Issue 4 | 2023

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WRONG TO STRONG THE STORY OF JULIO (JC) ALMANZA My childhood was marked by unspeakable trauma. Long before I even reached double digits, my heart was hard, and my mind was confused. As far as I knew, it was up to me to survive in this harsh world. I was four when my father abandoned my mother, two sisters, and me. We moved in with an uncle, a man who molested, raped, and tortured me from then until I was nine. His favorite “game” was to hold me under ice-cold water in our bathtub until I passed out. Then, he’d revive me— and do it again. To this day, I’m petrified of water. For many years, every man I saw reminded me of my father and that uncle, and every woman reminded me of my mother. I hated her for not protecting me. She knew about the torture and sexual abuse yet did nothing to stop it. The collective actions and inactions of my family did a number on me psychologically. By the time I was 11, I was out on the streets looking for blood. Being a gangbanger on Chicago’s South Side gave me an avenue to take down my enemies—and I figured everyone was my enemy. On the streets, I thought I’d found a family who would have my back. But that wasn’t the case. Gang leaders were just happy to have another broken kid to do their dirty work, and I was eager to do it. It was easy enough to save some money and buy a handgun from a guy on the street. Like many involved with gang life, I caught multiple arrests and rotated in and out of juvenile delinquent facilities. Those experiences were only slaps on the wrist. Every time I was released, I went right back to my “family” and street life. Thinking back to those days, I’m sure my willingness to do anything I was asked was my way of trying to die. The pain in my heart and mind was intense; even at 11, I didn’t want to live. I tried to take my own life on many occasions. That willingness to do, however, grew me a reputation of loyalty, and at 16, I was brought into a new family, a drug cartel. PHOTO BY ARIZONA PORTRAITS 20 Issue 04 / 2023 VICTORIOUSLIVINGMAGAZINE.COM
My first position was as a mule, trafficking drugs across the Mexican border. But I was quickly promoted to manager, where I made sure the cars carrying drugs reached their destinations. As a manager, I was making $60,000 a week. I thought I was the man, hitting Chicago nightclubs wrapped in my chinchilla fur coat and draped in thick gold chains, but I was nothing more than a dog in heat. I had no respect for women. I found no satisfaction in all that money or those one-night stands. They brought only an insatiable desire for more. And in my greed, I got sloppy and caught the attention of federal officials. I was 17 years old when I was arrested in Mexico for international drug trafficking and sentenced to 15 years in a Mexican prison with no chance of parole. I was in for the shock of my life. I’ll never forget entering those prison gates holding my two bags of belongings. As the officer shoved me from behind and told me to find a place to live, all eyes were on me—the fresh meat. Seconds later, the scariest dudes I’d ever seen “welcomed” me to the compound. “What size shoe do you wear?” one of them asked, referring to my shiny, red Air Jordans. But before I could answer, he stabbed me with an icepick and took what he came for. I quickly learned that the name of the game was survival of the fittest. I wouldn’t have made it out alive if I hadn’t been in the prime of my youth and well-acquainted with violence. It also helped that my boss got word that I was locked up and hooked me up on the inside. This place was a city within a city with its own rules. I saw more drugs there than I’ve ever seen on the outside. Every night, kilos of coke were spread out on tables; nobody tried to hide what was going on, but I tried to hide to avoid the nightly drug fest. My efforts proved useless, however, because the head man always sent someone to find me, then forced me to participate. I was like his little pet. It took nearly four years for the US Consulate to rescue me from that violent prison. I was the last American transferred to a US federal facility through an inmate exchange program, and yes, that was a rescue. I thank God for His grace—if I hadn’t gotten out when I did, I’d be dead. Back in America, I landed in a federal prison, where I completed my 15-year sentence by serving one year. Every year I was in prison in Mexico counted as two years in the United States, and the court gave me an additional seven-year credit for the pain and suffering I had endured. I wasn’t free five minutes before I was arrested again on a gang-shooting charge from Chicago. The local judge released me on my own recognizance, and I immediately returned to Chicago and appeared before the court. Impressed with my timely appearance, the judge sentenced me to seven years, then put me into a military- style boot-camp program for young gang members. A full prison, however, meant an early release for me. I was 24 years old when I became a free man. I had spent the majority of my youth Above: Not long after this picture was taken, a family member began severely abusing little JC. This long-term abuse left internal wounds that caused JC and others much harm. behind bars and wondered if I’d ever experience anything other than darkness and pain. I was desperate for a new life but had no idea how to create one. I tried getting a legitimate job, but no one would hire me because of my criminal record. Countless rejections left me feeling hopeless, and I returned to the only life I knew. The streets and my boss welcomed me with open arms, and just like that, I was back in the game, moving heavy weight. I went from having nothing to owning a restaurant and a house in the suburbs. When I met a girl whose father could expand my drug distribution operation, I married her. Every action I took was a calculated move. My inner demons grew to new proportions during this season of my life, as did the madness. Things were going south, and I lived in constant anxiety, always looking over my shoulder. I’d been stabbed, beaten, shot at, tied up, and gagged more times than I could count. And now, my boys were trying to kill me. After escaping eight attempts on my life Below: JC began his cycle of incarceration as a teen, serving time in US juvenile centers, a Mexican prison, and US state and federal prisons. Only when he met Jesus Christ was the cycle broken. VICTORIOUSLIVINGMAGAZINE.COM Issue 04 / 2023 21
Page 1 and 2: REAL PEOPLE | REAL STORIES | REAL H
Page 3 and 4: ISSUE 4, OCTOBER 2023 “Surely it
Page 5 and 6: ISSUE 4, OCTOBER 2023 CONTENTS PHOT
Page 7 and 8: Through the stories of Victorious L
Page 9 and 10: STEPPING FORWARD ONE IN A WORLD OF
Page 11 and 12: the city would visit my neighborhoo
Page 13 and 14: TRANSFORMED LIVES You Have a Family
Page 15 and 16: TRANSFORMED LIVES word “orphan”
Page 17 and 18: PHOTOS COURTESY OF THE BYRD FAMILY
Page 19: STEPPING FORWARD Be the One to Tell
Page 23 and 24: PHOTO BY ARIZONA PORTRAITS cessful
Page 25 and 26: TRANSFORMED LIVES The Prison of Bit
Page 27 and 28: PHOTO COURTESY OF STEF CABANISS But
Page 29 and 30: STEPPING FORWARD Look for the Bless
Page 31 and 32: PHOTO COURTESY OF BILL FAY I had no
Page 33 and 34: WANT TO KNOW JESUS? “Come to me,

Issue 4 | 2023

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