Guest post by Ezekiel Azazel II, author of VooDoo Souls
When I was a young boy, I would often visit my grandmother who lived in a small neighborhood just outside of Queens New York. It was a tight knit community on an island in the shadows of the Big Apple. Everybody was related, or lived like and thought of each other as such. Friendships not only lasted, but they spanned generations with children, and even grandchildren of residents growing up closely together. They would commonly intermingle, whether it be for block parties, or caring for each other through the challenging times living in their flood prone and weather battered homes. As pleasant as the neighborhood was where my grandma lived, it was not a place you’d want to be complacent.
New York in the 1980s was not the metropolis as we know it today. All too common was the fallout from tragedies that plagued the society of the time. Rampant drug use, violent murders, and mafia families embroiled in the final fringes of their turf wars led to many bodies being found by the NYPD, themselves plagued with corruption. It wasn’t unusual to discover a corpse in the marshes from the brutal mob hits, or one in the streets that had fallen victim to the many vices of the sleepless city.
I’d watch as my grandmother worked her crosswords, while we’d listen to the jazzy horns of the big bands, and the crackling voices in AM from the radio on her boat. Across the bay, the very stories that riddled the headlines of my grandma’s Daily News was taking place underneath the same hazy skyline. At night, the towering skyscrapers twinkled in sync with the stars that they reached for, while underneath, the belly of the beast glowed in crimson orange and flashed distant lights in red and blue. My imagination as to what was occurring would run wild, and the mystique of the city of Gotham really piqued my often morbid curiosity, sometimes getting me into mischief. It’s that same curiosity that would later get me into trouble in another not so pleasant land-Iraq, but it was an unlikely person who would actually help fight a war with a method that he showed me as a small boy, and one that I still use it today.
Across the street from my grandma lived a mentally disabled man named Michael. He would often pace and stare at an old marooned boat in his yard while mumbling to himself. I’d watch him from my grandmother’s porch as the older children would throw rocks, spit on, or on other days, call him names and verbally abuse him. In turn, Michael would usually cup his ears, or frantically wave his arms while wailing "Wooooooooh! Wooooh!", which would draw the attention of the entire neighborhood, and send the bullies to the wind in confusion. His younger brother was no better than his sibling’s demons, and at times even more cruel then the street kids, once locking Michael out in the snow, naked as a jay bird. He was not a well liked kid for other reasons, and known for being a "burn out" and a metal head. He ran with teens who suppressed their angst with drugs, booze, and bullying of the weaker residents.
One day while riding my bicycle, I actually stopped to talk to this curious man who acted so bizarre. Michael didn’t look at me and avoided eye contact, instead, he stared at the ground like a timid puppy. He wasn’t used to somebody speaking to him as a person, and conversing kindly nonetheless. He was actually pretty sharp…Amazingly sharp, asking me how my grandmother was, my sister, and if my aunt (who moved to Florida well over a decade earlier) still water skied. With the tact of a child, I asked him "Why do you move your arms that way when the kids pick on you?" Even at my young age, I knew I had mistakenly asked a rude question as he squirmed, and then uncomfortably rocked back and forth in discomfort. Regardless, he replied back in a monotonic chant like voice "I want to row away…I just want to float away."
Years later as a travel weary Marine, I would tell this story to my men while we sat on the border of Kuwait preparing to invade Iraq. I was a Platoon Sergeant, unpopular with some commanders for my unorthodox ways, and eccentric tactics. I was loved by the troops, and the more liberal minded officers who truly understood me. In theory, I was no different than the judgmental staff who shut me out. We had the same enemies, played by the same rules, and had men to lead into battle. It was my ways of soldiering and grooming the future leaders that they loathed, and in some cases, I believe even feared.
Every now and again, I envision a lighthouse, and I can almost hear a distant ships horn bellowing through the foggy salt air while memories of Michael ripple through my mind. I’ll never know if he ever made his journey through fair winds and following seas, but at least one Marine was touched in his home of port.
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Books by Ezekiel Azazel II
VooDoo Souls ~ View on Bookshelves | View on Amazon
