Ten months after my 10 years, two months and seven days in prison, I was hired part-time to do some noble works. I got a gig as a violence interrupter for this local organization called Save Our Streets that was five minutes walking distance from my building in St. Mars. My job was simple; interrupt violence, particularly gun violence before it happened. I was going to be a ghetto super hero, while on parole. It was time for my first day and I was excited. But, my first day e

When my parents would come visit me “up north, ” the directional colloquialism for spending time in the various slave-holding facilities known as penitentiaries– otherwise euphemistically known as correctional facilities– they would rant about how the neighborhood looks so much different. “Marlo, all de white people living in de building. They all up on Nostrand Avenue too. Dem fellas and dem caan’t hang on de corners no more because ah dem cops and dem white people.” Disclai