If there is one thing you should know about me, it’s that I grew up on the streets. No, not the streets of Compton or the Bronx, I’m talking about the streets of a city so dangerous that even Six Flags had to remove itself from the area; Denver. Yes, I lived the tough Colorado life two blocks off Colfax Ave., a street known for its grungy dive bars, sleazy motels, and many women of the night. My childhood was a struggle. I was constantly haunted by my family’s perfect past and ever tortured with birthday parties, cake and fun. I know what you’re thinking; it’s amazing that I turned out as “well” as I did.
The toughest part for me going to school. As a “street” urchin, my education was funded by financial aid and academic scholarships provided by the Bank of M&D so naturally I had a hard time relating to the other hoity toity private catholic school kids. They had a hard time understanding why lunch was such a big deal to me (mainly because they didn’t know how much I loved to eat) and I didn’t understand why they believed so strongly in the Nun teaching a “history” class with a book that still had a map of the U.S.S.R. I was a constant trouble-maker and clearly not fit for private school. I needed to be surrounded with people that understood, that were more like me. When it came time for high school, Denver Public Schools was more than happy to oblige.
One short year later I found myself listening to rap-battles in the hallways between class, watching baby momma’s tout their little ones in backpacks instead of books, and feeling jealous of the most popular kids at school; the stomp team. I was finally home and it didn’t take long for me to get caught up in the wrong stuff.
Every once in a while me and my crew would take a night off from our video games gang banging to chill out at a movie. We didn’t have the privilege of going to all the rich kid theaters like the AMC’s or the one in the Cherry Creek mall, instead we took our parents’ cars whips to the local dollar theater.
Yea movies don’t sound that gansta, because they aren’t. So to stay true to our roots, we snuck in. Gangsta’s don’t pay dolla bills fo movies. Unfortunately my hood bros never taught me that Karma is a mothafkin’ biatch and, in this case, a biatch in the form of an Asian gang.
An excerpt from my journal ghetto biography:
After the movie we rolled back to our whips, throwin’ frozen deuces and flauntin’ our swagga on the way. Obviously I gave off the most gangsta vibe of the crew, rockin my deep blue A&F street polo, so they singled me out. Two Asians came out of nowhere and started to get familiar. They thought I meant business, and I knew they meant business when they flicked a cigarette in my face, so a made a quick assessment. Three Asian dudes were squared off in front of me. “No big,” I thought, “I eat gansta Asian’s for breakfast. I don’t even need to go full blown Jackie Chan for those chump changas.” Then three Honda’s pulled up and rice rocketed 10 more Asian gangstas out in a circular pattern. The Asian invasion had arrived, and I was not down with the yellow fever. Threat level elevated to Bruce Lee. It was about that time I realized I was flyin’ solo. My homies had already hopped in their hoopties. “No matta,” I said, “like they say in Green Street Hooligans, ‘You don’t run… you stand your ground and fight .”
With the GSH quote in my mind and the crunk juice digesting in my belly, I bared down and did what any real gangster would do; RAN. Luckily for me, my friend’s car was nearby and I was a pretty quick kid; luckily for one of the Asian gang members, he didn’t have to move much. Just as I reached out towards the door to my salvation, my world exploded into a dizzying frenzy of ninja stars, lights and Kung Fu Panda sounds. It felt like I had been punched in the face, because I had indeed just been punched in the face. I tried my best to refocus and brace for another attack. Out of the corner of my blurred vision I noticed the small gap in the circle my attacker had left in order to try to send me to knockout heaven. I shot the gap like Adrian Peterson in a mini-mite game and never looked back. My friend, upon seeing this, snuck the car through the lined of juiced up Honda’s and caught up to me halfway down the parking lot.
My night ended with me, a bag of ice, and a cop taking notes on my incident. Clearly my easy childhood and private schooling did not toughen me up as much I thought it did, but at least the blow to my ego was mitigated by the good laugh I had when the cop asked me what kind of cars they were driving only to retract his statement and say, “never mind, I’m sure they were Hondas.”
Right again Mr. Cop. Right again.
