Once upon a life

There was a time when my soul was heavy—buried beneath years of pain, violence, addiction, and loss. I walked through shadows, convinced that darkness was all there would ever be. I was broken—not just in body, but in spirit. The streets raised me, the struggle shaped me, but it was Jesus who saved me. Jesus didn’t meet me at the altar first. He met me in my mess. He found me in the lowest places, when I wasn’t even looking—when I didn’t believe I was worth saving. He didn’t ask for perfection; He just asked for surrender. And when I finally let go, He took my ashes and gave me beauty. He took my shame and gave me peace. He took my past and gave me purpose. Looking back, I see His hand in every moment I should have died but didn’t. Every jail cell, every hospital bed, every time I woke up sick and tired of being sick and tired—He was there. Even when I cursed Him, He covered me. Even when I pushed Him away, He stayed close. That’s who Jesus is. He didn’t just change my life—He gave me ...

We used to hoop every day after school at Winter Gardens Elementary. That blacktop was our ritual, our peace, even though we were deep in enemy territory. Winter Gardens 13 ran that neighborhood—a rival gang and a mortal enemy of Ford Maravilla. Still, we played ball there every day until the sun dipped behind the rooftops, the sky melting into orange and purple. It wasn’t smart, but we were young and didn’t care. We always came strapped, just in case. We'd blaze between games, post up on the edge of the court, then jump right back in. For three months, nothing ever popped off. Just basketball, weed, and trash talk. But then one day, everything shifted. Someone's cousin called out from the side, "Hey, watch out—Felipe’s getting into it with some fool from Winter Gardens." I ran over and saw Felipe squared up, yelling at this guy, telling him this wasn’t his neighborhood anymore. That he better get the fuck out. The dude looked like he wanted to test it—until Felipe fl...

Getting clean was one thing. Learning to live clean—that’s been a whole different story. When I first put down the dope and walked away from the street life, I thought the hardest part was over. I thought the withdrawals, the restless nights, the bone-deep ache to use again—that was the battle. But I came to find out the real war was happening in my mind. It was about how I thought, how I reacted, how I processed life. My old mentality was built for survival in chaos, not peace. I was raised to stay on guard. To read people like threats. To never show weakness. That mindset kept me alive when I was living wild and fast, but in this new life—it doesn’t serve me. I catch myself defaulting to control, to suspicion, to that old code: trust no one, strike first, show no emotion. And it don’t fit here. It don’t fit with recovery. It don’t fit with love, family, community, or growth. Sometimes I feel like I’m living in two worlds—one foot still in the past, the other trying to step into somet...

There are places that feel like the edge of the world — not because of how far they are, but because of what you see there. San Julian Street, between 6th and 7th in downtown L.A., is one of those places. It’s where Skid Row breathes — heavy, sick, loud. The sidewalks are filled with people who don’t exist to the rest of the world. People forgotten. People fading. People like Toni. Toni was from El Hoyo Maravilla. A homegirl with heart. She had posted up on San Julian, surviving in the concrete wilderness. She wasn’t just some addict in a tent — she was a gangster, a warrior, a soul with fire in her eyes. And she looked out for me, always. Even when she barely had anything left for herself. I found San Julian through one of my homeboys. “You’re gonna love it,” he said. And in a twisted way, I did. It was an open-air drug market. You could get anything. People fixed right there on the sidewalk, same place people OD’d. Some lived, some died. But what shook me was the street’s one holy ru...

Ash in the Air: East LA, 1992 People talk about the ’92 riots like they were a moment in history, but for us—they were a moment in memory. Not something we just read about or saw on the news. We lived it. We breathed it. We carried it. It didn’t just set LA on fire—it exposed the heat that had always been there, simmering just under the surface. I was a teenager in East Los Angeles. Brown-skinned, streetwise, loyal to my block. We didn’t have much, but we had each other—and we had pride in where we came from. So when the city exploded over the Rodney King verdict, it felt like the whole world tilted on its axis. And somehow… we knew nothing would be the same again. --- We were just out on the block tossing a football, killing time like we always did, when Rockhead came out of his house yelling, “Hey! They’re rioting over the verdict—it’s on TV!” We ran into his living room, crowding in, eyes locked on the screen. The Rodney King verdict had just dropped. They acquitted the cops. Not gu...

The greenlight hit us in ‘93, but the war started way before that. It was in the way we walked, talked, carried ourselves—with pride. We were Maravilla. Ford Maravilla. And we didn’t answer to nobody, not even La Eme. That’s what made us a target. We didn’t bend. We didn’t break. We stood on our own. The politics got heavy. One order from the top and suddenly we had a greenlight on our heads—not just in prison, but in the calles too. Homies were getting hit at bus stops, in alleys, at family gatherings. We were hunted like animals, even by fools we grew up with. All because we refused to fall in line with a system we didn’t believe in. But we fought back. Hard. With everything we had. Our loyalty wasn’t bought—it was earned on Fetterly Avenue, at Alex’s Hamburgers, on the walls we tagged and the blocks we bled for. We didn’t go looking for war, but once it found us, we responded like soldiers. Some of us were just teenagers learning how to die before we ever learned how to live. There ...

February 25, 1995. That date’s carved in my soul like a tattoo that don’t fade. That’s the day we got our own click from Ford Maravilla. FLS — Fetterly Locos. We earned that. Not handed, not gifted — earned in blood, sweat, silence, and survival. We weren’t just banging, we were building. Expanding turf. Growing numbers. The greenlight was on, but we stood firm. We held the neighborhood down like soldiers without armor, and the streets respected us for it. I was the recruiter. That was my lane. I had the kind of presence that pulled people in—still do. The gift to gather. To lead. Alex Hamburgers’ parking lot was our office. Our battleground of ideas. Every week, fifty deep—homies, homegirls, strapped up—talking politics, survival, and checking the temperature from La Eme. Those meetings were sacred in their own way. Loyalty was currency. Reputation was everything. That night, the big homie Bear—my mentor, my guide—was about to give a new crew of taggers their own click. But I stepped ...

Not My Turn The last time I got shot was in Northeast Los Angeles. It was 3 a.m. when we pulled up to a house to score — quiet street, headlights off, just another night in the life. But then, out of the shadows on my side of the car, a youngster stepped out. Couldn’t have been older than seventeen, but the steel in his eyes made him look ancient. He walked right up to my window and asked, “Where you from?” I looked him dead in the face and said, “Maravilla.” Without hesitation, he pulled the smallest AK-47 I had ever seen from behind his back. No stock, no barrel — just a compact pocket-sized machine of death. He pointed it at Chilly Willy in the passenger seat, who said quickly, “I ain’t affiliated.” The kid kept switching his aim between us, stepping back like he was lining up a decision that couldn’t be undone. Chilly went for his seatbelt, cracked open the door — and that’s when the bullets started flying. The first one tore through my side — clean, in and out. Simple. But the sec...

Heroin Took Me Places Heroin took me to places I never meant to go. Waking up sick on the cold sidewalks of Skid Row, stomach twisting, bones aching—every breath was a reminder that I was owned by something I couldn’t see but felt in every part of me. I’ve had county nails digging into my wrists, been locked behind bars with nothing but time and shame, and watched pain fill the eyes of people who once looked at me with love. Every day started the same: sick. Hustling for the next fix, just to feel normal. And when I finally got well, I was already broken all over again. Withdrawal? That’s a hell I wouldn’t wish on anyone. It's not just the vomiting, chills, and muscle cramps—it’s the soul-deep emptiness. It’s the guilt, the regret, the hopelessness. Heroin stole who I used to be and left a shell that I barely recognized. But I didn’t die. Somehow, I made it through. Not because I was strong—heroin doesn’t care how strong you are—but because something inside me refused to let go. Ma...

Maravilla, Memory, and the Weight I Carry I grew up in the Maravilla section of East Los Angeles, a neighborhood carved out of struggle, culture, and survival. My roots run deep along streets like Whittier Boulevard and Fetterly Avenue, where life was loud, fast, and often unforgiving. Alex Hamburgers was more than just a burger stand—it was a place where homeboys gathered, where laughter and danger hung in the air like smog, where decisions made in seconds could echo for decades. My story is one shaped by survival. I lived through the brutal conflict between Maravilla and La Eme, a war that scarred bodies and hearts. I was shot twice, and though I survived, those bullets didn’t just pierce flesh—they pierced time. They marked me. They marked the version of me that had to keep moving forward while carrying memories of those who never got that chance. May 31, 1994, is a date carved into my soul. That’s the day my good friend was murdered—taken by the same violence we had all become numb...

 In Loving Memory of Gloria Luz Prado Born in L.A.'s General Hospital and raised in the Ramona Gardens projects, my mom lived a life that was raw, real, and full of love. She ran through the streets of Lincoln Heights, Boyle Heights, East L.A., and City Terrace with a fire in her spirit and music in her soul—Billy Stewart, Marvin Gaye, War, Joe Bataan, Ralfi Pagan, Malo—but Betty Wright Live was her soundtrack. She didn’t graduate high school, but she had more wisdom and grit than most. In the '80s, she worked graveyard as a switchboard operator and would take me to work with her. She later had her hand tattoos cut off—old-school style—just to get a better job, eventually working at Commerce Casino, then with the L.A. County District Attorney’s child support division. No diploma. Just hustle, heart, and sacrifice. She loved French vanilla ice cream and 50/50 bars, taking us to the beach to watch the grunion run, and waking me up with Las Mañanitas on my birthday. She sent me fo...

 I love harm reduction because it saved my life. I’m not speaking from theory—I’m a product of harm reduction. When the world saw a lost cause, harm reduction saw a person. It didn’t demand that I be clean, sober, or perfect to deserve help. It just showed up, over and over again, offering what it could—clean supplies, a warm meal, a safe place, a conversation without shame. That consistency, that care, planted the first seeds of hope in me. Harm reduction taught me that dignity doesn’t have to be earned. It’s something we all deserve, even when we’re at our lowest. It showed me that survival is a victory and that healing isn’t linear. I didn’t get better overnight, but I stayed alive long enough to get another chance—and that’s everything. To me, harm reduction isn’t just a philosophy—it’s a form of love. It's practical compassion in action. It respects people’s choices and realities without trying to control them. It creates space for change, but doesn’t make change a condition o...

 From the Streets to the Struggle Within For years, I was addicted—not just to heroin, but to the street life that came with it. The adrenaline, the danger, the fast money, the false sense of power—it all pulled me in and wrapped around me like chains I didn’t even know I was wearing. I wasn't just chasing a high; I was running from pain, from truth, from myself. The streets raised me, but they also nearly buried me. Heroin became my escape and my prison all at once. I’ve seen the darkness that most people only hear about. I’ve lost time, people I loved, and pieces of myself I’m still trying to get back. But I survived. And now, I write—not because I have all the answers, but because I know what it’s like to feel hopeless… and what it means to fight your way out. This blog is about that fight. It’s about healing, honesty, and the hard road back. If you’ve ever struggled, or loved someone who has, I hope you find something here that speaks to you.

 Lil Two — Maravilla Made, Chola to the Max She wasn’t just from the block — she was the block. Lil Two grew up in Maravilla, raised by concrete and conflict, where loyalty wasn’t spoken — it was proven. Red lipstick, fierce stare, locs low — she was that homegirl who made grown men pause and rivals think twice. Always posted, always down — she was my crime partner, my sister in the storm. From stolen rides to late-night streetlight talks, we shared more than time — we shared survival. She had a heart wrapped in barbed wire, but if she loved you, she loved you deep. Riding hard, never switching lanes, Lil Two didn’t flinch — she handled hers. Every scar she carried was earned, every step she took was solid. She was Chola to the max — no gimmicks, no games, just grit. Some called her trouble, but I call her one of the realest I’ve ever known. The kind they don’t make anymore. Forever Maravilla. Forever my homegirl. And if you’re out there, Lil Two… I’m sorry I left you behind in Mar...

 I was born in the county and raised in the state. Twenty-seven times, intentional acts of violence knocked on my door — tapping my shoulder like a request to dance. Any given Sunday, gunplay was optional. We weren’t scared to catch a hot one — but we were terrified to live. We weren’t afraid of life sentences, just afraid of what a free life might mean. Selling dope to fund our barrio adventures, stealing cars to leave scars in someone else’s story. Every tire mark was a signature, every broken window a statement. We chased chaos like it owed us something, numb to the funerals, deaf to the sirens. It wasn’t survival — it was surrender dressed up in bravado. But here I stand, scars intact, breath still in my chest, learning that healing is louder than war, and sometimes the bravest thing is choosing peace when the streets never did. I’ve buried brothers who never saw their second chance, lit candles for homies who became murals and memories. Some got lost behind bars, others behind...

 21 Years Free Twenty-one years ago, I walked away from drugs and gang life in Los Angeles. It wasn’t easy—I didn’t surrender without a fight. In fact, I was tricked into coming to Abilene, Texas. At the time, I was shot, strung out, off parole, and—more than anything—my spirit was broken. The journey was rough and often painful, but I’m deeply grateful for my roots and everything that shaped me. Today marks 21 years of living in Abilene, and I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the people who poured into me, loved me, and showed me a new way to live. It started here in Abilene, but the love and support have stretched beyond this city—into other places, other lives, and other states. Thank you for believing in me, for investing in someone who was once a scared boy from East Los Angeles. There’s no way I could ever repay you—but I carry your impact with me every day.