By the time I was 12, I didn’t just walk the streets—I belonged to them. I wasn’t just tagging walls—I was being initiated into a life where pain was proof, and loyalty meant everything. This chapter is about how I became “one of them”—and why that meant everything to a broken kid looking for worth.

I was in the backseat of a car, staring out the window. I was just a teenager—young, reckless, full of life—but already full of darkness too. The car was packed with gang members, laughter, and smoke. You could hear gang slander and deep inhales of whatever they were passing around.

But I was quiet.

I’d already proven myself in fights, shootouts, and robberies. I knew what was coming. And I was ready.

We pulled up to a house surrounded by more gang members. I walked past them smoothly, calmly, already separating myself from the crowd. That’s when one man pulled me aside.

His face was covered in tattoos. So was his body. When he spoke, he did so quietly, smoothly—but with words that carried weight. The way he moved, the way the others made way for him—it was like watching a mountain walk.

He handed me a royal blue bandana and told me it was a gift.

I looked at it like it was gold.

He motioned for me to follow him inside. I felt anticipation building inside, but I held steady. I had to stay disciplined.

Funny thing—he wanted to play dice with me. But the game wasn’t really about dice. He wanted to see where my mind was at. He was testing me. Getting close.

His smile looked sincere, but I knew he was evil. Still, I was intrigued. Power like his was something I wanted. Something I was chasing. He didn’t ask me anything. He just nodded toward the door.

I didn’t make it through the door. I was hit before I even crossed the threshold. I ended up outside, fists flying, trying to hold my ground. If I fell, the initiation would start over. Someone in the background counted slowly—each second stretching into an eternity. I was bleeding, swollen, and bruised, but I refused to fall.

When the counting stopped, the beating stopped. I was still standing.

And that was all that mattered.

The others embraced me as one of their own. They didn’t need words. The pain, the blood—that was the language of belonging.

Inside, I was proud. I had made it

Soon after, I found myself creeping through alleyways in enemy territory—armed, masked, and 12 years old. But what I didn’t realize was that this would be the first time I created art.

Read Part 3: War Zone Routine