Darius and the Vanilla Funk Page 3

  classroom a few minutes later. When things settled down later that morning I turned to him and said, “Fruit Loops.” He smiled and replied, “Next time I’ll go to Costco.”

  I didn’t go in early every morning looking for food. Some mornings I was able to fend for myself and eat leftovers from the night before. Cold pizza tastes a lot better than the piping hot, skin-scalding, greasy pizza. Mr. Cohen started coming in later and later as the temperature dropped. It must have been as difficult for him as it was for me to get out of bed. Besides, it would become increasingly difficult to fall asleep on the porch of the class when the temperature dipped below the freezing mark.

  It was a rare occurrence that Mr. Cohen would say “No” to us. The relationship the class had with him bordered on abusive, but he could not deny us if the cause was right. Pretzel and cookie sales were prime examples of Mr. C’s generosity. His bigheartedness must have been contagious because I swear that kids started to give him things in return.

  I remember this one time when a few PTA women walked into our class in an attempt to sell the final batch of

  pretzels from a day-long sale. There must have been over

  30 pretzels on the tray. Mr. C. said to Mrs. Smith, “How much for the whole tray.” She told him “15 dollars” and he didn’t even blink. Money wasn’t the issue for him—he always looked past the money, or the time, or the difficulty, and zoomed in on a greater good. Buying the tray of pretzels was an opportunity for Mr. C to support the PTA, but more importantly, it was a chance for all of us to interact as people—not teacher and student. We sat there on the end of that day and ate pretzels until our stomachs were about to burst. After he bought us the pretzels, I whispered in his ear, “You want me to get some sodas?” I looked at the five-dollar bill in his hand and slid the green from his fingertips. Little did Mr. Cohen know that I had pocketed the five spot and lifted some cold sodas from the cafeteria? At least that’s what I thought before he approached me the next day.

  “I hope you didn’t already spend all of that money I gave you yesterday,” Mr. Cohen said in a sarcastic tone. I shot him an inquisitive look that said “What money?” but he wasn’t buying it. “I left five dollars with the people in the

  cafeteria yesterday afternoon after I realized that I failed to inform anyone that you were taking the sodas.” Mr. C knew that the money he had given me was nearly gone and he was going to make me squirm a bit before letting me off the hook. He continued talking, “This is why I’m the teacher and you’re the student. You still have a lot to learn, D.M.” I knew the lecture was over as soon as he called me D.M. Mr. C wasn’t my dad but he knew how to get into my head without laying a hand on me.

  It was very comforting to know Mr. Cohen was thinking about me even when he went home. I would imagine that he would go to Costco and walk up and down the aisles for food that would fill the bottomless pit that was my stomach. Not that I even knew what the inside of Costco looked like, being that I had never been inside the warehouse club at the time

  — although I did peak inside one day while riding around the neighborhood with my Beast and Easy E. It looked like the inside of a warehouse to me, but it did give me a good visual when I thought of Mr. C walking around looking for cereal, or Pop Tarts, or candy, or cookies. You know the good stuff.

  Mr. Cohen’s generosity extended far beyond my classmates and me. He would even give leftover candy to the smaller kids of our school. They would crowd around him at the end of the day like bees buzzing around the hive. Although I didn’t like sharing my teacher with other kids but it wasn’t really up to me how other kids acted around him. Mr. C was a fun guy to be around, and he also let me be myself… whoever I was back then.

  Elements of the Universe

  Music was always a big part of Mr. Cohen’s classroom. He figured that “music makes moods,” and he never hesitated to slide a CD into his portable player so we could relax. Whether it was Jay-Z or Andrea Bocelli, we usually enjoyed any music that took us outside of the usual day. Our class was anything but ordinary and our leader wouldn’t have had it any other way.

  Kids in other classes were always telling our class that we were “Crazy.” In fact, I think some of the teachers were starting to question Mr. Cohen’s unique methods. Mr. C had met with the parents during Parent-Teacher conferences and assured all of them that he “would not forego the children’s’ education to only focus on a Social Studies test. You could feel the pressure building for the states Social Studies exam, but somehow Mr. Cohen was able to shield us from the stress. We didn’t realize that his methods would prepare us to take any test, whether it was English, or Math, or Social Studies.

  The first thing Mr. Cohen did was taught us how to write. Now, we all knew how to write but we didn’t know how to effectively get our points across. Any moron can write, but the true test comes if the reader can stay awake for the duration of your words. Mr. C was not only teaching us how to open our minds, he also insisted that we open our mouths. Again, we all knew how to open our mouths, but it became debatable if anyone wanted to hear what we had to say.

  I had become an expert at giving teachers just what they wanted. It was a rare day when I would give them any more or any less than what was expected of me. I knew from the moment I walked into Mr. C’s classroom that my days of minimalism had come to an end… at least for a year.

  Simply writing words on a piece of paper were not good enough for our teacher. He made us divulge our precious, confused feelings, too. When we used verses like “I felt bad” or “I felt good” he immediately went digging for more. The confusing part for us was always that teachers couldn’t to put their directions in words we could understand. Simply telling us to talk about our feelings never got us to open up. Mr. C told us repeatedly, “Use your senses people! When you write a story tell me what you see, what you hear, what you smell, what you feel through touch, and even what you taste!” We often questioned the taste part of the senses package but often explored it as a means to complete the task.

  I had never been able to talk about my dad’s death in any other terms than “it hurt.” Yeah, of course it hurt but the

  pain went much deeper than a truckload of mental and physical anguish. My dad’s dramatic passing limited so many aspects of my life that I couldn’t see the walls that had surrounded me. With a broken heart and a matching shattered family structure, I was living a solitary existence that left me with nowhere to go.

  When you don’t care whether you live or die, most likely you’re going to wind up six feet under the ground in a crappy wood box. Many of my friend’s brothers were the subjects of eulogy after eulogy, and many of us little thugs in training were following a similar path toward destruction.

  Mr. Cohen tended to keep his emotions in check while he was with us in the classroom. I guess you could say that he never got to low or too high while babysitting us. That’s not to say that he wouldn’t smile a great deal, but I sensed a sadness surrounding him that he wouldn’t share with us.

  One morning before lunch I wrote an essay about my dad. I believe the topic of the day was “If you could change one thing about your life, what would it be?” We all have things we would change if we had the ability, but somehow I

  think he gave us the assignment to help me open up about my dad. I’m here to tell you that talking about the past and virtually reliving it are two completely different stories.

  The thing I’ll always remember about that day was how hard I cried when the rest of the class left for recess and I was alone with Mr. Cohen. It took me the better part of two hours composing this one page essay. Mr. C. had sent me back to my desk at least five times to dig deeper and deeper as I was composing this tearjerker. Once the classroom cleared out I handed Mr. Cohen the essay and took a seat across from his desk. Mr. Cohen took a deep breath and started to read my words:

  DADDYr />
  I’ll never forget the look in your eyes when we were together. I wish I could see you now because being without you is painful. The pain in my heart hurts so much sometimes that I think it will explode.

  I walk on the front lawn and I still smell the smoking guns and I see your blood stains on the grass. I can taste

  the salt from my tears and every time I hear the revving of an engine my stomach drops to the ground. Sometimes I wear your shirts so I can feel you close to me.

  I miss you daddy and I will see you again. I love you.

  Darius

  Mr. Cohen put the paper down and tears started streaming from his eyes and down his stubbly cheeks. I started hysterically crying and jumped into his arms. It had been a long time since I got a hug from an adult. He told me, “Everything is going to be all right. Everything is going to be all right,” and for a few moments I believed him.

  A few weeks and a couple boxes of Kleenex later, the class devoured the state Social Studies test. Mr. Cohen told us over and over again that we “had to attack the test” and

  “If you walk in thinking you will fail, you probably will.” We were calm and nothing surprised us; I didn’t feel the other fifth grade classes were as calm as we were. Pressure from parents and teachers was intense, and it wasn’t difficult for a

  11 year-old to crack under the pressure. Mr. Cohen’s “us against the world” stance worked and we all did better than expected.

  It was amazing that 15 out of 24 of us got a perfect score on the writing portion of the test. Only one person in our class got a below average score, but he was a Special Education student.

  Mr. Cohen was so pleased that we did well on the test that he invited us back to the classroom during lunch for all of the pizza we could stuff into our faces. The boxes of Domino’s were stacked to the ceiling and our spirits had never been higher. I was standing next to Mr. Cohen’s desk when he opened his drawer and pulled out a CD. He said, “Guys, get ready for the elements of the universe.” He slid the CD into the player and the class was immediately sent into an old-school groove. What had started for me as simply meeting a white dude who gave us free food turned into a surreal experience with the Vanilla Funk. The color of this man’s skin concealed the depth of this cocoa brother’s soul. There was no doubting that the elements of the

  universe on this pizza celebration were indeed Earth, Wind, and Fire.

  Thug’s Life

  It was pretty ironic that I decided to participate in the play Annie in the spring of my last go-round at Acorn Road Elementary. I was one of the orphans singing “It’s a Hard- Knock Life” and nothing could have been closer to truth about my world. I was on the fast track to a thug’s life and being a virtual orphan left few obstacles in my path. With my mom rarely around to keep me in line, it was open season for me to explore the boundaries of my impending manhood.

  I’ll never forget the look on Mr. C’s face when I told him about the gangs in the neighborhood. He said, “I’ve been living next door to this town my whole life, but I never realized that Branchville had gangs. I detailed for him the constant turmoil between the Bloods and the Crips, fully thinking that these gangs were the modern-day version of

  my dad’s Black Panthers. In the traditional East versus West showdown, the Bloods and Crips gang members were the heroes of the neighborhood. Once I heard that the Crips were responsible for gunning down my dad, I knew I would be in the Bloods for life.

  It was a good thing I didn’t tell Mr. Cohen that I was already involved with the Bloods. I could see that his mind was already on overload with basic information, so I didn’t dare tell him that I was already earning my stripes and working my way into the gang. It was never too early to start making deliveries or going on food runs for the guys. My buddy Beast had already seen action and been stabbed a few times by the time I became involved.

  It was kind of innocent how I got my first taste of the thug’s life. I was playing basketball on my street when I heard the sound of a car with a huge engine slowly creeping down the street. I immediately had my dad being gunned down flashback and stood motionless watching the chrome- rimmed tires spin down the block. There were four guys in the classic Cadillac convertible, which came to a halt in front

  of my house. Three of the guys got out and started to play basketball with me. The two other kids I was playing with ran in their houses at the sight of the car. It was like we were swimming in the ocean and the music from Jaws started playing when they came by.

  I started to relax after a few minutes and even crossed-up this one skinny dude, Allen Iverson style. I looked over to the car as this big dude got out and said, “You’re D Mitch’s boy, ain’t you? He used to have that same move when he played against my dad over at Groves Park.” I nodded my head and the guy smiled and asked me, “What’s your name, boy?” I replied, “Darius.” He laughed and proclaimed, “Look what we have here. It’s the second coming of D Mitch, Deuce Mitch.” I had my first and last gang named attached to me that day. The big dude, named B Rob -- ‘cause his name was Billy Robinson – and sometimes they called him Big Rob -- led me and his crew over to my house. We were all facing the front of the house when he said, “This is your house, right?” I said, “Yeah” and he continued, “I remember when the Crips did your dad.” He

  walked right over to my dad’s final resting spot. “D Mitch was a good man. He fought hard so us brothers could get some power back on the streets. My dad filled me in when your old man was killed.” He turned and looked straight into my eyes with his cold, brown eyes, “That can’t happen in our house, right Deuce?”

  “No sir,” I quickly replied.

  “You come see me sometime. I’ll make sure the Bloods take care of one of their own.” I nodded as B Rob shook his head and muttered, “It was a damn shame.”

  It didn’t take long before I paid B Rob and his boys a visit. Don’t ask me how I found their hideout—if I tell you they’ll have to kill both of us! My association with the Bloods started slowly with food runs and small cash deliveries. The boys were testing me out at first to see if I was trustworthy. There were many times that I used my blazing speed to get away from the Crips chasing me to steal my stash. My initiation into the thug’s life was filled with scrapes, bruises, and profitability. Within three months of joining the Bloods, I no longer had to worry about stretching mom’s meal money

  over the whole week. B Rob gave me fifty bucks per week, which worked out to about ten dollars per delivery. The smell of money was intoxicating and kept me coming back nearly every day.

  My blood money wasn’t the only thing that helped make my life easier and more exciting. Word was getting around school that I had joined a gang and you know how much the ladies love a dangerous man. At 11 years-old and a diminutive five feet tall, I was turning the corner quickly from adolescence to manhood. Although I hadn’t been a steady drug user, I did take the occasional toke of a joint every once in a while. If one of the older guys offered you something, you either took it or got your butt kicked in. I’d rather be floating on a cloud than bloody and bruised any day.

  It seemed that I could fool everyone with bright smile and sunny personality; everyone except the person that knew me from the inside out. Mr. C was more concerned with my well-being than the fact that I was living the dangerous life a gang member. He was much more into

  where my head was at, and he could tell what I was thinking even before the thought was formed. Maybe my ideas were unoriginal, maybe he had seen it all before, maybe I had finally met my match in life.

  I was always careful to show too much to the white establishment at school. I’m not even sure if Vice Principal Daniels even understood what I was going through. Although she had the same skin color as most of us in the neighborhood, she drove her Range Rover every afternoon out of our world and back into her upper middle-class ex
istence. I often thought that she lost touch with who she was; it’s easy to do that when you can listen to the birds chirping when you walk down the street rather than wondering if you’re going to make it home safely every day.

  I think deep down Mr. Cohen knew that I was digging a deeper and deeper hole for myself. At the time, I never even thought I was struggling. In fact, I viewed my situation as ideal; to be a member of the greatest gang in the world was both an honor and an extremely powerful position. No one even bothered to mess with me at school and all of the girls

  knew whom to come to if they wanted some action. I was 11 years old going on 20 and I never wanted the fast ride to end.

  I used to see my buddy Beast every once in a while when I hung out at the not-so-secret hideout of the Bloods. The guy had been with me all summer and, in only nine short months, had become a full-fledged member of the gang. He had grown like six inches over the year and was now 6’2” and had muscles exploding from just about every part of his body. Beast must have been 15 or 16 years old and had me wondering why he had been hanging out with a

  10 year-old kid and his friend. Beast was the kind of dude who needed to be pointed in the most efficient direction because he was born with the brawn not the brains.

  I had heard that Beast had been shot at least three times and managed to walk away with barely a scratch each time. The guy was a living legend because he always managed to get the job done no matter how long the odds were. This version of Beast was a significantly advanced predator than the one that had my back over the summer.