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Before Uber, before Lyft. There was Gipsy…

Gipsy was around way back in the day, before the internet, before smartphones, hell, even before cell phones period for that matter. Gipsy, was a cab/taxi service created back in a historical era in a time when communications and transportation had to be developed under the principles of self-determination. The unfortunate underserved communities were provided a service that was denied to them and for many reasons... By the Yellow taxi service.

The Yellow Taxi service at that time and era, only catering to the dominantly Caucasian areas, and communities, being accessible only for the white upper class. With the lack of attention to the general services in our community by the state and local government, we were being overlooked, neglected, and left to develop our own independent services to address those needs in our community. We call that self-determination. As a result, Gipsy Cab was created.

I was 15 years old, and Just received my driver’s permit, not knowing the impact and change that it would have on the rest of my life. In the mid-60s returning men of our community from prison and Vietnam found self-determination in driving Gipsy cabs for a living, to understand this independence, you must have some operational understanding to distinguish the difference between Gipsy Cab and the Yellow Cab.

From my growing political awareness and participation in the issues of the community, it was important to develop at my age an independent source of income. I found the culture of gipsy cab, as a stepping stone to community awareness and character development. In order to be provided with Gipsy Cab service, you had only to “pick up your phone” and dial up the cab service that was more than likely in front of a storefront building on a Blvd or Ave in your community. More than likely their phone number was advertised in local newspapers or posted to “telephone poles.” An inspiring entrepreneur carried his “business cards” in his pocket and passed them out at grocery stores, barbershops, laundromats local cleaners, and if involved the local churches would allow him to leave his business card on the bulletin board, so in fact, the drivers and the business became a pillar of the community.

This position was important to me, sometimes your age can be a disadvantage or advantage. I knew then that I had to build trust in my customers, and my community, in order to be a “Brother” of the community. In the mid-60s with the shining example of “Brother” Malcolm X, the title and reference to you as a “Brother” carried with it a specific responsibility, characters and values. With this driver’s permit, It was a stage to development as a man. The title “Brother” began to have purpose and responsibility. In fact, if you weren’t looked upon as a potential Brother you couldn’t drive a Gipsy cab, you had to be an ambassador of the Gipsy Cab company.

I learned the importance of the two-way radio and though not necessary, it gave me the upper hand. The owner and use of a two-way radio provided communications and base operations to say nothing, to catch most of the “fares” AKA customers. When the cab company trusted you they would provide the two-way radio, and receive your calls for fares. You needed a reliable car as well as you needed to know the layout of the community, including every major and minor asset in your community. For a wide-eyed 15-year-old my days and nights earning a living included learning who I was, understanding what the community except, having to individualize and accept people as they were, and limiting judgment.

If you were able to navigate you were treated according to those abilities, two years into driving in South Jamaica Queens, maybe a little earlier, my “fares “ began to expand the breath of New York in all 5 barrows. To say that some of my fares were challenging would be an understatement. The perils and variety of experiences truly had me feeling grown and I tried the best that I could for years to be respected and carry the position as a “Brother” Brother Jeral or Brother Mutulu. More of the history of the Gipsy’s cab impact will be detailed in future chapters. As I reflect on the perils and the choice that I have made still remain as a part of my being and mindset. for reconciliation, contemplation, and self-healing, see what you think.

It might have been when I was 17, many of my assets have been used to provide for my customers, in this business you do get a reputation, which supports the business structure I had gained a solid reputation, with single women in our community, no more than being reliable dependable with discretion, and again having assets one of the assets I had gained was my ability to go take Fares into Manhattan and particularly Harlem. I would take a fare and leave a fare and then return. There was a time I would receive 4 to 5 pick-ups in Harlem from a woman in South Jamaica. I was not particularly concerned about what they were doing, but I was clearly worried about the area they were requesting drop-off and pick-up. Between Lenox and Park and 116 street, that area at that time had the reputation of being the capital of the underground economy. Around trip fare was 20 dollars and back in the 60s that was a good trip! I was in fact a “young ghetto boy” driving a Gipsy cab.

It was a late Saturday night fare, from the forty (“40”) projects to 116 street and Lennox, not knowing if the one-way fare would be worth it. This Sista had been a very steady passenger, always respectful, had a small nightlife, and a regular schedule, as I said before I passed no judgment. She seemed to take care of all of her major responsibilities. She clearly wasn’t a sista on the “waste side” (a religious term used by my grandmother for the woman of the night) as far as I could tell at that age. She scheduled me as her driver all during the day to be sure that I was in position, being the responsible “Brother” I was. I took the trip and it was a trip I had taken with many other women so it wasn’t anything new, I delivered my passenger in the middle of Lenox and 116 at 11 pm. I had to be back for pickup in exactly 30 mins so I questioned if I should try to take another fare as I waited, but instead decided on fish and chips (honey mustard)... I pulled in the middle of the block 30 mins later and I seen my passenger waiting. I got out to walk her from the door back to the car watching both my car and her because this area was dicey. The other women customers I had taken to this area upon returning all had a gingerly movement posture, that indicated a need of assistance, that should have been a sign to me, but I carried on as I said minding my business making no judgment.

I became concerned as I opened the door to let her in the car. She clearly needed assistance! I closed the door. I was very concerned by the look on her face. As I entered back into the car, I quickly drove down 116 trying to get to 3rd and make it to 125th and right to the Triboro Bridge, entering the bridge to the toll booth my passenger let out a scream that sounded excruciating. It was too late for me to turn back to Harlem with the traffic, I had to go straight to the toll booth. I pulled over to the side and rushed over to her door, as I opened the door she had slid down from her seat to the floor. Blood was coming from the center of her dress and coat, I didn’t panic but I fought for control I wasn’t dumb but I wasn’t sure of what it was I was seeing. I asked, “what happened to you?” “What’s the matter?” she said “I just had an abortion and I think that it went wrong, that’s why I was already waiting for u when you pulled up.” she explained to me “I left and I don’t know what kinda shape I’m in.” so being concerned for unwarranted attention she asks for help back in her seat. I helped her back into her seat and covered her knowing we would have to go through the toll booth where she would be seen. (Back then it was 50 cents to go through the bridge) I threw in the exact change to keep us from being observed, a skill set that I would have to use more as time went on.

We crossed the bridge with no incident, the quickest way back to South jamaica was the grand Central parkway to the Van-wyck express-way. There was no debate with that route, but I was in a dilemma about what was the best thing to do for this passenger. If I took The Grand Central Pkwy vs. the Gran wyck, I could take my passenger to Queens General Hospital, the city hospital of the area continued on the van wyck hospital I would reach two other hospitals one Mary Immaculate Hospital (off hillside Ave,) or continue further to the Jamaica hospital off the Van Wyck itself. Assuming that my fare would make the decision before turning off grand central Pkwy I asked the fare which hospital did she want to go to in light of her condition. she wayed the options. “I don’t want to go to Queens general” which was the city hospital, “the wait is too long, and they ask too many questions.” she went on. Maryemaculate wasn’t a choice even in the emergency rooms, because of the religious background they embodied they rejected abortions, so she wasn’t sure of her options with them. Jamaica’s Hospital was semi-private if you had insurance, but the who’s who in the church was known to have eyes and ears of all the intakes. Rowde vs. Wade did not come into fruition until 1973. Women’s health clinics were not developed, so it being the 60s, she was on her own. well not quite... because I was committed to the fare.

“Well we got to do something…you need help,” I told her. Turning off the parkway towards Queen’s General I pull up to the emergency parking lot. It was clear there would be no rush to assist a “self-inflicted wounded.” we looked at each other and both accepted that probability, and then she said “Just take me back home.” headed Towards South Jamaica Passing the health center on Parson Blvd, and Mary Immaculate Hospital. silently I prayed that she was making the right decision, that I was fully committed to either way no judgment.

The Projects parking lot was structured to where you could enter into her building with limited observation, a little abnormality at that time of night if seen could be misinterpreted in her favor. Seems like every passenger I had in the 40 projects always lived in 4A. We made our way to 4A, as she opened the door. I thought to myself where could I find more help, as I turned to leave it was now a quarter to 1 am. I thought about what clubs to check. She then told me “wait come in.” My heart sunk with the possibility of what could possibly be next.

She told me to seat don’t at the table and she’d be right back, I saw the phone on the wall, and while I was waiting for her to be “right back” It took everything in me not to run over to the phone and call 911. I finally made my mind up, I’m going to call 911! just as I got up to head towards the phone she returned to the kitchen from the bathroom, dressed in only a robe, carrying an object, When I seen the Red now know to me Douche bag I knew I was way in over my head, she started shouting instructing fast like a marine sergeant and I followed, “grab the bedpan out of the sink!” “put hot-hot water in there” “get the towels out the bathroom” “take the shower curtains down.” “ go in the living room and cover the chair, not the couch the chair!” “ keep the water running she instructed so I did.

At no time did the moaning from the pain stop, every second seemed desperate and to me, it was just that, leaving just the lamp on she turned off the lights, I placed the equipment down and went into the kitchen, and that phone stared me in the face. her moans became louder and the delima to act or not act was eating at me, just as the decision to act i was ordered back into the living room.

The scene made my heart drop. She had both her legs straddling the chair she was sobbing indicating a different kind of pain which was more or less not physical but sorrowful. The robbed covered nothing she had obviously used the object (doche) it was dark red blood coming from her whom. I was pained and numb mad at myself for not making a different decision. Having pity for myself I was shocked into reality when she commanded me to help her. “wash your hands and come over to her and help me, bring another towel. The shower curtain was slick and covered with blood, the mirror was useless because her vision was impaired to descend the objects she was trying to take from her womb. She told me to help her, the only way for me to do that was for me to get up in the business!

She pointed to her womb and said “take that out” and I said “take what out?” and I truly meant what. Like my Son wrote years later in “Brenda’s gotta baby” didn’t know what to keep, or what to throw away. As I looked into her eyes the conflicting indictment made me feel as responsible as I’m sure she felt helpless. we got through it and I knew for sure that the question of abortion would never be a casual conversation.

The helplessness lack of resources, the lack of health care, the shame of normal life experiences years later In Lincoln Detox, we incorporated midwifery into our programs for “health services self-determination” using a book of encouragement from a group of women called the Boston women’s collective who published a book title “Our Bodies Ourselves” The question of abortion, the legalization under Roe vs. Wade legalized the development of women’s health clinics and self-help clinics in America, so that abortions would not be illegal, unhealthy done on 116th street and Lennox and park, or South Road and 150th street.

Me, a two-bit chauffeur driving Gipsy Cabs to address my manhood, developed self-determination, and credibility as a young “Brother” to his community(remember “Brother” Malcolm X.) ethos would not have to perform a service that might challenge his moral beliefs not then, yet developed. Absence of ego I think back to how many lives Gipsy cab drivers of South Jamaica who had to provide the same service to sista’s left stranded in dilemmas of abortion, life and death dilemmas, they became their Brothers of the communities. They became uncles, step Fathers, and mentors to lives saved, both women and babies. I am proud to have been a Gipsy cab driver in South Jamaica Queens. I think the man and women who mentored me in the industry, we were a good bunch before Roe vs. Wade became legal.

The task that we face now, that the deconstruction of Roe vs. Wade, I am not convinced that uber or Lift cooperation will provide the dedication of the “Brother” faced with charges “illegal” and criminalization for assisting with the crisis of illegal abortions to people faced with the choices without meaningful health care.

The moral conflict has many dimensions, many single fathers have been faced with the dilemma as Joyner Lucas raps about in his song “Forever” “everything ain’t what it really seems on the outside” “I can’t believe I tried to hurt you/I hope you forgive me/” “ I know you don’t understand my words.” Life is not always a bowl of cherries.

I hope I have not overstepped my bounds but the conflict raising and the pain exhibited by my many women associates. I just wanted to add my experiences which is a part of my bio currently being written. I honor the midwives of the 70s and 80s that developed and birth many children under the Soule/soul watchful care of our midwives collective originated from the Lincoln Detox Health self-determination program. We must honor them. There are a lot of questions as to where we should stand. I subscribe to the principles when you can first do no harm, save lives, and help your reconciliation.

Dr. Mutulu Shakur

Gipsy Cab driver from South Jamaica Queens