THE GLASS HOUSE
The story of Xavier Lee
WRITTEN 4 . 28 . 26
Synopsis
“A man can love his family completely and still become the source of their pain.”
For years, Xavier Lee believed he was building a better life for his family. From the outside, it looked like ambition. Behind it was fear. This is not simply a story about crime, prison, or redemption — it is a deeply human story about fatherhood, shame, identity, survival, and what remains after the image you built of yourself breaks apart.
A life built on glass — structured, profitable, and one impact away from collapse.
For years, Xavier Lee believed he was building a better life for his family.
From the outside, it looked like ambition. Hustle. Success. Protection.
Behind it was fear.
Fear of failure. Fear of poverty. Fear of not being enough.
What began as survival slowly became rationalization, and rationalization became a life built on glass — structured, profitable, and always one impact away from collapse.
When federal agents finally shattered that life, Xavier lost more than freedom. He lost time with his children. He lost his mother while incarcerated. And he was forced to confront the hardest truth of all:
A man can love his family completely and still become the source of their pain.
But The Glass House is not simply a story about crime, prison, or redemption. It is a deeply human story about fatherhood, shame, identity, survival, and what remains after the image you built of yourself breaks apart.
Inside prison walls, Xavier begins rebuilding — through education, reflection, and teaching financial literacy to other incarcerated men — while wrestling with the question that follows him through every page:
Can a man who shattered his own foundation still build something honest afterward?
Because some people live inside glass houses without realizing it.
And some only see clearly after everything breaks.
Ten chapters, one honest journey
The story moves from fear and fatherhood, through failure and incarceration, into accountability, education, and the slow rebuild of a man choosing to grow in public.
Chapter 01
Before the Fall
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Chapter 02
The Decision
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Chapter 03
The First Purchase
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Chapter 04
And Just Like That
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Chapter 05
I’m Done
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Chapter 06
Shame and Misappropriation
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Chapter 07
The Rock
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Chapter 08
I Have Value
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Chapter 09
Property of D.C. Jail
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Chapter 10
The Divide
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Chapter 11
The Comeback
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Chapter 12
The Glass House
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Chapter 01
Before the Fall
18 Minute Read
I didn’t wake up one morning wanting to break the law. Long before any of that, I was a husband. A father. A son. A salesman who knew that sales is the lowest-paid easy work and the highest-paid hard work.
Nicole was my best friend. We were young when we met. We experienced so many firsts together. Our first cruise, our first trip to Myrtle Beach, our first true love. She was, and still is, an incredible mother. To me, she was as close to perfect as perfect can be.
Losing her hurt in a way I didn’t know how to process at the time. I tried to win her back more than once, and I wasn’t subtle about it. I believed if I could just say the right thing, do the right thing, show up differently, we could repair it. That was a pipe dream, and she wasn’t having it. Not because she didn’t care. I believe she did and still does. But because she was hurt. The loss of me hurt her as much as losing her hurt me, and she wasn’t willing to step back into something that might break her again. In that way, she’s much stronger than me. I still haven’t developed that ability.
Instead of hardening, I softened. I became everything I thought she needed me to be. More attentive. More patient. More intentional. Only it was too late. In the end, she made me a better lover. Just not for her.
Watching someone else step into the life I once lived wasn’t jealousy in a shallow sense. It was displacement. It felt like I had been moved out of my own story.
Nicole and I had twins and had been together for over eight years when our relationship ended. Heartbreak felt like I never imagined. I swear I could feel the shards cutting at my insides. I’d never guess that the loss of such a tiny person could leave such a gaping hole in my life. Divorcing her wrecked me so much that even today I’m not sure I’m whole. I’m still healing.
That was a surreal time for me. That first year, I went through the motions of living, but I knew a part of me had died. No longer feeling alive inside, I didn’t feel like myself. I couldn’t be in the moment. It hurt too bad.
So I went somewhere else, somewhere distant. When I was at home, I wasn’t. When I was at work, I wasn’t. I was an imposter in my own body. A placeholder. I didn’t eat. I lost more than 30 lbs in a matter of weeks. My clothes fit as if I was a child playing dress-up in a man’s wardrobe. In a way, I was. Because I’d become vulnerable and hyper-emotional.
We’d gotten to the end of our relationship largely because of me. I was a 17-year-old boy when we got together. She was 16. We both were kids, and we had our twins about a year later. She was much more mature about our responsibilities than I. I neglected them. I neglected her. I didn’t respect her boundaries. I didn’t embrace being a parent with the grace that she did. I gave video games like EverQuest my time, my loyalties. I put my wants before everything. I violated her trust.
I was young, stupid, and arrogant. I didn’t think it mattered. After all, she’d never leave me. Because, well, I’m me. I was wrong. Our divorce was the price I paid for being naïve, ignorant, lazy, and selfish. The price was too high. I was too inexperienced to understand the value of what I had.
I’m not certain I would have gotten through that time in my life without my mother. The house Nicole and I had co-owned was in the next section over from my mother’s. We thought it to be a great location because Mom had always babysat the twins. After our divorce, I moved back home with Mom. The proximity that was once so convenient became a nightmare that I relived daily. It was like a form of psychological torture that only I felt. It was the only thing that’s ever sent my emotions spiraling out of control.
I had to drive by what became my ex-wife’s house every time I had to go home. Day after day, Nicole had immediately went into another relationship. Somehow or another, her Lexus became her new boyfriend’s, and she bought a new car. That bothered me so much. Seeing that car used to give me good feelings because I knew the woman that I loved was near. It was a feeling of comfort, love, and familiarity. Suddenly that had changed. The car became a symbol of everything but love. I hated seeing that car. It always took me back to the first time I saw him behind the wheel and her in the passenger side on a small two-lane road in Chester, PA. It was a violation that invoked physical pain in my body.
Day after day, I drove by, and day after day I saw my house, her, and his car parked out front. It hurt. It hurt so bad. In the mornings, I’d drive by and there would be little emotion. When I passed by, she would already be gone. The kids would be at school, and he didn’t come over until night. It was just a house.
Coming home was something entirely different. The closer I got to Mom’s, the more emotional I’d get. I’d get anxiety, and my stomach would start flipping.
Inhale. Exhale. Breathe… I told myself when I passed by. I wouldn’t look over. I’d just drive by.
I lied to myself. I didn’t want to look. I didn’t want the pain. I didn’t want to see. I had to. I was too weak. I looked every single time. And every time I was a wreck.
It hurt so much more at night because when I looked, I didn’t just see an empty house. No, I saw her new car, his Lexus, and the warm yellow glow of the lights through the front windows. I knew I was passing a home. My home, with my wife and my kids inside.
One night, just like that, I was heading home from work, and when I looked over—and I’m still uncertain how this happened—but I felt my everything break. Lonely and silently, I slowly made my way to my mom’s.
Before I could turn off the car, I could see my mother. She was standing behind the glass storm door wearing her nightgown wrapped in her long, thick cotton robe. Her signature look.
With my head down, I made my way out of the car and slowly up the sidewalk towards her. I was struggling to keep it together. My eyes stung and shined in the dark from tears I’m holding back. I kept moving towards my mom. My mom was always doing her best to keep me protected from all the dangers of the world. All the pains. This one, though, was different.
My mother had an understated wisdom to her. She was always giving me cautionary advice, but as I grew past my teenage years she struggled to convince me of her suggestions. She’d always recognized my intelligence. She admired it about me. I felt that my knowledge had surpassed hers. I knew things that she didn’t. Regardless of that, Mom knew more about life, people, and matters of the heart. She had hard-earned wisdom.
My mom wasn’t simply my mom. She was a mom to everyone. That included Nicole. They had a very close relationship. Over the years they’d have countless endless conversations. My mom absolutely loved Nicole. She may have been her favorite child that she never had. Nicole’s and my mom’s relationship by far outlasted Nicole’s and mine. Theirs was truly until death did them part.
I didn’t like that. I didn’t feel like she should get to keep my mom. That was a benefit of being with me. Right?
Long after our relationship had ended, their relationship had stayed solid. Nicole ended up getting twice again and had a child with each. Those kids became members of our family. They called my mom grandmom. She continued to babysit them, raise them, and love them just as she did my sons. Her love wasn’t bound by blood. It was love without boundaries.
I continued my slow walk towards her, dragging what’s left of me up the stairs. I felt abandoned, betrayed, and shame. She left me. She left me for someone else. And it was my fault.
Mom tried to warn me. My sisters tried to warn me. Nicole tried to warn me. I ignored all of them. Thought I knew more than they. Thought I was the prize, the MVP, “The X Factor.” Those things may have been true in high school when I was playing football. But this wasn’t that game. And we were way past high schoolers.
Many times my mom had said that I needed to be better for Nicole. I didn’t listen as I should have. I thought she was just giving general advice. Advice that didn’t apply to me. Turns out it was more than that. Nicole had confided in her. In my sisters. A couple months before we had gotten married, she’d already told them it wasn’t going to work out between us.
Not willing to violate her trust, they gave me hints. Warnings. I was blinded by arrogance and inexperience.
I made it to the top of the porch and Mom opened the door and opened her arms. I poured in.
She said, “Poor Baby.”
No hint of judgement, no “I told you so.” Just love. Just protection.
I still don’t know how, but I know for certain she was waiting there because she knew. She knew that her 24-year-old baby, her son, needed her.
I towered over her as we embraced. There was no words, just the purest form of love passed between us. Then emotionally and physically, I broke. She stood there with me as long as it took. She didn’t just hold the weight of my body that night. She held the weight of my emotions.
A mother’s strength.
Like a child, her child, I wept. I cried uncontrollably in the safest place on the planet.
My mom’s arms.
Years later, things were going well for me. My ex was no longer my neighbor. This was great because it allowed my mind to focus on something other than what I had no control over. I was making advances in my sales career, and all seemed well.
Until I’d lost my job.
Then I found myself in family court, standing in front of a man representing the state. In that moment, it became clear to me that I wasn’t standing there because of my children’s mothers. I was standing there because of the system. The system had its own rules, and it spoke through the man in front of me. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. He just looked at me and said,
“I don’t care what you have to do. If you don’t pay your child support, we’re locking you up.”
He said it calmly. Directly. Without hesitation.
Looking back, I knew he wasn’t suggesting that I break the law, and I also knew he wasn’t playing.
“If you lock me up, how much money will they get then?” I asked.
“About the same amount they’re getting now.”
Clearly he had heard my brilliant yet logical reasoning before. He was ready for it. It wasn’t theatrical. It was mechanical. But it did what it was intended to do. It hit heavy. Fear is persuasive. I left that courthouse with $150 to my name and a countdown in my head.
Throughout all the legal proceedings I had regarding my case, the government narrated my story. The actors of the criminal justice system got to dictate what was fact or fiction. And sometimes they made fiction facts. Things that could easily be verified.
Like during my sentencing hearing, they said my brother was dead. Well, he isn’t.
During another proceeding, they said that I carried out my criminal activities while living with my sister Rita. They used that as reason to deny me home confinement during Covid-19. That was also fiction. I’d been leasing the same place for nine years.
A fact easily verifiable.
These are examples of the smaller details. But the most damning thing, the very thing that I was charged with, was in correct. No one is above making mistakes. I know this. I also understand that it can be very challenging to find out the truth when they themselves hadn’t been there as witnesses.
Not surprisingly, when I told them my motivations for making the decision to participate in criminal activities, they refused to accept it. They made it fiction. Somehow they knew better than me what I was feeling.
Chapter 02
The Decision
16 Minute Read
I don’t remember exactly where I went that weekend, but I remember driving around aimlessly. The entire weekend. Frustrated. Angry. Sad. Morally conflicted.
I was frustrated and angry at our social-economic climate—at the reality that statistically I would most likely be the lowest qualified for most high-paying jobs. That has historically been true for Black people in America. Even today, many Black families are experiencing their first college graduates.
I had done well before. I had discovered early on at eighteen that commissioned sales was the perfect fit for me. It allowed me to control my income. I would say, “Sales is the lowest-paid easy work and the highest-paid hard work.”
So I worked hard. I became a top producer. And yet, even when I performed, I didn’t always move up as quickly or as high as some of my colleagues. I didn’t let that bother me. At that time I would have considered my race to be the last reason. After all, there could be countless other factors. The more experienced version of me would likely move race up a few notches. I’ve learned that just because I ignore it doesn’t make it any less real.
I was sad because I had kids. Three wonderful boys. And as a father my responsibility was to provide for them.
My father didn’t feel the same when it came to my sisters and I. In fact, he devised some sort of system that effectively kept him from paying child support to our mothers.
I was 14 years old and I’d gotten a girl in the neighborhood pregnant. Her name was Stephanie. She was a couple years older than me. My father happened to visit us during that time. It would be one of the five times I had seen him from age five until he died. I was in my late twenties when he passed. He drove semi trucks cross-country as a living. I remember climbing up into his truck. Back then it felt as if I was climbing a mountain. The truck was huge and I was so small. My stomach was full of bubbles. It felt like I’d eaten too much of my sister’s cooking. (Back then she couldn’t cook. The food was trash.) I was super nervous. I’m sure he had no idea about what I was about to tell him. I did, and I was scared. Deathly frightened.
I didn’t have a relationship with my father. Not because I didn’t want to, but because he didn’t. I remember every couple of years or so he would call and I’d get to talk to him. I’d get so excited. Who knows why I got so happy. Maybe it was the hope that kept me going. The possibility that he would come back and we could do stuff together. He would teach me to play ball, ride a bike, go fishing, go camping, the whole nine. He never did. And I learned how to do all those things without him.
Despite his shortcomings, he was still my father and I felt I had an obligation to tell him what was going on in my life. Especially something as important as this.
After making the summit of Mount Peterbilt, I slid into the seat. With uncertain eyes I looked at him and shaky words began to fall out of my adolescent mouth.
“I have to tell you something. I got a girl pregnant.”
He looked at me with furrowed eyebrows. Turned away. There was a long pause. I sat uncomfortably, a boy sitting in a man-sized truck seat. I looked down while mindlessly rubbing my fingers into knots. I didn’t know what to expect him to say. The silence was killing me. Shout at me. Scorn me. Anything would be better than this. Everything in me wanted to open the door and jump off Mount Peterbilt and end it all.
But I didn’t. And it turns out I was the one in for the most shocking statement that day. His next words would echo through my mind every time his name was spoken.
My father turned back towards me and we locked eyes. To this day I’m befuddled as to how his mind landed on this combination of words:
“Well son, you know there’s ways around child support.”
My jaw almost broke off as it fell into my lap. My face said, “Nigga what?!” That was the last time I gave him the respect that a son owes a father.
Sure, I was only 14 years old, but I knew enough to know that type of thinking was the reason my mother struggled the way she did trying to raise me and my three sisters. I refused to do the same to my kids and their mother. And as an experienced father, I can’t understand why my father would want to leave that as his legacy.
Now here I was, though unintentionally, not providing for my kids. I was failing. And life was sucking. I didn’t want it to suck for them too.
As I drove, I ran through options. I thought about going back into sales immediately, but commission takes time to ramp up. I didn’t feel like I had time. That prosecutor’s words kept replaying in my head.
“I don’t care what you have to do.”
At some point my thinking shifted. I landed on going to the streets. I didn’t know anything about selling drugs, but I knew more than a few people from my neighborhood who were making money that way. From the way it appeared to me, some were making money hand over fist.
My emotions were high. Rationality was out the window. These guys wouldn’t make it selling in the corporate world. Yet all over town I could see guys wearing designer clothes, iced out, driving foreign cars, and their pockets were full.
Let me be clear. I understand that most dealers didn’t make much more than what it took to meet their immediate needs or support their habits. They do just enough to make the pain bearable. Low-performing salespeople and dealers outnumber the high performers about ten to one.
My focus wasn’t the bottom. It was the top. Just like in corporate sales, I only really noticed those that were getting it done. I saw these guys as street entrepreneurs. They ran their own small businesses. They had a level of control over their lives that I never had. The best part was they couldn’t be fired.
I made a decision to figure out how to become one of the street entrepreneurs.
There was a problem.
My morals. My mother. My children.
On some level I’d be letting them all down. I didn’t want to dishonor them all by becoming a statistic, another Black man in jail because he sold drugs.
I did it anyway. I allowed fear to push me.
If I’m being totally transparent, I was also being seduced by the ideas of control, security, and the opportunity to show my old boss I could make my own way. And when I did, no one would be able to take that away.
That’s how I crossed the line. There was little logic in my decision. Just a huge emotion-filled error.
Chapter 03
The First Purchase
15 Minute Read
I sold crack for exactly 30 days, then I quit.
I hated almost every moment. I knew next to nothing about selling drugs. I didn’t know what crack looked like, what quantities it was sold in, or what it sold for.
I did know how to use the internet. A quick Google search and a bit of reading was all I needed. I was equipped with enough information to make an informed purchase. My first problem was solved. Now I needed to know who I could buy it from.
I wasn’t connected to that world. But Stacey was, and she trusted me. She was from the neighborhood and she used. So I started there.
Stacey told me she only bought $20 of it at a time. She didn’t know anyone I could purchase $150 worth from to resell. Stacey’s friend Erin was nearby listening. She said she knew a guy. I didn’t really know Erin except enough to know she isn’t someone I’d consider trustworthy. It didn’t matter because I needed her help.
Erin arranged a meet with her guy. He wouldn’t deal with me directly. I didn’t really want to deal with him directly either. This was one of the most frightful moments in my life. I was about to cross a line that I’d always told myself I wouldn’t. I really didn’t want to. My fear of being jailed bent reality. In my mind the prosecutor became less of a person and more like something else. I could see his steely looking eyes. It was as if he had a bloodlust that could only be satisfied by locking people up. This man was hungry. He needed to eat. I didn’t want to be his next meal.
So I pushed myself to cross the line.
When the dealer pulled up next to my car we were in the parking lot of a busy store. The sun was low in the sky, but nightfall hadn’t arrived yet. But it was close. He was on my passenger side.
I was nervous. I was super nervous.
I asked myself, “Am I about to go to jail?”
“I don’t want to go to jail,” I told myself.
My eyes never stopped moving as I attempted to analyze every car in the lot. Frantically, I scanned for police.
Right here is where most people would ask the rational question:
“If you were so scared of the police why would you even attempt to sell drugs?”
Didn’t I tell you about the prosecutor? His eyes, his thirst for blood, my blood. Being threatened with jail in court was a seriously traumatic event for me. At this time in my mind child support had transformed to “his money” and he needed it. It was for certain that if I didn’t pay, he was going to throw me in jail.
Selling drugs would be risky. But the risk was just a chance I could go to jail. Plus it would only be temporary.
My thinking was flawed.
Erin got out of my car and into his. When she returned she had a ball of yellowish white chunky stuff, an “8-ball.” Erin seemed unbothered. She was a pro at this and this was routine for her. Not a hint of nervousness to be found. I was paranoid.
According to my internet research, I should purchase a small digital scale from Radio Shack. I did that. Erin placed the bag on the scale and it read just over 3.5 grams. Just as the internet explained.
Everything seemed to be going well, except my heart was pounding so hard you would think I swallowed a jackhammer. Oh, and that Crown Vic I hadn’t noticed before looking like an unmarked cop car.
“HOLY SHIT!” I yelped. “That’s an undercover cop.”
Somehow my grandfather’s words came out.
“I don’t want it.”
It wasn’t. She did. We all left.
But Mr. You Better Have My Money’s threats started running through my head again. Before we made it to the first red light to cross Route 40, I told her to call the guy back.
We went through the same motions. This time at a gas station. She jumped out then came back and put the drugs on the scale. Nothing had changed. I got spooked again.
“No, take it back. Gone get rich. I don’t want no problems.”
She took it back again. We all left again. She was upset with me. We were no more than three minutes up the road before Mr. Better Have My Money was back glaring at me with those crazy eyes of his.
I took a deep breath.
“Call him back,” I said.
As crazy as it might sound, there we all were. Again.
Me, her, him, and the crack were all pulled over in a quiet neighborhood. Everyone was looking at me side-eye, even the crack. The only difference this time was I sent her over to his car clutching my last $150. I had committed.
When Erin came back in the car I immediately noticed something was wrong. Gone was the neatly wound bag that had been placed on my Radio Shack scale twice before. Instead, she had two tightly clenched fists. Each held crack.
I didn’t say anything. I was off balance and trying to mentally cope with the fact I’d just bought crack. I sat watching as she fumbled around trying to find something to put the crack in. She did so while trying not to lose any. Finally she used the plastic from her box of Newports. She kept some in her fist and handed me the bag.
“Huh, that’s yours,” she said.
I was perplexed.
“Then what’s that?” I questioned, pointing to her fist.
Without blinking Erin said, “Oh, that’s my wake up. He always gives me something to start my day.”
“Okay, how come your wake up is more than what I just paid $150 for?” I asked.
But I’d already knew the answer.
She wasn’t someone I should have trusted. She just robbed me. There wasn’t anything I was willing to do about it. There was zero chance she would willingly hand over the rest of that crack.
There was just enough left to sell and make back my $150. However, from then on the guy was willing to deal with me directly. I was on my way.
Night had come. I drove home with what was left sitting in my car. It wasn’t a large amount. But it felt large.
When I pulled in front of my mother’s house, a new wave of fear hit me. There was no way I was bringing that into my mother’s house. That house represented stability. It was a sanctuary created by Mom’s love for us and hard work. I wasn’t about to defile what she made for us.
For a moment I just sat there with the engine off, listening to it tick as it cooled. I knew I needed that product to make the money. But I also knew I couldn’t walk through her front door with it in my pocket. I knew better than that.
So I left it in the car and went inside.
I made a way too big bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
I needed it. I was going through something. When I made giant mixing bowls of cereal like that, my kids called it a daddy bowl.
No sooner had I walked to the front of the house and looked through the glass storm door than the most ironically unexpected thing happened.
I was about to have the world’s shortest run at selling drugs.
Five or more police cars came blazing up the street. Red and blue lights were thrown all over the neighborhood.
I stepped out onto the porch with a mouthful of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. My eyes darted back and forth from my Firebird to the line of cop cars coming straight for me. I stood there frozen. My entire body was painted in flashing lights. But my mouth just kept on chewing.
In that brief moment it all ran through my mind. This was it. I was going to jail after all. I knew I shouldn’t have done it. I knew it. I accepted my fate. I hoped they would let me finish my cereal.
They rode right up to my house. I braced for it. Then they drove right by. That relief didn’t feel victorious. It felt temporary.
Chapter 04
And Just Like That
11 Minute Read
I had the product now. Any entrepreneur would tell you the next critical step would be to find customers. I knew in theory that people bought crack. I only knew one. I didn’t count Erin. As far as I was concerned, Erin didn’t buy crack. She took crack. I really needed Stacey as a customer.
I didn’t know how loyal she was to her current supplier, so I figured I needed to come with a strong offer. When I caught up to her my pitch was something like:
“Hey, I know how you make your money and what you use it for. I also understand that you don’t currently have a place to live. How would you feel if I found customers for you to earn more money? I’ll give you a place to stay and I’ll keep as much crack around as you would like. In return all I ask is when you buy it, you buy from me.”
With a short pause, a slight head turn, and two quick blinks Stacey asked, “Are you being for real right now?”
I said yes.
She jumped into my arms and hugged me so tightly that one of us let out a squeal.
I had sold everything from consumer electronics to life insurance to cars to digital ads. I knew how to generate customers. I understood attention. I understood positioning. I understood pricing.
Before me, Stacey’s primary way of finding customers was by walking the streets. I thought that was risky and inefficient. Most often she would be attempting to sell her services to someone who wasn’t in the market. The customer had the negotiating advantage. That meant they dictated price and terms.
Online shifted that balance. It also removed some exposure. Everyone in town didn’t have to see her standing somewhere and form opinions. It meant less walking. Less unpredictability. More control.
We weren’t the first to advertise using the internet, though we were amongst the earliest. At first I didn’t know how to price her services. We started low because that felt safe.
The phone rang nonstop. There were more calls than we could possibly keep up with. So we raised the price. Same thing. We raised it again and attached a time period — one hour. Still strong volume. Eventually we landed at $200 for one hour. That felt balanced.
Though we were working well together on that side, in my mind I still thought selling drugs to be my primary objective. I needed to expand. I needed more customers.
Stacey wasn’t the greatest source for me to find a crack supplier. However, she did know an almost endless amount of people who used it. I made a point of getting to know as many of them as I could.
It didn’t take long before I was running around all over town. I wanted to be there whenever they needed me. They would call day and night. But I started to notice patterns of how and when people wanted to buy. During the weekday sales came when they came, but it was pretty steady. Friday and Saturday was different. There would be a surge from evening until the latest hours of the night. Two, three, maybe four in the morning.
If we are being technical, 2 a.m. is morning time. Yet when I was a teenager I could never get my mom to understand that.
“You not leaving out of my house any time of night,” she’d say.
“I’m not Mom. I’m just getting an early start on the day,” I tried to explain.
That never worked.
Many times calls didn’t stop until sunrise. Apparently I was the only person involved that needed sleep. I mean seriously, when did these people sleep? Some of them even had to be at work in the mornings.
I got to the point where I started parking in the middle of town. This allowed me to maximize my sleep and minimize the drive to the customers. I’d be halfway to either direction I needed to go. It wasn’t ideal but it worked.
Every time the phone rang I’d wake up to one of those big signs with the digital time and temperature scrolling along the bottom. It lit up the night. Too many times I looked at it and thought it was both too early and too late to be awake.
They usually asked how long I’d be to get there. Thanks to the way-too-bright clock in front of me, I was able to give a quick estimate. What I didn’t know then is that the practice of being on time in the drug game wasn’t usual.
“You’re different.”
I had heard this enough times that I got curious. I asked one of the customers what she meant by that. She said three things.
The first was I didn’t dress like the average dealer. I always wore a shirt with a collar and I never sagged my pants. (I have to give credit to my mother for introducing me to a well-kept secret: “The belt goes above your butt, not under it.”)
The second thing she listed was, “I sounded white.” (Whatever that means. I’ve been hearing that most of my life. I’m not going there.)
Then finally, what she said that really made me different was that when I told her I’d be there in 15 minutes, I actually was. I showed up on time.
That was a moment that I didn’t hate. Admittedly it was a small moment, but it was a good moment to me.
I’ve always had this thing where I enjoyed delivering a higher level of service than others. I just didn’t think that something as simple as keeping your word and showing up on time was extraordinary. Especially when you consider that the people you’re meeting with are trying to pay you.
Most every other part of the drug game I hated. The crazy late hours and the feeling that at any given moment the cops could pop out on you and take you to jail. In that business you always had the drugs on you or near you. The drugs had the potential to change your life. Things could get a lot better or a lot worse. In that short period of time three men attempted to rob me at knife point. They failed, but it still bothered me. I felt disrespected.
Dealing is not a good lifestyle.
Stacey and I were at a motel working when my phone rang. It was Jenna.
“Hey Jen,” I answered. Jenna was an old friend from school.
“I’m in town and I wanna see you,” she said.
“Um, well, I’m at a motel with a friend right now.” My eyes wandered over to Stacey as I replied. “It should be okay if you stop by.”
I was working on my MacBook when Jenna came in. Stacey was in the sink area preparing her next dose of crack. They were meeting for the first time. Both of them were people persons so their conversation flowed like old friends. I was working quickly as I could as not to be a rude host.
I was uncomfortable with Stacey doing her thing in front of Jenna. It was well known throughout our time in school that X never drank and he never did drugs. I was proud of that. I didn’t want her to think that I’d started.
Their conversation took an unexpected change when I heard Jenna ask Stacey could she take a hit.
“I don’t care. I got plenty of it,” Stacey replied.
“Oh, you got money like that?” Jenna asked.
At this point my fingers slowed over the keyboard. I watched and listened trying to hide my surprise. I never knew her to do any drugs. Maybe she smoked weed. But definitely not crack.
Stacey said, “I’m making more money than I ever have.”
“Doing what?” Jenna asked.
Stacey went on to explain. I didn’t really want Jenna to know what we were doing. When Stacey was done talking Jenna asked, “Can I do it too?”
Stacey said, “I don’t care. You got to ask him.”
They both turned to me for the answer.
And just like that I was made captain of the team. I didn’t ask for it. We never even brought it up in conversation. From then on they ran almost every decision by me.
I sat silenced by the shock of what I’d discovered about my childhood friend. Had this been her first experience with crack? Unlikely. She seemed like she knew her way around the pipe. Would this be her first experience with prostitution? I didn’t know. And she never told me.
Trinity was the next person to join us. I’d met her through the drug side. She had this accidental humor about her that I really enjoyed. She didn’t like to curse so she’d creatively mix words together to get her point across. She came by our rooms one day to buy. She stayed and talked with Stacey and Jenna. Before long she was asking if she could join too. Like before, they looked to me to give the final okay.
Now there was three girls and me.
This was the beginning of what would become my escort service. I didn’t yet know that. In my mind, this was still temporary. My focus was still elsewhere.
Looking back, I had it backwards.
Nine and a half years later I had worked with about 150 women. I had over 2,700 customers. Over 8,000 people were registered to my website. At its peak the site had more than 20,000 visitors per month. There was people accessing my site from every continent except Antarctica.
Chapter 05
I’m Done
9 Minute Read
The drug game ended for me just 30 days after I started. Despite being robbed by Erin during my first purchase, I still was able to make back my original $150. By growing that I went on to purchase more than $3,000 in product the first week.
I met with him multiple times a week. Each time I put in larger and larger orders. We would meet various places. Each time he would challenge my patience. He would be late all the time. Not just by a little. Even when we met outside his house he kept me waiting way too long.
I knew I’d become his best customer or very close.
One time he came to meet me and asked, “How are you selling so much so fast?” There was a hint of awe in his voice. I told him about the girls. He told me that he’d done the same thing before too. Then he proceeded to tell me how I should run the business.
I thought him giving me advice on how I should run my business was ironic. If his ideas on this business was a better way, then why isn’t he doing it instead of trying to figure out how I’m doing so well?
I simply smiled and nodded.
The last time we planned to meet ended up being the final time. It was after dark at about 10 p.m. We planned to meet at a parking lot. I arrived first. No surprise there. I called to let him know. He said okay and he was almost there.
Twenty minutes went by. I called him back and he said he was around the corner.
Another ten minutes went by. I sent him a text. He said he was “pulling in.”
At this point I’m fuming. I felt he was disrespecting me. He was treating me the way he treated users.
I called him again.
“Where you at, man?”
“I’m up the road,” he said.
“No. Look out your window and tell me where you’re at.”
“Yo chill out. I’ma be there. I’m pulling in now.”
I replied, “Take a look at your watch. If you’re not here by 11:00 just stay where you are. I’m done.”
At 11:10 p.m. I’d already been driving for ten minutes when my phone rang.
“Yo man I’m here. Where you at?” he said.
“What time you got? I got ten after. I told you stay where you was at if you wasn’t going to be there before 11:00. I like to keep my word. I’m done.”
I hung up.
It felt so good. I drove in bliss enjoying the instant relief of leaving drug dealing behind. With every passing mile my life got a little less complicated and a lot safer. I could feel the lightness in the air. I was free of the drug game forever.
Chapter 06
Shame and Misappropriation
8 Minute Read
I was left with one source of income. The escort service.
In my mind that was better. It was safer. I couldn’t imagine our customers trying to rob us for our services. That didn’t seem realistic. Sure, they could attempt to rob me for cash, but there was no reason I had to keep a bunch on me. Plus the escort service attracted an entirely different customer with a motive.
At that point I decided if I were going to really maximize our earning potential, the first thing I should do is get really serious about keeping everyone safe. I told the girls that priority number one is always going to be safety. The goal was that everyone got to go home in the same condition they came, but with more money.
I put systems and policy in place to support that goal. We began to post on all our ads that customers must be at least 35. Older customers were far less of a problem and were most likely able to afford our rates. I changed our hours to 11 a.m. – 6 p.m., Monday through Friday. The idea being that it would increase the odds that our customers would be on their best behavior. The same person at 2 p.m. versus 2 a.m. could be in two different mindsets. He’s more likely to be sober than if he had just came from the bar.
Also, I’ve always enjoyed my family and friends. Those hours allowed me to make the most of my time with them.
The girls didn’t always like my cautious approach. It meant many times we passed on calls. I didn’t let the allure of money jeopardize safety. If the call sounded sketchy we hung up. Looking back I can say with clear understanding that my approach was the right choice.
I’d end up interviewing many women that wanted to work with us. I noticed something troubling. If a woman had already been working in the industry for three months or longer, she most likely experienced a time where she’d feared for her life. That never happened with us. That made me happy.
I always felt that the people that worked for me should be treated like volunteers. Because that’s what they are. If they’re not, then you’re doing it wrong.
The way I saw it, we had a symbiotic relationship. We benefited each other. Many of them I considered friends. We were equals. We were a team.
A couple times I had customers that would refer to me as “Boss” or “Boss-man.” Nope. That wasn’t for me. There was times that customers would refer to the women in what I felt was disrespectful ways. “Bitches,” or “my stable.” I didn’t let that happen. I’d always correct them. Some responded to my correction with surprise.
Then there was the girls. Some wanted to refer to me as a pimp. This happened twice by two different women. Each time I would simply smile and the conversation would go like this:
“I’m not a pimp,” I would say.
“Of course you are,” they would respond.
“No I’m not. You know how I know I’m not? Because I don’t have any hoes.”
Then I’d give them a slow look and my signature smile.
They got what I’d just done and without surprise they agreed that I was just a guy who ran an escort service.
I’d gotten it to where everything ran smoothly. It was predictable. Everyone knew what to expect. The girls were happy. Anya had been with me for over three and a half years. I remember she called me her best friend. Someone she could always rely on.
There was a customer who told me, “I travel all over the world and I always come back here.”
Another customer said, “If you can do this, if you can make this work, then you could make any business work.”
I would hear a version of that comment several times from different customers.
“Everything was great.” That’s what I said.
I think that was the response everyone expected of me. From the outside looking in, that’s what they saw. But internally I struggled.
If my life was truly great then why didn’t I tell my mother about it? She knew what I was doing but didn’t know any details. She would sometimes ask and I would always change the subject.
Why did I go through the lengths that I did to hide the business from my children?
I knew the answer.
Shame.
Shame on me for not living up to the expectations of my mother. Shame on me for not being a model that I’d want my children to follow. Shame on me for misappropriating my God-given talents.
I knew I was living in a glass house. At any moment someone could throw a rock. Law enforcement. Rumors reaching my kids. A single mistake and everything would shatter.
Chapter 07
The Rock
6 Minute Read
It didn’t happen at night. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a movie scene with sirens and shouting. It was surreal. Everything happened in an instant. My mind felt like it had turned to mud. I couldn’t get it to work. My body buzzed from fear.
One moment I was sitting in my car behind the motel. I was texting. I never even finished the sentence.
I saw a flash of movement out of the side of my eye. A vehicle moving at high speed as if it meant to ram me.
The next thing I knew I was staring at someone pointing a gun at me through my windshield.
The same thing was happening all around my car.
My hands flew up so fast, so hard, my fingers could be seen poking through the roof of the ceiling making sheet metal gloves. My iPhone hit the floor.
There had been days I imagined that moment. Police knocking. Questions. Being taken away.
I would picture it and tell myself, If it ever happens, I’ll stay calm. I’ll power my phone down immediately. I knew they could force my fingerprint to unlock it, but if it was powered off it would require a password.
I had rehearsed it over and over in my mind.
When it actually happened, none — and I do mean none — of that mental practice meant a damn thing.
I wanted to just scream out to the busy hive of FBI and state troopers:
“Okay everybody wait! Just stop what you’re doing! I need a minute. I don’t know what y’all have planned but this is way too much. I’m not the guy who needs all this. Y’all could have just sent me a very sternly written letter. That would have been more than enough.”
That didn’t happen.
Instead all I felt was a huge knot rise in my throat as a million questions rushed through my head at once. How bad is this? Maybe it’s a misunderstanding. Maybe I’ll get a warning.
Maybe they’ll see what I built — the structure, the order, the fact that no one was hurt and everyone wanted to be here. Maybe they’ll understand.
That hope lingered longer than it should have. Because I truly believed something. I believed that because I had done such a good job ensuring to “do the right thing while doing the wrong thing,” that it would matter. Because I treated the women well. Because I treated the customers well. Because I had integrity in a business where none was expected. I thought that would count.
I was wrong.
None of that mattered. All that mattered was they were there to get the bad guy. They thought I was a bad guy.
I was arrested.
After spending the night in jail I was taken to court. The next morning, I sat in a bullpen with thirty other guys waiting to be arraigned. My case was the last to be heard that day. I was the only person that went home.
Maybe I wasn’t so bad of a guy after all.
They strapped an ankle monitor to my leg and I was released to home confinement. The first thirty days were the worst. I wasn’t allowed to go back to my own place. I was forced to move in with my sister Rita. I’m glad she let me invade her space for a while.
I was an emotional wreck. I had no real idea where my life was about to head. My youngest sister, Portia, made it so much more bearable.
The first full month I couldn’t leave the house for any reason. I couldn’t even take the trash out. Portia stayed with me the entire time. We didn’t know how long things would be that way. Still, Portia was there. She did the time with me.
I have no doubt that if she could, she would be with me during my sentence. I felt bad for her. She hadn’t done anything wrong. I told her she should leave and take a break. She did so once. Only for a few hours.
I could tell she was really feeling bad for me. There wasn’t much she could do to make things better, but she tried.
If you know Portia, you know she’s a talker. It’s her superpower. And she’s a cooker. A creative one at that.
You think you’ve had pancakes. Until you’ve tried Pan-Cakes.
That’s what Portia makes. You gotta say it with the big P and the big C. Loud. She doesn’t play. She might hit you with apples, peanut butter, or onions in them. Or she might put all that in them and some extra. It doesn’t even matter. It’s always good.
So that’s what we did. Portia cooked and talked. Got finished and she talked and we ate. That’s how it went for thirty endless days and nights.
I can’t ever repay her for taking her time and tending to me while I was most vulnerable.
After thirty days they gave me a curfew. I wasn’t actually free, but going outside that first time, I never felt more free. I literally stood in the front yard with my arms outstretched, face to the sky, and spun.
I can’t wait to feel that way again.
Eight months went by. Eight months where the house didn’t shatter — but it cracked. I wore that monitor everywhere. Every step I took was tracked. My every movement monitored.
Then came the superseding indictment.
They added a charge of employing a minor. Something I’d never do. That single addition shifted everything. I was removed from home confinement. I was arrested and placed in jail while I awaited trial.
Two months after I came to jail, COVID-19 began. Death was everywhere on the news. I was placed alone in a cell for over eighty-five days. They said it wasn’t punitive. It was for my physical safety.
They shoved me inside with nothing to do. Nothing to occupy my mind or hands. Lucky for me, I had my radio and a few packs of batteries. I listened to NPR. Every station was all-you-can-eat COVID coverage.
It felt like I came to jail and the world was ending.
I imagined this was the universe stating that I shouldn’t be here and to let me go.
When I walked out of that cell over eighty-five days later, I knew I would never be the same. Something inside me had changed at my core.
I was physically safe.
But to me, they only got it half right. They made no attempt at saving my mind.
Isolation layered on isolation. Uncertainty stacked on itself. Pretrial stretched much longer than I imagined. I was on my fifth lawyer. They all told me the best thing to do would be to take the plea. Just sign it the way the government wrote it.
I only wanted the facts to be factual.
In the end I caved. Optimism was thinning.
What had once looked like a potential maximum of about a year now carried a minimum of ten. Three years and four months passed before sentencing.
During my time at the D.C. Jail I stayed active. I got involved in a very unique program led by Dr. Marc Howard through Georgetown University. I held a 3.98 GPA and earned more credits than any other participant before me.
This was my first interaction with college. I found it fascinating. Philosophy, theology, sociology, economics, politics, biology, physics, and criminology were just some of the subjects we studied. I plunged in all the way.
The professors loved me. I’m still in contact with some four years later.
I learned a lot.
I shared with them my story. All of it. I didn’t hold back. I just wanted to be heard. They were willing to listen.
At sentencing I knew my sisters and nieces were behind me for support. My nephew was there too, but I couldn’t recognize him. Partly because I wasn’t fully present in my own body and partly because he had grown so much in those three and a half years.
My kids didn’t come. They said it was too much for them to handle. They didn’t want to see me in chains.
That was too bad. I understand their feelings. But they missed an opportunity to witness something else.
Three of the Georgetown professors had asked to come and speak as character witnesses on my behalf. That had never happened before in the history of the program. Dr. Marc Howard was among them.
I was at a loss for words.
There I was at the lowest point in my life and three people with PhDs stood across from me to stand in front of a courtroom — not because I asked them, but because they believed me. More so, they believed in my potential.
Through hard work and genuine character, I demonstrated to them my value.
The government asked for fifteen. I received twelve and a half years.
I felt defeated. I knew I couldn’t be the person they were describing. I’m a good guy. Everyone knew that about me.
At least I thought they did.
In that moment the glass house shattered. There was no sweeping it up.
Chapter 08
I Have Value
10 Minute Read
For me, the rebuilding didn’t start at sentencing. It started the day I was arrested. I didn’t know what was going to happen, but I knew what I needed to do.
I needed to show them what I already knew. What people had been telling me my entire life. That I had value.
They didn’t always say it that way. Usually they said I had “a lot of potential.”
I remember standing in an elevator, locked inside a small cage. A small taste of what was to come. I’ve been locked in more cages than most dogs. Metal around me. Agents around me. Everything designed to send a clear message:
To remind me of who I am not.
Who I’ll never be.
To tell me my limitations.
I said to one of the agents, almost casually, “I guess I’ll go get licensed to sell real estate.”
He looked at me and gave a sarcastic, dismissive, “Yeah, okay.”
It wasn’t loud or aggressive, but I saw it. What he thought of me.
Poor man. He doesn’t know his life is forever changed.
It flashed over his face. The box he had placed me in.
In that moment, not anger but resolve.
Determination.
Tell me I can’t. I’ll show you how I did it.
When I was released to home confinement, I had an ankle monitor strapped to me. Eight months of restricted movement. Eight months of waiting.
The first thing I did was look into getting my real estate license online. If I was going to start, I was going to start immediately.
The prosecutors fought me. They refused to give me internet access. They asked if I could take the course in person. I said yes. I told them class wouldn’t start for two months and that it was about a forty-minute drive to Townsend, Maryland.
They didn’t care.
So I did it the hard way.
For two months before the class began, I volunteered at Union Hospital. If I couldn’t prove it through income, I’d prove it through contribution.
I needed to show them that I was more than the story they were trying to paint.
I’m important.
I’m not a criminal.
I’m someone who happened to commit a crime.
When the class started, I made the drive. Every time. Ankle monitor and all.
There’s something humbling about sitting in a classroom trying to build something while wearing a device that tracks your every move. It silently speaks to you. It tells you that you don’t belong here.
I didn’t listen to it.
I finished the course. I passed and became licensed. Not because it would change my case, but because I refused to be shot inside that agent’s box.
It reminded me that I still had agency. That I still had the ability to build on the right side of the law. That the sarcastic “yeah, okay” didn’t get the final word.
That period of home confinement cracked the glass house, but it also revealed something else.
Even inside limits, I could move forward.
Chapter 09
Property of D.C. Jail
7 Minute Read
At about eight months the superseding indictment came. Not long after that I got to learn what it’s like to live life in a cage.
The shift was abrupt.
One day I was sleeping in a comfortable bed with an ankle monitor around my leg, still able to see familiar walls.
The next day I was inside a facility where everything echoed — footsteps, voices, metal doors sliding shut, and people getting stabbed five feet away from me while attempting to call home.
My jumpsuit was bright orange just like the TV shows. Stamped across the back were the words: Property of D.C. Jail.
The first time I caught a reflection of myself wearing it, I stared longer than I meant to.
Property.
That word sat with me.
For the first time I began to understand. Property of D.C. Jail wasn’t a reference to the clothing. Instead, it was referring to the man wearing the clothes.
But no matter what it said on the fabric, I wasn’t theirs.
I was hers.
My mother named me Xavier. Not X. Not X-man. Not shortened.
Xavier.
She was the only person who never adjusted it. Never softened it. Never abbreviated it. When she said my name, it felt intentional. Like she was reminding me who I was supposed to be.
The last time she saw me I was wearing that orange jumpsuit.
Property of D.C. Jail.
We sat across from each other in the visitation hall under the cold lights that made everything look harder than it really was. Plastic chairs. People pretending to be strong for each other. Conversations trying not to drift to the obvious.
There I sat in front of her.
A prisoner.
In orange.
Stamped.
But she knew the truth.
She didn’t see property of a jail. She saw me. A man. She saw her son.
Long before any of this — before crime, before jail, before courtrooms — there was another moment when I buried my face into the side of her neck and felt her body absorb my uncontrollable tremors.
I don’t even remember what had shaken me that day. What I remember is her response.
She rocked just slightly.
A small rock.
Almost unnoticeable.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t an event for her. It was just my mom doing what she did for her children. She didn’t say much. She just held me and rocked gently enough that if you weren’t paying attention, you’d miss it.
It was reassurance.
The kind that says, without words:
You’re safe.
Mama knows, baby. Mama knows.
She wrote me letters. She had horrible handwriting. Somewhere along the way she’d started signing “Mizz Debbie.” An inside joke between her and I.
All of our friends called her Mrs. Debbie. If you were a child that’s what you called her. Never just Debbie. She demanded her respect.
Sometimes I’d playfully call her Mrs. Debbie to get a rise out of her. She enjoyed it, though she never said so.
Now here she was sending me letters signed “Mizz Debbie.”
I don’t know why she added the z’s, but that was how she’d do things. Her own way.
From then on she signed the same. She never adjusted how she saw me.
She passed away while I was on pretrial detention.
I had to absorb that news inside a cold, dimly lit cell alone. Away from everyone I love and everyone who loved me.
No embrace.
No rocking.
No one saying Xavier the way she did.
They couldn’t comfort me and I couldn’t comfort them.
There’s a different kind of pain in that.
Not being able to show up for the people who have always shown up for you.
Sometimes I replay that visitation hall in my mind.
The orange jumpsuit.
The plastic chairs.
The fluorescent lights.
And I wish that wasn’t the last time she saw me.
Or I saw her.
As crazy as it sounds, part of me believes that if I try hard enough — if I build something strong enough, honorable enough — I can somehow replace that image for her.
I know that’s not how memory works.
But it’s how love works.
When I think of that word now — property — I don’t think about ownership the way they stamped it on that uniform.
I think about belonging.
I’m “Mizz Debbie’s” boy.
Chapter 10
The Divide
7 Minute Read
The hardest part of all this isn’t the time. It’s the distance.
When I first got arrested, I told myself this would work itself out. That I would explain it. That my children would understand the context. That eventually everything would settle.
But time doesn’t just pass. It creates space. And space, if you don’t fill it, becomes distance.
I set out originally to provide security. To give them stability. To make sure their mothers were supported. To make sure no one ever had to feel the pressure I felt in that courtroom.
In my mind I was solving problems. Financial ones. Environmental ones. I wanted to create a good life. For them. For their mothers. For my family and for myself.
Even if it meant sacrificing myself.
That’s what I told myself.
But the end result was the opposite of what I intended. Instead of being security, I became absence. Instead of being stability, I became uncertainty. Instead of being a provider, I became a financial burden.
And maybe even an emotional one.
As my kids got older, I knew they may have heard things. It was a small town. People talked. You never knew who knew who or what version of the story was circulating.
I did what I could to shield them from it. We never really talked about it. That silence felt protective at first. Later, it felt heavy.
There’s a specific kind of shame in raising your children to do the right thing while you’re knowingly doing the wrong thing. That’s the part that sits with me.
I raised them to be honest. To be disciplined. To choose wisely.
And I didn’t.
There were days I imagined police coming to get me long before they did. I imagined them taking pictures. Building a case. I imagined how I would explain it to my kids if it ever happened.
Sure enough, that day came.
Some of those images I had imagined showed up in my case.
There are moments I missed that I will never get back. Conversations I wasn’t there for. Milestones I didn’t witness. Ordinary days that matter more than you realize until you can’t have them.
The divide isn’t just physical. It’s emotional.
When my kids chose not to come to sentencing because they didn’t want to see me in chains, I understood. But understanding doesn’t remove the sting.
I can’t change what happened between me and my father. But I still have an opportunity with my kids. I can’t rewrite the beginning. But I can influence their ending.
To my kids, if you ever read this:
I love you today as I loved you yesterday. We don’t get enough time together on this planet.
Nobody does. But I will love you after it’s over.
As you are. For who you are. That hasn’t changed.
I won’t pretend my choices didn’t reach you. They did.
Some of the hardest moments of my life weren’t courtrooms or jail cells. They were realizing the weight of my decisions didn’t stop with me. It settled onto people I loved.
Onto you.
I used to think being strong meant carrying everything alone. Providing at all costs. Hiding fear. Hiding weakness. Standing still while everything inside you shook.
Now I think strength may be simpler than that. Maybe it’s loving people enough to let them see you imperfect.
I can’t rewrite the beginning of our story. But I still believe I can influence the ending.
No matter what you hear about me, no matter what version of my life gets told by other people, remember this:
I never stopped loving you. Not for one second. Not now.
You are my children and I am your father.
Chapter 11
The Comeback
8 Minute Read
The sentence didn’t end my thinking. It sharpened it.
There was a moment — after the shock settled, after the noise in my head quieted — when I understood something clearly:
This would not be the end of my story. There is always a small voice of doubt. I hear it. But I don’t listen to it. My goals are louder.
I’ve always believed that if I put my mind to something long enough and hard enough, I would figure it out. My mother used to say that about me. I would walk into situations and tell her, “I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I’m going to figure it out.”
That hasn’t changed.
So I started reading everything I could get my hands on about wealth building, business, structure, and mindset. Cedric Nash. Napoleon Hill. Zig Ziglar. Robert Kiyosaki. Robert G. Allen. Mark Victor Hansen.
If there was something available about building on the right side of the law, I grabbed it.
At some point, I read that if you really want to learn something, teach it.
So that’s what I did.
I began teaching financial literacy to other inmates. Budgeting. Credit. Business principles. Ownership. Long-term thinking.
My goal is to teach at least 400 before I’m released.
Because I see something in here. Unrealized potential.
Men who, if given a stronger understanding of consequence and opportunity earlier in life, might have chosen differently.
Men who know how to operate, how to build — just on the wrong side of the law.
If they were equipped with the same tools on the right side, many of them would choose that route.
I believe that.
Alongside that, I’ve been expanding my network. Reaching beyond the prison walls. Looking for mentors who can guide me as I build what comes next.
I realize that what I’m working toward will be difficult.—If you, dear reader, know of such a person, please reach out.
I want to be ready before I’m released. Not scrambling after.
The vision is clear.
- A real estate investment firm.
- Revitalizing neighborhoods.
- Creating housing opportunities.
- Hiring returning citizens.
- Teaching others how to duplicate and do the same.
Not just profit — impact.
Along the way, I’ll donate a percentage of my personal income to charitable causes.
Something I started doing before incarceration.
I believed then, and still do, that those who can should help those who can’t.
One day there will be a “Mizz Debbie” scholarship. In her name.
For students who need both financial support and belief. I don’t know exactly how every step will unfold.
But I know this:
I am not finished.
Chapter 12
The Glass House
5 Minute Read
For a long time, I thought the glass house meant fragility. Something beautiful but breakable. I knew I was living in one. I even said it out loud sometimes.
At any point, someone could throw a rock and shatter it all.
What I didn’t fully understand was that the glass wasn’t just around me. It was beneath me.
You can build carefully. You can organize chaos. You can treat people well inside something that’s wrong. You can convince yourself that integrity inside misconduct somehow changes the foundation.
It doesn’t.
Glass doesn’t become brick because you manage it responsibly. It remains glass. And eventually, it shatters. When it did, I had two choices. I could focus on who threw the rock. Or I could admit I built the house that way. The glass house wasn’t just fragility. It was visibility.
I was visible the entire time. To law enforcement. To my community. To my kids. To my mother. To myself.
I can’t erase the image of an orange jumpsuit stamped “Property of D.C. Jail.”
But I can decide what I build next.
On solid ground.
Legally.
In a way that brings families together instead of separating them.
I’ll honor my mother’s belief in me.
I’ll show my kids that a fall is not the end of a man.
The glass house shattered.
But I’m still here.
And this time, I’m building with stone.
Xavier Lee of Elkton Md
“Mizz Debbie’s Boy”
The story isn’t over
Some people live inside glass houses without realizing it. Some only see clearly after everything breaks.
This is where I have been.
Where I'm going is simple: