The early ’90s were an interesting time to be a troubled teenager. After I spent years in a glorified orphanage, the New York state courts emancipated me at 16. I’d never have to go back to the house where my abusive mother ruled like a mental asylum nurse sicker in the head than her patients.

But it also meant living rough. The Salvation Army paid for me to live in a welfare apartment with a drug dealer roommate while I got on my feet after dropping out of high school. At night I’d wake up to go to the bathroom; when I turned on the light, three or four roaches on the wall would skitter away. It was worse in the kitchen, where at least half a dozen would greet me when I flipped the switch.

‘The night is far gone; the day is at hand. So then let us cast off the works of darkness and put

See Full Page