VOICES
RUINS TO REDEMPTION: FROM THE BEGINNING “Eugene is a student in the Tufts Education Reentry Program (MyTERN), which is run by the Tufts University Prison Initiative of Tisch College (TUPIT). After his release from prison, where he was a student in Tufts’ college-in-prison program, Eugene joined MyTERN, the Civic Studies certificate program that offers reentry support for returning citizens. MyTERN also provides the opportunity for students from the Medford campus to take classes with formerly incarcerated MyTERN students on Tufts’ Boston campus. This is the first part in a three-part series written by Eugene.” I was born in Los Angeles, California in 1977. Shortly after, my mother moved my brothers and me back to Boston. I am the only child from my parents’ union, the youngest of my mother’s three children, and the middle of my father’s three children. My father was absent my entire life until the day he passed away from AIDS. The few times I met him, he was either high or pissy drunk, which added to the anger I felt for him not playing a role in my life. My stepfather was not with my mom, but he was present in my brothers’ lives. He would take me, my brothers, and their siblings on
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fishing, bowling, roller-skating, and swimming excursions. These are some of the happiest moments of my ephemeral childhood. My mother, tasked with taking care of three boys on her own, raised me. We endured many hardships from being poor. Some days were longer from hunger pains and some nights colder from not having enough heat. Despite the adversities, we made it through as best we could. My mother was a fighter. All 130 pounds of her. She worked numerous jobs, legal and illegal, to take care of me and my brothers. We moved around a lot, but Roxbury is where everything originates. I remember getting picked on because I was small in stature, had crooked teeth, and was “too black.” One time, I had gotten into a fight with a kid from the neighborhood when I was eight years old. When my mother came home from work, I immediately began crying trying to explain what had occurred. She told me to stop crying and that the next day after school she would be waiting for me at the bus stop. As soon as the boy and I got off the bus, I was to whoop his ass or get my ass whooped by her. She told me to “never allow anyone to
By Eugene Ivey put their hands on you” and “do whatever you have to do to protect yourself.” Knowing I couldn’t come home and express my true feelings, I began to bottle them up along with the frustration I felt towards my mother. Her lessons, beatings with switches (small tree branches) and belts, caused me to become aggressive which affected my schooling tremendously and resulted in two expulsions in the third and fourth grades. I was sent to see a psychiatrist, but I was recalcitrant. The only thing I learned from the doctor was how to play dominoes. Despite my anger at my mother, I loved her dearly. She was everything and more to me. I trusted her with my life. I was her “road dawg” (sidekick); she took me everywhere with her. In my eight-year-old eyes, my mother could do no wrong. Then came the move to Trenton, New Jersey in ’86. We lived there until the end of ’89. It was there that I stepped off the front porch and began to venture into street life. I began hanging out with the older kids, skipping school, smoking cigarettes and weed, drinking, and learning about the drug trade. My mother allowed me to hang out
