwe was a sightly but shy girl who stayed close to her mother’ship as she gave me a quick hug. I imagined how odd an experience it must have been forher having this American enter her small home to live. She knew nothing about me. Inretrospect, I guess I did know how she felt. I felt much the same way.The week after I arrived, I walked into the kitchen to ynd only Mama sitting there.She was making herself some tea and asked me to join her. I sat down at the smallwooden table next to the stove, the shaky tabletop stabilized by pieces of cardboardstuck under the legs. This was where most of the family’s meals were eaten. She pouredthe boiling hot water into mugs with tea bags already placed inside and brought our twocups over.“So tell me more about yourself,” she began.I had been spending so much time with my home-stay brother, Zinzi, his friend Simo,and the other Americans I’d come with, and attending our classes at the university, thatI had not had a chance to really speak with her yet. Our tea turned into a three-hourmarathon of stories about our lives, fears, and dreams. She explained to me the colordynamic in South Africa, how there I would be considered colored because I was notdark enough to be considered black. Colored was a concept created during the apartheidera to further isolate the races—coloreds received more privileges than blacks did. Notmany more, but enough to seed antagonism between the two groups. The lighter yourskin was in apartheid South Africa, the better off you were.I learned about the music of the apartheid era and how it was the musicians andartists, even more than the politicians and activists, who informed the world about thecountry’s injustices. I also learned about ubuntu—the Xhosa word for humanity—and thepower of authentic leadership as exhibited by giants like Nelson Mandela and athousand other self-sacriycing visionaries who had managed the unforeseen transitionfrom apartheid to democracy without a bloodbath.On our third cup of tea, Mama began to tell me about her husband and his role as afreedom yghter during apartheid. She told me about how he and his fellow soldiers wereintimidated, arrested, and beaten for failing to comply with government rules aboutcarrying personal identiycation cards. I listened in amazement and horror as, throughtrembling lips, she talked about the hopelessness the people felt during this time and thepain of knowing that this level of segregation, this level of poverty, this level ofdepression was being imposed on a people for things they were in no way responsiblefor, or should be ashamed of. Finally I had to stop her. “Mama, I am sorry to disturbyou, but I am very confused. After all of this pain and heartache, how are you now ableto forgive? You seem so at peace with yourself and your life. How are you so able tomove on?”

She gave me an easy half smile and took another sip from her mug. “Because Mr.Mandela asked us to.”I’d expected more. I’d expected her to tell me that she was still working on herrevenge scheme, or that she was afraid their weapons were too strong so there was nouse in yghting. But her simple and profound answer helped me to understand thatubuntu was not simply a word. It was a way of life. Her candor and exquisite simplicityframed the rest of my trip and helped me better understand the land I was living in. Italso helped me complete a thought that had begun that night with my father anddeveloped through my training and education, and my time with Mayor Schmoke inBaltimore.The common bond of humanity and decency that we share is stronger than anycon{ict, any adversity, any challenge. Fighting for your convictions is important. Butynding peace is paramount. Knowing when to yght and when to seek peace is wisdom.Ubuntu was right. And so was my father. Watende, my middle name, all at once madeperfect sense.A few days later, I ynally had a chance to talk to my mother on the phone. I wasexcited to share all of my experiences. And she, having never been to South Africa, wasexcited to hear my detailed descriptions. She updated me on how everything was goingback home and then shared a piece of strange local news.“Everything is yne, but I have something crazy to tell you. Did you know the cops arelooking for another guy from your neighborhood with your name for killing a cop?”A few weeks before I was set to leave South Africa and return to the States, I waswalking with Zinzi and Simo from the kumbi, or bus station, back to the house. The onceoverwhelming sensory overload of township life now seemed second nature to me.Kwaito, a South African mix of hip-hop and house music, blared from cars that passed us.Children kicked soccer balls back and forth on the dirt-covered road, with large rocksserving as goalposts. Women spoke loudly to one another while carrying bags in theirarms and on their heads. The sounds of the quick, click-ridden Xhosa language waseverywhere. I was beginning to understand the language, and the feel of the street life.My stride through the Langa streets was slower and less frantic than it had been. I wasfinally feeling at home.My friendship with Zinzi and Simo had also grown signiycantly. Every day after class,we would walk around the neighborhoods, talking to girls on the university campus,going to Mama Africa restaurant to grab one of the best steaks I’ve ever tasted, orwatching cricket at a local watering hole. All of this felt particularly sweet in these lastdays, as the nostalgia that kicks in at the end of any meaningful experience had startedto aƒect us. Simo looked up at us and said, “So both of you all are leaving soon? Whatam I supposed to do then?” Both Zinzi and I were about to embark on journeys. I wouldsoon be heading back to the United States, where, in a matter of months, I would beaccepting my degree from the president of Johns Hopkins, William Brody, who hadbecome a cherished mentor and friend. Despite entering the school with lower scores

than the average student, I would walk across the stage as a Phi Beta Kappa graduatewho was also the yrst Rhodes Scholar in thirteen years at Johns Hopkins and the yrstAfrican-American Rhodes Scholar in school history.Zinzi, now seventeen years old, was preparing to take the same path as generationsof Xhosa boys before him. He would be leaving soon to spend four weeks in the “bush,”where he and dozens of other boys would join an aggregate of elders and learn what itmeans to be a Xhosa man. Within days of arriving, the young men would becircumcised, their foreskins removed like childish cloaks now deemed unnecessary.During the weeks it takes the circumcision to heal, they would learn about the history ofthe tribe, the battles they’d fought, the land they protected, the leaders they’d created.They would learn about what it means to be a good father and a good husband. Theboys would meditate and pray together, eat together, and heal together.They would return to their homes as heroes. A large feast would be cooked for them.They would wear all white for the month after returning, symbolizing that a boy hadleft but a man had returned. They would be spoken to diƒerently, viewed diƒerently. Iasked Zinzi if he was scared.“Not really, man, we all have to go through it. Besides, I saw when my older brotherwent through it and how much respect he got. It will be fine.”“Yeah, but I can’t imagine that whole circumcision thing without any drugs, man.Way too painful if you ask me!”Simo smirked at the thought of it while shaking his head. Zinzi laughed and said, “Ihear you, but it’s not the process you should focus on; it’s the joy you will feel after yougo through the process.”We walked through the small alley that separated the main road from MshumpelaStreet. Our conversation strayed back to sports and gossip, but as we passed through thealley I was struck by the sight of a young man, splendid in an all-white outyt, from hisshoes to his wide-brimmed hat. He appeared barely pubescent but was walking with thedignity of a man double his age. Because of Zinzi, I knew exactly what that man hadgone through and the pride and admiration his family now shared about hisaccomplishment.My head turned, and I stared at the young man. His bright eyes and straight backdemanded attention. The conydence in his stride was something that Zinzi did not yethave, something that Simo did not yet have. Something that I did not yet have.And again I thought of home. I realized just how similar were the challenges theyoung boys here and kids like the ones I grew up with faced. In both places, young mengo through a daily struggle trying to navigate their way through deadly streets, poverty,and the twin legacies of exclusion and low expectations. But they are not completelyunequipped—they also have the history of determined, improvisational survival, alegacy of generations who fought through even more oppressive circumstances. One ofthe key diƒerences between the two was in the way their communities saw them. Here,burgeoning manhood was guided and celebrated through a rite of passage. At home,burgeoning manhood was a trigger for apprehension. In the United States, we see thesesame faces, and our re{ex is to pick up our pace and cross the street. And in this

re{exive gesture, the dimensions of our tragedy are laid bare. Our young men—alongwith our young women—are our strength and our future. Yet we fear them. This tallSouth African who now captured my attention wore his manhood as a sign ofaccomplishment, a badge of honor. His process was a journey taken with his peers,guided by his elders, and completed in a celebration. He was now a man. Hiscommunity welcomed him.His tribe’s in{uence in making him a man was obvious and indelible. At that moment,I realized the journey I took was never mine alone either. Our eyes met, and he smiledand nodded his head. I nodded my head in return.Wes in 1990, shortly after he was charged with attempted murder.

Fifteen-year-old Wes (wearing his headset) with family members in Dundee Village.Tony at sixteen years old. By then he had gained a fierce reputation in Baltimore.

Wes and Tony at a Baltimore club.Tony with his oldest child.

Wes with his daughter when she visited him in prison.Woody visiting Wes in prison.

With two other members of my regimental staff during my last year at Valley Forge.That year I was the highest-ranking cadet on campus, with more than eight hundredcadets under my command.Nikki, Shani, and I after a Johns Hopkins football game.

My host family and I in their home in South Africa.Preparing to go on a mission with Lieutenant Anthony Delsignore, a good Marine andfriend.

Meeting with a group of middle-school kids I worked with in Baltimore.Moving toward the apex of Mount Kilimanjaro. Unfortunately, altitude sickness kept mefrom the top.

I proposed!Cutting the wedding cake with my bride, Dawn. Our wedding day was one of the mostamazing days of my life.

Standing under the NASDAQ screen in the heart of Times Square. I rang the closing bellat the New York Stock Exchange with members of the Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans ofAmerica.Speaking in front of tens of thousands at INVESCO Field in Denver. I spoke just hoursbefore Barack Obama accepted the Democratic nomination for president and forty-fiveyears to the day after Dr. Martin Luther King’s “I have a dream” speech.

EpilogueWes has spent every day of his life since 2000 in the Jessup Correctional Institution, amaximum-security facility in Maryland. His day begins at 5:30 A.M. He works as acarpenter, making desks and tables, and sometimes he makes license plates. He getspaid about yfty-three cents a day, which he can use at the prison commissary to buytoothpaste, snacks, stamps, and other miscellaneous items. Lights go out at 10:00 P.M.Guards tell him when to wake up, when to eat, and when to go to the bathroom. Hehas two hours of free time a day, “outside time” that he can use to play basketball ortalk to other inmates.Wes is now a devout Muslim. Initially, he went to Friday mosque services becausethey were the only opportunity he had to see his brother, Tony, who was also inJessup, but eventually he started to pay attention to the message and decided to learnmore. He is now a leader in the significant Muslim community in the Jessup prison.Wes’s family still visits him occasionally, but the visits are not easy on Wes. He isexhaustively searched before being let into the visitors’ area. The joy he feels when heis sitting across from a loved one quickly dissipates at the end of the visit as he walksback through the gate to his cell. It hurts him that he has no control over what’shappening with his family on the outside. He has stopped answering questions like“How are you doing?” His answer doesn’t change. His days don’t change. When hegets visitors, he mainly sits and listens.In 2008, Wes and many of his fellow inmates followed the presidential campaignclosely, hoping for the election of the yrst black president in American history. Theinmates celebrated when Barack Obama won, but their enthusiasm faded quickly. Wesand the other lifers realized that, no matter who the president was, their fate wassealed.At the time of this book’s writing, Wes has just become a grandfather. He is servingthe tenth year of a life sentence. He is thirty-three years old.Here’s what some of the other characters in this story have been up to since 2000:My mother retired from her job with a foundation for disadvantaged children,where she managed communications for grantees. She is now running her ownconsultancy focused on helping foundations use ylm and media to tell their stories.She works in Baltimore and lives just outside the city. She says she enjoys the slowerpace and quiet. She remains the rock of our family.My sisters are both doing very well. Nikki runs her own event-planning business inVirginia. Shani graduated from Princeton University in 2001, after which she attendedStanford Law School on a full scholarship. She and her husband live in Los Angeles.Uncle Howard has remained a mentor and guide in my life and was the co-best-man(along with Justin) at my wedding. He lives in southern New Jersey with my auntPam and their two daughters.

Despite having a di}cult time with the death of his mother, Justin managed toynish high school strong and received a scholarship to college. While he was in hissenior year of college, his father passed away in a house yre, and Justin himselfbattled and beat a rare form of cancer. Since graduating from college, he has workedin education and now serves as dean at a prestigious high school outside Philadelphia.He has devoted his professional life to addressing the educational disparities in thiscountry.Captain Ty Hill graduated from Valley Forge Military College and earned the rankof second lieutenant in the United States Army Reserve. He served in the Army as ano}cer from 1992 to 1999 and has worked as a corporate lawyer since. He was agroomsman at my wedding and remains a cherished friend and mentor. He lives inNew York and still intimidates the hell out of me.My grandfather passed away from complications of stomach cancer in 2005.Despite the best eƒorts of my chain of command to get me back to the Bronx fromAfghanistan, I could not get there in time to say goodbye. Fortunately, I was able tobe home for his funeral and was one of hundreds who were there to pay their respectsand let him know how much he meant to us as he was laid to rest.My grandmother still lives in the same home in the Bronx, presiding as ever as thefamily matriarch. She is in her eighties and still watches over her family like a lionessprotecting her pride. She still makes a mean batch of codfish whenever we come over.Wes’s mother, Mary, works in medical technology, specializing in elder care. She israising six children: three of Wes’s kids, her niece, her nephew, and her youngest son.She lives in Aberdeen, Maryland, a little under an hour away from Baltimore City.Wes’s aunt Nicey has been working for the State of Maryland doing home visits forthe elderly, sick, and shut-in for a decade. Her children live in Maryland andPennsylvania, and her youngest just graduated from high school. All of her childrenfinished high school.Wes’s brother, Tony, was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of paroleafter he was convicted as the trigger man in the death of Sergeant Prothero. The deathpenalty was taken oƒ the table after Tony agreed to cooperate with the state.Sergeant Prothero’s sister told Tony as he was leaving the courthouse after sentencingthat “Bruce stood for everything that was good in society, and you stand foreverything that is evil.” Never remorseful, Tony coolly replied, “Same to you.” InMarch 2008, Tony died in prison from kidney failure. He was thirty-eight years old.Wes’s best friend, Woody, spent many of his years after high school going in andout of prison. When the second of his three children was born, his sister had a sterntalk with him about getting a legitimate job so he could watch his kids grow up. Shehelped him get work as a truck driver in Baltimore, a job he holds to this day. Now inhis mid-thirties, Woody lives in West Baltimore and has three children.White Boy dropped out of high school to be a waiter. He lives just outside Atlanta,where he works for a magazine, running the printing press. Woody was the best man

at his wedding.Alicia is currently raising only one of her two children with Wes. She works securityfor the Transportation Security Administration at a Maryland airport and lives inAberdeen, close to Wes’s mother.Cheryl battled drug addiction for years and eventually lost custody of her twochildren with Wes. In 2002, she fell down a {ight of stairs and was paralyzed. Shedied soon after from complications of the injuries. She was twenty-four years old.As for me, after receiving the Rhodes Scholarship, I spent two and a half yearscompleting my master’s in international relations at Oxford. It was as revelatory,exciting, intense, and surreal as Mayor Schmoke promised. My time at Oxford beganimmediately after the attacks of September 11, 2001, which further heightened mysensitivity to being an American abroad but also helped me get a betterunderstanding of the international reaction to those searing events.When I returned to the States, I interned in Washington, D.C., focusing onhomeland security issues. But many of my mentors told me that if I really wanted tounderstand the changes going on in American and international policy, I needed tounderstand the global economic system. So, after completing my graduate degree, Ijoined the world of high finance on Wall Street.While I was working there, two American wars raged on. The young men andwomen who were heading to Iraq and Afghanistan to serve and yght weren’t justanonymous recruits but friends of mine, brothers and sisters in arms. I spoke with amentor and great friend, Lieutenant Colonel Michael Fenzel, who had just beennamed deputy brigade commander of the hallowed 1st Brigade of the 82nd AirborneDivision. The 82nd was preparing to depart for Afghanistan for a yearlong tour, andhe told me he would love for me to join them. After weeks of prayer, I decided to takea leave of absence from my career and join the yght overseas. I became a member ofthe 82nd Airborne and headed to Afghanistan.For the next several months—from the summer of 2005 to the spring of 2006—I wasdeployed in the town of Khost, on the border of Afghanistan and Pakistan. Spendingso much time with my fellow soldiers reminded me why I’d joined the military. Thecamaraderie, intensity, and passion for the job, and the sense of duty to somethinglarger than myself, was something I had missed desperately. Our unit conducted lethaloperations under the star-ylled night sky. We maneuvered through snowcappedmountain ranges and simmering valleys. We felt the joy of a mission accomplishedand the heartache of a lost comrade. To serve with young people and the young atheart alike, who live without a fear of dying and who talk about commitment,integrity, and sacriyce without a hint of sarcasm, was refreshing. I could not be moreproud of my brothers and sisters in battle. That pride is a badge of honor emblazonedon my heart and will be until my last breath.Upon my return to U.S. soil, I was accepted in the White House Fellow program. Ihad the honor of spending a year as a special assistant to the secretary of state,

Condoleezza Rice. It was a fascinating experience to follow a year spent executingAmerican policies as a soldier overseas with one watching how those policies areformulated. The nonpartisan fellowship also gave me the chance to learn from theother fellows, an impressively diverse and talented group from all over the country.And the most important occasion of that eventful year was getting married to Dawn,the most remarkable woman I know and the best friend I have.I’ve climbed Mount Kilimanjaro and felt how quickly the dense Kenyan heat at thebase of the mountain transforms into the chill of its snowcapped peak, where deepbreaths are hard to ynd. I’ve worshiped with thousands of other Christians in theYoido Full Gospel Church, the world’s largest Christian congregation, in Seoul, Korea.And I’ve stood in awe as dusk settled on the blue-tiled Sultan Ahmed Mosque inIstanbul. I stood in the cell that held Nelson Mandela for eighteen years on RobbenIsland, and I searched for family in a small Cuban town outside Havana. I havedanced all night in Haarlem, Amsterdam, and in Harlem, USA. I have climbed throughthe Pyramid of Khufu in Giza with nothing but a {ashlight to show the way and kissedmy wife for the yrst time in St. Mark’s Square in Venice on a cold New Year’s Eve. Ihave sung in Carnegie Hall, chanting with a group of choir cadets acting as a jubilantArmy preparing for war, and I’ve stood in humbled silence at the Memorial to theMurdered Jews of Europe in Berlin. I have sat with the former president of Brazil,Fernando Cardoso, and listened intently as he argued the virtues of cane-basedethanol, and I’ve worked with a small-farm owner in Brazil as we both chewed thehoneyed liquid from freshly cut cane stalks. And I proudly spoke in front of tens ofthousands of people at INVESCO Field in Denver on a balmy August evening forty-fiveyears to the day after Dr. Martin Luther King gave his “I Have a Dream” speech at thehistoric March on Washington and just hours before President Barack Obama wouldtake the same stage and at the same microphone proudly accept the Democraticnomination for President of the United States. And, sometime in 2007, I beganworking on this book.This book is the product of hundreds of hours of interviews, some with people Ihave known for years and others with people I met minutes before I interviewed themabout the most intimate details of their lives. The process of tracking down thesepeople and listening to their stories has been one of the most interesting experiencesof my life. These folks have told me some of the funniest, saddest, and most thought-provoking stories I’ve ever heard. I have no journalistic experience or training, but Iattacked this project with a fervor and excitement that I didn’t know I had. For overtwo years, my days would begin at 5:30 in the morning, and a cup of tea later, I wasin front of my computer, taking my notes and research and trying to piece them intoa coherent story about these two very real lives. My father was a journalist, and Ihope that, in some way, this journey has proven that, as my mother says, I honestlyinherited his passion for getting the story right.I have also enjoyed going around the country and globe speaking to people aboutthese stories—and then hearing back from all kinds of audiences about the Wesesthey’ve known, or even been themselves. And when I ynish my story, the question

that comes up the most is the one that initiated this quest: “What made thedifference?”And the truth is that I don’t know. The answer is elusive. People are so wildlydiƒerent, and it’s hard to know when genetics or environment or just bad luck isdecisive. As I’ve puzzled over the issue, I’ve become convinced that there are someclear and powerful measures that can be taken during this crucial time in a youngperson’s life. Some of the ones that helped me come to mind, from ynding strongmentors to being entrusted with responsibilities that forced me to get serious aboutmy behavior. There is no one thing that leads people to move in one direction oranother. I think the best we can do is give our young people a chance to make thebest decisions possible by providing them with the information and the tools and thesupport they need.Things have not been perfect for me in the years since this book’s story ended. Likemany boys who grow up without a father in the home, I searched for ways to yll thathole, sometimes in places I shouldn’t have looked. I made some tremendous mistakesalong the way. I have done things I deeply regret, said things I wish I could take back,and disappointed people in ways that still embarrass me. I have fought battles Ishould not have engaged in, and walked away from causes that needed and deserveda champion. But I’ve had the freedom to make those mistakes, and the freedom toseek redemption for them.When we’re young, it sometimes seems as if the world doesn’t exist outside our city,our block, our house, our room. We make decisions based on what we see in thatlimited world and follow the only models available. The most important thing thathappened to me was not being physically transported—the moves from Baltimore tothe Bronx to Valley Forge didn’t change my way of thinking. What changed was that Ifound myself surrounded by people—starting with my mom, grandparents, uncles,and aunts, and leading to a string of wonderful role models and mentors—who keptpushing me to see more than what was directly in front of me, to see the boundlesspossibilities of the wider world and the unexplored possibilities within myself. Peoplewho taught me that no accident of birth—not being black or relatively poor, beingfrom Baltimore or the Bronx or fatherless—would ever deyne or limit me. In otherwords, they helped me to discover what it means to be free. As I wrote at the outset ofthis book: The chilling truth is that Wes’s story could have been mine; the tragedy isthat my story could have been his. My only wish—and I know Wes feels the same—isthat the boys (and girls) who come after us will know this freedom. It’s up to us, all ofus, to make a way for them.

AfterwordAfter the hardcover edition of this book came out, the most common question I got atevents and interviews was the question I’d explicitly avoided answering in the bookitself: what made the diƒerence between you and the other Wes Moore? I’d avoidedanswering the question in part because I found it di}cult to put my ynger on theexact moment or opportunity—or missed opportunity—that made the diƒerence inmy life. I’m not sure that I’ll ever know for certain, but the past year spent travelingall over our wonderful country and talking with parents, teachers, students,community activists, and religious leaders has helped me clarify my thinking on thesubject. The yrst thing that became clear is that I was thinking about this question thewrong way.Many readers came up with their own answers to the question of what made thediƒerence. Some said the mentors we encountered were the key. Others pointed to thediƒerent levels of cultural capital and social resources our mothers possessed: myparents were college graduates, as were my grandparents, and my mother was able totap into a wide network of supportive friends, family, and professional contacts whenshe needed help. Some said Wes’s true downfall was his apparent indiƒerence to birthcontrol—having kids at an early age strained him to the breaking point. I suspect allthese things were important, but I’m not sure any of them singlehandedly determinedour fates. Very few lives hinge on any single moment or decision or circumstance.But what all these responses have in common is that they point to the decisivepower of information and stories—the kind provided and modeled by friends, family,mentors, or even books—which has only reinforced my initial decision to write thisstory in the yrst place. It was reading Colin Powell’s My American Journey as a youngman that made me realize the incredible power of stories to change people’s lives. Byestablishing himself as the protagonist of his own story, he inspired me and countlessother young people to see ourselves as capable of taking control of our own destinies,and to realize how each decision we make determines the course of our life stories. Ihope the story of my life and Wes’s will serve a similar function in the lives ofreaders.I will never forget the letter I received from a yfteen-year-old young man fromBaltimore who has already spent part of his young life in juvenile detention. He saidthis was the yrst book he had ever read cover to cover, and after reading it he wasforced to think about the type of man he wants to be, for himself and his family. I’veheard from teachers who tell me that the book is sparking conversations in theirclassrooms about personal responsibility, and from a yfteen-year veteran of theMichigan police force who recommended the book to young o}cers on his team tohelp them better understand the kids they might encounter in the streets, so they cannot just arrest juvenile oƒenders when they’ve gone wrong, but stop them before they

do.I’ve heard from parents who feel overwhelmed by the challenges of raising theirchildren in hostile environments and who are taking advantage of the resources in theguide. I’ve heard from military school graduates who have been inspired to share theirown stories about how the military taught them the value of service and being a partof something larger than themselves. And more than anything else, people have toldme how my mother’s example of fortitude and her refusal to let anything get in theway of her kids’ success have given them the strength to do the same.What I found most striking about the response to the book was the ease with whichpeople were able to share their stories with me. They felt as if they could trust me withthe intimate details of their own lives because Wes and I were willing to share ourswith them. I’ll carry this new collection of stories with me for the rest of my life.Above all, I hope that this book can provide young people with a way to identifywith success as a possibility, and a reason to believe that a story that begins withstruggle, apathy, and the pain of loss can still have a happy ending. I am eternallygrateful to these new friends, and countless others who have read the book andanswered the call. Thank you for being the champions for those who need championsthe most.In the eternal words of Sir William Ernest Henley:Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade,And yet the menace of the years Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll,I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.

A Call to ActionI originally agreed to write the Call to Action for this book because of my high regardfor Wes’s beloved mother, Joy. But as busy as I was when I started to read Wes’smanuscript, I could not set it down. The intriguing narrative of Wes and Wes urgedme to consider more deeply the wisdom of my dear brother Dr. Cornel West, whosteadfastly contends that “our roots help to determine our routes.” The choices wemake about the lives we live determine the kinds of legacies we leave.The truth is, some of us have been blessed beyond measure. What some call “thefavor of God” I call “unmerited favor,” that is, grace and mercy. The parallels andtrajectories of the two Weses’ lives remind me to count my many blessings every dayand to pray that when the evening comes and the night falls, I will have donesomething during the day for others that I can present to the Lord so that I might notfeel so ashamed.The words of the author Samuel Beckett summarize the central message of this text:“Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” In fact, I believe that this describes the ebb and{ow of life itself—try again, fail again, fail better. Failing doesn’t make us a failure.But not trying to do better, to be better, does make us fools.In the spirit of the Covenant series, The Other Wes Moore is a welcome componentof a larger conversation in this nation about the decisions we make and the people wehave in our lives who help us to make these decisions. My call to action, our call toaction, is this: read these words but, more important, absorb their meanings andcreate your own plan to act and leave a legacy.Fundamentally, this story is about two boys, each of whom was going through hisown personal journey and searching for help. One of them received it; the otherdidn’t. And now the world stands witness to the results. Small interactions andeƒortless acts of kindness can mean the diƒerence between failure and success, painand pleasure—or becoming the people we loathe or love to become. We are morepowerful than we realize, and I urge you to internalize the meanings of thisremarkable story and unleash your own power.There are organizations around the country that are helping to do just that everyday, and in many diƒerent ways. At the back of this book, Wes has compiled animpressive list of more than two hundred youth-serving organizations that open theirdoors to help young people walk through to brighter tomorrows. I implore you toreach out to them and others in your communities for help, whether you are a youngperson in search of direction, an adult in need of support for the young people in yourlife, or a philanthropist or community servant who is looking to help.Wes Moore has written a most engaging polemic that is enlightening, encouraging,and empowering. The Other Wes Moore serves as a reminder that ultimately the battleof life is won in the trying, and in the serving. God will take care of the rest.

Tavis SmileyLos Angeles, CaliforniaOctober 2009

Resource GuideHere is a list of organizations that are helping youth across the country live up totheir greatest potential. For an up-to-date list, visit www.theotherwesmoore.com.ADVOCACY

 

AFTER-SCHOOL PROGRAMS

 

ARTS EDUCATION

EDUCATION

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ENTREPRENEURSHIP

FAMILY STRENGTHENING AND MENTORING

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

REENTRY

SOCIAL SERVICES

 

 

 

 

 

TUTORING

AcknowledgmentsThis book is a culmination of support from friends, family, and mentors from allaspects of my life, and for all of them I am eternally thankful.But, most important, my first acknowledgment goes to my God and Creator. To Himgoes all the glory.Micha Bar-Am once said, “If you’re too close [to events], you lose perspective. It isnot easy to be fair with the facts and keep your own convictions out of the picture. Itis almost impossible to be both a participant in events and their observer, witness,interpreter.” Therefore, I went into this process with a tremendous amount of humilityand uncertainty—both about whether or not to take on the endeavor and how thefinal product would ring true to its intent.There were countless people in my life who helped me make this decision andtransition to the literary world. To Terrie Williams: before anyone else, you believedin my ability to develop a story that is transcending. You are an angel and a guide.To my book agent, Linda Loewenthal, thank you—you helped me shape this projectfrom a reluctant idea to a proud reality. To Cindy Spiegel and Julie Grau, whosereputation in this industry truly precedes them, you took a big bet on an unprovenentity and threw your overwhelming support behind it. Sally Marvin, Barbara Fillon,Karen Fink, Avideh Bashirrad, Tom Perry, Debbie Aroƒ, Carol Schneider, and theentire Spiegel & Grau team, from editing to production to marketing—I could nothave aligned myself with a better shop and a more committed and talented group ofliterary activists. Mya Spalter, you have helped guide this process from jump and I amsincerely grateful. And to my editor, Chris Jackson, you are part genius editor, partpsychiatrist! I am thankful for your God-given skill, your diligent eye, and your beliefin this project’s purpose. To you all, thank you.To my researchers, William Davis, Nikki Moore, Ginger Wilmot, Yetsa Tuakli-Wosornu, and Patricia Nelson, your diligence made this project more than simply astory—it added the context to the anecdotes. To my “ghostreaders,” Ian Klaus, RandyBaron, Mustafa Riƒat, Taiye Tuakli-Wosornu, and Shani Moore Weatherby, you neverhesitated in reading and rereading my drafts and keeping me focused. Youryngerprints are all over this, and I am honored to have such talented friends andfamily. And to my “author friends,” Craig Mullaney, Alex Kotlowitz, Jared Cohen,Nate Fick, Paul Rieckhoƒ, Steve Mariotti, Bill Rhoden, Khephra Burns, Susan Taylor,Reverend Dr. Suzan Johnson Cook, Hsu-Ming Teo, Angela Giltrap, and Mirta Ojito,thanks for the help and warm embrace into the club.I am thankful for the transparency and honesty of Wes, his family, and his friends.Mary, Nicey, Woody, Coach, Alicia, and all the others, you gave me hours of yourtime and, most important, your trust. This project was not an easy one to navigate,but your openness helped ease the process. To the family of Bruce Prothero, your

strength and the memory of Bruce sat with me every day, and always will.There are a handful of people who, very early on, believed in this project and lenttheir voices and in{uence to make it happen: Juan Williams, Armstrong Williams, Dr.Ben Carson, Dr. Sampson Davis, Mayor Cory Booker, Geoƒrey Canada, Stephen A.Smith, Judge Gerald Lee, Tavis Smiley, Reverend Dr. Brad Braxton, Dr. FreemanHrabowski, the Honorable William Cohen and his wonderful wife, Janet LanghartCohen, Ambassador James Joseph, and Dr. Na’im Akbar. Thank you for your earlyand stalwart support.Very special thanks and a debt of gratitude go to my maternal and paternal family.You have been the roots that have allowed me to grow, and I know that without youthere could be no me. There are countless people who grace this group, but to everyMoore, Thomas, Flythe, Anglin, Avant, Banks, Blue, Boyd, Broadnax, Cannon,Carolina, Clarke, Coleman, Crawford, Drayton, Duncan, Dwyer, Hackett, Jarvis,Moyston, Simmons, Traylor, and Weatherby, thank you. Special acknowledgmentgoes to Mama Win, whose love and example are extraordinary and overwhelming.Have faith, not fear! My mother, words can hardly express what you mean to me; youare the epitome of love and compassion, and the kind of parent and friend I hope tobe. You wore sweaters so we could wear coats. Dawn, my soul mate and battle buddy,years after marrying you I still get butter{ies when I am around you! “Even when theskies are gray, you will rub me on my back and say, ‘Baby it will be okay.’” To mysisters, Nikki and Shani, and Rita and brothers Jamaar and Earl, you have alwayskept me grounded and I am eternally grateful to be your brother. To Mama Gwen;Pandora Flythe; my aunts Pam, BB, Donna, Dawn, Evelyn, Toni, Tawana, Michelle,Valerie, Thea, Camille, Karen, Cheryl, Ellen, Iris, Carol, Connie, Cookie, Osie, Angie,Mira, Linda, Pam, Mary, Helen, Edna, Vicki, Gail, Alexis, Debbie, Thursa, and Lark; tomy uncles Howard, Ralph, Ty, Gerald, Bernie, Bobby, Sonny, Cecil, Derek, Garrick,Harold, Donyell, Milton, Robert, David, and Kermit; to my cousins Denise, Phil,Marcus, Tenai, Elijah, Adrian, Aaron, Erroll, Lamar, La-Toshia, Ciara, Christian,Julisa, Tamara, Mimi, Michael, Paul, Ryan, Wayne, Carlton, Maurice, Taira, Nikki,Craig, Terrell, Guy, Phillip, Fred, Roland, Patty, Linette, Annette, Lisa, Karen,Blossom, Dorice, Ladrice, and Naquan—your gentle love and generosity helped fuelmy journey. I have hundreds of family members, from Washington State toWashington, D.C., and in dozens of nations around the world, and I am thankful forall of you.Papa Jim and Daddy, no acknowledgment list would be complete without you. Yoursoul, spirit, and love live on. I am who I am because you were who you were. I amalso so thankful because I know, and can feel, even from your new perch, your loveand guidance. I love you, I love you, I love you.Along the way, there have been people who have touched my life in special waysand been so helpful through various phases of this process—Justin Brandon andAngela Miklavcic, John and Marcy McCall-MacBain, Tod Lending, Kathryn Shagasand Tony Machowski, Kris Coƒey, Billo Harper, Karen Thomas, Linda Duggins, DiaSimms, Ericka Pittman, Toni Bias, Tanya Carr, Lois Vann, Denise Pines, Derick,

Kendra, and Wynter Ausby, Nikki and Jeƒ Harris, Mike Fenzel, Tom and StephaniePellathy, Donald and Godly Davis, Jeshahnton Essex, Tommy and Christy Ransom,Lev Smirdov, David and Debbie Roberts, Howie Mandel, Lee Hendler, Chris, Jean, andMargaret Angell, Tom and Andi Bernstein, Loida Lewis, Don and Katrina Peebles, TyHill, RADM and “Mom” Hill, LTC Murnane, Barney and Carl Smith, Ken and JudyRavitz, Nikki and Jeƒ Harris, Bill and Sue Floyd, Mike and Lisa Fenzel, AlonzoFulgham, Darrell and Felice Friedman, Tracey Alexander, William and Wendy Brody,Jarvis and Stacey Stewart, Faye Charles, Doris Atkins, LaRian Finney, Robert Reƒkin,Howard Buƒett, Zach Druker, Coach Ogs and Spring, Dan and Avery Rosenthal,Adrian Talbot, Tahir and Priti Radhakrishnan, Jan and Larry Rivitz, Eddie and SylviaBrown, the entire Lunn family, Sharon Lopez and Raisa Lopez-Rhoden, David Lasky,Tricia and Ken Eisner, Ralph Smith, Doug Nelson and the entire Annie E. Caseyfamily, Julian Harris, Esther Tang, Vic Carter, Kai Jackson, Lawrence Penn, andKhalil Byrd. Thank you all for being there at every step of this book process.To my Valley Forge and Army brethren, you are my role models and friends. I praythat this book illustrates, in some way, how much your example, love, patriotism, andprofessionalism have meant to me. Tim, Sean, and Josh, yve-year family forever! Andto the leadership of Phi Theta Kappa, I continue to be in awe of your commitment toscholarship and excellence.Johns Hopkins will always hold a special place in my heart, not simply for theeducation I received, but for the friendships I treasure. To the graduating group of2001, and to the board members I now share that title with, thank you. You are themodel of commitment to and concern for our nation’s future.My Citi team could not have been more supportive of this book process as well as ofmy career development. Pam Flaherty, your support and belief in me brought me intoCiti, and your support and that of so many others have kept me there. Ray McGuire,you inspire me to be a better ynancier and, more important, a better man. “Eagles donot {y in {ocks.” Special thanks to Liz Fogarty, who has been a third eye throughoutthis process. Your support has been invaluable.Bobby and Dawn Wylie, not only did you make our transition at Oxford easy, butour friendship has lasted. My entire Rhodes class, Rochelle Aucheim and the RhodesTrust, and the alumni of the Scholarship have been nothing but encouraging.To Daniel Pellathy, Michael, Holley, and Noelle Thomas, Mark Vann II, and EarlFlythe IV, I could not be more proud of you. I will always be there for you.And to other young people who will read this book, understand this: you have neverbeen, and will never be, alone. We have all walked our own personal journeys—{awed and all—but our goal is the same: to ensure that we end up closer to a morebeautiful and God-honoring destiny.There are so many others I am indebted to who have also stood by me and loved methroughout this journey of life. I have the most extraordinary set of friends andmentors a person could ask for, so if I have not named you speciycally, please knowthat I hold you in my heart and I hope and pray you understand just what you meanto me.

God bless you all and thank you….Elevate….Wes

The Other Wes Moore

Wes MooreA Reader’s Guide

A Conversation with Wes MooreBy Farai ChideyaNew York-based journalist, author, and novelist Farai Chideya spoke by telephone with WesMoore about his story, the other Wes Moore’s story, and what we can all do to help bridge theopportunity gap that plagues our society. Their conversation was originally published in SMITHMagazine on June 22, 2010.Farai Chideya: You talk about the South Bronx so beautifully in your book and how ithas changed between the time your grandparents bought a house there in the yfties andwhen you moved there in the eighties. How did you first come to understand place?Wes Moore: I think the yrst time I really understood place was actually when I yrststarted to understand my need to be a part of one, and I felt myself having di}cultyynding that. As I was in the Bronx and started getting older and going through thatburgeoning process of manhood, and tried to get that understanding of what that feltlike and what that was—and my mother was working multiple jobs to send me to theschool across town—I increasingly found myself “too rich” for the kids in myneighborhood. I was one of the only kids in my class that didn’t go to school in the area.But as I went across town for this other school, I found myself being “too poor” for thekids in my school because they didn’t understand anything about my background or whyI was one of the only kids in the school who had to travel an hour-plus to get to school.That’s the yrst time I started to understand place and my role and my footing because Ifound myself searching for it—I found myself searching for that comfort, that support,that acceptance that seemed so elusive at every turn. I just found myself increasinglymore uncomfortable everywhere I went.FC: One of the moments in your book that had me cracking up was that, because yourfamily was ynancially strapped, you actually sometimes wore your older sister’s pantsto school. You say that you thought you could pull it oƒ, but in retrospect people wereprobably rolling their eyes. You have a lot of moments like that in your book, lightnessand humor in a book that has a lot of tough moments, starting with the death of yourfather prematurely on.WM: That deynitely came through in the yrst draft. One thing I realized throughout thisprocess very early was that if I was going to do any justice to this process, I needed tobe transparent, I needed to be honest about it. As I was going on thinking about my lifethere were a lot of lighthearted, humorous moments and I wanted to make sure that mystory highlighted that—and Wes’s story also. This wasn’t just some purely macabre story

about how bad things are, but about reality and about the reality of all of our lives. Andthe fact is there were, even in the midst of chaos, a lot of lighthearted moments that notonly are important to remember, but also helped you kinda get by, particularly as youthink back in retrospect and you can look at them from a diƒerent place. There werethings that really came out in the first draft and ended up making it to the final cut.FC: Let’s talk about the other Wes Moore. You have spent hundreds of hours with him atthis point, but you didn’t grow up with him. You write about his interior narrative veryconvincingly. Did you ever think you crossed the line and took too many liberties withhow you constructed his life on paper? How did you hit the right tone?WM: My talks with the other Wes Moore were free-ranging conversations where you’dbe asking one question and the next thing you know it’s an hour later and you’ve got allthese amazing anecdotes, and these amazing facts, and these amazing stories that you’regoing to have to go back and make sense of and let them process once you’ve done yourtranscription. It wasn’t about me coming up with a framework and having him yll inthe colors in between the lines. It was more taking what he was giving me and thenprocessing it, and I think a lot of that came from Wes. The format of the book wasn’tsomething I came into the process with. It wasn’t like I came in and said, “Okay, we’regoing to go over these couple of years: tell me about 1982, tell me about 1984.” It reallywas about hearing these diƒerent stories, and that was when I started noticing a patternand noticing a trend. Some of the years where Wes had some of the most in{uential andimportant factors in his life ironically took place in my life [as well]. It was reallytaking what he gave me and being able to process it from there.FC: Do you think you ever overstepped the line in turning his life into prose?WM: No, not at all. It’s interesting because Wes was one of the people who reallypushed me to write this book when I was yrst approached by author and publicist TerrieWilliams. She knew that I had reached out to Wes and I had gotten to know him. Shesaid, “I think this is something bigger, I think this could be a book.” I was at yrst veryreluctant, and told her, “I don’t know, Terrie.”There were two things that pushed me over. One was that I thought about the tragicdeath of the police o}cer, and I thought if I could do something that would help keepthese tragedies from happening again, I think it’s necessary and could be useful. Andthen I thought about something that Wes told me. He told me, “I’ve wasted everyopportunity in my life and I’m going to die in here, and if you can do something thatcan help people better understand the ramiycations of their decisions and alsounderstand the neighborhoods these decisions are being made in, then I think you shoulddo it.”

FC: My mother was a Baltimore City school teacher; the other Wes Moore is fromBaltimore and you really paint a picture of his struggles as a smart kid in tough schools.When I read your book I thought of my mother. Some of the kids she taught sixth gradescience to went on to get MDs and PhDs. Others were in the drug game and shot deadon the street. Their potential was wasted.WM: Wasted is really the best word to use. One of the things I want to show is: this isnot a dumb guy. This book is not a celebration of the exception, this is a book thatquestions why we even have exceptions in our society in the yrst place. There’s verylittle [that] separates us and someone else altogether. That’s one of the things I wantedto show with Wes—had that intervention been there, had those supports been there, hadthere been a certain level of attention instead of a certain level of apathy about his ynaldestiny, I can’t help but think that things would be different.FC: You mentioned your book was originally supposed to be more prescriptive. What doyou hope this book can do for readers, for kids, for society?WM: I wanted people to understand their potency and I wanted people to actually dosomething about it. In addition to the call to action, I wanted to add all of theseorganizations where people could get involved, and all of them are vetted organizationsthat would love to hear from you, either if you’re looking for help or you’re looking tohelp. That was genuinely important to me, because one thing the book helps to show isthat if we’re willing to get engaged, if we’re willing to get involved, then we can reallymake a substantial and permanent impact, not just in the life of someone else, but inthe life of our entire society.FC: How does being an author and the process of writing compare to being aparatrooper or a Rhodes Scholar or a White House Fellow—some of the other rolesyou’ve played?WM: I think some of the things I had done before really prepared me to be a writer insome ways. First of all, writing takes a real level of discipline. For example, with myschedule I would wake up at 5:15 A.M. and write for a couple of hours before gettingready to go to work, and then go work my day job for the rest of the day. There weresome mornings I would literally sit in front of the computer for an hour with nothing tosay, but I forced myself to go through this process because I knew that was the only timeI could really e}ciently get it out. When you wake up reading articles about a father ofyve, a police o}cer that went to work one day and will never come home, and thenyou read letters from someone who will spend the rest of their life in prison, it adds a

certain level of humility to your day and a certain level of clarity in a certain context.Everything I did before helped me respect the discipline of writing.FC: Your life has intersected in diƒerent ways with diƒerent types of African diasporichistories. Your family has roots in Jamaica and Cuba as well as the U.S. I’m wonderinghow you think of blackness in the twenty-yrst century, since we are so much morediverse in terms of immigrant groups in{uencing American blackness and we’re also ata critical point in history.WM: One thing that I have always been taught and believed in is understanding ourpast and our history and our roots. Not just for where you’re going—understand whereyou come from. There’s a certain pride in that. When you think about not just my familybut the larger diasporic movements, and the evolutions and the successes and thevictories that have taken place, it has really been pretty extraordinary. It’s somethingthat gives me a great sense of pride, it’s something that gives me a really strongfoundation in terms of where we can go, because I really do appreciate where we’vecome from.FC: One of the pivotal moments in your book is when your family sends you to militaryschool in order to get you oƒ the streets of the South Bronx. You went on to train as aparatrooper and serve in Afghanistan. How can veterans get what they need from ournation?WM: One of the partner nonproyts we have throughout the book tour is Iraq andAfghanistan Veterans of America, the yrst and largest organization that supportsyounger veterans, particularly from the Iraq and Afghanistan wars. We’ll spend so muchtime giving soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines support when they are overseas, andthen when they come home it stops. Something that was really important to me—this ispersonal—I saw the challenges that so many families, including my own, had to dealwith having someone deployed and not knowing who is coming home to you. If we aregoing to send people overseas to yght, then we need to support them [when they comehome] as much as we did overseas.FC: It seems like today, versus when I was growing up, there is more of a disconnectbetween the role[s] of servicemen and women and other citizens. Right now, maybepeople are fatigued from the war, but it doesn’t seem as if we are having a dialogue.WM: We’ve been in Afghanistan for close to a decade, and you think about the amountof casualties we’ve had in Afghanistan and the casualties we’ve had in Iraq. But if you

ask people what the biggest issue in the country is, I don’t know where the fact that wehave more than a hundred thousand troops serving yts in their consciousness. Less than1 percent of the population has served. Less than 1 percent really knows from ayrsthand experience what it’s really like over there. In terms of what can be done, a lotof it will be up to not only the citizenry and population, but also up to the policymakers to make sure that this is a group on Americans’ minds.FC: And finally, Wes Moore, what’s your Six-Word Memoir?WM: Grandma said have faith not fear.

Questions for Discussion1. The author says to the other Wes, “I guess it’s hard sometimes to distinguishbetween second chances and last chances.” What do you think he means?What is each Wes’s “last chance”? Discuss the diƒerences in how each oneuses that chance and why they make the decisions they do.2. During their youth, Wes and Wes spend most of their time in crime-riddenBaltimore and the Bronx. How important was that environment in shapingtheir stories and personalities?3. Why do you think the incarcerated Wes continues to proclaim his innocenceregarding his role in the crime for which he was convicted?4. The book begins with Wes and Wes’s discussion of their fathers. What role doyou think fatherhood plays in the lives of these men? How do the absence oftheir fathers and the diƒerences in the reasons for their absences aƒectthem?5. Wes dedicates the book to “the women who helped shape [his] journey tomanhood.” Discuss the way women are seen in Wes’s community. Whatimpact do they have on their sons?6. The author says “the chilling truth is that [Wes’s] story could have beenmine. The tragedy is that my story could have been his.” To what extent doyou think that’s true? What, ultimately, prevented their stories from beinginterchangeable?7. Throughout the book, the author sometimes expresses confusion at his ownmotivations. Why do you think he is so driven to understand Wes’s life?8. The author attributes Wes’s eventual incarceration to shortsightedness, aninability to critically think about the future. Do you agree?9. Wes states that people often live up to the expectations projected on them. Isthat true? If someone you care for expects you to succeed—or fail—will you?Where does personal accountability come into play?10. Discuss the relationship between education and poverty. In your discussion,consider the education levels of both Weses’ mothers, how far each man gotin his education, the opportunities they gained or lost as a result of theireducation, and their reasons for continuing or discontinuing their studies.11. The book begins with a scene in which the author is reprimanded for hittinghis sister. Why is it important for con{icts to be solved through means otherthan violence? In what way do the Weses diƒer in their approaches tophysical confrontations, and why?12. Why is the idea of “going straight” so unappealing to the incarcerated Wesand his peers? What does it mean for our culture to have such a largepopulation living and working outside the boundaries of the law?

About the AuthorWES MOORE is a Rhodes Scholar who was also a paratrooper and is a combat veteranof Afghanistan. He worked as a special assistant to Secretary of State CondoleezzaRice as a White House Fellow. He currently serves as an investment professional inNew York and is married to Dawn Moore. This is his first book.www.TheOtherWesMoore.comWes Moore is available for select readings and lectures. To inquire about a possibleappearance, please visit www.rhspeakers.com or call 212-572-2013.

Copyright © 2010 by Wes MooreReading group guide copyright © 2011 by Random House, Inc.“A Call to Action” copyright © 2010 by Tavis SmileyAll rights reserved.Published in the United States by Spiegel & Grau, an imprint of The Random HousePublishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.SPIEGEL & GRAU and Design is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.eISBN: 978-1-58836-969-7www.spiegelandgrau.comCover design: Greg Mollica.Cover photograph: Dave Krieger/Getty Imagesv3.0_r1

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