Booker T: From Prison to Promise: Life Before the Squared Circle Read Free Page B

Mom had Danny James, Carolyn Jones, and Lula Gayle James, and then she had her five Huffmans—Billie Jean, Donald, Lash, Bonita, and me, Booker T, the mischief kid. I came into this world March 1, 1965, in Plain Dealing, Louisiana, born to Rosa and Booker T. Huffman. Yeah, I was Booker T. Huffman Jr. All my siblings called me Junior, but when my father suffered a stroke and died at the age of fifty-nine, I became the sole Booker T. Huffman. Still, out of habit and perhaps respect for our father, I would always be known to my immediate family as Junior.
    Since I was only ten months old when Dad passed, I never had the chance to know him. The only thing I had of him was a photo showing a big, strong black man who looked like me. I used to focus on his frame and his face and wish I could be just like him.
    Though I didn’t know him for myself, everyone made it clear that he was a well-respected man. Fortunately, Carolyn, my oldest sister from one of Mom’s earlier marriages, knew my dad for a few years before I was born and gave me insight into the man she called Mr. Booker.
    “He was very quiet and rarely joked,” she said. “But when he said something, you knew he meant it. We immediately did whatever he said. He was fairly tall, probably about six foot two, with a lean face, like yours. He always wore a khaki suit with a large-brimmed, beige hat made of felt. He looked like a hustler or a really slick man off the streets.
    “One thing’s for sure. Mr. Booker took care of our family. Mom stayed at home, and your father was a great provider, very responsible, a true man’s man. We always had plenty of food and a nice place to live.”
    Once I asked Carolyn if she ever found out where Dad got his name, but she didn’t know. That wasn’t the only mystery. I didn’t know what my middle initial stood for, if anything at all. I used to think it meant To-be-determined-at-a-later-time. No one could tell me. I do remember hating my name. Sometimes kids at school or around the neighborhood teased me, calling me Booger and things like that. For a while there I wanted to change it to something more typical, but as time went on I was proud to have something that set me apart and connected me to my father.
    Carolyn’s stories about him helped fill in so many blanks and were as therapeutic as they were entertaining. “I remember the first times your daddy came around when he started dating Mama. He drove this big old green Oldsmobile that I used to call the Batmobile. Danny, Gayle, Don, and I loved to jump inside the Batmobile and horse around while Mr. Booker visited with Mom on the porch, just talking and laughing.
    “He was such a pleasant man toward us kids and very generous. The local Dairy Queen sold a grape soda float called the purple cow. At least once a month, your father would load us all into the Batmobile and take us to get one. It was the thrill of the week! You never saw so much singing and dancing.”
    Soon my siblings would see a lot more of Mr. Booker. Carolyn told me, “One day he came over to Granddaddy Namon’s house and asked him respectfully for Mom’s hand in marriage. Of course Granddaddy said yes, and I’ll tell you what, he and Mr. Booker were two peas in a pod from that day on. Mr. Booker gained a fine woman for a wife and a tremendous man for a best friend.”
    Carolyn’s stories about my dad’s job were fascinating too. “Mr. Booker used to work down at the local pool hall in Plain Dealing. It was a place where they served beer, played dominoes, and gambled some. That was your daddy’s job six days a week from eight or nine in the morning until nine or ten at night. The only times he’d take off were Sundays to stay at home with Mama and us.
    “On that seventh day, Sunday, he’d usually sit at the small kitchen table while Mama cooked one of her unbelievably delicious dinners. Mr. Booker would casually chat with her while counting his money for the week and then go sit out on the porch