A Change Is Gonna Come: A Memoir of Coping with the Harsh Realities of Life

A Change

Is Gonna Come

A Memoir of Coping with the Harsh Realities of Life

VERNON ROBINSON JR.

A CHANGE IS GONNA COME

A MEMOIR OF COPING WITH THE HARSH REALITIES OF LIFE

Copyright © 2014 Vernon Robinson Jr.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-3903-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-3905-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-3904-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014911390

iUniverse rev. date: 06/19/2014

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Preface

Prologue

Chapter 1   Growing Pains

Birth Right

Root of Evil

Chapter 2   Dealing with Demons

Be Strong

Chapter 3   Contravention

The Big Fish

Workaholic

Lustful Sins

Back Lash

Chapter 4   Made Man

Chapter 5   Violent Rage

Dark Days

Independence

Chapter 6   The Few, The Proud

Yellow Footprint

Okinawa, Japan

Quantico, Va.

Camp Pendleton

Arizona

Chapter 7   Somalia

Chapter 8   Marriage

Chapter 9   Keeping the Faith

Chapter 10   Revelations

About the Author

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I WOULD LIKE TO T HANK…

… God because without his grace, I would not be the man I am today. He gave me the strength and encouragement to persevere and because of him, I now truly understand that he will not give me anything that I can’t handle.

… All of my teachers & professors from Washington Highland (now Ferebee-Hope), Charles Hart Jr. High, Frank W. Ballou Sr. High, University of Maryland University College, Jamestown Community College, and Franklin University respectively for providing me with the knowledge I have and challenging me mentally.

… The United States Marine Corp for the physical and mental toughness they instilled, turning a street kid into a Marine, and providing me with a purpose when I felt lost.

… Additionally, a special thanks to my loving wife of twenty-years and wonderful children. You’ve endured this journey with me and helped me in so many ways. I’ll cherish many magnificent moments, but most of all, I feel blessed that my wife and I created such a loving supportive family.

PREFACE

W HEN I WAS IN elementary school, I heard the word autobiography and was intrigued not only by the topic, but also with the whole concept of remembrance. We were discussing Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and his legacy. He had written an autobiography that told his unique but turbulent quest for freedom and democracy for all people within the United States. Oddly, it wasn’t his bravado that stood out, but the thought that it must be great to have your contributions to a generation (in that era) written onto paper for all to see. Famous or not, I find it interesting to hear the stories of others, especially when it’s someone that worked their way through the trenches of life to only prosper with the rewards of faith. It doesn’t matter if the faith was in yourself or a higher being. This encouraged me as a child to tell my story to friends, relatives, and eventually my children, as I saw life to be challenging yet worth the efforts and thrills. I was a good story teller or a comedian because of my expressions, tone in voice, and choice of words. I have always felt that my stories or lessons in life could correlate as learning experiences. They may even coincide with someone else’s life to provide guidance or a foundation for their very own success. Overall, it is a way for me to leave a trail of history for my family because no foundation was ever concrete for my family. Don’t get me wrong, my ancestors created a foundation for our family to succeed, but I’m not Alex Haley, the famous author of the book Roots , as my family’s foundation was made of gravel & sand washing away with each generation. I want to put a little concrete into that foundation and build it for my children and their children. I want people to read this autobiography and learn that their family isn’t alone with its trials and tribulations and dealing with adversity. We all have a common bond that exists more so than just the blood we shed; the color of our skin, or the universal language we s peak.

Some will read my unedited book and conclude that I’m passive in my writings or that I neglected to conform to traditional writing. We’re expected to write perfectly, but the irony of this is we don’t openly speak with such perfection. Truth is I didn’t write my book to become an accomplished world-renowned author. I wrote my book to get across what I feel is an important message. I want to relay a clear and concise message that, A Change is Gonna Come means precisely what it states. Regardless of how bad things are going in life or dire the situation, eventually, a change will come. Throughout life, we battle some form of depression, sorrow, or disappointment. Nevertheless, at some point those feelings will be suppressed, if not, erased by joy, happiness, and excitement.

Not to be confused with the civil rights era that the song was written, A Change Is Gonna Come is the title that I chose, which best describes my determination throughout forty plus years of events. The title, prompted by late singer-songwriter Sam Cooke, was a 1964 single hit song. This song was an inspiration to me. It was a song played as a child when my grandmother would do her own soul searching. Even though the song was well before my era, the lyrics described a mood shared by many at the time and now. One of the songs verses brings fond memories. With the well-tuned orchestra’s music playing in the background, Sam Cooke sang:

"Oh there been times that I thought I couldn’t last for long;

But now I think I’m able to carry on;

It’s been a long, long time coming;

But I know-w-w-w, a change is gonna come."

Being able to fight through the pain & suffering, the guilt & betrayals, to be successful and live to talk about it is truly surreal for me. But I have to warn you, the contents that you’re about to consume will aptly make you laugh at my mistakes, cry because of my pain, angry with my sometimes dense decisions, and most importantly, it will help you to reflect on your own life experiences as well as your commitment to family and friends. Here is my story…

PROLOGUE

O KINAWA, JAPAN, 1990, JUST before the beginning of the first Gulf War. It was during the early fall but the humidity on that Saturday morning was still dreadful. Attached to Maintenance Platoon, MWSS-172, MWSG 17, 1 st MAW ¹, at MCAS Futenma AB, United States Marine Corp some 23-hours by plane from what I called home.

Sweat was running down the sides of my face and I was to a point where there was no return. I didn’t know how to handle it. Standing on a pile of rocks, I had to fill sandbags as a form of punishment for what had happened the day before. I truly didn’t understand the ignorance of my sins and honestly, I didn’t care to remember. Nevertheless, I was more than willing to fight for what I had thought was right even though I have since masked that part of my memory to remember only what I had gained from that situation.

A sergeant that I looked up to was pushing me to work faster and harder. His name was Sergeant Fuller and he was one squared-away individual. That’s military speak for having all his ducks in a row. One thing that he wasn’t aware of was how much anger I had in me. He didn’t realize that I was definitely the type to rip a man’s tongue from his body and not give a damn about his death or his family’s loss. Burning with rage, I pressed on with him watching me like a vulture waiting for its prey to expire. What brought us to this type of anger on a day that is (scratch that) was so beautiful?

The day before, I had made a comment to another Marine whom was the same rank as me, but I had seniority. He didn’t want to pull his weight because, in my opinion, he was an old lazy bastard. Because I don’t tolerate laziness too well, I reacted in a way that only someone with my type of background would have reacted… I was ready to fight! I didn’t believe in asking or telling someone to do something, I was more into demanding, a pure authoritarian. Unfortunately, I was fighting a brother. My own flesh and blood you ask. No, he wasn’t a relative! Was he African or Native American, Caucasian, Asian or Hispanic? Well, in boot camp, all Marines are train to recognize that no particular race is the most dominant. We’re trained that race isn’t a significant factor and that we are all one color, race, or creed regardless of what we learned as a youth. So did it matter to Sgt. Fuller? No! It didn’t matter… we are all Marine Corp GREEN and a band of content brothers-in-arms.

That’s all that mattered to Sgt. Fuller as he ordered me by shouting, At ease, Marine as I was in the face of my non-combative brother. I heard the voice from across the bays inside the Maintenance facility. I had a couple run-ins with him before and I understood him to be a neutral leader, but I surely wasn’t intimidated by his presence.

After an ordeal that I had made worse by being belligerent, he ordered me to stand down and make a decision. I was going to be charged for my insubordination under the UCMJ² or I could do AC on the hill. I didn’t know what AC was, but as hot as it was in Okinawa, I was sure as hell game for any AC he was willing to give me compared to the brig. Little did I know it was his little acronym for attitude control. I was ordered to meet him on this side of the flight line by 0600 Saturday morning and to wear my camouflage pants, combat boots, and wear my webbed belt with a full canteen. I laughed as if to say that anything you dish out is nothing compared to what I’ve been through in life. Little did I know he had other plans?

Early that Saturday morning, he had me in the back yard of the maintenance facility staring at a huge pile of rocks and gravel. Standing on that pile of rocks shoveling a mixture of rock and sand was a turning point in my life. I was out there from 0630 until 1700 that afternoon. Every time I thought I had the pile gone, this asshole came with a bucket lift full of rocks. He’d pile them up as tall as my body. I had already done several pallets of sandbags (or rock bags depending on how you want to look at it) and I thought, no, I assumed, that I was only going to do a predetermined amount.

After some powerful shoveling as if I was punching a concrete block, the pile disappears twice within a couple hours. My pace had slowed down to a meticulous crawl. I was completely exhausted and my palms were already starting to peel on my hands from the repetitious work. I knew it wouldn’t be long now before I was done, but Sgt. Fuller wanted to make his point stuck.

He came up to me with a smirk on his face that changed things instantly. I tossed the shovel at his feet and told him I was not playing his f-cking games! He ordered me to pick up the shovel, but I denied that request instantaneously. He gave me a little speech about my attitude, that I tried to demand respect from others; instead of, earning it, and how I needed to get my ass kicked. Well I knew the first two things may be true or needed attention, but I’d be damned if the last would ever come true. Yes, I was cocky, but Sgt. Fuller was just getting started in breaking me down.

After double checking my ego, I resumed my work but I figured I would go at a slower pace thinking I had the upper hand. He quickly caught on to what I was doing then gave me a false concept of when I’d be done, which caused me to work faster again. By the time I had cleared a few more piles of rock and had several more pallets of sand bags done, I was thirsty and hungry. I drank a lot of my water and requested more. He already had that worked out by bringing me a full canteen and swapping them out. I tried to be a smart ass and request some food thinking we would be heading back around the flight line to get food at the chow hall. He tossed me an MRE (Meal Ready to Eat)³ from his stash being the Gung-ho, asshole, smart-ass Boy Scout that he was, and said with a devilish grin, Enjoy!

Wrapped in fortified plastic, MRE’s are about the size and thickness of three Dr. Seuss books. They usually contained a main course, crackers, salt & pepper, sugar, and Kool-Aid packets. If we were lucky, we received a treat of M&M’s, which could make any two-year old feen⁴ for more chocolate.

By this time, I had enough of his lesson. I’d had enough with the rocks, I’d had enough with him, and I’d had enough with the Marine Corp. My thoughts were if I took the shovel and hit him across the head, separate his head from his body and cut his ass into several pieces, I could scatter him all over the 60-something square mile island where he couldn’t be found. I had fire in my eyes and I was definitely inflated and ready to tear him apart. I outweighed him by at least 50 pounds and I knew that I could make short work of him.

Well I must have said every word that I was thinking aloud because as soon as I went to advance on him, he made a statement that broke me down instantly. He said, If you put a finger on me, if you quit again, or if you do anything else to prolong this then you will go straight to the brig right now! Within seconds, my fire extinguished as if someone blew out the candles and there was a long pause from my thinking. How did I get to this point? How did I allow myself into a situation where I would let all the people that believed in me down? How could I possibly live with the thought that all that I’ve done up to this point in my military career was to make my departed grandmother proud that her grandson had made something of himself?

It was at this point, that I actually sat and had a word with God. Sgt. Fuller allowed me that moment. I cried like a newborn child resembling when a doctor smacks a baby’s bottom after making the incredible journey into this world. For the first time in my life, I felt ashamed, reckless, and hopeless. I knew that my grandmother didn’t go through hell to have me throw away my life for ignorance. She didn’t teach me morals, standards, and more importantly, respect, just to show my ass because I knew I was physically and mentally tougher than most.

After my prayer and asking God to forgive me for my sins, I apologized to Sgt. Fuller and asked him to forgive me as well. With his blessing, I continued with my shoveling for the rest of the time without question or regard to the blood that I was shedding because of my hard learning. I was determined and I channeled all of my energy into making sure that I would accomplish my goals. When I returned to my room on the other side of the flight line, I entered that room dirty, bloody, and completely exhausted. However, from that point on, it would be my goal to insure that I would finish anything that I got started, because this to me was Genesis, the beginning of a new me.

CHAPTER 1

Growing Pains

O N 602 CONDON TERRACE, Apartment #21, a large six-apartment brick complex with a large concrete front yard. In that front yard, four wooden benches laid out in a sideways L-shape. In the 70’s, people young and old would crowd the streets as usual. Any bright and sunny day and I was always ready to enjoy every minute o f it.

On a good day, I’d wake up to the smell of bacon and eggs cooking in the kitchen. After a brief stretch of my young growing body, I would peek out the window to see what was new on the block. Loving life and surprised by the slightest thing, I loved sitting out front of our three-story apartment complex. However, every time you peeked out the window, you ran the risk of seeing something that you didn’t want to see. In the projects, it was usually something that would definitely get you in serious trouble if the wrong person caught you looking.

Although in our community, it was that very challenge that got the best of my common sense and I would peer out the window in pure inquisitive fashion. For some reason, the peek wouldn’t last long because I knew that my grandmother had a nice surprise in the kitchen. I’d make my way to that raggedy ass bathroom. Yes, my grandmother kept a nice clean home, with the latest in 60’s style furniture in the mid to late 70’s, but she had no control over the bathroom’s conditions.

Reflecting on this bathroom, imagine going into a roughly five-foot by six-foot bathroom that had a tall slender wooden door at the entrance. The walls were bright pink in color with the cracking of the plaster slowly creeping through the paint on the ceiling and upper corners of the walls. The cracks were so visible that you could literally draw a road map out of the cracks. To the right of the entry way at eye level was a tall rusty white metal medicine cabinet hovered over an old porcelain style sink that hung from the wall by two hangers with no frontal support. The toilet directly next to the sink was huge and could flush the skin off your butt if you sat low enough. Only the residents from European and Asian countries could appreciate such power coming from a toilet or bidet.

Directly across from the sink and toilet was empty space that we used for storing the dirty clothesbasket. Above it was a high tech toilet-paper dispenser. What do I mean by high-tech? Well as a kid I used to use it for making my G.I. Joe guys jump off of it like it was a repel tower. It had no real purpose and didn’t really hold the toilet paper in place because the screw holes were larger than the screws that held the dispenser.

Looking into the bathroom, the tub crossed the room like a T with its rust stained drain that proved to be tougher than any drug dealer on the block was. There was a small, but usable window in the center of the shower wall. I definitely can’t help but to reflect on the matching shower curtain and window curtains made of a polyester/plastic type substance. I call it that because no matter which way you bent this material, it seemed to stay that way like one of those bendable action figure toys where you bend the arms and legs how you want them and it just stays that way.

Then there were those one-inch square mix & match tiles that would make you have a seizure if you stared at one spot too long. This is just a small sample of the living quarters of a housing project, but at least it provided shelter.

Because my grandmother had instilled good manners into my body (mostly with the aid of a nice long leather belt), I always walked into the kitchen and greeted her with the biggest kiss of the day. To me, it was important to express to her how much I loved her and appreciated her in my life. Besides, that breakfast was well worth it. It was just the two of us, but there would be enough food for a small military squad. Eggs were cooked any way I wanted them, a selection of bacon, sausage, fatback, or scrapple; usually fried potato wedges or shredded potatoes, and either homemade biscuits or cornbread. Some mornings I would get a treat of homemade pancakes. Did she make them from scratch? Of course she did! She opened the box of Aunt Jemima or Bisquick and whipped up a batch of the complete powder faster than you could eat them. All she had to do was add water and pour it in a pan and within minutes, I had little tan discs flying on my plate for me to tackle with lots of syrup.

Unfortunately, this was the good side of waking up some mornings. Sometimes a nice hot breakfast wasn’t what I woke up too. There were times when I woke up and walked out of my bedroom to find a hurricane had hit the living room and kitchen. Besides, my grandmother passed out in her bedroom; this demonic side lived within our walls. Family knew about it, but no one dared confront her about them. It was my grandmother’s alcohol problems.

It was almost like clockwork that when midnight struck on some late Friday’s, there was a different side to my grandmother. Anyone that knows her would tell you that she was a true Gemini being born in mid-May of 1917. She was roughly five and a half feet tall and her long bushy grayish hair, caramel skin tone, and high cheekbone almost looked as if she was part Indian. I remember as a child I used to comb her hair and practice corn rolling it to style. I’m sure this is where I got my infatuation with long hair.

Her eyes were also unique in color. They were a light brown with a green ring around the outer circle of her pupil. Her eyes made it that much more difficult to look at her when she was upset.

She was as strong as any man was and had hands the size of a large man with the strength that told the story of a hard worker. She had a mean bear hug that would squeeze the life out of anyone, but she always knew when to let up. One of her famous lines was, Hug your mama and squeeze me as much as you love me! I would always try my hardest to hug her and squeeze as hard as I could, but she would always give me that hug that had me begging for air.

After midnight, all bets were off and there was no hugging. She would go on a tantrum about anything that upset her from bills, to her two daughters, to her past. Most of the time I ignored it because I was young; but as I grew older, I started to listen and understand that her alcoholism was a result of a deeper and darker past… one that she didn’t like to touch upon very often.

When my grandmother went on her rampage on some of those weekends, anyone could have been a recipient of her anger. Sometimes it would be a lingering issue bothering her. I remember when some drug dealers were shooting craps in the hallway leading up to our doorway. Being drunk and full of fight, she opened the door to warn them not to be next to her door. Being stubborn, they ignored her because she was just an old woman.

She boiled a huge pot of water and grabbed a hatchet. Once the water boiled, she prepared her ammunition by the front door. As she swung the door open, she threw the hot water out onto all the patrons in the hall. I heard screams and hells from these people and one made the mistake of calling her a name. Apparently, it wasn’t her real name and she took offense because she threw the hatchet at the person and chased after him trying to retrieve it. It is amazing that she never got hurt fighting the local drug dealers, but it was apparent that they respected her and her grandchild.

Sometimes I was the victim and I would get a major beating with a leather belt. She kept a couple of belts hanging on the left hand side of the entryway to the kitchen. There was a thin leather belt and a thick leather belt that she used and I feared. My beatings, whippings, or disciplinary tactics (whichever you prefer) were all because I didn’t listen to instructions or because I didn’t follow the rules. This was her way of helping me to stay the course in life. Of course, her methods of helping me are sometimes of huge debate today as abuse. I never really saw it as abuse, but then some rape victims don’t see their attackers as the one that did wrong. Either way, I understood the ramifications and acknowledged it as a firm learning process that derived from her early childhood; which passed on from her parents as slaves beaten to get the point across. However, I did have hard feelings on a couple of these punishments because of the reasons.

Most of my friends remember, as well as I, the incident that hurt me both mentally and emotionally because the physical aspect was easy to get over. While out with my friends, I knew that I was supposed to return home before the streetlights came on. My friends and I took a little walk to the Eastover Shopping Center some fifteen-minutes away and returned just after dark.

As I was about to stick my key in the door of our apartment, my grandmother swung the door wide open, yanked me in by my arm and commenced to whip me like I was a thief in the night. Now I understand that I was late and knew that I would suffer some degree of consequences, but I didn’t know why I was beaten to a pulp. As she was bringing down the belt with swings as strong as any heavyweight boxer, she was yelling at me for missing a phone call from none other than (ready for this) the gospel singer, Reverend Al Green.

Now I was young and intelligent, especially while hopping across the living room as if I was running on hot coals. However, I knew that she was drunk judging from the amount of alcohol on the kitchen table, albums all over the living room coffee table, and the smell of booze as she is breathing heavily while chasing me around with a belt! I really can’t remember what song was playing at the time, but if it were gospel, it would explain why I was screaming Jesus’ name. I never found out who actually called. I also never learned the real reason why she was so depressed, but I was really pissed with my grandmother… hell and Al Green for calling our house.

In truth, I can joke and laugh at that moment, as my friends do when they remind me of the incident, but realistically, it was a moment that I realized that drinking wasn’t good for any human and made people do things that they wouldn’t ordinarily do… like beat a loved one out of pure rage. Not that alcohol was the main cause of her sorrows, because it was obvious that there were other underlying issues in her mind, like poverty, money, work, and her own hidden skeletons. Nevertheless, it definitely helped to fuel her aggression with a child that loved her as if she was an angel.

Don’t get me wrong, in my eyes she was definitely an angel. She provided me with the best even when she couldn’t afford it. She also didn’t cave and spoil me by giving me every little thing I asked for. She taught me from the beginning when we went to the grocery store not to ask for anything. When we went shopping, I only ask for what I needed. Her rules were simple, Don’t whine, don’t beg, and most importantly, mind your manners. She knew how to get her point across and I loved her so much that I wouldn’t dare do anything other than what she asked of me because I knew she was giving me the proper guidance needed.

I can imagine that it was extremely difficult for her to be her age and raise a child all over again. She worked constantly during the day and trusted in me to come right home from school. It was commonplace during school days for me to get up in the morning, fix my own breakfast, walk to and from school, and wait for her to get home from work. My instructions were to lock the door and not answer it for anyone. Those instructions were all I needed once I walked in that door. Allowed to grab a small snack before dinner, I would walk in the house, grab a snack while doing my homework, and then off to watch television until she got home.

Otherwise, I toured our neighborhood as if it was a big city. It wasn’t unheard of for me to go to each of my friend’s house and knock on their door just to say, hello to them and their parents. I had a large group of friends in our neighborhood. I had a group of friends across the street that was a separate group of kids from the group of friends down by the circle. Of all of them, my grandmother was the one true friend that I could talk to and she always made time for me.

Birth Right

A baby is born with a need to be loved - and never outgrows it

FRANK HOWARD CLARK

My grandmother drew a lot of my attention. I watched every move she made like a baby cheetah watching her mother catch prey. I wanted to make sure