The Life and Times of @youngogmarqs. Your Favorite vlogger writes a blog!! What it's like to move to a bad neighborhood? How was it being the first white race in an all black neighborhood.

Growing up in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, Marcy projects. An autobiography of a kid from Brooklyn. 

Chapter One:

"Cough up a Lung, Where I'm from? Marcy son... ain't nothing nice"

Marcy projects are pretty well know. Not for nothing pretty, at all. I was a fresh six-year old boy coming from Bushwick, Brooklyn NY. Bushwick and Bed-Stuy are practically neighbors, so it wasn't a major move over from one part of Brooklyn to another. I remember how cool I thought it was, we were moving into a building that had an elevator! 

My previous apartment building in Bushwick was fixed on top of a grocery store. Grocery day was hell carrying all those bags up that one long steep set of stairs to the second floor. I was young, not much I can help with anyway, but I still helped my mom with as many bags as I could. One by one. My mother asked the family to help us move. I remember my uncles helping her. If you're hispanic you know that we don't organize task like this very well. We kind of just go with the flow. It becomes a mess, and brings on a great deal of stress. Until the job is done and rewarded with a homemade spanish dish and a cold beer. 

Back to Marcy...

An elevator was a luxury. Yet it didn't look nor smell like anything luxurious. Picture walls so filthy you have to make sure you don't lean on them by accident or your liable to get a fair amount of snot/spit on yourself, or even worst, urine. Entering the elevator floor was always a game of "don't step in the pee". Even when empty the most you'd fit in it (if lucky) 2-3 people. Nobody wants to step in urine and bring it into their home. The stink sticks to your shoe, and although we didn't have nice floors or carpet, you had to check-in your shoes at the door. 

Inside our one bedroom apartment; the walls are as solid as concrete. There's no such thing as "punching holes through the walls". If you got mad and attempted to put your arm through the wall, you likely ended up with a broken hand and/or wrist. The floors are designed the same way, hard as a rock, slip n fall can lead to a serious injury. Marcy was built to with stand any human error or simply prevent anyone from going wild and tearing up the place. 

My new hood...

My new neighborhood didn't quite receive me with open arms. I stood out like your first gray hair. Noticeable from a mile away. The only white skinned hispanic kid in a predominately black neighborhood. Moving in was a cake walk. I knew the real challenge lied ahead, the following day. My first day in a new school. I was so nervous and antsy about it that I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned in the bed through the night until I heard my mom's alarm, then bolted up as if I was actually excited about going to school. My mom knew I hated school, so she was shocked and pleased at the same time. Happy she didn't have to fight me out of the bed in the morning, yet still concerned about how my first day in a new school will turn out. 

First thing I noticed as I walked through my new elementary school was the sea of kids of color. I'm pretty white, but as a kid, my skin was as white as a KKK member's sheets. Through the years I've gained some color working outdoors, hence the little tan I have now. After enough sun burns, your skin actually gets darker (who would've thought). 

As a young 6 year old white/hispanic in an all black neighborhood, I knew there was going to be some racial slurs, confrontation, and problems leading to physical fights. What the other kids didn't know is how much I loved the drama. My mom could tell you that at the age of 6 (or any age, in fact) I was no sucker. I'd already been in trouble for several fights at my previous school. In my defense, I just liked to play rough, and that didn't always turn out too well. Go figure. 

First day of school...

Being introduced to a new class is scary. Being introduced to a new class with a bunch of screw faced kids, looking at you like "who the hell are you", is even more frightening. It had me a bit scared. I just kept my mean-mug face on, for defense, through the entire class. Show no fear.

Wasn't long before lunch time. I knew lunch time is when things will get real. With little teacher presence around to watch everyone, lunch time is the perfect time to start trouble. My first lunch period was no exception. Didn't take long before the first "wannabe" bully made his move. 

I was on the lunch line waiting to get my tray when I felt someone pluck my earlobe from behind, immediately followed by some chuckles in the background. So I spun around, "who hit me"? Furious and determined to find out, I get up in a kid's face, "you hit me"? Bravely he replied, "what if I did, what you gonna do"? So i pushed him so hard he fell into the kid behind him that thought it was funny. Commotion erupts, an abundance  of "oooohhs", from instigators watching in excitement. The two bullies were shocked, mad, and a bit startled by my reaction. The crowd also showed signs of astonishment. 

I learned quickly, the two kids I now had problems with were infamous for being the school bullies, and never having no one stand up to them. They were soon going to find out that I was one of them. A hard headed, trouble making, take no bullshit, bad ass. Separated by lunch attendants we agreed on waiting for each other after school. Lunch then proceeded as normal. Except the headlining hot topic-to-discuss now buzzing, "The new kid is fighting after school". My act of bravery boosted up my popularity in a matter of seconds. I went from the new kid no one knew, to "the new kid is fighting after school". 

F-ed wit the wrong one...

Second half of the school day breezed by. The anticipation was so huge the entire school couldn't wait until classes were dismissed. As if all they were missing was popcorn and a soft drink, the entire school waited around outside for the fighters to make their way to the ring. My opponent and I agreed to meet behind the school, at the play ground, so we're able to get a good fight in before security intervened. It's a practice of showing how brave you are, as if you're saying, "If you're tough...we gonna fight for real in the back". In the back? Of course, the school yard, where we won't be stopped by teachers from nearly killing each other. 

As we reach the playground a circle of onlookers surround us. There's a lot of yelling, chanting, and enough "F-bombs" to take out North Korea. So we get into our "fighting stance". If only the smartphones of today could've recorded some of those late 80s to early 90s street fights. Back in the days, if you didn't look good fighting, it did't matter if you won. Style, was more important than the actual win. It gave birth to some of the funniest, more ridiculous fighting stance I've ever witnessed. 

My opponent swung first, connecting a punch to my right-cheek. That was enough for my adrenaline to take over and I went into beast mode. Hit him with a right punch to his right eye and grabbing him in a head lock. Unfolding a slew of punches to his face and head, before an older kid that witnessed the fight, broke up the fight because "mr. Tough guy", was bleeding from his nose intensely. For the all the hype, and anticipation, the entire fight was finished in a fraction of time it took to get started. 

Immediately the crowd turned in my favor. I went from almost being mobbed by an agry race-driven entire elementary school. To being rewarded with high-fives and dap( 🤜🏻🤛🏾).

It took another a month to get everyone familar with me not being white, but actually hispanic (Dominican). 

A simple ordinary playground fight turned into a pretty good investment for a young boy in the 2nd grade. At the tender age of six, I had a respectable name and reputation. The two trouble makers that started with me on my first day, were now my best friends. We practically formed a little crew and ran together for the next 6-7 years, from elementary through Junior High School (middle school). 

Bullying anyone and everyone, preying on the weaker. Not one of my fondest moments as a kid. At the time, I was obviously young and stupid. All that mattered was my respect and popularity. Picking on the rest came with the territory. Making sure I got money or candy from my victims was a way of life. I'm in elementary school, what did I know about how I was affecting lives. Either you were cool, or you were someone's fool. 

If you messed with the team, anyone of my boys. There was drama. Nothing but problems await around every corner. No such thing as a dull, boring day when you're growing up in a violence driven envionment. Fights are fun, stealing is a way of getting what you wanted. 

Reflect...

I regret every minute of it, now looking back at how I was then. I wish I can take it all back, redo everything, my entire childhood (at least the bullying). Yet, time only moves forward, we have to learn to live with regret. Learning from the past is our greatest gift. It's a second chance. An opportunity. To make it up, do it right, make it better the next time. 

Chapter two

"Momma ain't raise no fool..."

See, my father was never around. My biological dad is a deadbeat, and my stepfather was only there financially. My stepfather is the type of man that never offered to play catch with me. Instead he would buy me two gloves and a ball and send me outside to play catch with my friends. Marcy projects was my father figure. Everything I learned, whether right or wrong, was from the streets. My mom tried her best to play both roles, but as a growing boy in a rough neighborhood, of course I never listened to her. "What does she know about street survival".

 To be continued...

Thank you for reading. Chapter two will continue real soon. Stay blesssed 🙏🏼

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