As I started to learn more things, I soon discovered name is Seth, a fitting name as the mythical Phoenix always rises from the ashes, and so did I. Born in the sun-soaked city of Phoenix, Arizona, my early years were anything but ordinary. My childhood was both my battlefield and my playground, where every scorching day brought new challenges that shaped the person I’ve become.
As a young boy, I had more than my share of scraped knees and bruised elbows, but those physical scars were nothing compared to the emotional ones. Phoenix was a melting pot of cultures and backgrounds, and while it brought life and diversity to the city, it also ignited tensions.
I grew up in a tough neighborhood—where you learned to fight before you learned to read. My mother and grandmother wanted nothing more than to see me succeed, but the reality of our surroundings often overshadowed their dreams. The streets were filled with anger, confusion, and a sense of survival that bred violence and bullying.
I was small for my age and an easy target for the older kids. They saw vulnerability in my blue eyes, a blonde, timid boy who wouldn’t fight back. How wrong they were.
The first time someone pushed me, I fell. The second time, I stumbled. But the third time, I stood my ground. I learned to fight back, not out of anger or vengeance, but out of necessity. I had to protect myself, my dreams, my future. I had to survive. Even in the face of the tall, skinny, curly-haired school principal who would hit our bare rear ends with some long wooden board with holes drilled into it for reduced wind drag while swinging through his small office, laden with student drawings throughout the school.
My childhood in Phoenix wasn’t just about the scuffles in the schoolyard; it was a constant battle for self-discovery, growth, and finding my place in a world that seemed to reject me at every turn. It taught me resilience, determination, and the unwavering belief that I could rise above everything, just like the mythical Phoenix.
I was never the strongest or the fastest kid on the block, but I was the one who never gave up. My trials and tribulations were my forges, shaping and hardening me into someone who could face anything.
The Phoenix, Arizona, of my youth, was not just a city but a symbol of my life. A life filled with fire, chaos, and rebirth. It’s where I learned to fight, to survive, and most importantly, to rise.
As I entered my teenage years, the lessons from those early days were etched into my very soul, but the circumstances of my life in 1980 were more complex and challenging than they had ever been.
I was born in 1975, an only child, and at this point in my life, it was just my mom and me. My mother was a strong woman, but the toll of going through a divorce from my dad, Tom Shoultes, then my stepdad, Pat Nichols, was evident in her weary eyes. We were living with my grandmother in South Phoenix, a neighborhood that echoed the turmoil in our lives.
South Phoenix was where you couldn’t just be a child; you had to be a soldier. It was a time of constant strife, and the Hispanic gangs that roamed the streets were merciless. I was jumped almost daily, my fair skin and youthful innocence making me an easy mark.
“Hey, whiteboy, what set you from?” they would ask, cornering me against a graffiti-laden wall.
“I’m not from any set,” I would stammer, my heart pounding.
Their laughs were cruel, and their fists even crueler. But every blow, every bruise, every cut, was a lesson. A lesson in survival, a lesson in resilience, a lesson in what it means to be alive.
My grandmother’s house was my sanctuary, a haven from outside chaos. I would come home, battered and bruised, to find comfort in my mother’s arms and my grandmother’s wisdom. They were my pillars of strength, teaching me to keep getting back up no matter how hard life hit.
My mom usually worked multiple jobs to make ends meet, her eyes filled with determination and a fierce love for me. The divorce had taken its toll, but she never let it break her. Her courage was my inspiration; her struggles were my motivation.
I wasn’t just fighting for myself on those South Phoenix streets; I was fighting for her, us, and a future that had to be better than our present.
Despite the violence and the pain, I found pockets of joy in my childhood. Friends who stood by me, teachers who believed in me, and a dream that I would rise above it all one day, just like the mythical Phoenix.
The years went by, and the battle continued. The challenges evolved, but the fight remained the same. It was a fight for survival, identity, and the hope that the scars would heal someday and the Phoenix would rise again.