Mr. Williams’s father, Edgar, was murdered in April 1993, only hours after being released from prison, in an apparent retaliation for helping prosecutors build a drug case against a gang member. His mother, Sherry Jackson, also in prison, was allowed to attend the funeral, but Mr. Williams’s memories include Ms. Jackson in chains and his own inconsolability when she was taken away as soon as the funeral was over.
Mr. Williams and a younger sister had been living with an aunt but were later reunited with their mother and were eventually joined by a tide of relatives and a new baby brother.
“Two uncles, two aunties, a little cousin, grandma and us in a three-bedroom house on one floor,” Mr. Williams said. “There was no space, no such thing as your own stuff. You could have a pair of shoes, size 10 and your uncle wears an 8, and you come home and he’s wearing four pair of socks so he can fit into your shoes.”
“I don’t remember anything,” Williams said. “The only image I really have is when he was in jail and I was taking him some shoes with my mom for him to have. I can’t tell you any stories of, ‘Oh I remember this one time playing at the park.’ I’ve always in the past tried to remember – it’s the hardest thing to do. You can’t have a memory of something that you don’t think ever happened. So to me, I didn’t have a father. I had a dad, I had somebody that birthed me. But it’s just blank.”