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Hope
My dad committed the crime of first degree murder on August 14, 1996, which is my birthday, and he went to prison.
I was moving around twenty, thirty, sometimes forty pounds of marijuana a month. I was eighteen years old. I had money. I had friends.
They pulled us out of the car. Made us get out of the car. They searched us and put us in handcuffs.
I know now that whatever dad has done in the past, he’s just as human as I am. Whatever my mom has done in the past, she’s just as human as I am. So there’s no reason to walk around with hate and anger towards them; withholdi...
My father took a baseball bat from the corner of the room and started beating my mother over the head, face, and upper body. The darkest day of my life was the day they lowered her body into the ground.
I ran from God. I’m just really grateful. I’m so grateful for what God’s been doing for me, for my family and for the people He has put in my life.
"From that time on I realized that you never know. The next time that you get off the airplane walking through the airport, you may be killed."
"The first time I heard my dad say he loved me, I was in jail.
"Despite my story, despite my character, all they saw was this scary black guy."
But I couldn’t escape the idea that suicide would be a good escape. It was like I was holding on the casket of my wife, and as morbid as it sounds was like I was being buried. I remember picturing myself breaking my grip with...