Without Bars: A Blackman's Journey From One Bridge to Another

My idea of identity is not my race, ethnicity and social class it is far more than that. It is formed by the way I was brought up, the people I interacted with, and the struggles I experienced throughout my life. My identity shifted as I grew up with age; sometimes molded into a refined self, while other times unable to relate to those around me, and my own physical body.

My identity formed my story. And while it may not be unique, it is relatable. A concept that attracts children, teenagers, and young adults to seek the answers to the vitalizing transitions they face throughout their lives. Whether it is an infant taking their first steps, a young teenager experiencing puberty, or a recent graduate entering the professional world each transition stirs questions, confusions, and incertitude in an individual. Likewise, the experiences I faced throughout my life allow such confusions to become more relatable and empathetic. They make readers and listeners become wary of their transitional isolationism and allow them to realize that they are not facing anything on their own. In fact, everyone around them has a story to tell, and reading others' stories may bolster confidence in the reader's own narrative.

Neglect, abandonment issues, struggle with addictions, and molestations are some of the major battles I fought as I grew up. I will not refer to them as pitfalls, conflicts, or brawls. Rather, they are encounters that allowed me to shape my current identity and maintain the relationships that I have today. I am now the Head Chef of over four major Drug Rehabilitation Centers in Southern California. However, I have not stopped living. I am still encountered with various experiences that continue to transform my identity. I am a dad, a brother, a son, a friend, a boss, and most of all, a human. I make mistakes, but I have allowed myself to do so. I take my life one day at a time and allow myself to reflect on those around me and myself to learn, experience, and grow.

I was only three in 1976. My mom and I lived in my grandparents' house situated in New Orleans, just outside the French Quarters. New Orleans, during those years, was less political and more cultural. Summertime in 1976 marked an aura of American-French amalgamates to commemorate the city's French origins. This meant public and private parties, the annual New Orleans Food Festival, and jazz concerts in honor of the late Louis Armstrong. However, I was only three and I can reminisce the culturally-rich city with my own memory waiting to see grandpa's old light blue Ford truck make its way home from work. I was inquisitive, eager, and curious. I always wondered what grandpa was bringing home in the midst of observing the truck every time. He worked at Taylor Driving Company and occasionally brought home fresh fish, crabs, and even a giant turtle. I would silently observe him dip the 'food' into boiling water, and magically transform into soup for our dinner later. Even in the silence, I spent tons of time with grandpa as mom wasn't around much. Perhaps, this answers the origins of my name it was grandpa who first owned it. And now I bear the responsibility of carrying it with me everywhere I go, to date.

For me, it's more than just grandpa's name. We had some fond memories together. He nicknamed me Boo and would call me every time he came back home from work. I'd run outside in anticipation, watching him smile as he hopped out of the truck with his one-piece jumpsuit that he occasionally wore. On weekends, he would take us to the ranch in Mississippi and I learned how to feed the animals and gather eggs out the chicken coupe. Later on, I found out that grandpa had two families and visited the other on the weekends. Even though I never met his other family, I still wanted to be like grandpa. He was well known and well-liked by everyone around us. And that's what I strove for respect the way he embodied it.

Dettagli