Hoodstars or H^

By: Anonymous


A bunch of hoodlums, gang bangers and lost causes is what they labeled us, but we were just teenagers trying to survive in the death trap they forced us into. With no choice, we had to wear our black hoodies and bandanas, pants sagging even with a belt on. We wore American flags as a symbol of unity, but we weren’t representing the land of the free. That flag meant more to us than “America the Beautiful.” That flag represented the Choo, and everywhere we stepped foot we made sure our presence was known. All we wanted to do was rap nothing more nothing less but with love also comes hate. In the middle of the gutter Brownsville Brooklyn where if you walked through the wrong block that might be your last few steps. The undercover cops half ass did their jobs, harassing us because we lived a wild life style. I know it’s more important things in the field of police work to do than harass a bunch of teenagers. But, they sat in their black Impalas with the tinted windows and snapped pictures of us like they were the paparazzi.  The system wanted to tear us apart, but we were all we had. Call us gang bangers if you want.  We called each other family. A large family with branches of various individuals with one purpose, to make it out. We had to take control of our lives, carrying guns for protection. If the cops didn’t kill us, them niggers from the other side for surely would, IF we ever got caught lacking. Loyalty is what brought us together that flag symbolized unity and never would I leave my brother is a code we all lived by.

The system separated a lot of us. A lot of my friends did ungodly things that if I said a word about it to the wrong person could get all of us put away forever. None of us were built for prison but that’s exactly where they wanted us. How could the government put us in the middle of a death trap and expect us to be saints? BULLSHIT! So, then came the indictment, my whole crew got indicted. I always kept my hands clean, but I couldn’t say the same for my brothers.  My brother Chucc got what we considered “football numbers,” a term used to describe a general amount of time someone is in jail for. Based on the large numbers, in the double digits, from the numbers on players’ jerseys in the NFL.

The violence didn’t stop there after everyone went to jail. The system fucked my brothers up in the head. They came home from jail with worse habits than they went in with. This new drug Xanax had my brothers gripped tight by the throat. The Xanax turned them into zombies. They were literally the walking dead. The Xanax corrupted their minds and although my brothers were crazy, jail and drugs made them completely different people. So, as I went away to college, my brothers were being hauled off to the State Penitentiary.

Slowly but surely a majority of the gang is coming home, but in the process of being in and out of jail, the glue that held us altogether got killed. My brother Poppa, he was one who always kept everyone on the same page, he did his share of ungodly things, but he wanted all of us to win. He wanted us to be great at any and everything we did. And some hating suckers took his life just because they couldn’t walk in his shoes. In the process of 4 years, my second family became smaller, and the gang has never been the same since. We still have that same dream to beat the odds set against us, but in the world, we live in today jail and homicides just seem inevitable.


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