My story is one of many levels; my biggest problem has always been knowing where to start. It does not play out like a book or a movie when I relive it in my head. There is no start or finish; there is only truth.
The truth is that there is absolutely no reason for me to be here other than to tell this story. So many that were part of this are gone, most dead, some still in prison. Not many of us made it out; even as I type these words, I can't help but think of war. Don't get me wrong, I never woke up to mortar fire or tanks rolling in with the morning sun. The battle I am talking about is the one nobody wants to discuss. At least not honestly, anyway. We were not just fighting for our lives but also for our right to exist. I was seven when my war started, and I was seven when I became a soldier. 1981 was the year Guerrero was born. I obviously didn't realize it at the time; however, I was just a boy when the training began. I still just wanted my MOMMY; she didn't come, and I was left to navigate the coldness of this world on my own. I tell people often "that I have been on my own since I was seven years old." This is typically met with nervous laughter and then a familiar silence once they know I'm serious.
I didn't live in an abandoned building or eat out of dumpsters when I was seven; however, I was on my own just the same.
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