I was taken before I could speak my first words. Separated from my six siblings by the foster system, I was adopted at just 2 or 3 years old. My bloodline is African American—rich in soul, in struggle, in silence. But I was raised in a Mexican immigrant home, where Spanish was the first rhythm I learned. From prayers to ancestors to stories passed down over dinner tables, I was gifted something most people never get—a second culture, a second chance, and a second identity.

I’ve spent my whole life between worlds—Black and Brown, fostered and forgotten, adopted but still searching. Jalisco and Mexico City feel like home, but deep down, I’ve had to accept the truth: I don’t have a place I can truly call home. I may never be fully accepted by my birth family or my adopted one. And still—I show up. I create. I speak.

I do this for the fallen—for those we lost in the system, on the streets, and in silence. I do this for those who have a voice but are scared to speak, for the ones who see but stay frozen. I do this for the generations that bled, crossed borders, cried, and endured just so I could exist.

I am the one. The one who sees and feels their pain. The one who hears the whispers of ancestors telling me “You are the fulfillment of our prayers.” And I refuse to let their sacrifice die in vain.

I will die for this. Not just the music—but the meaning. I will make both my cultures proud. I will show them “Sí se puede.” Yes, we can. I’m a different breed, one born from both fire and faith. I wasn’t made to fit in—I was made to lead, to unite, to resurrect what they tried to bury.

This isn’t just music.
This is war. This is healing. This is legacy.
And I’m just getting started.