Personal Narrative: The War On Drugs

690 Words3 Pages
People never believe me when I tell them I'd been kidnapped. First, they give me a look of disbelief. I say it again. They give me a look of uneasiness. I allow them to ask questions. They ask with a look of sadness. I assure them no physical harm came my way during this event of my life. They end with a look of relief. But the mental anguish? The mental anguish was unbearable. Way too complicated for my 8 year-old mind to process. As beautiful as my mother was, she was notorious for not being able to keep a man. For some reason they always "did her wrong.” I'm not sure if she had bad luck or she did not pick her suitors wisely, but I do know they all shared the propensity for leaving her. July B, as the streets called him, had to…show more content…
So petty that only his foot soldiers messed with weed. July was the leader of a crack-cocaine ring. The 1980's war on drugs may have shut down his predecessors, but he was of a new breed. Very rarely did he make deliveries, he had people for that.. If you owed him money, killing is how you repaid him. He was never one to take 'no' for an answer. He was a believer of the crack movement. A believer of being the 'fix' people…show more content…
I hardly ever spoke to my mother before this trip. I tried to think harder. I remember the story lines I gave my barbies more than talking to her. Think harder! I tried to focus on our last conversation; Florida...Christmas...brother...July. She had said something about July. I interpreted it as she meant she imagined me coming back in July and not that she had some man, with a gun, living with her, with the name July. I shake my head no. "Well, let me take you to meet him," she said. I grab a bag, she grabs my hand. I make it back up the stairs. He's still standing there. I look up, he smiles. Again he says,"Hellosays, "Hello, Jasmin.” He knows my name already. "Hi, July." I reached my hand out to shake his, he outreached his arms to hug me. I felt the cold steel on his hip press against my shoulder. I looked up at him, with my eyes still cloudy from my tears and he looked down at me. From first glance he was so scary, but there was kindness in his eyes. His stature said fear, but his eyes said comfort. Even at the impressionable age of eight, I knew how people could be misjudged. I tried my best to be trusting in my mother’s decision to marry this man, although I barely trusted her decisions for anything else in life. That split second calmed me. I saw the sunny side of him. I think that's when I accepted the notion of being the Notorious July B's
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