REDEMPTION

A Eulogy: One Last Conversation with My Big Bruh

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Mortal Man

A Eulogy: One Last Conversation with My Big Bruh

By: Karlos L. Marshall

At some point in our lives, most people are faced with an unexpected and possibly even a tragic death of a loved one. The process of healing looks different for all, but sharing one’s testimony publicly with others is largely a sign of recovery. A few years ago, the unforeseen death of my brother shook me to my core and I have largely been private about that experience and its impact since. It was his death that made me discern the truth and reality of mortality, legacy, and life’s purpose. This project is part of the ongoing healing process for me, as I have decided to share intimate details of our brotherhood with the world — that only our family members and closest friends have known.
— Karlos L. Marshall
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I would like to just take this time to thank everyone for coming out and just to have one more conversation with my Big Bruh. Big Bruh, I would be remiss if I didn’t speak on your legacy, beliefs, and our experiences together amongst loved ones — on your celebration day. I’m just praying that my words could provide some level of justice to the life, in which you lived. Big Bruh, there are no words in the human diction that are capable of sorrow and suffrage of your loss.

When some individuals pass its unexpected. But you see — this here was unforeseen. It was unforeseen that we would not be afforded another opportunity of conversation — to cast a vision upon the present and future generations of all the children that bear our last name. It was unforeseen that I wouldn’t get another opportunity to call you on your way to work, as we oftentimes spoke about the plight of the Black community and creative avenues of change and upward-mobility for our people.

Big Bruh, it was unforeseen I wouldn’t be able to give you one more hug, one more backsided hand-slap that you thought was so cool. Big Bruh, it was unforeseen that we wouldn’t get to watch one more athletic event together. Or play one more game of one-on-one or horse even though I would mostly win.

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But even when we played a few years ago, you played off of me because you said I couldn’t even shoot when we were growing up as kids. Big Bruh, it was unforeseen we would no longer get to reminisce on our own childhood — by watching our sons interact with one another; as you undoubtedly said it best: “they’re cousins, but more like brothers.”

It was unforeseen that the first day the world welcomed me — would be the same day I speak to you for the very last time 26 years later. “Happy Birthday Little Brother,” you texted me. I replied, “Appreciate it. Hope all is well with you and the kids.” You said “most def. Same to you.” Big Bruh, it was unforeseen that after many childhood years of endless nightly conversations — that those would be the last humble words we would ever speak to one another.

Big Bruh, it was unforeseen that we would never be able to relive and recreate the good ol’ days. We would no longer get to laugh at our oldest brother for throwing the baseball over the backstop from the outfield. It was unforeseen I would no longer get to crack jokes on you for always having ashy knees when we were growing up. Big Bruh, it was unforeseen that I would be standing here right now — telling you I would miss your jokes about how light-skinned dudes was out-of-style.

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Big Bruh, do you recall telling me: how proud you were of me—after I got my master’s and bought my first house. A house that you went to take me to go see. You said, “you way ahead of the game Lil Bruh.” But you already knew, you were always the person I looked up to, as one person recently reminded me: “remember, I knew you when you were his Little Brother.”

Some called you “Truth.” I just called you Big Bruh. Big Bruh, growing up being able to say I was your Little Brother gave me a credential—that not even my own young hype could buy. Big Bruh, do you recall telling me that your daughter asked you: “is Uncle Karlos like my Daddy too?” You said, “no baby, but he’s like your Daddy when I’m not around.”

But that is one thing that I do know — is that you loved those kids. I’ve always attempted to try to emulate you and fill your shoes; something I still cannot do at this very moment, as I currently wear a pair of shoes that you once provided me.

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But it would be unforeseen the seismic void you would leave. Big Bruh, if there’s one thing I knew, it’s that you loved those kids. Big Bruh: a Man of God, a Father, a Son, a Brother, an Uncle, a Nephew, a Grandson, a Cousin, a Best Friend, a Colleague, and a Man of the Community you were —— with a vision to take our people to see the world and see the world they will. Big Bruh, it was unforeseen that you would never get the opportunity to be my Best Man. For that — I will never have the privilege of having one; because my Best Man — that you still are.

Big Bruh, we choose to relish the way in which you lived, rather than ponder the ways in which you may have died. Big Bruh, you were one of the very best men I will ever meet. And it was a pleasure and honor to walk in your footsteps for as long as I have.

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A fighter you were. You showed us that to your very last breath. Big Bruh, I know you have a great legacy because I still wear our last name proudly. I was your Little Brother then and I’m your Little Brother now. “Marshall Men: there are none stronger.” Ain’t that what you used to always tell me? Big Bruh, in the words of our favorite urban philosopher, “we gon’ be aight.”

In the true spirit of the African proverb—that it takes a village to raise a child, before you today brotha — is that village. We—will help raise your children. And Mom and Pops, also before you today is the village that helped deliver you second child to his righteoushome — for now — is your time to rest.

Big Bruh, it was and still is — unforseen, unimaginable, and incomprehensible — that my very first time being a pallbearer will be for you on this here very day. Big Bruh, that is the irony — for it is you—that has carried me, lifted me up, and propelled me forward to greatness — when I didn’t even know I possessed greatness in and of myself. That was the responsibility you felt to me your Little Brother. And for that — Big Bruh — I will forever love you!

Karlos L. Marshall

Educator | Civic Innovator | Brother

Founder of The Conscious Connect, INC.

Born and raised in the Champion City of Springfield, Ohio, Karlos L. Marshall has been recognized as an international thought leader at the intersections of urban education, civic innovation, and neighborhood revitalization. He has been named an honoree of the Forbes '30 Under 30' Class of 2019 and the International Literacy Association's '30 Under 30' Class of 2019. Through his nontraditional approaches, Mr. Marshall seeks to speak a world-class 21st Century cultural renaissance.

Redemption Song of an O.G.

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MORTAL MAN

REDEMPTION SONG OF AN O.G.

BY: SAMUEL E. GOODE

My path in life got fucked up early in life when my mother married my stepfather. When they got together I felt like I pretty much became an outsider. Things got so bad that I left there and went to live with my grandfather. I think I was six or seven when this all happened. My grandfather had remarried and his second wife was abusive towards me. She was an abuser and I caught a lot of hell and took a lot of unnecessary beatings from her. That part of my life hardened me and shaped me for the streets. When I left my grandfather’s house I went straight from the country to the city. The beatings that I took as a kid toughened me up physically and damaged me mentally. All and all I think I handled things pretty well because it didn’t fuck me up. I know other people that have been abused that simply couldn’t deal with life.

During one of the darkest times in my life I felt like it was pretty much “kill or be killed.” I was just out there. At the time me and three of my best friends were running a crack house and things were running smooth. We did all of our dope in the basement of a house that we had taken over and we would rent the other rooms out, “we had the girls working” and money was flowing. We shut everything down to take a break and chill down in Florida. As we were about to leave a rival that we didn’t even know about moved on us and all hell broke out. They came up to the car shooting at us, glass was flying everywhere. All three of my best friends at the time lost their lives that day. I suffered a bullet wound. Somehow my face was covered in blood so they thought I was dead too. They checked the car for our drugs and our money but it wasn’t there. What really saved my life was an ambulance that was going down the highway. The guys thought it was coming down the street that we were on so they stopped going through the car and sped off.

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I feel guilty for surviving that day and what I went through still haunts me to this day. When you see people that close to you get murdered like that it does something to you. When you’re in the streets it conditions you to seek your own justice. When you add that up with all of the abuse that I took as a kid it primed me for a life of violence and that’s something that I was good at it. When I got out of that car and saw what happened to my friends I went on a rampage. I did things that still hurt me to this day. I did things that I want to talk about and that I need to talk about but whenever I try there’s always something that holds me back. Also I’ve done certain things don’t come with a statute of limitations and I don’t want to share or say things that may lead to me going back to jail.

When I moved to Atlanta it was like I entered a completely different world. This was during the crack era when there were all kinds of drugs hitting the streets so there was a lot of money changing hands. Crack and dope was so heavy in Atlanta that you could take $100 and flip it so fast that it would turn into $100,000 in no time and the faster it came the faster it went. I lived on the west side of Atlanta and at the time I was pretty big and muscular. I mean I grew up on a farm so I was a big, strong kid but I didn’t know shit about the streets. Well as things unfolded I pretty much got tricked into becoming a pimp at this hotel I was working at. I thought I was just working security but the next thing I knew I had about six girls working the streets for me. This was a quick phase in my life that lasted for about two years. I’m an old fashion guy so I didn’t really like exploiting women. At that time in my life I felt like pimping was the only way that I could survive so I did what I felt I had to do to survive. During this whole stretch I had been looking for my brother and as soon as I found him I left all that stuff behind me that same day and never looked back.

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My brother and I were tight so we were glad to be back together but we both worked two or three jobs and felt like we weren’t getting anywhere. One of my jobs was at the Lennox Mall and I met this rich white guy named “John” that wanted to play gangsta’. Meeting him took me down a whole different path in life and most of it wasn’t good. During this time in my life I saw a lot of shit and I did a lot of shit that I still struggle to come to terms with. The people that “John” introduced me to were looking for people that were ruthless and that didn’t ask any questions; that fit me well. When I lived in North Carolina I did a little time here and there for petty crimes that I committed but things I was doing in Atlanta was on a whole different level.

Everybody that “John” introduced me to was rich. There wasn’t a single low-level dude and once I got to that level I hated it. I loved the life but it came with a cost. I’m lucky to be alive today because when you’re in the game there’s only a couple of ways out… prison and more than likely death. When I left Atlanta I was on the run. I stole a truck from a guy that I did yard work for and went back to North Carolina.

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In North Carolina me and my partners went on a robbing spree. We hit gas stations, convenient stores, broke into houses; just taking stuff and selling it. There was a 38 special that I stole from a gas station that I really liked so I kept it. One night I was down at a juke joint; I was drunk and shooting the gun off. Just wilding out and shit. My grandfather was a deputy sheriff so one of my cousins that was at the juke joint called my grandfather and told him to come and get me and try to calm me down. When my grandfather got there he pulled up beside me and told me to give him the gun. I just threw it in the trunk and he shut the door and drove off. Shit caught up with me about the robbing the gas station that I stole the gun. My finger prints were all over everything so I couldn’t deny it. They asked about the gun and I told them I didn’t know shit about it. They asked my grandfather if he’d ever seen me with a gun and he told them about the night at the juke joint when he took the gun from me. My grandfather lost his job and had to do a year in prison. My mother, grandmother and my aunts never talk about it but I still feel like they have animosity towards me about that. We all get along now so I guess that’s all that matters. My grandfather was mad about the shit I did to get the gun but he knew the shit that went down after that was more about the people that didn’t like him getting him out of the way more than anything. This was a town in the south with a black deputy sheriff so they tried to tie him into my shit but were unable to. They charged him with some bogus conspiracy charge but that was it.

When I got out I left North Carolina again and got caught up in some more shit. I was on the run again and went back to North Carolina. I was there for about a week before I got caught. I did about two years and went to my grandfather’s house when I got out. One day my grandfather and I sat and talked out on the porch for about four hours. I remember him telling me that he wanted me to get to know the other side of my family. Two days after that conversation my grandfather passed away. Right after his funeral I packed up and moved to Dayton and I’ve been here ever since. This is exactly where I need to be because this family means everything to me. Thugging, street life - all of that stuff takes a backseat to my family. I want the generations behind me to see me in a better light. I know I could easily go back to Atlanta or wherever and get right back into the life I lived before. I’ve put that so far behind me that I don’t even have that urge. I just like to sit at home and enjoy my family.

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I’ve lost best friends, seen people killed that I knew right in front of my face and it ain’t shit that I can do about it. Nothing. I feel so lucky to be here in Dayton. I feel like if I hadn’t moved back to my grandfather’s house after I got out of the joint that I would be dead or somewhere rotting in prison. The people I have surrounding me now look at me without fear in their eyes. They love me unconditionally. When I was young I didn’t have this type of love. I love my family and I don’t want to disappoint them. This family gave me a brand new start and they are the reason that I’m the man that I am today. It wasn’t an easy transition and early on I got into a little trouble here but nothing compared to the things I did in Atlanta or North Carolina.

Now even with that being said I have no problem going to jail or to hell for defending my family. I wouldn’t even bat an eyebrow. But I try tell them to handle their business the right way so that they don’t feel like they have to go to the streets. One thing is that I know them and I know that they wouldn’t be able to handle the streets. I’m proud that I’ve played a role in keeping my family away from the streets. That’s my purpose now. It’s nothing cool about being in the streets. Jail is not a place you want to be. It’s nothing but concrete and steel. I tell them if they have a problem “come see me, I’ll take care of it.” If you feel that you’re getting upset or that you need to get violent, call me. I can talk them down or get them out of the situation without even going to that next level BUT if we have to “let me handle it.” At this time in my life I’m here for them. No matter how early or late it is, if they need me they can call me. That gives me the strength to keep pushing on and to stay planted. I’m so proud of where I am right now because I know where I could be. I’m at peace. Before I came here and surrounded myself with family I couldn’t even sleep without knowing I had somebody around me that had my back. I wouldn’t trade the peace of mind that I have right now for anything else in the world.

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When it was just me and I felt like I was alone in the world I would do things without even thinking about the consequences. Now I know that if I do things my family will suffer and I don’t want to put them through that. I don’t want to disappoint them. Having people that love and depend on me makes me think two or three times before jumping into action. I never thought I’d be in this role but I love it. Man life is short so get out there and enjoy yourself, leave your mark and live the best life.

I still have nightmares about the things that I’ve seen, done and been through. I’ve done things that I’ll take with me to the grave. I’ve seen shit that’s been burnt into my brain. You can’t unsee the shit that I’ve seen and like I said that shit does something to you. I’ve seen things that people that have been in wars haven’t even seen. I can’t undo the things that I’ve done so I’ve come to terms with them and I let the following generations know that this street life ain’t nothing to fuck with.