Booker T: From Prison to Promise: Life Before the Squared Circle by Booker T Huffman, Andrew William Wright Page B
Authors: Booker T Huffman, Andrew William Wright
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pen and a stare and said, “If you want me to stay and feel like our relationship is important to you again, you have to show me by putting me on the lease.”
She bought it and went all the way with the paperwork, making me the primary on the agreement. I now had full legal control of the place.
With the lease out of the way, I had her also sign a waiver stating that I owned all the furniture in the apartment. She had some really nice property in there. I was putting my chess pieces in such great positions that Bobby Fischer would have pulled out his paper and pen to take notes.
Despite my anger, for a while I truly did try to make it work with Michelle. But it was impossible. Every time we argued about anything, it went right back to Mel. Her cheating proved to be a fatal strike to what we’d once had.
Our fighting escalated out of control until one time she came at me and tried to throw a punch. I quickly pushed her hands out of the way. She ran to call the cops.
When the police showed up, she spun ridiculous lies to try to get me arrested. “He was grabbing me and tried to choke me.”
I stood there listening and looking at the cops, thinking,
Ah, shit, here we go. They’re gonna take me to jail.
They probably would have had I not known one of them from the club scene with Lash. He didn’t buy her story, but he did pull me aside and warn me. “Book, you better watch out for this kind of shit. You can land in jail real easy when a woman makes claims like what she’s saying.”
I told him I understood and thanked him for giving me a break, and they took off.
Michelle’s attempt to incriminate me that night was the last straw. Because she had signed the apartment and everything over to me, I kicked her out of her own place. I kept it all—the bed, the couches, the television, and even the phone she had used to call the cops on me. In my mind, I had to get her back for what she had done. She’d gotten in way over her head. Checkmate.
After the breakup, my old downward spiral started again. Without the stability and influence of Michelle and being all alone in the apartment, I was tempted to revert to old street behaviors. For the time being, I put my blinders on and remained focused.
On December 29, 1983, Angela gave birth to my son, Brandon T. Huffman. Although I’d had my doubts that I was his father, I accepted that he was my own. But man, Brandon couldn’t have come into a more turbulent time. Angela and I had not really spoken much at all since her grandmother had cornered me about nine months earlier. As I had with Angela, I initially did the wrong thing and ignored Brandon as well. I just could not face the gravity of it all.
When Angela called up on occasion and asked for money to help out, I did not give her a dime. I refused to even see my new son. I simply could not let go of my resentment toward her. In the balance, Brandon suffered from the lack of a father’s support.
After a few more weeks passed and I really thought about my behavior as a man toward this baby, I began to feel differently. I can’t explain it exactly, but some instinctual click went off inside of me. I could not get Brandon off my mind. I knew I had to at least try to do right by this little boy. No matter how selfish I was, the only choice that made sense was to give fatherhood the best attempt possible with my limited resources.
For the sake of our son, Angela and I reconciled enough to manage a fair arrangement for Brandon. It worked at first, but then Angela began playing ridiculous head games with me, putting unnecessary stipulations on my visits with my boy. For example, she would not let me have Brandon if she knew I would be with another woman at the same time, which made no sense to me. I thought without a doubt she was bitter because I had not married her and we didn’t have that picture-perfect family.
I didn’t know what she was thinking by using our son as a tool to exact her revenge on me, but her
She bought it and went all the way with the paperwork, making me the primary on the agreement. I now had full legal control of the place.
With the lease out of the way, I had her also sign a waiver stating that I owned all the furniture in the apartment. She had some really nice property in there. I was putting my chess pieces in such great positions that Bobby Fischer would have pulled out his paper and pen to take notes.
Despite my anger, for a while I truly did try to make it work with Michelle. But it was impossible. Every time we argued about anything, it went right back to Mel. Her cheating proved to be a fatal strike to what we’d once had.
Our fighting escalated out of control until one time she came at me and tried to throw a punch. I quickly pushed her hands out of the way. She ran to call the cops.
When the police showed up, she spun ridiculous lies to try to get me arrested. “He was grabbing me and tried to choke me.”
I stood there listening and looking at the cops, thinking,
Ah, shit, here we go. They’re gonna take me to jail.
They probably would have had I not known one of them from the club scene with Lash. He didn’t buy her story, but he did pull me aside and warn me. “Book, you better watch out for this kind of shit. You can land in jail real easy when a woman makes claims like what she’s saying.”
I told him I understood and thanked him for giving me a break, and they took off.
Michelle’s attempt to incriminate me that night was the last straw. Because she had signed the apartment and everything over to me, I kicked her out of her own place. I kept it all—the bed, the couches, the television, and even the phone she had used to call the cops on me. In my mind, I had to get her back for what she had done. She’d gotten in way over her head. Checkmate.
After the breakup, my old downward spiral started again. Without the stability and influence of Michelle and being all alone in the apartment, I was tempted to revert to old street behaviors. For the time being, I put my blinders on and remained focused.
On December 29, 1983, Angela gave birth to my son, Brandon T. Huffman. Although I’d had my doubts that I was his father, I accepted that he was my own. But man, Brandon couldn’t have come into a more turbulent time. Angela and I had not really spoken much at all since her grandmother had cornered me about nine months earlier. As I had with Angela, I initially did the wrong thing and ignored Brandon as well. I just could not face the gravity of it all.
When Angela called up on occasion and asked for money to help out, I did not give her a dime. I refused to even see my new son. I simply could not let go of my resentment toward her. In the balance, Brandon suffered from the lack of a father’s support.
After a few more weeks passed and I really thought about my behavior as a man toward this baby, I began to feel differently. I can’t explain it exactly, but some instinctual click went off inside of me. I could not get Brandon off my mind. I knew I had to at least try to do right by this little boy. No matter how selfish I was, the only choice that made sense was to give fatherhood the best attempt possible with my limited resources.
For the sake of our son, Angela and I reconciled enough to manage a fair arrangement for Brandon. It worked at first, but then Angela began playing ridiculous head games with me, putting unnecessary stipulations on my visits with my boy. For example, she would not let me have Brandon if she knew I would be with another woman at the same time, which made no sense to me. I thought without a doubt she was bitter because I had not married her and we didn’t have that picture-perfect family.
I didn’t know what she was thinking by using our son as a tool to exact her revenge on me, but her
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