Brotherhood and Violence: A Reflection on Choices

When I scurried to the main control building to exit the prison over 10 years ago, I carried with me a skeletal blueprint and an unwavering determination to become the best version of myself. Countless nights were spent awake, staring into the darkness, reviewing the choices I had made and the experiences that shaped me. It was during these moments of introspection and retrospection that I began to recognize a behavior pattern within myself.

Growing up in pre-gentrified Bushwick, I came of age during one of the most violent times in America—the Crack Era. Heroin heavily influenced my neighborhood, the same streets where Carmine Galante, the acting boss of the Bonanno crime family and a notorious narcotic trafficker, met his demise. Whispers of a lingering mafia presence, still supplying heroin, permeated the streets of my youth.

As I lay on my bunk, gazing into the darkness, I began to realize how Bushwick had influenced and facilitated my journey to prison. In my world, brotherhood and violence walked hand in hand. I witnessed and participated in countless fights. Although I never considered myself a violent person, I found myself immersed in violence time and time again. The violence gradually escalated to razors and gun barbarity. For me, it was about loyalty—standing by my brothers at any cost.

Yet no one ever told me about the heavy penalties I would one day pay for embracing this way of thinking. This realization fuels my passion when speaking to young people involved in gangs. I pour my energy into them, striving to make them aware of the potential consequences that lie ahead. I aim to be a model, shedding light on what awaits them at every step of their journey should they choose not to veer onto a different path.

If they take heed, then I have done my duty. But if they don't, perhaps my words will echo in their minds as they find themselves on my old bunk, staring into the darkness.

Street life has real-world consequences that young people don’t realize until it’s too late. They believe those who swore loyalty are Aces, but prison testifies that most were Jokers. This is why most Credible Messengers are mature in age. Time has seasoned them well with specks of gray, disappointment, pain, and lost time, enabling them to share the greatest truths.

It isn’t until you see a high-ranking gang member break down in tears, admitting he doesn’t want this life for his young sons, that you truly realize there has to be a better way. Even in that moment, with no hope of freedom, I found myself envisioning what that better way could be. But I was trapped, not just by my circumstances, but by my own sentimental understanding.

When I walked out of prison on September 10, 2014, I knew I was embarking on a journey I couldn’t yet see clearly. But I felt a deep duty to become the best version of myself—the version I had spent 19 ½ years working toward. The younger me was counting on it, needing that redemption not just for myself, but for all the young men who modeled their behavior after a less worthy version of who I once was. Many of them ended up with the same fate I did. Street stupidity is a cycle.

When I pass on to history, let it be known that I was a flawed man with a golden heart. I was loyal to others but disloyal to myself, paid the price, and gave the street code more than it ever gave me. My father never saw the man I could have become. But I challenged myself, restrained the gangster within as best I could, and gave back to society to the fullest of my ability.