Common Read 2014- 2015 The Other Wes Moore: The Book

  The Other Wes Moore: One Name, Two Fates
By Wes Moore  

Random House, 2010

“This intrigu­ing nar­ra­tive is enlight­en­ing, encour­ag­ing, and empow­er­ing. Read these words, absorb their mean­ings, and cre­ate your own plan to act and leave a legacy.” —Tavis Smi­ley, from the Afterword

“The Other Wes Moore high­lights the trans­for­ma­tive influ­ence of car­ing adults… Moore vividly and pow­er­fully describes not just the cul­ture of the streets but how it feels to be a boy grow­ing up in a world where vio­lence makes you a man, school seems irrel­e­vant, and drug deal­ing is a respected career choice.” — O Mag­a­zine Review

“Wes Moore has not just writ­ten a com­pelling story, but has cre­ated a per­fect case study of how and why young men can go down the wrong path — and how they can be saved. This should be required read­ing for any­one who is try­ing to under­stand what is hap­pen­ing to young men in our inner cities.” —Geof­frey Canada, Pres­i­dent and CEO, Harlem Chil­drens Zone

Excerpt from The Other Wes Moore

Chapter One: Is Daddy Coming with Us?

1982

Nikki and I would play this game: I would sit on the living room chair while Nikki deeply inhaled and then blew directly in my face, eliciting hysterical laughs on both sides. This was our ritual. It always ended with me jabbing playfully at her face. She'd run away and bait me to give chase. Most times before today I never came close to catching her. But today, I caught her and realized, like a dog chasing a car, I had no idea what to do. So, in the spirit of three-year-old boys everywhere who've run out of better ideas, I decided to punch her. Of course my mother walked into the room right as I swung and connected.

The yell startled me, but her eyes are what I remember.

"Get up to your damn room" came my mother's command from the doorway. "I told you, don't you ever put your hands on a woman!"

I looked up, confused, as she quickly closed the distance between us.

My mother had what we called "Thomas hands," a tag derived from her maiden name: hands that hit so hard you had to be hit only once to know you never wanted to be hit again. The nickname began generations ago, but each generation took on the mantle of justifying it. Those hands were now reaching for me. Her eyes told me it was time to get moving.

I darted up the stairs, still unsure about what I'd done so terribly wrong. I headed to the bedroom I shared with my baby sister, Shani. Our room was tiny, barely big enough for my small bed and her crib. There was no place to hide. I was running in circles, frantic to find a way to conceal myself. And still trying to comprehend why I was in so much trouble. I couldn't even figure out the meaning of half the words my mother was using.

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