Pact: Three Young Men Make a Promise and Fulfill a Dreamby Sampson Davis, Rameck Hunt
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George Jenkins, Sampson Davis and Rameck Hunt were three African American kids living in the inner city of Newark, all from broken homes, all living amid poverty, crime, and drug abuse. Two served time in juvenile detention centers. They met in high school and together they made a pact: they would support each other for as long as it would take for them to become doctors. Through an affirmative action program, they enrolled at Seton Hall University's premed program, from which they graduated in 1995. In May 1999, they graduated with degrees in medicine and dentistry. The Pact is an extraordinary testament to the power of male friendship. Friendships among young men often revolved around taking risks, often unnecessary or even dangerous risks. This remarkable story teaches the power of friendship and proves the wisdom of Dr. Martin Luther King's proposition that amazing things happen when we "stand on the solid rock of brotherhood." The three supported each other through high school, college, and medical school. Their success, which was due to unwavering, mutual support, shows that young men can help each other avoid trouble and fulfill their dreams by using their strong friendship as a powerful antidote to the temptations and pitfalls of inner-city life.
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MY EYES FOLLOWED the dentist's gloved hands from the silver tray next to my chair to my wide-open mouth.
"What's that for?" I asked, pointing at the funny-looking pliers he was holding.
At eleven, I sported a set of seriously crooked teeth, and my mother had taken me to the University of Medicine and Dentistry in Newark to get braces that we hoped would improve my smile.
My curiosity must have impressed the dentist, because he not only explained his tools and how he planned to use them; he also taught me the names and number of teeth and how to count and classify them. A few minutes later, he quizzed me to see how much I remembered.
Our little game left me so excited that I could hardly wait for my next appointment. That was when I began thinking about becoming a dentist someday.
I don't remember the dentist's name, but I never forgot what he did for me. He gave me a dream. And there was no greater gift for a smart kid growing up in a place where dreams were snatched away all the time.
I spent the first seven years of my life in Apartment 5G of the Stella Wright Housing Projects with my mother and older brother. Our building was a graffiti-covered, thirteen-story high-rise with elevators that smelled like urine and sometimes didn't work. Like public-housing projects in major cities across the country, the Stella Wright development was massive: sixteen high-rises stretched over two blocks. They were packed with hundreds of poor families like mine, mostly mothers and children, few fathers in sight.
My favorite place was the playground. But like so many structures around the development, it stayed in disrepair. My friends and I were constantly climbing, jumping, and swinging on broken-down equipment that daily threatened our lives.
One day when I was five, I was playing on the wooden jungle gym and tried to skip over a missing plank to get to the sliding board. My jump was short, and I missed. My small body slipped through the gap and slammed to the ground below. The impact knocked me unconscious.
My brother, Garland, just six and a half then, rushed over, slapped my face over and over again, and tried to scoop my body up in his arms, thinking I was dead. Blood gushed from the back of my head. He screamed for our mother.
Our mother, Ella Jenkins Mack, has always been the dominant figure in my life. I was just a toddler when she and my father, George Jenkins, Sr., divorced. When I was two, we moved from South Carolina, where I was born, to Newark. I rarely saw my father after that. He came around a few times while I was in high school, sent $500 or so for toys at Christmas, and attended my graduations. But we never spent the kind of time together that builds a relationship.
As soon as my mother, my brother, and I moved to the projects in a building on Muhammad Ali Avenue, my mom started working to get us out. She was a proud woman, and she didn't like living in public housing. She wanted to make it on her own. Raised on a farm with eight brothers and sisters in Warrenton, South Carolina, she had been taught to fend for herself. She developed a toughness that at times made her seem emotionless, but her determination and consistency stabilized our lives. I never saw life break her down. If she struggled to pay the bills-and I know there must have been times when she did-her children never saw it. When Garland and I did well, she praised us without gushing. And we knew better than to expect a reward for doing what we were expected to do, like cleaning our room or making a good grade on a report card.
Mom began working as a financial customer-service representative for Chubb Insurance Company in 1978 and still works there today. By the time I was seven, she had saved enough to move us out of the projects. We moved a block away to High Park Gardens, a private complex with landscaped gardens, grass, and a few trees. The complex operated like a co-op. Each tenant bought stock for $2,400 and got a discount on the rent. We could see our old building in the projects from the back window.
Four years later, my mother married Garland's father, Heyward Mack, a decent and quiet man with a Southern drawl that tied him to his South Carolina roots. He had been around for most of my life, but we never connected emotionally. He didn't treat me differently because I was his stepson. It just seemed he was at a loss for how to develop a relationship with me, or even with his biological son when he reentered our lives full-time. My stepfather didn't care much for sports, so we couldn't bond while watching the Knicks on television or sharing hot dogs at Mets games at Shea Stadium. He always seemed to be working on cars, but he never pulled us under the hood with him for the kind of interaction that can bring a father and son together. He kept mostly to himself and played an auxiliary role, more like an uncle, transporting us where we needed to go and occasionally giving us money. He wasn't unkind, and I know at times he must have felt like an outsider who could never quite break into the tight triangle that was my mother, my brother, and I.
Six years into the marriage, Garland and I returned to the apartment after school one day and noticed that the VCR was missing from its spot underneath the television in the living room. We walked from room to room and discovered that in our parents' bedroom someone had rifled the dresser drawers and left them open. We were sure we had been robbed. I called Mom as quickly as my fingers could press the numbers. When I told her what had happened, she started laughing. It seemed a strange response for a woman who had just learned she had been ripped off. But she knew the truth: my stepfather had packed all of his stuff and left.
Just like that, he was gone.
The closest thing to a father I ever knew was my friend's dad, Shahid Jackson. Shahid, Jr., was one of the first kids I met in the new apartment complex. Everybody called him Cash. He attended Spencer Elementary, too, and we hit it off right away. He was a quiet, passive guy, and I was the big-brother type, so our personalities complemented each other. We never argued. We played video games at his house every day. His father was the coolest dad I had ever met. He treated me like I was one of his sons. He was the kind of dad who often bent the rules in the child's favor.
With his boisterous personality, Mr. Jackson was as comfortable talking to a crack dealer on the corner as he was chatting with the mayor. As a bodyguard to stars, including Smokey Robinson and Muhammad Ali, he traveled frequently when we were in elementary school. When he returned from his road trips, he showered us all with gifts. Whatever he bought for his two sons, he bought for me, too.
When he eventually joined the police force and took over the Police Athletic League, we played on his baseball and basketball teams. He took us fishing and to work out with him in the gym. We often just rode around town in his van and stopped to eat at restaurants. He was the first person to take me out for Portuguese food and the first to introduce me to filet mignon, which he cooked himself. One of his favorite stops was a deli called Cooper's, where we ordered the best triple-decker sandwiches I've ever eaten.
Mr. Jackson always let me know he believed in me. When I told him while I was in high school that I'd enrolled in the Pre-Medical/Pre-Dental Plus Program at Seton Hall with two of my friends, he wasn't surprised. From that point on, when he talked about my future, he always prefaced his remarks with "When you become a doctor . . . ."
I was still barely able to imagine that myself.
In many ways, Mom was my father, too. She was, until she married my stepfather, the family's sole provider. We were lucky to have a babysitter who treated us like her own children-Miss Willie, an old-fashioned woman who lived three blocks away. Sometimes, when she was working full-time, Mom dropped us off before sunrise and couldn't pick us up until nightfall because she had to work late. If either of us was sick or if it was too cold or stormy outside, Miss Willie insisted that Garland and I stay overnight at her house so Mom wouldn't have to drive us back and forth in the bad weather. She even took care of us for several days when my mother went into the hospital.
But when I turned six, Mom gave us keys to the apartment, and we started going home alone after school. We had to call her at work as soon as we made it indoors.
Because of her steady job, our pantry and refrigerator were always full of food. We didn't move around constantly like some families did but lived in the same apartment for the rest of my childhood. And Mom kept the utility bills paid, too. I was fortunate; most of the guys I know who got into trouble in my neighborhood had circumstances at home that weren't as stable. Many guys I knew sold drugs because they felt they had no choice. And I believe that kids who grew up in less stable environments were more susceptible to pressure from friends to do the negative things that everyone else seemed to be doing.
Sam and Rameck faced those pressures all the time.
I wasn't any smarter or more special than the guys around me. For some reason, throughout my life I was blessed with people who told me positive things, and I believed them. I believed my third-grade teacher when she told me that I could go to college and have a great career someday if I just stayed out of trouble. So I hung out with kids who were like me, trying to do the right thing. Most of the time they were either my age or a bit younger. The older guys seemed too advanced, too ready to rush into the life I was trying to avoid.
Even when, as a teenager, I tried to hang out with Garland and his friends, he wouldn't allow it. He wasn't necessarily trying to protect me. He just didn't want his kid brother hanging around. But it kept me away from a group of guys who weren't the least bit interested in school. I always wished for a little brother or sister, so I became a big brother to my friends.
Sure, I wanted other kids to think I was cool. What kid doesn't? But I'd decided then that I wasn't going to do certain things, like sell drugs, and I just stuck to my decision.
Guys in the neighborhood, even the gun-toting tough guys who stayed in trouble, didn't hassle me about doing well in school. If they laughed at me or called me punk, geek, nerd, or corny, they did so behind my back. I walked the same dangerous streets as the guys selling drugs and stealing cars, and I was cool with many of them. I didn't look down on them, and they didn't bother me. It was as if there was some silent acknowledgment between us that they were doing what they believed they had to do, and so was I.
As soon as I was responsible enough to work, I got a job. I was thirteen when Blonnie Watson, president of the board that operates High Park Gardens, hired me as a groundskeeper at the complex. She liked me and went out of her way to be kind and encouraging. I earned minimum wage picking up trash around the building and doing minor chores, but I was thrilled to be able to afford some of the trendy clothes and shoes that my mother refused to buy.
Because Mom worked so much, she had little time to visit the schools my brother and I attended or talk to our teachers. She went to open-house meetings every now and then and fussed if we brought home bad grades on our report cards. But she was not a check-your-homework-every-night kind of mom. She was too exhausted when she got home from work. My brother took full advantage of her leniency. He chose to tolerate the verbal punishment at report-card time rather than buckle down, study, and bring home decent grades.
I loved school. My third-grade teacher, Viola Johnson, was largely responsible for that. By then we were out of the projects, but like most of the kids in my class, I was poor. That meant nothing to me then because I never felt deprived, especially in Miss Johnson's class. She was a tiny ball of energy with a high-pitched girlish voice and the same honey-colored complexion as my mother.
Miss Johnson had lived in Newark since she was four years old. She attended public schools and followed her father's trail into teaching. Once she began teaching, she was always taking classes somewhere-a drama class here, a literature class there. And she brought what she learned to her classroom.
When I met her, Ms. Johnson was in her mid-forties, single with no children. I guess her students filled that space in her heart, because she nurtured us like a mother. She told us that college was not just an option, but the next step to advancement, like the thirteenth grade.
"Everybody has a chance to go to college," she said. "Never say you can't go because of money. Get that degree. You must get that degree."
She regularly got discount tickets for us to attend Broadway plays. She asked parents to pay for the tickets, and we rode to New York City on a bus that she usually rented herself. And we did not dare dress tacky. Miss Johnson required the girls to wear dresses and stockings and the guys to wear nice slacks and shirts.
She also secured the scripts of popular plays, assigned roles, and rehearsed us so that we could perform for the entire school. When we put on a production of Annie, I played Daddy Warbucks.
Miss Johnson introduced us to algebra and Shakespeare with books written for kids. We even formed a Shakespeare club that met on Tuesdays after school. I was elected president. We read and discussed Shakespeare at our meetings. At one meeting, the club voted on our official uniform: burgundy sweaters with the group's name, "The Shakespeare Club," embroidered over the pocket. Once, we wore our sweaters to a concert at Symphony Hall. Several people in the audience asked Miss Johnson which private school we attended. She smiled, held her head high, and announced with great pride that we were from Louise A. Spencer Elementary, a public school in the Central Ward, which practically everyone in Newark considered the ghetto.
Our teacher loved to travel, and she always sent us postcards and bought us souvenirs from wherever she went. Some days, she pulled the globe from the corner of the classroom, gathered us around her, and told us stories about places that before were just spots on a map to us.
Noise didn't seem to bother Miss Johnson, as long as children were engaged in learning. She stayed with us after school to dye eggs for Easter, make gingerbread men for Christmas, or bake cookies, just because.
Miss Johnson retired from Newark's public schools in 1993 after thirty-two years of teaching and moved to Johnsonville, West Virginia, a tiny town named after her great-grandfather. I lost touch with her when I left Spencer and for years didn't know where she had gone.
But I never forgot her. She made a lanky, mild-mannered kid growing up in a tough place feel smart and special. She also made me curious about the world I had yet to see. That was the curiosity the dentist saw in me the day I showed up at his office to get braces.
from The Pact by Samson Davis, George Jenkins, Rameck Hunt, Lisa Frazier Page, Copyright © May 2002, Riverhead Books, a member of Penguin Putnam, Inc., used by permission.
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this book was really incredible it was as the discription says a story of perseverence and the will to better off their condition great great book loved it
very inspirational, it touched me in a great way. the stories come to life as you read it, i recommend this book for every growing teenager; male or female
While I'm often a sucker for a love story this beautifully demonstrates the love of friends & more importantly the love parents hold for their children. Great suspense & the emotion roller coaster a good book can strap you in to & make you want to ride again.
the pact was a book that inspired me to do better in school and persued my dreams.it showed me that there is more to life than the street and those who you consider your friends.it allowed me to see that being in the street and following the worng person isnt the best waii to happiness and yet it would get you into lots of trouble.i personally felt like i was one of the characters myself and i was happy to see how they succeed and so can i. i would have loved to met them myself and thank them so making such and inspirational book.
I have a friend who hates reading. I left the book at her house 'after I finished it of course' and one day she was so bored so she picked it up and read it. She loved it so much that she wanted another book. After 24 years this book finally turned her on to reading. That said, you can only imagine how good this book is. Also, I hate love stories. This is not a typical love story. I loved this book.
I was so impressed by the strong storytelling as well as by the story itself. These men are amazing role models for all young people - not just minorities. I am getting a set for my classroom and including it in the curriculum for my multicultural class. It reminds me of the saying 'Inspiration is 99% perspiration.'
The Pact is a story of three young men making a promise to themselves and each other to escape the troubles of their hometown of Newark. Sam, George, and Rameck were young men who had a dream to get out of the ghetto and do something with their lives. From a young age they all were surrounded by the temptations of the dealing drugs for money and the dangers of being hurt everyday by the people around them. With families that weren't always capable of taking care of them they still set high goals for themselves to become doctors. Their families were poor, not there, or even had drug addictions, but they still worked through that. It's an inspirational story, appealing to all young people that there is always hope to succeed if you work your hardest. Growing up in such a rough environment made them realize from a young age what they would have to do to survive. They understood that if they stayed in the ghetto they would most likely end up living poor or being killed. As teenagers they applied themselves and were able to all get into schools for the gifted children. Making ends meet and working their hardest they set an example of how you aren't a product of your environment but a person with free will. This book made me understand what kind of hardships that other people go through just to make it by on a daily basis. To hear the story of these men helps create a vivid image of what many people lived in their childhood and what people live in now. Sam, George and Rameck are men that give hope to the children who thought they had no way of ever getting out of the ghetto and being their own person. It shows that the American Dream can become a reality to anyone who chooses to wake up and create it themselves. I highly recommend this book it was very easy to read and kept me interested throughout the whole novel. If you don't read it I suggest that you still try to understand that you can always achieve what your mind perceives.
This book is full of inspiration and also full of determination,it was great.
Posted April 8,2009 9:20 AM EST: Jodi Picoult can really make a teenager depressed! This book made me feel upset because the main characters, Emily and Chris, were really close and one of them ends up dead. I was left wondering about a few things and wishing that it ended with more definite answers. When you finish the novel you feel you're missing details of the actual scene of the crime. You wouldn't think this would happen to two families that seem to have had such perfect lives. Throughout the whole novel about solving the mystery and it kept me wanting to turn the pages to see if Chris ends up being guilty. I felt so sorry for both Emily and Chris because Emily ids dead and Chris, who loved her, was accused of the murder.
I read this book over the weekend and it moved me to action to share the book and get involved with young men in my community. The story is an easy read that draws you into their lives, struggles to stay on track and successes. I cried, laughed and rejoiced with each of them. Thank you to the 3 doctors for sharing your story.