Collection: THE STORY
Growing up in bookie joints as a young child in the '70s and street hustling in the rolling 1980s, when everyone had money to burn, money to flush, and money to just simply give away. I was fortunate enough to always hang out with the older dudes, and I did my best to follow their lead. Being a natural saver, I stacked every nickel as I was advised. I built myself a nice little war chest and counted $100,000 cash on March 17, 1986, two days before my son was born. Living everywhere from San Pedro to Palos Verdes to Newport Beach, I unconsciously surrounded myself with movers and shakers outside of my usual surroundings and began to learn the game of life. And boy, did I learn.
Thursday morning, 7 a.m., May 10th, 1990, Newport Beach, California
BOOOOOOOOOOM! I heard a loud thunderous sound, and before I could get up and grab my pistol, my bedroom was flooded with DEA, IRS, and ATF agents. As I lay in bed next to my girl, both of us butt naked, half asleep, knees in our backs and every kind of strap you could possibly think of pointed at our heads, this asshole federal agent, Tom Flores, walks up to me, kneels down, and whispers in my ear, "Don't move a muscle. All this good living is over with. You're under arrest for Continuing Criminal Enterprise, Section 848 of the Penal Code USC 21, Conspiracy to Distribute Cocaine into the United States of America, Section 846 of the Penal Code USC 21, and Money Laundering."
As I was being escorted to the fed mobile, one of the agents walked up to me and asked if I had anything I wanted to tell him. I said, "NO." He told me I better try and save my own ass because I was going to be gone for 40 years, and by the time I got out, they'd be driving spaceships. Although I was scared out of my mind, I knew that was bullshit (or so I thought), and I said, "Yeah, right, who made you the judge?" As we approached the fed mobile, another agent walked up to me holding a white index card. He looked at it, then at me, and asked, "Are you a member or are you affiliated with the Santana Block Crips in Compton?"
The question caught me off guard, and my response was, "Is this a multiple choice?" He said, "Just answer the fucking question, punk!" And if anyone knows, at least where I come from—even to this day—when someone calls you a punk, those are fighting words. I fired back, "Man, fuck you! I'm affiliated just like you, except your gang is the US government." And he threw me in the back of the car.
And on April 4, 1991, I was sentenced to 160 months: 13 years and 4 months. Over the course of those long-ass 13 years, I buffed iron, went to school, furthered my education, got my mind right, stayed to myself, and brainstormed every day about what I was going to do and how I was going to get my mutha-fucking when I touched back down.
Oftentimes, I would lie in my bunk and think about the day this nightmare started. I'd laugh when I remembered the feds asking if I was a member or was I affiliated. The word *AFFILIATED* always stuck in my mind. I guess because the word itself is powerful, and it relates to everything and everybody—from street gangs to corporate America. Everybody is AFFILIATED in some way, shape, or form.
On October 3, 1997, around 8:30 p.m., me and the homeboys were walking back to our unit after buffing some iron, and out of nowhere, like a bolt of lightning, it hit me: *AFFILIATED*. The Official Urban Street Apparel. And that was the beginning.
Five years later, on January 2, 2002, I was released. By June 1, 2002, *Affiliated* was born. People were feeling it, even though I had no idea what I was doing. One thing I was certain of, though, was that this brand was strictly for the Gangsters, Hustlers, Players, Ballers, and die-hard Go-getters out there making it happen and getting they’re money legal or illegal.