"Still Standing: BUT WHO'S listning

When I was growing up in the Bronx in the 1970s, life was anything but easy.
It was a serious challenge just to get the attention I needed as a child.
The kind of attention that tells you: You matter. You're loved. You're protected.

But I didn’t feel that.
So, I went searching for it.
I looked for love, support, and guidance from the streets—from people I thought were my friends.
They welcomed me, yes—but led me down a dark and dangerous road.

I was fearless back then.
But even the fearless get scared.
There were many moments when I silently wished for help from my mother, my father, my sisters, my brothers...
But that help never came.

Every day I stepped outside, the streets threw a new challenge at me.
And though it was scary, there was a thrill to it—doing things that older people were doing.
Trying to grow up too fast.
But what I was doing… was wrong.
And I paid for it—with more than 26 years of my life behind bars.

Most of my family—and their friends—didn’t expect me to make it past 14.
They saw the path I was on, and they just knew I wouldn't survive it.

But I did.
The year is now 2025.
50 years later.

And still… that stigma from the past follows me.
It haunts me in subtle ways. In deep ways.

Sometimes, I still find myself reaching for the love I never got as a child.
Hoping to find that support in the people who say they love me.
But so often, they look past me.
They say they love me—but don’t support the man I’ve become.
They don’t acknowledge the work I’ve done to change.
To grow.
To lead.
To give back.

That hurts.
That’s the kind of pain that can’t be seen on the outside.

It's depressing to know I have so much family…
and yet, I’m still overlooked.

But let me say this clearly:
I’m still here.
I’m still standing.
And I’m still working to be better, not just for me—but for those who come after me.

Because the story doesn’t end in the streets.