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     H I C K S O N Unregistered guest Rating: N/A |
“TO BE YOUNG, GIFTED AND BLACK”: TRE BLACK’s HISTORY REPORT 1978 - I was born on the 30th of August in the county of Dade City of Miami. I can’t really remember my mother, whose name is Donnilla Delores Black; I only know this because of my birth certificate. Other than that, I have no recollection of her physical appearance whatsoever. But on the other hand, I’d felt the love my mother had for me, one given in her own special way. Like for my second birthday, I remember her throwing me a birthday party. My mother had gotten me a great big boom box that had all types of crazy disco lights on it. The radio was so huge, that I wouldn’t step foot near it, fearing that it might fall on top of me and I’d get crushed. Reflecting back, I now realize that the boom box was just a small birthday present for me, my mother’s real gift to me was my baby sister, Christie Love Black; who’s two years younger than me. 1984 - My mother had begun having problems, ones that had proved to be lethal for me and my sister; who at the time was four-years-old, and me, being six back then. One day, my mother had moved us all out of our apartment abruptly, and had decided not to pack any clothing or suitcases for us. It was in the dead of winter, and the three of us were bundled up on a cold-ass Greyhound bus, in route to New York City’s Port Authority. I remember it so vividly because it was the first time I’d ever been on a bus, let alone on a trip that long. I’d been amazed at the scenic landscape we’d passed by state-by-state, until we’d arrived in New York City. My mother then pointed out the Twin Towers, which for me, was an astounding experience; as I’d watched the two massive skyscrapers light up the crisp night air, with its colorful array of lights on each floor. She’d then informed me and my sister that we were going to visit our grandfather, Julius, who was West Indian. 1985 - At this time I was seven years old. One year after living with my so-called grandfather, who’d decided that he didn’t want the responsibility of raising two young children, had packed two little suitcases for me and my sister, and had placed our bags outside of his front door. A few minutes later, two women then pulled up in a blue Oldsmobile, got out, and had begun walking towards me and my little sister. They’d proceeded to take our bags, and had escorted us to their parked vehicle. My sister had immediately begun to cry, while I on the other hand, sat in the back seat of the small car, and had looked straight ahead; not even bothering to look behind me. I’d soon adapted this same manner of handling situations that had crossed my road on this journey called life. 1990 - My sister and I had been shifted from one foster home to another. The experiences in those unknown people’s homes had proved to be detrimental to us, due to the lack of proper care. Eventually, like all foster care siblings, we’d been split up; my sister had gone to a different place, and I was shipped to a group home out in East New York, Brooklyn. The separation had been the worst decision that the system had made for us, affecting me and my sister terribly; she and I being two young close siblings, who just three years earlier, had our birth mother in their lives before being abandoned—forcefully thrown into the mix of strangers. My sister and I then turned to each other comfort, one that we’d both longed for from our mother. At this time, I had to make some major changes in my life, in order for us to survive. So I’d become a big brother, mother, father and provider for my sister. I’d also put myself into the S.O.H.K. Academy: School Of Hard Knocks, and had taken a quick course called “Streets 101”. Making money had come easy for me within the first two weeks on the streets. I’d been promoted to what in the baseball league, a team player called a “pitcher”, the same term used for one selling crack. I’d provided my sister with a weekly allowance of $50, and had also paid for her clothing, shoes, hairdos, toiletries and food. She’d still been living in a foster home out in St. Albans, Queens, where I would meet up with my sister and spend the whole day with her. It had gotten to the point that one of my main goals back then was to have an apartment when I’d turn twenty-one, so I could get full custody of my sister; in order for her not to have to go through the same shit that I’d gone through. But like all “niggaz” out in the street, making money while risking their lives, I’d gotten shot in the arm; the bullet had gone straight through my arm at the elbow, only hitting flesh (thank God). But on the real, God really was with me that day. The shooter was fifteen years old, and his stupid ass had emptied the entire clip at me, in which he’d missed sixteen times; before finally hitting me in the arm. When he’d popped the last shot, I’d gotten hit by a ricochet bullet. The hole in my arm was the size of a quarter; I could literally stick my finger through the hole and watch it come out the other side. I’d been taken to Brookdale Hospital in Brooklyn, where my baby sister, who had been ten years old at the time, had run away from home to come see me. That was the best feeling in the whole wide world, seeing her crying face in the doorway of the hospital room. Fuck the pain of the gunshot, my sister’s love and dedication to me had become my anesthesia. Released from the hospital that same day while using my sister as a crutch, I’d taken her to Brownsville, Brooklyn, and had rented a room. She’d stayed there while I’d gone to Harlem Hospital to get patched up correctly. I didn’t want my arm to get infected, especially from gangrene. Returning back to Brownsville late that evening, I’d immediately started hustling, even though my arm still hadn’t healed; I’d needed the money. Being embarked on what you would call a mission, I’d sold drugs day and night out of a building in the Tilden Projects. While walking on the third floor and rolling up a blunt in the hallway, I’d looked down at the door of a utility closet, and had found a plastic bag protruding from under the door. I’d stopped everything that I was doing, because my instincts told me that I’d found somebody’s stash. Lo and behold, after prying it from under the door, I’d found a Ziploc freezer bag, full of packaged crack, and another bag within that one, full of packaged marijuana. Jackpot! I’d then gone back to my sister’s room and had counted it all, finding over $2500 worth of crack, and $500 worth of weed. Grabbing my gun, putting the drugs in a knapsack with two pairs of clothing, before giving my sister $200 to cover the time I’d be gone for, I’d hopped on the Peter Pan Bus, in route to Wilmington, Delaware; not knowing anyone, or exactly to where I was going. Putting myself in a hotel for a week had hurt my pockets, but didn’t dampen my enthusiasm. It was easy to find the drug spots in Wilmington, due to my S.O.H.K. “degree”. 1993 - Immediately, I’d set up shop and had fallen in love with the money. Cash was flowing heavy, right where I’d needed it to be. Unfortunately, there had been a few niggaz throats that I had to cut, but it was what it was for the cash back then. At that time, I didn’t mind bustin’ my canon. Here I was a fifteen-year-old, Black child without any guidance, in full custody of the streets; armed and fully prepared to lay out any nigga in the street who’d interfered with what I was establishing at that point. One thing had led to another and I’d aired the entire block out, having to lay low for a couple of days from the shootout. Not from the cops, but from the busters, because the streets talk…you just have to know when to listen. While on hiatus, I’d found me a couple of local workers, while letting it be known that I may be young, but I carry a .45; at that point, having the young ones holding me down. 1994 - Forming a stolen car ring, consisting of myself, two female sisters and their cousin—my whole crew were female. Yet, they didn’t know how to actually steal cars, so me, applying my “degree”, never showed them how to; knowing that once I had, that they wouldn’t need me any longer. I would pack the girls in a car and drive to the Gallery Mall in Philly. With the swiftness, I use to pop ignitions and have the females hop in and pull off. Minutes later, we’d all be racing down the highway to the chop shop in Philly. Afterwards, we’d go eat, shop, then hop on the Septa and bounce back to Delaware—with close to fifteen grand divided between the four of us. Back then, I’d also experienced my first “fivesome” with the four girls from my crew. I literally was in Heaven, until the girls started getting locked up. Ultimately, I’d also gotten arrested, doing six months in Wilmington, Delaware for drug possession, receiving five years probation, one which I’d run from. 1997 - Quickly, I’d headed back to New York City, and within five minutes of driving over the George Washington Bridge, I’d gotten pulled over in a stolen car; having to do three years in jail. I’d had drugs and a gun in the car. Life in the pen back then had been a living hell. I’d gotten along with most of the inmates, but my main beefs had been with the police. Being harassed constantly by racist correctional officers upstate, I’d gotten beaten by them several times, as well as having my food urinated in, my mail ripped up and having my phone calls terminated. Because of this, my outside contact with the world was cut. But like all champs, I’d beaten the odds and had made it a temporary home, yet my biggest problem then—I hadn’t a home to go to once I’d gotten released. So I’d done what I had known best, ditching parole and hustling again. 1999 - I’d gotten arrested again, and wound up serving all of my delinquent time; one year. 2000 - I’d met an older woman, whom I’d had a five-year relationship with, and with all good things, our relationship had soon come to an end—“irreconcilable differences.” 2002 - Enrolling in a two-year college course at the TCI Institute for Technology, I’d put myself in school, desperately wanting to change and live a healthy, prosperous and most importantly, a legitimate life. But problems had come forth; I had issues with my tuition. My fees at the time were $1500 per semester, in which I had to pay out of my own pocket, money that I didn’t have. I had to find a way for myself, a way to help my income; back then being without a job, a phone, or even a roof over my head. At this time, my sister had gone into the shelter system, after being discharged from foster care. I’d gone out and looked for a real job, needless to say I couldn’t get any work due to my prior conviction, so I’d begun selling crack cocaine again; this time, hustling in the Bronx. That lasted for a good three weeks, in which I’d made $2000 a night before getting locked up again; this time with 500 grams of crack and 10 nickel bags of weed. I’d gotten served with two years, seven months and a day behind bars. 2005 - March 1st, I’d been able to come home, having five months to be on parole. In May, I’d run into Treasure Blue, who’d been promoting and selling his novel, Harlem Girl Lost. We’d talk for like an hour about writing, before I’d let him know at that time that I was an unpublished author, who’d been seeking a publisher. I’d given Treasure four chapters of my manuscript at the time titled, HoodFellaz. He’d read them and had gone ballistic. Treasure had liked the samples so much, that he’d wanted to read the whole book, but I wasn’t giving it to him without being offered a contract. Treasure then had informed me that he wasn’t in the position to provide me with one at that time, but had referred me to a brother whom he called “HUSTLIN’ HICKSON”, CEO of GHETTOHEAT®. I’d called HICKSON and tried to schedule a meeting with him, yet HICKSON was out-of-town on tour at the time, having many book signing events to attend. Yet, the day that I’d finally had the chance to meet him, I was on clouds and I‘ll never forget it. It was at the Harlem Book Fair, where I’d given HICKSON my manuscript to read, minus the last three chapters to review. Upon quickly reading the first five pages while diligently selling his poetry book, GHETTOHEAT® simultaneously at his table, HICKSON had stepped to me with a contract at the crowded book fair, and it was then when I’d officially become a member of the GHETTOHEAT® family, and an active force of the GHETTOHEAT® MOVEMENT. I’ve been “hustlin’” hard ever since, books that is! To be continued… H I C K S O N CEO of GHETTOHEAT® Publisher of GHETTOHEAT®, CONVICT’S CANDY, SKATE ON!, HOODFELLAZ, BIG PIMPIN’, HARDER & SONZ OF DARKNESS GHETTOHEAT® P.O. BOX 2746 NEW YORK, NY 10027 GHETTOHEAT.COM GHETTOHEAT®: THE HOTNESS IN THE STREETS!!!™ |
