I am not a fabrication. I am not poor structure. I live life by trial and error. I’ve experienced a lot more than the average mid 20 year old. I’ve been stepped on and I’ve also done the walking. I’ve been happy without help of people, money, and other dependencies. I have morals. But yet, I devote my life to helping people who don’t deserve it. I’ve been disrespected. I’ve been labeled. I’ve been misunderstood. I’ve been misinterpreted. I’ve been confused. I am Montague. I am Capulet. I am relish. I am mustard. But I am not mayonnaise. I am 3 letters. I am the Definition. Now pass the ketchup. 

I guess I’m supposed to write something about myself here. Come back later and there will be something bedazzling here.

PART 1.

As a young tot, being first generation of the family living in the US (came here when I was 3 months old), we moved a lot. I really don’t remember much prior to living in East Boston except one moment in Chelsea where my grandfather saved me when our house burnt down to the ground. I spend about 8 years in Maverick projects (public housing). Did I mention that the amazing real estate was surrounded by a heavily polluted Boston Harbor (Where I almost drowned in but this fat guy who buys everyone ice cream saved me… I think I tasted the harbor… yuck)? And just across the street was a park with a basketball court and an abandoned tennis court populated by crack smoking Spaniards. At that age, I actually thought they were smoking pipes with tobacco in it. Ah, the age of innocence. The same park where my friends and I smoked our first cigarette, well… actually we technically didn’t smoke it… we didn’t inhale but at least we actually THOUGHT we were smoking (LOL). The same place where I heard neighbors scream “He’s got a gun” and watch adults scramble to get all the kids into buildings. The same place where I discovered what racism meant. The same place where I learned how to ride a bike - I don’t even remember who’s bike it was. The same place where my neighbor’s chihuahua (Yes, the damn taco bell dog) bit me in the face after my neighbor told me to hold it to keep it away from his little brother. The same place where my neighbors upstairs (primarily Aaron - the first black person I’ve ever met at that age and who watched out for me) would call me mini bruce lee. The same place where I got the deep scar in my left knee climbing through a hole in a wired fence. The same place where I use to ignorantly walk on abandoned docks with little or no foundation left without thinking if I were to fall into the water. The same place where I climbed rocks surrounding the harbor where I slipped and received a nice little scar on my chin. The same place where I first witnessed some guy mix music with some tape cassette player with two decks. The same place where the local gang almost jumped me in the project hallway for a dime (yes, 10 freaking cent) in my pocket. But it’s hard to summarize 8 years so I’ll just leave it with the place of my victories and my defeats. The place of my upbringing.

Moving out was hard. I think at that age, I actually broke into tears when Mom and Dad told us we were moving. I remember packing all of our stuff into that hideous wagon that my father bought - yeah, you know… the old chrysler wagon with the wood panel trimming on the side (…disgusting). It was our Jeffersons moment - part one of our “moving on up” days. To Malden, we headed.

To be continued…