At this point in my life, I certainly do not profess to be a writer. And I am far from a genius. In fact, I am no different from the millions of other young black men who have walked the face of the earth; and like them I have encountered many hurdles. These words originally started as a journal for my sons to read in case anything ever happened to me while I was here – in prison. So that they would not be totally in the dark as to whom I am/was. Kind of like when a soldier goes off to war and writes a “death letter”, just in case. This is not only a journey through my life – it is also a voyage through my mind. By age nineteen I had close to thirty addresses or places of residence, attended twenty plus schools, slept with over one hundred women, resulting in three sons, violently assaulted numerous people, failed multiple suicide attempts, got sentenced to thirty years in prison, and somewhere along the way I managed to get myself kidnapped and tortured.
Fascinating look at another side of my Rockford, Illinois hometown. I spent most of my Rockford time on the NE side, so this glimpse into the harrowing life across town is eye-opening and evocative. Rayshawn Smith is an an excellent writer. Clear prose. Completely unpretentious. I wish I had read this book a few decades earlier.