Growing up Black in America, you’re conditioned to believe you’ll always be second-class. Jay-Z? LeBron? Ali? They’re the exceptions. Silly boy, you weren’t built for fame or freedom. Get your name on a waiting list for housing or food stamps. Good luck — budgets are being cut.
You want a job? The post office is hiring. Maybe Metro. Clock in. Clock out. Buy a little house, grill on weekends. Sip something cheap and strong. That’s the “good life,” right? But that was never my dream. I tried playing bougie. Went to the top schools in New Jersey. I paid attention to history — their Story.
I grew up thinking the teachers in public school were there to shield me from white supremacy, evil corporations, and boogeymen like Reagan and Bush. That’s what they taught us: the danger came from the Right. The KKK, lynch mobs, and segregation were all pinned on conservatives. But when I finally opened my eyes, I realized it was the opposite. The Democrats weren’t the heroes; they were the architects of the nightmare. They supported the KKK. They drove Native Americans off their land. Hundreds of thousands of people died in the Civil War because they refused to give up their slaves. They locked the door for Dr. Martin Luther King. And when they couldn’t chain you anymore, they handed out food stamps, Section 8, and welfare, not as a victory, but as a leash. They turned poor people into dependents, single moms into statistics, and neighborhoods into crime zones. It wasn’t a hand up, it was a setup. So no thanks, I’ll take bootstraps over breadcrumbs every damn day.
I got the degrees, the certificates, and the credentials. I thought I was God’s gift to the workforce. I deserved it. I earned it. In 2000, I landed a restaurant manager gig. $45K a year, a company car, clean shirts, and a fresh haircut. It all looked good on paper. But I was still broke in America.
I used to look down on the homeless. “Lazy,” I thought. “That’ll never be me. I’m smarter than the system.” Then, boom, I was fired, evicted from my apartment. Car gone. All with no warning. Security took the keys.
The worst part? I had nothing to show for it. I blew my cash on wine, strippers, and distractions. I was broke, ashamed, and empty. The message was loud. “This ain’t yours. You’re replaceable,” people said, “You had it good. You blew it.”
No. I didn’t blow it. I escaped it. That job wasn’t a dream. It was a cage. And that day, I made a vow: I’ll never be owned again.
From rock bottom to Atlantic City, I spiraled. Drank to forget. Snorted to disappear. But every morning, I woke up — broke, breathing, and pissed.
Then I heard a story: Richard Nixon funded his first campaign with poker winnings. That lit a fuse. Poker was my ticket out of labor. I calculated: Every half hour equals getting a pair. Two hours equals a premium hand. Three hours equals a powerhouse. Fold for aces. Very efficient. Very scientific. I read “Super/System” by Doyle Brunson and Mike Caro like scripture. Poker wasn’t just cards. It was people. Psychology. Capitalism. It was war.
I lost bankrolls. Got outplayed, outbluffed, outgunned. Then one night, I turned $100 into $2,000. Another night, I made a year’s salary in five hours. Everything I was taught about life, race, and hard work? Lies. Are hustlers born or forged in fire? Well, necessity is the mother of invention, and I was unemployable. So I invented the hustle. I don’t clock in. I show up and cash out. I don’t work for money. Money works for me. Let someone else run the place. I’ll flip it, own it, and move on.
Then I found Street Sense. I didn’t come for sympathy. I came to build. People think I’m begging. Nah, I’m branding. My words are the product, my pitch is the packaging, and my grind is the brand.
I love my customers. But Street Sense is capitalism and compassion. It’s networking. It’s storytelling. But it’s still business.
They call me arrogant. Nah, I’ve got plans. Goals. A vision and the grit to see it through. I don’t wish my book to be a bestseller. I know it will because I’ll make it happen. Nobody out-hustles the hustler. I’m relentless. I’m coming. All day and all night. Whatever Jeffery wants, Jeffery gets. We can do this easy, or we can do it hard. Either way, I’m ready.
You don’t like my swagger? Call Al Sharpton. Don’t like my hustle? Keep it moving. Don’t like my story? Try publishing your own. I offend you? The Street Sense office is down the block — go file a complaint. Just make sure you spell my name right. You don’t want to buy because I triggered you? Oh, look — Venmo just lit up. If you won’t? Someone will.
I don’t want your apple pie. Keep your slice. Keep your table. I’ll buy a stove and bake my own pie, then feed whoever the hell I want. That’s freedom. That’s ownership. That’s what they never wanted us to have.
I don’t envy success. I love starting from scratch. That’s what real writers do. They take a blank page and build something timeless. Pay stubs fade. Printed words last forever. I’m chasing Hemingway. Thoreau. Baldwin. Not a corner office.
I’ve failed. I’ve fallen. I’ve lost. But every defeat made my next move smarter. You mock me? Good. Mock me for selling homeless newspapers? Cool. The Kennedys built fortunes bootlegging, the Rockefellers off snake oil. Me? I turned lemons into lemonade — with words.
While you blame the system, I’m rewriting the rules. I’m not begging for shelter. I’m building my paradise. Jacuzzis. Saltwater breeze. Not someday, but soon. Keep scrolling. I’m buying Tesla stock and betting on me.
My final word. There are two kinds of people: Those who follow the rules. And those who write them.
I’m not here to survive. I’m here to dominate. Even if I never “make it” by your standards. I know this: I never folded. I played every hand. Because while others talk, I do. And while they hate, I win.
