Typical sixth-graders aspire to become lawyers, doctors and professional athletes, but I was not your typical sixth-grader. I was raised on what came to be known as the worst street in Jackson: the infamous Wood Street. And my goal was to be a drug dealer.
The world around me had me convinced that I was never leaving there. As a sixth- grader, I accepted the fate that was described to me by the media, government and some of my teachers. While many of my classmates planned their next big events—such as parties and sleepovers—I was mapping out my life as a professional street pharmacist. I figured if I was going to be on Wood Street forever, I might as well make the most of my stay.
I wasn't from a family of thugs. My mother and grandparents took great care of me. I was disciplined when I did something wrong, and I was rewarded when I did something right. I was actually a sheltered young lady. I was never allowed to go past Jaycee Park unless an adult was with me.
But that changed once I started middle school. Some of the boys my age were already trying to hit the block, so I wanted to do the same thing. I wasn't successful because they never let me tag along. (I later found out that they were not successful either, and their little expeditions were usually to someone's house to fix bikes). Nevertheless, I would daydream about my future drug operations. I wasn't dreaming of becoming a nickel and dime bag hustler—I wanted to be the Queenpin.
At school, I had the worst attitude imaginable, but I excelled academically. Still, because I was from Wood Street, I believed that I had to be "ghetto." My friends and I thought we ran Rowan. People called us the "Wood Street Girls," and we thought that we were bad. If we stuck together, we could all become drug dealers—maybe the most notorious girl hustlers in Jackson, I thought.
I knew drugs were bad. I knew all about Mr. Smarty Pants, and programs like SWAT and DARE. I also knew the harsh reality we faced once we crossed those tracks everyday at 3 p.m. I knew that going to college was the "right" thing to do, but the truth was many of us couldn't wait that long. My neighborhood had produced no doctors, lawyers or professional athletes, and as a sixth- grader, I felt that there was a slim chance that it ever would. I made the grades at school, but once I got home I was just another statistic.
My friends and I would rush home to change out of our school clothes, so that we could go to the park. That was our domain. For an entire week, we pretended to be drug dealers. We used leaves for money and grass for weed. Everyone thought this was a cute little joke except for me. I was really practicing for my future as a drug dealer.
Thanks to new friendships and better relationships with some of my teachers, I began to see a brighter future by eighth grade. Throughout middle school, I was a mentee of the Women of the Links. The women would come to the school a few times a month with great speakers and fun activities.
I built a special relationship with Kimberly Sweet. She was young, successful and black, and I was inspired. She allowed me to shadow her when she was an anchor at WLBT, leading me to want to become a broadcast journalist. But, deep down inside, I still wanted to be the Queenpin. As my eighth-grade year was coming to a close, I was satisfied with my academic achievements, my social life was great, and I had served as captain of the cheerleading squad and as student body president. I was even crowned Miss Sweetheart at the Valentine's Day Ball. I was graduating sixth out of the top 10.
But I still had a bad attitude. My negativity gave me a bad reputation with my teachers. I had a hard time getting all my recommendations for Jim Hill's International Baccalaureate program. All of my friends from school were going, but I could not. This was my wakeup call. My bad attitude had deprived me of something that I really wanted. I would be separated from the people who inspired me to excel. I finally realized that my "ghetto" mentality didn't help my relationship with some teachers. I ended up accepting a scholarship from the Women of the Links to attend Piney Woods Country Life School.
As a ninth-grader, I went away to one of the most prestigious schools in the country. My family was proud of me, and I was proud of myself. A chance to get out of the 'hood opened my eyes to a whole new world. While at Piney Woods, I met people from all over the world and reevaluated my life goals. I realized I was not a statistic, that my fate was in my own hands. I never looked back on my drug-dealing dream. I graduated from Lanier High School with a new attitude and a scholarship to Jackson State University.
The dream of becoming a drug dealer is real for some people throughout neighborhoods like mine. Many of these children are too young to get real jobs, so they are left to hustle (whether it's mowing yards or selling drugs) to provide financial security for their families.
Many people believe that kids can't be saved from the destruction of poverty, or that kids have to save themselves. I believe it is the responsibility of the "lucky ones" to catch the kids that fall through the gaps. For too long, we have allowed Jackson to be divided by class and color. We have failed one another.
Groups that mentor inner-city kids make a big difference in the lives of their mentees, but we cannot expect a few organizations to save everyone. We all have a responsibility to help the children who are left behind. We continue to put nothing into our communities, and so we get nothing out. If you are in a position to change one life, then you can change the future of this city.
Melishia D. Grayson is a reporting intern at the Jackson Free Press and a freshman at Jackson State University.
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