Life in the Streets

Life in the streets was all I had. I found love, power, and respect through violence and evil, all in the name of survival. I looked up to the big homies, and my color—navy blue—became my lifeline. I was so deep into it that I even felt like I bled blue. The number 13 was engraved in my heart, and I loved it so much that homies could see it in my eyes. I lived for 13. It was all I knew. Life in the streets became the only thing I loved, the only thing that breathed in my heart.
I became a gangster and never looked back, losing myself to the streets. I strove to be hard, to earn my respect, and it was an honor to serve 13. If everything was lost for 13, then so be it—it was my destiny, and I made my own. Even if I lost my life, I was down for the cause. If I got incarcerated, it was just part of the lifestyle. I knew the consequences, and I wore them like a badge of honor. I smiled in handcuffs, laughed when I hurt someone for my gang, and felt powerful when I stood over a person and took their chain, giving orders for someone else to beat them.
I even gave that chain to a girl, laughing as I did it. When I was sentenced to 25 years in prison, I smiled. It was an honor to serve my gang. I was proud to throw my gang signs and live this life to the fullest—proud to be part of 13.
But along the way, I lost myself. I didn’t care about anything but the gang. Pieces of me were chipped away, bit by bit, as I became blind to anything but the gang life. I thought it was right. I thought it was normal. I thought it was honorable to serve, live, and die for 13. But now I see how stupid it all was.
What power do I have in prison? If I die, does 13 come with me? Will my homies even care? Will they pay for my funeral? The street life took everything from me. It hurt me more than anything else ever could. It wasn’t righteous. It wasn’t honorable. Now I sit here, mourning those lost to gang violence, cynical from betrayal by the very people I once called homies. I’ve lost my ability to smile, to laugh. Now I’m cold as ice, broken, and forgotten in prison. I see the truth of this life and what it’s done to me. This gangster life—this street life—is nothing but destructive. To live it, you have to lose yourself, sacrifice everything, and for what? Pain and hardship.
I chose this life in search of money, power, respect, and women, only to realize it was all for nothing. All of it was stupid. I realized this through a woman, though it’s late—but it’s never too late. I still have a chance. And I’ll take this chance to prove that life in the streets doesn’t define who you are. The street life is your past, but despite it, you can become a better person.
I’m no longer the man I once was. In my heart, I know this, even if people still look at me like I’m the same person. My life in the streets doesn’t define me. It’s my past, and I refuse to live that life anymore.