Through the Eyes of a Fighter E-Book

Marlon Campbell

• Herausgeber: Spines
• Kategorie: Ratgeber
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Through the Eyes of a Fighter, a gripping new memoir from Marlon Campbell, chronicles a life defined by resilience, triumph, and reinvention. As a scion of one of America's most successful African American families, Campbell's memoir trascends mere storytelling-it's a beacon of hope for anyone facing adversity. From his very beginnings to his storied tenure in the entertainment industry spanning 31 years, Campbell's narrative unfolds with mesmerizing detail.

Leseprobe

Marlon Campbell

Though the Eyes of a Fighter

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2024 by Marlon Campbell

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Published by Spines

ISBN: 979-8-89383-329-4

Through The Eyes of A Fighter

Marlon Campbell

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Album

Acknowledgments

Special thanks as follows:

To my devoted family: Pooyesh—it’s been a long road, honey, but we’ve pushed through it together; to my children: Maegan, Taylor, Misha, and Neema—I love you so, so much; to my mother: Jerry Banks—the perfect GIFT to so many; to my brothers: Eric, Keith, and Kevin; to my in-laws: Nahid Barami & Jamshid Goshtasbipour and (sister-in-law) Fouzhan Parsi.

To my business partner and team (aka my extended family): Hind; Darayl “D”—you’ve been a real one; my current staff at Osher Int., B&T, TPR, and USI; and Bill McLean, my attorney.

To my real friends: Tony Perkins; Jarrod Donoman; Big Al Carke; AC; NFL sports agent Terry Bolar; Joe “Beaver” Saunders (thanks for many, many years of friendship and the intro to Whitney Houston); Chuck & Liz Cropp and family (your love has been priceless); Dr. Neil Shulman, a special thanks—for encouraging me to tell the most difficult story I’ve ever had to write.

And last but not least—to my Spiritual Father: God Almighty.

In memory of my lost family and childhood friends: my Aunt, Maxine Perry (I miss you immensely); Uncle Calvin; Willis; Don; Leroy Ricks, my biological father (though I never knew you well—may your soul find forgiveness and peace); Seaford Patrick, The Twins, Chris and Cory; Lawrence; Babé; Vida; Darayl; Paul; Ron; Chris R.; Chris D; Ben; Arthur; Wayne; Lanette Lampton; Barry; K. Kendrick, and those whom I have not listed. You are gone but not forgotten. Rest in peace!

And to my industry family who have passed onto a heavenlier stage:

Jay Warner (I miss you so much), Whitney Houston, Harold Cowart, Special One (The Conscious Daughters) and Natina Reed (Blaque).

Love always!

Author’s Note:

Throughout these pages, we’ll walk through some of my life experiences, with the intention to inspire one to become better, to become stronger—to help the reader understand that … in this life, we’ll be challenged (some more than others), but we must fight to become a better “us.”

I hope you enjoy!

ChapterOne

The Beginning

It’s 3:00 am, and he’s asleep in bed, tossing back and forth.

It’s getting harder for him to breathe.

What’s happening?

What is this I see?

Where am I?

Who are you people?

The sleeper catches his breath but now breaks out into a sweat as he envisions a bald, dark-skinned man, approximately 6’6”—faded-gray eyes complement an incredibly kind face. He sees the bald man’s body lying, encircled by loved ones. A very pretty woman in her late twenties grips his hand tightly. She cries hard but quietly.

Standing beside her is an attractive woman who’s slightly older—perhaps in her early 30s. She stares down at the lying, bald man. Her face depicts pure grief, though she tries her best to be tough.

The women in the room are his daughters.

“It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay,” the man promises the younger daughter, patting her hand softly.

She leans into him. “Nooo … please don’t leave me … please,” she whispers.

Suddenly, a light green rotary phone rings. The older daughter answers — “Hello,” she pauses, “you need to hurry, there’s not much time,” then hangs up.

The weakening man is in his late sixties and is very ill. He looks around the room and realizes how much he’s loved.

He turns sluggishly to face his daughters.

“It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay.” The man lifts his head and looks to the ceiling. His breathing stops, followed by two fading heartbeats.

The sleeper jerks with force.

The bald, dark-skinned man has died.

All at once, the life he’s just departed begins to rewind: A green, shabby-looking home with flaking paint sits on a curve that right-turns onto a major street. To the left is a gas station. Next to it is a cemetery.

At first, the rewinding starts slowly; it picks up speed, then more speed, and more speed, until it morphs into a streak of light. The light beams into what appear to be clouds. In the midst of the clouds, something stands before the bald man. He can’t see it, but it communicates to him telepathically. Figures in the shape of people are behind him, though he’s unable to make out their appearances. It’s as if they are suspended in time.

Out of nowhere, an incredibly soothing voice says, “You have to go back.” A strange sensation of peace overcomes him, a tremendous peace like none he’s ever experienced. Within that sensational peace is absolute love. Unlike it was on earth, the bald man has no thoughts or concepts of wrong, bad, hate, or anything with a negative connotation.

Without warning, the soothing voice speaks again, but this time more firmly.

“You have to go back.” In that instant, earthly images appear in the bald man’s vision: sights of war, famine, destructive weather, and overall human suffering.

“No,” the bald man stubbornly says, “Why would you have me go back to such a place?”

“Because you must,” the voice replies. “I am with you.”

In a flash, the bald man sees himself transported through a brightly lit tube, with millions of wormy streaks of light inside. They move unusually fast, heading toward one massive, sun-like orb.

At this moment, he thinks,… This is going to hurt!

While all the other streaks of light around him fade to black, he darts into the eye of the massive pool of bright, sparkling waves—a sensation similar to plunging into a thick body of water.

It didn’t hurt at all.

I know because I was “the man,” the being in my mother’s womb who fertilized her egg.

It was I.

After a while, I could hear the sounds of water being swallowed and the muffled words of someone speaking. I wonder what’s happening. Tubes are lodged inside my stomach, and my skin is abnormally stretched and thin. My eyes won’t shut. I’m in this tight position for what seems like forever. And, finally, my eyes … they blink, causing me to behold my first emotional shock : Fear!

Extremely angry and hurt—inside the womb—I feel forsaken!

Remarkably, I remember seeing my physical birth. I’ll never forget the smell of the room, the two doctors, and the nurse. I’m sure that I was upset at one doctor because of his success in enabling the flow of oxygen through my tiny body, ultimately “checkmating” any threat to my survival. Now, there I was, lying and screaming in tears from the cold water he dropped me into. “There we go!” he exclaimed.

Apparently, I took this personal, because I punched the doctor in his face, then urinated all over my mother once he handed me over to her. This event would replay vividly for the first two years of my life. Even today, it’s still a part of my memory, like one remembering their first kiss.

Abruptly, Mom wakes me.

“Come on, baby,” she says, “you must be seeing him again!”

“Who was the tall, dark man?” I asked groggily.

“I don’t know, sugah … I don’t know.”

(Note: There is no point of comparison between Earth and this “place of love”—in atmosphere or distance. How do I illustrate this existence of “tremendous peace” that I witnessed? I’ll do my best to try. Here goes: Imagine that overwhelming surge of euphoria you feel from the one person who pulls it out of you better than anyone. Done? Now, try to fathom it being—maybe—one percent of what it was that I felt in this bewildering place of love. It was flawless, an absolute pureness of bliss and tranquility. So much that, subconsciously, for me, the bar is now so highly set that even the very best of love that I know pales in contrast, which often leaves me crushed by torment.)

ChapterTwo

The Early Days

For a short while, I grew up in a double-parent household, along with my three siblings: Eric, my oldest brother, and Keith and Kevin, my younger twin brothers, until I was seven years old. At that time, I believed my biological father was Robert Johnson. (Not the legendary blues guitarist.)

As a kid, I can remember wondering why Eric and I carry the last name of Campbell, whereas Kevin and Keith carry the last name of Johnson―you know, like Robert. Although it made me curious, it didn’t bother me at all. You see, Robert was a good dad to us but a bad husband to my mom, which, to me, was in no way honorable. (Truth is, I was, and stillam, a mama’s boy!) Nevertheless, our family had a traditional Southern upbringing, consisting of mostly carpenters and pastors―and any real Southerner knows that that means―attending church on Sundays was deemed most important.

On a typical day in church, I’d squirm around on the pew (since I was never comfortable with the pastor’s preaching), and then Mom would ask, “Why are you behaving this way? You know I don’t tolerate this type of behavior, especially in church.” I’d always reply, “What he’s doing isn’t enough; it’s not right!”

Being only about five years old, I couldn’t explain my position. But as luck would have it, on this day, Mom decided to have me speak to the pastor about my personal complaint. I believe she wanted his assurance that I wasn’t possessed in some way.

Our pastor asked me how I felt when he spoke his sermons.

I said, “Confused and discouraged.”

I continued.

“God is not that simple. God’s much more of a value to Ms. Whinny than her phone bill.” I was referencing his early sermon when Ms. Whinny was brought up to the altar, where he touched her head and shouted, “God got that phone bill paid, my sister!”

But I didn’t stop there.

“After coming to this church so much, I can predict every move you make. When you deliver a sermon, it doesn’t appear real to me,” I said. “It’s like you’re in a movie.” I was on a roll, so I kept on going. “God would expect more from you. You’re failing Him.”

His mouth was wide open, and the pastor looked at Mom and me and straightforwardly stated, “It’s obvious God has a higher calling for Marlon,” then walked away.

I thought, Seriously, you mean … that’s it?

I interpreted it to mean that he wouldn’t even think about what I’d just told him, that he’d merely write it off as my “higher calling.” I’d later attend many other churches, still coming up with the same conclusion.

Growing up in New Orleans was hard―particularly in the early years.

My first war story came at three years old when I woke up with a horrible fever and was too weak to get out of bed to tell my parents about it. I was mourning in pain as Robert came into the room. He put his hand on my head and instantly realized that something was terribly wrong. I remember the scared look on his face as he picked me up and carried me into the bedroom he shared with Mom.

“Jerry … Jerry … wake up!” he yelled out with panic in his voice. “We have to get Marlon to the hospital.”

Mom immediately jumped up, realizing Robert was right; they needed to get me to the emergency room quickly. It turned out that I had contracted viral encephalitis through a mosquito bite. According to the doctors, had I not been medically attended to that night, I would not have awoken from my sleep the next morning. My parents were shocked, wearing a look of pure horror on their faces after hearing this. I spent three weeks in the hospital.

Mom had her struggles with me in terms of taking care of myself. I was always really healthy (but a rebel “with a cause”). Between contracting viral encephalitis twice to breaking my wrist four times within two years … Whew! …I kept Mom stressed out.

The first broken wrist occurred playing basketball when I was 12, representing Carver Park. We were losing, which was unacceptable to me because I was really competitive in those days. See, I decided to chase down a rival player (an extremely good overall baller) and punch the basketball as he attempted a final layup.

I nailed it!

As I was basking in the satisfaction of at least humiliating my nemesis on the last play of the game, my teammate asked, “Man, what’s wrong with your wrist?” I looked down, and unbelievable pain followed. The bone had completely separated. I was rushed to the hospital, where the doctor reset the bone. I spent six months in a cast.

On the day that I was scheduled to have the cast removed, I was back at Carver Park, working on free throws with my right hand.

A friend of mine asked, “Hey, aren’t you supposed to go to the doctor’s at one o’clock?”

“Oh, no! My mom is going to be mad at me. See you guys later.”

I got on my bike and began to rush home through a slight drizzle. As I was preparing to blow through a stop sign across the street from my house, I heard car tires treading in rainwater. I slammed on my brakes immediately and lost control of my bike. I went airborne and landed hard on the pavement, ultimately re-breaking my left arm and breaking my right arm. The additional injury came one year later, breaking my right arm again while playing softball. This would accompany two breaks as an adult. (Good times … Good times!)

Things had returned to normal at home after the viral scare. It became certain after building a plane and launching it with my brother, Kevin, as the pilot.

My brothers and I were always searching for a business opportunity that would allow us to escape from the ghetto. Hands down, my most bodacious endeavor was starting an airline! It didn’t go very well after the five-second flight and subsequent crash. Kevin needed stitches in his lower leg. And, later, I’d need ice for my butt after Mom came home from work. She … was … ticked!

Mom was the disciplinarian of the household. I have fond memories of her trying to get Robert to “lay down the law” on our behinds. After misbehaving, she’d tell him to give us a good old-fashioned whoopin’. He’d have us go into our bedroom; then he’d smack the wall and tell us to act as if we were crying. I’m smiling as I write this because it actually worked. Mom assumed we’d gotten a good ol’ whoopin’!

But, in spite of Robert’s tough, manly figure, he was a total“softy” when it pertained to us; however, not so much when it didn’t.

Case in point: Friday evenings were the best! It meant no waking up early for school the next morning, a two-dollar allowance, and watching “The Dukes of Hazard” and “The Incredible Hulk” on TV. But on this particular Friday evening, Robert had decided to take Eric and me to a Tastee donut shop—the city’s king of donuts. Nothing beats Tastee’s!

As Eric and I waited at the checkout, our eyes cut right through the glass cases—filled with every doughy confection a kid could imagine—licking our lips and rubbing our bellies. After placing our order, Robert told us to wait at the counter while he used the restroom. At that time, a Caucasian male entered the shop and pushed Eric aside in a hostile way. “Get out of my way, boy!”

I was about five years old, and Eric was seven, but we were getting ready to deliver some “pintsize” hurt to this man. Since the cashier knew us fairly well, she stepped in—to Eric’s defense—and began to argue with the guy. In the process, the son of a gun became extremely rude to her, too.

Well, Robert was just walking out of the restroom as things started to escalate. Reading the look on his face, he instantly knew that something was wrong. The cashier told him what had happened and that she was trying to persuade the moron to apologize, but he was refusing to do so. That’s when Robert asked the cashier to take us out to the truck.

My next memory of that night was a horribly bloodied, rude guy stretched out on the floor of Tastee.

I’ve learned that violence isn’t the best choice, but growing up in my surroundings at that time, it certainly became a necessity. Nonetheless, I truly felt loved and safe with Robert. He was the first adult male figure I loved.