DAMN: An Emotional and Physical Journey Through the Corridors of the Justice System

By Wallace Sharik Winstead

DAMN: Emotional and Physical Journey Through the Corridors of the Justice System uncovers the hidden and taboo stories of gay relationships within the prison system. Venturing into a world often associated with violence and isolation, this book offers an intimate glimpse into the lives of individuals seeking love, intimacy, and self-authentication under the harshest of conditions. Drawing on firsthand accounts, research, and personal experiences, the author delves into the labyrinth of emotions, charting both the struggles and the triumphs that defy the barriers of incarceration.

This compelling narrative serves not just as a testament to human resilience and the transformative power of love, but also as a call to action. Addressing the systemic issues that exacerbate the hardships faced by LGBTQ+ individuals behind bars, it challenges us to confront our biases and advocate for a more inclusive and empathetic prison system. A catalyst for meaningful conversations and reforms, this book reminds us of the inherent worth of every human being, urging us toward a more equitable and compassionate society.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: May 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9798889107996

Wallace Sharik Winstead

Wallace Sharik Winstead, a native of Newark, NJ, for whom justice involved beginning at 12. With this first offering of DAMN: Emotional and Physical Journey Through the Corridors of the Justice System, Wallace delves into the topics of sexual, physical, and emotional abuse like no other. Using his personal experiences, Wallace holds nothing back. As disturbing and frightening as these experiences are to others, this book examines the penal culture for both juveniles and adults. Wallace, upon his release from the Federal Bureau of Prisons, went on to earn his associate’s degree in social science from Essex County College, a bachelor’s in political science, and a master’s in political science/international relations from Rutgers University, Newark. Currently, Wallace is pursuing his master’s in public health/epidemiology. In the fall of 2024, Wallace will be pursuing his PhD in criminology at Rutgers. Wallace is also a member of the Pi Sigma Alpha political science honor society at Rutgers University Newark, an alumni of the Black Organization of Students, as well as NJPIRG at Rutgers University Newark. Wallace serves as the president of the CAB (Consumer Advisory Board) for Newark Community Health Centers in Newark, NJ.

Book preview

DAMN: An Emotional and

Physical Journey Through

the Corridors of the

Justice System

Wallace Sharik Winstead

Austin Macauley Publishers

DAMN: An Emotional and Physical Journey Through the Corridors of the Justice System

About the Author

Dedication

Copyright Information ©

Acknowledgment

Introduction

Book I

Living for the City Stevie Wonder

Little Walter Tony! Toni! Toni!

It Gets No Rougher LL Cool J

The Nightmare Begins

Heat of the Moment After 7

Thieves in the Temple Prince

Book II

Tennessee Arrested Development

Monster Created

Book III

Book IV

You Are My Sunshine

Jimmie Davis/Charles Mitchell

Take Me There Blackstreet

Book V

Welcome to the Jungle

We Can Do It Anywhere 112

Book VI

Legendary

Where My Girls At? 702

What’Chu Like Da Brat

No Matter What They Say Lil Kim

Book VII

I Come to You More Than I Give Kim Burrell

Don’t You Forget It Glenn Lewis

So Gone Monica

Just a Lonely Christmas The Supremes

My Place Nelly

Bad Habit Destiny’s Child

Book VIII

Book IX

The Ending of the Beginning

References

About the Author

Wallace Sharik Winstead, a native of Newark, NJ, for whom justice involved beginning at 12. With this first offering of DAMN: Emotional and Physical Journey Through the Corridors of the Justice System, Wallace delves into the topics of sexual, physical, and emotional abuse like no other. Using his personal experiences, Wallace holds nothing back. As disturbing and frightening as these experiences are to others, this book examines the penal culture for both juveniles and adults. Wallace, upon his release from the Federal Bureau of Prisons, went on to earn his associate’s degree in social science from Essex County College, a bachelor’s in political science, and a master’s in political science/international relations from Rutgers University, Newark. Currently, Wallace is pursuing his master’s in public health/epidemiology. In the fall of 2024, Wallace will be pursuing his PhD in criminology at Rutgers. Wallace is also a member of the Pi Sigma Alpha political science honor society at Rutgers University Newark, an alumni of the Black Organization of Students, as well as NJPIRG at Rutgers University Newark. Wallace serves as the president of the CAB (Consumer Advisory Board) for Newark Community Health Centers in Newark, NJ.

Dedication

I dedicate this book to all the victims of sexual, physical, and mental abuse while incarcerated in juvenile and adult correctional systems, both state and federal. I also dedicate this book to my mother, Lolanda Winstead Green, who passed away on November 28, 2020. She has always been my champion and believed that I could overcome anything. She was not just the loud voice in my head; she was the soft voice that encouraged me to believe in myself and to know that my story was never finished, regardless of the horrors in my life.

Also to my sisters, Sabema and Crystal Winstead, who always had confidence in who I was/am. My youngest brother, John S. Walker Jr., who understood and respected my vision. My best friends: Susan Hampstead of Hampstead Publishing, Angela Cheek, a school administrator in North Carolina, and Garin Hilton, a teacher in New Jersey who pushed me academically.

Author Keith Middleton, a poet and publisher of Raw Thoughtz LLC, who read and reread my book numerous times. He gave me so much advice and sent me positive affirmations every day. I am so thankful. I could never forget my right hand and right foot, Torian D. Holder Jr., for holding me down as I aspired to accomplish so many things post-release.

I am appreciative of the love and thoughtfulness from all in my life.

Copyright Information ©

Wallace Sharik Winstead 2024

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

All of the events in this memoir are true to the best of author’s memory. The views expressed in this memoir are solely those of the author

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Winstead, Wallace Sharik

DAMN: An Emotional and Physical Journey Through the Corridors of the

Justice System

ISBN 9798889107972 (Paperback)

ISBN 9798889107989 (Hardback)

ISBN 9798889107996 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023919710

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

Acknowledgment

I would like to acknowledge Austin Macauley Publishers for believing in the material and message of my manuscript. I would also like to acknowledge my extended Winstead family, who inspires me daily with a passion to do what you love and do it as best you can, especially my cousin Monique Winstead Bonilla, who has employed me when I didn’t have a job or needed extra money to pursue my dreams of education and writing my book. My cousin, Al Tariq Ibn Shabazz, who has helped me in ways too many to count. I thank my church family members at Union Gospel Tabernacle of Newark, Inc.: Rachel Hester and Beverly McConnell Lambert, who make me feel loved.

Lastly, and most importantly, I thank God because I know that I have a story to tell. I am inspired to live in my truth and be able to honestly tell my story in the hopes that it will positively impact lives and ultimately change the penal system.

Introduction

How do we, as a society, view the juvenile criminal justice system? Many would like to believe that the purpose it serves is to rehabilitate and re-educate. The same goes for the adult criminal justice system. I have been incarcerated as both. There were things that I have experienced that would make those who view themselves as emotionally strong feel vulnerable. Some of these things have been hard to verbalize. The memories have been painful. It is my fervent desire to be as forthcoming as possible.

The language that is being used is language that is true to those moments, those moments that were truly defining. The moments that created a person whose therapy is a daily process. In telling these stories, I chose the stories that are most relevant to who I was and matter of fact, determined who I was to be.

I researched many authors and authorities in this field to try to get a better understanding in the hopes that I would be able to articulate more succinctly what I have suffered through. Initially, I didn’t know I was suffering through it, I went through it, the best way I knew how. I thought I relied on the incarcerated community: officers, case managers, psychologists, and administrators. In actuality, I relied on faith and myself for the most part to survive. The reality is, my peers played a special role in my development, both negatively and positively. We were everything to each other: Father, mother, friend, and lover.

I read an article by John Hegger that states:

Biological risk factors can be defined as anything that impinges on the child from conception to birth (Kaiser & Rasminsky, 2010). Many people would be surprised to hear that criminal behavior can be broken down and identified as early as conception. However, if we consider the fact that parents genetically pass on their prior behavior, we can try to begin to understand that parents who may have possessed criminogenic needs, could potentially pass on those traits that lead to criminal behavior. Genes even help shape the environment. Genes influence how parents bring up their children; genes affect the responses that children evoke from their families and the others around them; and, as children grow older, genes sway their choice of companions and surroundings (Kaiser & Rasminsky, 2010). Genes can define an individual’s ability to control temperament, impulsivity, low self-esteem, and a lack of empathy.

One of the easiest topics to discuss as it relates to how biological factors can contribute to criminal behavior would be substance abuse. When the faces of sisters and brothers in a family resemble those of their parents, physical inheritance has clearly played a role in the clustering of physical characteristics within the family (Miller & Carroll, 2006). If physical characteristics are passed on from generation to generation, it is certainly possible for psychological characteristics to be passed on as well. Some of those psychological characteristics include genes that are directly associated with substance abuse, which can often lead to increased negative criminal behavior. Hegger, J., May 20, 2015.

(hhttps://www.police1.com/corrections/articles/6-traits-that-lead-to-criminal-behavior)

Does this article help explain why and how I was introduced into the juvenile justice system? Does it explain my thought process and the acceptance of my behaviors, ultimately ignoring behaviors that were aggressive, violent, and unthoughtful as I progressed toward the unknown?

This book hopefully explains, or rather answers those questions. As you read or listen, depending on your mode of media, I need you to not just hear my voice, but the voice of those who were there with me. The voice of those incarcerated, as well as correctional staff. Hopefully, you will walk away informed. Hopefully, we all can be change agents. Changing how we view the penal system and what we can do to make it truly rehabilitative.

Book I

Some may wonder why I am writing this book. Sometimes I wonder the same thing. It is my belief that my autobiography will inform, no matter how vulgar, direct, and depressing the words may be to create policies that will protect children in the juvenile justice system and address mitigating factors that contributes to these same children who graduate from one system onto the next.

Everyone has a story to tell. In telling our stories, there is a lesson to learn I would assume. We can all learn a thing or two from someone else’s story. I have decided or rather discovered that many people will read this book because they simply want to know the real and uncensored experiences of someone who has experienced the juvenile justice system.

My life has transitioned from one dramatic phase to another. During these transitions, I have discovered who I am and the things that have transpired in my life is what has ultimately molded me into the person that I am today. Surely this book may upset some people because of the truth telling. I totally understand if it would. There will be some pain and discourse. Some will even be angry with me about the fact that I am divulging this type of information. The question will be asked why. In some instances, I will not tell everything, simply a perfunctory glance.

Ironically, I am used to criticism because I have lived such a complex life once upon a time. Sometimes, even now, my life can be complex and confusing as I deal with not demons, but decisions I have made. I have been learning through life’s journey that I am not perfect, and neither is anyone else that I have met. I am encouraged by this knowledge to be as transparent as I possibly can. Living in this truth, is consequentially freeing.

Because I must live in this truth, all situations are true to the best of my memory. Out of respect for the family members of all participants in my journey, their names will be changed. I want the reader to get the true message of what I am attempting to convey. I apologize right here and right now for any offense of characterization of anyone, and I also apologize for any offensive language. I feel that without the proper use of the true language of those moments, the true emotion and gravitas will not be felt. I need you to get lost in what I am saying. I need for you to forego any decorum or shock. I need for you, the reader, to understand that this is my life and that those standards during these times may or may not be yours. Do not feel guilty by getting to really know me and the circumstances that created me. Most of all, I need you to understand that God created everyone different and because of these differences, we all are uniquely us.

Living for the City

Stevie Wonder

I am a Newark kid and proud of it. Proud of the history of Newark, NJ. Proud that Newark is the birthplace of patent leather, Thomas Edison, Reverend Hannibal Goodwin, who developed flexible film for motion pictures, Edward Weston, who invented electrical measuring instruments. Proud of the artist that called Newark home; Amiri Baraka, Joe Pesci, Brian DePalma, Whitney Houston, Sarah Vaughn, Shaquille O’Neal, Savion Glover, and James Moody, Reverend Peter Winstead Sr., my great uncle, the first super star gospel artist in Newark, just to name a few.

I am not really sure how to describe my family or my socioeconomic background. With Black families, it is a hard task. What I do know is, we were far from rich, far from it in the economic sense. The sociopolitical atmosphere of those that grow up in urban areas can see the hardscrabble life around them but very rarely see it in their own life. Was I ever hungry? No. Were my clothes raggedy? Was the house or apartment I lived in unsuitable? No and no! Did my family go on trips and eat lobster? Yes, and yes. I am under the impression that my parents not only worked, but they were also hustlers. They did whatever it took to make sure that our family was alright. For the most part, I was genuinely happy and with this happiness, I felt rich. Rich with love and rich with experiences.

Most of my relatives on my maternal side helped to raise my six siblings and I. We did a lot of house hopping, visiting relatives throughout the city, participating in church functions, going on family excursions to other states, and simply being allowed to be expressive. Being allowed to be you is a joy within itself and a source of enrichment. These experiences made me full and not afraid to explore.

I am the third oldest out of seven. I have two older brothers, two younger sisters, and then, two younger brothers after them. I would have to describe my oldest brother Teron as a very dominant, narcissistic, and diabolical individual. Some may say it was simply self-confidence with an amalgamation of sinister stories and pranks. I sincerely idolized him growing up. In spite of what I considered negative attributes. I understood his character to be self-assured. He was/is artistic, expressive, handsome, popular, charismatic, and in my opinion, a silly rabbit. Secretly, I was an undeveloped version of him. Chucquan, the second oldest and a year older than me, was simply my partner in crime. If there was something wrong to do, we did it together. We thought the same things were funny, everything. We experienced the same attitude and emotions about most things, sometimes we reacted differently, but we always reacted.

My two sisters: Crystal and Sabema were…girls. Growing up, I did not understand much about them. Crystal was all rough and tumble. She either tried to hang out with the boys or did. We couldn’t do much around her because she would ultimately tell our parents. Sabema was stuck in her feminine world. Make-up, jewelry, hair, and doll babies. Check. The second to last boy was Josh. Josh was given up for adoption because my mother was a young mother of 6 at the age of 24 and overwhelmed at the time in 1981. To alleviate the struggle of Josh being an additional child, my uncle Mike and his wife Sharon adopted Josh while we all lived in the same house on N. 5th Street.

That was a strange experience. One moment you see your mother pregnant and then the next, your uncle and his wife are carrying the baby around introducing the baby to visitors as their baby. Back in those days, I didn’t care how expressive the children were allowed to be, you stayed out of adult business, something we children did. We all acted like what was going on was normal.

Up until this moment, outside of my mom and dad being together off and on, I could not identify relationships. I had no idea what to look for. Honestly, I would hear terms such as friend or my baby but didn’t totally get the concept of grown people being together in that sense. It was also during this time that law enforcement showed up to our house on multiple occasions looking for my mother. I never knew what the reasons where. Most times, they would arrest her and take her away. She wasn’t gone for long as my great aunts and grandmothers would come back with her. We began to move around a lot after my mother’s last arrest.

I can’t quite remember when my mother began to bring home this really nice guy once we moved to a ginormous apartment in East Orange, NJ on Park Avenue. His first name was John and that is what she called him but us kids called him Steve. Believe it or not, some people prefer to live in anonymity, so I won’t discuss him in depth. He was loquacious, fun, and interesting. More importantly, my mother really liked him and that satisfied me the most. As her children, we never had a one-on-one introduction to any male figure in her life. When there was a male figure, the introduction was usually in a group setting or family outing. Before long, this gentleman was coming over for dinner, taking my mother out to dinner as my aunt Linda babysat, and just being there for us when my mother had things to do. I felt something new and fresh in the air. My mother was excited and before long, she stopped smoking cigarettes, using sunflower seeds as a replacement/deterrent. I began to notice that my mother was more relaxed and maturing. She was always an exciting person. She was always grinding to make life better for us children. She essentially did it on her own. Like I said before, we were never hungry or went without clothing or the latest toys.

My mother was the true definition of disciplinarian. Whew! She could really hand out a good ass-whooping. Her tolerance for disrespect was zero. She said something and she meant it before she could fully get it out of her mouth and before we could fully hear it. As tough as my mother was, I was not afraid of her. She was mom. I felt all of her was simply her. I also had nothing to compare her with. I understood that we needed to be disciplined because my mother’s sons were out of control. Although, not in the house, except this one time. I had the audacity to steal some cigarettes from the bodega. I was also throwing my typical candy party in my bedroom, something that I usually did on the weekends. So, I sneaked the cigarettes in the room where all my siblings were in attendance. We all were enjoying our candy when I suddenly pulled out the cigarettes. My older brother’s eyes got big with surprise and fear. They told me that I was crazy, and that mommy was going to kill me. I shrugged them off and turned the fan backward in the window to suck the smoke out the room.

I went to the kitchen, peeked in my mother’s room briefly (she was sound asleep) and lit some rolled-up tissue and hurried back to the room. I lit the cigarettes and inhaled deeply. My chest was on fire, and I erupted into a violent cough. I stuck the cigarette out for someone to grab it while I attempted to get my breathing under control. After passing the cigarette around a few times, everyone faux smoked, the cigarette was passed back to me. The bedroom door exploded open and there was my mother, eyes full of rage. I am standing there with a lit cigarette in my mouth. It wasn’t even a Newport or a Kool. Some generic brand that they sold from the top of the counter that I swiped easily! My mother looked around the room before focusing on me. She said, "you done really, realllly lost your mind! You are smoking in my house WHILE I AM IN THE HOUSE! And then she was upon me. It felt like I was inside a spinning washing machine. When I collected myself, I thought she was on me again, even though I was in another room. I don’t know how I got in there, but I was trapped. My mother had her eye on a waist high bookshelf. I thought for sure that I was dead. My youngest brother John Jr. better known as Boobie, miraculously appeared. Mommy," his little two-year-old voice floated into the room. The voice of an angel. She stopped to look and answer him. That was my opportunity to run past her and make it to the door. I hit those locks like Flo-Jo crossing that finish line at the 100. I was sure that she was going to throw it at me. I was so brazen most of the time. I don’t know where that personality trait came from because my other brothers and sisters were not like that.

My youngest brother Boobie was born in 1986 from the union of my mom and John Steven. Boobie was actually the second John. My mother miscarried and had a still born the previous year. It was pretty traumatizing for the family. First, the situation with Josh and then losing a baby. Two of my mother’s last 2 pregnancies ended in disaster. My mother was a very strong woman, and she also still had a family to take care of. Life kind of went on but I could see there was an apparent sadness that overwhelmed my mother. We continued with life and then she got pregnant again. The whole family was happy for her.

John Steven was a blessing to our family in more ways than one. He was the male figure in our life, something that we didn’t really have although we had our father. Our father battled drug addiction. In particular he battled a heroin addiction, but he was still an awesome person and he tried to be involved as much as the drugs allowed him to be. My aunts on my paternal side took a special interest in us all and made sure that they came and picked us up and exposed us to our paternal side family.

Boobie, my youngest brother, was very unique. For one, he was the youngest. There was a significant age gap compared to us all. There was a six-and-a-half-year difference between Sabema and a twelve-year difference between the oldest, Teron. I don’t think he fully fit in because of this age gap. As he was coming along, we all began to develop into teenagers and therefore our own lives. We loved him deeply and he had a special place in all of our lives. He was the youngest and we were determined to make him a focal point.

Our family and friends adored him. Because of him having a different father and last name, not having the deep connections to our elder family members, I am certain he felt isolated through life. Just made this clear through life and ultimately separated himself from the family on numerous occasions. His common gripe was he didn’t know the family like we did.

Little Walter

Tony! Toni! Toni!

In life we are faced with so many different things. You know, the type of things that have the possibility to embarrass us and make us ashamed to share those things. I’m speaking about numerous things but mainly homosexuality in particular. You know, as a child growing up, I was angry at God because I felt this attraction that I had toward the same sex was confusing and embarrassing. I wondered why me and where did this come from. What did I do?

I was afraid. I remember suppressing it out of fear due to the embarrassment and the shame. I felt in my heart that it was wrong to have these feelings and desires. It had nothing to do with my religious background, upbringing, or my family in particular. I just knew that it was inherently wrong. I can’t quite explain it. It was this deep-seated feeling that I could not shake. Writing these words brings back very sad memories to me. I have had to pause a few times because of the overwhelming emotions. Throughout the years, it has been a constant struggle to suppress these feelings. The fight seems as if it is unwinnable. This constant never-ending battle has been fought with girlfriends, plenty of sex, abstinence, and prayer.

I come from a very large family of siblings. I am the third oldest and I take my position in my family very seriously. Generally, I’m a very loving and caring person. I don’t like to let anyone down. I am supportive by nature. I like to be supportive and care about my family. I try to supply any type of need when I am in the position to provide those needs. I have been known to create situations where I will force a need to be met by doing whatever it takes.

I grew up feeling just like a regular boy, or whatever most people deem as being a regular boy. I was always told I was attractive. I liked playing sports, liked plenty of girls. On the dark side, I was attracted to boys. Every time I think about it, I get very frustrated and disillusioned. My brain still cannot process it. Because of these feelings, I spent most of my youth and young adult life doing things that I considered masculine. Things that family and friends, and the media decided was masculine acts, even if they were stupid things to do.

In 1989 my family moved to North Carolina. My mother’s mother battled a long illness and wanted to move from Newark, NJ. Of course, my mother, being the only child, went with her. That wasn’t my mother’s only reason. It was her attempt to save her sons from a life of probable crime and dangerous living in the city. My brothers and I had already begun to involve ourselves in petty crime. Once you start, it only metastasizes. None of my siblings wanted to go. We were adventurists and thought it cool, but we knew it to be life changing. We were leaving other relatives and our friends. The move happened so quickly we didn’t have much time to process it. We just went along with the flow. What else were we going to do?

Wow, it was wonderful when I moved to North Carolina. It seemed sunnier. The air was fresher, the people kinder, and most importantly, my grandmother loved it. Our house was nice, and we had plenty of yard space. Our neighbors did act like we were aliens because we were from out of town. It seems as if we moved there on a Monday and on Tuesday, we were already enrolled in school. My middle school’s name was William R. Davie, but the locals pronounced it as wilmardayyyveee.

My grandmother stayed with us for a week while her new house was getting painted. She mainly slept on the couch in the living room. She was a little lady, and the couch seemed to suck her up. The living room had a door and was separated from the rest of the house. She spent her days there watching television and would occasionally leave with my mother to get her business in order. One day, while at school, my mother went to check on her and she did not respond. My mother kept calling her, afraid to touch her but then my grandmother opened her eyes and busted out laughing. My mother told her that that wasn’t funny. My grandmother asked her what she would have done if she was dead.

My grandmother eventually moved to her new house on Maple St. in Weldon, NC the very next day. My brother Chucquan and I went with her to do some final cleaning. She actually just monitored us. She had congestive heart failure and didn’t have much energy to do anything but watch. Us being mischievous, we found ourselves in the attic crawl space. It was creepy. We had never been in an attic crawl space before. We mainly lived in buildings growing up. We pretended we were in a scary movie as we balanced ourselves on the beams, walking around in the humidity. We were laughing until we both missed a beam that wasn’t there. We vanished into thin air like a ghost, both of us miraculously falling on top of the refrigerator and then onto the floor covered in dust and fiberglass insulation. My grandmother began to scream, asking what happened. When she made it into the kitchen, she began to laugh. She was so silly! Great sense of humor just like my mother. They both found humor in almost everything. We lay there a little banged up looking at each other in shock and then we both began to laugh.

My mother picked us up and asked what we thought about her new place. We thought it was wonderful and felt that it fit her well. Of course, she chastised us for falling through the ceiling and then she laughed! I was happy and my mother was happy. Life could get no better. The following morning while preparing for school, my mother told me that I will not be going to school because she wanted to check on her mother. My siblings protested. That is just how my mother and I were. She was tough on me, probably tougher on me than my other siblings. We just had this connection. We totally got each other. My personality is like hers. Some people couldn’t see it because they didn’t really know her or rather, she never boxed herself in. She kept secrets for herself. I did a great job of that for many years and still do, to a certain degree. Now, this is what I learned from her. Never let the left hand know what the right hand is doing.

My mother, Boobie and I left the house as the school buses were pulling off. My mother picked up our neighbor Gloria as well, so she could show my mother a few things in town that she was interested in. The ten minutes ride was uneventful. We drove in silence most of the way until we pulled up in front of my grandmother’s house on Maple Street. We exited the car, and my mother began to knock on the door. There was no answer as we all stood on the porch. We did notice her car was missing. Upon further inspection, her little blue Sunbird was parked on the other side of the U-Haul. My mother began to bang furiously and even called her name a few times. My mother directed me to check the back of the house where my grandmother’s room was located. When I got to the back of the house, I began peeking in the windows. I was a little confused as to which window was her bedroom window. Finally, I found it. I peered through the window and saw an arm raised slightly in the air, supported by a few pillows stacked on each other. My heart began to beat fast and my mouth had a metallic dry taste to it. I attempted to open the window with little luck. I licked my fingertips like I saw on an episode of Matlock and pressed up on the window. The window slowly inched up high enough for me to get my fingers between the window and the sill. I pushed up and I was in the room. I looked across the bed at my grandmother. I could hear my mother still calling out for my grandmother. Ma… MAAAAAAA!

My grandmother’s mouth was slightly open. Her slightly raised fist was raised in defiance. I walked around the foot of the bed and noticed that her right leg was hanging off the side of the bed as if she was trying to get out of bed. Naturally, I reached out and touched her. She was ice cold and stiff. I instantly thought of my mother. Silence and sadness engulfed me. I walked backward out of the room and exited the window in which I came. By this time, hearing my name being called plaintively by my mother, snapped me out of my reverie. When I turned the corner and our eyes locked, she said, I already know. You’re gonna have to go back in there and open the front door.

I have no idea why I went back out the window. I had to reenter the house. This time, I did not look at my grandmother. I instantly began to think how this was going to affect my mother. When my mother entered the house with Gloria, our neighbor and Boobie in tow, as young as my brother was, he spoke softly and said, Grandma dead? My mother fell to her knees sobbing.

It Gets No Rougher

LL Cool J

My grandmother passed away on April 30th, 1989. She would have been 52 in June. My mother was 31 years old, turning 32 in June as well. In spite of this very delicate moment in our lives, especially our mother’s life, my brothers and I were running amok.

My mother was working and dealing with this tragedy. She was distracted and I assume that we were being mischievous because she was distracted and also trying to distract ourselves. I went almost two weeks barely eating. I was consumed with grief. I found my grandmother deceased and bore witness to my mother in her most vulnerable state. My mother was an only child.

In the ensuing weeks, my oldest brother was back and forth to Florida with his father’s family. He would show up every now and then with a stolen car. My brother Chucquan and I made friends with the neighborhood boys. They would hype us up because we were from the city. They automatically assumed that since we were from an urban ghetto that we were criminally advanced. They would ask us to participate in devious behavior. Although they initiated these things, it seems as if we were the ringleaders.

After a while, my oldest brother stayed home and made acquaintances with brothers from Connecticut. Teron always had his own circle of friends. He started a dance group with them named the BMW’s (Boys Most Wanted). They did all the dances featured in the current hip hop videos on BET and Yo! MTV Raps. Chucquan and I were doing some of everything. We used to sneak out the house while my mother was either asleep or working. We committed to some B&E’s; the recreation center as well as the house of our neighbors the Williams, who coincidentally, went to the same church we joined, and their father was a probation officer.

There were four boys in that household. One of the brothers beat up our friend in front of our house. Our friend Herbert was angry at us because we didn’t help him fight. My brother and I explained to him that it was a fair fight and besides, Herbert instigated the fight, and he had a big mouth.

The next morning before the school bus arrived, Herbert was at the front door. He asked Chucquan and I to step outside for a quick minute. He asked us to skip school because he wanted to get back at the Williams son for beating him up. At first, we were reluctant. My mother did not play that skipping school mess. We already took her through so much since we moved to North Carolina.

We were on probation already from breaking and entering the recreation center. Although we were afraid, we acquiesced. We hid in the house and watched out the window as the school buses pulled up to the house, blew the horn, and eventually drove off as we did not exit the house. Herbert began to tell us that we were going to break into the William’s family house which was only a minute walk away.

We clandestinely entered their back yard and walked up the back porch entrance. Their neighbor, an elderly woman peered out of her door and spoke suspiciously to us. After she went back into her house, like on TV, Herbert wrapped a piece of clothing around his hand and punched through one of the backdoor windowpanes. We were in. My heart was beating so fast. We went from room to room vandalizing and stealing what we thought was worth some value. There was plenty of jewelry with the letter W for Williams on it. Perfect! Our last name began with a W. I took some lipstick and began to scrawl KKK on all the mirrors in the house. Being down south, the KKK always popped in my head because that is what I was taught. As a coup de Damonique, I put a frozen turkey in the oven with no pan and turned the oven on. We ran from the house laughing as the house began to get smoky. For the rest of the day, we went from neighborhood to neighborhood stealing bikes and exchanging the bikes at different addresses to confuse and upset the occupants.

After this mischief, we made it back home like nothing happened. When our mother made it home from work, we gave her a positive report of our day. After we finished dinner, we went into the living room to watch TV. Before the night was over, the police were at our door. My mother was in the kitchen preparing our bag lunches for school and could see them through the thin back door curtain. I could hear her saying, My sons are in the bed sleep. The police officers had explained to her what they were there for and the things that were reported that we did.

Unbeknownst to us, the police officers went to Herbert’s house first. Herbert allegedly told the officers that those New Jersey boys did it. We were arrested on the spot. My mother stood there in disbelief and stated, Y’all want these white people to raise y’all instead of me. My siblings and cousins Mark and Michael had blank expressions on their faces as we were led away. We heard a few I love you’s as we were placed in the back seat of Roanoke Rapids Police Department cruisers.

There is so much to this story. In spite of everything my mother was going through at this time: divorce, raising six children on her own, her mother’s death, living in a new state and also taking on the responsibility of raising and housing two cousins of ours, Mark and Michael, who were 11 and 10 years old, she stayed strong and hung in there.

My cousins ended up with my mother because my great aunt in Newark could not deal with them anymore. She put them on a flight to Raleigh, NC. Once their plane arrived, she contacted my great-grandfather Bishop Shadrack Winstead Sr. and informed him that his grandchildren were at the airport and needed to be picked up. The family was enraged. My great grandpa was not prepared for the responsibility. He traveled a lot and oversaw multiple churches throughout North Carolina and Virginia.

My mother volunteered to take on this responsibility. She did not complain and didn’t ask for compensation. She just did it. This is quite shocking and embarrassing. There will be a lot of things discussed that will be embarrassing but my life, by far, is the most embarrassing. Mark and Michael had no control over what adults did to them. Most of what I went through was my decisions to put me in those situations. I have always admired my mother for her strength. She believed God every step of the way. Because of God, she was able to endure the most trying times of her life. Although us kids turned hell inside out, she never gave up on us and was always our biggest supporter.

The Nightmare Begins

Chucquan and I ended up going to a juvenile detention center in Greenville, NC, once we were sentenced to juvenile training school. We were awaiting transportation to our designated facilities. Our rooms were next to one another, and I would sob loudly. I could not believe that I was separated from my family. I felt awful taking my mother through this after all that she was already going through. Chucquan would bang on the wall to get my attention and tell me that everything would be okay and to be strong. Chucquan was always the tough, determined one when we were growing up. He always had my back no matter what.

We both received indefinite sentences. These sentences meant that as twelve- and thirteen-year-olds, we could stay until we were 18 years old or with good behavior, using a point system, we could both make it home in about seven to nine months at the earliest. We both did about 2 years before we were released. We were luckily sent to the same training school: Dobbs in Kinston, NC. This training school was for all boys from every county in the state. Each housing unit housed different classes of juvenile delinquents. Reid cottage was for the older and biggest boys, Madison and Kelsey cottage (Terrell) was in the latter, for medium-sized boys, and I was in Larkin cottage, which was for smaller boys, no matter the age group. Of course, being from New Jersey, with a New Jersey accent, automatically made us enemy number one. When my brother and I would see each other during the activities throughout the day, we would share our stories.

I was having a hard time adjusting. I wasn’t afraid, just lonely. Yes, my brother was there with me and my family visited often but there is just something about not being around your family all the time, especially at 12 years old. I did feel more mature than my age.

Throughout our early life, my mother insisted we go to the library every week. She insisted we do our homework in the library straight from school. She gave us suggestions about what to read. To this day, I am a voracious reader. I will read anything, especially legal dramas and non-fiction. Reading kept us informed and made us smarter than what was expected.

My juvenile delinquent peers noticed that I was getting visits and they noticed that I had a brother there. They were jealous of this little fact. I believe this created even more resentment toward my brother and I. Every day we began to experience some sort of conflict. We were fighting every day. I may have been sensitive, but I wasn’t soft. My mother and my brothers made sure of this. If my brothers and I had disagreements, my mother allowed us to scrap it out. She knew the world was unforgiving. Our training was with each other. Boxing gloves for Christmas, wrestling team in school, and karate class. She was clairvoyant. She just knew. If you messed with the Winstead boys, you had a problem, and everybody knew this. Imagine my family’s consternation and pain when they found out I was participating in homosexual acts at Dobbs Training School.

When I was about six or seven years old, I began to notice strange sensations when I was around other boys. I did not understand what I was feeling but I knew that I thought that they were physically attractive, and it left me feeling uneasy. I surely was not thinking about sex because I knew nothing about sex, I just knew that what I saw was appealing and I would make comments to myself about them. I would quickly erase those thoughts from my mind. I liked girls as well, so this was emotionally very confusing.

I went through a strange and unsettling period of my life since I could remember up until I was about 13 or 14 years old. People would always tell me, both boys and girls, that I looked like a girl as well as sounded like a girl. There were moments when I would answer the house phone and people would automatically think that I was my mother. I never thought much about it but it did make me feel different and uncomfortable.

While visiting my cousin Rachel at around 9 years old, my siblings and I were in her room, and we began to experiment with her cosmetics. She had tons of fingernail polish and I began to apply a coat to my nails. I did not think much of it because we all were doing it. Rachel saw this and she demanded that I remove the fingernail polish. I did not understand her tone because it was quite aggressive but more importantly, I