The story of my life. How could this be? Back in the place I said I would never come back to. As I lay on my bunk in deep thought I asked myself how did I get here? Let me help you understand, not the why but the who.
I was born July 23rd in 19 something in the city of Beliz. As far as I could remember my mother and father was separated. It wasn’t until later in life I would realize he had another family. Our household was my mother, grandmother, older sister, and myself. We grew up in the era of outhouses, outside showers, hand-me-downs, and potato sacks for clothing. Yes, we were poor, but we weren’t aware of it. My mother did things to get by. Selling her body wasn’t one of them, but serious things. But after great failure and a scared straight moment she wanted better, so she left my sister and me in Belize to stay with our grandmother, and she went to seek the American dream.
Her dream was mine and my sister nightmare. Many hungry nights, sneaking to eat butter and paying the price with not only tape worms, but ass whippings. The struggle was beyond real, but I had my sister and she was all I needed she made me feel safe. But that struggle did last for long before the one that would really change my life came into play.
In 1993, my father came and got me and my sister to join my mother, sister and brother in the states – America. The land of opportunity. For two years I hadn’t seen my mother and despite being happy I felt numb to her and her touch.
My sister had become not only my protector but also my mother figure.
My mother wasn’t stable, so we couched hop from family to her friend’s home until my mother found a one bedroom on 84 between Hoover and Vermont streets. The beginning to my end.
Shit was cool. My father came down from Oregon with my older brother and sister yes I’m the baby out of four but far from spoiled. It was crazy because we are all from Belize, but it seemed like we spoke different language, so we really didn’t understand each other.
When my mother and father separated my father took my brother and sister, while my mother kept my sister and me! So, we were apart for many years before we reunited. Me any sister stuck to each other, building our bond, as did my brother and other sister.
My mother and father tried to work things out, but the constant abuse was too much for her She stayed until my father tried to kill her. That’s when me and my brother started seeking attention.
We started fighting in school, fighting each other, and the other kids on the street we stayed on, not knowing their older brothers were gang members. Man, did we get some ass whippings but it made us tuff. My moms couldn’t handle us so every summer she would send us to stay with her brother, a stone-cold hustler and gang member, among other things, but he taught us as well and exposed us to a lot. We wanted to be like him in his stories of camps, juvenile halls, California Youth Authority (CYA), prison it captured our attention and unlocked something within us that we didn’t know.
My mom eventually moved from 84 and Vermont to 84 and Figueroa. At this time my father was still not present, and my uncle became my father. My mother was doing better for herself; we moved from a one bedroom to a two, and started wearing Fila, k Swiss, Nike. No Jordan; we ain’t doing that good! But like all kids, we wanted more, so me and my brother took to the streets with Reggie, Travis, Davon, and the crew, and started breaking in house’s taking anything that wasn’t bolted to the floor. But that wasn’t enough; we wanted more. At this time, we were all a part of the local street gang, except Reggie. Later down the line our hoods would become enemies but for the moment we were all friends.
My brother was the first to get arrested and go to camp and for the six months. While he was gone I was lost and seeking guidance, so I started fighting dogs and selling narcotics which led me to a shootout that eventually landed me in juvenile hall fighting for my freedom.
I was only 13 years old, and a high-risk prisoner, fighting attempted 187 times, amongst other things. I’ll be lying if I told you I wasn’t scared, but like every other kid in my situation I made do. There were no guns in jail, so you had to use your hands and use my hands I did, every chance I got. I didn’t fight out of hurt or hate, well some hate for my enemies, but I fought and fought until I became good at it. But I was losing the fight in the court room. My charges got reduced but I still had to do time, and I got no credit for the year I had done; Judge Jones wasn’t going for that, so I was sentenced to a fresh six months in camp.
I arrived at Camp Afflaugh Ball next to Camp Paige and was greeted by my childhood friend, also one of my gang brothers, and other friends, as well as enemies, and the saga continued, fight after fight. During these trouble times, I didn’t have family support nobody to bring me personals nor visits so I was on my own and to this day I still am. Now I not only fight for the gang, but also out of anger, hurt, and envy because their family loved them and mines didn’t love me.
But my stay at Afflaugh Ball didn’t last long. Tiny Traystone, from ETH, T Dub from RTC, and Infant Hoova Ray tried to escape, and all got caught. I would have gone too, but I didn’t have anywhere to escape to; Moms would have turned me in.
So, I was sent to Camp Resnick and they were sent to CYA aka gladiator school. A part of me felt I should have gone with them because I’ve been in for 19 months and I missed the streets. But all that changed when I got to camp and ran across my cousins, Lil Skooby and Crazo. It was like Afflaugh Ball; fighting and more fighting. which landed me In the hole more time than I could count, until I finally got refiled on, which sent me back to the halls and court in front of Judge Jones, no nonsense judge who saw something in me and sent me to ROP, my last step before CYA. So now I’m back In the halls awaiting to go to ROP and walking into another hell hole. But I was only there for a couple of months, doing what I did best, fighting and going to the box. I did this shit so much I became popular amongst the female inmates and the guards. The guards use to come get me to fight other kids while the placed their bets. I didn’t with them all but majority and the ones I lost I gained experience!
I wasn’t in ROP that long – six months to be exact, and to be honest, I did learn some things, but never used them.
Upon my release my mom and brother was waiting on me at Compton Courthouse, where I was supposed to be release from, and I was. My mother acted excited to see me and I played along. She had moved from the eighties to the fifties. The place I not only call home, but the place carved into my body by blood. I hit the streets running after two years of being locked down you know what I needed and wanted. And after that was taken care of, I wanted my enemies to feel me for every fight I had, for all the times I was jumped I wanted them to feel me.
I lasted six months in the streets, longer than most and found myself back in the halls but this time was different. I wasn’t scared and I felt at home. At that moment I knew I was broken, and with that came DKC for six months, CYA for four years and three CDC stays.
The longest I’ve ever stayed on the streets has been eleven months; just long enough to have a child.
How did I get here? Was the thought going through my mind as I laid on the hot floor gasping for blood escaping my body as I stared into the sky. Why me? Why did I have get out of the car as it drove away, leaving me to die? What felt like hours were only minutes as I was awaken by a officer rubbing my chest asking me to open my eyes, but my eye lids felt heavy and all I wanted to do was rest, and rest I did, but not before asking God to forgive me for my sins and allowing me to enter the gates of heaven.
My prayers were answered when I woke a week later from a coma with a 10% chance of surviving, and survive I did, only to have life taken away from me by a 15–40-year prison sentence. This was not only my lesson but also my awakening. I’ve found peace in not only my life and my journey. The pain and hurt I had to endure were steppingstones; the neglect and abandonment only made me stronger. I stopped using my hands and started using my head. Today when I ask how I’d I get here, the answer is I’m grateful to be here.
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