07/01/1995

July 1st. A Day I’ll Never Forget.

Thirty years ago today, the streets gave and the streets took.

My right hand man, Alex Dopeman, welcomed his firstborn son, Dee—30 years young today. A blessing, a light, a reason to keep pushing. That same day, my homeboy Sotelo lost his brother, Derek. Gunned down way too young. A real one. Gone but never forgotten.

It's crazy how life works—joy and pain, side by side. I remember the celebration and the heartbreak, all wrapped in the same 24 hours. One life entering this world with promise, another taken by the violence we were swimming in.

Dee, you were born into a world of chaos, but you’ve made it 30 trips around the sun. And Derek, your memory still rides with us—every block, every moment we think back to those days. You were loved deeply, missed always.

To both of you—Dee, the living legacy, and Derek, the fallen brother—this day belongs to you.

That day started like a celebration. Me, Dopeman, Lil Man, and Stomper were posted up with some homegirls—Vanessa was one of them. Sun shining, drinks flowing, swimming pool vibes like we didn’t have a care in the world. We were living it up, young, reckless, and untouchable—or so we thought.

The pagers kept blowing up. One from Vince and Valerie—David’s mom and uncle—trying to let us know the baby was coming. Dopeman’s firstborn, Dee. A son. A legacy. And another page from Scrappy from The Rascals, but we didn’t answer. We were too lit, too caught up in the moment. Swimming in the wee hours of the night. 

Stomper was so messed up, we had to leave him on his own porch to sober up.

But the party ended fast when the sun came up.

That morning, we got into a shootout with a vatos from Winter Gardens. Shit got real, real quick. Bullets flying, hearts pounding. We survived it—somehow. And after that chaos, like nothing happened, we hit up Tacos Mexico to eat. I remember just sitting there, tacos in hand, watching a police helicopter circle above. Black and whites cruised by like vultures circling the block.

It was there, at that table, that the weight of the day finally hit us. Dee was born. Derek was dead. One life came in, another was taken out. Same day. Same hood. Same pain.

That day will always be burned into my soul. A celebration turned into a funeral. A beginning and an end wrapped into one.

That morning, after everything—after the shootout, the tacos, the sirens, the weight of Derek’s death—we still had to show up. Lil Man got dropped off, stumbling out of the G-ride, still half-faded from the night before. Me and Dopeman? We had one more stop to make.

Dee had just been born—Dopeman’s firstborn son. His first day on Earth.

And here we come, two fools pulling up to the hospital in a stolen car, clothes still smelling like smoke, adrenaline still buzzing through our veins. That was our normal.

We parked like nothing was off, closed the doors, trying to play it cool. But as we turned around, there he was—Dee’s grandfather. Posted up outside like he was waiting for us. Sharp eyes. Old school. No nonsense.

He looked at us, then at the car, and asked, “Whose car is that?”

Without missing a beat, me and Dopeman said, “It’s mine.”

He didn’t press us. Didn’t raise his voice. Just gave us that look—the kind that said I know you’re lying. That old man wisdom. He didn’t have to call us out. His silence said it all.

We went inside, met baby Dee for the first time. This little perfect life, untouched by the madness we just came from. Holding him, everything felt… still. Pure. Like maybe, just maybe, there was something better waiting for us out there.

But outside, that stolen car sat like a ghost—reminding us we weren’t out yet. Not even close.

Later that night, after the smoke had cleared and the buzz had worn off, we went to see Derek’s mom.

Her house felt like a funeral home—quiet, heavy, filled with the kind of pain you don’t come back from. She was sitting there, shattered, her eyes swollen from crying. As soon as she saw me, she broke down—wrapped her arms around me and sobbed like the world ended. And maybe, for her, it had.

She kept asking me for her son’s killer’s head on a platter.

“I want him gone,” she cried. “I want his mama to feel what I feel.”

I didn’t know what to say. I just held her and nodded. We all did. We promised her right there. That much, we swore. No matter what, we were going to make it right in the only way we knew how. Eye for an eye. That was the code.

We were young, but loyalty ran deep. Derek wasn’t just Sotelo’s brother—he was one of us. And in those days, that meant something. You didn’t let something like that slide. You couldn’t.

So we left her house with that promise burning in our chests. The celebration from earlier was long gone. All that was left was the vow—and the war that came with it.