Chapter 1 – Born Into Chaos
Queens was never quiet. The city was alive with sound—the rumble of trains overhead, the horns of impatient cab drivers, the chatter of neighbors on the stoop. For some kids, those noises blended into the background of childhood. For me, they became an escape. The noise outside often felt safer than the noise inside my home.
I grew up in a small apartment where love and violence lived under the same roof, constantly colliding. My father was a man who could be charming in the morning and terrifying by night. I never knew which version of him would walk through the door. Sometimes he carried himself like the dad I wished I could always have—smiling, joking, asking about my day. But as soon as alcohol found him, that man disappeared.
My mother's struggle was quieter but no less destructive. Pills softened her edges until they sharpened again. There were days she hovered over me, brushing my hair back and asking if I'd eaten. Other days, she was distant, her gaze fixed on something I couldn't see, her body there but her spirit far away. Pills dulled her pain, but they also dulled her presence. I learned quickly that needing too much from her only led to disappointment.
The fights between them were like thunderstorms—you always knew when they were coming. The air in the apartment would grow thick, conversations sharper, movements louder. I could feel it in my chest before the first word was shouted. And then it would start: my father's voice booming, my mother shouting back, both of them throwing words like knives. Sometimes objects followed—glasses, plates, anything within reach.
One night sticks in my memory like it happened yesterday. I was sitting at the kitchen table doing homework when my father came home later than usual. His eyes were glassy, his steps uneven. My mother was already in the kitchen, and before I could even look down at my paper again, the argument started. She accused. He denied. She yelled. He roared back. A chair scraped against the floor, and suddenly the room erupted in chaos.
I froze, pen in hand, my math problems blurring on the page. My mother's voice cracked as she screamed, "Why do you keep doing this to us?" My father slammed his fist against the wall, the sound vibrating through my chest. That was my cue. I scooped up my books, hurried to my room, and shut the door, my hands trembling. With the pillow pressed tight against my ears, I prayed—not out loud, not even knowing who I was praying to—but silently, begging God for it to stop.
Sleep rarely came easy on nights like that. Instead, I lay awake, staring at the glow of streetlights through my window blinds, wondering why my life was so different from the families I saw on TV or in my friends' homes. But those nights also fueled me. They lit a fire inside me to build something different, something better.
School became my sanctuary. I was the kid who raised his hand, who handed in assignments on time, who teachers could count on. It wasn't because life was easy—it was because school was the one place I felt in control. And then there were sports. Basketball, baseball, football—it didn't matter. The moment I stepped onto the court or the field, I wasn't the boy from a broken home. I was an athlete, a competitor, someone people respected.
Sports gave me a new language, one that didn't involve shouting or breaking. It was the language of teamwork, discipline, and victory. Every time I laced up my sneakers or gripped a ball in my hand, I felt free. It was the only place where the noise in my head quieted down.
One teacher, Mrs. Ramirez, noticed something in me. She stopped me after class one day, resting her hand on my shoulder. "You've got a good head on your shoulders," she said. "Don't waste it. You can go further than you think." I nodded, trying to hide how much her words meant to me. At home, encouragement was rare. Hearing someone believe in me—it planted a seed.
Of course, at that age, I didn't believe her fully. How could I? My last name felt like baggage. My home life felt like a curse. Kids like me didn't make it out—not really. But deep down, something inside whispered: What if she's right?
There were moments of light, too—rare but powerful. I remember a Saturday afternoon when my father was sober and took me to the park. We played catch until the sun began to dip behind the buildings. He laughed when I caught a hard throw barehanded, shaking his head and saying, "Kid, you're tougher than you look." For those two hours, he wasn't an alcoholic. He was just my dad. And even though I knew that version of him wouldn't last, I clung to the memory.
Those flashes of normalcy gave me just enough hope to keep going. They reminded me that life didn't have to be defined by addiction and violence—that there was another way to live, even if I couldn't see it yet.
Looking back now, I realize that God was already working in me. Even in the middle of the brokenness, He was planting resilience, strength, and determination in places I couldn't see. My childhood in Queens was not easy, but it was the soil where my strength took root.
I learned that broken beginnings don't determine the ending. Pain can shape you, but it doesn't have to define you. And though I didn't yet understand faith, I was beginning to learn the most important lesson of all: even in the darkest places, there is light waiting to break through.