The Life of a Jackal

Chapter 1: The Kick and the ConcreteThe smell of popcorn and cheap theater seats always brings me back to the start. In my first memories, I’m a little kid in a darkened theater in Chicago, eyes glued to the silver screen as Bruce Lee moves like a blur of lightning. We didn’t have a car back then, but we didn’t need one. When the lights came up and the credits rolled, the sidewalk became our stage.

My dad, my mom, my sister, and I would spill out onto the street, still buzzing with that cinematic energy. We’d walk home imitating the Master-kicking, feinting, and "hi-yah-ing" at the Chicago air. I loved every second of it. Whether we were walking or riding the bus to those films, I was happy. My mother was a vision back then, part Native, part Black, and always beautiful in the way memories of home are supposed to be. Those were the golden days, just being a family.

But Chicago moves, and so did we. They started tearing down our building, and before I knew it, we were planted right across from Hyde Park High. That’s where the "playa" lessons started-though back then, I was just a kid trying to keep his feet under him.

The Weight of the WoodDad bought my sister and me brand-new bikes. I can still see them: hers was a Huffy, and mine was a Polo with a banana seat and the training wheels freshly ripped off. We’d race those things around the house like we owned the world.

Then came the afternoon the world decided to take them back.

A group of guys-six of them, older and harder-cornered us. They forced us off the seats and took our bikes right in front of our own home. My sister and I stood there crying, watching our parents watch us from the window. My dad, who had been at work when it happened, later drove us around the neighborhood for hours, searching every alley and corner. We never found them. It was a hollow kind of hurt because I knew we couldn't just go out and buy more.

When we finally got skateboards to replace the bikes, I made a silent vow. Some guys tried to pull the same move on me, but this time, my dad’s voice was in my head: You can’t let people take your stuff. You’ve got to stand up for it.

I didn't hesitate. I jumped off my board, gripped the trucks, and swung that heavy wood with everything I had. It connected-hard-right in one of their faces. He hit the ground wailing while his friends scattered like roaches. I didn't stay to watch him bleed. I set my board down, hopped on, and rode away. That was the last time I let anyone take something from me.

Red Bones and 8-TracksFamily life was a strange mix of ritual and chaos. Sundays were for the West Side, riding in the back of my dad’s car with baseball play-by-plays crackling on the radio. I hated going to my grandma’s house. It always smelled heavy-not the sweet scent of baking, but the thick, pungent steam of greens and chitlins that clung to the walls.

We eventually settled at 63rd and Kimbark on the South Side. Christmas there was a military operation. We were sent to bed at eight sharp just so we could be woken up at midnight to open the "real" present-the toy. We’d leave the clothes for the morning. My sister and I would rip into our walkie-talkies and go on missions through the dark house, the Jackson 5 Christmas carols spinning on an 8-track, the tree lights making the poverty look like a masterpiece.

It wasn't always a holiday, though. My sister used to come home from Dumas School crying. She was light-skinned, and the kids put her through hell for it. They called her "Red Bones" or "White Girl." Back then, in those streets, being light wasn't a badge of honor; it was a target.

We fought like cats and dogs, too. I remember the time she sliced my hot dog and seasoned it with cigarette ashes. My parents didn't believe me at first and made me eat half of it. When they finally realized I wasn't lying, she got a whooping she probably still remembers.

The Art of the HustleBy the time I hit my teens, I was small for my age, but I was observant. While other kids were eyeing the drug game, I was eyeing the exit. I learned to jog through the park from King Drive, past Cottage Grove and Stony Island, all the way to Hyde Park Career Academy.

I majored in Art. There was something about creating that kept me centered. I once spent weeks on a life-size sculpture of a red ninja, mask and all. I gave it to my Aunt Esther, maybe as a thank you for being the "fun" aunt who threw the parties where the air was thick with joint smoke and laughter.

But my real education was in the lunchroom. I became a lunchroom monitor. In a Chicago high school, the cafeteria is the seat of power. I kept the line in check, and suddenly, I had "clout." People tried to bribe me just to get to the front of the line. I got tight with the jocks and the heavyweights, guys like Charlie.

In Chicago, you wore your colors and your affiliations on your head. Left or right....