Today marks one year since I lost Abdul Hakeem. Unlike my ex-husband Asif, he could not be seduced by blond hair and blue eyes. Unlike my beloved friend Steve (without whom my science major would be a thing of the past) he was not alcohol’s marionette.
Abdul Hakeem lived on Baltimore's Garrison Avenue, a proverbial American ghetto. There he could live free of the daily taunts of “nigger” which pervaded his Anne Arundel County childhood, while affording the rent and court-ordered $700/month child support on his meager blue collar wages.
At that time, I had my ancient red Honda with “permanently” fused tail light (“permanently” because the entire fixture--not just the bulb, was in need of replacement, an expensive, if not impossible proposition for a student). Every trip up and down Garrison in the Honda was an ordeal. The pigs who haunted the block stopped and gave me a work order or citation nearly every visit. To me, a small-built Asian woman, the pigs were cordial. I could only imagine the harassment that poor and working class black residents of the area endured at their hands.
One block south of Abdul Hakeem’s apartment stood the trick. She looked sickly, her face ashen and devoid of emotion. Despite the freezing weather, she wore no coat. She stood shivering and looking miserable, as I wondered how I might safely help her. What a far cry from the pimps and hoes often the butt of jokes among the privileged and uninformed students on my campus.
Two blocks south, at Hilton and Garrison, was the nearest “grocery store.” Charging thrice the going rate for produce purchased at suburban grocers, it reeked with the stench of dead rats. On payday, the customer service counter was swamped with poor people with no bank accounts, trying to get money orders to pay exorbitant rents to Indo-Pak slum lords. The “grocery store” shared the strip with a liquor store and a dollar store. The shopping center housing the three was graced by a blue strobe light and surveillance cameras.
Adjacent to the strip mall but right on the main road was a bar and a pawnshop. Across from that was another liquor store. One block from Abdul Hakeem’s apartment was the bail bonds man. Another few blocks south was a McDonalds and a Duncan Donuts. And a block north was a church.
When I first visited Garrison Avenue, I was bemused: Where were all the grocery stores? Libraries? Parks? Restaurants (serving real food)? Coffee shops? Books stores? It made no sense. There were children living here. They needed playgrounds, libraries, community centers, grocery stores, toy stores.
Once, during a trip to New York, my father pointed out to me that Manhattan was the modern day Big House, and Bronx the Slave Quarters. In New York, the juxtaposition was glaringly evident, but a similar theme seemed to arise in many American cities. It occurred to me that Baltimore’s slave quarters included Garrison Boulevard and the area surrounding it. Slaves were not to consume nutritious food, or drink. They were there to eat chitlin’s and to serve the labor needs of the massa. They were not to read, study, or discuss issues. To do so could lead to a slave revolt.
Surrounded by depravity, Abdul Hakeem did not succumb. He did not patronize the liquor stores, the bail bonds men, the tricks, or the churches. He smiled, joked, laughed and loved his way through life, bringing joy to everyone who crossed his path. He enchanted me with his soft voice, gentle manner, and sweet smile.
He had a son, Hakeem, who lived with him. Abdul Hakeem adored Hakeem, and his whole life revolved around the boy. The first time I called their residence, the boy answered the phone in his high pitched child's voice, his impeccable manners coming across clearly on the phone line. He was a bright youngster, gifted in math, and deadly at chess. We clicked almost immediately, and I took him under my wing, tutoring him in math, buying him books and school uniforms, and taking him out for special treats when he did particularly well. I learned that the boy’s mother had died of breast cancer when he was very young. I knew that I could never take the place of the mother, but this made me even more protective of Hakeem.
Eventually, Abdul Hakeem and I became engaged, and I was thrilled at the prospect that I would be gaining a husband and a son. I picked out the red dress I would wear at our wedding. We debated where in Africa to hold the nikkah.
Abdul Hakeem worried a great deal about his son (and I—when I came to visit them) being in the drug-ridden climate at Garrison. After a great deal of apartment-hunting (between working ten hour shifts and commuting by public transportation), Abdul Hakeem found an apartment on the north side of town. The rent, while high, was not completely out of reach, as it was at some of the places he’d looked at, and it was, by all appearances, a “clean” neighborhood. By now it was summer, and while Abdul Hakeem worked long hours, Hakeem, on break from school, fraternized with the unemployed, marijuana-using neighbors in the apartment below. When Abdul Hakeem found out about this, he was furious and forbade Hakeem from subsequent visits. As a result, there was an altercation between father and son. Then another. And another. Then, tragically, the younger Hakeem called the police on his father, saying that Abdul Hakeem had threatened him. The cops came to the apartment and took the police report.
A few months later, the teenager ran away to Delaware, from whence his dead mother hailed and which he perceived as his Shangrila. Unfortunately for him, unemployment and poverty in the area was even worse than Baltimore, and the boy, who by this time was living with his mother’s unemployed, pothead relatives, joined their ranks. Within months, he was jailed for grand larceny. The charges were dropped, but an onerous pattern was emerging.
Abdul Hakeem and I went to Delaware to meet Hakeem and his social worker in court. We hoped to bring the boy home. But, Hakeem told his social worker that he would rather be a ward of the state of Delaware for the remainder of the time until he turned 18 than to return home with his father. In the waiting area outside the court, Hakeem barely spoke to Abdul Hakeem. When he did speak, it was as if he was addressing one of his homies, not his father. The last Abdul Hakeem heard from Hakeem was that he was attempting to enlist in the National Guard, but having trouble getting in due to his athsma.
That fall, Abdul Hakeem’s mother, Delma, died of cancer. He’d been very close to her, and was profoundly affected by her loss. Abdul Hakeem had two brothers, Mark and Andre, both of whom lived in what had been Delma’s apartment. Before passing away, she had asked Abdul Hakeem to take care of Andre, who was “a little slow.” Since neither of the other two brothers was responsible, and Hakeem was out of the picture, the need for a space of his own was less. So, Abdul Hakeem assumed Delma’s lease. No sooner had he moved into his mother’s apartment, which still contained her special scent, to take care of his retarded brother than he found out that both of his brothers were on crack.
The following May, Abdul Hakeem and I visited the National Zoo (it was his birthday). It was a beautiful day, and we spent much of our time in the Ape House, philosophizing on the inhumanity of imprisoning such intelligent creatures as primates, and sharing dreams of liberating them, before going on to have dinner at a favorite restaurant.
Ironically, the very next day, when Abdul Hakeem visited Child Support Services to make sure he was in good standing with his child support payments (he had two little girls—one from a previous marriage, and another from his jahilliya days), he was locked up. They nabbed him without warning, saying he was behind on payments (the notifications ostensibly mailed to him never arrived). He called me from Central Booking, and told me he was being held in a vastly overcrowded, steamy hot cell with 20 other men.
I immediately put down the carbohydrate biochemistry book I was reading, and ran across town to collect money to bail him out. As a student, I was quite broke, and so had to be creative. I called his employer and advised him of the situation. Abdul Hakeem was a well-respected and reliable employee, and the employer, to my amazement agreed to advance some of the money. The remainder I acquired as a cash advance on my credit card. I posted the money, and then called the employer to update him. Abdul Hakeem was released two days later. Central Booking officials refused to tell me his release time, and though I waited as long as possible to receive him, he was ejected, along with others being released, around midnight, when no public transportation was available, and spent hours traveling home. He went back to work shortly thereafter, and it seemed that things were finally getting back to normal.
But it got worse.
Tony was Abdul Hakeem’s nephew. He never knew his father, and was raised by a mother who brought different men home nightly. Like many young black men, he got caught up in the game, and went to prison for minor offenses. Martial arts, which he’d engaged in since very young, seemed to keep his focus while in prison, and the third degree black belt emerged to acquire his ASE-certification. He was a talented young mechanic, highly sought after by his employer’s patrons. Like Abdul Hakeem, he did not drink, smoke, or take drugs. Abdul Hakeem was proud of him, and considered him a success story in the family, even wishing at times that his son could have been more like Tony.
One day, Abdul Hakeem called to tell me that Tony had been shot to death in his home by the cops. Since Tony’s mother, Carla, was nowhere to be found (she was gallivanting about California with her Italian boyfriend), Abdul Hakeem went to the morgue to claim the body. He was clearly very shaken when he returned. After giving me the initial run down, he entered into a period of depression and refused to speak further on the incident. It was my penultimate semester at school, and, after a very long drawn out academic career riddled with trials and tribulations of every sort, I was doing my darnedest to focus so I might finally graduate. Abdul Hakeem and I started to talk less frequently by phone.
One day, shortly prior to my graduation, Abdul Hakeem became fodder for the prison industry. I feel a complete and utter sense of loss. Although he was not directly involved in the struggle at the time he succumbed, he’d demonstrated the possibilities of daily resistance. I weep at his loss. It is, indeed, a big blow for the Black liberation struggle. My Black shining prince, with whom I’d dreamed of living happily ever after, resides in the Ironhouse of Greed.
