Tacari Amare Zafar. My name means warrior who possesses great strength. Ever since I’ve found out that’s what my name means I’ve always felt the need to fight for something whether it was fighting against my brother for the front seat of my moms car or fighting an even bigger demon, the hood.

I’m fifteen years old and I’m now moving from Brooklyn, New York to Atlanta, Georgia. The reason we’re moving is because my mom couldn’t find a decent job to keep food on the table and was barely able to keep a shelter over our heads. I’m not exaggerating that last part, while in New York I remembered staying under countless rundown apartments, they weren’t section 8 but they sure as hell wasnt Bel-Air either.

Coming up I put all my faith into music, poetry, rap. I never shared my music cause it was really used for me to cope with all the shit I’d grown up around. My mom took care of us by herself. Aneila Zafar, me and my brother, Rashad. Unlike me my brothers last name is Gaulden.

My father Eric Poole, was running in and out of jail while my mother was trying to take care of me. She found herself doing some pretty hard drugs to cope with what she felt was rock bottom. Soon she met Anthony Gaulden, this was Rashad’s father. I have a pretty good memory of this great man, I say good because he was one of the only positive black male figures I had in my life. It was me, my mom, and Anthony and they gave birth to Rashad when I was two. For a good couple of years we were a “happy” family. Then the worst happened. Two racist white cops beat him to death after an incident involving him and a white lady at our local grocery store down the street. I was only 6, my brother only 4 years. I got to be with one of the most influential male figures in my life.

They didn’t want me to have someone to look up to, by they I meant those cops and any other white supremacist that wanted to see the failure of a race full of kings and queens. A few months later I started school and it was just me, my mom, and my brother. I hated leaving for school everyday, I felt like I would return home and find my family in danger or dead.

Getting off the bus I was quick to give my brother a hug, the hardest I could give with my weak little arms.

My mom knew we needed a male figure and bills were stacking, I remember my mom being on the phone with a bill collector at this age and they made her cry. I was all my mom had so I would comfort her when I could see things weren’t going so good. Telling my mom “I love you.” began to be the most common phrase that came out of my mouth at a young age I had grasped empathy for my mother, other black mothers, and black women in general.

My mom taught me the importance of respect for women and it was easy to learn seeing all she went through. When I was seven my mom brought around a man she said known since high school. Reginald something, she told us to call him Reggie for short. I was happy to have yet another black male figure around, at first, but this one wasn’t so happy to see me and Rashad in the picture. I felt this way because he’d never make an effort to talk to us or even act like we’re in the room. It was all good I didn’t think much of it, until one night my mom and him had gotten back from a date. They had been arguing and they were so loud other apartment lights had began to turn on and heads were poking out the windows. Me and my brother made sure to keep the lights off and watch, but they had to have known we were awake after everybody else was well aware. I remember my mom saying something I wasn’t sure what, but it lead that bitch ass nigga to lay his hands on my moms. Nobody said anything and lights had begun to turn off. No one was going to help this poor women. Reggie got in his car and skirted off in his car. I never saw that nigga again.

My mom had stopped dating for a good two years. I began to feel like she felt men and her were a bad combination that produced more stress, anxiety, and depression for her. Here she was with two male kids, that fought all the time, that she got from two men who ended up leaving her life, leading her to deal with a whirlwind of men that had their own issues.

Once I reached thirteen I had gave up hope that my mom would find a positive black male figure for us. They all came and went and I started to lose track of names until she introduced me and my brother to Quinton Martin. Quinton had money and while I didn’t know where it came from, I saw that he was putting it towards the bills to help my mom out who had found a job being a maid or something for a elderly group home. Quinton was nice, but I didn’t buy it, it was only a matter of time before he would ruin my moms life once again, and he did. He wouldn’t only manage to ruin her life but mines also. After he had came home drunk one night, he raised his fist to my mother dead in front of me and my brother. He began whamming in her and this caused my brother to cry. I got us both out of there and told my brother to stay in our room until I told him it was okay to come out. I immediately ran into the kitchen, I remember hearing the loud punches he kept laying on her. I grabbed an iron skillet took it in the living room and bashed it against his head when his back was turned. He had a fractured skull and was in a coma for a week, until he died.

Word spread quick about me being a “household hero” and news channels began popping up on our yard. My mom wouldn’t know how to respond to there dumbass questions, but I was quick to tell them to “Get the hell off our yard!”

I was in seventh grade at the time and I was getting a lot of attention in school. Kids would say “He’s a murderer.” or “He saved his mom from a psycho.” I was quiet about all of it and the friends I had made before the killing had not been my friends anymore.

I started acting out in school by being insubordinate, skipping, fighting, and hanging around kids that had records bigger than a phone book. This was how I met Malik and Trey, the first niggas I ever trusted. Malik and Trey could dress and while I thought they were rich, they just took advantage of there resources. I began to do the same and while I won’t say how I got the money I did, I will say I made a lot of it.

From all my acting out in class I had began to get calls from school and soon suspensions back to back. I would tell my mom everything that’d happen and it’d be the truth. I knew I could trust her without her flying off the rails. She’d tell me what I should’ve done and kept it pushing. Getting suspended here and there it allowed me to put more focus into my music. I would write about school, the niggas I fought, and even the man I killed. I remember coming home from school mad as hell then thirty minutes later turn it into a song.

Malik, Trey, and I stopped getting the money through our criminal activity after a close friend of ours got caught doing what we were doing. All the money we made was put into clothes not regular clothes we wore Bape, True religion, Billionaire boys club, and Jordan’s. We sold all our clothes we bought with our fraudulent money and bought more clothes to resell for profit.

The end of the school year I found out the school wanted me to stay back in the seventh grade once again, while my friends were able to go to the eighth. I had missing assignments and my absences, due to suspensions, were out the roof. That summer I had decided to use the money I made with Malik and Trey and went to a studio to record music. I went to this kids house named Jodi that lived in our neighborhood. He had the whole studio set and it was cheap at only $10 a song. I wrote, recorded, and Jodi produced my first song “Cartel” it was in dedication to the official business that Me, Malik, and Trey started. The song had got popular at Douglas, my middle school, and I was pulling attention from all over East Brooklyn. I did another song titled “Don’t Mess With Mines” this was about you know who. It got so much attention it was being covered on our local news and went viral on Instagram and Twitter, I didn’t even have a Twitter.

Being fourteen in the seventh grade was embarrassing, but I was quickly able to be acquainted with my new classmates. My teachers, which had been the same ones from last year tried to isolate me from my classmates so I was quickly in the principals office every now and then. I had became so familiar with Mr. Trevoli, a guidance counselor, he’d create his own assignments for me. He’d get me to write new songs about why I was in his office and he was astonished by how quickly I could do them. “You’ve got a bright future ahead, I know it.” He’d tell me.

I ain’t believe all that, but I was glad I had a positive male figure once again. Me and Mr. Trevoli had a very weird relationship he was probably the only white man I felt wasn’t out to get me, but I also felt like he’d show his true colors eventually.

Once I felt like everything was back together in my life I knew...I felt something would soon happen to me, nothing good ever lasted long in my life and that winter break I was given devastated news. Malik had been shot and killed by a high schooler from West Brooklyn. Malik had supposedly met up with him to sell him a shirt, but that bitch ass nigga wanted something for free.

I was angry, yet again. I wasn’t meant to be happy. I was a black man living in New York, this was my hell of a reality. I didn’t shed a tear until I seen him at the funeral. It was so many people and people never seen me open up, they’d always known me to be the killer not the kid that Malik or Trey knew.

Trey and I were left and we vowed to stick together no matter what. Every sell he had to make I’d follow and vice versa. The streets was a dangerous place. I copped my first gun from Jodi, A .22 caliber, some small, but it’d get the job done.

Summer came again and we were glad to be back in business full-time. We had got more kids off our block to help us distribute and with more business, I knew I had to keep some form of protection to make sure what happened to Malik wouldn’t happen to Me or Trey. I recorded more music and every song I wrote was real and when I released them to world my community began to know me more than the kid who committed homicide. My music told the real story, people couldn’t believe I was in middle school.

I had begun another school year. School wasn’t doing shit for me. I was passing and getting by, but I knew what wanted to do and it wasn’t school. I felt like school was holding me back, from making money and from all I was making it was helping my moms with the bills.

I stayed in school for Rashad to be honest. I felt I had to be that positive figure in his life, he had to know we’d be able to make it out. Rashad began hanging out with me and Trey more. Trey was in high school and he was quick to tell me about all the bad females they had. I could only dream.

Trey had set up our first two man with these freshman girls he’d been getting to know. Two mans was pretty much two groups having sex in the same room. Trey had more experience with the females not gonna lie, but I had some experience.

After that we started setting up juggs left and right. It was about getting our money and the hoes. I had been doing music practically everyday but I still wasn’t getting the attention I needed. “Don’t Mess With Mines” had finally hit the radio in my neighborhood and I was so happy, yes happy again.

My mom began to tell me how she lost her job and bills were climbing on us. I had the money to take care of rent, but my mom said she didn’t want me having that stress on my back at such a young age. Here I was with blood on my hands, held back, and still mourning my best friend as if I didn’t have enough stress going on.

My mom felt it was best we move down south and start on a clean slate. We moving in with my aunt who moved down here a couple years earlier with her son(our cousin), Taye. Atlanta, don’t they have hella diseases and shit. I was devastated I’d be leaving Trey behind. I gave him my .22 and told him when I got all my shit together we’d meet back up and pick up where we left off.

Moving is a big step for me, I’m finna take off in the A. Let these niggas know I’m hot and blowup. I’ve been writing hella music since I’ve gotten on the plane and my first step is tryna find a stu to record at and get on.

We only 30 miles away now and I can only only imagine the shit I’m finna get into.