I spent four years in prison. Four years. Part of that time, I had to shit in a hole about the size of this one foot by one foot square. And they didn't even give me a cover to put, put over it. But 20 years after being released from prison, I became the first black man to walk the stage as Amarillo Man of the year.

20 years ago, if you Googled Tremaine, then my, my picture in some orange fatigues would show up followed by prison. Prisoner. Dope dealer, drug dealer, drug addict. But now, you Google Tremaine and you can't find any of it. People think I'm a saint. They think I think I'm an angel. They think I'm not even of this world.

You know, this man of the year, year has been the loneliest year of my life. Even lonelier than the four years that I spent sitting in prison. Because once you become what I’ve become, people, they, they treat you different. And it’s, and it's indifferent. It's kinda standoffish. It's kinda - you know, I have friends that, that I've known all my life. Friends that me and my mom let live with us. People I've let live with me as an adult. And, that don't come around anymore. Don't support the restaurant. Don't, you know, don't support my foundation. The things that I've done and continue to do at the, at the consistency and the repetition of it. And even adding more to the plate every single assignment. They’re like what the? Where, how? How, how, how? Why even?

The promise. I got a promise. I'm a man of my word. I gave a promise. I promised to God that if he let me walk out of Northwest Texas Hospital with my child, I’d do whatever he said. That’s it. What we’ve been doing. Nothing more, nothing less. And I wouldn't change any of it. Cause then I might not have Shilah.