Young is a man on a mission living life to its fullest and then some. With the world at his feet, he makes some bad decisions and relates his tales of crippling loss, failed relationships, hilarious sexual exploits, outlandish criminal behavior, and shares the antics of his dysfunctional family and wacky friends to his “therapist”.  He speaks of relentless violence he saw as a young man, his less than idyllic childhood spent weathering a combative mother and explosive father, the enemies he made, and the education he received inside and outside of the classroom. With all the bad decisions he has made, he realizes you only get one life, so no matter what you go through in life, you have to put the past behind you, and live life to the fullest.

The characters are entertaining and funny, their dialogue is wonderful, and it keeps the action moving.  Overall, this is a remarkable book with a very moving ending. A total of 36 chapters of pure excitement.

Chapters 1 and 4 from the book Blackman's Drama

Session 1:  Home Wars

“Asshole, where you been?”

I heard my mother’s angry voice through the cracked bedroom door.  I had already been in bed for hours when the rumble of my father’s Cadillac interrupted my dreams.  Moments later, my father’s heavy, angry footsteps forced me fully awake.

“I asked you a question, Raymond. Where have you been?”

I heard my father sigh loudly, and then, with agitation in his voice, he replied, “Why you asking me so many damn questions, woman?” The low sound of his voice sharpened as he enunciated every word.  “It doesn’t matter where I been, so don’t start this shit tonight, Debra!”

My parent’s bedroom door swung open, and my father’s heavy footsteps moved swiftly into the kitchen. Momma’s quick steps were close behind him. She was feisty: short in stature, chocolate in complexion. She was the type that gave her opinion on any subject, whether she was an expert or not. She didn’t care that my father’s dark, muscular body was a foot taller then her five-two frame. If he wanted peace of mind, she gave him a piece of hers.

“Start what shit?” Her voice cracked. “You’re the one bringing shit in this house!  Don’t you know I can smell the cheap perfume your girlfriend wears?  Off on some damned sugar binge, can’t come home to your family for days, and what? Is it supposed to be all smiles and sunshine when you stumble your ass in here late in the night?”

It was the 1970s—a new era of freedom and liberation, and women weren’t taking shit from men anymore. At nine years old, I always silently prayed my mother would not say anything and let my drunk-ass father go to sleep, but that wasn’t my mother’s style. She wouldn’t let him walk over her without a good fight. She continued her verbal assault.

“Why, Raymond? Why? Ain’t I good to you? Why you treat me so wrong?”

They were now in the living room. Again I heard Daddy’s heavy, deliberate steps, and my mother’s, hot behind him.  I pulled the covers over my head as I heard their footsteps heading toward their bedroom.

“I don’t treat you any kind of way. You’re crazy!” Daddy shouted back.

I turned over, clutching my pillow as I heard the soft jingle of a belt buckle.  “Not with the buckle.  Please don’t hit her with that buckle,” I prayed, and then breathed with relief when I heard Daddy’s pants hit the floor with a thud. His feet didn’t make much noise as he walked away, but I could still hear the creaking of the floor.

“Where are you going?” My mother’s tone was shrill. She wasn’t done talking.

“I’m going to take a shower, and then I’m going out to handle some business.”

I lay in my bed wishing out loud, “Please, let it go, Momma.” I squeezed my eyes shut. I wanted to go to sleep.  Hugging my knees to my chest, I began to hum to myself, to shut out the sounds of their shouts. I didn’t want to hear what I was sure would come next if she didn’t shut up.

 I rolled over, covering my ears, looking first at my animal posters on the wall and then focusing on the ceiling—anything to block out the yelling. But nothing could silence it.

“Out? What kind of business do you have at this time of night? You just came home! Do you think I’m stupid, Raymond? Why can’t you spend time with your family? Why you always have to be out in the streets?”

“I got to be out because you never shut your mouth! I spend all day dealing with bullshit from the man. Last thing I need to do is come home and be arguing all the time. That’s too much for one man to handle! Fuck that!”

“Fuck that? Maybe if you treated me right, Raymond, you wouldn’t have to deal with my bullshit. But you ain't a man!  You don’t spend time with your family. A real man would be here with his family. But you ain’t a real man, you’re a fucking boy!”

As soon as I heard her say the b-word, I knew my prayers for peace in this house would go unanswered tonight.  The shouting would turn into a fight. I’d heard enough of their fighting to have learned never to call a black man the b-word. If a child could pick that up, why couldn’t she?  Inevitably, Daddy went off.

“Boy? I’ll show you who the boy is, Debra!”

It sounded as if a lamp had been knocked over.

There was a moment of intense silence that sent a chill through my body, and then a loud smack of his hand hitting her face made me jump. My mother screamed, but the intensity told me it was more from anger than pain. Noisy crashes echoed through the house as they threw things around the room. I heard heavy thuds followed by my mother’s anguished groans, and I knew he was punching her. I lay there, frozen, too scared to move even if I wanted to. Then I heard my father shout, “Put down that chair, bi—!” Before he could finish, I heard the chair breaking, and out came his moans. Then the room suddenly went quiet. As quickly as it had started, it was over. The shower water began to run, but there were no other sounds.

I slid out of bed and peeked through my cracked door. I could see a sliver of the hallway and, beyond that, the far edge of the living room. The rocking chair that normally graced the corner lay on its side. I opened the door a little wider just in time to see my mother crying as she ran into the kitchen.  Water began to run from the kitchen faucet. I counted to myself.

Five, four, three, two, one.

“Oh, shit!” Daddy shouted. The shower water had turned cold on him, and he was pissed.

My mother didn’t let it end there. I heard the familiar creak from the water heater closet. No doubt she was turning the hot water off completely. The door slammed shut, and her footsteps came rushing toward my room. I leaped back into bed and pretended I was sleeping as she tiptoed in. With one eye cracked open, I watched her grab the superglue from my school supplies and dash back out. The front door opened about the same time as Daddy stormed out of the bathroom, headed for the water heater closet.  He mumbled angrily as he turned the water heater back on and returned to his shower. Once he was back in the shower, my mother came rushing back into my room.

“Wake up, baby. We’re going for a drive.”

I faked a yawn as if I’d been awakened from a deep sleep. “What happened to your face, Momma? Are you okay?”

“Don’t worry. Get up and go wait out by the car,” she said.

I jumped up and rushed down the hallway wearing my pajamas. My mother followed quickly behind me with my little four-year-old sister, Melinda, in her arms. By the time she jumped into the brand-new 1975 Toyota Celica, Daddy came running out of the house. He rushed up to the car, but my mother had locked all the doors. Daddy stood next to the window hollering. I could barely see the shadow of his big twelve-inch Afro through the foggy, steamed-up windows.

“Get out of the car, Debra! You ain't taking my kids anywhere! Where are my keys?”

The car roared to life, and the dashboard suddenly glowed an eerie green. Next to me in her car seat, I could see Melinda, her little eyes wide, swiveling her head from one sound to the other. She was confused, but she didn’t seem afraid.  That was fine, because I was afraid enough for both of us.  My mother fumbled with the gearshift. “Your keys are in the yard somewhere!” she yelled through the closed window.

While Daddy rummaged through the grass looking for his keys, my mother screeched out of the driveway. I kept my eyes on Daddy. Finally, he picked something up from the ground.

As we drove down the street, I twisted around in my seat to glance back. Daddy was trying to get into his car, but the key wouldn’t go in the lock. Angrily, he yanked off his shirt, wrapped it around his fist, and punched in the car window. In the dim light, I could see shards of glass scatter across the lawn.  We bounced over a pothole, and I turned back around in my seat, clutching my seatbelt with my heart thundering in my chest. I wondered if we’d make it to wherever we were headed. I prayed we would.  It wasn’t until we reached a stoplight that my mother finally spoke.

“We’re going to spend the night at my friend’s place, but don’t say anything about tonight. Understand?”

“Okay, I’ll lie to your friend, but won’t they see your black eye?”

“It’s not lying!” My mother slammed the gearshift into the “Park” position. Grabbing some dark shades from the sun visor, she put them on just as the light turned green. I glanced sideways at her, and wondered how she could see the road. Seeing my mother driving with those dark-ass shades on in the middle of the night made me feel sorry for her.

We rode in silence. Every so often I looked behind us, but I didn’t see Daddy. I think my mother finally started to relax. We pulled up to another stoplight, and suddenly a car barreled out of nowhere and swerved right in front of us.

“Oh, shit!”

It was Daddy’s Cadillac.

My mother tried to put the car in reverse as Daddy jumped out and rushed over to the car. His face was full of rage. My mother had forgotten to lock the door when she climbed back inside. I wished I could have warned her, but the words wouldn’t come out. They lodged in my throat, a great lump that choked me. With one quick movement, Daddy snatched the door open and yanked her from the car. The car jerked as her foot left the accelerator. Daddy pinned her against the open door and slid inside the car, jamming his foot on the brake.

“Now see, you choose to act a fool,” he muttered as he put the car back in drive and began to drag my mother alongside the car.

Her screams filled the quiet midnight air, but no one was around to hear her. There were no houses on this block; closed businesses were all I could see.  She stumbled over the rough-edged potholes in the asphalt as she struggled to keep up with the car, while Daddy’s grip remained tight on her arm.

Finally, he pulled over to the side of the road and parked. When the car stopped, my mother tried to break away, but Daddy lunged after her. He wrapped his massive hand around her throat, picked her up, and slammed her against the car. My eyes widened in terror. I felt completely helpless. I couldn’t do anything to protect her.

My mother was frantically slapping and clawing at Daddy’s face until he could no longer keep her against the car. Letting her go, he turned away. Momma didn’t hesitate. She leaped onto his back and began to dig her nails deep into the back of his head. He grabbed her by her hair and flung her over his shoulders like a rag doll, tossing her onto the hood of the car. The sound of Momma’s body connecting with metal broke my little sister Melinda’s horror-induced trance.

As she began crying, Daddy picked up my mother’s 120-pound body and walked her to his Cadillac. He proceeded to throw her into the car and drive it right behind us on the side of the road. Then he dragged my mother back to the Celica. “Young, get in the backseat with your sister,” he said to me. Too scared to argue, I did as I was told. He threw my mother inside the car on the passenger side and got in on the driver’s side.

Session 4:  My Mother is a Teeveeholic

After running some tests and hearing the whole story, a doctor diagnosed her with teeveeitis.  He explained to my mother what had happened to her, and began reading a sheet detailing everything about the disease.

Teeveeitis is a chronic, often progressive disease that is fatal to the brain cells.  The condition involves a preoccupation with a particular program.  Continued abuse could have serious side effects, including damage to mental health.  People suffering from the disease often find themselves talking to the program’s characters. Sweating and/or shaking are common if a favorite program is missed. People who suffer from this condition are labeled teeveeholics.  Teeveeholics ignore people while watching their shows. They tell people to be quiet while their programs are on.  They get irritable and annoyed if other people comment on or criticize them for how much they are watching certain programs.  They start to act out and rationalize their favorite characters. Teeveeholics often deny that they have a problem.

“Have you had any of these experiences?” the doctor asked.

“No,” she lied.

“But Momma, your hand was shaking that day—” Before I could finish, she covered my mouth and glared at me. I had seen that look many times.  It told me that after we left, she would deal with me.

The doctor told her to go home and rest.  He referred her to a therapist named Dr. K. T. Vashon.  His specialty was a new technique of treating people with teeveeitis.  His treatment was to broaden her horizons by getting her to focus on more then just her favorite programs.  He was on call twenty-four hours a day.

My mother kept shaking her head, lying. “I don’t need this therapist.”

“He can only help you if you're honest with him,” the doctor pressed.

“I don’t have a problem,” she insisted. “This is all bullshit.  There's no way I'm a teeveeholic. I watch I Love Lucy reruns and soap operas from time to time, but that's about it.”

“Okay, ma’am.  I'll give you this information on teeveeholics, and Dr. Vashon’s contact information is in the brochure.  If you have any problems, get in touch with him.  Try to stay away from your favorite programs for a while.”

“Okay,” my mother agreed.

Once we reached home, Momma dropped the brochure in the trash.

“I don’t need that shit,” she said.

When she wasn’t looking, I got into the trash and grabbed the information.  It didn’t take long before my mother started watching her programs again.  While watching one of them, she suddenly jumped up and said, “I want my hair like that.”

She was referring to Diahann Carroll, who was a guest on one of her soap operas.  Now, at the time, my mother’s hair was in a short, nappy, Afro style.  Diahann Carroll’s hair was straight, and the style she wore looked very expensive.  My mother knew she couldn’t afford it, but she was determined to get that hairstyle one way or another.  She talked to one of her friends in beauty school.  The friend told her to go to the store and get the products, and she would do it cheap.

She put this white gunk on my mother’s head.  It made the whole house smell like rotten eggs.  My mother sat there for two hours with this stuff on her head before she told the lady that her scalp was burning.  The two of them rushed to the sink and started rinsing the chemicals out of her hair.  The friend kept apologizing as she rinsed, saying that she must have fallen asleep.  She wrapped a towel around my mother’s head.  My mother dried her hair and removed the towel.

“I am so sorry,” the lady said, looking at my mother’s head.

My mother felt her head, and then ran to a mirror.  In between patches of nappy hair were big, shiny bald spots.

She didn’t say a word.  She just glared at the woman.  Her furious stare more than sent the message across.  The woman left in quite a hurry.  Then my mother did what never failed to make her feel good—she started watching her soap operas.  She saw Diahann Carroll’s hairdo again, and reached up to feel her own damaged hair.  She hopped up, grabbed a scarf, and wrapped it around her head like she was Aunt Jemima.

Off to the wig shop we went.  She looked and looked until she found a wig styled like the hairdo she wanted.  She put the wig on right in the store, paid for it, and walked out.  That wig stayed on for the rest of the day and night.

The next day, my mother was working in my class until noon.  My father had the Toyota while his Cadillac was in the shop, so she had to catch the bus home.  My class was on the third floor of the building, about half a block from the bus stop at the corner, so we could see it from the window.  Students would often stand at the window and make jokes about the people waiting at the bus stop.

When my mother was finished working with us, she kissed me and said goodbye to the other kids.  “Bye, Mrs. Blackman,” they said in unison, and she walked out of the classroom.  Within about three minutes, one of the kids standing at the window said, “Look, Young, your mother is running!”

Immediately, the whole class jumped up and went to the window.  The bus was coming down the street, and she was trying to get to the corner in time.  My mother was high-kneeing it with her purse and a folder full of paperwork.  There were already a few people at the bus stop waving at her to hurry up.  I had never seen my mother run like that.  She was picking up speed, looking like Wilma Rudolph.

“Wow, your mother is fast!” someone said to me.

The bus made it to the stop and the passengers got on.  My mother was about a hundred feet away, huffing and puffing, trying to get there.  My classmates cheered her on.  She was almost there, about twenty feet away, when the combination of her running fast and the wind blew her wig right off her head.  The only thing left was a cut-up stocking cap and hairpins sticking up.  My mother reached to grab the wig, releasing the folder full of papers.  All the contents blew into the street and papers were everywhere.

“Look, Young,” said one of my classmates.  “Your mother's hair is blowing down the street.”

Everybody started laughing.  I didn’t want to look, but I did.  In one swift movement, my mother started chasing the wig down the street—against traffic, with no concern for her safety.  I could see people on the back of the bus laughing, and cars were honking their horns.  None of this distracted my mother from her mission.  Each time she attempted to reach down and grab the wig, the wind blew it further away.  She didn’t give up.  She kept reaching for it, against all odds.  It was clear that nothing would prevent her from recovering her wig and her dignity.  I kept watching, horrified.  I’m not sure what upset me more, the fact that she was running around in traffic, or that my whole class was watching.

Finally, she caught up with the wig and snatched it up, smiling like she'd won a gold medal.  People on the bus were clapping, my classmates started cheering, citizens jumped out of their cars and started helping her pick up her papers, and the bus sat waiting for her.  Within minutes, my mother had all the papers in hand, and she stepped onto the bus with her wig resting lopsided on her head.  People were still clapping, and some of them were giving her hugs.  I stood there in a daze, unable to move.  When I came out of it, I turned around to see my whole class staring at me, smirking.

“All right, everybody, go and sit down. Be quiet,” our teacher said.  She walked over and gave me a hug.

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