Michael was born in Austin to a relatively well-to-do family. But his parents separated when he was young. He and his sister stayed with their mom, who worked in cable television. When she remarried, he said, they moved north to Wichita Falls, Texas, a small city near the Texas-Oklahoma border with a population of about 100,000.
“My mom, she worked at Channel 39, and then she moved to another station up in Wichita Falls. Stepdad worked with a bio-life department. So we were always well off. My mom, by the grace of God, raised us.”
At first, though, the move was definitely a change.
“In my neighborhood, my sister and I and one other young man, were the only blacks in the whole community. It was kinda different, because I went from being around a lot of blacks, to no blacks. But it didn’t make a difference: it was just strange, ‘cause I noticed it.”
But he made friends quickly.
“A guy named Won, from Tokyo, he was my best friend. [His family] wanted for nothing. His mom took a liking to me, and whatever she bought Won, she bought me. I’m talking about cigarettes, underwear. I had a good friend.”
He was with good friends one night in 1979.
“Me and two other friends of mine were at a Dairy Queen. And we eatin’ nachos, we were high on weed, just hanging out. It had been raining and stuff like that, but all of a sudden, the TV went off, and it came back on, and then it went off and it came back on. And it said, take cover. There are three tornadoes forming over McNiel Stadium.”
His stepdad collected him, and they rushed back to their apartment complex, he said. But his stepdad noticed a young couple strolling outside the building, apparently ignorant of the rising wind. He hurried back downstairs to warn them, wife and stepkids following. Hearts racing, all six of them ran into the couple’s one-bedroom apartment.
“We ended up going down to their apartment downstairs, we crowd into their bathroom just in time, and all of a sudden… chaos.”
The tornado was devastating.
“When we came out, you could literally see concrete. There were no tiles, it took up the tiles, it took up the cars in the front: they were not there anymore. Never underestimate the power of God.”
Five of Michael’s schoolmates were killed, he said.
His family returned to Austin afterwards.
“Mom and [stepdad] salvaged what they could and came back. Got reestablished.”
They took up residence in a South Austin community, and Michael entered 7th grade at Bedichek Middle School. He was doing well in school, he said, until one day in 8th grade, he received nasty news from his mother.
“Just out of the blue for some reason—I think it had something to do with my stepfather—she just told me one day, call your father and have him come get you. And I’m like what? What’s wrong? And she goes, nothin’ wrong, just call your dad and tell him to come get you.”
He moved in with his biological dad and his grandma in East Austin, he said. But his unfounded rejection continued to eat at him.
“My mom just told me to call my dad—that just kinda affected me. It didn’t traumatize me, didn’t make me go over the deep end, but it was always in the back of my mind: ‘What did I do?’ And not ’til probably fifteen years later did I ask my mom about that. She said ‘I don’t owe you any explanation.’”
With a new environment and hurt psyche, he began to change.
“I was considered a nerd, when I was down South. Real neat, proper, everything. Once I got over here on East Side, I started being exposed to different people, different things. I got experimenting with the drugs, and all different types of people—just being rebellious.”
Eventually, his involvement in gang violence landed him squarely in prison.
“He tried to hurt me, and I was just defending myself, and they still gave me eighteen years.”
I said, I either sit here, feel sorry for myself, or be involved in whatever’s going on—do something about my situation, make my situation better.
Arrived in prison, he learned that it would be seven years before The Texas Department of Criminal Justice and parole board would interview him, consider him for parole.
“They said you won’t come up for parole—in other words, you won’t be a human being, for seven years. Until then, it depends on what you choose to do to make us feel like you are ready to go back into society. And now I’m in this strange environment—I mean, people are imprisoned and it’s not no joke. And you got people sittin’ there, some people in there don’t care, some people don’t have anything to live for, they ain’t never going home.”
He had a choice to make.
“I said, I either sit here, feel sorry for myself, or be involved in whatever’s going on—do something about my situation, make my situation better. Make the system, in other words, spend money on me for doing something they don’t wanna do, but by law they have to do. And that’s send me to school.”
From that point on, he put his mind to it.
“I got my GED, then went and go my CDL, did everything I could to better myself to where they told me, ‘Don’t take any more classes. You’re costing us too much money.’”
(He chuckles as he recalls his plan to squeeze as much out of the prison system as possible.
“They gotta ship you from one unit to another unit, to another unit, to another unit—to take trade I had to go to one unit, to take truck driving I had to go to another unit. And that costs money. Cause they gotta ship you, relocate you.”)
While pursuing his GED, commercial driving license, and other certifications—restaurant working, industrial equipment servicing, etc.—he held several jobs in prison and saved as much money as he could.
“One of the things I did in prison was I trained dogs. It’s called being a dog ward. I was a dog ward for five years. And really I was a puppy man, because I’d train puppies, wean them from their mothers, and then take them out on tracks, and get them used to using their nose and tracking people. Because they were, first of all, attack dogs, and they were used for people who escaped. And people tried to escape all the time in prison.”
He especially enjoyed that job because it reminded him of the outside, he said.
“I rode horses—it was just like I wasn’t even locked up. Because we were under direct orders and discretion of the ward, which is like the President of the United States. I only had to be on the unit at night time, to go to sleep. But at 6 o’clock in the morning, I’d get up, and go right out to the ranch, that little area, where we had our horses, our dogs.”
Between working for funds and gaining as many certifications as humanly possible, he said, he kept himself busy.
“I had to do all that, for the seven years, to utilize my time—so that when I did get considered for parole, they could say, ‘You know what? At least you’ve been doing something. Opposed to nothing. And we think you got the potential to go back out there in the world and be productive.’”
The year came at last. It brought bad news.
“They denied me [parole]. It didn’t destroy my life, or make me go off the deep end, but it opened up my eyes. Made me see things from a different perspective, to where I say, you know what? Some things you can do and some things you can’t do.”
He was held for six more years, and was finally released after a thirteen-year, six-month imprisonment.
Since, he has been homeless and struggling to rebuild. The years have seen him turn back to drugs, retreat, gain jobs, lose jobs, form relationships, break them—all in an upward gnashing of limbs to win back what he has lost.
With his CDL active, he drove for the Texas Department of Criminal Justice for four years, he said, and was able to save some money that way.
“When I was out on the road, I was making about $1800 a month. They get you $125 every other day, for lunch, dinner, for them. But you can’t eat $125 a day. So a lot of that was just going into my bank account. Cause I couldn’t spend the money, I was driving all the time. The money [went] to the bank.”
Being blessed with something and not using it—you can’t hold anyone at fault for that but yourself.
He was even able to use his dog-ward experience.
“I was working for a veterinarian, just washing dogs. I used that experience on my application, and I got hired like that. That was a couple years ago. And every now and then, they come back, and offer me a couple of jobs.”
He also worked for a local coal company for a while, before being laid off.
“I got a little bit too heavy on drugs. But then I stopped that. And then right now, I’m in the process of rebuilding.”
One inspiration to strive to better himself? His son. Together, they are attempting to sell an empty lot left to them by Michael’s recently deceased grandmother—there’s potential to earn $385,000.
“But he’s really mad at me because he’s like, dang Dad, get your stuff together. Get it together.”
At his son’s bluntness:
“I was flabbergasted. But then at the same time I gotta respect that. Because he’s right. He’s right.” For example: “That bicycle does me no good if I don’t use it. ‘Come over here and work to provide for yourself, just be here at a certain time.’ And I don’t use my bicycle, which will get me there in ample time, then it’s my fault. Being blessed with something and not using it—you can’t hold anyone at fault for that but yourself. So I respect him for coming to me like that. And not brushing it to the side. And not being lenient. Saying, ‘You’re my dad, but you’re still wrong’; as opposed to saying, ‘Just because you’re my dad, it’s okay.’”
Besides: “You get tired of the bullcrap. If you don’t like the way you’re living, they say what? Do something different. You don’t like the way things are going? Go somewhere else. It’s just a series of choices. If I don’t like something, I try to change it. It ain’t going to happen no other way.
When you think you got it bad, all you gotta do is walk outside to your front door, turn on your phone, or turn on your TV—you’ll see somebody else worse off than you. And it makes you realize, you’re not going through nothin’. Compared to that person. I mean, when I see that one guy down there by the airport, by I-35, one leg, with a sign, ‘Will Work for Food’—he makes about three-, four-hundred dollars a day. Some people feel sorry for him, some people commend him. But just the fact that he has an optimistic attitude to get up every morning with one leg, and hop from car to car to car to car, opposed to somebody with two legs, waiting around for somebody to give him something… no, I lift that man up. Because he has an optimistic attitude, and it ain’t holding him back. He’s overcoming it. Opposed to letting it get the best of him.
He’s making that choice, which is really all life is about. From the time we wake up, to the time we go to sleep. A series of choices. Some will be the right choices, and some will be wrong. And one day, when it didn’t turn out to be the right choice, try to learn from it.”
Currently? He sleeps temporarily in a friend’s car and lot.
“It’s blocked off with security gates. So I’m kind of staying in a car right now. It’s a big, Cadillac-type car, and I got a sleeping bag, a mattress in the back where I got two-by-fours raised, so I got a mattress, and a little stereo, stuff like that. [My friend’s] in the process of selling this lot, so really I’m just kinda out here.”
He has been minimizing the steps backward for his unyielding steps forward, finding and holding stable jobs.
“By the grace of God, one thing I’ve chose is to not go back to prison. I’ve avoided all kinds of confrontations. Haven’t been getting high as much. Saving a little money. People in my community have been giving me more work. Many restaurants have rented this area in this store in my community, which is called Shopper’s Mart. It’s east of Mission Possible, going down towards 12th and Chicon. It’s offered me a job every Monday at $9 an hour, to come and do general cleanup.”
For the future? The two things he’s working towards:
“Mainly staying free, and bettering myself. I have a place to stay, but I want my own area, and my own house again. When my son and I sell that property, I’m gonna relocate and buy my a house. And get my CDL back. And start to get me some job over the road.”
He said that renewing his Commercial Driving License is a must, as truck-driving jobs are ubiquitous. Another dream?
“I’m thinking about getting at least ten people, and walking their dogs. I already have one, I walk her dog, bring it back—name is Star, a pit bull—walk her dog, come back, do her yard, let Star run around and cool off, and then I wash her. By that time I’ve already done her yard. So when I leave, that’s seventy-five bucks. I’ll go, I’m gonna find me some dogs to wash, groom, and some people will pay up to seventy-five, a hundred dollars for that.”
He has one last wish.
“I wanna find me a good lady friend. It ain’t about jumping nobody’s bones. It’s about somebody who’ll encourage me, motivate me, inspire me—and vice versa. Somebody to say, ‘Hey, you can do that.’ ‘You can do that.’ ‘You can do it that way, but consider this way.’ Just somebody to be compatible with, grow with. In other words, just somebody to love.”