Thirty-one years ago today, the world opened up and my journey began. It was my first step in reaching beyond my humble beginnings for something else.

Even as a kid, I knew I didn’t belong. That feeling stretched beyond the fact that I was bookish, shy, and would rather spend my day doodling. Airplanes streaked the sky overhead, on their way to destinations of which I could only dream. My neighborhood friends and I frantically jumped and waved our arms as if we were castaways on a desert isle. To my knowledge, I was the only one who really thought that was the case and that I had been stranded in my hometown.

Nowadays, when asked where I am from, I often take a sarcastic tone. I tell my inquisitors that I hail from a small town in the northeastern corner of Illinois that they’ve likely never heard of: Chicago. When further interrogated, I admit I am from the South Side community of Englewood, which many consider part of “Chiraq.”

Damn shame it got that reputation because, struggle aside, it was a rich place to grow up. At least my parents strived to make it so.

My folks were polar opposites in many ways, yet agreed on some key points. For one, we weren’t going to get away with using words like “ain’t” and sayings like “shole is” in their presence. Another thing was they weren’t going to allow us to run with the gangs.

I have a funny story about that. My father, who was a streetwise hustler and a former gang member himself, had escaped the confines of our fair city for a few years. Sadly, it took an enlistment during the Vietnam War and, after doing what he had to do to get back to Chicago, for the most part, he never left again. My dad is the Head of Family for the Black Dragons Fighting Society. He holds rank in several forms of martial arts and has the unique distinction of being named as a Kentucky Colonel. He refused to let me follow his darker path into banging so, when I came home from school one day, announcing that I was joining the Black Gangster Disciple Nation…well, let’s say that was my first and last day as a wannabe knucklehead. Instead, he intensified my martial arts training regimen and I was unofficially granted access to his extensive library. I believe I read both The Autobiography of Malcolm X and Helter Skelter shortly thereafter.

In the years that followed, my father’s hustling ways were the demise of his marriage to my mother. However, he was still around. After I’d graduated high school, I was still proudly flipping burgers at my first job for minimum wage. When he sat me down on the porch stairs and asked how my job was going, I came off like Louie Anderson’s character in Coming to America: “This week, I’m washing lettuce. Next week, it’s the fries. Then I’ll make crew chief. And that’s when the big bucks start rollin’ in!”

Dad realized it was time for yet another come-to-Jesus talk. The aforementioned was to steer me away from the gang culture that’d claimed quite a few of my old buddies; now, it was to clear up my myopic view. I believe he saw me on that figurative island, wishing one of the airplanes would send a rescue party.

Shortly thereafter, I trudged through snow and freezing temperatures to the recruiter’s office. Two months later, I was stepping from San Diego International Airport to start my basic training. I guess I found a way to stop flagging my arms and facilitate my own rescue.

I love that I am a Chicago native. I am currently writing a series of novels that serve as something of a love letter to my hometown. But I’m still not ready to move back.

Though joining the Navy may not be for everyone, I believe it is important for every high school graduate who is able to get the hell away from whence (s)he comes. Hu$tling comes from realizing that, no matter how big or small that place is, remaining in familiar territory can stunt growth. It is important to step out on faith and set sights on new horizons. A larger world awaits.

I found that out March 14, 1988.