The Azriel Collective

I thought I was going to bed early today… but my thoughts been thinking.

The other day Justice’s estate attorney called me.

December. January. February. March. April. May. June. July. August. And now September.

He called me exactly 273 days since I found out my firstborn had finally been pulled out of his cell after being deceased.

September 21.

One day before my dad passed away.
One day before fall.
One day shy of nine months.

I carried him for nine months.

He was due 6/25. I was induced on 6/25, but I didn’t have him until 6/26.

Then the attorney asked me a series of questions…

What’s his last address?
Who is his father?
And then something else…

Did he have a will?

Did he have a will?

Maybe that’s just procedure. Maybe it’s a question they have to ask.

But it hit me.

He’ll never get the chance to make one.

He’ll never get to decide who he wanted to leave something to. He’ll never get to choose which family members or friends he wanted to bless. He’ll never get to say, “Make sure KJ is straight.” He’ll never get to decide what mattered most to him after he was gone.

September 21.

He was just 21.

Twenty-one.

What were you doing at 21?

Building a life?
Making mistakes?
Dreaming?
Planning?
Falling in love?
Trying to figure yourself out?

My son was never given the opportunity to finish becoming who he was supposed to be.

It’s a conflicted thought process for me a lot of times.

My chest still gets hot every time I have to talk to officials about him. Every phone call. Every document. Every form. Every question reminds me that I’m discussing my son as a case file instead of hearing his voice.

I’ve been busy doing life… trying to keep going because the world doesn’t stop.

Bills still come.
People still expect you to show up.
Life keeps demanding pieces of you, even when your heart is carrying something impossible.

But dang…

He had so much unfinished business.

WE had so much unfinished business.

I wish I could go back.
Way back.
Way, way back.

But I can’t.

My son’s story makes me hurt for other Black boys who may have to go through this.

For other Black mothers who have to experience this kind of loss.

And no… it’s not about race.

But I can only identify with what I’ve lived.

I can only tell the story I know.

So when I speak, I speak from the place where my heart was broken.

Little Black boy…

I hope you make it out.

I hope you get to grow old enough to write your own will.

I hope you get to choose your own future.

I hope you get to finish your unfinished business.

Because too often, the world doesn’t care.

They don’t love you.

They just want what you have.

It’s been 269 days since I last spoke to my son.
This the longest time I’ve gone without hearing from him physically.

But all he used to say… “mama, I wanna get out and become an inspiration speaker so other kids don’t go thru what I’ve been thru.”

The Azriel Collective first started in 2023, I started this non profit for other families going thru what I was going through while I was working for the Public Defender Council.

But for some reason I wanna change the name …in honor of him….

For those who’ve been with me since 2025, you know this page has never just been about me.

It’s been about parenting. About asking hard questions. About protecting our children. About navigating systems that many of us never expected to face.

When “Justice” was murdered, many of you walked that journey with me. You grieved with me. You got angry with me. You prayed with me. You celebrated the small victories with me, and you watched me fight for answers.

What many of you may not know is that Ink & Law has always existed. It wasn’t created because of JeVion’s case. But walking through this experience showed me just how many people need someone to help them understand complex systems, organize the facts, and know where to begin.

I’ve received messages from parents, families, and people across the country asking questions they don’t know how to answer on their own.

I can’t solve every problem.

I can’t give legal advice.

But I can use my experience as a paralegal, investigator, and legal operations professional to help people better understand the process, organize information, conduct research, and navigate what often feels overwhelming.

Azriel will always be home. It will serve its community …. But Ink & Law will serve its purpose .

This is where we’ll continue to have honest conversations about parenting, justice, advocacy, and changing systems.

Ink & Law is where that work becomes service.

If you’ve ever thought, “I wish I had someone to help me make sense of this,” that’s exactly why I’m inviting you to follow Ink & Law.

Because knowledge is powerful.

Understanding the system changes how you move through it.

And if there’s one thing this journey has taught me, it’s that no family should have to navigate these systems alone.

I think a lot of my grief is guilt.

And before you get started… “You gotta forgive yourself.” “Kids make their own choices.”

It’s not that simple for me.

When I became a parent…..even at my early age….I said I wasn’t going to be like my parents. And that’s the very thing I became.

But despite that, I held myself to a high standard when it came to parenting. My goal was to raise decent human beings.

And in a sense… I failed.

I’m not beating myself up. Just in hindsight.

My kids are decent human beings. I just look at other kids who seem to be doing amazing. And hear me out before you say, “Comparison kills.” Well… obviously.

But for real…

I wanted my kids to be successful, have great self-esteem, and become the best version of themselves they could be.

But you know what I didn’t know?

Just love them because they’re your kids.

Being a parent too young became a chore.

And yeah… I loved them.

I loved them with conditions.

And I know that sounds harsh, but that’s my truth.

I was shoved into parenthood, and I became robotic.

So I remember getting those messages. I remember crying out to the Lord to have mercy on my firstborn because he didn’t get a chance to live a fulfilling life.

I screamed, “I didn’t knowwww!”

My eyes are filling with tears even typing this… because I didn’t know.

I didn’t know my actions would affect my son so much.

15? He was just a baby.

But even backing up…

I was ashamed of what he did to get there in the first place.

And I had just started forgiving him.

I know that sounds harsh, but that’s my truth.

Maybe it was more pride than anything.

Maybe because he failed my expectations.

So when people say, “It’s time to get over it…”

It’s more than just losing my baby.

It’s mourning the lives that were lost because of my decisions.

I moved hastily.

I moved impulsively.

I moved selfishly.

And losing what I thought I would eventually fix… took a piece of not just my heart, but a part of my brain.

People think grief is just missing someone.

Sometimes grief is replaying every decision that led to the moment you lost them.

Sometimes grief is realizing you can’t go back and love someone with what you know now.

Why do I say this?

Because I want it to be known that bringing a child into this world before you’re emotionally, mentally, or financially ready can have consequences we don’t fully understand until years later.

I know that’s hard to hear.

It was hard for me to admit.

Psalm 127 says children are like arrows in the hands of a warrior. (I’m paraphrasing.)

But you get what I’m saying.

We’re supposed to aim them.

Guide them.

Love them.

And somewhere along the way, I think I spent so much time trying to raise “good kids” that I forgot something so simple…

Kids are to be loved.

That’s it.

That’s the greatest commandment.

You can’t pour from an empty cup.

And maybe… that’s the hardest lesson grief has ever taught me.

Dedication: For Je'Vion

For Je'Vion Andrez

I started this book for you. Not for the world. Not for applause. Not for anybody to clap at my pain and call it courage.

I wrote it because you were fifteen and locked up, and I was trying to reach you through bars, through anger, through silence, through all the things we never knew how to say without hurting each other.

I wanted you to understand. Not excuse. Not blame. Understand.

I wanted you to see that the pain didn't start with you. That some wounds get passed down before a child even knows how to spell his own name. That silence can become inheritance. That trauma can sit at the dinner table, ride in the car, sleep in the next room, and still nobody calls it by its name.

I wanted this book to be a map. A warning. A mirror. A way out.

I wanted you to know you were never just bad. Never just angry. Never just another Black boy the system got his hands on.

You were my baby. My first heartbeat outside my body. My miracle with serious eyes. My child who watched too much, carried too much, knew too much too soon.

And then you lost your life at twenty-one. No funeral. No obituary. No room full of people standing up, saying your name, telling stories, crying loud, acting like your life mattered the way it did.

So I'm saying it here. Je'Vion lived. Je'Vion mattered. Je'Vion was loved.

This book is the goodbye I never got to give you. The flowers nobody got to lay down. The obituary nobody wrote. The truth I still owe you.

I couldn't save you the way I wanted to. But maybe these pages can still save somebody's son. Maybe they can help another mother look at her child before the streets, the courts, the pain, or the silence get there first. Maybe they can help somebody understand that justice is not just a name.

It's what you deserved.

This is for you, Je'Vion. For the boy they locked up. For the man you were becoming. For the life you should have had. For every wound we inherited. For every truth we were too late to speak.

I love you past this life.

Though this story is fictionalized, its heart belongs to you.

Always, Mama

* I had to go and re-edit my book with clear mind . Clear thoughts . It took five years to finish and when he died- I just gave up on it….. but I’ve taken my time and remapped it

Justice Was Supposed to Come Home

The hardest part about having a child go to prison is this…

You still expect them to come home.

No matter what they did. No matter how angry you were. No matter how many mistakes they made.

You expect to hug them again.

When JeVion, my Justice, went to prison, I was disappointed. I was hurt. I was hard on him.

I remember thinking, When he gets out… will he be 25? Maybe 30? What kind of man will he become?

Every phone call I poured into him.

“Stay in school, son.”

“Keep reading books.”

“Don’t let prison become you.”

At first, it worked.

The guards respected him. He earned their trust. He graduated. He started taking college courses. I believed he was finding his way.

Then one Saturday, everything changed.

We were talking on the phone when I heard…

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

Then his voice.

“You got me messed up! I’m talking to my mama! Don’t disrespect my mama!”

A few seconds later he picked the phone back up.

“Mama, I’m gonna call you back… I’m finna beat this dude’s ass.”

I was terrified.

My son didn’t grow up fighting like that. But I knew he had heart.

That was the beginning of a different prison experience.

He needed more money.

More clothes.

He started losing privileges.

He started going to the hole.

The next three years were some of the hardest years of both our lives.

Sometimes, when he complained, I didn’t give him the comfort he needed.

I’d say, “I told you to stay out of the streets. These are the consequences.”

He’d get frustrated.

“Mama… you don’t know what it’s like in here.”

And I’d answer, “You’re right. I stayed out because I never wanted to live in bondage.”

Looking back…

I wish I had listened more.

I wish I had hugged him through the phone instead of always trying to teach a lesson.

Because despite everything…

I never stopped planning for his future.

Everything I built was for my children.

Every business.

Every late night.

Every sacrifice.

I was building an empire so when Justice came home, he’d have somewhere to land.

He never got that chance.

Now I scroll through my Google Photos and see his smile…

…and my mind immediately flashes to the image of him lying in a prison cell, left there until his body decomposed.

That image never leaves me.

People think grief is crying.

Grief is seeing your child alive in a picture…

…and dead in your mind.

For the first time in my life, I understood what hate felt like.

Not toward the man who killed my son.

But toward the people whose job it was to protect every life in their custody, and who failed him.

There has been a hole in my heart since June 1, 2020.

Some days it feels like a crack.

Other days it feels like my entire chest is missing.

Justice was supposed to serve his time.

He was supposed to come home.

Instead, I cremated my son.

If you’ve made it this far, don’t just scroll.

Say his name.

Justice (JeVion Benham).

Because he deserved the chance to come home.

I asked Chat : What would my pain look like if it were a painting 🫶🏿

236 days

June 2, 2020.

This was Justice first court appearance for manslaughter .( I originally said murder- but I had to correct myself .)

I’m the little face in the bottom corner. I was heated. Hurt. Watching my son on that screen and not even recognizing him.

He didn’t look like the boy I raised.He looked like his boys.Heavy. Different. Like the streets had already got ahold of him and started changing him up.
That day hit different.

Not just because of the charge… but because I was looking at my son and seeing somebody else.
I be thinking about all the other parents who done sat in that same spot.Watching they child on a screen, in a jumpsuit, in a situation they never wanted for them.Heart broke. Confused. Still loving them through it.

I ain’t never gone excuse what happened.But I do want people to understand something:
Behind a lot of these cases is a parent who still see they baby.Who still remember who they was before the streets, the pressure, and the decisions took over.
Give a little more grace when you can.Not because the actions was right…but because somebody’s child is still in there.
That’s all I’m saying.

I miss my son a whole lot .
I know he’s not coming back.
I know.
But his life taught me sooooooo much.
I hold each moment in my head.
Each win in my head.
Each disappointment in my heart.
Each letter in my heart.
Each warning in my hand .
God gave me a son first to teach me what it’s like to be loved by a man.
I took it for granted for a long time.
But he made me feel so loved and so cherished.

I wanted to close this page down- but I was reminded what I do this for 🫶🏿