God's Broken Lil' Baby. E. Jay Ford
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He was literally downstairs in some bushes balled up in the fetal position when the police found him. He later went just a wee bit nuts. While waiting on the trial to happen, he would talk to my brother as if he was really in the cell with him. It wasn’t an act. He refused to believe he saw what he saw. That didn’t stop him from being charged for the robbery and the murder. He was convicted and got forty-three years. I showed up to the court to beg for leniency, but that fell upon deaf ears.
On the day of my brother’s death, I was at work. By far, one of the worst days of my life. I was working at a foot orthopedic place. They made foot inserts for people with bad feet. I was sorting for shipping when Baby Daddy walked in during my shift. He was supposed to be bringing me lunch, so I wasn’t surprised to see him. I was in a great mood, so I was excited to see him. The look on his face, though, let me know something was seriously wrong. He kept asking me to come outside and I wouldn’t. I repeatedly asked what was wrong, and he couldn’t answer me. I finally yelled at him to just tell me. When he did, I immediately buckled. I hit the floor so hard. I didn’t pass out, but I rolled into the fetal position and just started screaming. At that point in my life, I had never cried so hard in my life.
He finally got me off the floor and into the car. The ride home was silent and seemed like forever. I lived in the same apartment complex as my mommy and sister. We all met up at their apartment. When we pulled up, there were so many sad faces greeting us. It was the emptiest feeling I had ever experienced. There was no description. It’s a pain that had no words. We sat in silence once we heard the story. I had so many questions for Lame Ass, but it wasn’t the time. Not to mention, his sister, Female Lame Ass, was pregnant by my brother, and she was completely outside her mind. He was busy trying to help her. She is another story I’ll explain to you later.
I don’t know why, but I had to go where my brother had died. I had to see where he took his last breath. I don’t know if it wasn’t real enough for me or what, but I guess I must have thought it would give me some kind of closure. I drove to the dope man’s house. I didn’t know how he would respond, but I had to see. I got to the apartment complex, and as I got out, I began to cry again. As I walked up the three flights of stairs, I started to imagine what it was like for my brother. I kept asking myself why he didn’t just stop. I got to the door and knocked with tears in my eyes. I explained who I was and let the family that opened the door know that I wasn’t there for any trouble. They let me in and let me see where my brother died. They told me the story, and it was basically the same as I had heard. I was wrong. Doing that did nothing for me. My brother was still dead, and I was still dying on the inside.
This was the first funeral I had ever attended. It was terrible. My daddy had flown in from California. Hadn’t seen his ass in years. My mommy was a wreck. My sisters were crying so hard I thought they were going to be sick. My baby brother was so damn brokenhearted he couldn’t see straight. This was some straight bullshit, but what can you do? He made a decision that fucked all of us up and over. The family will never be the same. You know, life teaches you lessons in the most fucked up ways. My brother was an angry ass dude. He had disrespected my mommy, fought my sister, and beat up countless people for no reason at all. His karma was killing all of us. Regardless of the shit he did, he was still my brother, and I loved him with every ounce of me. This whole situation was some shit I would have to live with for the rest of my life.
Death is hard. Losing my brother was one of the hardest losses in my life. We moved from East St. Louis in order to escape that possibility, and it happened anyway. I learned that no matter where you go, if you are the same person you are when you get there, nothing has changed but your location.
Chapter 8
8 Trust No One
Look into My Eyes
I’ve grown up my whole life thinking there was no way out,
no one there to teach me what self-esteem was all about.
I fought for what I wanted, and I fought hard,
always thinking and always on my guard.
My attitude is bad, but I try.
Try to keep that hard exterior so that my soft insides can continue to hide.
I’ve been manipulated more than once.
People disrespect you and treat you like a punk;
try so hard to tell those bad vibes goodbye.
You would understand me more if you took the time and just look into my eyes.
I saw my first dead body when I was eight years old. I had never seen anybody dead. My daddy killed him. He shot him. We were living in Los Angeles, California. Our apartment was right off Hillcrest Avenue one block over from Cocoa Street. We lived on the second floor. All the apartments had a view of the pool because they were situated in a circle basically around the pool. I watched my daddy shoot this man while I was standing on the balcony. I was stunned for a minute. I remember my mommy telling me to get my ass in the house. I couldn’t move. My youngest sister was just a baby. My mommy was holding her to calm her. The gunfire scared her. It smelled like the Fourth of July. It instantly reminded me of firecrackers. We were having tuna and corn that night. My mommy made the best tuna in the world, but that night, I lost my appetite.
It was so hot that day. My daddy had picked me up from school, and the leather parts of his seats were burning my legs and back. He drove a red Trans Am, and he would always drive it so fast. I loved when he picked me up from school. Where we lived, we had a carport. We pulled into the carport, and I guess my daddy parked a little too close to the car assigned next to ours because when my daddy opened the door, he hit it. It left a ding in the door. My daddy sent me upstairs while he went to knock on the neighbor’s door to tell him he had scratched his car. He told him to find out how much it would cost and he would take care of it. My daddy had a job, but he also sold dope as a side hustle so he had the cash. The dude was cool with it, and it was over and done. You would think.
Fast-forward four hours later. We were sitting down to dinner. Somebody started banging on the door. This was not a regular knock. This was what was known as the “police knock.” It’s when somebody is knocking on your door so hard, it sounds like they are about to come through it. My daddy, who had a terrible temper, was pissed. He jumped up from the table, stormed across the living room, and pulled the door open with a force and a look of anger that let you know you had life fucked up knocking on his door like that. It was that dude, our neighbor, drunk off his ass. He started yelling about how my daddy must have thought he was a punk and don’t nobody fuck up his shit and he doesn’t do anything about it. He invited my daddy downstairs to settle this shit. My daddy knew dude was packin’, and my daddy was far from a soft ass nigga. You did not fuck with my daddy. My daddy went and got his piece and met dude downstairs.
My daddy had his gun tucked in the front of his pants under his shirt. I saw him put it there as he was walking out the door. He always wore these walking suits that were really loose, and you would never know he was concealing as he was coming toward you. He stood about six feet one and weighed, I know, three hundred twenty pounds easy. Dude was already standing downstairs by the three feet end of the pool. He had a cheering section coming from his apartment. They were all drunk and screaming obscenities. You can tell who got his dumb ass hyped up to do this stupid shit. Daddy wasn’t moved. Dude was yelling something about what my daddy wasn’t gonna do. My daddy just stood there silent. You can tell he was pissed and completely irritated on a whole other level. Dude pulled a gun and tried to shoot, but the gun jammed. That was fucked up for him because my daddy was just as fast and his didn’t jam. He went down like sack of potatoes, and blood was leaking from under him spilling onto the concrete. My mommy started whispering under her breath, “Oh my God. Oh my God.” My daddy was walking around the body cussing and calling him a stupid mothafucka. He was angrier after he shot him than he was before he shot him. He kept saying it didn’t have to go down like this. My mommy dragged me in the house when the police showed up. She didn’t want me to see them arrest my daddy. Dude’s people were on the porch crying and screaming, “This mothafucka shot him,” like he wasn’t the one who pulled the gun first.
They