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How God used a stiff prison sentence and a church invitation to rescue me from a downward spiral of guns, drugs, and despair.
Growing up as a Black American male in a rough Seattle neighborhood almost doomed my future. In many ways I was marked for failure. Even a violent early death.
My mother, a nurse, worked long hours providing for my sister Angela and me after our father left us. Although he lived 10 blocks away, he was never active in our lives, financially or otherwise.
My mother loved us and disciplined us, but I needed a strong and responsible male figure in my life. None of my friends were raised in a traditional two-parent home, either.
Racial disparities surfaced early on. In my preteens I learned how differently teachers disciplined white and Black kids. They singled us out more.
Yet I never crusaded against racial injustice. It just seemed normal for our community. The police hassled us regularly for just hanging out at a bus stop or street corner. Sometimes three or four squad cars pulled up with officers jumping out, yelling and cursing, to search our pockets for no good reason.
Seduced by the streets
In elementary and middle school, I made good grades and obeyed my mom’s warnings to behave. She never allowed me to stay out late in the streets. I was more or less a loner, rarely getting into trouble.
Things changed, however, when I entered high school in 1981 after being bussed into the suburbs. I began hanging out with the wrong guys. The gang culture, drugs, and partying eventually seduced me. I loved hip-hop music and street dancing. At 16, I joined the Emerald Street Boys Rap group. We performed around the city and made an album. Then I slowly lost interest in school, skipped classes, and quit altogether, worrying my mother.
California gangs began migrating to our neighborhood, where they sold cocaine and bred more violence. I ...
from Christianity Today Magazine
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