They Mocked My "Shaq Shoes" in 7th Grade. Today, We’ve Served Over 10,000 Youth.
Every educator knows the difference between students who simply pass through a classroom and those who leave an indelible mark on your soul. For years, I was just a chubby, glasses-wearing middle school kid on the West Side of San Antonio trying desperately to fit in.
My parents loved me dearly, but we didn’t have money for the "bells and whistles." When gym class required specific athletic shoes, everyone else showed up in Nikes or Jordans. My family bought me $15 "Shaqs" from the local store.
That single detail made me a target.
In the hallways, my nickname became "Shaq Shoes." Kids pushed me into lockers and mocked me in changing rooms. On the playground, a group of girls would trail behind me, pelting my back with small stones until my shirt was dotted with white chalk spots.
Then came the day in gym class when a silver Walmart watch my father had given me—a gift I cherished—was unclipped from my wrist, hurled across the room, and shattered on the floor. When I took the broken pieces to a young assistant coach, he handed them back, told me I’d have to get a new one, and simply walked away.
The worst, however, was yet to come.
The Classroom Floor and the Broken Promise
One afternoon during a substitute Bible class, that same young coach stood watching while three boys cornered me by the door. The coach slowly walked over and threw a heavy jacket over my head.
Before I could react, I was pulled to the floor. Through the dark fabric, I felt the blows raining down on my back. I heard their laughter, felt the heat of embarrassment burning my face, and listened to the silence of an authority figure who did nothing.
When the bell rang, the room cleared out. I pulled the jacket off, stood up in an empty classroom, and didn’t cry. I walked to my next class convinced someone would eventually comfort me—that someone would step up to be my advocate.
Nobody did.
Days later, when my mother gasped at the purple bruising across my back, my parents took me straight to the superintendent’s office. I sat across from an administration that was supposed to protect me. Instead, the superintendent looked me dead in the eye and said:
"Your parents reported that you were beaten up in class. But I do not think this is actually what took place. I think if you really think about it, what happened was just playful and fun. Don't you think?"
In that room, I shut down. I learned what it felt like to be completely invisible, unprotected, and disposable.
For years into my adulthood, I carried those hallway wounds. Every time I stood in front of a crowd to speak, I had a nervous habit of pulling down my shirt because of how they had mocked me on the floor that day.
What I didn't realize then was that God was allowing me to endure a season of suffering so that I could one day heal others. My pain was being forged into a mandate.
A Blank Sheet of Paper and a Circular Folding Chair
By 2018, I had built a successful marketing agency, but my soul felt deeply disconnected. I was helping build businesses, but I wasn't building people. I kept reading heartbreaking news stories about cyberbullying and youth suicide in San Antonio.
One afternoon, I sat down between client projects, pulled out a blank piece of paper, and began writing the words God gave me: Home. Haven. Protection. Inspire.
Down in the corner, I scribbled:
WHO: Broken, wounded, needy, oppressed youth who need to take refuge.
That scribbled note now sits framed on my office wall.
Without a bank account or non-profit credentials, I found a dark storefront on Castroville Road with a single "For Lease" sign blazing in the window—right down the street from the middle school where I had been beaten.
I sat down at a Red Lobster with Angela Brown Williams, who would become my board chair and rock through every trial. She wrote a "hot check" right there at the table to cover our initial lease deposit, praying the funds would be there when it was cashed. The check cleared.
The first night I walked into that empty center, there was no furniture except a single black circular folding chair I had brought from home. I placed it in the center of that empty, brown-walled room, sat down in the quiet, and prayed:
"Okay, God. I'm here. Whatever You want to do next, I'm ready."
Living a Double Life
That first year was a grueling test of endurance. Rent was $1,300 a month, and corporate sponsorships vanished after week four.
To keep the lights on, I lived a double life. I woke up at 5:00 AM every morning to drive for Uber and Lyft. At 8:00 AM, I’d open the R3 center and mentor youth all day. The second we clocked out at 5:00 PM, I’d turn the rideshare apps back on and drive until 10:00 or 11:00 at night. I didn't take a single cent in salary for nearly two years.
One afternoon, our landlord walked into an empty center while we were three months behind on rent. She looked at me and asked the question that had been haunting my sleep:
"Juan, is all this worth it?"
Without hesitating, I looked her in the eye and said, "Yes. It is all worth it."
I wasn't thinking about our empty bank account—I was thinking about a young man who had walked in just days prior. He lived in the apartments behind our building and had been suspended from school indefinitely because he didn't own closed-toe shoes; he only had slides, and the school wouldn't let him on campus.
That week, we checked our non-profit bank account—which was "healthy" if it had $100 in it. My brother and I took that young man to the mall. He had never been inside a mall to shop for himself, and he had never opened a brand-new shoe box.
By the end of that school year, that same young man walked back into R3 with his report card. He was an A/B student, a star on the football team, and had just been awarded a full-ride scholarship to his dream college.
All because someone decided he was worth a pair of shoes.
12,000 Meals and an Email from NBC
When the 2020 pandemic locked the world down, our center’s doors were forced shut. But on the West Side of San Antonio, school closures meant children were going hungry.
Angela Williams—who was facing her own severe business losses—stood in our center's kitchen in the Texas heat, working 13-hour shifts from 6:30 AM until 2:00 AM making hot meals.
Lines of cars stretched for blocks. Over five months, our small team delivered over 12,000 hot meals and 36,000 meal packs to families in distress.
One afternoon, an email popped up in our inbox from an NBC producer. I almost deleted it, assuming it was a scam. Days later, we were on a live Zoom call with Al Roker on NBC's TODAY Show.
Midway through the interview, Al looked at us with a twinkle in his eye and said, "Juan, Angela, on the count of three, open your front doors."
I walked to the front door, opened it, and stopped breathing. A parade of Walmart trucks and cars lined Castroville Road. Dozens of workers stepped out to unload thousands of dollars worth of fresh meat, groceries, and supplies, completely overrunning the empty wooden shelves we had built by faith months prior.
National media saw a viral moment. We saw God saying: "I see you. Don't quit now."
The Power of Second Chances
Over the years that followed, R3 kept evolving to meet every gap our students faced:
When dropout recovery programs offered unaccredited credentials: We created NuGenerations Private Schools. We fought through bureaucratic doors to secure regional accreditation, ensuring over 120 graduates to date held diplomas recognized by colleges, trades, and the military.
When court-involved youth lacked employment: We built the Youth Employment Mentorship Program (YEMP), providing Google scholarships, soft-skills training, and paid internships that yielded a 95% completion rate.
When Dallas called for help: We partnered with Juliette Fowler Communities to build a turnkey youth center that has served nearly 500 youth and graduated 75+ students via the Dallas Juvenile Probation Office.
When dignity needed restoring: We joined forces with San Antonio Threads, carrying forward a legacy that has provided boutique-quality clothing to over 100,000 youth in crisis.
From R3 Student Outreach to R3 Generations
We changed our name because our work is no longer just about helping a student pass a class or survive a crisis. It is about generational transformation.
When a young woman named Sabrina became the only one of twelve grandchildren in her family to earn a high school diploma through our academy, that wasn't just an educational win—that was generational change.
To every person reading this who is currently walking through a season of suffering, discouragement, or unanswered questions: Don't quit now.
Your heartache can be repurposed into a heartfelt message of hope. The very things intended to break you can become the blueprint for God's purpose in your life.
Seven years ago, we started with a single black chair and a $100 bank account. Today, we are expanding across Texas, with our eyes on Chicago, New Orleans, and Atlanta.
Lord, let the future begin.
To read our full 7-Year Anniversary Book, partner with our mission, or refer a student, visit us at r3generations.org.
#YouthDevelopment #TraumaInformedLeadership #NonProfitScaling #R3Generations #OvercomingAdversity