DARIUS

and the

Vanilla Funk

By Phil Wohl

1

CHAPTERS

Lost and Found Candy Man

My Name Is… Partners in Crime

Mr. Cohen Can Play Breakfast in Desk

Elements of the Universe Thug's Life

Court's In Session Jersey Blues

Shot In the Dark Limping Through Life

Second Chance Blame It on the Funk

2

Lost and Found

My father was gunned down when I was five

years old. Seeing him lying there in that coffin was so

spooky that the image has haunted me my whole life. I

never had the chance to say goodbye to him and

barely even had the opportunity to say hello.

Being an undercover cop had its advantages for

my dad, Dennis Mitchell. He grew up in Oakland,

California in the late 1960‟s as a member of the Black

Panthers. The Panthers were the black community‟s

answer to oppression and injustice. In the early 1970‟s

he moved from the city by the bay to Harlem, New

York. The purpose of this exodus was to bolster the

Panthers presence in New York‟s premier African

American community.

A few years after he arrived at 135th Street, dad

met my mother, Angela, at a Panther rally. A year later

they had Malcolm, their first child, who was named

3

after Malcolm X. Shortly after Malcolm arrived in the

world, Dennis Mitchell married Angela Baines. With the

glory days now fading in the glow of Harlem, my family

picked up and moved to a new community on Long

Island called Branchville. With the promise of a new

career in law enforcement waiting for my dad and a

new house to live in, the family had come a long way

from the tension-filled, big city streets.

My parents had three more kids in seven years,

ending in the early 1980‟s, as Rosa, Martin, and finally

Julia were brought into the world. Rosa was named for

Rosa Parks; Martin got his name from Martin Luther Ling;

and Julia was coined in love for Diahann Carroll‟s TV

character bearing the same name. With four kids and

barely enough room for everyone in the house, my

mom‟s baby making days seemed to be over.

A decade went by and the family was flourishing.

My dad worked his way up the ranks and out of the

4

shadows and dangers of undercover work into a

coveted position of Captain. After his last undercover

operation in the early 1990‟s, he and my mom spent a

few days getting reacquainted. Nine months later, I

was born with the name Darius Theo Mitchell. The

name Darius was an original concoction, but Theo was

taken directly from the son on The Cosby Show, who I

grew to appreciate by watching Nick At Night reruns.

Being an “Oops!” baby didn‟t exactly give me the

explosive head start I needed in life. The one

advantage I did have was that my dad was around a

lot more than he was when my brothers and sisters

were growing up. Working nine to five instead of being

away from the family weeks at a stretch left my dad

with a lot of free time. Luckily, I was the immediate

beneficiary of that extra time.

My dad must have felt some guilt about not

having spent so much quality time with my brothers

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and sisters. He would take me to the park when I was

real small, and then we went to a few basketball

games together once I was out of diapers. By the time

I realized who my father was and what he meant to

me, he was gone. I heard people talking about an

“old score” that a few local drug dealers wanted to

settle with him. Seems that dad had infiltrated their

operation and the dealers served about ten years of

hard time for their indiscretions.

I still remember the night he left us like it was

yesterday. We had just walked back from watching

Branchville High School beat its archrival Pritchett High

School in a basketball game. Branchville High was

down the block from our house and so was the local

elementary school I was going to attend the following

year. As we were walking into the house my dad told

me to go inside, and he went to set up the lawn

sprinkler in front of the house.

6

Just as my mom asked me about the game, we

heard the roar of an engine barreling down the street.

My dad must have heard it too, because he was

reaching for the gun in his ankle holster before the car

had approached our house. His nine-millimeter was no

match for the machine guns these guys were packing.

Instead of trying to run into the house and jeopardize

his family, Dennis Mitchell became a hero on his front

lawn. The sprinkler he just turned on washed away

much of the blood trickling out of his new holes, but

failed to wash away the memories of my main man: my

dad.

The pain of my father‟s death extended way

beyond my little head; my mother received a huge

sum of money from the state and the police

department. She proceeded to live the good life and

leave me behind. The subsequent virtual passing of my

7

mother exacerbated the grief of losing my father. She

had no time or energy left for me and I was on my own.

The years rolled by between kindergarten and the

end of fourth grade. Being a kid that was always

surrounded by women of color at home, it was a

surprisingly easy transition to be bossed around by a

bunch of uptight white ladies at school. The sound of a

woman‟s voice seemed to connect to some sort of

obedience mechanism in my brain. Conversely, the

sound of a man‟s voice never made it past the outer

reaches of my ears. It would sound interesting to say

that male speech went in one ear and out the other,

but the noise was deflected even before it had a

chance to be processed.

I was like a wild Mustang running with no sense of

control or purpose. Once my sister Julia graduated

from Branchville High School, she was home about as

often as my mom. Being a fourth grader with a key

8

and an empty house gave me license to do just about

anything I damned pleased. My life had come a long

way from park strolls and basketball games with my

dad.

Looking back on my life in those days is often

painful and a constant reminder of the person I might

have become -- the person I might have become if not

for Mr. C. Lucas Cohen picked up where my dad left

off. He cared about me even after I no longer cared

about myself. What I had lost he had found. What I

had forgotten he had remembered. What I couldn‟t

see he clearly stated. Without Mr. C I would no longer

be living on this earth. I would have been just another

punk who had a death wish. Dying time will come, but

I have plenty of living to do before that fateful day.

9

Candy Man

The summers are really hot and humid in New

York. The humidity clings to your body like a sopping

wet t-shirt. The heat also has a way of turning boredom

into trouble for the small, deviant minds of ten year-old

boys. My crew and me were growing and we were

bad, in every sense of the word.

I used to hang out with two guys – one guys name

was Edgar Ellison, or Easy E as we called him; the other

dude was simply known as Beast – this brother was as

wild as he was strong. I was never really sure of his full

name because we didn‟t go to the same school. In

fact, I don‟t even know if he went to school. Someone

once told me his name was Harold, but I didn‟t dare

call Beast by his formal name in fear that I would get

beat down. My nickname was D Mitch, but Beast just

called me D.

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Easy E, Beast, and me made quite the trio of

trouble. I was the brains, Easy E had arms like an

octopus, and Beast was the muscle in case we got in

trouble. Beast always had some level of protection for

us when we walked around; he carried anything from a

screwdriver to a piece of broken glass but we always

knew we were safe when he was around.

One liquid August afternoon we took our usual

stroll up to the Korean market about half-a-mile from

my house. We had a few close calls with the owner of

the store, but enjoyed the challenge that the market

presented us. This guy had seen every trick in the book;

he even saw through my distraction tactics of asking

questions while my friends use their five-finger discounts

to get us some snacks.

We were out of tricks and out of money, but we

were going to try to rob the vault with little more than

speed, strength, and my devious mind. It was about

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100 degrees outside and it had to be at least 110 inside

of the store. I was tempted to crawl inside of the small

soda refrigerator just to get some relief from the heat.

The three of us worked the store pretty good – stuffing

drinks and chips in our pants and shirts. We were about

to leave when this huge white guy walked in, blocking

any sun that was beaming through the swinging front

glass door.

I thought Larry Bird‟s entrance would be the

diversionary tactic that we needed to escape, so I

motioned over to E and Beast that it was time to go.

We quickly shuttled toward the door but were blocked

by the owner, Mr. Morioto, who somehow had beaten

us to the door. I swear I never saw the man move but

he was so quick that any escape attempt on our part

seemed pointless. Morioto yelled, “You punks rob me

for last time! I call police!” E said, “Easy, Mr. Miyagi,”

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making a reference to the wise Asian man in The

Karate Kid.

Just as Beast was about to pull something

dangerous from his pocket, the big white dude spoke.

“Excuse me, sir. I just wanted to pay for all of our stuff.”

He looked at me and said, “Bring all of your stuff up

here so we can get back to school.” My friends and I

looked at each other in shock as we slowly moved up

to the front counter. Mr. Morioto said to the man,

“What are you doing with hoodlums?” The white guy

responded, “They‟re n my class as part of a summer

program. I‟m sorry I should have told you when we

walked in.” He then nodded at me like he wanted to

know my name. I whispered, “Darius.” He then said,

“Darius, make sure you and the guys get a few candy

bars, too. We don‟t want you guys running out of

energy this afternoon. We have a lot of work to do.”

13

We grabbed three or four candy bars each until

the white man gave us a look and put up two fingers.

He then asked Mr. Morioto for a lottery ticket and then

gave it back to him once it was printed, “That ticket is

for you. Thank you for your help. C‟mon guys, let‟s go.”

We left the store and walked toward the man‟s

blue PT Cruiser; he got in the car, rolled down his

window, looked at us seriously and said, “Next time

don‟t be so obvious.” We exchanged slaps and the

man stuck out his left fist and I banged my right fist on

his in affirmation. As he drove away I thought, “Who

was that tall white dude and why was he in

Branchville?”

That was the first time I met Mr. C; he was on a

break from new teacher training and he came over to

the store to get a bite to eat. Little did I know what

awaited me a few weeks later when school started?

Destiny had a way of setting me up for things before I

14

even knew what was happening. Easy E, Beast, and

me talked about getting away with stealing stuff from

Mr. Morioto all day. The extra bonus that the Candy

Man threw into our bounty, made our getaway even

sweeter. Little did I know that nothing in life is handed

to you for free – there is always some price to pay

down the road. But, for one shining moment, I was

enjoying being a kid who could do no wrong… or was

that do no right?

15

My Name Is…

The summer seemed to drag on as slowly as a

Social Studies lesson. With the month of August moving

off into the blazing sunset, it was time to get my groove

on and head back around the corner to school. Fifth

grade would be my last year at Acorn Road

Elementary School, and would signal the end of my not

so innocent youth.

I had spent so much time at the school during the

summer when the air was calm and the spaces were

wide open. Workmen had built an overhang to protect

the kids in the portable classrooms from being rained

and snowed on as they traveled to the main building;

me, E and Beast often sat in the shady steps right in

front of my new class. I was in the front of the line that

first day for Mr. Cohen‟s class. Not that I knew who Mr.

Cohen was, or what torture he had foolishly signed up

16

for. As the line for my class grew longer, I could sense

that this would be a memorable year. It was like

someone picked all of the bad kids and put them

together in one class. I smiled as the other fifth grade

classes looked at us both in horror and relieved

amazement.

I was talking to my friend Vernon, when the line

suddenly grew quiet and everybody looked up. I was

laughing as I turned directly into the bottom of a large

rib cage. I looked up and saw a slightly familiar white

man staring down at me with a big smile. He beamed

and said for the class to hear, “Darius my man, this is

your lucky day!”

Embarrassment and I were the worst of friends. I

didn‟t like it when somebody made me look like a fool

in front of my friends. While it was cool what the big

white dude did at Mr. Morioto‟s store, this was school

and it was my turf. The teacher led us into the

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classroom and we looked up at the board for our

seating assignments.

He waited for everyone to nestle into their

wooden desks before introducing himself, “My name is

Mr. Cohen, but you can call me Mr. C.” He then wrote

his name on the board and kept talking, “This is the first

year for me as a teacher and, by the looks of this class,

I‟m hoping it won‟t be my last. I expect you to come

prepared to work every day, because I will be

presenting the material a little different than what you

have become accustomed to at Acorn Elementary.

We have 24 students in this class that I expect to be

freethinking individuals. While we will do many tasks

together, I want your creativity to be the dominant

force. Be respectful but don‟t ever act like a robot.

Now that you know what I‟m about, let‟s go around the

room and hear your stories.”

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One person after another babbled on and told

their names and life stories. Every other teacher I‟ve

ever had would have cut each person off after only

about a minute; Mr. C. gave each student between

five and ten minutes to exhaust his or her tension.

Twenty-three people and a few hours later, it was

finally my turn to speak. Before I had a chance to

open my mouth Mr. C. interjected, “There won‟t be any

„My name is‟ with this last speaker. Class, this is Mr.

Darius Mitchell. Mr. Mitchell, this is the class.” I felt both

embarrassed and special at the same time. While just

about everyone in the class knew me, I felt a great

deal of pressure to live up to the expectations of my

words. I think Mr. C. sensed my anxiety and he helped

me through my ten minutes of fame.

In my five previous years at Acorn Elementary I

was never made to feel anything more than average.

Occasionally I would get a B on a test or a project, but

19

no teacher ever gave me a second chance. Mr.

Cohen saw right through my ordinary student smoke

screen and helped me clear the fog that surrounded

my head.

From the way I am talking, it sounds like it was all

smooth sailing from the moment I walked into that class

-- it took quite some time for the two of us to achieve a

harmonious balance -- proving once again that

nothing good comes easy.

The one mistake that Mr. Cohen made was that

he was trying to be so supportive that we took

advantage of his generosity. To be honest, that‟s what

kids do if you don‟t set some kind of limits for them. Mr.

C. often talked to me about the guidance he got from

fellow teachers and administrators. Among the gems

of advice included, “Don‟t smile until Christmas” and

“Give them so much homework in the beginning that

their heads will explode.” I couldn‟t imagine Mr. C. not

20

smiling at some point in the day. I‟m not really sure how

he stopped himself from exploding, but he managed to

make it through that year without completely melting

down.

There wasn‟t a day that went by during that first

month of school that I didn‟t test Mr. Cohen. The funny

thing was that he was testing me right back. I had

finally met my match on the stubborn scale; Mr. C. was

determined to break down my walls and unlock the

riches in my protected mind, but I had other ideas.

I waited a few weeks before I told Mr. C. about

the death of my father. He told the class that he was a

big kid and that he loved being with us – but the real

reason he became a teacher was because his wife

had passed away a few years prior to becoming a

teacher. I identified with his loss and instantly latched

on to his unwavering spirit. I could sense that he was

hurting inside but he wouldn‟t let us into that world. He

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told us “You have to be able to separate the

professional from the personal in your life.” There was

nothing that wasn‟t personal about Mr. Cohen‟s

professional life. He treated all of us like we were part

of his extended family. We all could have used a good

ass-wupping every once in a while, though.

That first month was rough; the classroom became

sort of a battlefield because Mr. C. was giving us room

to be ourselves. We had never been in a classroom

where our thoughts were listened to; life before that

was all about learning random facts and winning

useless certificates for good behavior. We must have

changed the configuration of our desks at least once a

week in the beginning. With relationships shifting almost

every time we stepped in the room, it was difficult to

find a group of four or five people you got along with

at any given time.

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All of the fifth graders had to take a big state

Social Studies test In November. That didn‟t give us

much time to get to know each other and also put in

the hard work needed to do well on the exam. Mr. C.

would say almost every day, “I‟m not changing what

we are doing for a test. I have a responsibility to

prepare you guys for the future, not just the present.

While the other three fifth grade classes studied Social

Studies facts for at least three or four hours a day, we

did our usual one hour per day.

At first, I questioned Mr. C.‟s methods; I think the

whole class was wondering what he was doing. We

weren‟t used to a balanced attack; whenever we had

a major test in a subject, the preparation was usually

exhaustive. I remember giving Mr. Cohen a real hard

time during those first few months. I made sure the

majority of his lessons were as broken as my heart. I

clung to Mr. C. at every opportunity but made him

23

suffer when I thought he wasn‟t paying enough

attention to me.

Mr. Cohen said to us often “When you sit down to

take this test, I want you attack it. I have found when

you walk into a test and you‟re afraid, you have no

chance to succeed. Failure always comes to people

that look for it; we are all winners in this class. There is

no reason to fear a simple test – I will give you the tools

to succeed and all you will have to do is listen and

execute the plan. I was a poor test taker most in my life

because I wasn‟t focused. You will be focused

because nobody outside of this classroom thinks you

can do this.” It was a classic Us Against the World

speech that hit home for a group of cast-offs that were

used to finishing second best.

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Partners In Crime

It seemed the closer Mr. C. and I became, the

more I tried to push him away. It usually didn‟t take this

much effort to separate myself from the average adult.

However, as disappointed as Mr. Cohen was at my

attempts, he kept coming back stronger and stronger

ever day. That was, until I joined forces with my new

buddy Javon Trumane.

Javon wasn‟t your average fifth grade student. In

fact, his diminutive size put him closer to the average

height of a second or third grader. But, what J Bug

lacked in height he made up in guts. He was the

toughest kid in our school, but that didn‟t stop other

stronger, bigger kids from beating him up every day.

It was natural for Javon and me to be friends. He

had a special talent of getting under people‟s skin and

I could look into anyone‟s eyes and influence their

25

judgment. I remember this one time when I was called

down to the Vice Principal‟s office. Mrs. Daniels was a

large, Nubian princess who was the main authority

figure in our school; Principal Lewis was the white

figurehead, while Mrs. D did all of the dirty work and

kept all of his hoodlums in line.

Mr. Cohen was in Mrs. Daniels‟ office talking to her

about his unruly mob. Mrs. D. asked him, “Who is this

boy named Darius Mitchell in your class? You‟re not

going to believe this, but I had four girls in my office the

other day because they were fighting. I asked them

why they were fighting and they said, „Darius Mitchell.‟

I have to see this for myself.” Mrs. Daniels picked up the

phone and called the gym and had me sent down to

her office.

I walked into the small office and looked at Mr. C,

who put his head down and smiled. While my pearly-

white smile and riveting hazel eyes might have cast a

26

spell on every female within a 30-mile radius, it did little

to make my teacher‟s legs weak. Mrs. Daniels took one

look at me and told me to go back to the gym. She

waited a few seconds, changed her work voice to a

more casual tone and said, “That boy‟s has gorgeous

eyes.” I think I even saw Mrs. D. fighting with a few of

those girls the next day on the playground.

Rumor had it that my man Javon had a chemical

imbalance. We always knew he was a bit volatile, but

none of us thought that it would go as far as him

needing medication to balance his brain waves.

Javon lived with his grandmother, who was in a wheel

chair, and his little brother. Dispensing medication

wasn‟t the first thing that crossed Mrs. Horton‟s mind

every morning. It took her at least ten minutes to get

out of bed and climb into her chair. By the time she

emerged from her room, Javon had already eaten a

donut and was well on his way to school.

27

Medicine that was previously distributed twice

daily by the school‟s nurse was now given first thing in

the morning in a time-released formula. Forgetting to

take the medicine each morning slowed the release of

the feel good formula to never.

We all knew each morning whether Javon had

remembered to take the medication before he left his

house. I could tell by the look in his eyes whether I

could leverage his instability for my own pleasure and

gain. Javon and I were literally partners in crime,

leaving destruction and devastation in our path. Mr. C

decided to separate us from the rest of the class, but all

he did was give me the chance to create even more

havoc.

With J Bug directly in front of me, my thoughts

were focused on directing him toward the most

unusual of stunts. There was this one morning when we

finished a lesson and Mr. Cohen had us work in groups.

28

The activity was a little slow, so I told Javon to do a flip

on to the carpet in the middle of the class. Before I

knew it my words were quickly turned into action;

Javon had jumped onto a chair and quickly bent his

knees and then headed airborne into the thin air of the

classroom.

The thud of Javon landing flat on his back

resonated through the class like an earthquake. He

had every intention of doing a flip but only made

about halfway around. Mr. C looked at Javon in

amazement as he jumped up off the carpet as quickly

as he had hurled himself into the air. We all got a good

laugh at flying J Bug’s expense, and then quickly got

back to business. We had become used to his zany

antics and didn‟t let any of his moments last any longer

than were necessary.

Most of my ideas about stirring up trouble were

pretty tame; that was until I came up with the mother

29

of all pranks. I was pretty disturbed at Mr. Cohen for

not agreeing with me in class the previous day. He

asked the class, “If you could go out to eat with

anyone, who would it be?” We were doing a history

lesson, but the answers were anything but historical. He

probably expected answers like “Harriet Tubman” or

“George Washington,” but what we heard was more

like “50 Cent” and “B2K.” My answer was sweet and

simple; “I would go out to dinner with my dad.” I then

asked Mr. C who he would go out with and when he

hesitated, I said “Wouldn‟t you want to go out with your

wife?” He tried to avoid the issue but I pressed him for

an answer, “Don‟t you miss your wife?” Mr. Cohen had

talked about getting remarried, and he even had a

picture of his new wife on his desk. Since I hadn‟t

moved on, why had he? I didn‟t think he ever gave

me an answer, and it was one of the rare occasions

when he didn‟t have an opinion.

30

Mr. Cohen‟s silence fed my lack of clarity of my

own situation. I figured that it was better to have a

wallowing partner than one who could so easily move

on from tragedy. I was in rare form the next morning

and was planning to do something big to get Mr. C‟s

attention. With Javon as my vehicle and rage as my

ally, it would be a day that none of us in Room 232

would ever forget.

We were in the middle of another long, slow

Social Studies lesson, when I looked across at Javon

and noticed something shiny sticking out of his pocket.

From the looks of Javon‟s wild eyes, it had been a few

days since he had taken a hit of that mood-softening

medicine. I motioned to him to show me what he had

in his pocket and he pulled at a metal protractor.

When the metal glistened from the fluorescent

classroom lights, I flashed back to the summer and the

way Beast was able to turn virtually any item into a

31

weapon. I have regretted what happened next ever

since it occurred.

Mr. Cohen was up at the board with his back to

us, writing down a few things for us to focus on in the

chapter. I smiled and motioned to Javon to get up

and stab Mr. C with the protractor. He got to his feet

quickly – Javon did everything quickly – and stabbed

Mr. Cohen in the right side of his lower back. Javon

removed the pointy end of the protractor and dropped

it on the floor. He ran back to his seat and started

crying as Mr. C gently grabbed his back. He walked

over to his phone and quietly called the main office, so

that the Vice Principal and the nurse could come to

our class.

Mrs. Daniels came to get Javon and check on Mr.

Cohen. It was time for recess so the class filed out to

the playground and Mr. C. and some of my classmates

32

quickly told Mrs. Daniels what had happened and he

then walked to his car to go to a nearby clinic.

That was the longest lunch hour of all time! I felt

so guilty at first that I couldn‟t focus; about midway

through recess, the guilt was replaced by sadness. I

asked one of the aides if I could go to the bathroom,

and I then proceeded to cry in the bathroom for the

next ten minutes.

Why did I want to hurt someone I had such strong

feelings for? Did I get rid of the one person that

actually cared about me? I made sure that no one

knew that I was crying before returning to recess. The

whole class was depressed at lunch and Mrs. Daniels

ushered all of us into the vacant gym to have a talk.

We all couldn‟t believe what had happened, but

nobody knew that I was just as much to blame as

Javon. Mrs. Daniels told us that Principal Lewis had

33

suspended Javon indefinitely, pending a hearing on

whether he would be sent to an alternative school.

We all wanted to know if Mr. Cohen would be our

teacher for the rest of the year. Mrs. Daniels did not

know Mr. C‟s status and if he would be healthy enough

to return. By the end of lunch, we were picked up by

one of the aides and brought back to our classroom.

As we walked into our classroom we were shocked at

what we saw; Mr. Cohen was in front of the classroom

writing the afternoon‟s lesson on the board. He was

wearing the same white dress shirt and there was a

bloodstain over the spot where Javon had stabbed

him. I‟m sure he could have changed his shirt but

knowing Mr. Cohen, he was wearing the shirt to prove

a point.

The weapon‟s point missed puncturing Mr.

Cohen‟s kidney by a fraction of an inch. He got

patched up, got a few tetanus shots and was back

34

fighting the good fight within the hour. I walked up to

the front of the class, gave him a hug, and whispered,

“I‟m sorry.” Mr. Cohen bent down and whispered in my

ear, “Next time we both might not be so lucky.”

I remember that I ran and ran for miles through

the streets of my neighborhood that afternoon. Not

only wasn‟t I sure what I was running from, I also had no

idea where I was going. I was completely lost in

recognizable territory, but had no idea how to get

home.

I saw Mr. Cohen‟s familiar PT Cruiser rolling down

toward me and I waved my hands for him to stop. The

car came to a stop and the driver-side window

gradually rolled down. Mr. Cohen smirked at me and I

slowly stuck my head in his car until my forehead

connected with his; we banged fists and I then

punched my hand to my chest, put my head down

and walked away. That man did care for me but I

35

wasn‟t sure how to return the favor. What if something

happened to him just like it did to my dad? It

frightened me to see blood on his shirt – I‟ll never forget

the image of my dad‟s bloodied body on our front

lawn. The image comes to me almost every time I

close my eyes at night, or I see blood.

I wish I could have jumped into Mr. C‟s car that

day and escaped from that place – even if it was for a

few minutes, or an hour, or for a few days. What I‟ve

learned is that you can‟t run from your past, because it

will hunt you down like an angry mob. No matter how

fast I ran, my inner demons would always be a few

steps ahead of me.

36

Mr. Cohen Can Play

I love basketball more than anything else in the

whole world. The only things that can deflect my

attention away from playing ball are girls. Girls and

basketball must have been ingrained in my head at an

early age, because my dad used to point out both the

finer points of the game and the finest cheerleaders.

The apple didn’t fall far from that tree.

It was plain to see that Mr. Cohen was a tall, white

man. The way I saw it was not only can‟t white men

jump; they also have no basketball skills. I also thought

that girls were put on this earth to drive me crazy. All

right, that second one was right but Mr. C put that first

one to rest one afternoon in the gym.

Mr. Cohen never missed an opportunity to make

our day more interesting. Simple things such as a few

extra minutes on the playground or going to gym class

37

while the previous class was still outside, gave us

additional chances to blow some steam off. Mr. C was

walking over to the sidelines when I called out his name

and threw him a basketball. Without hesitation, he

turned and shot the ball through the hoop and then sat

down on a stack of gym mats. One lucky shot did not

convince me that Mr. C could play basketball. I called

him out to play one-on-one with me and he happily

obliged.

I have never played against someone who knew

my every thought before I had chance to react. I tried

to embarrass Mr. C by dribbling through his legs on the

first move but he stole the ball before I had a chance

to collect the ball behind him. He said, “You didn‟t just

try to put the ball though my legs.” Then he talked as

he shot the ball, “You‟re gonna‟ have to come out

here and play me.” The ball swished through the net as

he finished talking. For a change, I was speechless. Mr.

38

Cohen had proved his point, but I knew he let me score

a bunch of times. I really can‟t remember who won the

game; in fact, I don‟t think our game was about

keeping score. It was so much fun competing against

somebody who knew how to play, and Mr. Cohen

could play.

The other kids in the class smiled at the sight of

their teacher playing with them. I took his participation

to a completely higher level. This was a man who got

me – who felt my pain and did everything in his power

to ease my brain burden.

Mr. Cohen would usually let us out five or ten

minutes early for recess. Sometimes he would follow us

to the basketball court on the playground and even up

the sides a bit. The funny thing was that Mr. C and I

never played on the same team. He very rarely shot

the ball, preferring to give kids a chance to shoot that

rarely could create their own shots. The more we

39

played with Mr. C, the more I felt my game changing.

Before we met, my game consisted of breaking down

the defense with my Allen Iverson-inspired crossovers.

As the weeks went by I found new joy in passing and

bringing my teammates along for the ride. As long as

the ball was in my hands it was my choice to lead, not

just take for myself. It was easy to get what was mine;

Mr. Cohen taught me that it was all there for me to

take what my opponent gave me. The game and life

were so much easier when I let things come to me,

instead of forcing the action.

Mr. Cohen kept telling the class that he had no

favorites among the 24 kids in his class. However, he

and I shared a connection that went beyond the

average student-teacher relationship. The class used

to go to Computer Lab every Friday after lunch. Mr.

Cohen initially resisted the temptation of letting us go

on the Internet and play our favorite games. He always

40

went through the motions and gave us some lame

educational assignment, only to give us at least 30

minutes of playtime. It only took a matter of minutes

before Mr. C would pull up a chair and sit next to me.

A few minutes later we were locked up in an epic

battle of Slam Dunk! I was always the brother and Mr.

Cohen was always the vertically challenged white

dude.

The action of Slam Dunk! Got so intense that we

often lost track of time. It was a good thing that Mr. C

wasn‟t a scheduling freak, or he would have really

cared if we missed a science lesson, or two. For Mr.

Cohen, school was more about real-life lessons than

facts listed in a textbook.

For me to say that my teacher spent all of his free

time with me would be a false statement. There were

many times that Mr. Cohen circulated throughout the

computer lab and played games against other kids. It

41

was plain to see how much he enjoyed the interaction

with all of us. We seemed to have our best moments

outside of the limiting confines of the classroom.

Maybe Mr. C felt as uncomfortable as we did in that

class. He often talked about how much he disliked

school, and said he was “here to make the experience

more pleasant for you.” None of us could have argued

with that.

42

Breakfast in Desk

To say that my mother was not a morning person

would be a complete understatement. Come to think

of it, she didn‟t smile much in the afternoon and

evenings, too. I‟m sure that part of my mother died

along with the passing of my dad; a part of all of us

was taken when I heard those thugs barreling down the

street toward our house. I spent at least five years

looking for a reason to carry on and it took me even

longer to stop beating myself up over not being able to

save him.

I was constantly disturbed by the memories that

hovered around our house. For most kids, the smile on

their face would mask the pain that was gnawing

away at their insides. My smile was certainly genuine –

too bad for me that it was genuinely a disguise. I rarely

hung around my house, using it only as a place to sleep

43

and stay out of bad weather. I use to wake up at least

an hour before school started and bolt out of the house

as soon as I was showered and dressed. Eating

breakfast at home was not an option for any of us –

that was dad‟s favorite meal to eat with us. He was

always so busy running around during the day that he

often ate lunch and dinner on the road or grabbed a

bite to eat when he came home late at night. None of

us could stomach sitting at that kitchen table and

facing each other every morning. It became a lot

easier to skip breakfast or grab something quick at 7-

Eleven or Dunkin Donuts.

Even though I wasn‟t a big fan of the learning part

of school, I loved being in school. I used to get there

early and sit on my favorite stoop in front of the class.

One morning I even fell asleep waiting for Mr. Cohen to

show up. I was so small and he was so big that he

scooped me up off the ground and carried me in the

44

classroom. Good thing no one else was there to see

that. A few minutes later I awoke at my desk with the

blurry sight of Mr. Cohen at the board preparing our

lessons for the day.

Before I could even speak I looked down into my

desk and picked out a box of breakfast cereal with my

right hand. I felt like thanking Mr. C but he played it

cool and went about his business and the other kids

started filtering into the classroom. When things settled

down later that morning I turned to him and said, “Fruit

Loops.” He smiled and replied, “Next time I‟ll go to

Costco.”

I didn‟t go in early every morning looking for food.

Some mornings I was able to fend for myself and eat

leftovers from the night before. Cold pizza tastes a lot

better the piping hot, skin-scalding, greasy pizza. Mr.

Cohen started coming in later and later as the

temperature dropped. It must have been as difficult

45

for him as it was for me to get out of bed. Besides, it

would become increasingly difficult to fall asleep on

the porch of the class when the temperature dipped

below the freezing mark.

It was a rare occurrence that Mr. Cohen would

say “No” to us. The relationship he had with the class

bordered on abusive, but he could not deny us if the

cause was right. Pretzel and cookie sales were prime

examples of Mr. C‟s generosity. His bigheartedness

must have been contagious because I swear that kids

started to give him things in return.

I remember this one time when some of the

women of the PTA walked into our class in an attempt

to sell the final batch of pretzels from a daylong sale.

There must have been over 30 pretzels on the tray – Mr.

C. said to Mrs. Smith, “How much for the whole tray.”

She told him “15 dollars” and he didn‟t even blink.

Money wasn‟t the issue for him – he always looked past

46

the money, or the time, or the difficulty, and zoomed in

on a greater good. Buying the tray of pretzels was an

opportunity for Mr. C to support the PTA, but more than

that it was a chance for all of us to interact as people –

not teacher and student. We sat there on the end of

that day and ate pretzels until our stomachs were

about to burst. After he bought us the pretzels, I

whispered in his ear, “You want me to get some

sodas?” I looked at the five-dollar bill in his hand and

slid the green from his fingertips. Little did Mr. Cohen

know that I had pocketed the five spot and lifted some

cold sodas from the cafeteria. At least that‟s what I

thought before he approached me the next day.

“I hope you didn‟t spend all of that money I gave

you yesterday,” Mr. Cohen said in a sarcastic tone. I

shot him an inquisitive look that said “What money?”

but he wasn‟t buying it. “I left ten dollars with the

people in the cafeteria yesterday afternoon after I

47

realized that you failed to inform anyone that you were

taking the sodas.” Mr. C knew that the money he had

given me was nearly gone and he was going to make

me squirm a bit before letting me off the hook. He

continued talking, “This is why I‟m the teacher and

you‟re the student. You still have a lot to learn, D.M.” I

knew the lecture was over as soon as he called me

D.M. Mr. C wasn‟t my dad but he did know how to get

into my head without laying a hand on me.

It was very comforting to know Mr. Cohen was

thinking about me even when he went home. I would

imagine that he would go to Costco and walk up and

down the aisles for food that would fill the bottomless

pit that was my stomach. Not that I even knew what

the inside of Costco looked like, being that I had never

been inside the warehouse club at the time -- although

I did peak inside one day while riding around the

neighborhood with my Beast and Easy E. It looked like

48

the inside of a warehouse to me, but it did give me a

good visual when I thought of Mr. C walking around

looking for cereal, or Pop Tarts, or candy, or cookies.

You know, the good stuff.

Mr. Cohen‟s generosity extended far beyond my

classmates and me. He would even give leftover

candy to the smaller kids of our school. They would

crowd around him at the end of the day like bees

buzzing around the hive. Although I didn‟t like sharing

my teacher with other kids, it wasn‟t really up to me

how other kids acted around him. Mr. C was a fun guy

to be around, and he also let me be myself… whoever I

was back then.

49

Elements of the Universe

Music was always a big part of Mr. Cohen‟s

classroom. He figured that “Music Makes Moods,” and

he never hesitated to slide a CD into his portable player

so we could relax. Whether it was Jay-Z or Andrea

Bocelli, we usually enjoyed any music that took us

outside of the usual day. Our class was anything but

ordinary and our leader wouldn‟t have had it any other

way.

Kids in other classes were always telling our class

that we were “Crazy.” In fact, I think some of the

teachers were starting to question Mr. Cohen‟s unique

methods. Mr. C had met with the parents during

Parent-Teacher conferences and assured all of them

that he “would not forego the children‟s‟ education to

only focus on a Social Studies test. You could feel the

pressure building for the states Social Studies exam, but

50

somehow Mr. Cohen was able to shield us from the

stress. We didn‟t realize that his methods would

prepare us to take any test, whether it was English, or

Math, or Social Studies.

The first thing Mr. Cohen did was taught us how to

write. Now, we all knew how to write -- we just didn‟t

know how to effectively get our points across. Any

moron can write, but the true test comes if the reader

can stay awake for the duration of your words. Mr. C

was not only teaching us how to open or minds he also

insisted that we open our mouths. Again, we all knew

how to open our mouths, but it became debatable if

anyone wanted to hear what we had to say.

I had become an expert at giving teachers just

what they wanted. It was a rare day when I would give

them any more or any less than what was expected of

me. I knew from the moment I walked into Mr. C‟s

51

classroom that my days of minimalism had come to an

end… at least for a year.

Simply writing words on a piece of paper were not

good enough for our teacher. He made us divulge our

precious, confused feelings, too. When we used verses

like “I felt bad” or “I felt good” he immediately went

digging for more. The confusing part for us was always

that teachers couldn‟t to put their directions in words

we could understand. Simply telling us to talk about

our feelings never got us to open up. Mr. C told us

repeatedly, “Use you senses people! When you write a

story tell me what you see, what you hear, what you

smell, what you feel through touch, and even what you

taste!” We often questioned the taste part of the

senses package but often explored it as a means to

complete the task.

I had never been able to talk about my dad‟s

death in any other terms than “it hurt.” Yeah, of course

52

it hurt but the pain went much deeper than a truckload

of mental and physical anguish. My dad‟s dramatic

passing limited so many aspects of my life that I

couldn‟t see the walls that had surrounded me. With a

broken heart and a matching shattered family

structure, I was living a solitary existence that left me

with nowhere to go.

When you don‟t care whether you live or die,

most likely you‟re going to wind up six feet under the

ground with a crappy tombstone. Many of my friend‟s

brothers were the subjects of eulogy after eulogy, and

many of us little thugs in training were following a similar

path toward destruction.

Mr. Cohen tended to keep his emotions in check

while he was with us in the classroom. I guess you

could say that he never got to low or too high while

babysitting us. That‟s not to say that he wouldn‟t smile

53

a great deal, but I sensed a sadness surrounding him

that he wouldn‟t share with us.

One morning before lunch I wrote an essay about

my dad. I believe the topic of the day was “If you

could change one thing about your life, what would it

be?” We all have things we would change if we had

the ability, but somehow I think he gave us the

assignment to help me open up about my dad. I‟m

here to tell you that talking about the past and virtually

reliving it are two completely different stories.

The thing I‟ll always remember about that day

was how hard I cried when the rest of the class left for

recess and I was alone with Mr. Cohen. It took me the

better part of two hours composing this one page

essay. Mr. C. had sent me back to my desk at least five

times to dig deeper and deeper as I was composing

this tearjerker. Once the classroom cleared out I

handed Mr. Cohen the essay and took a seat across

54

from his desk. Mr. Cohen took a deep breath and

started to read my words:

DADDY

I’ll never forget the look in your eyes when we

were together. I wish I could see you now because

being with out you hurts. The pain in my heart hurts so

much sometimes that I think it will explode.

I walk on the front lawn and I still smell the smoking

guns and I see your blood stains on the grass. I can

taste the salt from my tears and every time I hear the

revving of an engine my stomach drops to the ground.

Sometimes I wear your shirts so I can feel you close to

me.

I miss you daddy and I will see you again. I love

you.

Darius

55

Mr. Cohen put the paper down and tears started

streaming from his eyes and down his stubbly cheeks. I

started hysterically crying and jumped into his arms. It

had been a long time since I got a hug from an adult.

He told me, “Everything is going to be all right.

Everything is going to be all right,” and for a few

moments I believed him.

A few weeks and a couple boxes of Kleenex later,

the class devoured the state Social Studies test. Mr.

Cohen told us over and over again that we “had to

attack the test” and “If you walk in thinking you will fail,

you probably will.” We were calm and nothing

surprised us; I didn‟t feel that the other fifth grade

classes were as calm as we were. Pressure from

parents and teachers was intense, and it wasn‟t difficult

for a 10 year-old to crack under the pressure. Mr.

56

Cohen‟s “Us Against the World” stance worked and we

all did better than expected.

It was amazing that 15 out of 24 of us got a

perfect score on the writing portion of the test. Only

one person in our class got a below average score, but

he was a Special Education student.

Mr. Cohen was so pleased that we did well on the

test that he invited us back to the classroom during

lunch for all of the pizza we could stuff into our faces.

The boxes of Domino‟s were stacked to the ceiling and

our spirits had never been higher. I was standing next

to Mr. Cohen‟s desk when he opened his drawer and

pulled out a CD. He said, “Guys, get ready for the

elements of the universe.” He slid the CD into the

player and the class was immediately sent into an old-

school groove. What had started for me as simply

meeting a white dude who gave us free food turned

into a surreal experience with Mr. Vanilla Funk. The

57

color of this man‟s skin concealed the depth of this

cocoa brother‟s soul. There was no doubting that the

elements of the universe on this pizza celebration day

were Earth, Wind, and Fire.

58

Thug‟s Life

It was pretty ironic that I decided to participate in

the play Annie in the spring of my last go-round at

Acorn Road Elementary. I was one of the orphans

singing “It‟s a Hard-Knock Life” and nothing could have

been closer to truth about my world. I was on the fast

track to a thug‟s life and being a virtual orphan left few

obstacles in my path. With my mom rarely around to

keep me in line, it was open season for me to explore

the boundaries of my impending manhood.

I‟ll never forget the look on Mr. C‟s face when I

told him about the gangs in the neighborhood. He

said, “I‟ve been living next door to this town my whole

life, but I never realized that Branchville had gangs. I

detailed for him the constant turmoil between the

Bloods and the Crips, fully thinking that these gangs

were the modern-day version of my dad‟s Black

59

Panthers. In the traditional East versus West showdown,

the Bloods and Crips gang members were the heroes

of the neighborhood. Once I heard that the Crips were

responsible for gunning down my dad, I knew I would

be in the Bloods for life.

It was a good thing that I didn‟t tell Mr. Cohen

that I was already involved with the Bloods. I could see

that his mind was already on overload about basic

information, so I didn‟t dare tell him that I was already

earning my stripes and working my way into the gang.

It was never too early to start making deliveries or going

on food runs for the guys. My buddy Beast had already

seen action and been stabbed a few times by the time

I became involved.

It was kind of innocent how I got my first taste of

the thug‟s life. I was playing basketball on my street

when I heard the sound of a car with a huge engine

slowly creeping down the street. I immediately had my

60

dad being gunned down flashback and stood

motionless watching the chrome-rimmed tires spin

down the block. There were four guys in the old

Cadillac convertible, which came to a halt in front of

my house. Three of the guys got out and started to play

basketball with me. The other two kids I was playing

with ran in their houses at the sight of the car. It was like

we were swimming in the ocean and the music from

Jaws started playing when they came by.

I started to relax after a few minutes and even

crossed-up this one skinny dude, Allen Iverson style. I

looked over to the car as this big dude got out and

said, “You‟re D. Mitch‟s boy, ain‟t you? He used to

have that same move when he played against my dad

over at Groves Park.” I nodded my head and the guy

smiled and asked me, “What‟s your name, boy?” I

replied, “Darius.” He laughed and proclaimed, “Look

what we have here. It‟s the second coming of D Mitch,

61

Deuce Mitch.” I had my first and last gang named

attached to me that day. The big dude, named B Rob

-- „cause his name was Billy Robinson – and sometimes

they called him Big Rob -- led me and his crew over to

my house. We were all facing the front of the house

when he said, “This is your house, right?” I said, “Yeah”

and he continued, “I remember when the Crips did

your dad.” He walked right over to my dad‟s final

resting spot. “D Mitch was a good man. He fought

hard so us brothers could get some power back on the

streets. My dad filled me in when your old man was

killed.” He turned and looked straight into my eyes with

his cold, brown eyes, “That can‟t happen in our house,

right Deuce?” “No sir,” I quickly replied. “You come

see me sometime. I‟ll make sure the Bloods take care

of one of their own.” I nodded as B Rob shook his head

and muttered, “It was a damn shame.”

62

It didn‟t take long before I paid B Rob and his

boys a visit. Don‟t ask me how I found their hideout – if I

tell you they‟ll come after me. My association with the

Bloods started slowly with food runs and small cash

deliveries. The boys were testing me out at first to see if

I was trustworthy. There were many times that I used

my blazing speed to get away from the Crips chasing

me to steal my stash. My initiation into the thug’s life

was filled with scrapes, bruises, and profitability. Within

three months of joining the Bloods, I no longer had to

worry about stretching mom‟s meal money over the

whole week. B Rob gave me fifty bucks per week,

which worked out to about ten dollars per delivery. The

smell of money was intoxicating and kept me coming

back nearly every day.

My blood money wasn‟t the only thing that

helped make my life easier and more exciting. Word

was getting around school that I had joined a gang

63

and you know how much the ladies love a dangerous

man. At 11 years old and a diminutive five feet tall, I

was turning the corner quickly from adolescence to

manhood. Although I hadn‟t been a steady drug user,

I did take the occasional toke of a joint every once in a

while. If one of the older guys offered you something,

you either took it or got your butt kicked in. I‟d rather

be floating on a cloud than bloody and bruised any

day.

It seemed that I could fool everyone with bright

smile and sunny personality; everyone except the

person that knew me from the inside out, Mr. Cohen.

He was more concerned with my well being than the

fact that I was living the dangerous life a gang

member. Mr. C. was much more into where my head

was at, and he could tell what I was thinking even

before the thought was formed. Maybe my ideas were

64

unoriginal -- maybe he had seen it all before -- maybe I

had finally met my match in life.

I was careful to show too much to the white

establishment at school. I‟m not even sure if Vice

Principal Daniels even understood what I was going

through. Although she had the same skin color as most

of us in the neighborhood, she drove her Range Rover

every afternoon out of our world and back into her

upper middle-class existence. I often thought that she

lost touch with who she was; it‟s easy to do that when

you can listen to the birds chirping when you walk

down the street rather than wondering if you‟re going

to make it home safely every day.

I think deep down Mr. Cohen knew that I was

digging a deeper and deeper hole for myself. At the

time, I never even thought I was struggling. In fact, I

viewed my situation as ideal; to be a member of the

greatest gang in the world was both an honor and an

65

extremely powerful position. No one even bothered to

mess with me at school and all of the girls knew whom

to come to if they wanted some action. I was 11 years

old going on 20 and I never wanted the fast ride to

end.

I used to see my buddy Beast every once in a

while when I hung out at the not-so-secret hideout of

the Bloods. The guy had been with me all summer and,

in only nine short months, had become a full-fledged

member of the gang. He had grown like six inches over

the year and was now 6‟2” and had muscles exploding

from just about every part of his body. Beast must have

been 15 or 16 years old and had me wondering why he

had been hanging out with a 10 year-old kid and his

friend. Beast was the kind of dude who needed to be

pointed in the most efficient direction because he was

born with the brawn not the brains.

66

I had heard that Beast had been shot at least

three times and managed to walk away with barely a

scratch each time. The guy was a living legend

because he always managed to get the job done no

matter how long the odds were. This version of Beast

was a significantly advanced predator than the one

that had my back over the summer. The one constant

Beast brought to the table was that he had absolutely

no regard for his well being. He would have given his

life to save mine, and he put his life on the line for the

Bloods every day. The guy had dropped out of school,

although I was never convinced that he ever went to

school beyond the first grade.

I was strolling through the neighborhood one

afternoon when I saw Mr. C‟s familiar PT Cruiser rolling

down the street towards me. It was 4:30 and I was in

full Bloods mode and on my way to make a delivery.

67

He rolled down his window and I leaned in and we

banged fists.

“Hey DM, what‟s up?” Mr. Cohen said.

I looked around and replied, “Not much, just

doing my thang.”

What he said next has stuck with me ever since;

he looked me straight in the eyes and softly said, “If you

ever get in a jam you can‟t get out of, or you just want

to talk outside of school, call me.” He reached over

and tore a page out of his notebook and then

scribbled his number on the piece of paper. I acted all

cool as I stepped away from the car saying, “Ayight,

Mr. C.”

As his car rolled away from me tears streamed

down the side of my face as the impact of love caused

me to have temporary paralysis. Little did I know that

the pain I was causing my teacher, and my friend, was

equally as debilitating. Little did I know that Mr. Cohen

68

drove his car around the corner and tears started

flowing out of his eyes, too. You see, as cool as we

both seemed on the outside our insides were like an

active volcano ready to blow at any moment.

In the world of the average man, public

emotional displays are few and far between. We like

to keep every mushy and squishy moment to ourselves;

no matter how much pain it causes us down the line.

Don‟t hate us for it; we feel things just like women, but

we don‟t like to show weakness. Apparently, the only

weakness I showed was anger; I was angry that the

Crips had gunned down my dad and I wouldn‟t rest

until I got revenge. I did keep that piece of paper Mr.

C gave me in my pocket everywhere I went. It made

me feel somewhat comforted to know that he had my

back. The only problem was that if I really got into a

tight spot, his white butt would be the last person that

would be able to pull me out of a black hole.

69

Court‟s in Session

I love basketball. Back then, basketball was the

only thing I had control over. I could dribble that

basketball like it was dangling from a string connecting

my fingertips to the ground. I could crossover guys

twice my age, just like my idol Allen Iverson. I got so

good at making people look foolish that guys in the

neighborhood would call me A.I.

I could always find moments of calm in my life

and my mind by shooting around by myself. In my

neighborhood, it was pretty tough to find an open

hoop but I took any free shots I could find. The block

where I lived was rarely ever quiet; there were so many

kids always parading around that it was often difficult

to get some privacy.

Mr. Cohen would often look at me when we were

approaching lunchtime. He probably wanted to get

70

out of that stuffy classroom as much as the rest of us, so

he would give us an incentive to finish our work in a

timely fashion. He was not one for details, so we were

all usually on the playground a good ten minutes

before any other class. This gave us plenty of time to

run our own hoop game before it got too crowded.

Mr. C. always played with the weaker athletes in

our class and I ran with my squad: Jessie, Gonzo, D

Train, and T, who were the only girl on our team.

Tunisia, or T as she was called, was nearly six feet tall

and weighed close to 200 pounds. We figured that she

must have been on the frequent leave back plan

because nobody had ever seen her before the year

had started.

Kids in our school had a way of appearing out of

nowhere in the beginning of the year and disappearing

in equally mysterious fashion at the end of the year.

We all liked Tunisia so we never really questioned where

71

she came from, we were just happy she was there to

protect us. She could throw a ball farther than any kid

in the school and she could take out three average-

sized kids when she went for rebounds. She gave me

enough daylight so I could shake the kid that was trying

to guard me.

I had never seen anyone play like Mr. Cohen

before. He rarely ever shot the ball, but when he did it

usually went in. It was more important for him to get his

teammates involved than steal all of the glory for

himself. There was really no difference between his on

and off-the-court attitude. It was like he was able to

transfer his unselfishness from the classroom to the

court. What did that say about me? Was I a self-

centered person and player? Damn straight!

I never really evolved into a Mr. Cohen-type

player, primarily because I had many more god-given

72

skills. I‟m sure if he heard me say that it would bring a

big smile to his face.

It was spring and there were only a few months

left in the school year. The class had become so

overbearing and obnoxious that Mr. C often sat in front

of the class and wrote in a small notebook. Some kids

would ask him, “What are you writing about us?” and

he would reply, “Why do you think it‟s always about

you?”

Mr. Cohen focused on empowering even the

meekest kids – by the end of the year, even Jayla Smith

was acting like the rest of us. You have to understand

that Jayla, or “Jail” as she was called rarely spoke and

was testing every year for a hearing problem.

All Mr. C had to do was look in Jayla‟s eyes and

he knew that she could hear him. People were so

crazy around J at school and at home that she was a

little shell-shocked. She became embarrassed every

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time a teacher would call on her and would curl up

into a protective shell. Mr. Cohen not only called on

her all year, he also made her stand up in font of the

class and voice her opinion.

We were on the basketball court the first time I

heard Jayla talk. I stole the ball from her and was

headed the other way. She whispered, “Foul” and I

stopped short and said to her, „What did you just say?”

She said meekly, “You hit my on the arm, you fouled

me.”

Although I felt for her lack of speech, I nonetheless

went after her. “You never talk and now you‟re going

to call a foul on me! I never touched you!” She rolled

up her sleeve to reveal and long scratch and on her

forearm. She looked at the scratch and then at me as

her eyes instantly widened. “Not a foul! I‟m gonna‟

foul you!”

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I started running as she chased me all over the

playground. The guys were cracking up while

watching us from the basketball court. From that

moment on the mystery of Jayla “Jail” Smith was solved

and she was free to talk out of turn like the rest of us.

75

Jersey Blues

The last few weeks of school were merely a

microcosm of the rest of the year. The four fifth grade

classes were in the auditorium every day practicing for

their graduation ceremony, but our class was

constantly treated differently.

Why did the other students and teachers think

they were better than us? Mr. C had pumped us full of

so much confidence that we felt that no one was

better than us. Teachers would scold us every time we

breathed wrong or talked out of place.

There was this one teacher, Mr. Tool that loved to

talk down to me in a tone that made me wan to kill

him. In fact, I almost borrowed a gun and blew his ass

away. It was a good thing for Tool that Mr. Cohen saw

the look on my face and talked me out of it. He said

something like “You‟re going to throw your life away for

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that sorry-ass human being. Even the bullet would be

insulted.” Mr. C didn‟t like the guy either and he had a

knack of making me laugh when I didn‟t want to laugh.

While most teachers saved their comments and

grades for the viewing of parents only, Mr. Cohen felt

that every student should be informed of their progress.

Mr. C took the time to meet with all of us personally and

discuss what we were doing well and how we could

make things even better.

He was able to find a positive even for Javon,

who had come back to rehearse with us after being at

the alternative school for the last half of the school

year.

“Did I ever tell you how great you did on that

Social Studies test? You didn‟t even study and you got

three out of four on the writing part,” Mr. Cohen said in

a positive tone. I‟ll never forget the happy look on

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Javon‟s face; you could tell that he was nervous about

being around the class and Mr. Cohen.

Javon looked up at Mr. C and they hugged each

other briefly away from the class. He knew that Javon

didn‟t mean to stab him and wasn‟t even going to

mention the incident. Javon eventually got the right

blend of medicines and went on to become an

upstanding citizen and graduate high school.

I‟ll never forget what happened at the end of the

school year. We were taking final exams and Mr.

Cohen was doing his usual motivational tour around

the class. He always knew the exact incentive to give

to us so we would reach a little higher.

One last afternoon we were sitting in our usual

reading group and I walked over to Mr. Cohen‟s desk.

“You ready for the ELA final?” he asked me. I was not

only unprepared for the English Language Arts final, I

hadn‟t ven looked at the book. “Yeah” I said in a

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pretty unconvincing tone. “Well, if you can get better

than an 80 I will have a surprise for you after

graduation” He responded.

Some students responded to candy, others to

comic books and food. I had been talking about this

cool Allen Iverson jersey all year and Mr. C knew that

was my button. “What‟s the surprise?” I asked. He shot

back, “Well, if I told you it wouldn‟t be much of a

surprise.”

A few days later Mr. Cohen caught me as I was

running out to recess. He left every day at lunch to

spend some time with his wife and was in the process of

walking to his car. I followed him on the school side of

the fence until he stopped and we were face-to-face

on opposite sides of the fence.

“Allen Iverson jersey,” Mr. C said and then strolled

out of view. It took me a few seconds to get what he

said but then I jumped around and ran all over the

79

playground like I had won the lottery. The only problem

was that the test was two days away and I hadn‟t even

cracked the seal on my books.

Those next two days I worked hard and made my

Bloods deliveries right after school. I knew I couldn‟t fail

as long as I gave it my best try. Before Mr. Cohen‟s

class I would never try as hard as I did on the basketball

court. On the court, I would leave everything I had out

there and the results were usually positive. Schoolwork

was hard and it was only hard because I didn‟t make

exert any effort.

When I got the test back the afternoon following

the test, I knew the jersey was mine. The circled “87”

with an equals sign and a jersey with the number three

on it accompanies a smiling Mr. Cohen. He bent over

and whispered, „See, you can do anything if you put

your mind to it.”

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My report card was the best I had received since

kindergarten. Five B’s, an A in gym and a B+ in ELA

were probably the apex of my schooling experience. I

was starting to get a little edgy the day of graduation.

It had been a few days since my stunning 87 on the ELA

exam and I still hadn‟t received the jersey. On the one

hand I was sure that Mr. C would come through, but on

the other hand I was an anxious kid looking for

immediate gratification.

School ended and still no sign of the jersey. Mr.

Cohen kept telling me not to worry but I was like a kid

on Christmas morning. School was over for the year

and a bunch of the kids in the neighborhood were

handing out outside my house playing basketball.

In the middle of the game I saw a familiar car

headed toward us at the end of block. I completely

forgot about the game going on and floated toward

the driver side of the car. Mr. Cohen‟s smiling face

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came into view as he slowly stopped his car. He

reached over and flipped the red and white Allen

Iverson jersey at me through his open window. He

looked me in the eye and nodded in approval as I

pounded my chest with my right fist. The jersey was

about three sizes too big for me and I wore it for a

good four years after that. It was both a happy and

sad moment for me – I finally had my dream jersey but

felt a little blue because my time with Mr. Cohen was

now over.

82

Shot in the Dark

I wish I could say that my life became easier once

I graduated from Acorn Road Elementary. Getting

through Turtle Creek Middle School was a real struggle

trying to balance my gang time with playing hoops on

the school‟s team.

It was a daily battle trying to stay in school and I

often skipped class to take care of gang business. By

the middle of sixth grade, I would see my mom in the

vice principal‟s office more than I saw her at home. By

the end of sixth grade, she stopped coming to school

and basically walked out of my life.

By the end of seventh grade my mom met this

guy from Atlanta, Georgia and decided to sell our

house and move down south with him. She asked me

only once if I “would like to come with her.” My

brothers and sisters were scattered all around the

83

country, with the oldest, Malcolm in California, Martin in

New Jersey, Julia in South Carolina, and Rosa latching

on to my mom and her money train. Rosa should have

given back her name because she was nothing like the

courageous Rosa Parks. If someone told her to sit in

back of the bus she would have gladly taken her seat.

I had the option of going to Atlanta or staying

with my mom‟s cousins, who lived on the other side of

Branchville. I decided to have my Aunt Angela as my

legal guardian so I could stay in school and play

basketball. I had been spending my all of my time at

the Bloods hangout and hadn‟t been home in weeks.

It is still a bit fuzzy in my head whether I actually

said goodbye to my mom. She was far from the wishy-

washy, hug me „till you squeeze the life out of me type.

She had become so numb that the moving truck was

there only a week after she told me that she was

leaving. It was a good thing that me and my boys

84

went in the house and cleaned out everything of

value. We figured it would save mom the time and

aggravation of getting all of that junk out.

I really only had a few things that I couldn‟t let go,

but most of my stuff fit in a few gym bags and a box.

Keeping some of my dad‟s possessions was always on

my mind; I made sure to get his badge, uniform, and

the American flag they gave me at his funeral. I also

went through the house by myself to find every picture I

could find of the two of us. My dad had a way of

keeping me strong and weak at the same time.

Once my mom cleared out of town, my family

was now the Bloods. Although her move only made

the formality a reality, I still harbored some anger over

being abandoned. As usual, I would find my way back

to Mr. Cohen‟s class and be able to talk to the one

person on the earth that really knew me.

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I would walk in talking about basketball and walk

out talking about life. Mr. C would always tell me that

“basketball is a microcosm of life.” Once he told me

what “microcosm” meant I was good to go. He was

right – basketball was just like life – sometimes the ball

goes in and sometimes it doesn‟t. Sometimes you get

knocked down and have to dig deep to get back up.

Sometimes a referee‟s call or a bounce just doesn‟t go

your way and you have to keep your head up.

My freshman year at Branchville High School was

interesting. I still wasn‟t going to class much but I was

the starting point guard on the varsity basketball team.

Not only was I starting as a ninth grader, I was also

leading the team in scoring and assists.

High school was a lot different than middle school

– the teachers mostly left me alone and the principal

and vice principal made sure I was comfortable, not

distracted and hassled. This lack of discipline not only

86

expanded my creativity on the basketball court, it

basically gave me free reign of the school and town.

By the time my sophomore year rolled around I

was taking more and more stupid chances, feeling as if

I were invincible. I especially remember this one day

after a game when I hooked up with a bunch of my

crew and we thought it would be fun to terrorize the

people at Kmart. We usually grabbed a bunch of carts

and sprinted up and down the aisles grabbing anything

of value within reach. The 30-second romp was

designed to keep up sharp and get some cool stuff at

the same time.

In hindsight, I guess it wasn‟t the smartest idea to

hit the same Kmart four times within the same month.

We raced out into the parking lot and people

scattering everywhere like Godzilla was stomping

through. I was feeling like Godzilla until five police cars

came at us from every direction, rendering us helpless

87

to escape. I thought about running for a split second,

but the feeling of a cold pistol pressed against the

back of my neck took away that desire.

Sitting in the back of a police car with my cuffed

hands behind my back wasn‟t exactly my idea of a fun

afternoon. I knew that I couldn‟t be stopped and once

they found out who I was, I would be free. Three hours

and many interrogations later, I was still sitting in the cell

with my Bloods brothers when a cop came to the bar

and told me that I could make a phone call.

My reflex reaction was to call some of the Bloods

to get me out but quickly realized that most of them

were wanted criminals and the police would surely

scoop them up if they rolled into the precinct. I

reached deep into my right pocket and pulled out a

piece of paper with Mr. Cohen‟s faded number written

in black ink with the words “ANY TIME” written in bed

letters.

88

For some good reason I had kept Mr. Cohen‟s

number in my pocket, probably realizing that he would

help me if I got in trouble. He was also the only person

on the earth that understood me and my tortured soul.

My instincts proved right as Mr. Cohen came quickly

and had baled me out within the next half hour. He

also appeared at my hearing the next day, despite a

confrontation we had, and help get me off with just a

little slap on the wrist.

About that confrontation… Mr. Cohen took me

from the 3rd Precinct and took me out to eat at Banini‟s

Italian Restaurant. This restaurant was in Mr. C‟s town,

which was a few steps from the border of Branchville. I

must have eaten just about everything with red sauce

and it felt good to fill my body with something other

than McDonald‟s or KFC for a change.

I could tell that Mr. Cohen was getting ready to

talk to me about something serious, so I said, “Think we

89

can win it all this year?” He looked me in the eye and

said, “Darius, you can do anything you want if you put

your mind to it.” I had heard this kind of talk from him

before, so I shrugged it off and kept eating my lasagna.

“What is going on with you anyway?” Mr. Cohen

asked me. I kept me focus on the food and shrugged

me shoulders. “If you don‟t stop doing this you‟ll wind

up either in jail or worse,” he said trying to get my

attention. I continued to ignore him and ate the last

piece of the lasagna.

I could hear by his breathing that he was starting

to get upset. He inhaled and went for the jugular,

“What do you think your dad would say if he could see

you now?” I became instantly incensed like I was face-

to-face with the person who jailed me, not the one that

had bailed me out. “Mother fucka! What the hell do

you know about my old man? You ain‟t my old man!

Never was, never will be.”

90

I looked angrily into Mr. Cohen‟s eyes as he

waited for me to calm down so we could talk. When I

refused to back down, he got up slowly from the booth,

reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of

twenties and tossed them on the table. He put on his

coat and said, “Darius, good luck to you” and he

walked out of the restaurant.

I was surprised to see him the next day at the

hearing but I wasn‟t surprised by all of the nice things

he said to the judge about me. He said his piece and

left the hearing without even looking my way. I had

hurt the last person in the world that deserved it but I at

the time there was no other way.

Mr. C had become a fixture at our home

basketball games because the high school was right

next to the elementary school. The 4:00 games gave

him plenty of time to get his room in order after school

and then be home in time for dinner. After I yelled at

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him, I didn‟t see him in the stands for the whole second

half of the season.

I made All State that year and was being

recruited by over 100 colleges. The state championship

was ours and a full scholarship seemed like a formality

when I graduated in a couple of years. If they allowed

me to skip from tenth grade to college I would have

done it right then. I figured that once I made it to my

senior year, college would be an afterthought to

jumping right to the NBA. Talk about an enormous

head…

My celebrity on the court did little to slow my

activity down off the court. I had survived the state

championship, flying bullets, and knife fights, so in the

spring of my 16th year I was feeling like nothing or

nobody could take me down. I was the one that took

down everything in my path, including my relationship

with Mr. C.

92

We got tired of running around retail stores, so we

started to focus on our enemy the Crips instead. It was

no secret where their hideout was and we would wait

until they left before entering through a back window.

These guys became pretty predictable and soft after a

while; every night they would pile into the Escalade

and get some dinner. They used to have a few guys

getting dinner for the gang but we kept stealing it from

them.

It was a game of cat and mouse and we thought

we were the sly cat again when the back window was

open that night. In a strange twist of fait, I had been

reunited with my original crew, Easy E and Beast. Beast

had taken more bullets than 50 Cent and had been

assigned to protect me full time. I didn‟t know he was

there to protect me because I didn‟t feel that I needed

protection. It was good to have him on my back

anyway.

93

Getting into the hideout was easy enough – we

were able to find a big stash of cash and a load of

drugs and stuffed everything we could into the

garbage bags we brought. We were on our way out

when Easy E went back in to get this rocket launcher

he had seen. We helped him out of the window with

his new toy and started running around the dark

corner.

Once we moved into the light we could see the

white Escalade screeching to a halt and thugs about 8

thugs coming at us from all doors. Once again, my first

instinct was to run, so that‟s what I did. Easy E reached

for his gun and was greeted by a storm of Oozie

machine gun bullets. Beast wasn‟t the running type, so

he hoisted the rocket launcher onto his right shoulder

and quickly aimed it at the Escalade. Bullets were

flying all around him by the time he unloaded the

rocket launcher.

94

I looked back and saw the rocket exploding into

the Escalade and the power of the blast sent me flying

about 20 feet through the air. I must have been

knocked out for a few seconds because when I

regained consciousness, I saw a bloodied Beast

standing over me offering a hand to get up. We

limped over to Easy E’s dead body and then got out of

sight when we heard the police sirens coming closer.

The rocket blast had not only blown up the

escalade but it also started a fire that also destroyed

the Crips hangout. By the time we got back near our

hangout, the place was also engulfed with flames and

bodies were scattered around the street. I must have

been out for more than a few seconds because the

war had shifted and then came to a bloody end.

The next thing I knew, I was in a hospital bed next

to Beast. It was light outside, so I must have passed out

and had been sleeping for a while. A doctor came in

95

and said, “Mr. Mitchell, I‟m Dr. Cooke and your lucky to

be alive son.” I took as much in as I could and then he

continued, “You‟ve sustained extensive damage to

your left knee as a result of two bullets that you were hit

with last night. I‟m sorry son, but I don‟t think you‟ll ever

play again. It would be a miracle if you walked without

a limp.”

I rolled up the sheet with my left hand and saw my

left knee bandaged up and in a brace. I didn‟t

remember getting hit but the adrenaline was pumping

so hard that I didn‟t remember passing out either. I

looked up at the doctor and asked, “Is my friend going

to be all right?” as I looked over at Beast who was on

life support. The doctor looked at him and replied, “It‟s

up in the air. He‟s just hanging on by a thread.”

96

Limping Through Life

That night I was in the hospital I started to feel the

pain in my knee and I started to cry. Beast had died

only a few hours earlier and I had been moved out of

the Intensive Care Unit.

I must have been crying for a while because a

nurse came in and gave me a few pills to numb the

pain. The events of the past 24 hours started to sink in –

the Bloods and the Crips had been virtually destroyed

in Branchville – the explosions came as such a shock to

people in the town that they instituted a curfew for

years after that.

I started to think back to what the doctor said

about my knee and his opinion that I wouldn‟t play

basketball again. Just as my mind was surrendering, I

heard footsteps at the door. My first visitor would be

the one and only Mr. Cohen. “I got next” he said as he

97

walked toward my bed. When you say, “I got next” in

the schoolyard that means that you are going to play

the next basketball game.

My smile quickly turned to full tears once Mr.

Cohen leaned over and hugged me and cradled my

head in his long arm. Any thoughts he had about

letting go were squashed by my Kung Fu grip on his

arm.

“The doctor said…” I blubbered after a few

seconds.

“Shhh, I know, I talked to him” Mr. C interjected.

We released from the hug and Mr. C pulled up a

chair close to my bed. “Remember when we first

met?” Mr. Cohen asked.

“Yeah, you were the Candy Man” I replied as I

wiped away my tears with my fingers.

“Yeah, the Candy Man. But that was a time in

your life when you didn‟t feel special. When nobody

98

really believed in you. Words can only take you so far.

If you want to believe everything you hear than you

might as well throw your brain and spirit away.”

“But, what if I can‟t play again?” I asked.

“Is that all you are, a basketball player?” Mr. C

asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. “I‟m a firm believer that

if you take care of the mind, the body will follow.”

“What does that mean” I asked.

“It means that if you focus on other good things

besides your knee than your life will be balanced and

good things can happen to you.”

I just shook my head and my thoughts seemed so

jumbled and distant. We talked for another 20 minutes

until I started getting groggy from the drug‟s the nurse

had given me. Mr. Cohen took a business card out of

his pocket and wrote his cell phone number on the

blank side. He once again wrote the words ANY TIME

99

on top of his number. We banged fists and he walked

through the door as my eyes closed.

Three days later I was walking with crutches out of

the hospital with my Aunt Angela, who had come to

visit me and told me I could live with her. She was

tougher than I had remembered when she said, “You

start any of that nonsense again and you‟ll feel the

door hitting your ass when I kick you out!”

It was a good three weeks before I could get up

and walk again. It was the summer and my aunt‟s air

conditioning was no match for the New York heat. My

skin was stuck to the plastic covers of her couch and I

needed to get out and get some stale, humid air.

Walking around the block with my metal cane

was a sobering experience for a guy who could race

around the block and make a big breeze. The hospital

offered to provide physical therapy as part of my

aftercare but I had no way to get back and forth from

100

the hospital. I thought about calling Mr. Cohen but he

was on summer break and I wanted to save that call

for when I really needed him.

No, I would let my knee heal naturally and when it

came time for the season to begin I would be ready. It

was that simple in my young mind.

School started and I found myself walking better

and going to classes. It was my junior year and it was

time for me to step up. It was amazing but my average

had not suffered greatly from my lack of caring. By

virtue of my basketball talent, teachers had let me slide

with an average that approached 80.

As each day passed my confidence was being

mended and restored. I was walking better and feeling

as comfortable in school as I ever had. Practice was

about to begin and I thought I was ready to take on

the challenge, although I had played sparingly in

months.

101

My teammates were amazed to see my on the

court but my coach had been pushing me to return the

minute he saw me the first day of school. He hadn‟t

visited me in the hospital and barely said two words to

me since then. But it was winning time, so DMitch

needed to get his groove on again.

I made it through the lay-up drills, although it was

apparent that I had lost over half of my 40-inch vertical

leap. As my knee loosened up I tried to do more and

more. Twenty minutes into the practice I was started to

feel like my old self again. My knee felt so good that I

tried to do one of my Allen Iverson crossover dribbles;

my body seemed to leave my knee behind as I felt a

huge pop and collapsed to the floor in excruciating

pain.

Forty-eight hours later I had my knee “scoped”

and Dr. Cooke came into talk to me like a he had

months earlier. This time he was a little sterner, if

102

possible. “Was I wrong last time? Under no

circumstance can you play again! Unless you want to

be crippled and walk with a huge limp the rest of your

life, just put your hoop dreams away.”

Later that day, Mr. C stopped by the hospital after

school. I was still a little dazed from the surgery and

was trying to digest my crumbled life. This time when

he sat near my bed his words never got near my ears –

they seemed to float away like a kite with a broken

string.

When I got out of the hospital I returned to school

the next week. Things seemed to be calming down a

bit and I was able to get back into my schoolwork.

That was until the basketball season started. It wasn‟t a

problem for me when the team was just practicing but

when I went to the first home game and was watching

from the sidelines, reality hit me really hard.

103

Nothing could have hurt me more than to watch

my team lose that first game. The guys were looking at

me like I had let them down. Every time they made a

bad play they would like at me like I could save them

from their trouble. It had been a month since the

surgery and I was falling off the end of the world.

By the middle of the next game, I couldn‟t stand

being Darius Mitchell anymore. After that my

schoolwork started slipping and I started drinking at

least a couple of 40’s a day. Since I wasn‟t the man

that carried the team anymore, the school‟s

administration had a real short fuse with me. I didn‟t

care at that point what happened to me – the pain of

my life had brought me to a place where I needed an

out.

I took the gun I kept in my sock drawer and put it

in my pants -- then and scooped up my third 40-ounce

Colt 45 for the afternoon and decided to take a little

104

walk. With no particular destination in my clouded

mind, I wound up in strangely familiar territory.

It was 12 years to the day that my father had

been gunned down and I was feeling it. That

remembrance was definitely the straw that broke my

back that day. As I drew closer to my house thoughts

of ending it all were in the front of my mind. Being

without my father all of those years was a burden I

didn‟t want to carry anymore.

It appeared no one was home so I walked up the

driveway and proceeded to walk left up the path to

the front door. I then stopped at the spot where my

father was killed and took a seat. At the time I didn‟t

even realize that I had started crying. Tears were

streaming down my face and onto the ground just like

the sprinkler when my dad died.

I reached for the gun in the back of my pants and

lifted it to the right side of my head. I was so far gone

105

that I didn‟t even hear a car speed and screech its tires

in the street in front of me. My index finger started to

squeeze the trigger but a strong hand moved my hand

away in time for the speeding bullet to fly harmlessly

into a neighbor‟s tree.

I even thought about trying again but a voice

woke me from my death daze. “Darius! Darius! What

the hell are you doing?! Mr. Cohen screamed as my

eyes were finally able to refocus. “Oh, hi Mr. Cohen.

What are you doing here?” I replied in a clam voice.

Mr. Cohen was sweating as he said, „Son, it‟s not your

time. It‟s not up to you when you leave this earth.”

Mr. Cohen helped me up and led me to the

passenger side of his car. His PT Cruiser had been

replaced by a large SUV, but I was happy to be finally

driving in the car with him. Before we sat in the car he

emptied the bullets out of the gun and threw the gun in

the garbage can near the garage. Once in the car he

106

looked over at me and said, “Looks likes we‟re going to

go back to the beginning again. Hi, my name is Mr. C.”

I held out my fist and open my hand as he put his hand

in mine.” As the car rolled down the street I started

hysterically crying. My life had spun completely out of

control and the bottom would have been an

improvement.

107

Second Chance

I always respected Mr. Cohen because he always

did what he thought was right. I wasn‟t sure where Mr.

Cohen was driving me that day he found me with that

smoking gun to my head, but I was sure that he would

take care of me.

We drove about five minutes from Birchwood into

a town called Bailey Woods. When we passed Banini‟s

Italian restaurant, I knew exactly where we were going.

We pulled into Lincoln Street and then the garage door

opened to a nice house, number 1325.

For all of the time I had spent with Mr. Cohen over

the years, I would have thought that he had kids. I

suppose he gave all of his love and support to the kids

at school and that was more than enough for his life.

He and his second wife, Sharon, lived a happy life and

they were both teachers.

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Mr. C. had called his wife from the car and she

was just leaving school. We walked in from the garage

and he said to me, “It must feel good to be home?” I

looked surprised at first and then responded, “I‟ve been

away so long.” From the moment I stepped in that

house to the minute Mrs. Cohen came home, I knew

that I could finally put my feet down and stop running.

We all had found something that we were missing and

it took a gun to my head to realize how precious life

really is.

My Aunt Angela was happy to sign over custody

to the Cohen‟s and I was officially part of the family.

The real question for me was where I would go to

school. My first thought was to change over to Bailey

Woods High School, but in the end I just owed the

Birchwood community too much. I had taken from my

community and now it was time to give back.

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Mr. Cohen had some decent gym equipment in

his basement and we started working out every night.

Having two teachers in the house also made me reach

more at school and I started to expect more of myself

in the classroom. If this was my second chance then I

was going to make the most of it.

I rarely thought of playing basketball again, even

when the Birchwood team got knocked out in the

second round of the county playoffs. I had become an

average student and the silence was quite comforting.

By the spring of my junior year I would walk across

the street after school to Acorn Road Elementary

School. Mr. Cohen was now teaching third graders

and I showed up every afternoon to read a story to

them. Some of the kids had seen me play basketball

but most of them knew me as Darius, the guy who

came in to read stories.

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Mrs. Daniels was now the principal of the school

and she had me working with other classes when I had

the chance. She would also pair me up with some

“troubled” kids who were mini versions of DMitch. I truly

felt their pain and anger and was there for them like

Mr. C was always there for me.

By the end of the school year my average had

jumped to 87 and I was ready to come back the next

year and kick it up even higher. I had been working

out with Mr. Cohen for a few months and was starting

to forget about the pain in my knee. Taking a multi

vitamin every day and eating well didn‟t hurt my

muscular 5‟11” frame either.

In tenth grade I was about 5‟9” and 140 pounds.

Quickness was my ally and I was driven enough to stay

out of tight situations. The new version of Darius Mitchell

was 165 pounds of muscle. My life was now calm and

much of the stress I had carried over the years was

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gone. Mr. and Mrs. C also had me do yoga and tai chi

so I would increase my flexibility and I also meditated to

calm my mind.

I had passed the basket on the outside of the

house every day without thinking about it too much. It

was a calm summer night and for a change I was in a

house with good air conditioning. This cooling did little

to distract my attention away from picking up a ball

and shooting it through the hoop.

Although Mr. Cohen and I would talk about

basketball that we watched on TV, neither of us ever

mentioned me playing again. He probably knew I

would play again but didn‟t want to make it the focal

point of either of our lives.

I was initially surprised to see the ball bounce back

up to me when I took my first dribble. Mr. C was always

a step ahead of me – he must have filled up the ball

with air and expected me to use it. I was a bit stale on

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the first few shots but I wasn‟t thinking about my leg.

However, I felt a twinge in my left knee a few shots later

when I tried to jump off the ground.

Mr. C came out of the house, saw me rubbing my

knee and smiled. I complained, “What‟s so funny?” He

replied, “You always want to take short cuts. Don‟t you

realize this is a process? First you worked on the brain,

then the body, and now it‟s time find your game

again.” I shot back, “Well maybe we can search for

that tired game of yours, too.”

We spent many hours in that driveway and

eventually graduated to the local park by the end of

the summer. Mr. C had grown up in that park and

played against many college and pro players. It was

still a decent place to test your skills against some

serious white talent, but I quickly learned that color had

no place on these courts.

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At first my knee was telling my brain not to go all

out. I couldn‟t stop having flashbacks about that

practice when I heard my knee go “POP”! As time

wore on, I was feeling less like the Snap, Crackle, and

Pop of Rice Crispies and more like Tony the Tiger.

Although I hadn‟t regained my entire 40-inch

vertical leap, I still had over 30 inches of hop. It was

clear by the end of the summer that both my knee and

my head would be strong enough to give my senior

season a chance. Of course there were no guarantees

whether the knee would be able to hold up to a full

season. Mr. Cohen always told me that “You never

know until you try” and I was more than willing to try.

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Blame It on the Funk

School started and I felt completely different

when I walked through the main entrance. In a matter

of months my entire outlook on life had changed.

While I used to be closed off to legitimate opportunities,

the thought of going hard from start to finish my senior

year was my entire focus.

The last time I held my life in high regard was

probably the last time I saw my dad alive. It had been

over 12 years since he was killed and it took me that

long to realize that life moves on. I‟m sure my dad saw

his share of tragedies, too, and he always found a way

to put a positive spin on life. He was always really

upbeat around the family – that‟s probably why our

family fell apart when he left us.

It has really helped me to be in therapy the past

few months. When I survived putting a gun to my head

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and then pulling the trigger, it probably was a foregone

conclusion that I would need to talk to someone. I

didn‟t realize how much crap I had bottled inside of

me; it was if I never really moved on from seeing my

dad get lit up on our front lawn. Yes I cried, but at five

years old I didn‟t have the capacity to process all of

that crazy information.

Slowly moving on wasn‟t easy but it came a lot

smoother now that I was pat of a loving family. The

Cohen‟s and I blended like peanut butter and jelly – if

you ask me which one I am, I‟d probably say the jelly –

they held it all together and I was loose and sweet.

It had been quite some time since I had received

a letter of interest from a college. With my average

now in the mid-80‟s, after a late year swoon, I was

looking to get into position to got to college solely for

my brain, not my basketball skills. Relying on my knee

would not be the way to go because that was out of

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my control. What I could control was my effort in the

classroom and Mr. And Mrs. C would make sure to

crack the whip if needed.

I waited to walk in the gym until the first day of

practice. The basketball team‟s coach had seen my

walking through the hallways a few times and had

barely acknowledged my existence – ignorance

noted. The guys hadn‟t seen my all summer and much

of the fall because I was living with the Cohen‟s in

Bailey Woods, not in the cozy Branchville confines.

When I walked on the floor with my number three

Branchwood practice jersey, a few eyebrows were

definitely raised. There was this guy named Patrick

Morgan who had taken my number three in my

absence – he came walking on the court like he

owned me.

I felt a little grumbling in my stomach as Coach

Barstow gathered the 20 players in the gym around him

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and said, “OK ladies, this is a tryout for the varsity

basketball team. Only 12 of you will make the team

and – he looked at me and said – “There are no

guarantees.”

I played a little cat and mouse on the lay-up line

as I held back any bursts of speed. Patrick Morgan

kept looking at me and rubbing his hands together like

it was Thanksgiving and he was getting ready to carve

the turkey. Little did he know that he would be the

turkey on this day, not me.

We went through a bunch of drills and then

coach broke us up into teams to scrimmage. He

thought so little of me that I was placed on the third

team; once the first ten-minute scrimmage ended, my

team was told to take the court against the first team.

Coach Barstow yelled out, “First team stay in black,

new team turn your jersey‟s to gold!”

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I flipped my jersey around and slid it past my head

and let it settle on my shoulders. I looked down to my

chest and saw the letters “AI” written in black letters.

My head swiveled around in time to see MR. Cohen

walking in the gym and sitting in the bottom row of the

bleachers. I looked down at my chest knowing that Mr.

Cohen had marked up my jersey for inspiration. I

nodded at him and he smiled back and nodded at

me.

It was like the first day of kindergarten all over

again. A few of the first team players saw my AI and

started pointed a laughing. I learned a valuable lesson

that day – a few seconds changes everything. The

starting team started the scrimmage with the ball and

missed its first shot. I dribbled the ball up the court;

being bumped my Patrick Morgan all the way. I

spotted a teammate cutting to the basket and hit him

with a no-look pass for a lay-up.

119

My first piece of action drew a faint reaction from

the guys watching from the sidelines. I had played

against Patrick Morgan a few times over the years and

even made him cry once. The guy was about my

height, slightly under 6”, but he was skinny and the

junior guard had only one move a between the legs

dribble.

I picked him up hard under our basket and rode

him pretty hard until we reached half-court. By forcing

him to use his weak hand, his left, I knew the between

the legs dribble would be next. Before he even had a

chance to cross the ball through his legs I used a burst

of speed to steal with ball and had nothing but open

spaces in front of me.

Mr. Cohen stood up as I made my charge toward

the basket. If I had though about dunking the ball then

it probably wouldn‟t have happened. I dribbled the

ball and few times and then went airborne once my

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feet hit the black painted lane area. Once in the air I

turned my body so my back was facing the basket. I

slammed the ball through and then held on the rim for

a few seconds before settling back to the ground.

Mr. C started strolling out of the gym and looked

at me with a smile – I didn‟t dare smile because I had

to give the appearance that I knew it all along. In

typical Branchville, over-the-top, style the scrimmage

was stopped for a few minutes while the guys could get

their collective breaths. Coach Barstow even went

over to Patrick Morgan and ushered his bench-

warming ass over to the sidelines. It felt good to have

my team back, but it felt even better to finally have

control over my life.

Within a few months I was back to leading my

team in scoring and assists, although my points were

down from my sophomore year but my assists were up.

I was less selfish and getting my teammates more

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involved and we were winning again. My average had

also held firm at a B+ all year and I was looking forward

to going to college.

We lost in the state finals but the recruitment

letters had been pouring in for months. While I still had

a lot of confidence in my game, my focus had shifted

at picking a good school not attended a college

because of their excellent basketball team.

When a local Division I college came calling, I

knew that I could get both a great education and

make a difference on their team. The basketball team

had recently made the jump from Division II to Division I

and was happy to see me get my game back. When I

was a sophomore, the coach sent me a nice letter that

I ripped up and threw in the garbage. At the time I

didn‟t think that they would be worthy of my services,

but now I just feel lucky to be of service and getting a

full scholarship.

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It was spring again and the anniversary of my

dad‟s death was once again upon me. What a

difference a year had made – it took a near-death

experience and two loving people to elevate me to a

much higher place. I met Mr. C at his classroom after

my day ended and read my usual story to his class. We

got in his car and drove away from the school and

toward home.

When Mr. C slowly came to a stop across the

street from my old house our thoughts had once again

connected. He reached into the back seat of his car

and pulled out a bouquet of bright, colorful tulips. Mr.

Cohen waited for me in the car as I strolled up the walk

and stopped next to “the spot”. I took two yellow tulips

out and placed them on the ground.

I saw a little kid staring at me from the screen door

and he excitedly ran and got his mother. She initially

said, “Can I help you” but when her son pulled her arm

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and said, “Mom, that‟s Darius Mitchell.” She smiled and

said, “Would you like to come in?” I said “This used to

be my house” and I walked around my house and

basked in all of the familiar sights.

We spent a few minutes on the house tour and

then I said, “My dad‟s waiting for me in the car.” It had

been a while since I used the word dad in a sentence

in the present tense. For all intents and purposes, Mr.

Cohen had taken the torch passed to him by my dad,

the original DMitch. Mrs. Williams and her son Shawn

walked out to the car with me and Shawn even

brought his basketball with him.

Mr. Cohen got out of the car and I said “Mrs.

Williams, this is my dad Mr. Cohen.” Mr. C looked at me

as tears welled up in his eyes. He introduced himself to

Mrs. Williams and she recognized him from the school.

“You‟re that third grade teacher my son is always

talking about. Do you think you can get him in your

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class next year?” Mr. Cohen looked at me and said to

Mrs. Williams, “Well, if he‟s anything like Darius then it

would be my pleasure.”

I played with Shawn Williams for a few more

minutes and then got back in the car. I reached down

under my seat, picked up jersey and walked back

across the street. “Hey Shawn” I said as I flipped the

jersey at him – “Make me proud.” Shawn immediately

put the jersey on and was dribbling with the dress-like

jersey blanketed his small frame.

We pulled away from my old house and Shawn

and his mother were saying “Thank you!” and “Don‟t

be a stranger.” I looked over at Mr. Cohen and he

smiled a teary smile at me. I returned the smile and

extended my black fist toward his strong, white first.

Our knuckles banged together and I thought that life

could only get better with the Vanilla Funk around.