Make Your Opportunity

•The Art of Turning Nothing into Something•

By: Rashad Rowry

If you could have that opportunity of a lifetime at the snap of a finger, what would

it be? As a matter of fact, what is an opportunity? The American Edition Oxford

Dictionary defines Opportunity: “A favorable chance, or opening offered by

circumstances.” According to a prestigious source, opportunity sounds like something

you'll have to wait around for. What if that favorable chance never comes, then what?

What chance would I have, if opportunity was limited by circumstances?

Growing up in the Ida B. Wells housing projects on the South side of Chicago,

my aspirations were like those of most kids around me. We didn't have many choices, at

least that’s what we thought. Around there, you either wanted to become a pro athlete,

a famous entertainer, or the next big drug dealer on the block. Those seemed to be the

only ways to make a good living. Of course, don't get me wrong, you had a few doctors,

lawyers, accountants, and so on who came from the area, but it was rare. Even then,

they were long gone before they could have an impact. So the majority of us didn't have

those career paths in our top choices, if even a choice at all. These types of options

didn't seem open to us. T o make matters worse, the majority of those doctors, lawyers,

and accountants had a skin complexion that didn’t resemble ours. That may seem

unimportant, but to a young mind it sets a clear message, “not for you”.

In the inner city, it was tradition-bound to learn to play basketball. I started

playing at 7. Although I love basketball for its creativity a player can bring to the game, it

was also a coping mechanism. Fighting was another coping skill I would use to channel

my anger. That led me to getting expelled from 5 different schools. Looking back now, I

was a very angry kid. I know my father not being in my life played a big part. For most of

my life he lived in Mississippi with his wife and kids. I was never given the chance to go

visit, why? I still don’t know to this day. I remember jamming a stick into the eye socket

of another kid for talking bad about my father. Blood shot out like a water sprinkler. I gotscared and I ran home. When I returned to school, I was arrested on battery charges at

the age of 10. Walking out of Shoop academy in handcuffs, I felt like a hero.

Entering the dark steel paddy wagon, I looked for some type of lighting, which

came from a 6 inch hole on the inner wall used for communicating with the officers. The

thick mustached officer secured a giant looking handlebar around my upper torso.

Having to remain rebellious I yelled out “It smells like pee.” He nonchalantly said back,

“Get use to it,” and closed the door. There I was, in the system at age 10, defending a

man that wanted nothing to do with me.

After I witnessed a man get killed, my mother grew tired of the violence and

moved my brother and I to the south suburbs. The move put a slight communication gap

between my other family members and us. Even though no one will ever admit it, my

family started treating us differently. They said statements like, “you think you're better

than somebody because you live in the suburbs now,” or “don't act like you've never

seen a roach before.” In a sense, I can understand.

After a few months of getting settled in the suburbs, my mother started dating

Lawrence. He’s a cool guy, loves sports, has a sense of humor, and most importantly,

he loves my mother. Lawrence and I clicked. My brother on the other hand is

introvertive, so he didn't care if he was there or not. My mother and Lawrence started

getting serious, so she asked our permission to marry him, we consented. The marriage

of almost 20 years now has brought us 4 beautiful girls to our family, which grew us to a

household of eight.

By 2007, it was time for high school. I had a master plan; it involved playing for

the basketball team, having a cheerleader girlfriend, getting a Division 1 scholarship to a

big school, playing pro basketball, and getting rich. I never considered a plan B.

Unfortunately, none of this happened except having a girlfriend cheerleader. My

freshman year basketball try-outs were not a success, I was cut. Knowing that I played

my heart out and still got cut for being undersized, bruised my self-esteem. Honestly, I

felt no purpose to continue going to school. For me, it was more of a social arena rather

than someplace to learn. I wasn't confident academically. In fact, I was placed in a

learning disability reading class, and attended Sylvan Learning Center for extra

attention. Due to my careless-ness, I received infraction after infraction and was later

expelled for mob action my junior year.

After the expulsion I convinced my mother not to send me to an alternative

school. The agreement was I would get my G.E.D. and pick up a trade. I enrolled in the

General Education Program at the local college. I didn't make the effort to continue.

Instead, I ended up getting a job at Pizza Hut the summer of 2010. Working at Pizza

Hut, I began to notice it wasn’t for me. I wasn’t fond of being told what to do. What I did

enjoy was making my own money. It gave me the independence to do what I wanted to

do with my friends.

By now, I was hanging with a group of guys, we called ourselves, The Slimes.

The complete name was Slime Flu Gang. T aken from the Swine Flu Virus. The origin

was that we could infect the ladies with our charm, talent, and good looks. For example,

when a woman is crazy in love with one of us, we’d diagnose her with the Slime

Flu.There were 14 of us. We did the typical things high school boys did. Our shared

passions were: basketball, smoking weed, dressing nice, and chasing girls. ShadieMoe

and I were class of 2011, but all our friends were class of 2012. When my classgraduated and left for college it didn't bother me that much since most of my friends

were still home. It definitely got lonely in 2012, when the majority of the gang went off to

college.

I turned 18 and got fired from Pizza Hut for disrespecting my manager. This

should have made me stop and reflect on my life. Sadly that didn't happen. I just

smoked more weed and chased more girls along with the other Slime Flu dropouts:

Corey, Ian, T-Bird, and I. Soon our group of four became two. Corey and T-Bird were

arrested on breaking and entering charges, they were sent to prison.

Meanwhile, my parents got tired of my rebellious-ness and decided to kick me

out the house. I found myself at Ian’s grandma house a lot. I practically lived with him

and his grandparents the entire winter. His father was absent most of his life as well.

So there we were, two young black men trying to form an identity with no

education, no role models, or formal plans for life. As time went on, these identities had

to continually adjust in order to fit in. In these circumstances, Ian and I did what

appeared convenient, we did what many African American males with no education and

no guidance did. We turned to the streets to find our favorable chance. Traveling that

road led to my arrest. I was charged with 10 counts of murder, in 2014. Ian got federal

charges for bank fraud in 2017…

I’ve rode down the Dan Ryan Highway, probably 1000 times and it's always the

same. The currency exchange and Wendy’s on 55th and Garfield, the tall white

apartment building on 71st and Lafayette, the candy store on 70th and state street, and

the White Sox stadium on 35th street; the same potholes and the same rush hour traffic.

This time was different, I was sharing a pair of handcuffs with a stranger. About 40 men

on a school bus being supervised by two white officers with loaded shotguns and

revolvers. For some reason my mind didn't wrap around what was going on. I was too

busy talking to my handcuff partner. I can’t recall his name but I do remember him being

locked up for unlawful use of a weapon. The irony was that he had a fresh bullet wound

in his right hip with the bullet still in him from the night before. They basically gave him a

big Band-Aid and arrested him.

We pulled into the Cook County Jail parking lot through barbed wire gates

between miles of barbed wire fences. Getting off the bus it seemed like all eyes were on

me. I was ready for the cameras to come out to say I was being punk’d. This shit just

didn’t seem real. We entered Division 8, where we went to get processed. The officers

were giving me this evil look. I took it as if they were trying to scare me, so I played it

cool. In fact, I gave a slight grin on my mug shot trying to show them they weren’t

scaring me. As I was waiting in line to see the doctor, an officer looked at me and said

something that kept me up many nights, “I saw you on the news. Y’all killed that police

officer's son. All y’all going to jail for life.” Immediately, every detainee in line

remembered my face. By now, I was scared shitless but I kept a poker face. In all

honesty, I just wanted my mother.

At the beginning of my bid everything was a game. I didn’t understand the gravity

of my situation or the correctional system in general. Even after only a few months in, I

witnessed my cellmate get found guilty and was sentenced to 98 years. It still didn’t

register that this could be me one day.

For years, I was housed in the “Notorious’ Division 9”, a super

maximum-security division. I saw just about everything: broken jaws, stabbings,extortions, armed robberies committed with shit guns, homicides, and even suicides. It

honestly was worse occasionally than the streets outside.

Outside volunteers would come to talk to us and try to suppress the Mayhem. I

remember this one speaker, by the name of Laveille Gibson. A tall bald black guy, about

6‘3. He was different from the other speakers. Most of the speakers would come once

and preach some bullshit then leave. Mr. Gibson was from the west side of Chicago, so

he related to us more. Plus, he was black and educated so I respected him enough to

listen.

One afternoon, Mr. Gibson was giving a speech on criminal thinking. He said

something I didn’t agree with at the time. He stated, “getting out of jail is easy, the hard

part is staying out. Jail could be a gold mine if you perceive it right.” I thought to myself,

he must not know what we’re locked up for and how is it hard to stay away from this hell

hole. I lost interest in listening any further and started daydreaming about Kristina, my

fine ass girlfriend.

That following week, I was smoking weed with my homie Joc. The law work trick

always fooled the mailroom security check. Joc was like the tiers big brother. He was

smart, trustworthy, a Muslim, and made it his job to keep the knuckleheads like me out

of trouble. I don’t know if it was the weed, but our conversation got deep. I remember

him saying something I’ll probably never forget. “Don’t let these people lose you slime,

because they will if you let them. Then go home to eat dinner like they didn’t just take a

life. I might never get a chance to take my daughter on her first date or play catch with

my son”. Joc was found guilty of murder a few years prior praying for a retrial. The

message was so profound, I almost teared up thinking about my life. I was young with

no children. In other words, if I did get life that would be the end of my bloodline.

Three years into my bid, I found myself more or less back where I started. Riding

in that same rusted school bus with 40+ men again. A scenario that I’ve been a part of

too many times by now. Only this time, a single pair of handcuffs wasn’t suitable for this

trip. I had shackles around my ankles, a blue box holding the handcuffs around my wrist

in place, and a thick chain wrapped around my waist secured by a padlock. We headed

to Markham Courthouse which was about a 20 minute commute from the jail. I always

catch a glimpse of downtown Chicago. When you’ve been confined to a box, the detour

to court can be refreshing watching the world pass. Observing people walking down the

sidewalks carefree, people walking dogs, waiting on trains, and driving cars. “Where are

they going?”, “What are their lives like?”As downtown views fade, it dawns on me that

it’s a chance I might never experience again.

Pulling into the courthouse parking lot, I close my eyes and say a short prayer to

the Most High, trying to hold off the usual feelings of fear, anxiety, and intimidation. It’s

hard to give an explanation on what it feels like to be judged. There's a shame to it.

Especially when you're not being judged for the case you allegedly committed. The

justice system judges you on your skin color, your education level, and how much

money you have in the bank. In this case, I’m the most disliked race. I am a high school

dropout, and financially inadequate. So I just hoped for the best.

Furthermore, the court process is senseless. We would go to bull-pen after

bull-pen. Waiting hours to be called before the judge, in front of whom we stand for 30

seconds in silence. As we stand, the two lawyers agree on another court date. I

received no updates or seen any progress on my case. If your lawyer is late to court,you would have to sit around for another 5-6 hours for the second bus to arrive. The first

bus heads back to the jail early and it does not wait.

On this particular day, just my luck, my lawyer was running late. I already knew I

was not going to make the first bus. After I got my continuance, the C.O ushered me

downstairs towards the all glass bull-pen with huge numbers labeled on them. I heard

one officer yell,“18” signaling to the control room that was the bull-pen I would be going

in. I saw four guys already there. “C.O can I go in 15? I want to be alone.” He shot back

“Then go home.” I didn’t have the energy to put up an argument. I had already scanned

each person occupying the closet-like space, with two steel mattress-less bunks and a

small toilet we would all have to share. Scanning people in split seconds is something

you get good at living in a supermax division.

Of the four guys, two were maybe 50+ in age. One was tall and light skinned with

a solid build. His tattoos marked him as a Gangster Disciple, with a six point star and

pitchfork embedded on his neck. His counterpart looked as if life was dissatisfied with

him: he was thin, balding, had one eye, eight fingers, and about six teeth. The two

young bucks were around my age and they were in the corner probably lying to each

other about the money and girls they had in the free world.

Upon entering, I avoided eye contact. That opens the door for conversations. I

propped myself on the steel bunk and tried to get lost in my thoughts. As the hours

stripped away, I would eavesdrop in and out of the old school war stories the older guys

were sharing. I overheard one of the old school guys say that he was going home that

night. This instantly put me in a fantasy-like daze, “What would I do if I was going home

tonight? What would I eat first? Who imma fuck first? Imma roll a fat ass blunt.” My

pleasurable thoughts were interrupted when hearing the gentleman going home say

something about bidding since 78. I focused on their conversation and heard the other

guy say “Yeah, I caught my first armed robbery in 82.” Doing the math in my head, I was

mind-blown by the calculations. I interrupted, “Excuse me, you said you've been bidding

since 1978, and you since 1987?”, with a dubious look on my face. One of the guys

replied, “Yup. My first time going to the joint was when I was 19.” With a confused tone I

asked “So you went to prison for a long period of time?” “Naw, I caught my first pistol

case at 16. I’ve been in and out ever since.” Goosebumps filled my skin and it was as if

I was in a deep trance. What Mr. Gibson said years ago came rushing to thought.

“Getting out of jail is easy, the hard part is staying out.”

Over the course of a few weeks, I couldn’t get the bull-pen conversation out of

my head. In actuality, I felt sorry for old school. This was my first adult case, and I knew

for a fact that I never wanted to come back. After doing a little research over the phone

about chances of coming back to jail for African Americans males. I started asking

myself some fundamental questions. What was so hard about staying away from a

place of depression, hatred, loneliness, desperation, greed, envy and jealousy? Why

was the recidivism rate 68.7% within the first five years of release?

From that day forward, I was on a mission to find the answer. I started making

small talk with every repeat offender I would find. It wasn’t a shock when I found out

they were everywhere. I asked a lot of questions, watched how they conducted

themselves on the tier, eavesdropped on conversations they had with other detainees,

officers, and how they communicated with loved ones. Most importantly, I paid attention

to the type of information they were feeding their minds. Guys would spend $100 aweek on junk food, but only five dollars for a book. Books like urban novels, books that

glorify street life. Studying the repeat offenders and the repeated pattern I saw in their

behavior. I was secretly and subconsciously teaching myself what not to do.

I surprised myself on how much I’ve learned analyzing these individuals. It made

me become consciously involved in a search to understand the meaning of my own

existence. So I started reading books, A LOT of books! For instance, Robert Green’s

The Laws of Human Nature, The 48 Laws of Power, and The Art of Seduction, taught

me a lot about human emotions. These books also referenced people I’d never heard

of, people I was so eager to know more about: Henry Ford, Warren Buffett, Thomas

Edison, John Rockefeller, and J. P . Morgan. I wanted to know what they knew, what did

it take to be successful like them? How have they handled adversity? How have they

made decisions? I worked to get rid of my old notion and replace it with positive ones

and images of people I wanted to become.

I also studied more modern successful people: 50 Cent, Jay-Z, Kevin Hart, Tyler

Perry, Donald Trump, and my personal favorite, Robert Kiyosaki, author of Rich Dad

Poor Dad. This publication opened my mind up to the financial world. As a result, I

started reading about entrepreneurship and investing. At one point, I had over 125

books in my cell, and the limit is three per person. Fortunately, this was a rule that

wasn't enforced too strictly. Subscribing to several top business magazines kept me

updated with the world. The more I read, the more I wanted to know. I took my

education a bit further when I started listening to YouTube seminars over the phone.

I am proud to say that I taught myself how to read a stock table, understand

technical and fundamental analysis, and recognize risk factors. In addition, I know how

to utilize trade triggers, stock screens, brokerage orders, and most importantly-

measuring the nation's economy by its GDP . I can tell you the difference between a

balance sheet, income statement, statement of cash flow, and how to decipher them. I

even had a chance to look into a few cryptocurrency coins. Reading through the crypto

white papers, analyzing the roadmaps, knowing the circulation supply, and familiarizing

myself with the technology behind the coin. One thing I realized is that education

commands respect wherever you go.

In the process of preparing myself to re-enter society, I seem to become a more

mature, focused, disciplined, and understanding individual. For some reason, this

caused me to become distant with family and friends. The more I expressed my

learnings the more distant we became. I guess I came off a bit preachy. This resulted in

loneliness. The only thing that helped me cope was keeping my nose in more content.

Nearly a year after my epiphany in the bull-pen, a self-conscious voice kept

poking at me, telling me to challenge myself. I was clueless to the thoughts and its

message, so I paid no attention to it. Throughout the weeks this voice got louder. One

night I was reading an article in Forbes, and this voice went from a few words to a full

statement. “You have done good for yourself on your self- education quest. But you can

do more. Here you have a chance to have a huge impact.” I didn’t know if I was going

crazy, but the voice was loud and clear. “Challenge yourself, everything you’re preparing

for when you get home could be done now! Think about all the people you will inspire if

you were to succeed at your lowest point in life. Look at it as if you’re playing chess. You

have a slew of resources available at your fingertips. You just need to realize them. Just

as chess has different pieces being utilized by a player, you too can use your tools andresources with the same concept. I didn’t know what to do or who to talk to but during

the next few weeks I gave what the voice was saying some serious thoughts. I wanted

to be an investor and an entrepreneur, but how the hell was I going to get the money to

invest in anything? I barely have money for commissary. Then I remembered a profound

statement by my distant teacher Mr.Kiyosaki. “Never say you can’t afford it, but ask

yourself how can you afford it.” This forces your brain to think of possibilities, whereas it

is telling yourself you can’t limit your thinking.

Thus, Spotless Laundry Service was born, a jail-house laundry service I founded.

At first, I was afraid of starting the service because having a hustle in jail indicated your

support system may be weak. You had to hustle to eat instead of just calling your family

to put money on your trust fund account. I was afraid of what people would think, a fear

that I had to overcome. Normally, it was the Latinos in jail who washed clothes because

so many had family in Mexico and nobody to send them money. But as soon as I

analyzed the situation like the entrepreneur I was trying to become. I realized some

advantages that might let me conquer the market. One, I was a building worker, this

gave me flexibility so I could collect and re-distribute laundry around the building,

instead of on just one tier. Two, my service gave more payment options than the

commissary, which detainees hated paying with. I had my sister set up accounts with

CashApp, Apple Pay, Zelle, and Google Pay to accept cash with a $10 minimum. When

my customers made payments, it felt as if they were not paying anything because it was

not physically coming from their commissary. It's the same psychological trick the casino

exploits by giving out chips to gamble with instead of real money. In fact, this jailhouse

venture opened my mind to other business possibilities.

For example, I resold the commissary. T o better illustrate, one bag of hot cheetos

was $1.84. I would resell one bag of chips for $5 via cash app. Normally, I would sell in

bulk- 10 bags for $50. Regular commissary food I would sell for double of what it

cost.Snack items were a little more valuable, that's why I was able to charge more. The

convenience allowed me to sell commissary at a higher price versus them having to

wait until next week. The money wasn’t much but from washing clothes, selling

commissary, and money from family and friends periodically added up.

Spring of 2020, I created a Robinhood account and purchased my first

investment. And by chance this happened just as the pandemic crashed the stock

market, which I was taught was the perfect time to get in. My preferred stock was 100

shares of Marathon Oil for $422, knowing that gas is essential and the share price

would eventually go back up. After the purchase, I had a little under $800.

Apple Inc. announced a 4-1 stock split coming that following September. I wanted

to be a part of that so it was time to hustle up some more money. I started looking for

anything to put a few $100 behind.

Luckily, I had some entrepreneur minded individuals in my corner. ShadieMoe

just started a mobile hookah business, my little brother Fat Money sold a little

marijuana, and my cousin Courtney ran a small convenience store out of his apartment.

I definitely needed to put some money behind some marijuana because the turnover

was the fastest. So I bought 2 hookah machines for $400 and added it to

ShadieSmokes inventory, gave Fat Money $250 for some exotic marijuana, and I

invested the rest of the capital into Courtney’s convenient store. I had money working

for me all around the board.I had somewhat of a stream of steady income, I convinced my mother and

brother to pool our money to purchase some more stocks and even some crypto

currency- our own family portfolio that I managed.

Our Robinhood portfolio reached a valuation of $14,000, thanks to a serge in

Royal Caribbean Cruise, Ethereal Classic, and a few other lucky ones. Our Upwork

portfolio reached a valuation of $8,000 that was diversified in over 10 crypto tokens. I

felt like a true professional.

About one year later, during one of my studies, Robert Kiyosaki, my distant

teacher, said something that changed my investment world. “If the investor is

uneducated, anything he or she invest in will be risky. They may make money now and

then, but generally in the long run, they end up giving most of the money they made

back to the market.” This was so true for the simple fact that our profitable profolio

wasn’t as profitable as before. I learned I was investing for capital gains. “Anytime you

invest with the hope that something in the future will happen, you are gambling. And

that is what investing for capital gains is''. Those words cut deep! I was an average

investor. I made an executive decision to liquidate all stocks and cryptocurrency; I

replanned like a cash flow investor I wanted to become. My mother was pissed but I

didn't care. I believed in what I was learning. I wanted to solely focus on cash flow

investing. I started learning about the four asset classes: Business, Real Estate, Paper

Assets, and Commodities. Robert recommended I understand business to become a

better investor. So I studied books on entrepreneurship, business startups, and

business growth and management. I even enrolled into a corresponding course for

Business Administration and Management. I wrote down my goals, compartmentalized

my objectives - I was determined to get there.

As of this writing, we made an opportunity to start 3 businesses: A skincare

service, TrueTouch Beauty, a trucking company, Rowry Logistics. These are all owned

by our holding company, WhizardHouse Investments. T o my knowledge, it is the first

investment firm founded by someone who is incarcerated. And like any good

businessman, I have plans to grow my company with financial synergy. Robert’s power

investing plan requires the ownership of a profitable business, investing in real estate

that produces positive cash flow, and the investing in paper assets that produces higher

returns than a bank savings account with the same liquidity.

We own two semi trucks. One of the two we have leased to a small trucking

company, thus creating a stream of cash flow. The second, we are sourcing for a renter

as this is easier to manage than fully operating with loads and being responsible for day

to day operations. We’re working on increasing our paydex score (business credit) so

we can secure a nice size loan or grant for EV semi trucks. The skin care business is in

its building stages as we are working on marketing, advertising, and locating a brick and

mortar. Utilizing financial synergy, we took an interest in debt investing. It provides a

valuable hedge against stocks and bonds, which moves with the economy. For

instance, we’ve made an opportunity to invest into P2P loans through platforms such as

LendingTree and Prosper. Again, providing us with another stream of cash flow with

payments from borrowers. Next, our plan is to tackle defaulted credit card debt,

defaulted mortgage notes, tax liens, and tax deeds. Most of these investments are

relatively easy and inexpensive to get into as long as you do your due diligence. They

all produce a stream of income and don't fluctuate with the market. These alternativedebt investments often perform better when the economy is struggling. According to our

financial plans, we’re on track to seek rental property investing in about 3-5 years.

On the media side, there has been talks about me making guest appearances on

a few podcasts that focus on formerly incarcerated individuals who became

entrepreneurs.

I've been incarcerated over 10 years now fighting a case that carries 65 years to

life. So I bet you’re thinking this entire premanuel script is one huge paradox. It’s not, it

is simply about a boy who was forced to turn into a man by mastering his difficulties

instead of being mastered by them. Yes, I am fighting for my life. Yes, I’ve become a

stock investor while in jail. Yes, I’ve become an entrepreneur while in jail. Yes, I will

become a real estate investor whether in jail or not. Yes, I came to jail as a high school

dropout and will be walking out the door with a college degree. I also lead a class of

inmates; teaching financial synergy, investing, and financial literacy, and business

planning.

If we think that our struggles in life are merely to test, mold, or refine us, we are

short-sided at best. Our struggles are not really about us, they are more about them,

about the people who need us to garner all the resilience, perseverance, character,

insight, compassion, fortitude, and strength that struggles try to provide us with.

Struggles do not possess the power to make us understand that they are the best

teachers, but we must choose to be the best students in order to extract those lessons.

Only a few, like Mr. Gibson, use confinement as a gold mine. Once addicted to crack

cocaine and a nine times felon. He is now on his way to receiving his PhD in

psychology. All this while serving on the board at the biggest hospital in Chicago and

seeking an executive director position at the Cook County Sheriff's department. Now

that I’ve had time to clearly think, I know opportunities are not just given, but created.

The problem is, there are millions of minorities that don't realize this and have dropped

into despair, which leads to crime and addiction. I was one of them.

The solution to this is not more police and longer prison sentences but instilling

confidence, providing adequate financial education opportunities, and widening our

cultures outlook when it comes to success in addition to athletics and entertainment. We

need more black Elon Musk’s, Jeff Bezos’, Warren Buffett’s, Bill Gates’, Larry Ellinson‘s,

Diane Hendricks’, and Mark Zuckerberg. We need to show the newer generation that

you can acquire a monumental amount of success without being the next LeBron

James, Barry Bonds, Drake, Serena Williams, or Lamar Jackson. These are legends in

their undertaking and my personal favorites. I totally understand why we would want to

pursue careers in these endeavors. From the world’s point of view, athletes and

entertainers are the people to be. They have beautiful women, drive the best cars, wear

the finest jewelry, and live in the most elegant homes. People literally faint in their

presence. T o a young mind that has no other high profile role models, why would I want

to be anything else? We need to bring what Allen Iverson brought to the NBA into the

world of economics, finance, entrepreneurship, investing - even book writing. We need

to instill welcomeness and excitement down career paths that may seem one-sided.

Imagine Drake and Future publicizing annual shareholders meetings, financial literacy,

opportunities in investment banking or owning hedge funds. Millions of minorities who

don’t have the slightest conception of these positions. Not everybody can dunk a ball,

rap 16 bars, hit a high note, or even play an acting role. So back to my original question:What is an opportunity? Opportunity is something you make. And as a unified force, we

can, and we will make our own opportunity.

Thank you for taking your time to read my pre manual script. The complete manual script is in the

works as it covers my life before jail and during. It won't be completed until I walk out the door. Support

my social media pages and help me share my story to inspire and motivate others. See you soon!

@RashadRowry