I don’t fear the electric chair. I know what hell on earth is. I’ve been there and come back. There is nothing on the planet that scares me now. ...hen I came back to Harlem, my parents were glad to see me. Many young black men who go to jail don’t come back. My folks were glad that I had been found not guilty. The man I had killed was a violent racist. What parents didn’t know is the simple truth. I didn’t come back. Not really. I’m not Alfonso Brown anymore. I’m someone else. Someone tougher. She seemed sad as usual and I tried to joke with her, but she didn’t seem amused. I wish I could get up the nerve to ask her out instead of just writing about it. I guess I just can’t stand the thought of her rejecting me. It’s easier just to be a friend, I think. She seems like she would be different, though. Somehow, I think she might say yes. Every time I think I could do it, my nerves get the best of me and it just doesn’t happen. I would just become a stammering fool and where would I be. More

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