I come from a little white house on Grandview Boulevard in Culver City. I was
too young to know the reality of what I lived in at the time. Broken family, drug
addicted dad, sister, brother and no money.

I’ve lived a life that has been rough but now my life is what I want and I am
moving in the right direction to achieve my goals.

I come from a father who lost everything—family, money, work, and even a
hundred pounds. I guess that’s what meth, heroin, crack, coke and alcohol do to
someone. The man was a zombie. Droopy eyes, skinny face, scabs and yellow
teeth. Most tweekers fidget, talk to themselves, scream, or go crazy, but not this
weirdo. He rode around on my grandma’s big blue tricycle picking flowers from
peoples’ yards and placing them in the basket. Always in and out of jail. But he’s
better now and a good man. Still not a role model or anything I desire to be.
I come from a place where finding a role model can be hard. So I only look up to
my grandma. I know I’m supposed to write why and give details about why I idolize
her. But I can’t. It’s like saying, “Why does the sun come up? Why does the earth
rotate? Or where does water come from?” That’s just how God made it, and God
just happened to make her my guardian angel, even while she is still alive.
People end these stories along the lines of “Where I come from made me…” or
a cliché ending like, “I made me.”

No, God made me and that’s where I come from.

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