Sinners Have Souls Too

An excerpt from William Wagner's upcoming book

William came to the prison writing workshop many times and everyone was impressed with his stories of growing up on the mean streets of Tacoma and Seattle. Then one day he wasn’t there and we were told he’d been transferred to a different prison. That was very disappointing because we had grown fond of William’s participation in the workshop. Usually when that happens we’d sadly lose touch with the writer, but in William’s case as soon as he was released he contacted us. We met up yesterday at the wonderful new Albina branch library here in NE Portland. William got a library card and Xeroxed all of the writing from his notebook so that we can have it transcribed. He has housing and a new job and is enthusiastic about working with us to finish his book. Below is a section that William wrote while still coming to the prison autobiographical writing workshop.

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It was the end of summer, early September ‘86. Public school teachers in Tacoma, Washington were on strike so there was no school. I was living with my mom in an area of town known as the Hilltop. For the last year, my lil’ sis, T-Wag, and I had travelled from household to household in the Seattle area while our mother fought a bad cocaine addiction and the impacts of involvements with a selection of nothing-ass men. When we moved to Tac Town, she was with a man named Ronald—he was like all the rest of them. I was feeling anxious to get out of Tacoma and move back to Seattle to live with our dad.

I struggled there on The Hill for almost a year before my mom finally agreed to let me go. My sister stayed with Mom. The day I reached my Grandma Dolores’ house I felt a sigh of relief. I spent a full day with my dad, not doing anything special, just shooting hoops and enjoying being back with him.

That night, before bed, Dad promised I could go to work with him in the morning. After a restless night trying to get used to my new environment, the morning came with Seattle rain and my dad’s ride to work--a two-seater truck with a driver and two other men already on board. My dad hopped in the back of the cab and told me I couldn’t come due to the lack of space. I cried and pleaded, only to be told to head into the house. I had no way of knowing but that would be the last time I’d see my father.

As the day went on, my grandma gave me chores to do around the house. As a reward, she handed me a few dollars to play video games with at Imperial Lanes bowling alley. The day felt long and I ended up going there twice to fight off my boredom. I remember tripping on the steps leading up to my grandma’s house both times coming back from the bowling alley. As I brushed the dirt off my hands and knees for a second time that day, I walked through the front door to find nothing but grief and sorrow. Various relatives were assembled in the living room. It was the first time I’d seen grown men cry.

I looked at my grandma and asked where my dad was. Before she could answer it hit me, something horrific had taken place, and my dad was involved. I was then told that he’d been shot in the neck.

A car pulled up and my uncle JR ran outside. Not knowing what else to do I followed behind him as quickly as I could, only to be turned around. I walked back into the house crying and I heard my grandma saying that my mom’s lil’ sister Michelle was with my dad in the Yesler Terrace Projects when he was shot. He had been taken to Harborview Medical Center, one of the best trauma centers in the world. The hospital was only a block away from where the incident had occured.

I was in the backseat of my grandma’s car when we pulled up to Harborview. I could hear a loud cry coming from outside, three cars down. My Uncle JR was face down on the hood of someone’s car crying like a hungry baby. He was screaming out, “He’s gone.” Hearing that made my heart drop to my stomach. I cried, pleading to see my dad’s lifeless body, only to be told no.

My auntie Michelle had been the first one to call my grandma and report the tragedy. Coming home from work, my dad had seen her on the street and hopped out of the truck so they could hunt down some crack cocaine together. But instead of scoring they ran into a death trap.

I was told that my dad had been struck in the back of his head with the butt of a pistol, but the blow didn’t faze him. Auntie Michelle ran when she saw the flash and heard the sound of a hammer hitting a pin. What came out of that barrel ended my dad’s life.

My grandma was outraged at Auntie Michelle, who she thought was to blame for my father’s death. Although they caught the killer he was only charged with man-1, unintentional murder. The reason for the light sentence was that my aunt never wrote a statement or testified to what she’d seen. The man who killed my dad was free in less than eight years.

I felt lost without my dad, but I used the tragedy of his death to fuel my love for basketball, a sport we both loved. After the funeral, they held a native youth basketball tournament on the Muckleshoot Reservation. My team won, and I scored almost every point. That weekend, my Uncle Racky introduced me to the Frybergs, Cy and his sons, Geo and Bubba who became close friends of mine. We all had a common bond--basketball. When we were playing somehow it freed my mind. Off the court I was always thinking of ways to find the man that killed my father so I could get revenge.

My mom moved back to Seattle and after a while I started living with her again. I’ve always loved that woman, but she’s been addicted to her negative lifestyle my whole life--cocaine, homelessness, and an attachment to bad men. A few years after my father’s demise, we were renting a place in an area of King County called White Center. We lived in the Eagle Apartments on Ambaum Boulevard. There was a lot of drug traffic in our house.

One night my lil’ cuzzo, Shay Shay, lil’ sis, T-Wag, and I were in the bedroom just being kids playing around, when a loud boom sounded and the front door came off the hinges. The King County sheriffs busted through yelling, “Get down, this is a raid, where are the Crips at?”

Shay Shay and my sister hid in the closet, but I just stood there motionless by the bed. When the cops found me, they laid me flat on the ground and put me in cuffs--I was only twelve years old. My lil’ sister and Shay were pulled out of the dark closet with guns drawn on them. They ushered us all into the living room. Laying on her back, I could hear my mom saying, “They’re just kids, we don’t have any drugs.” An officer dropped down the sole of his Hi-Tec army boot on her chest and yelled, “Shut up bitch.”

Amazingly, their search of the apartment came up with no drugs, and no large amounts of money, but child Protective Services was called anyway. Luckily my Grandma Marie and Uncle Greg, my mom’s parents, were called too. Being taken in by family members that night was the only way my sister and I avoided ending up in the custody of the state. As bad as things were some of the time with my family, foster care could have been much worse.

I can’t help but wonder what it would have been like if my dad hadn’t been shot that day and I’d been able to grow up living with him. If nothing else, I know I’ve really missed playing basketball with my dad, like we did that last day before he was killed.