Back Then ( Memoir of a Lyfer)

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(e-book)

Chapter 1: The Crescent City & The Storm  1976–1986 (Growing): 

"Childhood shaped by local culture, neighborhood community, and youthful innocence"

 In 1986, I was nine going on ten. Childhood still held its sacred meaning back then: bikes, empty-lot football, and coming inside only when the streetlights flickered on. Then the storm rolled in. The crack epidemic didn’t hit all at once; it crept in. It rewired families, fractured friendships, and stole futures piece by piece. Friends traded childhood games for a street life that aged them overnight. The old neighborhood died, and a new beast was born. Bonds cracked, and the hustle took over. By the 1990s, my generation was touching money our parents couldn't have dreamed of; a single day on the block matched a full month of their hard labor. The risk felt manageable; it was harsh, but this was before the era of mandatory life sentences. Crack was viewed like a lottery ticket with guaranteed odds. Kids who used to wait for back-to-school sales were suddenly spending daily on Canal Street. Holding court at McDonald's wasn't just hanging out; it was a declaration of status: gold chains, heavy leather, fresh gear, and bikes. It was out of my reach, but to me, it was pure, raw aspiration. Then the landscape turned even colder. From 1990 to 1994, in just four short years, New Orleans earned the highest murder rate in the nation. By then, most of my peers were in so deep that turning back was no longer an option.

Chapter 2: Boyz II Young Men 1986–1996 (Development): 

"The crack epidemic and surging violence transform the city; as street hustle takes over, he navigates the dangers of adolescence and becomes a teenage father" 

Crime surged so drastically that law enforcement dropped the hammer. But street money paid far better than civilian life; a minimum-wage job couldn't compete. In NOLA, the average wage was $5.15 an hour. Unless you possessed a specialized trade, you were stuck at the bottom. Growing up, you saw three distinct classes of people: the wealthy elites at the top; the middle class, who gave the poor hope that an exit was possible; and the poor, surviving day-to-day on welfare, hand-me-downs, underfunded schools, police scrutiny, and project life. When crack arrived, everything flipped. The hood transformed harsh conditions into lucrative hustle spots. One day we were playing basketball with a milk crate nailed to a light pole on the corner; the next, kids were making $200 to $500 in a couple of hours. Guys working all-night shifts were pulling in serious numbers. And we were just kids twelve to eighteen years old balancing street life while still attempting to attend school. Two years later, we transformed from "Boyz" into "Young Men." By nineteen, my first child was born. Just two years after New Orleans was dubbed the murder capital, violence ceased to be news—it became the air we breathed. Chaos wasn't an event; it was the baseline. You lost count of the dead because counting hurt too much. Every month brought another repass, another family destroyed, and another brutal lesson in mortality. The money still circulated, but it lost its luster. The initial rush that drove the hustle gave way to a suffocating uncertainty. Nobody was building an empire anymore; we were just gripping the steering wheel, riding it until the tires shredded off the rims. A dark curtain was falling over the city, and the streets were out of promises. I saw it clearly through two friends I knew. One didn't even need the hustle; his parents provided the life most guys risked their freedom to build. But once he was brought into the game, he outpaced the friend who introduced him to it. One afternoon, while he was out hustling, that same friend pulled up on him and demanded he "up it"attempting to rob the very person he had put on. The play went sideways, and in a tragic twist of envy, the creator killed his own creation. Jealousy turned mentors into enemies. The corners had nothing left to offer. We stopped thinking about getting paid and started focusing on breathing. Anyone who could read the writing on the wall stopped dreaming of street wealth. We were hunting for an unspoken escape route, praying to slip away before the block took its final toll, searching for a side door out before the city swallowed us whole.

Chapter 3: The Ghost Line & The Pacific: 1996–2006 (Survival): 

"Amid escalating bloodshed, he chooses a way out. He leaves New Orleans, starts fresh in San Diego with his partner, and witnesses Hurricane Katrina devastate his hometown from afar."

As the new millennium approached, I looked around and realized how many people I grew up with had become casualties of the game. One by one, associates fell. Seeing that forced me to examine my own path. I always carried myself with one foot in and one foot out. I came from a structured family who knew better and disapproved of street life. I understood their perspective, but I was also fighting to survive. Survival was a constant tension—a daily state of mind. Yet, even with one foot in that world, I never gave it my whole life because I knew another way existed. Working legitimate jobs exposed me to different perspectives and alternative visions of what life could be. My greatest blessing came in the form of a woman who became my best friend and future wife. She gave me what I had always searched for: peace and a reason to believe. Shortly after the turn of the millennium, I made one of the most pivotal decisions of my life: I left New Orleans. It wasn't just leaving a city; it was walking away from a cycle that had claimed so many. My first stop was Memphis ("10 A Key"). It didn't take long to realize I needed to go further. Within three months, I reached my destination: San Diego, California, home of 92105. That first breath of salty ocean air felt like pure freedom. Reuniting with my best friend felt like stepping into safety. Her home became the gateway to a new life: beaches, theme parks, and city lights. Beyond the scenery, it was the feeling of a kid who once dreamed of these things was now living them. It made me realize I truly had a chance. Five years into the new millennium, Hurricane Katrina tore the bottom out of New Orleans. Overnight, an entire culture was uprooted. Families, friends, and neighbors were scattered across the country like ash, forced to survive in unfamiliar cities while our hometown drowned. As our people landed in places like Houston, Dallas, and Atlanta, the world witnessed the raw survival instincts we had grown up with. Meanwhile, I was out West, watching the place I once called home wash away. In San Diego, I was on my own—none of my people from back home had scattered out this far. I used that distance as a shield. But running from New Orleans didn’t instantly heal me. I walked around carrying the heavy weight of unfinished business, unanswered questions, and open doors swinging in the wind. Standing on the edge of the Pacific Ocean with those ghosts behind me changed everything. San Diego gave me room to stretch my lungs and breathe. Looking back from the West Coast, the past no longer felt like a cage; it felt like something I could face without breaking. When I did return home to visit, I moved like a phantom. Barely a soul knew my feet had touched the pavement. Every step was calculated, head on a swivel, driven by the sharp paranoia only a New Orleans native carries. To survive the place that raised you, sometimes you have to guard your heart and view your own childhood through the cold eyes of a stranger. My trips back were quiet, cautious vanishings. Out West, San Diego, Oceanside, La Jolla, and Los Angeles didn't just shelter my body; they slowly pieced my soul back together. Standing on ocean cliffs looking out at an endless horizon, it was impossible to long for a place that had almost swallowed me whole. Bit by bit, I built a life on my own terms, learning how to honor where I came from without letting it consume where I was headed.

Chapter 4: Unlearning the Armor: 2006–2016 (Reconstruction): 

"Healing and stability: a career in specialized cancer research, expands family, marriage, and eventually decides to leave before  living costs trap"

San Diego was my clean slate, but I didn't leave the South empty-handed. I brought survival instincts carved so deep into my soul that they kept me guarded and walled off. There were moments when those instincts almost destroyed my peace out West. I had to learn to unlearn the constant brace for impact and teach myself how to actually live. After a lifetime forged in the fire of a neighborhood turned battlefield, I was suddenly standing in paradise. That decade in sunny San Diego became an era like no other: pure freedom, connecting with people from all walks of life, and letting the sun wash away the pain. I spent years detoxing not just from the environment I escaped, but from the person I had to be to survive it. I shifted my mindset and learned how to transition from surviving to thriving. San Diego wasn't just a point on a map; it was a classroom. It taught me how deeply your environment shapes you. Having lived in two completely different worlds—the South and the West Coast—I came to appreciate how both formed the man I am. My twenties into my late thirties were defined by the West Coast. In 2004, I welcomed my first son, a leap-year baby. Two years later came my second son, and two years after that, my daughter. Three distinct pieces of my heart. Life ceased to be about just me. We took in and adopted my wife's late sister's youngest child. In 2015, I married my soulmate, the woman who had stood beside me through it all. By then, I understood the true honor behind the titles I carried: husband, father, dad. As the decade drew to a close, the economy shifted. Prices climbed, the cost of living soared, and San Diego was steadily changing. Friends began moving elsewhere to stretch their dollars. Remembering one of life's hardest lessons don't wait until you're trapped to make your move I decided to act while I still had a choice. Leaving a place that saved your life is never easy. But growth means accepting that even paradise can only be home for a season. On September 30, 2016, as I turned forty, I said goodbye to San Diego. I left with a wife, four children, a lifetime of memories, hard-won wisdom, and a clear sense of identity.

Chapter 5: An Act of Faith 2016–2026 (Retransitioning):  

"Moving the family to Las Vegas, sacrifices, rebuilding career"

Leaving everything you know isn't just a physical move; it's an act of faith. Stepping into the unknown means hoping a better life awaits on the other side. By September 2016, our destination was set: Las Vegas. But first, we had to let go. Weekend after weekend, we held garage sales. I watched strangers buy pieces of our life furniture, items our children grew up around, things that carried history. With every item sold, a piece of our old life dissolved. We stripped our lives down to what mattered most, placing irreplaceable keepsakes into a storage unit with plans to return for them once we found our footing. On October 1, 2016, we packed our vehicle to capacity.

The six-hour drive to Nevada felt far longer; it felt like driving between two distinct versions of our lives. Anxiety, exhaustion, excitement, and fear mingled together, anchored by a quiet prayer: Please let this work. I was moving a family who depended on me, and I couldn't let my fear become their reality. Our initial plan was simple: check into a weekly motel, hustle, and find a home. But grace intervened. A week before we left, an opportunity opened up to stay with someone in Las Vegas while we searched for a house. God made a way. Within a month, a home became available in that same neighborhood. We jumped on it, and that house became our sanctuary, the foundation where we rebuilt our lives for the next decade. Rebuilding stability takes time, but I didn't have the luxury of waiting. The moment my feet hit Las Vegas soil, I hit the ground running at a hundred miles an hour, fueled by determination and a refusal to let our sacrifices be in vain.

Chapter 6: Adaptation & Legacy: 2026 (Reflecting)

 "50th, resilience, family sacrifice, and proud of the man in me"

In California, my goal had been to give my children a lifestyle filled with experiences I never had as a child. But moving to Las Vegas shifted my focus: I wanted to give them a foundation, something solid to stand on when I was no longer there to hold them up. The move required significant personal sacrifice, particularly in my career. In California, I had built a specialized professional background in cancer research. Arriving in Las Vegas, I realized the local infrastructure didn't support that specific field in the same way. Life had already taught me to adapt or get left behind. Leveraging my experience as an animal research technician, I transitioned into veterinary medicine as a veterinary tech assistant. I showed up, worked hard, proved my worth, and advanced, eventually restoring my income to a level comparable to California while benefiting from Nevada's lower cost of living. Looking back, while I might not have researched the professional landscape thoroughly before moving, I did what was necessary to provide for my family. My children faced their own adjustments. Relocating during their teenage years meant adapting to new schools, new peers, and a different culture. Watching my sons navigate that emotional transition was challenging, and like any father, I spent moments questioning whether a different path would have been easier for them. Through every trial, I relied on my resilience, learning to pivot, protect my peace, and keep moving forward even without all the answers. Being a man meant showing up every morning for the people relying on me. Las Vegas taught me that strength isn't always loud. Sometimes strength is showing up to work exhausted, swallowing your pride, taking a necessary job over a dream job to keep food on the table, and guiding your children through their own struggles. Four years ago, things came full circle when I secured a contract with a hospital, bringing me back closer to the medical field I loved. It took nearly ten years of sacrifice, patience, and adapting. Now, standing on the other side of that decade as I approach my 50th birthday, I see the full picture. The move to Las Vegas wasn't just about changing cities; it was about evolving into the person I was meant to become. On that October morning in 2016, driving away with everything packed into one vehicle, I couldn't see where the road would lead. Today, I understand that every struggle taught me a lesson, every setback forced an adaptation, and every sacrifice brought growth. I didn't just survive the journey. I was forged by it. And as I look in the mirror today, I can say with pride: I made it.