the Other Wes Moore (2010) (27 page)

"So tell me more about yourself," she began.

I had been spending so much time with my home-stay brother, Zinzi, his friend Simo, and the other Americans I'd come with, and attending our classes at the university, that I had not had a chance to really speak with her yet. Our tea turned into a three-hour marathon of stories about our lives, fears, and dreams. She explained to me the color dynamic in South Africa, how there I would be considered colored because I was not dark enough to be considered black. Colored was a concept created during the apartheid era to further isolate the races--coloreds received more privileges than blacks did. Not many more, but enough to seed antagonism between the two groups. The lighter your skin was in apartheid South Africa, the better off you were.

I learned about the music of the apartheid era and how it was the musicians and artists, even more than the politicians and activists, who informed the world about the country's injustices. I also learned about
ubuntu
--the Xhosa word for humanity--and the power of authentic leadership as exhibited by giants like Nelson Mandela and a thousand other self-sacrificing visionaries who had managed the unforeseen transition from apartheid to democracy without a bloodbath.

On our third cup of tea, Mama began to tell me about her husband and his role as a freedom fighter during apartheid. She told me about how he and his fellow soldiers were intimidated, arrested, and beaten for failing to comply with government rules about carrying personal identification cards. I listened in amazement and horror as, through trembling lips, she talked about the hopelessness the people felt during this time and the pain of knowing that this level of segregation, this level of poverty, this level of depression was being imposed on a people for things they were in no way responsible for, or should be ashamed of. Finally I had to stop her. "Mama, I am sorry to disturb you, but I am very confused. After all of this pain and heartache, how are you now able to forgive? You seem so at peace with yourself and your life. How are you so able to move on?"

She gave me an easy half smile and took another sip from her mug. "Because Mr. Mandela asked us to."

I'd expected more. I'd expected her to tell me that she was still working on her revenge scheme, or that she was afraid their weapons were too strong so there was no use in fighting. But her simple and profound answer helped me to understand that
ubuntu
was not simply a word. It was a way of life. Her candor and exquisite simplicity framed the rest of my trip and helped me better understand the land I was living in. It also helped me complete a thought that had begun that night with my father and developed through my training and education, and my time with Mayor Schmoke in Baltimore.

The common bond of humanity and decency that we share is stronger than any conflict, any adversity, any challenge. Fighting for your convictions is important. But finding peace is paramount. Knowing when to fight and when to seek peace is wisdom.
Ubuntu
was right. And so was my father. Watende, my middle name, all at once made perfect sense.

A few days later, I finally had a chance to talk to my mother on the phone. I was excited to share all of my experiences. And she, having never been to South Africa, was excited to hear my detailed descriptions. She updated me on how everything was going back home and then shared a piece of strange local news.

"Everything is fine, but I have something crazy to tell you. Did you know the cops are looking for another guy from your neighborhood with your name for killing a cop?"

A few weeks before I was set to leave South Africa and return to the States, I was walking with Zinzi and Simo from the
kumbi
, or bus station, back to the house. The once overwhelming sensory overload of township life now seemed second nature to me.
Kwaito
, a South African mix of hip-hop and house music, blared from cars that passed us. Children kicked soccer balls back and forth on the dirt-covered road, with large rocks serving as goalposts. Women spoke loudly to one another while carrying bags in their arms and on their heads. The sounds of the quick, click-ridden Xhosa language was everywhere. I was beginning to understand the language, and the feel of the street life. My stride through the Langa streets was slower and less frantic than it had been. I was finally feeling at home.

My friendship with Zinzi and Simo had also grown significantly. Every day after class, we would walk around the neighborhoods, talking to girls on the university campus, going to Mama Africa restaurant to grab one of the best steaks I've ever tasted, or watching cricket at a local watering hole. All of this felt particularly sweet in these last days, as the nostalgia that kicks in at the end of any meaningful experience had started to affect us. Simo looked up at us and said, "So both of you all are leaving soon? What am I supposed to do then?" Both Zinzi and I were about to embark on journeys. I would soon be heading back to the United States, where, in a matter of months, I would be accepting my degree from the president of Johns Hopkins, William Brody, who had become a cherished mentor and friend. Despite entering the school with lower scores than the average student, I would walk across the stage as a Phi Beta Kappa graduate who was also the first Rhodes Scholar in thirteen years at Johns Hopkins and the first African-American Rhodes Scholar in school history.

Zinzi, now seventeen years old, was preparing to take the same path as generations of Xhosa boys before him. He would be leaving soon to spend four weeks in the "bush," where he and dozens of other boys would join an aggregate of elders and learn what it means to be a Xhosa man. Within days of arriving, the young men would be circumcised, their foreskins removed like childish cloaks now deemed unnecessary. During the weeks it takes the circumcision to heal, they would learn about the history of the tribe, the battles they'd fought, the land they protected, the leaders they'd created. They would learn about what it means to be a good father and a good husband. The boys would meditate and pray together, eat together, and heal together.

They would return to their homes as heroes. A large feast would be cooked for them. They would wear all white for the month after returning, symbolizing that a boy had left but a man had returned. They would be spoken to differently, viewed differently. I asked Zinzi if he was scared.

"Not really, man, we all have to go through it. Besides, I saw when my older brother went through it and how much respect he got. It will be fine."

"Yeah, but I can't imagine that whole circumcision thing without any drugs, man. Way too painful if you ask me!"

Simo smirked at the thought of it while shaking his head. Zinzi laughed and said, "I hear you, but it's not the process you should focus on; it's the joy you will feel after you go through the process."

We walked through the small alley that separated the main road from Mshumpela Street. Our conversation strayed back to sports and gossip, but as we passed through the alley I was struck by the sight of a young man, splendid in an all-white outfit, from his shoes to his wide-brimmed hat. He appeared barely pubescent but was walking with the dignity of a man double his age. Because of Zinzi, I knew exactly what that man had gone through and the pride and admiration his family now shared about his accomplishment.

My head turned, and I stared at the young man. His bright eyes and straight back demanded attention. The confidence in his stride was something that Zinzi did not yet have, something that Simo did not yet have. Something that I did not yet have.

And again I thought of home. I realized just how similar were the challenges the young boys here and kids like the ones I grew up with faced. In both places, young men go through a daily struggle trying to navigate their way through deadly streets, poverty, and the twin legacies of exclusion and low expectations. But they are not completely unequipped--they also have the history of determined, improvisational survival, a legacy of generations who fought through even more oppressive circumstances. One of the key differences between the two was in the way their communities saw them. Here, burgeoning manhood was guided and celebrated through a rite of passage. At home, burgeoning manhood was a trigger for apprehension. In the United States, we see these same faces, and our reflex is to pick up our pace and cross the street. And in this reflexive gesture, the dimensions of our tragedy are laid bare. Our young men--along with our young women--are our strength and our future. Yet
we fear them
. This tall South African who now captured my attention wore his manhood as a sign of accomplishment, a badge of honor. His process was a journey taken with his peers, guided by his elders, and completed in a celebration. He was now a man. His community welcomed him.

His tribe's influence in making him a man was obvious and indelible. At that moment, I realized the journey I took was never mine alone either. Our eyes met, and he smiled and nodded his head. I nodded my head in return.

Epilogue

Wes has spent every day of his life since 2000 in the Jessup Correctional Institution, a maximum-security facility in Maryland. His day begins at 5:30 A.M. He works as a carpenter, making desks and tables, and sometimes he makes license plates. He gets paid about fifty-three cents a day, which he can use at the prison commissary to buy toothpaste, snacks, stamps, and other miscellaneous items. Lights go out at 10:00 P.M. Guards tell him when to wake up, when to eat, and when to go to the bathroom. He has two hours of free time a day, "outside time" that he can use to play basketball or talk to other inmates.

Wes is now a devout Muslim. Initially, he went to Friday mosque services because they were the only opportunity he had to see his brother, Tony, who was also in Jessup, but eventually he started to pay attention to the message and decided to learn more. He is now a leader in the significant Muslim community in the Jessup prison.

Wes's family still visits him occasionally, but the visits are not easy on Wes. He is exhaustively searched before being let into the visitors' area. The joy he feels when he is sitting across from a loved one quickly dissipates at the end of the visit as he walks back through the gate to his cell. It hurts him that he has no control over what's happening with his family on the outside. He has stopped answering questions like "How are you doing?" His answer doesn't change. His days don't change. When he gets visitors, he mainly sits and listens.

In 2008, Wes and many of his fellow inmates followed the presidential campaign closely, hoping for the election of the first black president in American history. The inmates celebrated when Barack Obama won, but their enthusiasm faded quickly. Wes and the other lifers realized that, no matter who the president was, their fate was sealed.

At the time of this book's writing, Wes has just become a grandfather. He is serving the tenth year of a life sentence. He is thirty-three years old.

Here's what some of the other characters in this story have been up to since 2000:

My mother retired from her job with a foundation for disadvantaged children, where she managed communications for grantees. She is now running her own consultancy focused on helping foundations use film and media to tell their stories. She works in Baltimore and lives just outside the city. She says she enjoys the slower pace and quiet. She remains the rock of our family.

My sisters are both doing very well. Nikki runs her own event-planning business in Virginia. Shani graduated from Princeton University in 2001, after which she attended Stanford Law School on a full scholarship. She and her husband live in Los Angeles.

Uncle Howard has remained a mentor and guide in my life and was the co-best-man (along with Justin) at my wedding. He lives in southern New Jersey with my aunt Pam and their two daughters.

Despite having a difficult time with the death of his mother, Justin managed to finish high school strong and received a scholarship to college. While he was in his senior year of college, his father passed away in a house fire, and Justin himself battled and beat a rare form of cancer. Since graduating from college, he has worked in education and now serves as dean at a prestigious high school outside Philadelphia. He has devoted his professional life to addressing the educational disparities in this country.

Captain Ty Hill graduated from Valley Forge Military College and earned the rank of second lieutenant in the United States Army Reserve. He served in the Army as an officer from 1992 to 1999 and has worked as a corporate lawyer since. He was a groomsman at my wedding and remains a cherished friend and mentor. He lives in New York and still intimidates the hell out of me.

My grandfather passed away from complications of stomach cancer in 2005. Despite the best efforts of my chain of command to get me back to the Bronx from Afghanistan, I could not get there in time to say goodbye. Fortunately, I was able to be home for his funeral and was one of hundreds who were there to pay their respects and let him know how much he meant to us as he was laid to rest.