Chapter 5: The Shadow Doctrine

Greatness wasn’t the only gospel preached in the streets. There was another form of admiration, one carved from fear, whispered in alleyways, and delivered through crumpled bills passed under the table. It was a power that ran through the veins of the neighborhood, a power that didn’t need to be earned by virtue or work. It was a power that came from survival—by any means necessary.

In the darkest corners of our block, the hustlers and dealers wore crowns too. They didn’t appear on TV, they didn’t wear shiny suits or stand in front of smiling cameras. They weren’t clean, and their power didn’t come from medals or trophies. But they ruled. They ruled in a way that didn’t need applause. Their magnetism wasn’t born from excellence, but from something much more dangerous: the kind of respect that comes when everyone around you knows you’re untouchable.

And that power? It bled into our collective dreams.

They were the anti-Michaels. The ones who didn’t show up to school dances, who didn’t care about a high school diploma. But they got just as much attention, if not more. They lived like legends, feared by everyone, and that kind of aura—how could you ignore it?

As a kid, I couldn’t understand it. How could two worlds—one fueled by excellence, the other by infamy—both lead to the same worship? How was it that the streets glorified these men, just like they glorified athletes who built their legacies with sweat and perseverance? And where did that leave me? I didn’t want to hustle. I didn’t want to fall into that life. But I also didn’t want to be invisible. I wanted to be seen.

That was the real fear—the fear of not being seen. To be nothing more than a shadow in a place where shadows were all anyone seemed to see. I couldn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t.

I watched my older siblings get saved—sent to live with my mother’s family, while I was cast into the cold arms of foster care. That exile cut deep. It wasn’t just about being separated from my family. It was about feeling like I wasn’t enough. That silent abandonment whispered something awful in my ear: Your parents chose their demons over you.

When I arrived at my father’s family home, I hoped for something different. A place of acceptance. A safe harbor. But what I got was harder than anything I had imagined. Dismissal. Disdain. The cold words of relatives who barely knew me and didn’t care to. I became the kid in the corner of the room—quiet, overlooked, just lucky enough to be allowed in.

And even though I was surrounded by people, I felt more alone than ever.

The only thing that soothed me in those dark nights was the dream.

She came every night. My mother. Her smile as radiant as I remembered it, her arms outstretched, pulling us out of the darkness. She lifted us up from addiction, from the pain that had swallowed our lives, into a place where joy wasn’t borrowed from anyone—it was ours.

But, like all dreams, morning always came.

And when the light broke through, the dream would fade.

She was gone. I was still here.

Inside me, something twisted.

Not hatred—not yet. Not anger, not revenge. It wasn’t that simple. But a vow was planted in my heart. A quiet promise that every slight, every insult, every wound would be remembered.

They thought I was just a child.

But children can hold fire.

And I carried mine like a blade. Not in my hands, but buried deep inside me. A quiet, seething flame that nobody could see. It wasn’t about lashing out, not yet. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just observed. I began to study people. To understand their weaknesses, their cracks. I saw their masks, and I saw how easily they could be pulled off.

I didn’t speak much. I didn’t say a word, even when I was being hurt. I just took mental notes. Every slight, every hurt, every moment I wasn’t treated right—I recorded it in my mind like a ledger of debts that would one day be paid. But it wasn’t about the immediate revenge. It was about timing. It was about waiting.

What they didn’t know was that I had made a choice.

If no one would protect me, then I would become someone who didn’t need protecting.

I wasn’t looking for pity anymore. I wasn’t the scared, broken kid who hoped someone would save him.

I was building something darker. Something stronger.

A new version of myself.

And from that foundation of pain, from the ashes of everything I had lost, I would carve out the next chapter of my life—not with innocence, not with naivety—but with intent. Intent to become something no one saw coming.

Because I knew something now. Greatness wasn’t just about the accolades or the recognition. Sometimes, greatness was about surviving when everything in you told you to quit. Sometimes, greatness was about learning to stand tall in a world that wanted you to stay small.

And I was done being small.