“Drug dealing was delicious. I had a pistol, I had girls, I had funk. Everyone saw me as important. I helped defend the favela and maintain the rules. You couldn’t rape, you couldn’t kill, you couldn’t hit a woman without permission. Everyone knew the rules and nobody could break them. Or else you might get erased and fed to the crocodiles. I don’t have a heart. I’m cold blooded. My adrenaline goes up– but that’s it. Afterwards it’s back to nothing. People feared me. People respected me. But then I got set up. One of the ‘higher-ups’ wanted my girlfriend. So he accused me of stealing. It was all lies. He even tried to say I smoked crack. They beat me with sticks. They broke my fingers. They knocked out my teeth. They took my girl, my clothes, even my dog. And now I live on the streets. I’ve got nothing left. I used to get everything for free. Now if I ask for food, I’ll get chased away.” (½)(Rio de Janeiro, Brazil)
I was very hesitant to write this, but something inside me is telling me to write this, so why not?