My Introduction

We are all born with unique gifts, that when used will only bring positive change to the world around us. My gift happens to be a very original way of grouping together words in a fashion that is able to move hearts and minds.

I began writing as a toddler. I’d take my trusty Crayola’s, choose one of my mother's pristine walls, and commence to creating my masterpieces. Sadly, my mom did not appreciate my early show of talent, nor did she support my choice of venue. Quite swiftly she concocted this cock-a-maimey tale that I must share. She came to me with this flimsy booklet that she swore was made specifically for my crayons. She even had the audacity to feed me this lame name for the thing...called it a "coloring book". Obviously I was way too savvy to be duped by her, and swiftly rejected this foolishness. I happily did my normal thing, sharing with the world my pre-school prowess for composition all over my mom's walls. Again the mother lady was not happy, but this time she emphasized her unhappiness by beating my ass, which helped me understand that her walls were no longer an option for my writings. (Relax people; it was the 80's where such a thing was normal.) Safe to say that from then forward, I picked paper as my medium!

As I grew up, the universe instilled within me first a thirst for words, as well as a love for the various ways to compile them. Reading the classics of literature as well as the many other categories of writing gave me a greater feel for what was and was not proper. But, as a kid, I was also blessed with teachers who nurtured my innate ability as well as found a unique means of gifting me with something that only elevated my desire to write.

Though I cannot name every teacher whose fingerprint is on my soul, I’d like to say thank you to the few I recall off the top of my head. Mrs. Green, who was my third grade teacher at Fulton, which was located on the Southside of Chicago, Illinois back in 1989-1990. I thought she was pure evil, yet she taught me how to write in flawless cursive. I was so good; I could pen my own excuses from school-- that came in handy later in my youth. Having such beautiful penmanship gave me the confidence to share whatever I wrote, since on aesthetics alone, it was pleasant. So, thank you Mrs. Green! Mr. 'D' who was an auxiliary teacher at Allen-Field elementary school in Milwaukee Wisconsin during my 5th and 6th grade years, back in 1992 through 1994. He would have us looking up random words, write down the definition 10 times each, and come up with ten sentences for each word. I always deemed those sessions supremely worthless, other than the fact of him rewarding winners with tickets to college basketball games. Yet, minus him my vocabulary would be so limited. Also, because of him, so many words simply sit in my head awaiting the perfect opportunity to be used. It often feels like words find me as I write, versus me seeking them out. So, Mr. 'D', thank you! My fifth grade teacher Mark Eary, which also worked at Allen Field elementary school during the same period and was my 6th grade teacher. He seemed a bit hard around the edges, but upon getting to know him I realized how smooth he was as a person. He was responsible for helping me understand that my brain moved swifter than my pen. He directed me to spell out the words in my head as I penned them, which did not stifle my writing but helped me make sure that each word made it to the page. So, thank you Mr. eary! The final teacher I will call out is Ms. 'G' as we called her. She was an English teacher at Milwaukee trade and technical high school in Milwaukee, Wisconsin back in 1998. She instilled within me a confidence nothing had before. One day while in here class she asked me to step out into the hallway for a moment so her and I could have a quick 'conference'. Honestly I was scared, racking my brain for bad deeds I had recently done as I followed her out of class. Beyond the door to the classroom, this wafer-thin white woman who was at most 5'5", 105 lbs. grabbed me, a 5'9" 155lbs athletic kid by my collar and slammed me up against the wall of lockers. I was so shocked by her action that I couldn't react. "Yo, what's up?" was all I managed to say. "You wrote this yesterday while in class, correct?" she stated in an accusatory tone, holding a paper with my handwriting in her thin hands. "Yeah, I did. Why? “I responded, totally unsure of what was going on. “As I thought, since I watched you do so. Why the fuck are you in night school?" she questioned, again shocking me because I did not understand the direction of her queries. "Because I don’t like mornings, and this is way more convenient." I managed to say, realizing how silly it sounded as it was coming out of my head. I witnessed first disappointment in the teacher’s eyes, then a softening that was just as unexpected. "Anthony, get your ass back into day classes! I will do everything within my power to get you back on track, I promise. This paper you wrote is the best damn paper I have ever seen written by a student, and you wrote it in 30 minutes while sitting in a noisy ass classroom while you were high as hell on weed!" She stated, astonished by her own realization. Immediately I tried to refute the being high aspect of the conversation by saying, "I was not high! Where you get that from?" "Boy, you came into class smelling like a Cheech and Chong movie!" she said grinning. She added, "Get away from these idiots and back into day school. I will make everything fall into place for you!" I promised to think about it and did, for a day, but did not get back into day school until the next semester. still, her statement gave me so much confidence, seeing as how she had been teaching in public high schools with over a thousand students for years, yet a paper I wrote in less than 30 minutes (that I don't even recall nowadays) while blasted on marijuana was the best she had seen. I had never been more honored, so Ms. 'G', Thank you so much!

After school was in my rearview, I didn't do much writing. My life was not so lax that sitting down to pen an essay could happen. I would script the occasional love letter, but I was in constant motion so nothing more in-depth than that. Further and further away from writing I seemed to go, my focus being on family, work, and the rest of the things that ordinary life is comprised of. In all honesty, I had become so engrossed in living that I lost the desire to do much writing. at least until I found myself sitting in a jail cell on September 27th, 2003, staring into the teeth of a lengthy prison sentence after a terrible summer filled with extreme turmoil, horrendous heartbreak, and the poorest decision-making in my life!

Most people are lucky enough to never see the insides of a jail cell. I am not one of those people, but I have yet to make the decision as to whether prison for me is the best or worst thing of my life. I know that some people cannot fathom prison being anything but a negative. In many respects, I can easily say that the losses experienced due to imprisonment have been quite devastating. Had I the chance to make different choices, I’d sure as hell have refrained from felonious capers.

As a man who fathered two daughters, but has had to watch their whole lives play out in pictures that aren't regularly presented, and visits that have been separated by half a decade, they are definitely the reason I’d make better choices were I allowed a second shot at that. Yet, the reality is that I cannot go back to 2003 and the 14 years that I have spent in prison have had a true purpose. Because this time robbed my daughters of their dad, I do my very best to write impactful! I refuse to reach the end of this prison sentence with nothing tangible to show for it!

One thing prison does is present you with ample time to sit in rumination. Being in a bathroom-sized box alone for 23 hours a day, with no one to converse with daily lends you so many opportunities to navigate thoughts. I found myself returning to my roots of writing beginning with letters. I’d pen family and friends, my kids and whomever else simply to share my daily experiences and ideas. I then felt that I needed a more expressive means of writing so I began composing poetry. Starting out my pieces were quite puerile, and showed how long I had been away from creative writing. But, penning poetry gave me an outlet I truly needed. Then one day as I looked through books in a dilapidated and sad excuse for a library, I found a book proposing to teach a person how to write poetry. For a week I studied the book, doing its exercises in triplicate because I wanted to create beauty as I sat in such an ugly place. Upon returning the book, I continued composing poetry daily, picking random topics as well as concocting specified pieces for my kid's mother and our daughters. From there I graduated to essays and short stories.

After years and years of poetry and essays, plus a pair of short stories, I felt it time I made the next step in my writing evolution. I wrote my first novel while in segregation. I cannot say where the story came from, only that it was in my head more vividly than anything I had ever experienced before. I could not stop putting the movie-like content on paper. I wrote for about 16 hours daily, stopping only to eat and use the facilities. That novel is named 'Gold Run'. I have three others; 'My Queen of Anyhows', Brooklyn Boy' and 'A Taste of Heaven'. My 5th novel is not complete, nor titled. Currently none of them are published, but I will share with you all bits of my novels as well as my poetry. I hope you find them as interesting as others have.