Da Beginning (Da Jump Off)

I remember pestering a guy for help, practically begging for a shot. I wasn't sure if he was holding out on me or if he was as broke as he claimed, but when he finally handed over that package, my chest tightened with a sudden, electrifying rush. I thought this was it—my start. Completely green, knowing nothing about the product but desperate to hold something real, I shoved it deep into my bookbag and headed downtown to school, my pulse thumping against my ribs the whole way.

I had never handled dope a day in my life. I was totally blind to it, but to my untrained eyes, it looked just like the packages I’d watched older guys swap on the corner. I slipped into school near the end of second period, riding high on a reckless wave of excitement. When the third-period bell rang, I blended into the crowd, trying to look cool, calm, and invisible.

I took my seat, trying to steady my breath, when a well-known neighborhood hustler walked over. He leaned in, interested, asking to see what I was holding. My stomach dropped into a cold knot—this was the moment. Hand trembling just enough to betray my nerves, I passed it over, practicing the exchange I’d rehearsed in my head a thousand times in the mirror. For a second, time froze. Then, thirty agonizing seconds later, he handed it right back, a look of utter disgust on his face.

He locked eyes with me and dropped the words that made my heart drop straight to the floor: "Boyd, that shit fake."

Disappointment slammed into me like a physical blow. A hot surge of defensive anger flushed through my chest—I thought he was playing me, trying to take advantage. But then he looked at me flatly and said, "Smell it."

I pulled it to my nose, and the sharp, perfumed scent of Ivory soap hit me like a slap in the face.

I was crushed. Humiliated. The shame settled heavy in the pit of my stomach. But beneath the sting of embarrassment, a terrifying realization sent a cold shudder down my spine: if I had taken that fake product straight to the block instead of a high school classroom, I wouldn't just be embarrassed—I could have been dead. The street group had guys who sold "dummies" to make a quick buck, but I was nowhere near that cold-blooded. That day, the game stripped away my illusions and showed me exactly how ice-cold it really was.

Eventually, I crossed paths with some real game-changers near Hunter’s Field, back in the area where they set up community events during Super Sunday. Working alongside them gave me a taste of real influence; as soon as I made my first move, the ripples hit my side of the 7th Ward—Tha Box—before I even made it back.

Yet, I was still a kid trying to find his footing, driven by a desperate, blinding hunger to prove myself. When it came time for a major re-up, that hunger clouded my judgment. I turned to a familiar face—a guy who used to run the basketball courts with my brother. I let my guard down, believing that shared history and personal ties meant loyalty.

It was another bitter lesson written in real time on these streets: nostalgia isn't loyalty, and everyone on your team isn't there to watch you grow. Walking under the heavy rumble of the bridge, listening to the dark, chaotic rhythm of the city, I realized how complex and unforgiving those unspoken rules really were. I was still alive, still learning, but every step forward was a step through a minefield.

 (Da After) Part1

 Coming (4/6/26)