Ja Rule - Unruly: The Highs and Lows of Becoming a Man

This book is dedicated to my foundationmy family, who is responsible for my growth: my grandparents Edward Cherry and Mary Cherry; my parents, William Jeffrey Atkins (rest in peace) and Debra Atkins; my wife, Aisha; and my children, Brittney, Jordan and Jeff Jr.

CONTENTS

I do not speak about my exploits with pride. Im not trying to glorify or glamorize what it took to get me to this point. My only hope is that these memories of my life may save you some pain. Give love.

JULY 2012

ONEIDA CORRECTIONAL FACILITY

THE CORRECTIONS OFFICERS WERE ALL BITCHES. THEY SPOKE to us like the animals that they had made us. There was no respect for any of us, not even me, who had sold 30 million records, traveled the world, won countless awards and flown to meetings on private jets. Who would think a bitch-ass corrections officer would be the one to show me something that I should have already known?

Oneida Correctional Facility in Rome, New York, had a reputation among inmates for being a prison with racist COs and rampant misconduct among its officers. The officers would patrol the yard, always listening for some bit of conversation to get a sense of what the inmates were thinking.

It was another uneventful day in the prison yard as the sun shone on the rusty chain link fences highlighting the age and neglect of the facility. The yard always held a crisp feeling of weighty expectancy, always waiting anxiously for something to jump off. In some corners of the yard, there were the bulky inmates lifting weights, while others concentrated on their chess games. Others just stared into space, dreaming of the day when their prison nightmare would end.

Officer Smith, one of the more difficult officers, was nicknamed the Klansman. The Klansman may have been my age or a little younger. He had evil dark blue eyes and slicked-back hair, which revealed his large forehead. His beer belly was bursting through his tight uniform shirt.

You know, Atkins, your kids are job security for my kids, Officer Smith said. He just looked at me as if he had said something innocent but what he was really saying was that the cycle never gets broken for Black people.

I could feel my rage bubbling up in my stomach. The urge to choke the shit out of him was overwhelming. The only reason I didnt was because I knew that fights in the yard only caused sirens to flash, twenty-four-hour lockdowns and a lot of unnecessary paperwork.

The only thing I could safely say in response was, Not my kids.

Smith didnt know what to say to that. He had assumed a whole lot about me based on the color of my skin. He wasnt expecting me to say shit back at all. That muthafucka didnt even know me, my family or what weve been through. I may have been in prison, but it was partly because muthafuckas with an agenda put me there and partly because of my own doing.

Im not supposed to be here, I whispered under my breath.

Officer Smith was already gone. He walked away not knowing the weight of his words. My head was heavy trying to hold them.

I wasnt supposed to be here, in prison, but I was. I knew then that it was my fault and my fault only. There were no more excuses. This was just one of those fucked-up Black-people moments, where we learn truths about ourselves through our oppressors eyes. It was enlightening to understand how white people see us, as fucking job security . In his mind, Officer Smith, his sons and his grandsons will further their familys mission of holding Black men down in prison. They will be the keepers of our place. Its scary to admit, but in some ways, its kinda true.

We dont have to be someones fucking legacy, keeping them employed by our irresponsibility and disrespect for our communities and ourselves. Our lives mean so much more than that. Our ancestors went through too much for us to be free for me and other Black people to be doing stupid shit that gets us locked up.

After the conversation with CO Smith, I told my homies what that bitch CO had said to me. See, he didnt say it to yall, he said it to me , the most successful muthafucka in here. He was trying to break our spirits, man. He must not have understood that we are descendants of a strong race of people. We come from the Black Panthers, Martin Luther King Jr., Malcolm X, Rosa Parks. How dare that muthafucka belittle me? We cant let them break us. We cant.

Eyes widened. Everyone was blindsided by the deep blow that had just been thrown. Several of them put their heads down, ashamed to even look at each other.

Thats just what they expect from us. What they dont expect is for us to get the fuck outta here...

I WAS ONLY FOUR YEARS OLD WHEN MY FATHER CAME IN THE house yelling about some dumb shit. You should be learning, boy! Not playing with all those toys.

My Moms could smell my fathers anger mounting again. She could sniff out that rancid scent that she had become too familiar with. The stench of his anger seeped from his every pore. This was an aroma that made her fear for my life and her own.

My fathers tone was particularly harsh that day, and as he railed at me for holding a toy, my Moms recognized that glassy look in his eyes. She could tell that her husband had been somewhere that he didnt belong. Moms never wanted me to be on the receiving side of my fathers blows. She had taken enough of them herself. There had been too many silent nights of her nursing her wounds with drugstore ice packs and old towels.

That night was not unlike all the rest. He was always yelling about something. My Moms came over to me, scooped me up off the wood floor and placed me in my room. She was proud that we had two bedrooms. The second bedroom would come in handy the night she would change our lives forever.

She trembled as she thought, At least, I have Jeffrey. Hes worth everything Im about to do. In my room, behind a closed door, I played with the toy that shed given me. While I lost myself in it, I was losing my Dad, at the same time.

MOMS WALKED BACK into the living room and said to her husband, Nigga, this is the night you gon die. Ive been stupid enough to take these beatings, but if youre going to abuse my son, like youve been abusing me, thats not going down.

My father never said a word to her. He didnt argue. He didnt say, Ill change, or You know I would never hurt Little Jeff. Or even, I love you.

I understand, is all he said. And then there was silence.

Moms called my grandmother and said calmly into the phone, Im leaving Jeff today. I cant take it anymore.

My grandmother put her second husband on the phone. Grandpa Cherry okayed the arrangement. He said, Yes, Ill come get you and Little Jeff.

And that was that. There was to be no more yelling and cursing. There was to be no more hitting. And there was to be no more puffy eyes and salty tear stains for Moms to try to hide. There was just to be no more daddy.

That is how he left us. With silence.

MY MOTHER MET MY FATHER at a party in 1974. As soon as William Jeffrey Atkins walked in the door with his half-cut T-shirt and muscular body, she immediately noticed him. She says that he was quite interesting. Moms admired his burgundy polyester bell-bottoms and how they hugged his slim frame. She watched her husband-to-be float into the room without a word. It wasnt until the end of the evening that he finally approached her.

Didnt you notice me looking at you? I think Ive met you before, he said.

They danced briefly to James Browns The Payback, which was the anthem of the streets at the time. The song exalted Black folks new sense of freedom while acknowledging our collective rage. After they danced, he said, Im leaving now, but Id like to call you. Ill get a pen and paper. Ill be back.

My mother worried that the handsome stranger would float into the crowd, never to return. When he did, my mother went to a nearby table so she could write. The syrupy sound of Tavares Shes Gone warmed the room. Couples danced and kissed under the colorful lights and the sparkles of the disco ball. It put her into a romantic mood. On the scrap of paper, she neatly wrote Debra Ann Moorehand, 208 100th Avenue; Hollis, Queens, 11423, and 718-656-3234.