Issue 2 | 2023

PHOTO BY GERI SIMPKINS PHOTOGRAPHY
Mom’s addiction and our life in the projects exposed
me to many evils. Our neighborhood was full
of evil, drugs, and crime. When I was five years old,
I witnessed a drive-by shooting. Not long after, my
best friend was shot and killed. Those traumatic
experiences hurt my young heart. Mom ran with
a tough crowd, and sometimes terrible things
happened to her.
I was the most afraid and vulnerable at night. I
would lie on my bed and listen to the noises from
the street, neighboring apartments, and sometimes,
my own home. Yelling. Screaming. Gunfire.
When Mom gave birth to my sister, I was the
one who changed my sister’s diapers, warmed
her bottle, and fed her in the middle of the night
because Mom was incapacitated. And I was only
seven years old.
Eventually, Mom moved us from the projects of
Virginia to North Carolina to be near family. But
her addiction and poverty moved with us.
Please understand: I love my mother. Today she
is free from her addiction, and we have a good
relationship. I share these details only to lay the
foundation for my story and to testify to the goodness
of God. He rescued my grandmother, mother,
and me from destructive generational patterns
and choices. But we went through a lot to get there.
With time, fear and loneliness turned into
disappointment. Every time Mom chose crack
over me, I felt let down. Her addiction resulted
in countless broken promises and a lack of basic
necessities. Disappointment eventually turned
to resentment.
I was angry with Mom for not providing for
us. I resented her because I had to care for my
siblings, even though I loved them. While that
responsibility probably saved my life by keeping
me busy and off the streets, at the time, it felt my
childhood had been stolen from me.
Mom’s addiction and eventual incarceration
meant my siblings and I were bounced around
between relatives in North and South Carolina.
I’m thankful for the intervening love and security
Grandma and her sister, Aunt Sarah, gave us, but
moving meant new neighborhoods and schools. It
seemed I was always the new kid and people were
always sizing me up. My self-esteem was almost
nonexistent. Mostly, I stayed to myself and kept
my mouth closed.
Going from Mom’s house, where there were no
rules, to Aunt Sarah’s, where there were rules and
consequences, was not easy. I didn’t like being
told what to do and became rebellious. My new
elementary school had to develop an in-school
suspension program just for me.
About that time, movies glorifying gang life
became popular. Suddenly, my life experiences
were right there on the big screen, and I realized
how much power someone from the hood—like
me—could have over others. Dark thoughts and
ideas swirled through my head as I imagined what
it’d be like to be a killer. Maybe I’d be a hitman.
By seventh grade, I was carrying knives, threatening
classmates, and smoking weed. I liked being
high. I owned my first handgun by eighth grade,
and in ninth, I swung a machete at a man’s head.
Right: Young Mike
was exposed
to many evils
growing up that
often turned
playgrounds into
places of violence.
Far right: Mike
filled a parental
role with his
younger siblings.
Pictured here
with his younger
brother.
VICTORIOUSLIVINGMAGAZINE.COM
Issue 02 / 2023
17