Young-Love

Have y'all ever sat there, and just be like “Damn this is real life, the f**k did I do to end up in this situation.” If not y'all in luck ‘cause I’ma tell you somethin’ “s**t happens” This is me, Zuri Youngblood. The name Zuri was given to me by my dad as honour to my grandmother—RIP Grans. He says it means “beautiful” in Swahili, that sucks cause when I look at myself in the mirror I’m not—never mind. Well, anyway the last fourteen years of my life have by far been possibly the best and the worst anyone could wish for—story of my life. Picture a football game that begins 1-0 at kick-off, and your team is the one with the zero that's what I mean when I say I was born in the projects. Gangstas, d**g dealers, gangbangers, 16-year-old sluts, you feel me. Sometimes I imagine a parallel universe where I was actually born a princess but f**k no, somehow, I was the unlucky one of my doppelgangers who ended up in this universe, in Queensbridge houses, New York City. Yeah, right you heard that, New York City, the city of dreams, well f**k those shitty lies on media. Come down to the projects and your only dream will be to have food on the table that night at all costs. “Will you shut the f**k up!!” The cop in the front demanded. Yep, forgot to mention, I’m in a police car right now a.k.a Uber for niggas. It’s a white boy joke, “Ordered to take niggas to jail.” Fuckin’ racists. So, anyway, I just got busted tryna rob a convenience store. I mean a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do to survive right—sheesh don’t judge me. Okay, you maybe wondering how the hell I end up here? Easy. Me and Kiki were starving. Not the cute “I could eat” kind of starving. I’m talkin’ full-blown stomachs-eatin’-themselves, lights-out, no-heat, no-food kinda starving. Mom was off God knows where, probably passed out in some back alley with a bottle of cheap gin, Dad and uncle Roscoe were out on a hustle that had gone quiet for three days straight. So yeah — desperate times. We hit this corner store off Vernon Blvd. Real basic spot, run by some old dude who never smiled even when you paid. Kiki was the lookout. I had the backpack, the plan, and the nerve. We slid in, grabbed two cans of Chef Boyardee, some granola bars, a couple packs of ramen. And yeah — maybe two bottles of Pepsi. I ain't tryna die of thirst on top of everything else. Problem is, I didn’t see the mirror in the back corner. Muh-Fuh had eyes on us the whole time. I was two steps from the exit when. “Aye! Drop the bag!” A pig yelled out. I froze. Kiki dipped. Signalled her to bolt. Kid straight-up vanished like smoke. Me? I ain't a runner. Never been one though I got game. I put the goddam bag down. Hands up. Didn't even argue. More Cops showed up in minutes. Slammed me against the wall like I was packing heat. Asked me if I was g**g affiliated. If I had a weapon. If I was on drugs. Jeez bruh, I'm fourteen. With a goddam granola bar—come on. “Do I need to tell you to shut the f**k up again!” one of 'em yelled at me again. ### That night, I spent my first night in a cell. Cold bench, metal toilet, flickering light above me like something outta a horror movie. I remember thinking, damn... this really my life though? Ain’t gon’ lie I’m strapped—On God. Next day they transferred me to juvie. Charged me with attempted robbery—bruh, what type of crime is 'attempted robbery' even—and why do they charge black people only. Anyway, charged over thirty-two dollars of food—like seriously dude—not cool. But guess what? I ain’t regret a damn thing. If I had to do it again, I would. I was hungry and so was Kiki, I gotta look out for her. And we ain't about to starve politely. ### Two months. Two long-a*s months of cold trays, locked doors, forced therapy sessions, and bitches who thought they were tougher than they really were. I played the game, kept my head low, said “yes ma’am” and “no sir” like as if I was raised in the suburbs. Fake it ‘til you make it, right? Well, today I made it. I’m out. The gate creaked open like the mouth of hell spitting me back out. I stepped through, the sun hit me like a slap — bright, bold, and real. First time I’d seen blue sky in weeks. I squinted, stretched, cracked my knuckles. The first person I saw was my dad. I dashed to him arms open like a five-year-old. Y'all may never know what it means to have a dad who'd do anything for you, that was this nigga right here—Andre Youngblood. I mean I don't like this emotional type s**t, but I believe I shed a tear when he held me once again. I mean everyone's got a soft side right. Y'all act tough and s**t yet you bunch of sissy-a*s Teddy bears. The last 14 years have been me and this nigga like some Bonnie and Clyde type s**t but instead father and daughter, the ride and die. In his eyes I'm nothing but his little princess well, at least I got someone who cherishes me other than my deadbeat mom. Y'all love your mothers right I mean why the f**k wouldn't you. Mine on the other hand is an asshole. Sometimes I look at her and wonder "How the f**k did is this b***h give birth to me?" Well, I ain't got no money for a goddam DNA test but trust me when I tell you she's nothing like me. My dad is black, she's white as f**k and yeah, I came out mixed-ish a'ight though but thing is I look nothing like them, mostly mom. I mean I got goddam blue eyes, dad's got black and Mom's eyes are brown genetics don't make any sense. Okay let’s leave the eyes alone, I ain't no smart a*s but my biology checks out, at least there should be some minimal resemblance of the parent cell to the daughter cell, like maybe my nose or cheeks or my goddam face—for Christ’s sake I came from you mom, why do I look nothin’ like you? Anyway, there’s nothin’ I can do about that she's definitely my mother—at least she did one thing right, give birth to me. Well, all mom does is gamble, get drunk and come home late, basically it's been me taking care of her, well talk about child a***e—I’m literally a maid in my own home, I stand corrected, I ain’t talkin’ about my chores as a child, I’m a fuckin’ maid—you dig—dishes, laundry, cooking... fuckin’ hell. On the other hand, at least dad does everything he can for his ‘little girl.’ I mean he's done music; he is trash though no cap. Kidnaps, d**g dealing, robberies. He’s broken enough laws just to provide for me. I'm kinda impressed by the man he is, I know it’s wrong but he really tries anything to provide for me and.......well...mom. Dad doesn't want me to go through the same lane, he wants me off the projects possibly living in a mansion somewhere in New York. He wants me to study maybe get a scholarship for college and leave this s**t alone—he always tells me that “g**g life” is very dangerous—then why you doin’ it pops. Gang or no g**g pops, ain't no way that's happening, it's ride and die dad remember, that's the youngblood code. If we getting off these projects, we doing it together like it has always been. I’ve mentioned ride and die a couple of times, but what I really mean is I’m glued to my dad, our connection defies logic. We literally do everything together—leave alone this “My dad takes me to the mall to shop for princess dresses and have tea parties type shit.” My life ain’t no fairy tale, I don’t do such s**t with my dad. Our connection is more of “I help my dad sell cookies—I mean drugs mostly to high schoolers.” We used to move drugs together, shoplift together—Ohhh... like there’s this one time, we got busted for shoplifting and detained in the same cell that night. I shared a cell with my dad, I didn’t mind going to prison as long as I was with him, that’s just how tight our bond was. But the store keeper dropped the charges so we got out a day later. Actually, from that day dad refused me to engage in any “illegal” activities. But that’s the life I know and grew up in so—sorry pops. "Don't you do that ever again, Zuri." he said as he hugged me. "I don't want you to end up like me." "There's nothing wrong with you dad" I tried to convince him. He held me tight, smelled like smoke, sweat, and cheap cologne. I didn’t care. That was the scent of home. “I'm out, ain't I?” I said, half-laughing, half-choking up. He didn’t say nothing for a second, just held me like he was afraid I’d vanish. Then he pulled back, looked me up and down. “You didn’t let them break you, right?” I smirked. “Please. I broke them, dad. Nobody messes with Youngbloods right!” That made him laugh — real deep belly laugh, the kind I hadn’t heard since I was detained. Then he got serious, really quick. “Listen... so there’s basketball tryouts tomorrow at Queens High. They offering scholarships.” I blinked. “Queens High? That rich-a*s prep school?” He nodded. “They takin’ in street talent. They got scouts, Zuri. You get in there, play like I know you can, and get that scholarship for yourself.” Well basketball is kinda my thing, it's in my blood just like my dad, he taught me everything I know. f**k LeBron James, y'all ain't seen a baller that's my dad it's in his blood and in mine. The YOUNGBLOOB. In juvie, I was voted MVP for a mini league held inside, legit kept me out of kitchen duty for the whole of last month—trust me when I say “I got game.” So I was saying dad barely got chance to study and of course if he did, he could have showcased his skills, I wonder what would have happened if he ever got drafted for the NBA. But as I said life ain't fair. Obviously mentioning this scholarship thing, I already figured dad’s plan. He lowkey sees potential in me, he wants me to get a scholarship possibly make the school team, get singled by scouts and get drafted into the WNBA. He's delusional at times I tell you—simple reminder this ain’t no fairy tale and the system is fuckin’ rigged. “You want me to be something I ain’t,” I muttered. He shook his head. “Nah. I want you to be everything they said you couldn’t be.” My dad may look like your typical gangsta — the grill, the tattoos, the ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ stare — but deep down? He’s the only good man I know. He’s done wrong, yeah, but he’s never done me wrong. He’s wished nothing but the best for me, even when he ain’t know what “best” looked like. And if this is the shot — the one chance to get him off this trash-a*s project life — then I’m bringing my A-game tomorrow. For him. For me. For the ride-or-die we been since day one. “Come-on, Z, how about lunch at your favorite restaurant first.” Well, I was overjoyed, it was time for the Youngblood name to finally shine, thanks to this opportunity.