My sister, three years older than me, was always my best friend and biggest fan.   When I was twelve she moved out of state to live with her father for two years.  When she returned, she found I had transformed into someone she didn’t know.  I had fallen in with the bad boys and gone far astray.  I was using drugs, running with a gang, and committing crimes regularly.

After my first arrest I spent several months in a juvenile detention center, thrown in an overcrowded dormitory with kids that made me and my buddies look like saints.  It was a concentration of the worst kids in the  county, delinquents much further along in their state of corruption than I.  It was the worst time of my life.

I left the detention center with a new attitude and outlook on life.  I decided the criminal life was not for me.  The problem was, I was stuck.  I was in debt to my gang.  Not a monetary debt that could be paid with a certain amount of cash, but a circumstantial debt with no exact figure attached to it.  Not only had they shared their knowledge and secrets with me, but I had accepted their terms of life-long service upon my initiation.  I was in, and there was no easy way out.

I accepted the fact that I was stuck and sought to simply meet the bare minimum of my obligations,  hopefully avoiding jail or death. Then our gang’s leadership decided we were to enter the illegal drug trade.  My obligations mounted along with the list of expectations.  My days became more demanding and dangerous.

Just as I was honest with my sister about my new lifestyle, I was also honest with her about my desire to get out of the gang after my stint in detention.  I once again opened up to her about our leap into narcotics sales.

My sister was seventeen and not all that experienced in the ways of the world, even less when it came to matters of the underworld.  Her advice was severely limited, but she did have some interesting things to share with me about myself; a subject that she was very knowledgeable about.

I came home one night and my sister sat me down for a talk.  She’d heard that some members of my gang were involved in a shooting and a rival gang was expected to retaliate.  I didn’t know anything about it, but I admitted it didn’t matter.  I didn’t see any way to avoid being at risk.  The only ways I knew of how to get out of the gang were to move away and never return, which was not a possibility for me, or to be kicked out for violation of a major gang rule.  The latter would result in me being beaten badly and likely injured or even killed.

Tearfully, she recounted memories of me overcoming major challenges in the past.  She reminded me of the trouble I had walking when I was a toddler and the braces I wore on my legs.  Even at that age I was so stubborn I refused help from anyone because I wanted to master walking on my own.  I used the family dog as a walker and did just that.

She reminded me of how close I came to repeating second grade because of my struggles with reading and writing.  Nothing that anyone did to help worked.  Eventually, I came up with my own solution, which was to divide words according to my unique way of sounding them out.  I didn’t repeat the second grade, and I became one of the best readers and writers in my class.

She stressed that I was a natural problem solver and assured me I would figure out a reasonable and safe way out of the gang.  I wasn’t so sure, but her words stuck with me.

The next day my sister gave me a bag of new clothes that she had bought with the last of her money.  At that time, I wore only colors that were associated with my gang, which was not many.  The clothes she bought were of an assortment of colors she purchased with faith that I would be wearing them soon.  At that moment I realized what was meant by the term ‘act of faith’.  Her look of love and confidence was seared into my brain.  Her belief ignited my creativity like nothing I’d ever imagined. 

That night I awoke from my sleep with an idea, an idea that would help me be shunned by the gang without becoming their enemy.  I needed to be rejected without being harmed, and the only group of people I ever saw the gang distance themselves from without any aggression were mentally impaired individuals.

The following day I instructed my sister to tell anyone who called on me that I was bedridden and in bad shape.  The story was that I had smoked some marijuana that was apparently laced with something far more dangerous and I’d seemingly lost my mind.  I waited until the next day during a time when I knew most people would be out and about and emerged from the house in nothing but my underwear and stumbled in zig zags, my arms waving wildly.  For days, when anyone spoke to me I drooled and simply stared off in a daze as if I didn’t understand or recognize anyone.   It was about two weeks into this act when my so-called friends wanted nothing to do with me.

I kept a low profile around my neighborhood and made sure to dumb myself down when any one of the gang’s members were around.  When summer ended and school resumed I was living my life with no worries for my safety.  I wore a wide range of colors and stayed out of trouble.  Even now, when I see a rainbow or a colorful arrangement it reminds me of my sister’s love and her faith in my ability.

ABOUT THE WRITER. I’m always excited about new writers, and Mr. Gillum is just that. This is such a charming story, and he captured exactly what he was trying to express. Dushaan Gillum was chosen by the judges for second place in the recent writing contest, and I couldn’t be happier with their choice. Mr. Gillum can be reached at:

Dushaan Gillum #01256533
Wynne Unit
810 FM 2821
Huntsville, TX 77349