AS I GREW OLDER, A NUMBER OF PEOPLE AROUND ME HELPED ME REALIZE THAT SUCCESS IN SPORTS WITHOUT SUCCESS IN THE CLASSROOM IS A DANGEROUS SITUATION.
* * *
Even though the community I grew up in was riddled with drugs, crime, and violence, I have to credit my childhood neighborhood for the person I’ve become. My commitment to hustle, to continue grinding when I want to quit, and my toughness were developed as a result of the challenging conditions I encountered every day. I knew I had to be dedicated if I was ever going to get out of that neighborhood.
That’s why every time I go out on the football field, I wear a wristband with the number 815 written on it in large permanent marker. That was our address: 815 Harrison Square. I want to make certain to remember not only where I came from but also the influence that place had on who I’ve grown into and who I wish to become. Despite the challenges that place required me to overcome—or maybe because of them—I never want to lose my connection to where I came from.
I try to make it back to Gainesville as often as I possibly can. I love the vibe there, the closeness that so many of its residents feel toward one another. I also make a point of getting over to Harrison Square. As I work to develop my leadership qualities, it’s essential that I reconnect with what I consider my roots.
Harrison Square hasn’t changed all that much. Although there are some new buildings and there have been some repairs made to older structures, it’s still pretty much as I remember it. People hang laundry out to dry on the clotheslines, kids run all over the place, and the air is filled with the low-level buzz of a neighborhood going about its day.
As I said earlier, many people living in these government complexes consider them a sort of recycling bin—an environment you may leave temporarily that will inevitably draw you back.
But I know that not everything is completely the same. I’m different. I’m proud to be one of the exceptions to the rule. Through determination, persistence, faith, and a little luck—not to mention the support of family and countless friends and neighbors—I was able to escape the recycling bin that is government housing. I’m proud to be able to show the kids growing up there today that they can achieve their dreams and goals if they believe in them enough to pursue them wholeheartedly. The endeavor most likely will not be easy, and it may take a long time, but dreams can be attained amid even the most challenging of circumstances. I’m living proof of that.
That’s why I make such a point to never forget where I came from. It reinforces the pride I feel in having achieved so much and strengthens my determination to aspire toward new goals. At the same time, it makes me want to inspire others to do the same.
* * *
THROUGH DETERMINATION, PERSISTENCE, FAITH, AND A LITTLE LUCK—NOT TO MENTION THE SUPPORT OF FAMILY AND COUNTLESS FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS—I WAS ABLE TO ESCAPE THE RECYCLING BIN THAT IS GOVERNMENT HOUSING.
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Never lose sight of your roots or where you grew up. For better or worse, that environment influences much of what you’re going to be for the rest of your life. It’s up to you to build on the good and eliminate the bad.
PASS IT ON
•Take a minute or two to consider where you came from. What was your childhood like? Your adolescence? What experiences helped shape you into the person you’ve become? Which experiences were positive, and how can you build on those? By the same token, what part(s) of your early years do you consider unfortunate? Does any aspect of who you are today derive from a negative experience? What can you do to change that?
•How do you keep memories of where you came from fresh in your mind? A visual reference point is always helpful. In my case, I write down the address of our government project home on a wristband every time I take the field. Is there something similar—a letter, a photograph, or a keepsake—that reminds you of where you started and, just as important, how far you’ve come?
•When was the last time you went back to the city, town, or neighborhood where you grew up? What was the experience like? What emotions did it bring out in you? Did you feel an ongoing connection to the place, or did you feel utterly removed? Did it seem odd or foreign? If that was your experience, how did it make you feel?
•If you’d rather forget about your past, think about how you might benefit from keeping in mind where you came from. Set aside an hour or two and consider what you say and how you act. What influence does your past have on your behavior and attitude?
YOUR CHALLENGE
If it’s possible, plan a trip to the place where you grew up. Try to pay particular attention to those parts you remember, but also notice how the place has changed. Consider the impact the environment had on you. If you have loved ones (particularly children), try to take them along as well so they can share in the experience of reconnecting with your past. It may teach them more about you and help them understand you more completely.
CHAPTER 2
FOCUS ON WHAT YOU HAVE, NOT WHAT YOU DON’T HAVE
My mom has always put our family first—always. In everything she has said and done, her kids have been foremost in her mind. When I was growing up, we didn’t have a lot, but we had each other. We always knew that no matter what happened, we were a family, and nothing could ever change that.
Of course, there were plenty of things other kids had that I wanted—new video game systems, the latest Jordan shoes—but we couldn’t always have those things. So Mom tried to get us to focus on the things we did have, and that positivity served us all well in the years to follow.
Mom wasn’t, however, content to let us stay in a bad situation. She worked hard to give us the best chance she could, and she knew that our family couldn’t have much hope for the future if we remained amid the dangers of our neighborhood. She dreamed of having a home where her children could leave their bikes on the porch without expecting them to be stolen and where we kids could play outside after dark without worrying about stray bullets.
That dream began to take shape when I was nine. It started one Halloween when my mom was inspecting my candy before I ate it. She had taken me and my brothers and sister to a church function since my neighborhood, not surprisingly, was considered too unsafe for trick-or-treating. Each year the church invited area residents to come to an in-house Halloween party, complete with bags of goodies. I can’t remember what costume I wore that year, but it really didn’t matter. The event was always fun, and I walked away with a bag of loot.
Even at a church-run function, though, my mom never let her guard down for an instant. She insisted on looking through the bag of candy to make certain it was safe to eat while I waited impatiently. After all, I was only there for the candy. I’m not ashamed to admit it.
As she was going through the bag, Mom came across a pamphlet for Habitat for Humanity. It explained how we could qualify for safe, affordable housing if Mom committed to volunteering for a certain number of hours.
After she read through the pamphlet, Mom didn’t take very long making up her mind. She decided to go for it. After all, we were in government housing—what could be worse?
Mom signed up with the program and worked nearly three hundred hours of community service to qualify for a Habitat house. Each day after she left her nine-to-five job, she’d log a few hours volunteering at a homeless shelter. She took classes on financial management of a home. On weekends she helped build four Habitat homes—hammering nails and hauling wood.
I usually went along with her. I was too young at the time to help with anything complicated, although I did hammer my share of nails and carry a fair amount of lumber around the job site.
But what I came to love—and still do—about Habitat is the teamwork involved. That’s not surprising, given my love of sports. It was inspiring to see volunteers from all types of backgrounds coming together for a common goal to help others. This ran counter to much of the vibe around Harrison Square, where survival was foremost on everyone’s mind. The Habitat job sites weren’t driven by a mentality of every pe
rson for him- or herself; people wanted to work together. Their energy and enthusiasm for making things better were infectious.
My own level of excitement grew when I learned that the last of the four houses we were building was to be ours.
One day when we’d framed the walls and could begin to get a sense of how the house would be laid out, I pulled my mom inside and dragged her toward the middle of three bedrooms.
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BUT WHAT I CAME TO LOVE—AND STILL DO—ABOUT HABITAT IS THE TEAMWORK INVOLVED.
* * *
“Deshaun, what’s going on?” Mom demanded.
“Just wait,” I answered as I kept tugging her inside. We finally reached the room, and with one last pull, I drew her into the space.
This, I announced, was mine. After years of sharing rooms with my siblings, I finally had a spot that was just for me.
Eventually, in 2006, our house was done, and we were ready to move in. Our new suburban home seemed thousands of miles away from the place we were leaving. It was clean. There was no paint peeling off the walls. Perhaps even more important, the surrounding neighborhood was quiet. There were no sounds of gunfire or fistfights or family arguments spilling out into the street. It was so quiet that it took us a while to get used to it.
We knew we wouldn’t be able to buy everything we would want to make our new home look nice, but in Mom’s typical style, she told us not to worry about that. We would just focus on what we had, which was a brand-new house that was clean and safe. And we had helped build it. Even for an eleven-year-old boy, it was an amazing experience. I couldn’t wait to tell visitors that I had hammered that nail over here or helped carry the beam over there. The night before we moved in, I was so excited that I almost couldn’t sleep.
But it got even better. As we pulled into the driveway for the first time, I drew my breath in surprise. There was Warrick Dunn, star running back for the Atlanta Falcons. Dunn’s charity, Homes for the Holidays, had been working in partnership with Habitat by supplying furniture, computers, housewares, and food to dozens of families since its founding in 1997. Now it was our turn. Dunn’s organization had furnished our home from top to bottom. Dunn handed the keys to my mom and posed for photos. I could barely stand still, what with a new home and a football star welcoming us!
My palm was sweaty as I shook Dunn’s hand. Shy as always, I managed to introduce myself and thank him. Mom fought back tears—she didn’t want to be seen crying in photos capturing the moment.
It was the start of a better life for our family. We were in a safe area of town. I had my own bedroom, furnished by a guy I idolized! As I grew and continued to mature, Dunn’s example never left me. I had seen the generosity, bordering on joyous obligation, that drove him, and I understood that people who have been truly blessed are privileged to share with others who are far less fortunate.
It didn’t really occur to me at the time, but thinking about it later, I recognized the leadership and selflessness my mom displayed throughout the entire process leading up to our new home. Through my mother’s force of will, she had overcome almost unimaginable obstacles.
* * *
PEOPLE WHO HAVE BEEN TRULY BLESSED ARE PRIVILEGED TO SHARE WITH OTHERS WHO ARE FAR LESS FORTUNATE.
* * *
Unlike so many others, we were able to escape the recycling bin that was the government housing project. Mom’s determination allowed us to become exceptions to the rule.
Not long after, we received a gift from my teacher, Mrs. Frierson, the one who had encouraged me to do the best I could in sports as well as in the classroom. She wanted to give me a Christmas present, in part to celebrate our new home. So she and her husband brought over a basketball goal. I had played on many basketball courts, but I had never had a goal of my own—until now.
It was freezing that day, so we all waited inside watching TV while Mrs. Frierson’s husband and brother-in-law assembled the goal in our driveway. I lost count of how many Food Network shows we watched (not the most exciting of viewing choices for a young boy, but that was the decision of the group). They had thought it would be a fast job, and they finally finished some two hours later. By then it was dark. But they didn’t stop working until it was finished. They kept at it because Mrs. Frierson’s husband wanted to make sure I got to make the first basket.
When I made that shot, I didn’t need to pretend to be someone else. I could be me.
Happily, many years later while I was at Clemson, I was thrilled to return the Friersons’ generosity. I was home on spring break my freshman year, and Mrs. Frierson’s nephew, Max, was turning four years old. His parents were throwing him a Deshaun Watson–themed party. I surprised him by showing up at the party. We ate cake, played games, and went to a children’s museum—it was awesome. When it comes to serving someone as inspiring and generous as Mrs. Frierson, who is now a school principal, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Sometimes people think they don’t have enough to share with others, but I don’t think we always need to focus on giving other people things. You may not have money to share, but maybe you have time. Focus on that, and find a way to help someone who doesn’t have that precious resource. That’s why I love Habitat for Humanity so much. Most of those volunteers contribute through work and sweat, not a checkbook.
* * *
YOU MAY NOT HAVE MONEY TO SHARE, BUT MAYBE YOU HAVE TIME.
* * *
So many people pitched in to help our family out in those years, and I wouldn’t be who I am without their generosity. It wasn’t just things that they shared; they gave their time, which was in many ways more valuable. My mom may not have had the money to buy a house to get us out of the projects, but she was willing to put in her time to help at Habitat for Humanity, and in doing so, she improved not only our lives but the lives of others as well.
As it turned out, our family would soon need to rely on the help of others more than we expected.
In 2011, near the start of my sophomore year in high school, my mom was battling a sore throat that persisted for weeks. Suspecting she had strep throat, she finally went to the doctor. They decided to run a series of tests.
When the results came back, the doctor told her she didn’t have strep.
I remember the day my mom called me into the family living room after I got home from football practice. She’d been crying. She told me that her never-ending sore throat was actually tongue cancer—stage 5. She had tried to keep it a secret from us as long as possible but realized that she had to tell us all the truth.
I started bawling. I didn’t know what else to do or how to react. I thought having cancer meant she was going to die for sure. That was my mindset: people who got cancer died. Simple as that.
Aggressive treatment began right away. My mom spent about eight months at Emory University Hospital in Atlanta. She endured surgery to remove a section of her tongue, followed by a reconstructive procedure, then chemotherapy and radiation. She lost her hair. She couldn’t even speak.
Mom didn’t want us kids to visit her. Not only did she not want us to see what she looked like, but she didn’t want to burden us any further than we already were. She was gone for my entire sophomore year. I saw her maybe two or three times during her eight months of treatment. I guess she figured that the whole situation would somehow be less upsetting if we didn’t see what was happening to her.
Still, I called Mom on the phone nightly. I would talk to her, and then I would wait for her to write down what she wanted to say, and a nurse would read it to me.
Spoiler alert: My mom recovered and, as of this book, is cancer-free. She even managed to learn how to speak all over again after her treatment. But the whole experience emphasized the importance of focusing on what we had, even while my siblings and I were so acutely aware of what we didn’t have: our mom’s presence.
For one thing, we had the support and strength of family and friends. While my mom was away, my aunt Sonia and uncle Terri would sometimes host me and
my three siblings—my older brother Detrick, then twenty-one, and twins Tyreke and Tinisha, age twelve. Other nights I’d stay with my best friend, Fred Payne. Another aunt, Yolanda Glasper, also was of enormous help during this time.
In addition, we had a supportive community. When my mom was diagnosed with cancer, we had almost no money. The town tradition in Gainesville was for all the high school students to have breakfast together at the Longstreet Cafe every Friday morning. Even though I couldn’t pay for it, owner Tim Bunch let me dine free of charge so I could eat with my fellow students. He didn’t see it as charity. In his eyes, we were a tight community. When someone in that community needed a helping hand, you didn’t slap labels on it. You did something to help.
Others stepped up too. Hearing we were short on money, the local tax assessor’s office gave me my first job. Superior Court Judge Andy Fuller gave me a second job organizing court case files. He even went so far as to give me a key to the courthouse so I could work after football practice. I eventually took on another job as a real estate assistant. Money was a priority, and I was determined to make as much as possible. With my mom away receiving cancer treatment, we needed every penny.
* * *
WHEN SOMEONE IN THAT COMMUNITY NEEDED A HELPING HAND, YOU DIDN’T SLAP LABELS ON IT. YOU DID SOMETHING TO HELP.
* * *
My routine was set. I’d get up in the morning, go to school, attend football practice, go to work after hours at the courthouse until about ten o’clock, go home, and somehow manage to fit in my homework along the way. That was the case Monday through Wednesday. I’d rest on Thursday, play a game on Friday night, and take Saturday off. On Sunday I’d head to church and then back to work that afternoon. Then I’d start the whole cycle over again the next week.
Pass It On Page 3