Booker T: From Prison to Promise: Life Before the Squared Circle by Booker T Huffman, Andrew William Wright Page A
Authors: Booker T Huffman, Andrew William Wright
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does, but we were mature enough to move past the petty, trivial arguments. But occasionally another issue beyond our control reared its ugly head.
One time we went for a little lovers’ stroll in the nearby park, holding hands, minding our own business. As we enjoyed the day and took in the sights, someone in the distance pierced the peace with a scream.
“Nigger lover!”
Michelle and I looked at each other quizzically. Obviously, hearing something like that took me aback. Having never been in an interracial relationship before, I hadn’t anticipated being on the receiving end of that kind of hate speech.
I suppose it was to be expected. Racism was just one of those old stigmas that wasn’t ever going away. Sometimes we would hear comments in a crowd, or someone would mumble something. I never got into a fight with anyone over it. I knew the people who would make those remarks were cowards, because nobody would ever dare say them directly to our faces.
I felt horrible for Michelle, though. If it weren’t for me, she wouldn’t have been subjected to any of that unnecessary tension. It’s hard enough to make a relationship work as it is, but when undeserved fuel is dumped onto a fire, it can be frustrating.
However, we let those things roll right off our backs and never even really acknowledged them. The greatest downfall between Michelle and me didn’t have anything to do with race at all. It was something much simpler and far more gut-wrenching.
At Willow Creek we had a basketball court where I used to shoot around. After going a few times, I met this cool dude named Melvin, who I called Mel, and we played one-on-one and pickup games. We got along great, and like any friends do, we talked about everything—our jobs, things we wanted to do with our lives, and of course girls.
One time after a game, Mel was kicking it about this chick he’d recently started seeing. He told me the graphic play-by-play of all the sexual exploits they were up to.
I listened with a big smile, and then I talked the same game about Michelle and me, except that I never mentioned her by name.
Man, we laughed our asses off at the deviance both of us got into with our chicks.
Then he said his girl’s name was Michelle.
I stopped dead in my tracks. “What’s her last name?”
He told me.
It was
my
Michelle. I was completely crushed. “Yo, Mel, I
live
with Michelle. That’s my girl.”
Mel’s face dropped, and he went dead silent for a minute, obviously not knowing what to say. He just looked at me stunned and tried to apologize.
I didn’t want to hear it. I left the court quickly, telling him, “Don’t worry about it.” It wasn’t his fault anyway, and I didn’t hold it against him. He had no idea she was dating someone else.
Stomach turning, head spinning, wondering what had just happened to my seemingly perfect life, I stormed back to the apartment. All of a sudden, everything I had held so close to my heart had turned against me. I had never experienced such betrayal and emotional devastation at the hands of a girl. Not only was she cheating on me, but she was doing it right under my own nose in the same complex. It was beyond anything I had ever anticipated, and the hurt was overwhelming. It had never occurred to me that a woman would be so devious and backhanded, and I felt like a moron for being so oblivious. My blood was boiling, and all I could think about was getting even.
After I confronted Michelle about Mel, she broke down crying and admitted everything. She apologized repeatedly, begging me to stay.
That’s exactly what I did. I stayed. But my motivation wasn’t reconciliation. Sure, I still had emotional investment in this girl, but the truth of the matter was that my street mentality had kicked in and I was obsessed with getting revenge.
First I convinced her to sign over the apartment lease in my name. She was so desperate to do anything I asked that it didn’t take any effort. I just gave her a
One time we went for a little lovers’ stroll in the nearby park, holding hands, minding our own business. As we enjoyed the day and took in the sights, someone in the distance pierced the peace with a scream.
“Nigger lover!”
Michelle and I looked at each other quizzically. Obviously, hearing something like that took me aback. Having never been in an interracial relationship before, I hadn’t anticipated being on the receiving end of that kind of hate speech.
I suppose it was to be expected. Racism was just one of those old stigmas that wasn’t ever going away. Sometimes we would hear comments in a crowd, or someone would mumble something. I never got into a fight with anyone over it. I knew the people who would make those remarks were cowards, because nobody would ever dare say them directly to our faces.
I felt horrible for Michelle, though. If it weren’t for me, she wouldn’t have been subjected to any of that unnecessary tension. It’s hard enough to make a relationship work as it is, but when undeserved fuel is dumped onto a fire, it can be frustrating.
However, we let those things roll right off our backs and never even really acknowledged them. The greatest downfall between Michelle and me didn’t have anything to do with race at all. It was something much simpler and far more gut-wrenching.
At Willow Creek we had a basketball court where I used to shoot around. After going a few times, I met this cool dude named Melvin, who I called Mel, and we played one-on-one and pickup games. We got along great, and like any friends do, we talked about everything—our jobs, things we wanted to do with our lives, and of course girls.
One time after a game, Mel was kicking it about this chick he’d recently started seeing. He told me the graphic play-by-play of all the sexual exploits they were up to.
I listened with a big smile, and then I talked the same game about Michelle and me, except that I never mentioned her by name.
Man, we laughed our asses off at the deviance both of us got into with our chicks.
Then he said his girl’s name was Michelle.
I stopped dead in my tracks. “What’s her last name?”
He told me.
It was
my
Michelle. I was completely crushed. “Yo, Mel, I
live
with Michelle. That’s my girl.”
Mel’s face dropped, and he went dead silent for a minute, obviously not knowing what to say. He just looked at me stunned and tried to apologize.
I didn’t want to hear it. I left the court quickly, telling him, “Don’t worry about it.” It wasn’t his fault anyway, and I didn’t hold it against him. He had no idea she was dating someone else.
Stomach turning, head spinning, wondering what had just happened to my seemingly perfect life, I stormed back to the apartment. All of a sudden, everything I had held so close to my heart had turned against me. I had never experienced such betrayal and emotional devastation at the hands of a girl. Not only was she cheating on me, but she was doing it right under my own nose in the same complex. It was beyond anything I had ever anticipated, and the hurt was overwhelming. It had never occurred to me that a woman would be so devious and backhanded, and I felt like a moron for being so oblivious. My blood was boiling, and all I could think about was getting even.
After I confronted Michelle about Mel, she broke down crying and admitted everything. She apologized repeatedly, begging me to stay.
That’s exactly what I did. I stayed. But my motivation wasn’t reconciliation. Sure, I still had emotional investment in this girl, but the truth of the matter was that my street mentality had kicked in and I was obsessed with getting revenge.
First I convinced her to sign over the apartment lease in my name. She was so desperate to do anything I asked that it didn’t take any effort. I just gave her a
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