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Growing up in Detroit, Michigan, I lived in the midst of poverty. Sometimes the ghetto is romanticized – as if it were “cool” to have come from such a place. But really it’s drugs, gangs, and violence. Nothing pretty and nothing “cool” about it. We lived in subsidized housing, otherwise known as government-owned apartments rented to people below the poverty line. The crowded housing projects attracted broken kinds of people. Often, broken people don’t build; they break more. We were surrounded by crime.I have vivid memories of our home getting broken into on several occasions. I was 10 the first time it happened. I was alone. I took the key out of my pocket to go inside when I realized the door had been kicked in. They found our Playstation, some games, a little money… The material value wasn’t much. But they took every shred of security along with it.
My two older brothers and I vowed we would catch the thief. We never did – not then or after the next four robberies. They even broke in one night when we were sleeping. My mom screamed when they tried to climb through a window; she ran toward them and managed to scare them away. I hope I’m painting a clear picture of what living in poverty is like.My childhood is filled with stories like that.Those years were a cycle of trauma, fear, bullying and neglect. Abuse. I had no advantage. I don’t say all of this because I want pity. I just want you to know where my story begins. No inheritance or endowment. No fancy school or good connections. Nothing. Find out moreJoshua website.
