While we may not have direct control over government politics, white corporate America, educational institutions, Hollywood, the judicial system, or financial institutions, there is one thing we can control: our own lives and the choices we make. I understand that our circumstances—such as police brutality, drugs, unemployment, poverty, broken families, inadequate education, and gang violence—can heavily influence these choices.
Accepting personal responsibility can be difficult because it's easy to fall into the mindset of being a victim. The attitude of “I have a felony conviction and can’t find a job, so I’m going back to the streets” is one that too many young men adopt. For many, the fear of incarceration is no longer a deterrent. Instead, imprisonment has become a badge of honor, a rite of passage that some young men proudly embrace.
It's challenging to maintain hope when your future feels unclear, unpredictable, and bleak due to an arrest record that leads only to rejection in the job market. The need to survive can drive individuals to desperate actions, making it easy for them to fall back into the traps of the criminal justice system. Society seems to view prisoners as necessary deposits, as there is a continual need to fill newly built jail cells. Given society's refusal to rehabilitate ex-felons and the tendency of parole officers to violate them over minor infractions, it appears that Black men are valued more inside prisons than outside.
Breaking the cycle of recidivism requires assistance, incentives, courage, perseverance, and family support. It’s easy for someone on the outside to tell a young man not to get caught in this trap, but from the inside, all he sees are roadblocks. With local governments not rushing to provide assistance, it falls to the individual to take action.
Growing up in a poor urban inner-city community, I faced daily peer pressure and temptation. I had to learn where to draw the line between right and wrong. My friends included both "good" kids and "bad" kids, and I welcomed friendships with all of them. Many of the cool kids engaged in risky behaviors while the good ones were often seen as nerds. As an athlete, I found acceptance in both groups, but I chose to hang out with the cool kids.
Group membership was based on the ability to fit in. I was involved in activities such as smoking weed, drinking alcohol, and fighting. As I entered high school, the requirements for fitting in shifted from being merely deviant to engaging in full-blown criminal activities like gang involvement, gun violence, drug dealing, and car theft.
I faced a critical choice: to be “cool” or to be my own man. Fortunately, I chose the latter, while some friends remained trapped in that life. One by one, they were caught, either going to jail or being murdered on the streets. I still stayed in touch with my surviving friends, but they felt trapped in a life that led to death and destruction, knowing it was just a matter of time before their number came up.
My best friend, Edie, whom I had known since elementary school, was one of those who couldn’t walk away. He had faced life-threatening situations multiple times: he’d been shot three times, stabbed inches from his heart, and had overdosed on THC four times, often finding himself in and out of detention by age 15. I started calling him “Cat Man” because he seemed to have nine lives. At that young age, I lacked the wisdom to offer advice that might persuade him away from a life of crime, but my loyalty to him was unwavering. Despite my mother’s disapproval, we remained close until his tragic death. At 17, he was murdered and left in the same streets to which he had pledged his loyalty.
Of the eight childhood friends I grew up with, five were murdered, and two are missing. I consider myself fortunate to have survived. We were just innocent children; our only crime was being born Black. The ghetto became our prison, with each of us held captive by poverty, drugs, and violence. Every day, we walked side by side with death, unaware of how it would eventually shape our futures. Surviving against all odds became a struggle that each of us faced.
I often reminisce about my childhood friends and the fun we shared—playing tackle football, having rock fights, wrestling, boxing, playing dodgeball, racing, and hiding. Little did we know that these games were preparing us to battle in an asphalt jungle known as the ghetto.
