Hustling as a rite of passage

 Hustling as a rite of passage

Hustle hus·tle

 

To obtain money by any legal means necessary. As opposed to dealing, which is obtaining money by any illegal means. Hustling is not only an art but a way of life. To hustle is to live in many of the places where the underground economy rules and the above economy denigrates. Hustling is the reality in which decent jobs are denied, limited, or nonexistent, in which hope is decried amid the backwash of negativity, and in which dignity is found in humble abodes often bereft of other comforts. Hustling fills the void between household earnings and household needs. Hustling is where dreams meet reality, where myth meets essence, and where life meets eternity. Hustling is where my reality began at the age of 6.

 

My first hustle was as a shoe-shine boy.  I would show up at the barbershop with my box filled with polish and an eye on potential customers.  I would get their attention by declaring, “Brilliant shine, see your face in it, sir – double shine for a nickel more.” There with my rag, polish, and smile – a bit of spit, a bit of polish, and with that snap of the rag like magic the shoeshines.   Shining those shoes –late Friday and early Saturday morning. Meeting ole Slim at the barber shop –shining shoes long into the night. Pockets jingling with the coins, $10 or $20 on a good day. Hustling those shines.

 

In the Spring, my hustle at 8 was going door-to-door to sell Burpee seeds. Sunflowers and squash, watermelons and zinnias, tomatoes and cucumbers –guaranteed to grow. Everything grows in the Mississippi mud. The river floods each year.  But when the floods hit, I had to remember to close off the valve, or else our basement would be filled with mud, gunk, and bugs from the sewers.  And I saw the biggest cock roaches I have ever seen. Just how big do those critters get, damn S.O.B.’s got bigger than a fist –eating off that Mississippi sh*t. But sure, was good for the gardening, don’t you know. Mississippi mud, burpee, and hustling at the age of 8.

 

At the age of 9, I started selling the Crusader, one of the two Black newspapers operating in the city, and for 10 cents a pop, I got 3 cents for myself. Sell a thousand papers and get a whole 30 smacks. But who the hell can sell that many, for a weekly paper that only came out on Thursday evening, and was old news then, but was ancient by Saturday? So, between 200-300 was all I could do, and six bucks was nice for a 9-year-old hustler. Strange you don’t see paper boys today, no this too has gone over to adults. What do kids do now to hustle?

 

Hustling at the age of 10, Mr. Bush, of Bush’s Barbecue fame, was cooking fish, queuing ribs, and snoots. Snoots, crackling good, right off the grill –hard, crisp, and dunk in da sauce. Hustling the que –that would be b-b-que –flavored with hickory, secret spices from the hood – a bit of vinegar, tomato sauce, paprika, and salt –can’t tell the rest cause it’d be no secret then. I would be there early Saturday morning, and my first real job, with wages of a whopping 50cents an hour. I thought I had made it, wow.  Hustling on the weekend at Bush’s BBQ stand. The only thing bad about it was that you get to eat all the Q you can eat. And after a bit, even the best Q is old –can a brotha get a burger and some fries? Micky d me won’t you please.

 

Times continued to change, by the time I was 12, my hustle was at the local Kroger.  Friday night, starting around 6 pm, there I was, hustling the carts –filled with everything.  Kroger had it all. I would approach Mothers and Fathers, old and young, asking– “Can I help you with your groceries, ma’am/sir?” Pushing the cart is ever so easy, don’t want to dent the car or hit the mark. “You want them in the trunk or back seat.” On a good Saturday, I could earn $20; on Friday, another $10. Thirty dollars for a weekend Hustle, not bad for a kid of 12.

 

Hustling to make an honest buck –one nickel, dime, and quarter at a time. Not bad, walking the hood –hear that paper boy singing –Cru …Se ...Der…got those burpee seeds, lady needs me to pack those groceries, hey mister, how about a shine, make sure you can see the stars in those shoes, hey..I guarantee it will be oh-so-fine.  And what did I buy with all that hustling - you know a transistor radio only cost $6 bucks, a Banlon jersey $25, and a brand-new pair of wing-tipped Florsheim’s –can you say $32.50 –yeah give me a hustle –sharpest kid on the corner with a hustle. Listening to the latest jams, I was the coolest, best-dressed kid in school. 

 

Times do change, but hustling remains the same. For us, it was a rite of passage, our journey into self-reliance, responsibility, and adulthood. For us, it was a way to prove that we could make it, on the mean streets, in the hood, on the corner. For us, it meant that we did not have to deal or steal, we did not have to pimp or turn wimp. For us, it meant that we could stand on our own two feet. For us, it meant that we could survive. We learned how to make a way when there was no way. Making it in a community where unemployment always ran high, where poverty was on every corner, and where despair was taken for granted, hustling was a way of beating the odds, controlling your destiny, and walking tall in the neighborhood. Hustling as a way of life –our rite of passage. Got to make an honest dollar, got to stand tough, got to walk tall - gimme a hustle.