The Beginning...

Instinctively, when I have to type up an autobiography I fill it with a sugar-coated list of facts and figures, leaving out of course, the harsh reality of my past.  This time, in a desire to dig deeper and possibly help heal a few still open wounds, I have chosen to thrust upon you the reality that is me.


I will keep the foundation of my childhood short. My parents spawned me while they were yet children themselves. My mother was a mear seventeen year of age and my father twenty-one.  I come from a background of ill educated people.  My mother never finished high school, and in the five years it took for my father to finish, he still remained illiterate. My mothers’ teen years were spent dabbling in drugs and sex, while my fathers’ were spent in a drunken haze.

I am the eldest of two children, by a span of six years.  While in her early twenties, my mother had to undergo a partial hysterectomy for medical reasons. This unfortunate event left her without a uterus. However, she still somehow managed to conceived my brother, to the disbelief of her doctor. The entire pregnancy wasn’t without complications though. My brother was born a month premature and jaundiced. He was a medical miracle, and the stigma of being special stuck to him like glue. Though early for the party and yellow, from birth on my parents believed my brother was “called of God” and that he was going to be something special. Their favoritism for him was clearly shown and grew stronger with each passing year.