Excerpt from a short story I wrote called “One of many”

Part 1.

COMPTON, CALIFORNIA 1975.

A busy Black Panther headquarters is rumbling as the members of this righteous group plan and discuss ways to give light to the oppressed and brutalized communities of blacks over the U.S. We see a young man working diligently and pridefully over his work towards this organization. His name is Jermaine Wallace, a proud black man who has dedicated his life day after day to this group and to help the people he loves. The building is beginning to quiet down as the other members wave goodbye and begin to empty out until there was just Jermaine left to his own devices. He breathes a sigh of relief and is silently grateful for this peace and quiet. But just as he begins to enjoy his moment the phone rings interrupting his brief moment of peace. He reluctantly picks up the phone and on the other side is the sharp voice of his wife Rosa Wallace. He knew right then and there that it's gonna be a long night. “Where the hell are you J! The boy won’t stop crying and I'm 1 second away from popping him in the mouth!” Rosa says. “Rosey I'm at work still i’ll be home in 25 minutes.” Jermaine snaps back. “You better watch the way you talkin to me J. Remember who pays the bills.” warns Rosa. He quietly apologizes to her and reassures that he will be home soon. They exchange mutual I love you’s and hang up the phone. Once again Jermaine finds himself alone with his thoughts. He packs up his things, walks to the door, glances one more time at the newspapers on the desk and begins on his way back to his home. 23 long and exhausting minutes later Jermaine finds himself in front of a small peach colored building that had vines growing alongside the building. Or as he likes to call it, home. The second he walks his senses are bombarded by the smell of alcohol and cigarettes. Once again he knows this is gonna be a long night. But once again he takes a breath and he continues to stroll through his home. “Baby I'm home!” he screams. He receives no response, until a second later he hears the piercing scream of a young boy come from upstairs. Right then he knows what's going on. He drops his things on the table and in almost one stride leaps up the stairs. He took one look to his left, and immediately his fears were confirmed. His wife Rosa was beating their son Malcolm with a coarse leather belt. Once again almost like he was a superhero with blinding speed he runs into the room and disarms his wife and stops her from causing anymore harm to their son. With an incredulous and frustrated scream Jermaine screams and questions his wife intently. “Rosa stop! Why are you doing this stop!” She settles down and Malcolm assumes a fetal position and continues to cry. Jermaine pushes his wife out of the room and he goes to his son to offer a bit of comfort. He wraps his large arms around his son and he reassures him that everything will be just fine. It's been 6 years since that day and now, Jermaine is a smart young boy who dreams great dreams and wishes for a life he could never have. Though it’s a challenge, that doesn’t stop him from doing so. Malcolm began attending Vanguard Junior High School in Compton, but due to high levels of gang violence, he transferred to the safer suburban Roosevelt Junior High School. The 1980s were a tumulchous time for gang activity. By 1980, there were approximately 15,000 Crips and Bloods gang members in and around the Los Angeles area. The gangs -or sets- ranged in size from a few gang members to several hundred and had little, if any, organized leadership. The typical age of a gang member varied from 14- to 24-years-old. On his way home Malcolm kept his head down and stayed to himself just like his parents always told him. “Stay to yourself boy and you’ll never have problems. The white man wants nothing good for us blacks folks these days”. In these bloody days and frightful nights when an urban warrior can find no face more despicable than his own, no ammunition more deadly than self-hate, and no target more deserving of his true aim than his brother, we must wonder how we came so late and lonely to this place. The Compton streets were no place for a young boy