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Angelo J. Vasquez
I’m writing you from prison like l always. I’ve been here since I was sixteen years old and I’m twenty-seven now. It’s truly amazing that I’m not dead. My life wasn’t ruined when my mother and father got a divorce when I as five years old. No that just meant more presents and two bedrooms. It was when I first began to smoke weed. When I was a nine-year-old boy I began to smoke rock, meth and PCP. I couldn’t be sober once I started. I began to steal from my family, anything of value was going to ‘the connect’. Then an idea that seemed to solve my problems.
I bought a couple ounces and began slanging. I got in a gang so I wouldn’t be robbed. I got lost in the streets. I didn’t even know who my family was anymore. My mother would cry herself to sleep, driving around every street pulling up to every crowd looking for me because she loved me. My father gave up on me, moving out of state. I was so numb on drugs I didn’t even care. I thought this gang lifestyle was the top, that it doesn’t get better than this.
Remembering my last hug
before I got locked up makes me upset.
I hugged my little brother and told him I love him. Turned around and told my sister the same thing. She hugged me tight and called me her sweetheart, before I walked out the door
not knowing what was waiting for me.
My house was surrounded before it was raided,
I turned back to see my sister crying,
panicking not knowing what’s happening to her baby brother. I got locked up right in front of her.