He pulled a small piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to me. There were several names and phone numbers printed in J.T.’s scratchy handwriting. Among the names was that of Curtis, the gang leader in Newark we’d talked about before.
“You should call these people,” J.T. said. “I told Curtis that you wanted to see how things worked out there. He’ll take care of you. But Billy Jo, that’s the one who really knows what’s happening in New York. Here, give him this.”
J.T. had often talked about his friends who ran drug-dealing operations in New York. But what with the federal indictments, the demolition of Robert Taylor, and my own career moves, I had pretty much forgotten about them. Also, given how things had turned out with me and J.T.-it was pretty obvious by now that I wasn’t going to write his biography-I was surprised that he’d go out of his way to put me in touch with his contacts back east.
He took out another sheet of paper, tightly folded over in fours, the creases a bit worn, as if he’d been carrying it in his pocket for a while. His hands were so cold that they shook as he unfolded it. He gave the paper to me and blew on his hands to warm them up.
“Go ahead, nigger, read it,” he said. “Hurry up, it’s cold!”
I began to read. It was addressed to Billy Jo: Billy, Sudhir is coming out your way.Take care of the nigger… My eyes scanned down and caught a phrase in the middle of the page: He’s with me.
I could feel myself breaking into a wide smile. J.T. reached into his car and pulled out two beers.
“I’m not sure I’m ready for another big research project just yet,” I said.
“Oh, yeah?” he said, handing me one of the beers. “What else are you going to do? You can’t fix nothing, you never worked a day in your life. The only thing you know how to do is hang out with niggers like us.”
I nearly choked on my beer when he summarized my capacities so succinctly-and, for the most part, accurately.
J.T. leaned back on the car, looking up at the high-rises in front of us. “You think niggers will survive out there?” he asked. “You think they’ll be all right when they leave here?”
“Not sure. Probably. I mean, everything changes. You just have to be ready, I guess.”
“You hungry?” he asked.
“Starving.”
“Let’s go down to Seventy-ninth. There’s a new soul-food place.”
“Sounds good,” I said, chugging the beer quickly. “Why don’t you drive?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, jumping into the car, “and I got one for you! What would you do if you were me? I got this new bunch of guys that think they know everything…”
He began telling me about his latest management dilemma with a gang he was running in Roseland, a neighborhood where a lot of the Robert Taylor families were relocating. As he spoke, I became lost in his voice. His steady and assured monologue comforted me; for a few moments anyway, I could feel as though little had changed, even though everything had. He turned on some rap music, opened up another beer, and kept on talking. The car screeched out of the parking lot, J.T. waved to a few women pushing strollers in the cold, and we sped down Federal Street.
Within a few years, J.T. grew tired of running a gang. He managed his cousin’s dry-cleaning business, and he started up a barbershop, which failed. He had put away enough savings, in property and cash, to supplement his lower income. Once in a while, he did consulting work for Black Kings higher-ups who tried to revive their citywide hold on the drug economy. But this effort never came to fruition, and with the crack market severely depleted, Chicago’s gangland remains fragmented, with some neighborhoods having little if any gang activity.
I still see J.T. now and then when I’m in Chicago. Although we’ve never discussed it explicitly, I don’t sense that he begrudges my success as an academic, nor does he seem bitter about his own life. “Man, as long as I’m not behind bars and breathing,” he told me, “every day is a good day.” It would be hard to call us friends. And I sometimes wonder if we ever were.
But he was obviously a huge part of my life. For all the ways in which I had become a rogue sociologist, breaking conventions and flouting the rules, perhaps the most unconventional thing I ever did was embrace the idea that I could learn so much, absorb so many lessons, and gain so many experiences at the side of a man who was so far removed from my academic world. I can still hear J.T.’s voice when I’m on the streets far away from Chicago, somewhere in the unruly Paris suburbs or the ghettos of New York, hanging around and listening to people’s stories.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Many of the names and some of the identities in this book have been changed. I also disguised some locations and altered the titles of certain organizations. But all the people, places, and institutions are real; they are not composites, and they are not fictional.
Whenever possible, I based the material on written field notes. Some of the stories, however, have been reconstructed from memory. While memory isn’t a perfect substitute for notes, I have tried my best to reproduce conversations and events as faithfully as possible.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There is one basic truth in the South Asian immigrant experience: Do as your parents tell you. This notion was put to the test during my junior year of college, when I informed my father and mother that I wanted to study sociology. My mother seemed agnostic, but such decisions were made by my father, who said he preferred that I stay on the path toward a degree in bioengineering. I was not interested in science, and after several conversations we reached a compromise: I would study theoretical mathematics.
I knew that my father supported me, and I even understood his rationale. We were immigrants with no connections, no wealth, and all we had lay between our ears; a math degree would at least guarantee me a job.
A year later, when I told my father I wanted to apply to graduate programs in sociology, he continued to support me, giving advice that I now share with my own students. His counsel often took the form of parables and was laden with examples of people he had seen succeed (and fail). What he told me might take a full evening to relay, over wine and my mother’s cooking, but the essence was always clear: write every day, visit your professors with well-formed questions, and always read everything that is recommended, not just what the professor requires.
He also taught me to shut up and listen to my advisers. In contemporary American institutions of higher learning, most people would find this instruction quaint; during a time in which the “student” has become the “customer,” this sort of thinking is considered anathema. But my father was no fan of the American educational system, so he insisted that I spend my time listening. I owe my father more than he will ever know. In life, love, and work, his wisdom would prove exceedingly valuable.
Within a few weeks of my arrival at the University of Chicago, I was lucky enough to meet William Julius Wilson, the eminent scholar of urban poverty. He made an unforgettable impression on me: he was thoughtful, choosing his words carefully, and it was obvious that I’d learn a lot if I simply paid attention. My father’s counsel echoed in my head: Listen to Bill, follow his advice, always work harder than you need to.
Throughout the course of my graduate studies, I ran into many obstacles, and Bill was always there to guide me. I brought him many typical grad-student dilemmas (How should I prepare for my exams?) and some that were less typical (If I find out that the gang plans to carry out a murder, should I tell somebody?). More than once I tested his patience; more than once he told me to stop going to my field site until things cooled off. I am one in a long line of students who have benefited from Bill Wilson’s tutelage. For his patient direction, I remain grateful.
None of this is meant to discount the role that my mother has played in my life and career. She is the most
