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That is not hyperbole; it is an understatement. Gray's 217-lb. body bears five bullet wounds. His psyche bears the scars of multiple murders: his brother Greg was shot dead when he was 19, five of Gray's cousins were killed in their teens, another cousin lost his sight and speech after being hit in the head with an iron club while trying to break up a fight, and the rap band Gray formed with several friends last year has disbanded because three of its members are dead and the lead rapper is in jail. On each of Gray's birthdays, his mother prays her son will live to see another year. "My mother told me God must have a real purpose for me because I'm still living," says Gray. "I have been blessed."
It is an unusual blessing by any yardstick. Gray grew up in Landover, Maryland, with three siblings in a home headed by his mother--and deliberately avoided by his father. "My father ain't no good," says Gray. "When I was 18 or 19, he started trying to get to know me, but it was too late then." Gray slacked off in school. Though he eventually finished high school, he was twice expelled for fighting, and he graduated with only the most rudimentary reading and writing skills.
During those years, Gray got a different kind of education by spending most of his time hanging around the crime-infested streets of southeastern Washington. One prom night when Gray had no suit to wear, some older friends miraculously provided him with not only new threads and shoes but also the loan of a Cadillac to squire his date. Impressed by the ease with which his pals could procure what they wanted, Gray started dealing drugs: first PCP and marijuana, then crack and cocaine. "The money just started flowing in," he says. On his best day he pocketed $9,000. In one drug deal he traded PCP water for an M-16 Army rifle. Gray says he never killed anybody but he did shoot one man in the arm.
Over time, Gray spent a total of three years in prison for assorted drug offenses. Though he never got heavily involved in drug use himself, he says, he was in prison when he first used drugs, occasionally doing cocaine. He says he has been clean since he was last released in 1992. He also says the only time he ever cried was when his mother sent him a picture of herself for his cell. On the back of the photograph were the words "I love you."
Gray rallied 10 of his friends to attend the march last week. His eyes still sparkle as he reels off the list of rap stars he spotted at the Mall, including Ice-T and Ice-Cube. But for Gray, the high point of the day was Louis Farrakhan's speech. "He's right. We need to respect our sisters, quit calling them the 'B' word, stop using drugs, take care of our families. Do right!" he says. He echoed the Nation of Islam leader's preachings about racial inequities. "He speaks the truth," says Gray. When the collection basket came around, Gray tossed in $20.
After the march broke up, he says, "I went running that night, and I ain't never run so fast before." That energy buzz has yet to wear off. At the local barbershop, Gray berates an older man for not attending the march. At the gym, he extends a conciliatory hug to a former enemy. He has begun talking to younger boys in the 'hood about the perils of drugs. "I'm telling them, 'Go out and play basketball--do anything but that. It's not worth it.'"