I was born as a silver-spoon street kid. My Dad came from nothing, built a business and was a millionaire by the time he was 36 years old. I remember driving to private school in his red Porsche convertible, blasting the Rolling Stones. We didn’t listen to the Beatles in my house; it was Uncle Mick, Berry White and lots of Rick James. Grit came from hard work coated with low self-esteem. I witnessed my parents keeping up with the Joneses only to give birth to a wheelchair bound son. Game over. No one asks for a handicapped kid for Christmas. But we got one. My brother had a disease that affects 1 in a 100,000,000 men. That’s right one hundred million. We’d have a better chance winning the lottery.
Unfortunately our lottery ended in the 90’s when my father sunk his life savings into building a big home – when the market tanked so did all our money, my parents marriage and sadly, my brother’s life. He ended up passing on from what we all believe to be an out-of-body experience and with it, passed the world I knew into a downhill slide. I believe the death of my brother set the tone for the next 20 years of my life; I internalized it and blamed myself for it. I also set off on a path of self-destruction and exploration that included, but was not limited to, copious amounts of drugs. Trust me, I’m not crying the blues. In fact, I’m grateful for all of it. I don’t think I would be able to write in such a sassy tone if it wasn’t for all my bottoms.
What inspires me are the people that rise from the nothingness of their experience; people who are dealt blows and beat odds. People who make stacks of money the right way (and sometimes the wrong way too). I’ve always admired guts. As a lady, I’ve taken risks and have racked up more failures than victories. I victimize myself because of it – then try and say “turn that victim into a victor!” Even when I don’t believe it.
My goal is to meld my street smarts with business acumen and sell myself as a package deal. I’d like to write, teach, speak in front of people and tell jokes about all the cocaine I did in Miami. I want to be improperly proper; a juxtaposition of smarts, sass and balls. I’d like to do it successfully and then tell others how to do it. Don’t ask me how because I really don’t know. This not knowing keeps me up at night and makes me sick to my stomach every morning. It also keeps me going. Going and going and going; it’s a compulsion, my hustle. Yet, it gives me a reason to believe that I can. Can what? Who knows. I can only trust that I’ve gotten this far and have far to go. As long as I keep my shit straight and my eye on the ball, there’s no reason that all my bottoms won’t get me to the top of my game.