Authors: Y. Blak Moore
Slipping (24 page)
This time he felt intense pain instead of pleasure. His lungs felt like he had swallowed molten lava. A spasm shook his frail frame like a leaf in a high wind. His nervous system went awry. The pipe slipped from his fingers as Don grabbed his left arm. Foam bubbled at the corners of his mouth. Every tortured breath he pulled into his lungs felt like he was swallowing steel-wool pads. He tried to claw his way up the wall but a pain exploded in his chest making him slide down the wall to his original sitting position. Blood began to mix with the foam dribbling down his chin out of his mouth. His brain felt tight in his skull like it was too big for the cavity. Searing hot daggers spread from his chest as if his blood had been emptied out of his body and replaced with napalm. Don convulsed again as a series of a mini-strokes paralyzed his limbs. He passed out.
When he came to, he didn't know how long he had been out, but he found he couldn't move. As long as he took short breaths, the pain in his lungs was less intense. Gathering his strength, Don tried to call out for help, but his brain couldn't convince his voice to cooperate. It didn't hurt too much to open his eyes so he lay there, watching.
The moon climbed and then dipped. It began to lighten outside as the sun started to shine down on the rooftops of the ghetto. Birds began to chirp, cheerfully unaware of Don's paralysis. With clucks, coos, and whistles they nagged him to get up and start his day. He could hear voices outside of the building now.
Police
flashed through Don's head. He whimpered as he tried to move. It was no use, his body was broken. Tears rolled into his eyes and he felt his heart beating mildly but erratically in his chest. The voices weren't in a hurry, though. He managed to calm down enough to try and hear what the unseen men were talking about. The usual authoritative, urgent tone the police used was missing. He could just make out what the voices were saying.
“Knock the sides out on the third floor and then drop that ball on through the roof,” someone shouted. “We're already behind schedule. We've got to clear this lot and clear lot seventeen by the end of this month. You lazy son of a bitches! Get that damn hose on and start spraying water on the damn building so the dust don't get too thick for us to see!”
Don felt drops of water coming through the window.
The voice continued, “Okay, Pete! Go ahead and swing that fucking ball!”
Through the open window Don watched the gigantic iron wrecking ball swinging toward the apartment. In his mind he was screaming.
Peace. I wrote
Slipping
because I wanted to give a face to the numerous victims of illegal narcotics, mainly crack cocaine, in urban America. Conspiracy theorists say that crack was part of the government's plan to destroy the Black community nationwide. That may or may not be true. I don't know if crack was designed to do that, but I know it played a huge part in it. In the late eighties and early nineties, crack cocaine took its toll on many families, whether it was the repercussions of selling it or smoking it. The simple fact is, we weren't prepared for the tidal wave of crack that flooded our neighborhoods. It has been about twenty years since crack made its appearance on our streets, and the toll it has taken has been astronomical. Just the thought of how many prisons have been built because of crack cocaine is mind-numbing.
If you think I'm playing, go to your local municipal court. Have someone point you to drug court and watch the steady procession of dealers and users.
I used to get high. It started off innocently enough at the age of twelve with a puff off a joint and a swig of beer. By the time I quit at the age of twenty, I was smoking crack on weed (premos) in near-lethal doses on a regular basis. I can remember swearing I would never smoke crack in any way, shape, or form. I'll always remember that tweaking, paranoid, exhilarating, nauseating, heart-pounding, guilty feeling that premos would give me, and I pray to Heaven that I never experience that again. I was fortunate never to have grown into a full-fledged rock star, but many of my peers weren't that lucky. Even now, after close to a decade and a half of sobriety, I know I'm always in a precarious position when it comes to chemicals—just one drink or drug away from going back down that road.
I often hear non-users swear up and down that it's simply a mind thing. I don't dispute that, but that's not the whole drug phenomenon. It's a soul thing, too. My uneducated guess is that our individual psychological makeup makes many of us susceptible to drug addiction. We spend countless dollars, hours, and energy trying to self-medicate. As a teenager I often felt lonely, awkward, maladjusted, or unloved. If I had a big bag of weed, some cocaine, raw or cooked, and some champagne with pineapple orange juice, I was good to go. This is not to say that average, everyday, normal people don't get addicted, but I think we fabulously
unbalanced people have a greater chance of becoming slaves to narcotics.
I often think about the famous “War on Drugs” and the effect it's had on people. Since the influx of crack cocaine into urban, and later, suburban America, millions, even billions of dollars have been spent on this fictitious war. Once again, politicians spent the taxpayers’ dollars to treat the symptoms, not the disease. Those funds would have been better spent building treatment centers, educating our nation about the seriousness and pervasiveness of addiction, bringing affordable mental health care to our communities, and fighting the social and economic conditions in which the crack culture flourished. Utopian-thinking, silly me.
Actually, I support the legalization of narcotics. Don't be taken aback. In certain communities, the stuff is treated like it's legal anyway. If it's legalized it will have the same drawing power as alcohol, and the government could regulate its use (if they don't already). That would remove some of the dangers associated with its use and purchase. Translation: That Fortune 500 vice president will be less likely to walk into Walgreen's and buy an eightball. Bringing a problem like this to light would give society a truthful picture of the American addict and his counterpart, the dealer. This will not happen, because it would bring our legal system to a grinding halt. We wouldn't need half as many judges, lawyers, prisons, prison guards, and police.
When I was still in the streets, every time an addict would walk up to me selling his child's diapers, his aunt's
television, or whatever, I would think about the power that drugs have over people. It also made me think about where I would be now if I hadn't gotten some help. While chasing that crack, there's no telling how many people I would have hurt, directly or indirectly. I have to thank my higher power that that isn't my life today.
It seems that the novelty of crack is finally beginning to wear off in our communities, whether because of people getting help to get their lives back, going to prison, or dying. It's not over. I'm not saying that. We have a decade-plus of hard knocks to learn from. The effort to rebuild our communities will have to be like Reconstruction after the Civil War, but it can and must be done. And if another cheap, plentiful, easily accessible drug comes along in this new millennium, I would like to think that we have learned from our mistakes and are better equipped to deal with it. Until next time, y'all.
Peace,
Y.
Blak Moore
As always I acknowledge the Creator, the beauty and wonder of our universe, and pray for an end to our depravity and insensitivity.
Tebby, I wish you would gone head and write that book. To my nephews, Dwight, Devin, and Darius.
Since this was an old school joint, I've got to acknowledge some of my old school fools: Tony Cleveland, Billy Will, my cuzo Bre, my cuzo Tanya, my little cuzos (well not so little anymore) Chad and David, Rube, Rajon, Ced, Abdullah, Junior, Vance, Brian and Pokey Peace, Scoots, Boo-Boo, Kwami, Insane Wayne, Jimmy D the King of Sig, Black Keith, Tito (RIP), Big Jerry, Anthony, Mad Max, Big Brew, Morris, Earl, Pooh Dog (RIP), Howard (RIP), Crucial, Rob Base, Big-Bank Hank, Big Martini, P-Funk, Slo-Kid,
G-Craps, Square Biz, Crackdaddy, Leroy, Pete Rose, Big Ray, Lil Essie (RIP Sleeze, love yo punk ass), King Gatty, Keno (Nolan Ryan, much love), Mickey (Mookie), Tanya (Apple-lo), Poobie (Big Al), Toya (Puffy Face), Squirrel, Boogie, Cujo (Nose), Jay, Pooh Man (Thirsty), Lil Bryan (RIP), Plucky Duck, Lil Man, Lil G (both of y'all 510 & 511), T-Man, Bubble-Yum, Chevy (RIP), Gus, Mack, Rat, Pat, Pooh (PG-Slime Thug), Thick Mick, Zonnie (Scoody Woody), Vicky Ma, Nicky Nu, Shahidah, Mary, Keisha, Jermaine (Herm), Terrell (Grimeski, shut up punk), Reggie Clark, Toke, Mike Ski, D-Low, E-ric, Shoemouth (RIP), Ice Dolen, DC, Magic Juan, Mase, Face, Bleek (Mr. Neal), Geo, 50Bill (RIP, I still owe you from that last egg/water fight), Skitback (that what you on?), Biggie, Eddie Delaney, Chill (RIP), Geno (RIP), Cocky Ed, Joe Cool, Big Shorty, Tywan, Shock Diesel, Lil Willis, Big Goon, Rachel (gray-eyed rat, you know I love you), CK, Chickaboo, Marcus Jefferson, Killa Cali, Cheesecake (RIP), Charlie Hines (RIP), Toby Blue, Big Tobe, Big Ant, Super Lou, Dwight, Hunky B, Lawrence, J-Ball, Black Jamie (RIP), Rashawn, Gigolo, Barbeque (Rapping Rodney), Tical, Smallhead, Tubby (RIP), Kemo (RIP), Marty Boo (RIP), Marly Fraud (Fraud Jenkins), D-Mike (Debo), Chuck, Floyd, Whitey (RIP), Murder Mike, Vonnie (I'll still knock you out), Punkin (Got to stay away from your hugs), Talibah (Tally what's up, pimp) Noni (Dimepiece) … Whew, that's enough.
If I missed you, I'm sorry. If you can't accept that KMA.
The questions and discussion topics that follow are intended to enhance your group's reading of Y. Blak Moore's
Slipping.
We hope they will provide new ways of looking at this insightful novel.
The overarching theme of
Slipping
seems to be that using crack is a one-way road to destruction. Do you think Don-Don's story is realistic? Why or why not?Juanita enters Don-Don's life during a basketball game, by chance. And eventually she is the person who convinces Don-Don to smoke crack. Do you think that if he had never met her that he would probably not have ever tried that particular drug? If you think he would have
become a crackhead anyway, discuss why. If you think it was entirely her fault, explain why.Dre is Don-Don's oldest friend and he is the last person who wants to believe that Don-Don is becoming a tweaker. When Don-Don goes after his old crew to get some help hustling, they reject him—and so does Dre. Is this an example of the worst kind of betrayal? Or is there anything wrong with Don-Don's predicament at this point?
Rhonda, Don-Don's sister, seems to sense that something is wrong with her baby brother, and Mrs. Haskill, Don-Don's mother, also gets worried when her son disappears for long stretches of time. But neither of the two women ever catch on to how bad things get for Don-Don and what his and Juanita's life is like cooped up in his bedroom. Do you think Don-Don's family should have, or could have, intervened sooner to steer him away from his tragic path? If yes, what could they have done differently?
Growing up in the hood is challenging for all of the kids in
Slipping,
and most of the characters in the book make their living off of selling drugs or selling stolen goods. A few people, however, like Rhonda, Don-Don's sister, are determined to get degrees and get jobs and move out. How is it that two kids from the same family (Don-Don and Rhonda) could lead such drastically different lives, with entirely different goals?Slipping
demonstrates with violent clarity how vicious a street thug has to be in order to survive, but it also
shows how the influx of crack use inside the African American community might have introduced a new kind of desperation for addicts. Do you think the author convincingly portrays what new problems this drug might have produced? How does the author paint the “before-crack” and “after-crack” picture of the hood?Don-Don seems to have little remorse for how he treats Juanita, and doesn't have many qualms about killing any obstacle in his way by the end of the novel. Is this part of Don-Don's innate personality or did the crack do this to him? If you think it's the crack, explain why you think crack motivates Don-Don. If you think he would have turned out like that anyway, explain what motivates Don-Don.
In a couple places in the novel, the author states that a Black man is standing on the corner doing what Black men everywhere do: stand on the corner and wait for a hustle. Is this true, and if so, what does it imply about urban African American men? Discuss who is responsible for this situation. If false, explain why the author would make this apparent exaggeration.
Is how Don-Don leads his life wrong? If yes, explain why. If no, explain why his actions are justified.
Why is it that Don-Don fell victim to crack abuse while his closest friends did not? Does the fact that they didn't become tweakers suggest that crack use didn't sweep the African American community as strongly as the author wants us to believe?