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         There I was, stepping towards my Father's car after a day and night in Jail.           Brooklyn House of Detention to be exact. It wasn't as rough as what I heard it used to be -but before the previous day, I had never before even been in cuffs. 

On the ride to the precinct from the tumultuous scene at Jay & Willoughby, all I could mumble to myself is "they got me".
I was both proud & afraid of how well I handled myself - and others. I felt weirdly comfortable. This was the illusion that made me nervous.  Thinking that this was okay. I knew I hadn't truly been through much, but so much at the same time. Not as much as my Mother went through when it was suggested that I tried to free a teenaged girl from the back of a squad car. They were wrong but I'm glad they got my nerves right.

As I slammed shut the door of my Father's1998 Ford Taurus, I greeted his friend Luther, who was sitting shotgun. "Did you see my name scratched on the wall?"
Dad asked me. 
Before I could say "no", a felt a lone, disgusted yet admira 
tear struggle to make it's way to the floor.  The ensuing argument set
us on a path of not speaking for 3 months. A year later, he was dead.

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