Shai Checks “The Box”
BY SHAI BROWN
My mother was my hero. She was the prettiest woman in the world, 5' 11 with caramel skin, short hair, amazing style, and swag. She had a body to die for. You’d never know she gave birth six times. At one point in her life she was a model for Ebony magazine. I wanted to be just like her.
My earliest memory of my mother is from when I’m six years old. We’re walking down the street one day. I think we’re going for ice cream, but we stop in front of Kmart. She kneels and says, “Angel eyes, I need you to sit on this bench. I have to go inside the store for one minute.” I sit and wait for her. To my surprise, she walks into the store looking slim but walks out looking fat. I don’t understand what’s happened. “Why did you go to the store skinny and come out fat?” She snaps at me, “Little girl, stop asking me questions and walk faster.” “Yes, Mommy,” I say without thinking. “What did I tell you to call me?” “Sorry, I mean Terrlyan.” She doesn’t like me to call her Mommy. Every time I mess up, I apologize and try not to make that mistake again.
My mother is the neighborhood booster — she sells what she steals to the people in the neighborhood. This is how she is supporting her drug habit. People approach her and put in their orders. At six years old, I become her partner in crime. She uses me as her decoy to steal from stores.
On my seventh birthday, Terrlyan takes me to a store and tells me I can get whatever I want. I go through the aisles, grabbing all kinds of Barbie dolls and toys. I find her, and she says, “Angel eyes, hold this.” It’s a black box. Inside is a beautiful ring with a pink diamond in the middle and two smaller diamonds on either side. Terrlyan leans down to me. “Put that in your pocket and go sit in that chair in the mall and wait for me.” “Ok,” I say. I start to walk away, and she calls to me, “Angel eyes! Happy birthday, I love you!” I love hearing her say that. I’m the happiest child in the world. But, I’m also the saddest because now I’m just like her. I’ve just turned seven, and I’m already a thief.
Terrlyan walks out of the store with loads of merchandise. She grabs my hand, and we begin to walk as fast as we can through the mall—another successful day. “Do you like your gifts?” she asks. “Yes,” I say, “I do!” When we are far away from the store, she kneels to me and says, “You are beautiful, and you can have anything in this world you want. Sometimes you might have to take it, but it can be yours.” She goes on to explain her philosophy. “The stores don’t belong to our people. They belong to the white man, so why not take from them? They have been taking from us for decades. But under no circumstances do you ever take from your own people or steal from anybody’s homes or personal belongings. Only from the stores, because it can be replaced.”
A few days before my 8th birthday, my mother and I are on our usual weekend stealing spree a year later. By this time, I have become good at this — almost a pro like her — so good Terrlyan allows me to do my own thing. It’s both terrifying and thrilling.
I’ve finished and am waiting for her outside the store. I stare at a bracelet I just took and feel a tremendous rush. I look up to see Terrylyan pushing a cart with nothing but coats on it right out of the store as if she was a store worker. “Come,” she hollers. “Let’s go.” I follow behind.
Nothing seems suspicious until we get beyond the mall’s outside door, and the winter coats are gliding through the summer air. I turn to see three police officers running toward us. “Excuse me, miss; you are under arrest.” Terrlyan pushes me back away from the police. An officer grabs me by the hand. I can’t help but cry. My mother looks at me. “It will be OK, Angel eyes. I will be going away for a while. But I will be back. Remember, never take anybody’s shit. And whatever your heart desires — there’s always a way to get it! I love you!”
I don’t see my mother again for a year. But she is inside me, inside my growing addiction to stealing. I crave the rush. I want the material things and the chase for them. But stealing from stores has become boring. I want something more exciting, something faster.
At 16, I move into my very own apartment. I go from one addiction to another, replacing the high that comes from stealing with the high that comes from using men for money to get whatever I want. I’m attracted to the fast life drug dealers provide and start a relationship with one. But with this, I endure a lot of pain and heartache. And this lifestyle leads me to prison for four years.
Prison is supposed to be a place for rehabilitation. But whatever trouble you get into on the streets, you can also get into prison. How’s that for rehabilitation? In prison, I see, and I experience so much — some things that eyes shouldn’t ever see. I walk into prison a lost soul trying to find myself and walk out even more lost, not knowing who I am.
I am paroled to the Department of Social Services. I have no home, and nobody willing to deal with the pressures of having a felon living in their house. DSS sends me to a shelter that is unlivable. I am not living there or bringing my children to it, so I walk out and become homeless. I lose everything. The only things I have are the clothes on my back. Well, that, and one other thing: my determination to start over.
I get up early every day and walk the streets looking for help-wanted signs. I put in at least 50 applications. Every time I have to check that box next to the question, “Have you ever been convicted of a felony?” my stomach gets tied in knots. I despise checking that box because I know what comes after. I do have a few interviews, but every time we come to that question, I can see the disappointment in the interviewer’s face. I have so many doors shut in my face; it’s hard not to get discouraged. But I keep believing that all I need is one person to give me a chance to prove myself.
After months of searching for a job, I decide instead to go to school. But even that becomes a process. I can’t just fill out an application and financial aid form. I have to write Albany to get approval — letters explaining why I want to go to school and how I’ve changed since my crime. I have to get references from my pastor, my mentor, my case manager, and my parole officer. After all of that, I have to sit in front of a committee of five and explain why I want to attend school, explain my crime, and how I’ve changed. I feel so violated like I’m in front of a judge and jury all over again. I’m sharing my life with strangers who know about me, but I know nothing about them. It doesn’t seem fair.
***
As much as I want to forget I’m a felon, society won’t allow it.
Living your life under a microscope is a day-to-day struggle, and if you don’t have a support system or even someone to give you a chance, you may re-commit and become a felon over and over again.
But it doesn’t have to be that way. I stand here today, proving that life can change. I have my own place, a car, and I am working on my second degree to become a social worker to help people like myself. I stand here today, a proud woman. Proud of who I have become and who I will be. And nothing or nobody can take that for me.
No, I can’t just have whatever material things I want to steal, as my mother taught me. But I can have a good, honest life if I fight for it.
Shai’s story was originally written and performed as part of TMI Project’s Black Stories Matter program and was recently released as an episode of The TMI Project Podcast. Season 2: Black Stories Matter launched on October 28th, 2020, and new episodes air every Wednesday.
Black Stories Matter provides Black-led true storytelling workshops where Black folks can write about, share, and reflect upon their experiences without having to justify, explain, or defend the truth of their lived experiences. The culminating content — written stories, live storytelling performances, videos, and podcasts — is accessible to an all-inclusive audience.
