Journey of a Man: Packing Sneakers and a Gun

JOURNEY

OF A MAN

Packing Sneakers and a Gun

HENRY MORALES

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Bloomington

JOURNEY OF A MAN

Packing Sneakers and a Gun

Copyright © 2009 Henry Morales

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ISBN: 978-1-4401-6886-4 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-6885-7 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date:9/9/09

Acknowledgements

This book would not have been possible without the inspiration, encouragement, and editorial assistance of my best friend Dawn Armstrong to whom I will forever be indebted to. I would like to acknowledge my sisters Conchita and Gladys and my deceased brother Tony for providing me with the inspiration to continue writing when I wanted to stop, realizing that I was telling their story too.

I also recognize my brother in life Rasheem for taking this walk with me and opening doors that I could not open. Special thanks go to Joan Jacobs for her insights, creativity, and editorial assistance. Also deserving special mention is Patricia Mendis, a dear friend, for her spiritual support.

I dedicate this book to my children EJ and Shani and to all my nieces and nephews. I hope that they’ll get a better understanding of the struggles of their parents, and use this as guide to finding their own humanity.

BEFORE I BEGIN

Orphaned at six, I left my home carrying sneakers and a gun, indicating how I would walk the furious journey that awaited me. Without conscience and guilt, I raised myself and my fury in the streets and institutions of America. To me it was exciting. To America it was deadly.

I write this not to complain, but simply to show what occurred as I tried to find some kind of meaning and understanding in my life. It is also an apology and a more complete picture for those who may have been impacted by my actions.

I extracted random revenge with unconscious blindness on the community I felt discarded from. Like a force of nature, I inflicted pain and suffering, taking from anyone who got in my way, blaming everyone for my suffering. I paid dearly for these choices.

Eventually, I realized that my own actions caused me the greatest pain. Like a caterpillar, I went into a cocoon and emerged triumphant as a successful human being. I did the best I could with the hand I was dealt.

This book allows you, the reader, to follow me as a child as I was funneled through the institutional system of America to survival in the streets. It includes my battles with the occult as practiced not in some far-off third world country, but in downtown Brooklyn, USA.

I tell my true story of abandonment, abuse, robbery, and murder for the millions of Americans whose horrific lives seem to leave them no choice but to unleash their rage into the world. I hope to show even one person the choice I could not see. Maybe I can give one institution, an insight, they never had.

I hold deep compassion for all the people I harmed throughout my journey. I understand that there has never been a human being who has not brought pain or suffering upon another; for that is in the very nature of living. Still, what pains me is my awareness of imbedded knowledge that awakened in me as a child and began to develop in me as I grew older. It is when I knew that I was harming another human being, and I continued forward. It is from there that my apology begins and extends to everyone I harmed along my journey.

I apologize for the lies, the tricks, and the meanness that invaded my very soul. My apology begins with my days in the convent when I took advantage of those younger than me, leading them into danger, not caring about the effects my actions would have on them. To the nuns and other staff, I can now see that you sacrificed your time and energy, trying to give me a strong moral base from which to stand on. I refused to listen when I knew you had more than just my physical well-being in mind; you were trying to save my soul. To all those I lashed out at in St. Vincent’s and the streets of downtown Brooklyn because I could not control the rage within me, I am sorry for the pain I caused. To all those that I took from when they had taken nothing from me, I gave back with years of my life.

I ask forgiveness for the lies told and the lives that have been broken because of my actions, and for the women I have harmed with my selfishness and lack of respect. My deepest apologies go to the children that I brought into this world and denied them what I so craved for myself, a father. And to the universal God that gave me the power, strength, and energy to rise above all adversity, I humble myself before you knowing that one door is closing behind me. I am being given a new chance to breathe anew and hopefully lift up the rest of my human family.

I forgive everyone who has ever wished me harm and I hold no ill will towards any institution that I visited along my way. I now give of myself in whatever way possible to help uplift those who come my way in need as I complete my journey on this earth.

Somewhere it is written: To whom much is given, much is expected. I have been given a wealth of life experience; pain and suffering has walked hand in hand with me. I tell this story because I have to, not just for myself but for the memory of my mother and brother, and to help bring peace to my sisters who’ve remained silent in spite of their suffering all these years. It is also my deepest hope that some young person who is lost may find their way home through the realization that we are, all of us, one family.

This is a story based on truth. Some names have been modified to protect those involved. The sadness and cruelty still remains. Forgive me. I paid the price for my deeds. I recount these events as a cleansing and a healing, for myself and society.

Contents

CHAPTER 1

A Child in Brooklyn

CHAPTER 2

Just a Kid

CHAPTER 3

Trouble at St. Dominic’s

CHAPTER 4

Power at St. Vincent’s Home for Boys

CHAPTER 5

The Main Crew

CHAPTER 6

The Job Core

CHAPTER 7

First Trip Upstate

CHAPTER 8

Illusive Freedom … Again

CHAPTER 9

Go West, Son

CHAPTER 10

Prison Time

CHAPTER 11

Change

CHAPTER 12

True Liberty at Last

CHAPTER 1

A Child in Brooklyn

I do not remember my mother, Beatrice. This is a tale based on much truth that was pieced together later in my life, after I found my older brother and searched for the family Beatrice had abandoned in Puerto Rico. Beatrice is my path into this world.

The only real memories I have of my mother, Beatrice, were the times when she beat me. Even as a six-year-old, I already had a knack for trouble. The worst beating I remember getting was on a warm, sunny mid-September afternoon, with a slight breeze in the air. My mother had sent my sister, Conchita, and I out to play in front of the house. Conchita went off to play dolls with her girlfriends, and I quickly found myself alone. As I stood around feeling bored, thinking about what to do with myself, my neighbor’s son, Ritchie, came downstairs and walked over to me. He was ten years old and he pushed me in the way a big brother usually greets his kid brother. He told me that he was going for a walk down the block and asked if I wanted to go along. Conchita and her friends didn’t want me around anyway, and I didn’t think they would miss me if I went off for just a few minutes.

We walked down the block from where we lived on Lincoln Place. When we got to the corner, Ritchie started to cross the street. I hesitated, knowing that I was not allowed to cross the street without permission. It was one thing to walk down the block, but to cross would be an absolute no-no. When Ritchie noticed my hesitation, he explained that we’d be right back, and no one would notice I was gone. He insisted that he just wanted to show me something. I decided to follow.

We crossed the street and walked past a couple of buildings to what appeared to be an abandoned building. There was a lot of debris in the front, mostly boards, broken bottles, and newspapers. I was looking around outside when Ritchie pressed up against the ground floor door and pushed it open. Like a mischievous cat, he squeezed past the slightly open door, and I anxiously followed him inside. I was scared, and was tempted to turn back, but I was filled with tremendous curiosity about what might be inside.

The place was dark and it took us a moment to adjust. The room was littered with garbage and had old, beat-up furniture that smelled like urine.

We walked through the front room towards the glimmer of light that came through the back kitchen window, which was uncovered unlike the front windows. We looked around in the kitchen and found some matches.

I was thinking that I needed to get home before my mother came out looking for me and discovered I was gone. Just then Ritchie struck a match and lit an old newspaper. It caught my attention and drowned out the warning feeling I had in my gut. I took the book of matches from him, lit one, and dropped it on top of some papers that were stacked on the smelly couch.

We stood there watching, fascinated, as the fire spread to the couch. By the time we realized the fire was getting out of control, it was too late. We ran out into the hall. Instead of going out the way we came in, we ran up the stairs, intending to go through the stoop entrance. At this point, I was beginning to panic, but I believed that my only choice was to follow Ritchie and hope that he could get us out.

The door to the stoop entrance was locked. When we couldn’t open it, we tried to go back down the stairs, but found out that the fire had spread so fast. Downstairs was already consumed with smoke, and it was getting to us. We ran back upstairs and pushed our way into the room facing the front of the building.

Ritchie struggled but managed to open the window and jumped out without hesitation. I looked out and thought that it was a long way down, from my six-year old perspective. I could feel the heat of the fire below me, coming through the floor, warming my shoes. I was rigid with fear. Ritchie yelled for me to jump. As scared as I was, I knew that I had to jump or burn, so out the window I went.

When I hit the ground, my head landed on a stick with a protruding nail. It went straight into my eye socket. The pain was incredible. I was scared, disoriented, and hurting all over. All I wanted to do was go home. I pulled the stick with the nail out of my eye socket, and blood started gushing out.

The sounds of the approaching fire trucks caught our attention. We knew we had done something serious. We were in for some real trouble. Ritchie dragged me by the arm, trying to get us away from the scene quickly. As we rushed away, a man passing by saw my eye and gave me his handkerchief. He asked what had happened. Ritchie said that I had fallen and hit my head, and he was taking me home. But as soon as we were across the street, he left me on my own.

As I was walking down towards the house, I saw everyone looking in my direction. The sounds of the fire trucks had gotten their attention. My sister started screaming as soon as she saw me. My mother heard her and rushed outside just as I approached the house. She looked at me, saw the trucks, and in that wonderful way that mothers put two and two together, she knew that I was involved in starting the fire. It didn’t help that a couple of weeks earlier I had set the kitchen curtains on fire in our house. That time she had beaten the three of us, with Conchita getting the worst of it because she was the oldest. To cover my own guilt, I had blamed my younger sister, Gladys, who was just two at the time.

Now my mother started beating me in the street. She beat me as we went into the house, and didn’t stop until we were in the bathroom, where she wet a washcloth and told me to hold it over my bleeding, swollen eye. She was so furious; I don’t think she realized how badly I had injured myself.

About half an hour later, my mother’s boyfriend, Aniva, came in and found me almost passed out in a pool of blood. He quickly picked me up, rushed to his car, and threw me inside. He ran every stoplight on the way to the hospital. There, I received seven stitches and had the rest of the nail cleaned out of my brow. For Halloween that year, I was a one-eyed pirate.

I never had a chance to know my father, and I do not recall any other man being with my mother other than Aniva. In fact, I seem to remember him more than I remember my mother.

On the Christmas following my eye episode, Aniva gave me my first experience with alcohol and cigars. He had come over with a few friends for the holidays. They were playing cards and I kept hanging around. Every time he sent me away, I’d find my way back to the table. So this time he said to me, You want to hang out with the men? Here drink this. He gave me a shot of whiskey. My throat burned and I started to cough. Here, take a puff of this cigar, Aniva said, as if that would stop the cough.

I took a puff. In a matter of moments, my head was spinning and my stomach was growling. They were all laughing at me as I staggered away. I vomited all over the place and fell into the Christmas tree, knocking it over.

My mother, who was upstairs with her friend Virginia and my sisters, came running when she heard me fall. She cleaned everything up, bathed