I know I cannot carry hate in my heart or keep a chip on my shoulder if I want to be successful.
I was born and raised in Los Angeles, California, and I grew up between 59th and Crenshaw. My mom had a place in the Crip module in the Hyde Park area. My childhood was peaches and cream. I was a momma’s boy.
When I got to the age of five, my life started to fade. One week, I was supposed to spend the weekend with my cousins in Watts. Early that Saturday morning, my grandfather picked me up to take me to the doughnut shop, as he always did. He sat in his truck, looking deep in thought, and then told me that my mom was gone, that a tragedy had happened to her, and that she had gone to heaven.
At that age, it did not really sink in. I just went about my day with my grandfather. But when we got back to my grandparents’ neighborhood near San Pedro and 70th, the vibe was different. Family members were there, but they were silent, like they did not know how to talk to me. My grandmother sat me down and told me that my mom had been murdered, but reassured me that everything would be all right and that she would take care of me and my sister. I asked if I would ever see her again, and she said I would see her at the funeral home and that we would bury her afterward.
The day we buried her, I went up to the casket and kissed my mom for the last time. I told my grandmother that my mom felt cold. I told my mom that I loved her and that I would see her soon. We went to the gravesite and they buried her.
After my mom was murdered, it started to hit me that she was really gone and was not coming back. I became hyper and started having mood swings. I was taken to a psychiatrist and given medication, but I still struggled in school. I found out I had learning problems. I could not read or write and was diagnosed with dyslexia. My grandmother placed me in special education.
Throughout grade school, I kept up good grades, but my anger got the best of me. I had trouble hearing and understanding, which made me frustrated and led to temper tantrums. At home, my grandmother did her best to keep me grounded. She tried to explain things to me about school and worked hard to raise me right. Our household was peaceful. I had friends who also had learning disabilities, so I did not feel left out. Everyone was special in their own way. I knew I had to work harder to overcome my struggles.
To cope with my anger, I took art classes, played sports, did chores, and stayed busy with my family. My grandmother loved me like her own child.
When I turned fifteen, a whole new chapter began. I started hanging out with older guys in different environments. I started smoking weed, drinking, and staying out later than I should. I got into bad routines, hustling and stealing. I caught my first case at fifteen. Instead of learning from it and moving forward, I kept digging myself into a deeper hole. Alcohol played a big role, along with my anger.
I did not realize it at the time, but alcohol brought out a side of me that people did not want to be around. It made me someone I was not proud of. I ended up catching a bunch of cases, all tied to my drinking and anger. I have been incarcerated for most of my adult life. Altogether, I have only been out of prison for about two years as an adult.
I am not proud of that, but I am trying to better myself now. During this most recent incarceration, I have lost a lot of important people, people I cared about and who cared about me, who wanted to see me change. They are not here to see the new person I am becoming.
I know I cannot carry hate in my heart or keep a chip on my shoulder if I want to be successful. I am trying to be a better person and to understand myself more. I want to be welcomed, loved, and accepted by my family and peers as the good person they used to know me as.
