thedewsperspective

Life. Without. The. Possibility. Of. Parole.

By Cornell Dews

Life. Without. The. Possibility. Of. Parole.

Can you imagine being sentenced to “life without the possibility of parole”?

For what justifiable reason could one potentially subject themselves to having either a jury or judge empowered by the Constitution to pronounce, ultimately, a death sentence over your life?

You ever seen a man die while still breathing?

My soul shuddered when I watched the guilty verdict announced and the judge levied a sentence of life without parole to Yella Beezy for the murder of fellow Dallas rapper Mo3. Then it was said that his request to hug his son before being escorted to jail was denied. The people in the gallery cried. Some fainted to the floor. The disbelief, despair, and disappointment on their faces spoke as loud as a Coltrane horn.

And when the newly convicted murderer was escorted from the courtroom, outside of the view of his people, it’s being reported that he collapsed.

This piece is less about Yella Beezy and Mo3, as it is more about life. And decisions. As a man.

A young lady recently asked me, “Mr. Dews, when does a man become a man?”

Without pause, I responded, “A man becomes a man when he becomes a person’s emergency contact.”

Or at least he should.

As a man, there comes a time in life when you must realize that your decisions impact a multitude of people. For years, my decisions weren’t just mine. And for many years, I made them as if they were.

As a child, my grandmother would say, “Make sure you’re right before leaving this house because you may not return the same way you left.”

So, I made sure my undergarments were clean. And I didn’t have holes in my socks. Because GOD forbid if I would’ve fallen out somewhere before making it back home. Can one imagine the embarrassment and shame I’d bring my family? Shid, they’d be less worried about what caused me to fall out.

Although I make light of it, what my grandmother’s words instilled in me is the fact that I belong to a family. My representation is always greater than just to myself.

Those sentiments were the cornerstone of calculated decision-making. I never wanted to do anything to shame my family. There were expectations placed on me that I tried not to buckle under the pressure of. Those expectations from family were extended into the community, allowing invested elders the ability to hold me equally accountable as my family.

I realized early on that I represented much more than self.

So, the streets could never consume me to the point that I’d value their perspective of me more than that of the people who truly love me. You mustn’t allow the streets to define you. Because if you do, you’ll potentially subject yourself to things that could ultimately cost you your life. And if those decisions impact you, they will also impact everyone connected to you.

As a man, I never wanted to subject myself to 12 jurors determining my guilt or innocence. A judge dictating my fate. A prosecutor narrating my story to villify me. And an attorney finessing the truth, disguised as fighting on my behalf.

Just so someone in the streets could say, “He’s a real one.”

A real what, I ask?

As a man, you’re supposed to take care of all that you’re responsible for and yourself. Sometimes in that order. If I’m being honest and truly transparent, I can’t say that I’ve always gotten this right. I haven’t. I’ve made selfish decisions that wounded others. I’ve put myself first during times I should’ve put myself last. At times, I’ve acted as if nobody else shared my same last name.

Admittedly, I always knew better even when I didn’t do better.

My goal and objective now is to implore young men to know that your commitment to life is greater than what the streets have to offer. Your last name isn’t 34th or Harford Road. Your children’s last name isn’t 34th or Harford Road. Nor is anyone you come from or anyone who is an extension of you.

Don’t jeopardize your life to the point that you find yourself helplessly standing in front of a judge who can utter the words to you: Life without the possibility of parole.

Because you chose to live like a real n!gg@.

Not realizing that whatever you choose to subject yourself to, you also choose to subject your family to.

So be that man that’ll allow you to be your elderly parents’, your wife’s, and your children’s emergency contact. That dependable and responsible individual that people could call on, and you’ll be present to tend to their pressing needs. Be there. Loyal and attentive to your family, and not the streets. Replicate the morals, values, and principles instilled in you by the people who love you. The ones who want to see you succeed. The ones who need you to succeed.

Don’t place yourself in nobody’s courtroom, giving them authority over your life for decisions you made based on the streets.

Having to ask, “Can I hug my son?”

Just to be told, “No.”