Dedication

To my father, who will be forever missed . . .

. . . I dedicate this book in its entirety to you.

In the midst of my writing this book, Daddy, on September 1, 2019, you transitioned to your eternal resting place, passing the torch to all your children as the next generation of Wimbrey descendants. It is my prayer that in my own years as a grandfather, my children, Psalms Noel, Hannah Joél, and Honor Montrel, will be as honored as I am to carry the “Wimbrey Legacy” to far higher heights.

The reason I wrote this book was you, Daddy. When I was a young boy around the age of 12, you uttered four words that seemed so simple at the time, not knowing that over a decade later those four words would ultimately become the foundation of my global message.^*

As a sanitation worker or “trash-man,” as you would call yourself, you worked very early hours. Typically, when my brothers and I came home from school, you would be outside in the yard drinking, playing dominoes, and grilling BBQ, usually shirtless with a towel around your neck. Old-school music would be playing in the background as we would walk up to the yard every afternoon. As I write this, I remember it as if it were yesterday.

It was report card day, and I was nervous. It was mandatory that we all bring our report cards straight to you and place them in your hands after school, before we could do anything else. The reason I was nervous was because—as everyone who knew you knows—you had zero filter. You would always say the first thing that popped into your head. Walking home from school on this particular afternoon, I could hear you from the next block over talking smack and making people laugh as usual. You weren’t alone. All I could think of as I walked up to the house was that I was about to be center stage in an unpredictable show in front of the company.

Because it was mandatory, I knew that I had to talk to each individual adult in my presence, hand you my report card, and then wait. I knew that you would go straight to my citizenship grades first and then check over my academic grades—something you didn’t have to do with my siblings. That day, I knew what was coming.

My citizenship grade was no surprise: Needs Improvement. “Talks too much,” the note said. Looking back now as an adult, I am extremely impressed how you never really killed my personality (talking too much) with discipline. You would just shrug it off, mutter under your breath, “Yup, this boy talks too much,” and just keep going. You knew that I worked hard where it mattered. Just a few years before this report card, I had failed the second grade, and I had to repeat it. But once my brothers and I moved back in with you, my grades were always at the top percent of my class. I did not have any failing grades, but this particular report card had a big, ugly C on it. A first for me since you started taking care of us.

You handed my report card back to me and without looking at me you said, “C? Anyone can be average.” Those four words “Anyone can be average” would ultimately be the foundational pillar that would drive me to becoming a first-generation millionaire. Daddy, you are the reason that I hate to be associated with anything close to average. That afternoon, as you handed that report card back to me, you ignited within me the mindset of a first-generation millionaire. That’s why I dedicate this book to you.

Yep, a trash-man told me, “Anyone can be average.” This idea gave birth to the mindset that would lead me to become the man I am today.

To my mother, Phyllis, and my stepfather, Tim; to my stepmother, Joyce; to my siblings from youngest to eldest, my baby sister, Ronnietta, and older brothers, Willie, Lawrence, Jr., and Corey—I love you with all my heart, and I am extremely grateful for your love and protection.

To my wife and best friend, Crystal Monique Wimbrey, everything I do is for you and our children: Psalms, Hannah, Honor, and all the Wimbrey descendants yet to come long after I am gone, I love you all with every breath I breathe and beyond.

* Reader, as I tell you this story, I want you to imagine my father as Samuel L. Jackson’s character from the movie Pulp Fiction. Without exaggeration, this was my father’s temperament.