BIGGA YANKEE: A Flatbush. Brooklyn, Story

Paperback: 978-1-7346121-0-3

Hardback: 978-1-7346121-1-0

eBook: 978-1-7346121-2-7

Copyright © 2020 by Gregory Walker/ Big T

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Printed in the United States of America

Th is fiction is based on true events in the history of Flatbush, Brooklyn. I use my real name and street name ’cause it’s also my story; if the gunplay sounds familiar, it’s because I’m from Flatbush, I’ve been through and seen a lot, and I’m basing this on true events. If I come close, it’s pure coincidence. You don’t know about this ’cause I have made it up. I have changed 95 percent of the names ’cause when this becomes really successful, I don’t want to hear it.

As I tell you my story based on true events, I fill in the blanks with my imagination. I use real-life situations in detail ’cause I have been there. Maybe this story can change some young man or woman’s mind about something. This is real. These are the stages I have gone through. I have been there, and I have seen too much, done too much. It’s only by the grace of God, Allah, or whatever you call him that I’m still on the planet Earth to tell you this story.

God has a plan for all of us; pay attention to the signs. I want to show that education is the most important thing. Learn today; earn tomorrow. School, trades, and books. Everyone can be successful with legal hard work; we don’t have to steal, rob, or sell drugs. And doing drugs will take our mind, body, money, and freedom if we’re lucky; if not, it will take our life. All we have to do is have goals and plans and stick with them through thick and thin. We have to try things; we have to be in it to win it.

Warning: this book contains sexual acts between men and women in detail. I actually have toned it down some, but I have to keep it real. My goal is to tell you a real story from beginning to end without watering it down. I do get personal about myself, and it hasn’t been easy. With all the pain and suffering I have been through, the sexual encounters with queens are some of my most beautiful memories, especially when I have been incarcerated, and I haven’t been going the other way while inside like so many guys do; it’s hard to believe.

The children’s laughter and my precious mother’s beautiful sunshine smile were my most beautiful memories. The memories kept me alive while I was incarcerated; that was when I wrote this book. It took me ten extra years to put this out ’cause I was too busy working and taking care of my father, the so-called family home, and now my precious mother—the hardest things I ever did and am still doing in my life.

My father is no longer with us, and neither is the family home. My father has come back from wherever he has gone when he has left the planet Earth and told me to take my precious mother out of that situation to a better one for the rest of her life. I have a story to tell. I’m still alive after being shot several times on different occasions ’cause God has a plan for me. I’m truly learning about God now.

Please learn from my mistakes. I have gone from a good child turned bad and then good again, but it has taken twenty years of incarceration and another ten years after I have been out. It doesn’t have to be like this for you. That lifestyle leads to death and, if you’re lucky, incarceration.

Don’t go where the path may lead, but go where there is no path, and leave a trail—not a trail of blood, bodies, broken hearts, broken bones, and broken families but a trail to legal success through hard work. It’s not going to happen as quickly as the drug game, but in most cases, it lasts much longer.

If you defend your family with violence and go to jail, who’s defending your family while you’re incarcerated? There has to be a better way. God/Allah/Jesus works for some people, and I’m trying to get it to work for me. I try to bring peace and love to a situation first. Be the bigger person and come in peace. It has taken me more than twenty years to learn most of that, and I still don’t have it ’cause if you come to my home starting trouble where my precious mother is, that’s where the police and ambulance will find you or maybe in someone’s backyard behind my house. My mental health won’t be able to control it. I’m not a killer; all I want is peace and love for everyone. If you don’t want that, it’s not my fault.

Flatbush, Brooklyn, used to be mainly a white neighborhood, but that was a very long time ago. For about forty years, my brothers and sisters from Trinidad, Jamaica, and all the islands and Africa had moved to Flatbush, Brooklyn. It seemed like the Puerto Rican and Haitian brothers and sisters were already here when my family came to Flatbush, along with the Arab and Chinese people with their corner stores and restaurants.

Today Flatbush, Brooklyn, looks like it’s not even in America, just a bunch of beautiful and dangerous people from all over the world. We would have much better peace and love between each other if it wasn’t for the drug game and drug use. I’ve hardly ever seen a white face in Flatbush, Brooklyn, but that has changed; today they are back, and they have brought the police with them mainly for their protection. The apartment buildings and homes are being upgraded, and more of us are moving out and being forced out every day.

It’s a true blessing to have another chance. Many people do several things pretty good, but if we put all that energy into one or two things instead of ten, we will become much better at the one or two things, maybe even become great. It took me many years to learn that. Now let’s go way back. Please enjoy. Peace and love.

Chapter 1

Introduction to Power

Growing up, I was always the biggest kid in class. I was about a foot taller and about fifty pounds heavier than the rest of the guys. I would see guys my size in the hallway, in front of the school, or in the park, but they were sixteen or seventeen, and I was twelve. I liked their style of dress better, from their jackets to their sneakers and shoes.

When I went back-to-school shopping with my parents, I tried to pick out the older guys’ sneakers, shoes, and clothes. My pop told me I’d get those types of clothes and footwear when I got a job because they were much more expensive. What my wonderful parents bought me was always sufficient, but even as a very young man, my taste was for the next level. For some unknown reason, I always wanted a little more than the next guy my age, but I was actually wanting a little more than the next guy five or six years older. I was also willing to work hard for what I wanted. Who was going to give a twelve-year-old a job?

My parents were very strict, and my pop had made us read the dictionary when we came home from school. I didn’t mind ’cause I wanted to learn. I also read the daily newspaper sometimes because I saw my pop reading it. As I turned the pages, looking for something to interest a twelve-year-old mind, I found an ad that read Earn extra money delivering newspapers. My mom didn’t want her twelve-year-old son out there at five in the morning before school. My pop said, The boy is trying to be responsible. Let him go. The ad in the Daily News said I could earn up to five hundred dollars a week. My allowance was three dollars a week, so I figured if I could make ten or twenty dollars a week, I’d be straight.

As I started, I realized I would need hundreds of customers a week to make five hundred dollars. I had a decent group of customers, and I earned eight big dollars for myself the first week. My mother still gave me my allowance on the down low, even though my pop thought I shouldn’t get it because I was working. I learned at an early age that one satisfied customer would tell someone about your good service or product. On my second week, I made fifteen dollars; and each week, I earned a little more. Meanwhile, I was saving and going to school off my allowance that my mom was still giving me on the down low.

I finally went shopping with fifty big dollars. I bought the expensive Pumas for fifteen dollars, instead of the seven-dollar Sixty-Niners that my parents used to get me. I also bought the jacket and jeans that the older guys were wearing. My elder brother, Jo Jo, told me that the older guys knew I was just a big kid, they might try to take something from me, and I was only going to get him into fights dressing like that.

Meanwhile, I think I was the coolest kid in the whole school. I wanted to live in the world five or six years past my time and was coldly introduced to that seventeen-year-old-street-thug-style world. Just like Jo Jo said, the older guys started watching me closely; some girls started looking too. I was big, but I still had that young face. I looked soft, and my name didn’t ring any bells in the hood, so I’d have to be tried.

In the after-school game room, I hung up my jacket to play a few games of Ping-Pong; but when it was time to go, a seventeen-year-old my size put on my jacket and threw his old jacket across his arm. I ran over to the coatrack and said, What are you doing? That’s my jacket.

He mushed me in my face hard and said, Get the fuck out of here, you daffy motherfucker.

I knew I was naturally strong from the horseplay I had with my brothers and friends ’cause sometimes I would hurt one of them by accident. My pop also told me, with my natural strength, I could be a professional football player if I wanted to when I got older. Being strong didn’t mean you had heart, and I was not ready for this bully-thug shit. I was afraid, so I just went home without my jacket, trying my best to hold the tears in my eyes.

As soon as I walked in the front door, my pop saw me from the kitchen. He stepped right to me and asked me where my jacket was because he knew I wore it every day. The tears started to fall from my eyes as I said it was gone. He said, What the fuck do you mean it’s gone?

Some older guy robbed me.

He then asked me several questions. How many guys? Did they have a knife? Did they have a gun? Were they much bigger than you? Like a fool, I told the truth. When my pop found out it was actually one guy about my size, he knocked me upside my head.

Through the tears I said, But he was with a bunch of guys.

Pow! I got hit again. He said, When you go to school in the morning, you shouldn’t wear a jacket. But when you come home, you better have one on, the same one that has been taken from you. He then went in my room and took my money box because he knew I had about one hundred dollars saved from my newspaper route. My pop knew I thought I was slick, and maybe I might buy another one. He said if I didn’t get my jacket back, I shouldn’t come home ’cause he didn’t want any punks in the house.

Then he told me how to get my jacket back. When you see the other punk in the game room after school, he’s going to have your jacket on because he knows you’re a punk and ain’t going to do shit. That’s when you will have the upper hand, and he won’t see it coming. When you underestimate the next man, you give him the edge in power, and that’s what he gave to you, son. It sounded good, but I didn’t fully understand what the hell my pop was talking about as I nodded in approval.

He went on to tell me how the chin was a special part of the face and how it turned a human body off when hit right. I was beginning to understand what he was talking about. He said, When you see him, walk right up to him. And in the next second, make the tightest fist you’ll ever make in your life and go straight to the chin as hard as you can. Make sure you’re close enough so you can imagine pushing your fist through his chin and out of the back of his head. I had to punch my pop’s open hands about a hundred times with each fist until I got it right. He promised me that the punk who stole my jacket would lay flat on his back if I did this right, and the punks with him would take a few steps back as I pulled my jacket off his stretched-out body. Throw your jacket over your left arm to keep your right hand free just in case. Make sure to keep a straight face, but have eye contact with the rest of his friends. Then come straight home.

Pop sent me to my room early that evening and told me to go over everything a few hundred times and that he would talk to me tomorrow when I got my jacket back. I went over it until I went to sleep. I even dreamed about it.

I woke up early in the morning a little nervous, but I was ready. Everything happened just like my daddy said it would. I didn’t have another problem for the rest of the school year, but that was in school. I made my parents proud because I stood my ground like a true Big T; plus, I was good in school.

The bullies in the school started showing me some respect, and those couple of cute girls noticed me even more. I wished things were working out this well for me during my newspaper route before school. I wished Big Victor knew how I put a seventeen-year-old flat on his back with one punch for messing with me; maybe he would also show me some respect.

Big Victor was about six feet five inches tall and weighed at least one hundred pounds more than me. If you looked up bully in the dictionary, there would probably be a picture of Big Victor’s face next to the word. Why would a big brother in his early twenties fuck with a twelve-year-old making an honest dollar before school?

I was really doing great with my newspaper route, but for the last two weeks in a row, Big Victor robbed me. He had to be watching me closely because, as soon as I finished collecting all the money, he got me. Each time, he got about two hundred dollars. Seventy-five of that was mine, and the rest was the Daily News’. I was terrified the first time, but the second time made me straight up angry.

I felt like Superman when I knocked out that seventeen-year-old. I wondered if I could do that to Big Victor. I really wanted to hurt him because I was only a child, and he was a grown man. He was also much bigger and shouldn’t take advantage of a kid. If I had a real gun, I would probably shoot him. I wondered if I had enough money in my box to buy a gun, maybe a secondhand one. I know what. I’ll just buy me a big knife from the martial arts store.

The Chinese man wouldn’t sell it to me because of my age. I told him I needed it to protect myself, but he was firm with his decision. Meanwhile, I had my father come with me to collect the newspaper money this past Friday. My pop was a couple of hours late for work, so I’d have to find another way to collect my money safely.

Jo Jo didn’t want to at first, but I finally got him to get one of his older friends to buy the hunting knife for me. It cost me a few extra dollars, but it was worth it. The knife was large with a six-inch blade and a four-inch handle. My brother probably thought I would never use it. I also felt that just pulling it out would chase anyone away.

Every day I practiced how to tuck the clip-on case on the inside of my pants or on the inside pocket of my jacket. I also practiced how to pull it out, hold it with a firm grip, and stick it into an imaginary Victor target. I practiced sticking Victor a few different ways ’cause he could come at me from different angles. Even at the tender age of twelve, I wasn’t going to cut him because sticking it in a big bully like Victor would cause greater damage and probably hurt much more.

I told my pop not to worry about coming with me on Friday to collect the money anymore. He gave me this funny look as if saying, What’s your plan? But he didn’t ask me. My pop wanted me to be a man, and he also wanted to get to work on time anyway. He still was truly concerned, but I told him not to worry. He liked my newfound confidence and wondered where I got it from. He put my mother at ease and made her feel comfortable about me going out early in the morning by myself again.

It was a damp and chilly Friday morning, and the chill went to my bones a little quicker than usual because of the tension and anticipation I had building up. The building where Big Victor took advantage of me was at the end of my route on Linden Boulevard between Bedford and Rogers Avenues. For some reason, it was extraquiet as I entered that building. After I collected my last few dollars from my last customer on the second floor, I took the stairs back to the lobby. Big Victor was standing by the exit, looking my way, and there was no one else in the lobby just like he planned it two times before.

I walked straight toward Big Victor with this newfound confidence, with my big knife already tightly wrapped in my right hand, hidden behind me on my right side. I took the knife out as soon as I saw Victor, just like I did in my mind at least one hundred times before. I stopped about eight to ten feet in front of him because he was big, and I needed a few feet just in case of a quick reaction from him. With a tighter grip, I held my big sharp knife in front of me, with the blade facing his direction. I looked Big Victor straight in his eyes and said, I’m keeping my money from now on, Mister.

He acted like I didn’t say anything and wasn’t holding a weapon in my hand, and as he walked toward me, he said, I’ll take that shit from you. When he got close enough, he grabbed me as I pulled my right hand back out of his reach.

It seemed like I was moving in slow motion, but with all the strength I had in my twelve-year-old body, I pushed my right hand to his side until all six inches of the blade was inside his big body. We had eye contact, and he had this look of shock and surprise. It felt like all his power was leaving his body and entering mine as he began to fall like a big tree. I tried to pull the knife out of his big body, but it had this extremely nasty, funny feeling. It felt like his body pulled the knife back, so I let go and threw up right on my sneakers. My stomach had this funny feeling, but I still ran out the building and all the way home.

Through it all, I still felt good because I still had all the newspaper money, and I made it home without the police stopping me. Little me put a big man flat on his back, so I was still feeling the extra power he gave me. I wondered if I killed him. That thought made me nervous for a few minutes, and then the thought of him not taking money from me or anyone else took over.

The bullies at school didn’t bother me anymore, but I still wished they knew what I did to Big Victor. They better continue to leave me alone, or I’d have to do further damage to one of them too. I never told my parents and elder brother what happened, and my pop didn’t question me. He did give me this funny look the Saturday morning after. The police were at the building on Saturday morning, and they asked me a few questions. I claimed not to know anything, and they told me to be careful. I wanted to ask if someone got killed, but I didn’t bother to dig. I was just glad Victor wasn’t around anymore.

Through it all, I realized the power and respect a very violent act would receive. People understood violence, and most of the time, it would make a problem stop or go away. The building and the block knew I was the one who sent Big Victor away. I guessed some people saw me running from their window. What confused me was the new respect I received from the older guys on the block, even the adults my parents’ age. It also seemed like everyone was proud of me for what I did, so I guessed I did the right thing.

Chapter 2

Martial Arts

When I first turned thirteen, the world was fascinated with these new martial arts and karate movies, like Five Fingers of Death and Fist of Fury. The latter introduced the legendary, great Bruce Lee to the world, as well as a whole new way of protecting yourself and fighting. I always had a fascination with the art and science behind throwing an effective punch.

When my pop explained to me how hitting the chin just right would turn the body off and when I got my first knockout shortly after, I was hooked. I wanted to know so much more. I wanted to be a knockout artist with either hand, just one punch. I wanted to be the best boxer in the world and to know martial arts as well as the great Bruce Lee. My mother and father always told me I can do anything and reach high. I knew I was reaching, but if I tried to be that good, I knew I’d at least be the best on the block, in school, or in the neighborhood. I did know that I’d be one of the best if I practiced hard. I had been saving my newspaper money for about a year, and now I had something positive to do with some of it. I was going to join a karate school. I had already been buying Black Belt and the Ring, martial arts and boxing magazines. I was truly fascinated with the art and science of skillful full contact.

I joined George Cofield Karate School in Flatbush to learn the basics; plus, it was right around the corner on Bedford Avenue. I didn’t stay there long because we didn’t get into full contact sparring, and that was what I really wanted. I had to know that this thing really worked most of the time, and the only true way for me to know was to go full blast with another.

About eight months later, I changed from Cofield to Keith Ricks across town in Bed-Stuy. I heard it was hard core at Keith Ricks, and what I heard was absolutely true. Their record was 25–5 against Cofield when they had a contest against each other. I was under eighteen, so my parents had to sign this contract for me to attend classes, but they wouldn’t. The contract stated that if I got hurt or broke something, we couldn’t sue, or charges couldn’t be filed. My parents didn’t agree with that contract, but I did, so I signed my pop’s name just like him and was in.

I thought my father knew I signed his or my mother’s name to get in because I still came home late, and sometimes I was very sore. They thought I was still going to Cofield because I came home about the same time. In the past, my parents came around the corner to check on me when I was at Cofield, and I was always there, so they didn’t check on me anymore. I also used to tell them that it was very embarrassing, so maybe that helped stop them from coming. When I turned fourteen, I quit the newspaper route, but I saved enough money to go to karate school for at least five more years, and I’d still have close to a thousand dollars left. Karate school was only fifteen dollars per month, plus two-dollar dues per week.

I loved girls, and I thought they were cute and sweet, but I was shy, and I really didn’t have time because I was in regular and karate schools. One girl named Debbie Codrington already broke my heart when I was thirteen. I thought I was in love, and I wanted to marry her when I got older. I was rudely awakened when an older guy named TC took her from me. Debbie was a year younger than me but ten years older mentally as far as this relationship thing went. I didn’t even know how to tongue-kiss, make love, have sex, or whatever you called it, so she probably would have left me anyway. Even though TC was older, I was sure I could hurt him, and I truly wanted to. I even wanted to hurt her in some kind of way for making me feel this different pain. I would never hit her because my parents raised me better than that. The thought of even hurting her feelings left me quickly. She was so gorgeous and tender to me, and I just wanted to love her. I didn’t hurt TC because I knew he had a gun, and one of us would have to die before it was over. I just tried to forget about her and dedicated myself to martial arts and school.

Meanwhile, I became one of the best students in my karate class. Every six months at promotion, I would advance to the next level and receive a different-colored belt. Nothing was easy about the classes, but I loved it and learned the true science. I also learned about weapons, inner strength, meditation, and those special soft spots of a human body—pressure points. I watched 120-pound girls take down guys weighing 240 pounds and more by knowing those special soft spots that martial arts taught. At age sixteen, I was six feet one inch tall and 245 pounds, the biggest student in the class. The teacher, Keith Ricks, and I were the same size, so he was harder on me than the others. He also had us into weight training and calisthenics, mainly the latter for me because of my age; he knew my bones were still growing. We all were strong and had muscles, even the girls.

I started getting offered jobs as doorman and bouncer at discos and clubs, even the ones I was too young to attend. Sometimes our school gave live exhibitions at block parties to advertise our serious training for children and adults—boys, girls, women, and men. I started getting all the bouncer offers after I broke a stack of wood and flat bricks with my fist at one of those block parties. The Flatbush, Brooklyn, neighborhood and some parts of Bed-Stuy knew I was the karate guy or the guy who worked out in Prospect Park. I worked the door at private parties and at clubs every weekend.

Chapter 3

Blackout, ’77

The summer of 1977 changed my life forever. I also started noticing a change in Flatbush, Broo klyn. Families from Trinidad and Jamaica started moving in at a record rate, especially Jamaican families. They started coming in the early seventies, but now they were coming by the plane- and truckload.

I still was into martial arts, and I still worked the door at private parties and clubs. Almost every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night, I was somewhere. I got into heated arguments more often now that these different-talking brothers from Jamaica and the other islands were here. They didn’t like me because I wouldn’t let them inside with their guns. They also didn’t like the fact that I could hardly understand their hard-core accent. I was also much bigger and wasn’t afraid.

In a few more years, I’d be considered a karate expert because I was also skilled with a few weapons. To top it off, I also had a gun now. I hadn’t used it, and hopefully, I wouldn’t ever have to. I thought I was a bad, untouchable young man, but I still had a good heart. I was also still doing things legal except for the gun, and I worked every day for an honest dollar. I never thought about crossing the line with crime, but then the blackout came.

I hadn’t had a girlfriend in a couple of years. I just really wasn’t into them yet. I would have easily found time for my girlfriend if I had one; I just didn’t understand them yet. A pretty girl named Joyce in my karate class was my girlfriend, but that was only in my mind and heart. In reality, she didn’t have the slightest idea about my love for her, so I guessed that love affair didn’t count. I was beginning to truly want a girlfriend now, especially Renay or Synthia from Lenox Road. They both were tall, slim, sexy, and gorgeous to me. If I could have one of them, I would truly be elated.

When the blackout started, I was on Clarkson Avenue on my way to Flatbush Avenue. When I got to Flatbush, the car lights were the only way to see. As I crossed Caton Avenue, I looked straight ahead through the dark of the night and noticed Renay’s pretty face also crossing Caton, going the opposite direction. I reached out, held her soft hand, and let her know it was only me, Taurus. I asked her, Can I walk you home to make sure you get there safely? It was only a block and a half, but I kept her soft hand in mine and was already in love. When we got there, we kissed for the first time. It was beautiful and in slow motion, and her slim, soft body felt like it belonged against mine. I wanted to do that at least one hundred million more times. As I left the building, I felt like a king with extra power and a newfound energy.

As I head toward Flatbush Avenue, all I heard was glass crashing to the ground. That was the sound of store windows being broken into. In Flatbush Avenue, I saw all ages of people running back and forth with hot property from the stores just broken into. People you least expected to see were out there getting theirs, respectable people my parents’ age and older. It was like free Christmas shopping in July. It seemed like my whole neighborhood crossed the line on this hot summer night except my parents. Everyone got something, some more than others, and you knew how the saying went: Ain’t no fun if I don’t get none.

I wasn’t into crime before the blackout, but I sure did about twenty burglaries that night. I was from the group that got more than others. I was not the type of person who stood around and got what people dropped or left behind. I had to go inside each store that I took from and had a firsthand choice of what to take from. I got a rush every time I went inside a store and saw all that free property. There were hundreds, maybe a thousand, of us going in and out of stores, and this was just part of the Flatbush section of Brooklyn. I was sure there were several thousands doing the same thing all over New York City. There were also about another thousand of people just out there waiting for us to drop something; even they made some nice extra money.

I ran into my friend Mick, and we made money together for some of the night, but then I lost him. It was very dark, and there were only a few flashlights for one thousand to share. Whoever had a flashlight that night got robbed; that was how I got and lost mine. Hundreds of us got arrested, but the thought of me under arrest never entered my mind. I was young, strong, and fast. It was very dark, and there were so many other people out there for the police to catch, not me. There were a couple of close calls, but I knew I would be successful in getting away. The police did rob me one time during the night as I was coming out an alley on Caton Avenue with long boxes of CB antennas. I told them I saw a man hide them there. They put them in the police car, only half the box could fit inside, and then they told me to get the fuck off the street.

It was not talked about, but the police committed the biggest crimes in the blackout of ’77 in Flatbush, Brooklyn. I was speaking about robbery, burglaries, and straight up murder. I was out there, and I saw the police shoot into crowds in the pitch dark. A few people were murdered; one little girl and a couple of other children were hit with stray police bullets. All the people hit with bullets were right where the police were shooting when the smoke cleared. They were the only ones shooting. We did throw a couple of rocks and bricks, but that made it worst. It was dark, and we couldn’t tell what police did the shootings, but we saw the uniforms, and they did leave in police cars. Not one officer was charged with a crime that night, but several carloads of us were arrested and charged. Today there are still a couple of black men incarcerated