I Got There: How a Mixed-Race Kid Overcame Racism, Poverty, and Abuse to Arrive at the American Dream

By JeVon McCormick

"I'm not a drug dealer.
I'm not a rapper.
I'm not an athlete.
But I am very successful."

That's not how you're supposed to open a speech if you're a successful businessman. Especially if you're a successful minority businessman in America.

But I'm no ordinary businessman, this was no ordinary speech, and I've had no ordinary life.

JT McCormick shouldn't have succeeded.

He was born the mixed-race son of a negligent, drug-dealing pimp father and a struggling, single mother. He was raised in the slums of Dayton, Ohio, suffered incredible abuse and racism, and had multiple stints in the juvenile justice system. He barely graduated high school and has no college degree.

But succeed he did.

Starting by scrubbing toilets, JT hustled and worked his way into better opportunities, eventually finding incredible success in the mortgage industry. He was on top of the world.

And then it all fell apart. He lost his job, and his money.

But instead of stopping him, this setback became the springboard for him to reach even greater heights—eventually becoming President of a multimillion-dollar software company, and then CEO of a multimillion-dollar book publishing startup.

Gripping, heartbreaking, enlightening, and ultimately uplifting, I Got There proves that no obstacle is too difficult to conquer--and that the game can be won by anyone, from anywhere.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781619615588

Book preview

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Copyright © 2018 JeVon McCormick

All rights reserved.

Second Edition

ISBN: 978-1-61961-558-8

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Name: McCormick, J.T., author.

Title: I got there : how a mixed-race kid overcame racism , poverty , and abuse to arrive at the American Dream / J.T. McCormick.

Description: Austin, TX: Lioncrest Publishing, 2018.

Identifiers: ISBN 978-1-61961-556-4 (Hardcover) | 978-1-61961-557-1 (pbk.) | 978-1-61961-558-8 (ebook) | LCCN 2018946261

Subjects: LCSH McCormick, J.T. | Businesspeople--United States--Biography. | African-American businesspeople--United States--Biography. | African-Americans--Biography. | Businessmen--United States--Biography. | Success in Business. | Entrepreneurship. | Racism--United States--Anecdotes. | BISAC BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Personal Memoirs | BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Business | BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Cultural, Ethnic & Regional / African American & Black.

Classification: LCC HC102.5.A2 M343 2018 | DDC 338/.76/092--dc23

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To my mom, Anna: There are no words that can express how I feel, and I’ll always thank the Lord you made me.

All my childhood memories are full of all the sweet things you did for me. I appreciate how you raised me and all the extra love that you gave me.

When I was sick as a little kid, to keep me happy, there were no limits to the things you did.

I finally understand, for a woman, it ain’t easy trying to raise a man. You were always committed. A poor single mother on welfare—no clue how you did it.

There’s NO way I can pay you back, and I’ll never fully understand, but I want you to know YOU raised a good man.

I love you, Mom. You are appreciated.

To my wife, Megan, who’s always accepted me for me and supported my hustle, drive, and ambition: you are and always will be my perfect wife and mother to our children.

To my children, Danielle, Ava, Jaxon, Elle, and Jace, and to my great-great-great-great-grandchildren whom I will never have the pleasure of meeting: I want you to know where you came from.

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Contents

Preface

Prologue: From Nothing to CEO

1. My Family

2. Houston

3. Incarceration

4. Disaster in Ohio

5. Uncle Bobby

6. Cleaning Toilets

7. Playing the Game for Real

8. Oregon

9. The Mortgage Industry

10. Headspring

11. There and Back Again

12. Tragic Endings and Hard Truths

Epilogue: It’s Not about Me Anymore

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Photos

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Preface

While the overall message of this book is optimistic and positive, many of the details of my past are not.

This book contains true stories about physical and sexual abuse, racism, violence, and other unpleasant adult situations. None of it is gratuitous, but at times, I do speak directly and plainly, and there is strong language used.

I want to warn you about this and apologize up front. None of the stories or the language I’ve included is meant to offend anyone.

I left the adult situations and hard language in because it’s what happened to me. This book is meant to show my family where I came from and to help others who’ve had difficult experiences deal with their past—especially those men and women who come from where I came from.

That means I have to tell the truth, the whole truth, about our world.

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Prologue

1. From Nothing to CEO

I’ve spent my whole life running from this place, and now here I am, back again.

Except this time, it’s totally different. Instead of sitting with them, I was on stage, speaking to them.

I stood in front of the microphone. Before I said a word, I casually flicked my arms up from my side and rolled up the sleeves of my shirt. I took my time with my left sleeve, making sure my watch caught the sunlight.

Not only did I want my audience to wait for me, but I also wanted them to see what I had on. My custom-tailored three-piece suit, my perfectly creased pants, my leather shoes, and most importantly, my very large and very expensive gold watch.

Even though this was a captive audience, I was going to have to work very hard for their attention. I’ve spoken in front of much larger crowds and delivered speeches that mattered more (at least in business), but this was the most nervous I’d ever been.

Everything—their futures and my relationship to my past—hinged on my getting through to them.

I started by answering the unstated question:

"I’m not a drug dealer.

I’m not a rapper.

I’m not an athlete.

But I am very successful."

That’s not how you’re supposed to open a speech if you’re a successful businessman, especially if you’re a successful minority businessman in America.

But I’m no ordinary businessman, and this was no ordinary speech.

"I’ve made millions of dollars. I’m currently the president of a multimillion-dollar company that has offices in four cities and over one hundred employees.

That’s right. I’m wealthy, powerful, and important.

But I didn’t start here.

I came from where you came from. I started where you are. In a place just like this."

They looked at me with a mixture of curiosity, awe, and a little skepticism. I relaxed a little. They were hooked.

The reason this childish power display worked is because the audience were literally children.

They ranged in ages from fifteen to seventeen. By acting like this—garishly asserting status markers they understood and respected, like money and expensive watches—they knew I wasn’t some out-of-touch adult there to wag my finger and lecture them.

I was speaking their language.

"I know what your life has been like because I lived it. I’ll give you an example:

How many of you ever been so hungry you picked the food out of the trash cans at school to take home with you because you knew there’d be nothing in the fridge when you got home? Raise your hands.

How many of you have seen your dad, or another man, beat your mom? Or your dad beat other women besides your mom? Raise your hands again."

I scanned the crowd. Everyone had their arms up.

These were not just any children. This was the graduating class of twenty-five males in a juvenile detention center.

Most of these boys had committed several serious crimes, and many would never leave the prison system, not in any real way.

I paused to really take in this scene.

How did I, a poor kid from the hood of Dayton, Ohio, get to a position in life where I was giving such a personal speech to this crowd?

I thought about the long, strange road that brought me here, to this stage. I came from the same streets they did and grew up in the same hard lifestyle—abuse, neglect, racism, and poverty. I even knew a life of petty crime, which put me in juvie several times.

"That’s right. All of you have been through that, just like me. We’ve lived through hunger, through violence, and through abuse. I can’t tell you how many times I saw my dad commit violence, especially against women.

I saw my dad sell drugs, probably like many of you. I saw him pimp women. I saw crime all around me growing up. That used to be my life, just like it’s yours now.

Lemme tell you some stories of my life, before I became successful."

As I told the details of my childhood to those boys and their families, the memories came back to me. Vivid.

The time my dad stopped in the middle of the highway and beat a girlfriend in the road.

The time I slept at a bus stop because I had nowhere else to go.

The time my dad took me from my mom without telling her and then abandoned me to people who beat and neglected me.

These were memories I’d put away in a deep place and tried to forget about. But for the sake of those boys, I was willing to dig them out.

"I know people tell you to straighten up, to not live a life of crime. And I bet you think that’s bullshit, don’t you? You probably thought to yourself, What other option do I have? What else am I even good for?

I thought that, too. When I was in juvie, I thought I had no other options either. One time, I was in juvie for two months because no one in my family knew where I was.

There was a time in my life, when I was around your ages, when I thought no one cared about me. I figured since I was obviously worthless, why not steal stuff and be a criminal? I mean, I was going to die by the age of twenty-five anyway, so what did it matter?

Does any of this sound familiar?"

Even though this was a serious juvenile detention center, it was not adult prison. It was still early enough in their lives for things to change. There was time for them.

That’s why I was there. To give them the help I never got. To show them there was another way.

But it wasn’t just about them. Giving this speech was as much about helping myself get past all of that awful history as it was helping these boys who were still going through it. If I wanted to heal my past, I couldn’t do it alone.

"You don’t have to be a drug dealer, or a rapper, or an athlete to make money and get out of the hood. And you definitely don’t have to be a criminal and end up in prison or dead.

There is another path for you—the path I took.

And you know where my path to making millions of dollars and achieving business success started? It started by cleaning toilets at a restaurant.

No one scrubs porcelain better than me! You think I’m fucking with you, but to this day, I’m still proud of that! My toilets in that Po’ Folks Restaurant sparkled!

And let me tell you, you think hustling only works on the streets? Bullshit. I’m here, on this stage, because I never stopped hustling. I just adapted my hustle to make it legal.

In fact, here’s what they don’t tell you—the corporate world loves hustling. They just have another name for it. They call it ‘sales.’

I’ll give you an example. How many of you have sold drugs? If you can sling dope, you can sell the hell outta legal drugs. They’re called pharmaceuticals, and the people who sell those get PAID.

If you can survive in here, you can thrive in that world. If you can survive in juvie, then working your way through the business world is easy.

I know this is true because I did it. And if I can do it, so can you.

I won’t bullshit you. It’s a helluva lot harder to succeed coming from where we come from than coming from the suburbs. They have a lot of advantages that we don’t have.

But it IS possible for you to have the life I have. You can even go further than me. And I’m going to tell you how to get there."

The boys’ eyes were wide, mouths dropped open in an O as they listened to me.

My anxiety was gone. Now I was excited. I was getting through to them.

I knew what they were thinking, because it’s what I would have thought if I’d seen someone like myself while I was in juvenile detention: I can get out of this and get what he has? For real? Where do I sign up?!?!

No one had ever told them there was a way out, just like no one had told me. I could see the effect on them—the hope in their eyes—and it energized me. It carried me through the rest of the speech as I outlined the path these boys needed to take and how they could get the help they needed to get to where I was or further.

When I finished my speech, I got a standing ovation. I was elated.

I stayed around and spoke to many of the family members who had come. This might sound weird, but even though I didn’t know these people before the speech, I felt like a conquering hero returning home from a long journey. All the nervousness was gone, and what was left was release and joy. Not just that I had crushed it in that speech, but that it really seemed to get through to the kids and the families.

I have to be honest: for a moment, I lost myself in the praise. There was still plenty of work to be done, but I felt like a bridge had been built. A bridge of belief, a bridge that could take them from despair to success.

Then it all flipped. A grandmother approached me and said, I wish my grandson would have heard this ten years ago.

Ten years ago? I asked her.

He’s seventeen now, she told me. He’s been in and out of juvenile since he was seven years old. He’s in for murder. I worry it’s too late for him.

A chill ran through me. She told me his story, and it was heartbreaking.

What do you even say to that? How do you respond to a seven-year-old—a child who should be climbing on monkey bars, swinging a baseball bat, or riding his bike—locked behind bars because he’s busy committing crimes? And that kid eventually killed someone?

That ended my joy. That conversation remains seared into my mind and heart. I haven’t been able to shake it. In fact, that conversation led directly to this book.

Looking back on it now, I think the reason this hit me so hard was because it was the first time I realized something I’d hid from my whole life—that seven-year-old could have been me.

In a way, that seven-year-old was me.

By the grace of God, I became the one on stage and not the one in for murder…and the sheer terror that I almost didn’t make it out—and the shame and guilt that I did—has driven me every day since.

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One

2. My Family

Come on, JeVon, let’s get you dressed, Mom shouted. Your dad called. He’s on his way to pick you up.

Grinning, I sprinted to my room. I pulled on my jeans, yanked a clean shirt over my head, put on a clean pair of socks, and slid my feet into my beat-up sneakers.

With a fresh set of clothes on, I raced to the windowsill and scrambled on top of the electric heater. It gave me the extra height I needed so I could place my hands on the window frame and peer through the glass. We lived in a tiny apartment, a few stories above the street; it was the perfect height to watch for my dad’s car. I swiveled my head back and forth, waiting and watching.

I was excited to see my dad. His visits were rare. He’d swing by for me once, maybe twice a month. If I saw him three times, well, that was incredible. I knew the moment I saw his car what I would do. It was always the same routine. First, I’d wait for him to park the car. Then I’d jump from the heater, spring to the door, and race down the stairs. Once at the bottom, I’d yank open the apartment door, run toward him, and then launch myself into his arms. Dad would catch me, then throw me high into the air, finally swinging me around in a circle. This was our thing, and I loved it.

Mom, there he is! I jammed my finger into the glass, shouting to my mom who stood silently behind me.

Oh, no, that’s not him, I muttered, disappointed when the car sped past. My excitement quickly returned as I continued watching and waiting for my father. More cars drove by. People strolled down the street.

Oh, there he is! I cried again; except, again, I was wrong. It wasn’t Dad, just another car that looked like my father’s.

Hours passed.

Why don’t you go outside and play, JeVon? Mom asked.

No, no, I don’t want to miss him when he gets here, I replied, shaking my head and without taking my eyes off the street.

I stood on that electric heater peering into the world below for four or five hours. It wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last time I stood waiting for him at the window.

I stood on the electric heater and stared out the window until my eyelids grew heavy. I rested my forehead against the windowpane, trying in vain to give my small frame extra support.

The next thing that I remember was waking up on the couch. Rubbing my eyes with my tiny fists, I rolled over.

I’m so sorry, JeVon, Mom said as she rubbed circles on my back. Your dad came when you were asleep.

I couldn’t hide my disappointment.

But he left this for you, she said with a smile as she handed me a Hot Wheels toy.

I reached for the toy and twisted it in my hands. I liked getting a toy, but it wasn’t the same as a visit with my dad. Learning that he had come when I fell asleep hurt.

I was upset and mad, mostly at myself, believing that it was my fault that I’d missed him. If only I hadn’t fallen asleep, then I could have gone with Dad, I thought.

This scene happened to me a lot. Dad would call and tell Mom that he was coming to get me. I’d stand for hours at the window, waiting for him, only to fall asleep. Without fail, I’d promise myself that the next time he was coming for me, I’d do better at staying awake.

So the next time would come, and I’d stand at the windowsill longer than the last time. Nothing will move or cause me to miss my dad again, I’d think. But my small body would fail me every time, and eventually, I’d fall asleep. When I awoke from my deep slumber, there, next to me, would be a Hot Wheels car, a small book, or another