by Cedric Pierce
Rufus Tooks was sixteen when a stray bullet pierced his forehead, cutting his life short. I was fourteen and forever changed through witnessing his murder. While everybody ran, I was paralyzed. I still remember the half cloudy moon, the barking of dogs, rapidly overshadowed by police sirens. He didn't die instantly, with his eyes open, sporadic breathing. I could hear him in pain. "Help me, Ced."
Rufus died within 20 minutes. I've been constantly haunted by his demise. I'm unable to shake the image of his body lying on the cold gravel road. I still see the small bullet hole, with a slightly larger hole, with pieces of his platinum brains loosely hanging from the back of his head. I waited while the ambulance hauled his body away. Hypnotized by the white chalk lines. Where not long ago, a living, breathing human once lay.
At the time, I was confused. Where was his soul? I half expected to see his soul exit the body. His precious soul, the essence of Man. It would be an understatement, to say I shed tears for Rufus. We became closer, due to his death, than we were while he was alive.
The funeral, held at Jones Mortuary—what would be the being of the East Palo Alto wars—was packed. Police surrounded the funeral home, to ensure proper respect. I played the background, not desiring to face Mrs. Tooks. The Washington brothers attended. Michael, Ray and Chris Washington. They were East Palo Alto, what the Kennedy's are to America. Dwayne "Insane" Henry, and Julius "The Camel," were also there to pay respect.
There were a lot more who attended; I singled out the ones who have since joined Rufus. I had 3 years of experience of the game under my belt at the time. During these times, I would learn all there was to know.
Police would interrogate the turf to no end. However, talking to the police was a serious sin, that was punished by death. Not the kind of death that God granted Adam and Eve after eating the forbidden fruit. Snitching was an instant death. It was explained to me that police don't care about our people or neighborhood. They care about control. Justice plays no part in their system.
When a black man kills another black man the neighborhood decides what is justifiable or what punishment will be handed down. Police don't care about the deceased or the killer. As far as they are concerned one bullet kills two niggers.
Revenge would become a mandate. No politics involved. If you kill one of ours, we destroy all that you represent, respect or love. In the beginning, there were rules... They quickly became abolished. Such a savage way to exist.
With undeveloped mentalities, depraved environments, poverty and the lack of education and life skills—most of us never have a chance. Many nights I prayed that God would save me, while my days were spent doing the devil's duties. The trap was not being able to process emotions.
When you witness death after death, it becomes unnaturally easy to deal with the process. It becomes an excepted part of life. Somewhere dying and killing merges. Murderer, killer, or any other label is society's way of branding the act. However, it's never perceived as survival, or self defense. It's a struggle, a contradiction that I haven't come to terms with.
If an individual poses a threat, do we wait to be struck, or should one strike? Even if cooperation with law enforcement were allowed, by law there is nothing that can be done, due to potential threats. If the government doesn't believe potential threats aren't serious, we would have never invaded Iraq.
This doesn't justify the inner city violence. We are truly at war and under attack, without the resources and/or intelligence to save our selves. I do want to convey that we are human. We love in the only way we know how. We become forever changed by what we are taught or what we witness. I've often desired more out of my life. Not knowing how to get there. And with no one attempting to assist such a journey.
When an individual has goals, dreams, and ambitions with no outlet for such endeavors, life becomes an unbearable existence of misery. We don't become drug dealers because we desire to infest our communities with poison or play our part in genocide. We do it to live. We do it to eat. We do it to escape that feeling of being a nobody. When a person feels worthless and finds something that makes them feel special, makes them feel like their life means something... Any cost is worth paying. It has nothing to do with the legality of the act. It's a human flaw. We all want to count. Why do celebrities do the strangest things to remain in the spotlight? They're rich, beautiful, and appear to have it all. But they can't accept falling off, no longer having meaning.
Once again, this is not to justify what we do. It is my attempt to explain why. What if you envisioned never having one dream come true? Or everything that makes life worth living, never having the opportunity to participate whether real or imagined?
I wish I could be a good guy. I respect and admire Barack Obama. My eyes water, knowing I will never have what he has. Beautiful wife, who's an educated professional. Two pretty daughters. Family is a man's greatest asset. Senator Obama is in a position, that when he talks, people listen. My voice is yet to be heard. I exist, but have not lived.
Life is about position and options. The position one is capable of being placed in will be defined by one's options. Growing up, I had a lot of options. However, I was ignorant of most of them. If a person does not educate self, to any and all of life's benefits, we can only blame self. This is the life I chose.
~ 2007
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