A Man from Another Land: How Finding My Roots Changed My Life (2 page)

It first occurred during the summer when bike riding was the favorite pastime in my neighborhood. I’d ride with my friends
through heavily wooded areas, down “trails” that were really beaten down paths made by neighbors taking shortcuts through
the woods.

I was never one to stay on the beaten path. I always wanted to take the uncharted course through the woods and beat my friends
to whatever destination we had chosen. My quest to create my own path, to be first, usually meant suffering the penalty of
huge welts or cuts on my face, arms, and legs. It was the price I paid for riding through the previously unexplored and unruly
branches and rigid foliage.

Even at a young age, I was always trying to break barriers, aspiring to do things that people told me I couldn’t, or others
thought were strange or unattainable. I was willing to stay the course, take the unbeaten path no matter what got in my way,
when others would give up and go home.

The sting from the vines lashing at my arms and legs seemed to urge me to pedal faster and faster. Not once did I ever consider
retreating or worry about getting lost. Once, when charging through a particularly dense thicket, I stalled and lurched off
my bike, landing hard on the dirt. My body itched and ached from the angry burrs that held fast to my clothes, skin, and hair.
It was as if they were chastising me for disrupting their order. But, I remained undaunted, ignoring the pain of the razor-sharp
weeds tearing at my hands as I yanked my bike’s chain, pedals, and wheel spokes away from their snaking grasp and ripped them
away from my legs.

I reached down and grabbed a piece of glass from a broken bottle I found lying on the ground near my leg and used it to chop
away the weeds that still entangled my bicycle and me. Once free, I began to run using the bicycle as a makeshift plow, pushing
and ripping my way forward as if my life depended on it. I had no idea where the hell I was or the path I took to get there.
Gazing up I could see the sun begin to peek through the canopy of tall trees looking down on me. Suddenly I broke through
to a cavernous opening in the forest that I thought just might lead me to our meeting place. I looked around, but none of
my friends was in sight.

Was I late? Was I lost? No, I could see in the distance the greenery of Independence Heights (Studewood) that we were racing
to. “Am I first?” I thought. “Yes!” Then I jumped on my Huffy and tore off the rest of the way as if I were on fire. I arrived
at the park before the rest of my friends.

I lay down on the ground, sweating profusely, and tried to catch my breath, waiting for the others to arrive. As they rode
up minutes later some of them looked at me, puzzled. “Ah, man! You did it again?” Then the usual litany of “He cheated!” “You’re
crazy!” “What happened to your face?” and “How did you get here so fast?” followed. I just looked at them, smiled confidently,
and said, “What took you so long?”

They all jumped on top of me and took turns playfully
punching me. Nobody mentioned the scratches and welts on my face and body after that. I felt they just accepted me, even though
I was different. Those scars represented something only I understood, endured for the privilege of being first.

They were a rite of passage, a precursor to the journey toward a different life, and a connection to a culture that would
eventually confirm the inklings, the innate feelings I had inside about myself. Feelings that told me I could achieve greatness,
that I was
from
greatness. Certainly, as a child, I could not yet
know
that as I would later, but even at nine years old I
felt
it.

In a way, I was proud of the scars on my face. They represented the fight in me, a pure, raw determination that kept me from
ever giving up until I got what I wanted, until I came in first. I couldn’t name it as a child, but in my neighborhood, at
church, at home, I sensed a feeling of resignation. There was a veil of complacency over many of the people around me. They
didn’t expect much from their lives, and didn’t expect much of me either. It seemed as if it was just enough for many of them
to get by in life. They looked for work to put food on the table, but they had no thoughts of striving for a career; people
would work to finish high school but not stretch themselves to attend college: some would get married to someone who was considered
a good “provider,” but they wouldn’t seek to find a supportive, passionate love and life partner. Those attitudes are actually
quite common in African American men and boys. Colonization taught us to smile more, bow more, and conceal our ambition in
order to be accepted by those in power. My grandmother raised me and insisted that I be better than those around me at the
time.

In the woods that day, a game of cops and robbers broke out. We threw small rocks at each other and I expertly dodged them.
I was always the robber who refused to die when hit. This always led to an argument by the two sides. The slowest runners
always suffered the worst consequences, eventually having some kind of unpleasant encounter with a big rock.

We took our rock throwing very seriously and often competed to see who could throw the farthest and most accurately. I was
an extremely accurate thrower. I never aimed to hit my aggressor, rather I worked to whiz one by his head just to let him
know the power of my throw. I mastered a thumb-and-index-finger technique that served me well when we played, and that could
rival the power of any slingshot.

We concocted shields out of garbage can lids, car hubcaps, and cardboard boxes. Ultimately, someone would get hit in the head,
hand, or face and the game would come to a screeching halt as we all gathered around the victim to assess the damage. A knot
on the head or an open laceration would shut the game down immediately, and we’d turn our focus to erecting a solid story
for the parents about what happened. If it was just a welt or minor scrape, we would just battle on. Thinking back on those
days, I am still amazed at how invincible we thought we were as children.

Later that day, it began to rain while the sun continued to shine brightly. One of my friends shouted, “The devil is beating
his wife!” This was what we said when the sun would shine but it would rain at the same time. This was an old wives’ tale
shared and believed by many people I knew growing up in the Independence Heights area of northeast Houston. It was a phenomenon
that I would see many times in my life in different ways, both literally and figuratively. “Yep, she gettin’ her ass whupped!”
I replied as we all jumped on our bicycles. There were dark clouds looming on the horizon threatening to consume the sun at
any moment.

Another race was on. We pedaled as fast as we could, trying to outride the rain and beat it home. This time I rode with the
pack through the streets, glancing over my shoulder at the path
I made for myself earlier that day. I could feel the wind tickling the hard-earned scars on my hands and arms. I considered
taking the treacherous path back, ensuring that I would beat them all home. But I had already proven my point, that I was
different, willing to take chances, that I would do almost anything to come out on top.

I checked over my shoulder on the progress of the ominous rain clouds, and it seemed we were making little headway, not moving
at all, as the storm continued to barrel toward us. I could smell the rain coming and feel its coolness as it caught up to
us. I pedaled as hard as I could, faster and faster, dodging parked cars on the street and stray dogs running and barking
alongside of us.

I felt a nip at my foot from one of the dogs, but I just nonchalantly tapped him on his nose with the tip of my sneaker, never
losing my stride. Now just one hundred yards from our neighborhood street at Thirty-second and Airline, we were forced to
stop at a busy intersection. As we waited for an opening in the high-speed traffic that would allow us to cross the road,
I looked back to see huge raindrops marching down the middle of the street like a giant paintbrush coloring the once-dry concrete
street a slick dark black. The rain hungrily came over us like an angled wall of scattered shimmering strings. It looked so
ominous. Then, out of nowhere, growled a grinding rumble of thunder. As we looked up a flash of lightning streaked across
the dark clouds… crack!

Frightened by the furor of the coming storm, I launched my bike into the crowded intersection, making it across to the other
side just inches past the bumper of a honking, speeding car. Once again separated from the pack, I stopped and turned to see
my friends become engulfed by the torrential downpour. It was as if the rain stopped moving and stalled on the other side
of the highway. I watched my crew get drenched, like Moses watching Pharaoh’s men being engulfed by the closing of the Red
Sea.

In the spot where I sat on my bicycle, it was not raining at all. Not a drop. I sat there still in the sunshine. I blinked
and then the rain started to fall on me too. Once the traffic slowed and my friends were able to join me, they just shook
their heads, acknowledging I had won again. We all said our hurried and wet good-byes and rode off in different directions
toward our homes on the block.

That day I simply had a burning desire to be first in a bike race. Today, as a man, I know that desire stems from the fact
that I share a storied history, the same DNA, with great Africans and men of incredible courage. Men like Sengbe Pieh—Joseph
Cinque as he was called during his historical trial—who had the bravery to lead the
Amistad
revolt. That history, that DNA, reflects a past of great accomplishment that eventually led me to my own place in history.

Why did I take that risk? Why did I not get hit by a car that day? Why did it seem to be raining on them and not on me? This
situation has played out in so many different ways throughout my life and it still does.

That same summer I attended a party with my mother. As we entered the house, I immediately noticed a man with what I considered
to be very strange hair, wearing nothing but a leather vest and bell-bottom jeans. He was cut, with huge muscles, and smelled
of a burning mixture of sweet flowers that I found pleasant and intoxicating as we walked past him.

My mother said a brief hello to him and then moved on to greet other friends at the party, leaving me behind. The air was
thick with the smell of barbecue sauce and hickory wood. I roamed around the house, bobbing my head to the loud music and
grabbing food off the tables. But mostly I was transfixed by this strange-looking man. He noticed my stare and finally walked
over to me.

“Hello, little brother,” he said as he approached me, “What is your name?”

“Isaiah Washington,” I answered.

He stepped back in mock surprise and with a broad smile replied, “Isaiah Washington! What a beautiful and powerful name, my
brother! I hope that you grow and live up to it!”

He had what I thought then was a funny accent. I now know it as West Indian. And his strange hair, I now know to be African
locks or dreadlocks as the Rastafarians called them. His intoxicating smell was oil of frankincense and myrrh.

I was drawn to something about him. Perhaps it was how he looked. His features and skin tone were similar to mine. The way
he held himself was powerful, and at the same time he was very kind. He seemed a bit mysterious, and the way he spoke suggested
he was quite intelligent. Years later, when I arrived in New York, I eventually found myself emulating him. The way he talked,
the way he carried himself. He was different from anyone I knew at the time. This seemingly unimportant encounter would leave
an indelible impression on me that would manifest itself fifteen years later when I would take on one of the most challenging
and life changing projects of my life.

I
had seen all the pictures about the exotic locales, gotten the rundown on the benefits, the money for college, and all of
the great careers you could get after you got out of the military and joined the private sector. But I also got the speech
that every recruiter gives, no matter what branch of the service you decide to join. It was the one about how you’ll meet
exotic women all over the world and get to fuck them just because you’re wearing a uniform.

The pussy speech is more effective than any of those commercials they run during football games or ads they put in
Sports Illustrated
.

It was 1981. Ronald Reagan was our new president. The country was deep into a recession, and the cold war was at its height.
We were watching out for the Russians, but at the same time we weren’t at war with anybody. We were the richest, most powerful
country in the world. Vietnam was far enough in the rearview mirror of our history that being in the military didn’t seem
like such a bad idea.

I sat there staring at the paperwork, realizing that I was about to sign away the next four years of my life. But once I thought
about my life I figured this was my best option. Things at home were growing tenser every day. A fight between my mother and
stepfather could break out anytime and erupt into violence. An offer to play college football that I expected never materialized.
I did well in school. I was okay in math, a decent writer, and an excellent and avid student of history. My grades were fine,
but not good enough for a full ride anywhere, and I couldn’t afford college on my own. Taking out a bunch of student loans
sounded too complicated. And unless I was somewhere playing Division 1 football, the best, I didn’t really want to go to college.
There was no one place in my life where it felt as if everything came together.

The economic downturn, particularly with the bottoming out of the oil market in Houston, Texas, made it nearly impossible
to find any kind of decent-paying work in the city. I just didn’t want to be there anymore. I knew I needed to do something.
I knew it was time for me to leave, time for me to grow up, time for me to see the world. I put aside my dream of a college
football career and joined the United States Air Force. I saw it as a chance for a clean break, a chance to start fresh, see
the world, and learn what I was capable of.