From a Juvenile Delinquent to a Police Officer: Nothing Is Impossible with God!

By Benjamin Wright

This is the story of a young man who went from the back seat of the police car, to being the driver of the car—an inspirational story of how God’s grace brought a young man who was destined for prison, or the grave, to triumph over his circumstances and defeat all odds. This is the story of a kid who went through so much rejection and pain that he contemplated suicide yet found redemption in the arms of a loving God. Witness how the Lord’s mercy is strong enough to stop a habitual violator and equip him with the necessary tools to reach other juvenile delinquents. This is the story of Benjamin Wright’s life and how God’s power set him free.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Jul 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781662939099

Book preview

Chapter 1:

The Beginning

On the east side of Albany, Georgia, a small family of five settled in a three-bedroom house on Cason Street. From the outside looking in, it seemed like we were living the American dream. Our family was well respected in our community and were predominantly known for being good Christian people. My dad was a preacher and a truck driver, and my mom was a nurse. My dad’s name is Frank Wright, and my mom’s name is Gwendolyn Wright. I had a brother who was fifteen months older than me and a sister who was four years older than me who lived under the same roof.

The foundation of our family establishment seemed like a fairy-tale story. A handsome preacher married a beautiful nurse, settled down, and started a beautiful family consisting of two boys and a girl.

Life was great back then. Every morning my mom would get up early to take us to school. She would also cook dinner for us and make sure we had after-school snacks. Even though she worked from nine to five, she would be home after school making sure we had everything we needed. She seemed to delight in being a good mother and embraced her role in the home.

My father would often have to travel across the country due to his line of work, so time was limited with him. But when he was around, he was a heroic dad. Always a gentle, strong, confident spirit that would light up the room. He was a respected man. He was known around town for arguably being one of the best guitarists in the area. There was nothing that my dad could not do. He is the definition of a man. But that was simply not enough to hold a family together. It wouldn’t be long before chaos would begin to stir up in my family and cause a divorce between my parents.

In the summer of 1991, at the age of four years old, I had to endure the pain of my parents’ separation and divorce. I didn’t understand why my parents were separating; all I knew was that Mom and Dad no longer lived together. There were times when I would overhear verbal arguments between my parents, but nothing out of the ordinary for an average couple. I was completely heartbroken and sad when I found out the news that my parents were getting separated. My dad was my hero, and as a small child, I often cried whenever he would leave to go on the road for work. I can remember my mom telling us that we were moving and were no longer living with my dad. Many nights I would cry myself to sleep because I missed my dad. I did not understand that this was only the beginning of the many trials I would face as an adolescent. This produced a void and pain that seemed to be unshakeable in my life.

Northside Gwinnett

In the spring of 1992, my mother decided to relocate after their divorce, and she felt that Gwinnett County, Georgia, would be the best place to raise my brother and me. My older sister moved to Oklahoma to live with her biological father, which left just me, my brother, and my mother. My mom found an apartment on Sweetwater Road in Lawrenceville, Georgia, where we settled in.

The move left us all uncertain, but eventually, we managed to get comfortable. I was in kindergarten at the time we moved to Lawrenceville, Georgia, and it was a huge difference from Albany, Georgia, which was predominantly black people. At the time when we first moved to Gwinnett County, the area was mostly white and there were a few Asian people.

It was a struggle for me to fit in, and it felt like I was not connected with my peers because I was different. I was a social outcast that did not fit in with the other kids in my class when I went to school. I began to think there was something wrong with me because I was different. Everyone in my class spoke clear, proper English, and I spoke with a country slang that was hardly understood by my peers. I was constantly teased for my pronunciation of words by my friends and teachers in school. When some kids would say pecan, I would say pee-can, and something as small as this made me feel like I was strange and from another planet.

In 1994, Kanoheda Elementary School was considered one of the finest elementary schools in the Gwinnett County area. My brother and I were reluctant on going because we did not feel comfortable in a different environment. The lingering thoughts of not being able to see my dad often only hurt more every day. As a male child, I felt more understood by my dad, and our bond was so strong we were inseparable until we moved away. He hardly ever raised his voice, but his words were always impactful. To put it very bluntly, I needed my dad in more ways than I knew.

In school I would often act out to get attention and affection from teachers, which stemmed from my not having my father around. Most of the time my acting out resulted in ISS (in-school suspension) or some other form of discipline. Not being able to see my daddy tore something inside me, and every day that pain grew stronger and stronger.

Even though I didn’t understand it back then, I realize now I was depressed after my parents got a divorce. But when I went to school, there was one teacher who seemed to understand what I desperately needed, and her name was Ms. Fernandez. I can never forget my first-grade teacher, Ms. Fernandez, who always showered me with care and affection.

Every morning at her classroom door, she would greet me with a big smile and a hug. She made me feel welcomed and loved, and for that I loved going to school. During the first grade, I sensed a void of love and felt uncared for. I’m sure Ms. Fernandez pitied me, and as a result, she gave me extra care. She made me feel important, and I loved being around her. Every night when I would lie in my bed, I couldn’t wait to get to school to turn a homework in because I knew Ms. Fernandez would be there waiting.

I became attached to Ms. Fernandez because I longed for the same love and affection from my mother but didn’t receive it as much as I would have liked. My mother believed that the way to raise boys was to be hard and that affection would make me weak. She believed she had to be extremely hard on us to keep my brother and me from being soft. She felt like if she hugged us all the time and showed affection constantly, we would become soft men. So she did the opposite: she was tremendously tough and as firm as she could be. But she did the best she could as a single mother trying to raise two boys and work full time. It was a task that would cause her many sleepless nights. It would cause her to have nervous breakdowns, but she had to remain strong to take care of her children.

Because of my mother’s lack of affection in our home, I craved it from wherever I could get it. This made me gravitate toward Ms. Fernandez, the beautiful young teacher who loved to give hugs and hold her students close. Ms. Fernandez understood that boys and girls needed nurturing and strived to give it to her students. I never had a bad day when I had a teacher like Ms. Fernandez.

A Day in the Life

Growing up in a single-parent home led to other challenges I would face in my life. During my childhood, my mother worked long hours, and as a result, I felt comfortable living without any restrictions or boundaries. Many days after school, there was no adult present to tell me to finish my homework before going outside or playing video games. Even though my mom required me to finish my homework before playing video games, she wasn’t home to enforce this decree. As a result, I usually played video games and never completed my homework assignments.

For many days after work, my mother would be extremely exhausted and consequently would only glance over my homework. Most of the time she would ask if my homework was finished without checking to see if it was. Of course, I would tell her that I had already finished it, knowing that I hadn’t even started on it. This subliminally taught me that I could get away with not following directions because I wasn’t held to any standard.

Whenever a child is given instructions or directions that are not enforced and there are no consequences given, they will start to feel like rules don’t apply to them. This was exactly what happened to me, and my attitude about homework turned for the worse. This created frustration at home as my mother would constantly be disappointed with my lack of following directions at home and in school. My mother didn’t usually discipline me about homework until I got my report card and brought home an F.

Numerous times my mother would discipline me out of frustration. She didn’t realize the problem was a lack of boundaries being enforced consistently in the home to guide us. Discipline out of frustration turned into discipline out of anger, and being disciplined out of anger will always build anger in our children.

A single mother just trying to provide for her children was already a grievous task to endure in itself. Having to deal with the school constantly calling your job because of a misbehaving child is enough to pull your own hair out. My mom would frequently come home screaming and yelling because the school called her while she was at work to tell her that I had gotten into some type of trouble. At times she would be so angry that she would throw things or whoop me.

Looking back on it now, I realize that my mom just didn’t know what to do and that she was trying her hardest to be the best mother she possibly could. She didn’t understand why I wouldn’t go to school and do what I was asked. She didn’t understand why I didn’t do my chores and homework like I was asked at home. At this time in my life, my mother’s frustration was so built up that some days I would be afraid to go home. My mother loved me deeply, but many times it was overshadowed by her frustration.

Even though I knew she didn’t mean it when she said those hurtful words, it began to program the way I felt about myself. I was a child plagued by thinking like others were better, smarter, and more gifted than me. It caused me to constantly feel worthless and resulted in me lashing out in school. My mother was a hardworking woman who possessed determination, which caused her to be successful in her career, but she was losing the battle to keep her boys on the right path. Just a few years prior, she had been accustomed to having a husband by her side to help counsel her through issues whenever they would arise in the home. But now she was left to deal with matters by herself.

She also went through many trials on her job as she was a young black woman working at a clinic that was predominately white at the time. I didn’t understand this growing up, but I realize now that the life struggles my mother had gone through were too heavy for her to bear alone. Her burdens were simply too heavy, but she did her best by doing what she thought would solve her problems.

She was raised in a small town called Thomasville, in Georgia, where a good ole fashion whooping was the solution to every discipline problem one might have with their children. But looking back on it now, I realize what was missing from my home as an adolescent. Love, affection, and quality time would have made the best impact in my life early on, but these qualities were suppressed by the pain and turmoil I put my mother through.

Ms. Watson

By the time I was in third grade, I began to lose control of the anger built up inside me. Most of the anger was a result of my experience in my home and the anger I felt as a result of my parents’ separation. I would often take my anger out on other kids in school because I didn’t know how to cope with it.

During this time in my life, if you even looked at me wrong, I was ready to fight you. No matter how big or small you were, the fight was on. I would constantly feel left out and misunderstood in school because of the insecurities I kept bottled up inside. I would try to fit in, but I just felt weird because I didn’t seem smart enough or cool enough to be likable. I would be constantly placed in time-out and suspended from school for not following directions and being disrespectful. I didn’t realize that my pain caused me to act out and demand the attention of others. But at least I was getting the attention that I wanted, right?

No. The attention I was getting was feeding my corruption even further and left me feeling out of control. Sometimes I literally lost control of myself when I would get angry. There was an incident that happened on the bus on my way to school, which was the first time I would lose control.

One morning as I boarded the school bus, I decided to take a seat near the rear of the bus. By the time the bus driver made it to my bus stop in the morning, the bus was usually packed with students. As I took my seat, I felt someone breathing down my neck. I knew who it was; it was Jimmy.

Jimmy was a good kid but could be extremely annoying at times. He stuck his head over the seat and said, Mannnnn, dem shoes ugly!

I was wearing my new Reeboks my mother had just gotten me from the local T.J.Maxx. Without saying a word, I snatched Jimmy by the collar and threw him to the ground. I began to pound on Jimmy’s head so hard that I temporarily lost control. I could hear the bus driver screaming for me to get off Jimmy, but I had no control over my body. I kept whaling on Jimmy’s head with my fists until someone grabbed me from the rear and pulled me off him.

As I regained consciousness, I almost immediately felt guilty for pounding on Jimmy. I knew that Jimmy didn’t really mean any harm and that I had taken things too far. I felt so bad for Jimmy that I nearly cried in the office thinking about what I did to him. I knew he was humiliated, and I knew I didn’t have to take things as far as I did. I had blacked out and lost control of my body. It was the most fearful thing someone could experience. As a result, I was suspended off the bus for five days and also suspended from school. It was the beginning of my many blackouts in which I would lose control of myself. I needed help, and I needed it desperately.

While waiting in the principal’s office for my mother to come to the school for a parent conference, I heard a sweet calm, firm voice say to me, Excuse me, what are you doing in here?

Not wanting to be bothered by anyone, I replied to the voice, Get out of my face!

The voice came closer and remained firm as it said, Excuse me? You will not speak to me that way. I came here to see what’s the matter with you.

I turned my face in the direction of the voice and saw a large lady with a tender countenance looking back at me. That voice was none other than Mrs. Watson’s, my soon-to-be third-grade teacher. Mrs. Watson was a heavy-built African American lady who was sweet as pie and possessed a heart that could pacify a roaring lion. She was an old-fashioned lady who required respect from her students but also showed her students love and gentleness. Although I didn’t know it then, Mrs. Watson would later become one of my first mentors and would help me to begin to tame my anger. She possessed unique qualities that captured me and caused me to feel welcomed and loved.

At eight years old, my anger became more violent, and I would often get into a rage when I felt I was being picked on, left out, or mistreated. Striking other students, throwing objects in the classroom, and going into violent outbursts were common ways I vented during school hours. I felt like an alien and sensed that other kids were better than me. I thought there was something wrong with me. I knew that everyone would get angry sometimes, but I was angry almost every day.

One day my school’s counselor recommended that my mom take me to a psychologist and that they place me on Prozac for my behavior. Even though my mother wasn’t sure how to help solve my issues, she declined the idea because she felt like putting me on medication would cripple me more than it would help me.

But one of my biggest blessings at the time was that I met someone who stood firmly against my wrongful actions but also showed me compassion, and her name was Mrs. Watson. Mrs. Watson sometimes would sing to