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I was doing time; I never had the opportunity to say goodbye. She never knew I was incarcerated nor that I made many wrong decisions in my life. She thought I was away at boarding school getting an education; it was so important to her. She always believed I was a good person. Her last words to me were "Come to Santo Domingo, my son, I want to see you before I die." I always made up excuses for why I couldn’t come, rather than being straight forward and telling her that I was locked up in jail. What breaks my heart til’ this day is that I never had the opportunity to see her again. It was impossible for me to pay my respect to her. To tell her how much I loved her. But I know deep down inside that she is watching over me and protecting me. My grandmother was the most amazing woman in the world. Since I was a young boy, hustling and making money was my thing. The streets gave me that, not some dumb ass school that had me sitting in a wooden chair doing tedious work for eight hours not learning anything. The streets raised me. That’s where I made my money, not in school. I remembered using that money to buy myself kites and anything I wanted to get, since my grandma could not afford it. The pay and power from manhandling others pleased me, and I was damn good at it too. In the late eighties, my biological mother, Zoila Damaris Jaime, may her soul continue to rest in peace, sent to get me. I was eight years old at the time; I cannot recall if that made me happy or sad. I was leaving my beautiful country. I did not have a say being so young, I had no choice but to follow instructions and listen to my mother. Upon arriving in New York City at the John F Kennedy International Airport, my mother took me straight to the Bronx.