A Hard Lesson in Morality
by Reginald Sinclair Lewis, AY2902 Death Row, P.O. Box 99901,
Pittsburgh, PA 15233
Taking my freedom for granted I paid a terrible price-a sordid past,
rife with violence, sex and drugs, a twisted notion of the American Dream,
then accused, arrested, convicted for the murders of a sleazy pimp and a
drug dealer after a well-schooled thespian demonically portrayed me on Amerp;ica's
Most Wanted. It was inevitable that my life became an interminable shuttle
winding down the long dark corridors of death row. Some days are spent pacing
the dusky floor in mincing strides, listening to the horrid screams, the
perpetual hypnotic chatter resounding off the walls. It is so easy for me
to feel helpless, black rage, pissed at the all-white jury and the gestapo-like
judge who sentenced me. But I am not one of those embittered, self-loathing
black males you always hear piteously mewling, running his damn mouth about
what the dominant white class allegedly owes him and how the government
systematically and historically messed him around.
I alone bear the onus. I am guilty of being the fodder which fuels the pervasive
negative stereotypes that haunt those of the African diaspora. I am a mere
percentile that comprise those manipulated statistics. You know, one of
those one-in-every-four black males in prison or on parole. The national
media wants the entire world to know that, invariably, most of the culprits
of crime in this country are young African Americans. The glaring images
in newspapers and magazines and the montage of news reports fleeting across
TV screens are heinous, crude, and apocalyptic. In the exercise yard one
day a fellow prisoner called out to me-"Yo, Reggie!" I paused.
The handball crashed against the concrete wall and soared past my sweaty
brown face as I turned to face the speaker. "What's up?" I asked.
"Did ya see that story on CNN last night?" I shook my head no.
"Well, some crackheads did a carjackin' man," the brother explained.
"They throwed a lil' baby out the window, then dragged the lady down
the street."I stared at him. I found myself filled with heart-wrenching
guilt, shame, implacable resolute despair-and yes, self-examination. How
many of my wide-eyed impressionable young brothers had seen me on America's
Most Wanted, I wondered, read about my illustrious criminal career in newspapers
and magazines-and staged a blundering unflattering parody of my past lawless
conduct? If by some remote possibility this is true, then isn't it my responsibility
to disinherit my brethren from the impoverished doom I'd bequeathed them?
Isn't it my duty, as a black father, as a writer, to admonish, lecture,
pontificate, and teach my misguided brothers some sense of morality and
respect for human life? This brings me to my 17-year-old nephew, Corey.
Tall, lanky, brash, arrogant, he walks with a slothful exaggerated swagger,
baggy pants hanging sluggishly down his taut behind, cap twisted menacingly
to the side, or turned backward.
He's the leader of a stick-up posse, who rolled around Philly in a stylish
New Jack City four-wheeled jeep. Corey even had one of those miniature remote
phones. When he got arrested, his posse vanished. A judge sentenced him
to a year in a tough juvenile facility-for brandishing a machine gun. Since
we'd always been tight, I wrote to my nephew. He wrote back, talking crazy.
He was going to commit suicide, he threatened, plot an escape, kill his
counselor, and step to some sucker he suspected of filching his cigarettes.
I told him, "CHILL OUT, just do your time. Act like a man." He
countered with a fusillade of obscenities in defense of his honor. But he's
my blood. I had to "school him." He was moving at a reckless pace,
headlong towards "The Big House." I couldn't let him sink. I told
him I'd seen many young brothers strut through the prison gates-loud and
tough-and next thing you know their lips are glossy and red and they're
switching 'round the big yard like Diana Ross.
I was finally getting through to my obstinate nephew. I taught him how to
utilize the law library. Sent him books by black authors. Persuaded a few
of my female penpals to write to him. To break the monotony, I mailed him
a check so he could buy a radio. Now Corey's letters resoundingly rang-ala
Patti Labell-"with a new attitude." He got a job in the jail's
kitchen. He put on weight. Corey's out now. I urged him to enroll in an
international chef school-and I heard he's doing quite well.
So to the brothers out there who've attained some measure of success: step
up. Become the vanguards for our disenfranchised youth-in dire need of moral
guidance, education and job opportunities.