Concrete Lessons

I was born with no light shining on me. My first memories are shadows - not of warmth or laughter, but of absence, struggle, and chaos. The city of New York in the 1980s was already a dangerous classroom, teaching survival before I could even walk. Crack cocaine was introduced into our neighborhoods, crime became normal, and fear hung in the air like a permanent fog.
My mother went to jail when I was three years old. I stayed with her friends, people who should have cared, but instead left me feeling abandoned and alone. I learned early that trust was fragile, and the world often punished innocence. Eventually, foster care became my reality, a revolving door of strangers, judgment, and neglect.
Soundview projects became my home. I learned to steal cars, bikes, and even rob kids at the age of eleven. One of my mother's friends violated me, shattering any sense of safety I had left. I grew up believing that life was unfair, that everyone would let you down, and that survival meant doing whatever it took.
By the time I was 23, my mother went back to jail. Homeless, angry, and ready to give up on life, I stumbled upon basketball coaching - the first thing that showed me a path beyond survival. Slowly, it became my lifeline, guiding me toward education, purpose, and the beginnings of a legacy.
This is my story.