Chapter 1: The First Cut

July 6 1990 the Florida heat wrapped around us like a wet blanket. Sweat dripped down our backs, and the pavement shimmered like it was on fire. My brothers Puncho, Marcus and I had one goal in mind: relief. And we knew exactly where to find it.

Across the highway stood the Westgate apartment pool—a sparkling oasis, glistening under the unforgiving sun. It wasn’t meant for kids like us. Not by the rules, not by our class, not by our skin. But the water called to us like forbidden treasure. It wasn’t just a pool; it was freedom, a place where we could escape the weight of everything else.

With hearts pounding and adrenaline coursing through our veins, we jumped the fence like we had done countless times before. The thrill, the defiance—it was all part of the game. I felt alive in that moment. The boy I was, the child of a broken home, faded away. All that remained was a kid doing cannonballs with his brothers, laughing, carefree, like life wasn’t complicated.

But as I surfaced from the perfect cannonball, a rush of cool water around me, something shifted. My eyes caught a figure at the edge of the pool. For a split second, my heart skipped. I thought I’d seen her—the girl I’d been eyeing from afar. But as I swam closer, that illusion shattered like fragile glass. There, standing with arms crossed, was the stern figure of the security guard. His face was hard, unamused. His presence was like a shadow casting over our moment of freedom.

The sinking feeling in my stomach hit me like a stone. That’s when I knew. Our time in this little sanctuary of water was over. The guard’s voice rang out with an authority that pierced through the air, cutting our play short. And just like that, we were forced to leave, wet towels slung over our shoulders, our freedom slipping away with each reluctant step we took toward the fence.

That was the last time I remember feeling truly free.

As we made our way home, our towels heavy on our shoulders, something changed in the air. A stillness settled around us, like the world itself had paused—waiting for something to happen. The buzzing of the cicadas, the distant hum of traffic—it all seemed muted. The silence seemed to hold its breath.

And then, we saw it. Our house, just ahead, bathed in the warm light of the afternoon. But what struck me first were the flashing lights. Red. Blue. Red. Blue. They flickered on repeat, like an urgent warning, like a heartbeat that didn’t belong.

Neighbors stood scattered on the street, their eyes wide, their faces painted with the kind of concern that felt too heavy for words. The air was thick with whispers, and the police officers walking through the crowd looked too calm for the chaos that surrounded them. Then, my eyes found her.

My mom.

Her face was the same face I knew, yet it was different. Her usual energy—her vibrant spirit, the warmth that could light up a room—was gone. Instead, she stood there, motionless, her shoulders hunched, her eyes void of emotion. She looked as though she had already lost everything, and in that moment, I didn’t understand why. But I knew that something was wrong. Deeply wrong.

And then I saw them—child protection workers. Their jackets too official for this neighborhood, their faces too composed for the scene unfolding. They moved like they were part of the plan, part of the system. But I couldn’t process what that meant. What did it mean for us?

They took us. All nine of us.

Just like that. No warning. No packing bags. No time to prepare. I remember standing there, watching as my siblings were herded into the back of the van, all of us silent, confused, unsure of what was happening. The world had suddenly shifted, and I was powerless to stop it. I stood frozen in place, my mind screaming, This can’t be real. But it was. It was too real.

Before that moment, I had always thought I understood greatness. I had seen it on TV—Michael Jordan flying through the air like a god, Mike Tyson knocking out his opponents with one brutal punch. They made it look effortless. Clean. Powerful. They were heroes in my eyes, larger-than-life figures who seemed untouchable. I idolized them.

But as I watched my family be torn apart, as I was separated from my mother and siblings, I realized something I hadn’t before: greatness isn’t always about the lights and the trophies. Sometimes, greatness is simply surviving when you have every reason to give up. Sometimes, greatness is just keeping your soul intact when the world is determined to take it from you.

And I began to whisper to myself every morning, “I am great.” At first, it was a habit, a prayer I said without truly believing it. It was a promise I couldn’t break, even when the weight of the world made it feel like a lie. But I kept saying it, even if I didn’t believe in it yet.

Eventually, I taught my siblings to say it, too. I did it before any of us had anything to show for it, before I even thought I was worthy of greatness. Because by saying it, I gave us something to reach for, something to aspire to. Something to believe in.

The dictionary defines greatness as distinction, as being important. But for me, greatness was more complicated. It’s not just about standing above others; it’s about the battle. It’s a fight, a burden. It’s a dream soaked in blood, tears, and silence. It’s walking into a foster home as a broken child and walking out with your dignity. It’s choosing not to let the worst thing that ever happened to you define who you are.

Back then, I looked up to men like Jordan, not just for their accomplishments, but for how they turned pressure into diamonds. But I began to wonder, did even they have demons? Did they struggle in ways I couldn’t see? I wondered if greatness, in the end, might cost too much.

And that’s when I began to ask myself the hardest question of all: Why am I chasing greatness?

Is it legacy?
Is it revenge?
Is it the need to prove the world wrong?
Or is it just survival—making sure the kid who lived through that day is more than just a victim?

And that’s what this story is. It’s not just about survival.
It’s not just about pain.
It’s about becoming something no one saw coming.

Because through wounds, I create excellence.

And that day—July 6, 1990—was the first cut.