The only time I ever considered suicide was when, unexpectedly, mom informed me and baby bro Carlos that we were moving from Harlem to Baltimore. It was the summer of ’78, and I had just turned 16. We were transported by Greyhound bus to the sinister city where, I had read, a drunken Edgar Allan Poe died in the gutter and hophead Billie Holiday flopped.
more, from “Memoir of a Black Punk,” here.
