From Prey to Protector

Robert Johnson

Description

From Prey to Protector, is the story of a mixed race kid from Queens who over came his childhood trauma's of being violently stalked from grade school through high school, to become a night club bouncer and later an accomplished and decorated NYPD Homicide Detective.
The captivating story of a kid who overcame his adversities as a child facing hatred and violence, ultimately following a calling to become a protector. Ironically serving the people and communities where he was victimized, his is a story of triumph and the exciting career of a criminal investigator, who worked on and solved thousands of crimes.

Sujets

• Personal Memoirs
• NYPD
• Biography
• Memoir
• Journey
• Autobiography
• New York City Police Department
• Robert Johnson

Informations

• Publié par: AuthorHouse
• Date de parution: 20 mars 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9798823003780
• Langue: English

Extrait

FROM PREY TO PROTECTOR

My New York Story, a Memoir...




ROBERT JOHNSON








AuthorHouse™
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.authorhouse.com
Phone: [phone]






© 2023 Robert Johnson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/17/2023

ISBN: 979-8-8230-0380-3 (sc)
ISBN: 979-8-8230-0379-7 (hc)
ISBN: 979-8-8230-0378-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023905034




Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.



Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.



CONTENTS
Chapter 1 What Are You?
Chapter 2 The Beginning
Chapter 3 Woodside Projects
Chapter 4 The Big Move
Chapter 5 IS 59
Chapter 6 Sacred Heart
Chapter 7 Bayside High School
Chapter 8 Commodores
Chapter 9 St. John’s University
Chapter 10 Café Iguana (Park Avenue)
Chapter 11 Off Wall Street
Chapter 12 A Time for Childcare and Interviews
Chapter 13 Police Academy
Chapter 14 Mom, Dad, and Mortality
Chapter 15 Five Years in Harlem
Chapter 16 Bronx Narcotics
Chapter 17 107 Squad—DBQ
Chapter 18 The Boss

Acknowledgments
About The Author









To all the people in my life—from the streets, schools, public transportation, nightclubs, and police precincts around New York City—who tested me on a daily basis and to the people who made my journey relevant by knocking me down or picking me up, both friend and foe. I appreciate you all. Without you, my stories of defeat and triumph would not be possible to share.
I am mostly thankful to my loving wife, Sonia. Without you, I don’t believe I would still be alive. I am also grateful to my mother and father for their unconditional love and support while they were alive and after they passed on. By loving, raising, educating, and instilling the proper values in me, you, Mom, and Dad, were ultimately responsible for my success. Thank you.



CHAPTER 1
What Are You?
ON A SNOWY CHRISTMAS morning in 1966, I was brought home to a Queens, New York, housing project by my mother and father. I come from a truly diverse family, ethnically speaking. My mother was from British Guiana, and my father was the grandson of an African American man and an Irish immigrant.
My earliest memories of the late 1960s, relative to events of the day, were the moon landing, the King assassination, and the Vietnam War. All the aforementioned was due to my father’s consumption of the news, whether on television or car radio. I became a news viewer at an early age. Between my mother’s love of culture and my father’s knowledge of history and current events, I picked up a lot of worldly information at an early age. In the early 1970s, one day my mother dressed my brother and I up in our Easter clothes to go see the queen—more like her motorcade—as it drove by Bloomingdales in NYC one day. She also took me on a tour of the United Nations, which was very educational for a kid in his single digits. Seeing the moon rock was my favorite part of the day. I also had a grasp on Nixon’s Watergate scandal and the Vietnam War as early as the age of eight. My mother, a true lady, taught us manners and proper etiquette. But my formal education started in public school kindergarten and then continued in Catholic school throughout the 1970s and early 1980s. I suffered terrible separation anxiety when my mother first dropped me off at school. Being a true mama’s boy, I was terribly attached to my very affectionate and loving mother. It was no coincidence that I would face a culture shock when socializing with other kids. I had no problem socializing, but I was a bit soft as a young child. I made the mistake of being overly nice with other kids, and the bullies sensed it early on.
My first encounter with a bully outside my house was at age five in kindergarten. Being the youngest of five—three sisters and one brother—I was treated wonderfully by my sisters, but not so great by my brother when we were children. My brother loved me, but let’s just say having a little brother three years his junior was annoying at times. Fortunately, my father taught us how to box and often had us spar. I learned how to defend myself at a young age.
One day my mother noticed I had black and blues all over my shins. She inquired in horror, “What happened to you? Who did that to you?”
I replied, “Buster did that to me.”
She then said, “Who the devil is Buster?”
I said, “He’s a boy in school who doesn’t like me, and he kicks me all day under the table.”
One thing led to another, and my parents complained to the teacher, who reprimanded Buster and informed his parents. My father gave me strict instructions to kick his ass in the schoolyard if it ever happened again. I recall having my first fistfight shortly thereafter. I also recall Buster having a newfound respect for me, and the bullying stopped. I never found out why he didn’t like me; I suppose I was too nice, and he hated that. Little did I know that bullies only got meaner and more aggressive with age. Kindergarten was a true foreshadowing of my future twelve years in school, separation anxiety be damned.



CHAPTER 2
The Beginning
WITH A NEWFOUND COMFORT in defending myself, I entered the NYC catholic school system. From grades one through six, in a school full of Irish and Italian American kids from a neighboring apartment development, I learned quickly about hate from some of my classmates. I was a nigger, or white nigger. My brother was a nigger roach, at worst, or just plain nigger most days. I had it bad, but my brother had it worse, being a few shades darker than me. My brother was very handsome. I think they hated that about him. Also, the girls loved him, with his brown skin and light brown eyes.
We fought on the way to school, we fought in the schoolyard, we fought in the playground, and we fought on the way home from school. This went on for years throughout the 1970s. We were surrounded by assholes—the worst kind of racist assholes at times, some in my grade and some in my brothers. I had the misfortune of sharing a classroom with some of them. To them, I was nigger and Robert Johnson, not Rob or Bob or Johnson—nigger or Robert Johnson. I must have had a dozen fistfights over the years—lots of black eyes, busted lips, and bloody noses. As previously stated, my brother had it harder than me during this era. I didn’t know the depth of his anguish, but it was bad. I believe it had some negative implications on his life. On a positive note, his experiences made him stronger and a survivor. The gang of bigots used to intercept us on our way to school in the morning and on our way home, calling him nigger and me white nigger and questioning how we could be brothers, harassing us daily sometimes.
It all came to a head when my brother finally had enough. During school one day, my brother had a fight with one of them, and it was broken up prematurely. For the rest of that day, it was being put out there that my brother was to be jumped after school. I got word of the threat and was scared for myself and my brother for the pending walk home. I met my brother at our usual spot, and he was a bit on edge but ready for the walk home.
We walked our usual route down Thirty-First Avenue and made it halfway home, with him frustrated with all my questions: “What happened? Are we gonna get jumped?”
As we approached the railroad tracks adjacent to the gang’s apartment complex, we suddenly found ourselves surrounded by the aforementioned punks. My brother was confronted by one who demanded that he get on his knees, apologize, and beg for his life. The ground happened to be covered with some old dirty New York snow that was hanging around from an earlier storm. Between the mud, dog crap, and dead rats, it was gross. My brother bravely refused—one thing about my brother was that he was built for this shit. He was in great shape, and he was nice with his hands. In addition, he was drop-dead handsome, a kind of brown bomber ready for action.
The punk yelled, “Get on your knees, nigger roach, or I’ll make you.”
My brother adamantly refused, and in the next instant he was involved in a violent brawl, punching, kicking, scratching, and grappling in the snow and mud under the L train. It was a beautiful sunny day; however, the stench and sight of the setting we were in made the day very ugly. As my brother began to get the better of his foe, punching him in his face till his eyes were swollen and his nose busted and bloody, our father happened to be driving by. The fight was then in the middle of the street. He saw me and then my brother and pulled over at once. When the punks saw my father approaching, they made way, and my father pulled the brawlers apart. He did the kid a favor. Big brother was winning big. As we walked to our dad’s car, the bully yelled at my brother, “You’re still a nigger roach!”
My dad turned to my brother and said very plainly, “It sounds like that motherfucka wants some more. Go give it to him!” He shoved my brother back to the fight. And give it to him he did. That was the last tim