We learned firsthand that the struggle is real. Thinking back, though, I wouldn’t change shit. This is what makes me who I am today.
I remember growing up. I was around eight or nine years old, and my mom and pops were on their shit. My sisters and I had it good. Mom had a good job working for the U.S. Costumes, and Pops was an all-around hustler and provider. He never liked working for anybody, so all I remember about his work history was that he changed jobs a lot. But we never went without, and he wasn’t into any illegal shit. We always had nice clothes and shoes. My parents drove nice cars, and our house was the place to be. Mom loved her job. She liked mixing and mingling with her co-workers, a crowd my dad didn’t particularly care for. Because of their different social circles and constant arguments over this issue, their marriage started to crumble. They tried to hold on, but it was a lost cause. Pops drowned himself in alcohol to ease the pain, and Mom moved on with some lame-ass wannabe lawyer/jazz musician. She thought the grass was greener, but it was more like a weed-infested, trash-littered yard in front of a trap house. Life as we knew it changed for the worst for my sisters and me. We learned firsthand that the struggle is real. Thinking back, though, I wouldn’t change shit. This is what makes me who I am today. I wasn’t like most other boys my age. I was smart, quick, and mischievous. I enjoyed being outside but hated dirt, grass, and insects. Because of this, my mom’s boyfriend, Jeff, used to say I was soft and needed to be toughened up. That was his excuse for beating the shit outta me for any and every little thing. I remember stealing a pack of Bubble Yum from the grocery store once, and that led to one of the worst beatings I ever got from Jeff. I went into the closet in the bedroom I shared with my sisters and pulled out the pack of gum when my sister Joy walked in. “Ooh, Joseph, let me get a piece?” she asked. “Okay,” I replied. “But go get Jazzy so I can give her one too.” Joy ran off and came back a few seconds later with Jazzy. I gave them both a piece. Joy chewed and swallowed hers, then asked for another. “No, sis,” I said. “I just gave you one, and I only got two left.” “So? You can still give me one,” she argued. “No, Sis, you should’ve taken some when you were at the store too.” “Well, I didn’t, Joseph. And I’m-a tell if you don’t give me another piece.” “Okay, go tell then, and I ain’t giving you shit,” I said. So that’s what she did. Jeff stormed into the room, grabbed me by the collar, and tossed me into the center of the room. I got up, and he punched me in the chest so hard you’d think I was in a heavyweight boxing match. I curled up on the floor, lungs empty, gasping for breath like I was having a severe asthma attack. Jeff, my mom, and my sisters just watched as I tried to regain control of my breathing. Jeff took the gum and tried to give it to my sisters right in front of me. My sister Joy refused to take it and started crying. Jeff just laughed. Right then, I knew the true meaning of the word hate, and I swore to myself that if I ever got the chance, I was gonna kill his ass. About a month later, while my mom was at work, Jeff was watching us. “Look, kids,” he said. “I gotta handle some business today, and I don’t need any bullshit outta y’all, especially up-ass Joseph.” He stuffed a big bag of Mexican cess (Colombian weed) into a black briefcase, and then we headed out the door. We loaded into my mama’s beige ‘71 Oldsmobile Omega, and Jeff secured the briefcase in the passenger seat. Anita Baker’s Caught in the Rapture of Love blared through the 6×9 speakers as we drove to our destination. Once there, Jeff took some weed out of the briefcase and put it into a small Ziploc sandwich baggie. Before getting out of the car, he turned to us. “I’ll be right back. Don’t touch my briefcase.” But what I heard in my mind was: Joseph, soon as this nigga leave, pry that shit open and dump it out. So that’s what I tried to do. I got a screwdriver out of the glove compartment and went to work on the locks, but I couldn’t get it open. I fucked the locks up hella bad, though. I put the briefcase back just in time, seconds later, Jeff came back. He grabbed the briefcase, went to open it, and saw my handywork. His ass was hot!!! “Which one of y’all fucked with my shit?!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. None of us said shit, so he just kept on yelling. By then, people in the parking lot started looking over at the commotion, which saved me from getting beat right there, but it pissed Jeff off even more. “The fuck y’all looking at?” he yelled. “Mind y’all motherfuckin’ business!!!” Jeff jumped into the driver’s seat, started the car, and sped off like a bat outta hell. He threatened to beat all of us if nobody confessed. My sisters were so scared, Joy broke down crying, and little Jazzy, only three years old, followed suit. Not wanting them to pay for something I did, I manned up and confessed. “I did it. Man, leave my sisters alone!” I shouted. “I figured it was you,” Jeff said through clenched teeth. “When we pick up yo mama, yo ass is mine.” The rest of the ride was silent.
