Change of Perspective

23 February 2025

     I’m not going to lie, I’m one of those guys expecting to witness results overnight. I feel like a huge piece of shit nowadays. I was recently released from TGK five days ago and I’m still in a state of shock. Life could change in a matter of minutes.

     For me, at the beginning of January, I’m begging God for another catalyst to my life. Everything was stagnant, I was broke, defeated (didn’t even have money on my food stamp card), and constantly on social media trying to figure out ways to promote my story. There aren’t many people who care about Achieving a State of Peace. 

     It’s not until I’m running low on food where things start getting tricky for me: one, the City of Miami Police Department is heavily enforcing panhandling ordinances. They’ll make an arrest after giving a couple a warnings, they don’t give a shit; two, my mom or neither person in the family wants to help and they believe I’m in need of rehabilitation— after being released from jail, the one thing I need is a job; and three, the book I just published won’t sell. It’s probably garbage, I could probably read through it right now and I’ll notice there’s a part in the book where I skip through the plot by two years. 

     There are a couple things I need to fix, but I’m always wondering why mom is always making me question my reality. Someone’s always telling me, “If this wasn’t a true story, why would we be making all this effort in convincing you it is, Hector? How would we be able to explain what day of the month it is and provide you with the time of day with the exact margin of error you specified?”

     Growing up as a kid, being biased towards certain characters was something I learned from living in Miami. I used to be just like everyone else. My mom enabled me to be that way. You know— the schizos, the junkies, the basers? I used to be afraid of homeless people, I used to be afraid of everything while living with Mami. 

     There was something misunderstood about them…until I stepped in their shoes. In my eyes, being homeless means being someone who missed their opportunity at being successful. 

     It means being someone who lost hope in continuing to be a positive person…unless they’ve still got something to live for. As we grow older, that perspective changes— some people need to go to jail. Some people prefer being in jail. I’ve been on both sides of the line.

     If I’m not taking care of myself when I’m suffering from the disease of addiction, I check into rehab. After about a decade of solving my problems this way, I’m realizing the only things changing are the new grey hairs growing out of my beard. I've accelerated through time by 6 years and I’m wondering if I’m going to be one of those 40 year olds who frequent rehabilitation centers. 

     Now my life has reached a point where jail seems like the better option because there aren’t any obligations for staying there. You know when they say, “Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time?”

“I’m not willing to do any time, so I’m not going to do the crime unless I need the time alone.”

     People do reach that point. It confuses me how people are willing to live the way they do when they’re in jail. In a system where a suspect is considered “innocent until proven guilty,” I believe the only flaw in this system would be how correctional staff don’t really practice confidentiality when it comes to allowing an inmate to beat their case. Everyone talks about a person facing a high-profile criminal charge, and I feel it's what ruins the integrity of a case most of the time. 

     Being incarcerated back to back in one year is something beyond me. There’s something about being locked up in a cell for a month that really brought the value of life into perspective. Like…I beat my case last year in September, swearing I was never going to come back. Wrote a book. Tried surviving on the streets from October to January, followed by reaching another low point in life and— bam! Right back to jail. I managed to beat that case by the thin of my hair.

     My experience being incarcerated seems to be a plea from God himself. He wants me to be closer to Him but I don’t see that happening in a world where people are constantly trying to keep Him from me. It just feels so good to finally be free from the possibility of facing prison time. I would’ve never been able to live with myself, I would've had to embrace being part of a chain gang. 

     Some people would love pointing out the fact I only reach out to God when I need something from him these days. There’s always something new to learn from spending time incarcerated. Those lessons are well worth the time. 

     There was something different this time around.

     The only reason I spent time in jail was because I would’ve been dead within the first two weeks of January. 

     I spent about 40 days in jail. Level 2 Custody of care at unit K2-3. I am not proud of what I went through, but this is my way of processing this experience. I felt I was facing 3 years or more in prison. 

     There was this one dude I met back in 2024 in 2B4, he was still serving his sentence when I saw him at the rec yard in K2-3. This dude was talking about, “I’m taking a plea for credit time served.” 

     He told me he had just spent 2 years in jail, bouncing between Metro West Detention and TGK. It wasn’t even 2 weeks later that I see him back in K2-3, I’m like, “What the fuck, bro, you’re back!?”

     He shrugged as he nodded back. 

     Institutionalization is a big term in this world, I wish to have the option to check in. Sometimes I feel it’s easier to living life from inside a cell, but the sun is just valuable to me— all I need to do is continue doing the right thing cause life out here is all a mind game— don’t ever forget that.

I was released from TGK at 1am on the 19th of February 2025.

     They crammed us all into a corrections transit van and dropped us off at the Richard E. Gerstein Courthouse. I was a bit annoyed because the last thing I wanted was someone hurrying me up as I’m gathering all my things. This CO was telling me I couldn’t sit at the curb to organize my wallet before I continued on with my day.

      One thing I learned is corrections officers, as nice as they may seem, are not our fucking friends. Don’t trust those fake ass people. I’m never coming back to jail. The only reason someone could’ve written an arrest report for STRONG ARMED ROBBERY is because I was following an order. 

 

     Life on the streets of Miami wasn’t something I was equipped for: either you’re dealing drugs to the crackheads and basers, pimping your high school sweetheart, or living life with your grandparents— I don’t have those options. Busy trying to get a clean bag of money with my dirty ass hands. 

      It’s no use bouncing back and forth with Internal Affairs claiming I should be compensated for psychological damages, that would be a huge waste of time. By the time they’re considering a compensations package, I’ll be 35, and ready to check back in for another round of residential visits at a rehabilitation facility. Truth being told, I’m not that smart. I’m only following my gut with these things and it wouldn’t be smart for me to beef with The Florida Department of Law Enforcement when they’ve always been the guys everyone turns to when we say, 

“Let me speak to your supervisor!” 

FDLE isn’t the concern. It’s the private law enforcement officers colliding with the county and city police departments of Miami. It doesn’t matter what uniform they wear (hardly any of them wear a uniform sometimes), these guys do whatever they want on their own time and it’s my job to just mind my business at this point.

     The future leaders of these organizations who grow into the career rather than earn their position will never exist because that’s just what American Nepotism is. Nothing more to it. Your papi got you the connects to work for the government? Hmm? 

     Chances are, I will never find support on a claim against a law enforcement officer because ya lagente creen que soy un tremendo gangero with no other intention than to make money in the most expedient manner possible. But guess what? The gangeros are usually the ones abusing their power over authority. 

It’s 2am when I’m eating a pizza at 7 Eleven. 

     Can’t use the bus pass yet because It’s still the middle of the night. I take the box with the pizza, half of it left, across the street to a gas station and I meet this one dude-- Elvis. I was still carrying my stuff within the property bag they let us leave with. 

     He gives me my first cigarette of the month. Ya, rompi el equilibrio de no andar con la fumadera for the month. I already know I’m looking to get weed as soon as the sun comes up.

Where am I going to live? I don’t know. 

Where can I find work? I don’t know. 

Why don’t I just go to rehab? Because I’m not going to go in there saying I’m severely depressed (when I’m not). 

    Am I thinking about the writing? Well..yes! Because I remember being pissed off over the fact Google had restricted my bloggers account because of the articles published, I guess they were too much. I put in an appeal and was hoping for the best. 

     As I’m walking through Miami, from 13th Ave heading west on Nw 7th street toward the Miami Casino, I’m noticing all the shady things about the area. The streets feel empty as hell. I’ve never felt them any emptier in my life. My mom won’t speak to me. My father won’t speak to me. My cousin hates me. My aunt thinks I have a problem. Lord knows how I’ll be able to shower. 

     Miami has exiled me from ever existing there again— the reminder is there anytime the community sees me. 

     As soon as one of those viejitos send out the text about me being out here in public, all the hazers come out and execute their plan in making my day a living hell. 

     

     I really didn’t waste time retrieving my backpack from the Coral Gables Police Department. It was 10am when I’m starting to realize the blog wasn’t all that important to me, though. Either way, I did have some cleaning up to do and I wasn't in any rush go get that done. 

     I’m definitely not deleting any of this work because there are things I could work on even if people don’t believe in what I’m saying, I’m still improving the manner in which I’m choosing to respond.

     During the day, everyone steers clear of my path. They’re either trying to stir up trouble caused by my response to things, or they’re too afraid to approach me. Or they're those weird fucking dudes who don't know how to talk to people.

     I’m going to be real, I have no idea what people are trying to get me worked up about. But here’s what I keep hearing while I carry on with my first day being out from jail, as I move up the coast-line. People are mean mugging me, mumbling, talking all about this and that…

“Why don’t you commit suicide already?”

“Why don’t you just go back to doing gay porn?”

“You molested a fucking ( ) year old!”

“He doesn’t even know how to write.”

“Commit suicide already!”

     The people surrounding me have grown into this habit of hazing me while they carry on with their primary objective. Some of the best actors do it just right, syncing the sound from the external background noises with what they want to say. When a tiger stalks its prey, every step they take is dead silent, so every step they would intend to take toward their prey blends in with sounds from the outside. This is what people do to me on a regular basis. It's infuriating to think the very people driving me nuts are the same ones looking to get me back to working on set or worse-- the ones who don't even condone my existence. 

     Am I the one really denying my own existence or do people really want to exclude me from this world?  

Why must I take part in this point of American History? 

     Do people think I’m over compensating for my effeminacy by developing a project like The Ripple Effect? It seems people don’t make it through the first paragraph before they decide to disclaim my story. Still, I also believe the attention is coming from the wrong people. 

     Perhaps the writing is not intellectual enough. Does it make me want to throw the book over a bridge? I’ll wait and find out in a couple months after I’ve let it simmer. It’s pretty hard not to take advantage of the freedom to write up whatever the hell I want.

     When I was in TGK, it would’ve been nice to at least have a piece of paper and a pencil. That’s the only thing I traded off to be alone in a cell. It felt as if it was my own. I wouldn’t have been able to bear being locked up with another inmate. Being by myself was suffocating me more than enough. Being locked up with our thoughts like that...it’s really something.

     I’ll create a way to write on the walls. One time, while I was at the rec yard, I used dirt from the ground and mixed it with water to create mud to write on the walls with my finger. I'm the type of person who needs to express themselves. In jail, if a corrections officer has a reason to fuck with an inmate, they will roll (or send someone to the psych ward) someone's ass in a hot minute-- anything to make life easier.  

     The time spent in jail will be a constant reminder to always take advantage of the time I have for writing. It would’ve been such a shame to have wasted away for 2 years not being able to express the way I feel about life. I’m starting to wonder if I’m someone who has fully taken advantage of their youth.

     I check in with myself every now and again and I’m wondering,

“Am I ever going to need any major surgeries? Am I going to stay healthy all my life? Where can I do better? Where have I gone wrong?”

     My only regret would be someone living life as a fugitive. My life goal is to just keep on doing the right thing. People might not believe I do the right thing but that’s just the way the game is played. Being in jail puts a lot into perspective for me. Those are a lot of days holed into a corner, sometimes with another person, and sometimes 78 of them, each with a unique personality.

     Those are a lot of days where we wish we could have the freedom to go over to the store and spend money to buy a bag of chips or some ice cream.

     The best things in life aren’t always free but we could make the best out of the shit they give us in jail, right? If you know, you know. I’ll still come out of jail today acting surprised when I find a fresh pack of bologna at the grocery store. There ain’t a thing like it. The freedom to eat it whenever I want serves as a reminder of what’s at stake as well. I love to eat. I love to be outside in the sun. Most of all, I love to admire people. 

     It’s a blessing to be able to be around people who know how to behave. It’d be a real shame if I didn’t take advantage of what I can offer the world. It’s not all about what was written in Achieving a State of Peace. It’s more about my story on how I bounce off  a set-back.

     I might be revisiting rehab once more, but I think it suits me better than spending another period in jail. Jail fucking sucks. It’s not cool having to deal with open cases. It’s not cool at all when the courts don’t even require you to be present in the courtroom!

     It’s the scariest shit in the world when an inmate doesn’t have a way of getting on the phone if they don’t have someone looking into where we might be. It’s always nice to have someone who cares about your well-being, not in the way my mom does it, though.

     If I could imagine what my mother does, it’s stir up a ruckus in the courtroom. Over two felony charges? Does she really believe they’ll be able to put me in a rehabilitation program when I clearly don’t exhibit signs of someone with a mental disorder nor someone battling with the disease of addiction? It’s not going to happen. I wouldn’t imagine she showed up to court but my biggest mistake was calling her when I was getting processed as an inmate. I should’ve just kept my fucking mouth shut because lord knows who she tells.

     My mom is one of those people who knows a person that knows a person with the capacity to send someone to jail and look into your ass or look after your ass. It sounds real ugly:

STRONG ARMED ROBBERY.

     Sheesh, up to 10 years in prison for this one. I just dodged a fucking bullet, bro. Holy fuck. God is good all the time. The best meals were the enchiladas and the spaghetti with meatballs. 

     Wish they would’ve given me two portions of those meals sometimes. Even with that case being dismissed, I feel it’s going to be real difficult for me to continue looking for a job. 

     At this point, I’m willing to take any job I could find. I did it in Colorado while being at the right place at the right time. It’s possible to do it again— going to rehab shouldn’t be the only option, though. I wouldn’t be able to spend another 40 days institutionalized under a different level of care. It wouldn’t be fair to me. The world might think I’m not being fair to them, but what do they care? 

I thought I was a snitch.

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I was so tired, I needed help finding cocaine-- that's why I hit up one of my boys: Kendrick.