I lived in the city of Washington, D.C., for a while.
Not the polished postcard version, but the part most people try to forget — Dodge City, they called it.
And it lived up to the name.
You didn’t just survive there. You learned to dodge everything: pain, bullets, betrayal, the law… even yourself.
We lived at 2514 Sheridan Road, in Southeast D.C.
I was just five years old when I had to memorize that address. Not because it was cute — but because you needed to know where home was in case life ever left you stranded.
From the outside, our house looked small — just another beat-up home tucked into a rough neighborhood.
But inside, it stretched. There was more room than you’d think. More laughter than we probably deserved.
That house taught me something: Even when life looks cramped and cold from the outside, there’s always something deeper inside — if you make it that far.
The streets around us were something else.
Fights, death, sirens, the police pulling up five cars deep — it was normal.
You didn’t react. You adjusted.
But my mother saw what it was doing to Hasahn and me.
One day she looked at my stepfather and said,
“It’s time to go. I’m not raising these boys in this mess.”
So we packed up. Left D.C.
Moved across the line to Seat Pleasant, Maryland, in Prince George’s County.
We thought it would be better.
We were wrong.
I remember my first day at Carmody Hills Elementary, fourth grade.
It was hot — Maryland heat, where the sun sits on your shoulders and doesn’t move.
Our new house was right across the street from the school, but everything still felt far from safe.
After class, I was walking home when two boys approached me:
Bobby Vanfield and Billy Williams.
Bobby was tall with a chipped tooth — looked like he stayed in trouble.
Billy was short, strong, and quiet — the kind you don’t underestimate.
“Who you?” Bobby asked.
But I didn’t know them. And coming from D.C., trust wasn’t something I gave away.
So, I got smart. Said something slick.
It was instinct — my tongue had become my shield.
Bobby grinned.
“Shorty, you got a slick mouth. Keep it up, and I’m gone let Billy beat you up.”
I snapped back with something else — can’t even remember what.
But I remember what came next.
The fight was on.
I held my own.
Billy was strong, but I wasn’t weak.
I came from Dodge City — I had fire in me.
Next thing I knew, Uncle Danny came running outside and pulled me off Billy.
He was visiting from West Virginia, just before heading off to boot camp.
He had just joined the Army and was spending a little time with us before they shipped him off.
He got between us, firm but calm, and told the boys to leave.
But Bobby…
Bobby didn’t respect anything. Not even grown men.
He laughed in my uncle’s face and said,
“Old man, he started the fight. You need to mind your business.”
That stuck with me.
It was the first time I saw how deep the streets had sunk into us.
Age didn’t matter. Uniforms didn’t matter. Manners didn’t matter.
All that mattered was dominance. Survival. Ego.
Even away from D.C., I had brought D.C. with me.
After that, I learned to trust nobody but myself.
That’s the only way a man survives in the streets.
Always keep your eyes open, your mouth guarded, and your next move quiet.
I lived by a rule I learned in the streets:
Don’t let your right hand know what your left hand is doing.
Because even your own left hand might get jealous that your right hand got in the sleeve first.
I was always a quiet kid.
Never popped off unless I was pushed.
But somewhere along the way, I stopped waiting to be pushed.
I got into the gang life.
Started selling drugs.
Doing the unimaginable — right under my mother’s nose.
She thought she was raising a saint.
But she was living with a monster.
At sixteen, I thought I had life figured out.
I took a trip to Texas one summer, and I brought all that D.C. and Prince George’s County energy with me.
I thought I was tough.
But I found out real fast — tough people live everywhere.
Just like they’ll bury you in D.C., they’ll bury you somewhere else just as quick.
That summer, I learned two things:
One, toughness ain’t regional. Pain is everywhere.
And two, how to survive.
I was almost shot and killed — twice.
And that changes you.
The reflection of my life feels like yesterday, but when I look up now…
You can only run so far before life catches up.
And for me, it did — in the form of pain, close calls, and a mirror I could no longer avoid.
I had survived the streets. Survived the silence. Survived the violence.
But I hadn’t yet survived myself.
All the hustle, the anger, the pride — it weighed on me.
I wore it like armor, but inside I was broken.
People thought I was hard.
But I was hurting.
They saw confidence — but what they didn’t see was the guilt, the fear, the sleepless nights replaying the moments I should have died.
I had dodged bullets.
I had dodged prison.
But I couldn’t dodge the truth.
Something had to change.
I remember the moment it started.
It wasn’t dramatic.
No lightning bolt. No bright light from heaven.
It was quiet.
Just me, sitting alone… tired.
I was tired of looking over my shoulder.
Tired of pretending I was in control.
Tired of seeing my mother’s eyes filled with disappointment, and knowing I was the reason.
Tired of hearing God’s voice and pushing Him away like He was the enemy.
Tired of being a stranger to my own soul.
So, I stopped. Just stopped.
And I whispered something I hadn’t said in years:
“God… if you’re still there, I need you.”
That was the beginning of my awakening.
He didn’t hit me with thunder — He answered me with grace.
He didn’t shame me — He lifted me.
He didn’t remind me of who I was — He showed me who I could become.
It wasn’t easy.
I didn’t change overnight.
But I was no longer running.
I started showing up — for myself, for my family, for my purpose.
I went back to school.
Got educated.
Got humble.
Started helping others — not hurting them.
And the more I gave, the more I was filled.
Not with money or attention, but with peace.
Today, I stand as a man who remembers where he came from —
Sheridan Road. Seat Pleasant. Texas heat and D.C. fire.
I carry it all —
Not as baggage, but as a banner.
Because the boy who fought on the sidewalk,
The teen who moved weight in silence,
The young man who trusted nobody…
He became someone new.
Not perfect.
But redeemed.
I hold a bachelor’s degree in business information systems, an MBA, and another MBA with an emphasis in Finance and Accounting.
I’m a supervisor at my job, working to assist the same kind of community I once terrorized.
I’ve been here 15 years — and whenever the door opens for me to share my story, my failures, and my redemption — I tell it.
I don’t want anyone to go through what I’ve been through.
I try to be a beacon of light, a voice of warning and hope.
Because now I know — truly and deeply —
God is the only way.