My first trip to Kensington

I’m proud to share that my book, Kensington Beach: Loss and Survival on the Streets of Philadelphia, is officially published in paperback and eBook—and the response has honestly been overwhelming.

This is a story I never thought I would get to tell. I had entirely accepted my death on the streets as just another addict. But that didn’t happen. At least not to me, but others aren’t so lucky. I may have lost something, everything really. But I was able to keep my life. That’s not the case for many, many others. So, every page was written to honor the lives behind the statistics, the moments behind the headlines, and the people who live through what others only read about.

I didn’t expect the early momentum. Sales have already exceeded what I imagined for launch week, and I’m deeply grateful to everyone who’s picked up a copy, shared it, or reached out. I hope to be able to get some copies out and donated soon, maybe to some rehabs or hospitals. Because it’s not just about numbers, it’s knowing that this could make a difference in someone’s life. I hope it can anyway, and it already seems to be. Seeing that this story is landing with real people, in real time, means everything.

Thank you for helping me bring Kensington Beach to life.

If you’ve read it, I’d love to hear what stayed with you. If you haven’t yet, it’s available now on Amazon. Other platforms will be coming soon! This is just the beginning. Here’s an excerpt from the story 

Pepper Spray: 

One night, the end of Spring in 2024, right before we’d moved toward Ruth Street. Brit and I were sitting on the sidewalk across the street from Medina’s, our usual haunt. Some people were sitting around us, and one of them kept making this god-awful noise. A moaning, groaning sound. Over and over again. Non-stop.

I couldn’t think. Brit and I couldn’t even have a conversation. This terrible noise drowned out every attempt.

So, I asked them kindly to stop, but they didn’t. I asked again, more firmly, and still, I was ignored.

They were in our spot, on our block, and I didn’t think we should have had to move.

This is when I got angry. I was done asking nicely.

I told them, “If you don’t stop doing that, we’re going to have a serious problem.”

At that point, I was heard.

By that person and four others.

They swarmed me—a blur of fists and feet.

The first blow caught me on the side of the head, and the world tilted. The next caught me square in my nose with a sickening crunch.

Pain exploded throughout my face. My eyes closed, watered, and the world suddenly felt a whole lot heavier than a moment before.

I tried to cover up and move away from Brit; I didn’t want her to catch any collateral damage. I managed to scramble a bit down the street, where they continued hitting me for another minute or so. After they were done, they left. I guess I hadn’t had enough yet, because I yelled to one of them, “Oh yeah, now that your boys are gone, what’s up?”

One of them heard me, ran and got the rest, and it began again. But not before the person I’d yelled at pepper-sprayed me directly in the eyes.

Now, I’ve been pepper-sprayed before down there. It’s a weapon people use because it’s highly effective. The other times, I was able to take it. I’d been exposed to it enough as a C.O. that I’d learned to function through its effects. Not this time. This was different. It wasn’t a sting; it was a chemical lava that dissolved my vision into a searing black nothing. My eyes felt like they were boiling in their sockets. The pain was absolute, a screaming static that erased every other thought, every other sound. It hurt. Bad.

So I was blinded in pain, beaten, and then they showed back up for more. That’s when my buddy Smooth, one of the other hitters, jumped in to try to help me. They started to swarm him as well and got a couple of shots in on him. He ran off, and I retreated into a nearby store. They’d broken a broomstick over my head, and I was bleeding profusely from my nose.

I think it was broken.

A couple of my friends blocked the entrance because they were going to come in after me. Thank goodness for friends. The chaos eventually died down, and we spent the rest of the night in our spot, keeping a watchful eye.

The next day, my face was so swollen I couldn’t even open my eyes. It was more than getting beaten up, though; I could feel it. Something inside was wrong. I had to physically pry my eyes open to see. I believe the trauma of that night was the final push my kidneys needed to start shutting down.

This would become a fairly regular occurrence for me in the following months—not the beatings, well, kind of—but I mean my face swelling to the point that I was unrecognizable. Aside from not being able to see, the swelling was a practical problem. With my eyes puffed shut, the world was a blur. Hitting a vein—on someone else, or even on myself became a blind prayer. But I still had to try. Sickness doesn’t wait for you to heal. Sickness doesn’t wait for anything.

At first, I dismissed it as a minor inconvenience, a fleeting consequence of whatever substances were circulating in the supply. But this was different. The swelling migrated from just my face, settling in my legs, sometimes so severely that each step became an agonizing ordeal. My knees seized, stiff and alien, transforming my gait into that of a person walking on stilts rather than limbs. I began to notice a correlation: the symptoms intensified under stress, particularly after traumatic events, like I had just endured, and there were always more of those events to come. That’s when I realized this is really something more, a bigger problem, something internal, and something that wasn’t just going to go away on its own.