“Trapademic: The Backpack Years”
Age 12–14: a story of hustle, anonymity, and unexpected mentorship
People say money doesn’t grow on trees. In my house, it didn’t grow in couch cushions, the freezer, or even in that shoebox under the bed that used to hold dreams (and baseball cards). We were so broke our roaches held a tenants’ meeting and voted to evict us. Lights? Strictly for birthdays and state inspections. Dinner? Two ice cubes and a packet of duck sauce if you were lucky.
When Mom bounced—no warning, just a text that said “Hold it down 😔”—I figured it was time to level up. I gave it about three days of playing grown-up before the fridge turned into a museum exhibit: “The Evolution of Air.”
That’s when Unc stepped in. The local plug. Beard trimmed like a geometry lesson and wisdom that sounded suspiciously like Tupac lyrics. He didn’t ask questions. Just tossed me a key, a side-eye, and said, “Don’t fuck this up.” I didn’t know if he was talking about my life or the product. Maybe both.
So I got to work. Not at a lemonade stand, no—not unless the lemonade was powdered, suspiciously wrapped, and sold by weight. I started small. $350 a day, five days a week. No overtime. No Saturdays. On Fridays I practiced my innocent face and went to Jumah just in case Allah was watching from across the street.
I was discreet. Discipline on 1000. I had a strict “no bullshit” code. My backpack was the Swiss Army knife of moving silent: one side full of school books, the other side… well, let’s say it wasn’t juice boxes. Nobody ever stopped a 12-year-old with a copy of the “Great Gadsby” and a focused walk. I was delivering all over Harlem—walked so much I considered charging MTA for sidewalk maintenance.
Living alone in the Polo Grounds wasn’t even the wild part. I once hosted a whole fake parent-teacher meeting over the phone. “Yes, this is Mr. Jenkins, I’m his uncle–slash–guardian–slash–mentor figure.” Worked every time. Until it didn’t. Yeah we will get back to this later.
One day, the state came knocking like they were auditioning for Law & Order. I knew it was a wrap when the lady whispered, “Sweetheart, how long have you been by yourself?” with the kind of voice that smells like paperwork.
They were ready to scoop me up, until Unc came through like Batman in black Air Forces. Said I was family. Took me in, sat me down, and handed me two things: a plate of spaghetti and a laminated list of “What Not to Say to Police.” The is the day a legend was born…
