facility, and moments later institutional cars and vans sped toward us, stopping within inches of our gathering. We were put on the fence and brick wall surrounding the smoke-break area and searched by irate staff members. When asked what we were doing “out of bounds,” we said that the Muslims said we could leave. I was taken back to the Rock, while the others were locked in their cells pending an explanation by the Muslims, who had supposedly let us out of services without proper escort. The next day we found out that the Muslims had, in fact, backed up our story and, with the exception of me, all the homies were taken off lockdown.
The next week, while I was in the infirmary waiting room just wasting time out of my cell, Muhammad came through. At first I was a bit reluctant to approach him because of the disrespect issue. But I felt obligated to say something, because they had backed us up when the staff had asked them about the incident. I motioned him over.
“What’s up, man?” I asked, not knowing how he would respond. “Don’t you remember me?”
“Yeah,” he said, “I remember you.”
“Yeah, well, I just want to apologize for disrupting your services last week and say thanks for backing us up on our statement.”
“Yeah, I hear you, but actually y’all didn’t disrupt our services at all. And as far as the pigs trying to lock y’all up, naw, we ain’t gonna contribute to that.”
“Righteous,” I said, noting that Muhammad’s style of speech was straight out of the 1960s. He was about six feet even, with a very dark, shiny, well-kept blackness. He wore a full beard, gold glasses, and a turban. His dress code was militant. He was a black ayatollah.
“Isn’t your name Monster Kody?” asked Muhammad.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“From Eight Tray, right?”
“Right.”
“Insha Allah, I be dealing with some of your older homeboys. Rayford, Bacot, X-con. You know them?”
“Yeah, them my O.G. homies,” I said with pride.
“Was all them brothas with you last week from Eight Tray, too?”
“Yeah, we twenty-three deep here.”
“Why y’all brothas fall to the services like that?”
“Huh?” I said, as if I didn’t overstand his question. I didn’t know if I should tell him the truth or not. If I said we were having a meeting he might feel that we really were disrespecting his services.
“You know, like why was y’all so thick? Somebody got killed on the bricks?”
He saw that I was perplexed and didn’t want to say too much, so he talked on.
“You brothas looked unified and strong. Insha Allah, why don’t you come and check out the services tonight?”
“Naw, I ain’t into no religion or nothin’.”
“Well here, read this. And if you ever feel like checking us out, come on by. You’re welcome.”
“Righteous,” I replied, looking down at the pamphlet he’d given me, entitled
We shook hands and parted company. That night in my cell I read the pamphlet, which began with a quote by Malcolm X:
Out of frustration and hopelessness our young people have reached the point of no return. We no longer endorse patience and turning the other cheek. We assert the right of self-defense by whatever means necessary, and reserve the right of maximum retaliation against our racist oppressors, no matter what the odds against us are.
It went on to list food, clothing, and shelter as the immediate aims of the struggle, and land and independence as the sought-after objectives. The pamphlet was not as religious as I thought it would be. I had been so conditioned to believe that religion was synonymous with passivity—from the Christian teachings to people of color—that I simply took for granted that Islam was like Christianity in this light. The material ended with another quote by Malcolm X:
From here on in, if we must die anyway, we will die fighting back and we will not die alone. We intend to see that our racist oppressors also get a taste of death.
The language was heavy, and I was impressed by it. Of course I was trying to figure out how to fit my enemies into this language, for the word “oppressor” had little meaning to me then. Although I was, like every other person of color on this planet, oppressed, I didn’t know it. I told myself that next week I was going to go and see just what was happening over there.
During the days before the services I read and reread the pamphlet. I had trouble clarifying words like “struggle,” “revolutionary,” “jihad,” and “colonialism,” but I kept on reading. It gave me a certain feeling, a slight tingle, and a longing sense of curiosity. Finally, the next week fell and I found myself walking down the ramp off the Rock and over toward the chapel that held Islamic services.
When I got there I was greeted by a brother named L.C., who was also a prisoner who lived on company S-T. There were about nine people altogether. After they went through their prayers, Muhammad read a short sura from the Holy Koran and then closed it. Standing there thoughtfully for a moment he played lightly in his beard, and then, as suddenly as thunder, he began a sharp tirade about the U.S. government.
“Brothas, it is incumbent upon you as male youth to learn of your obligation to the oppressed masses who are being systematically crushed by the wicked government of the United States of America. They already know of your potential to smash them, so they have deliberately locked you up in this concentration camp.”
Now, heated up, he began to pace the length of the church.
“Insha Allah, you will not be sidetracked from your mission. You are young warriors who are destined to be free! But you must be prepared to jihad till death!”
I was totally awestruck by his strength and language, not to mention his sincerity. He talked on about the government’s deliberate efforts to rid the world of people of color—black males in particular. All but the simplest things went right over my head. But what I was able to grasp slapped me hard across the face with such force that I got goose bumps. Damn, this shit must be real. It seems too heavy to be made up. And if he didn’t know what he was talking about, how was he able to explain what I had been through in home, in school, in the streets, and with the law? No, this had to be real.
When the services were over I lifted myself up and floated to my cell, totally high on Muhammad’s revolutionary speech. The week following the service, I must have read
On Wednesday I got some devastating news. Crazy Keith from Harlem came for a visit and told me that Tray Ball was dead.
“What?” I said in utter disbelief.
“Yeah, Li’l Tray Ball just told me that cuz shot himself in the head playing Russian roulette.”
“Where Li’l Tray Ball at?” I asked.
“I seen cuz on a visit.”
“Damn!”
I felt at a total loss. I wasn’t ready to hear that. Not Tray Ball. I had dealt with other deaths in one piece, getting solace out of being able to strike back. But here, on the Rock, there was no striking back. No drugs, no loud music to put me in a trance, no revenge, nothing of the sort. Just me and myself. It was almost impossible to deal with—the reality of him being dead, gone, never to be seen again. All the good times came rolling up on my mental screen. Times when Tray Ball would act as mediator in disputes amongst the homies, using his influence to mend breaks in the clique. Or using his persuasion to recruit yet another homie. Ball gave us foresight, hindsight, and a deepseated feeling of righteous worth. I couldn’t imagine us without him. First we’d lost Eight Ball, and now Tray Ball. Symbolically, the set—Eight Tray—had been castrated by the removal of its balls, the Eight and the Three.
I cried like a baby for hours. Not just for Tray Ball, but for the set. The ’hood was dying, didn’t people see it like that? Our symbols were falling and no one seemed to overstand the significance of this. My nerves were in total disarray. What do you do when your homie commits suicide? Who do you strike at? Who is to blame? We all played Russian roulette, that mindless game of stupidity sadly mistaken as courage. Fortunately, our chambers clicked empty against the ping of the hammer. But for Tray Ball, it was a full chamber.
