Don was supposed to be in suspension, too, but he was too busy getting in a fight. That was typical Don back then. So, somebody ran to on-campus suspension to let Don's girlfriend know he'd be late. When that message was delivered, the teacher who oversaw the suspended kids was aghast.
"Don Jackson is your boyfriend?" he asked Don's girlfriend, the rest of the class hearing the message, too. "You know he has a 0.1 GPA, right? Don't waste your time. He'll be dead or in jail before he's 17."
When Don heard what the teacher said, he did what he usually did: He got in his face. Don was a hothead. He was headed down a bad path. And while it was harsh to hear his teacher's criticism in the moment — that Don was basically a waste of space — the truth was the teacher was telling the truth.
Gangbanging. Drugs. Alcohol. Guns. A complete disregard for school or his life. Jackson embraced it all.
"I liked the thrill of danger," Jackson said. "I had a big thrill for danger. I'd go to a party knowing it was going to get shot up and I still went. The guns came out and I'd move closer. That's just how I was."
More than anything, Jackson wanted a street name. Growing up in South Sacramento, a place so ripe with pitfalls and violence Jackson calls it "South Sac Iraq," Jackson wanted to be just like his brother, one of four in his family who have served jail time (his brother is in prison for vehicular manslaughter, a sentenced extended for attempted escape, and his mother served a couple of years shortly after Jackson was born).
A prison sentence seemed inevitable for Jackson, too, so much so his mom enlisted him in a scared-straight visit to county jail at age 11 so he could see what would happened if he kept getting in trouble. The only problem was when Jackson visited the jail, he actually liked what he saw, especially when one of the inmates realized who he was (Jackson's older brother, nicknamed Whitey, was well known).
"I went in there and one of the dudes was knocking on the glass when they let us walk by the cells and he was yelling, 'You're Whitey's little brother! You're Whitey's little brother!'" Jackson said. "I loved that."
Prison didn't scare Jackson. Death didn't even scare him. On a few occasions Jackson was in a situation where his life was at risk — "That's normal where I'm from," he said — and plenty of times he saw life taken away from his friends. He counts five close friends, including a cousin and godbrother, who have been murdered in gang fighting or money missions. That would make most people pause. Jackson didn't.
"When people close to me started getting murdered, it's eye-opening," Jackson said. "But even then, I still couldn't really take the concept. I still couldn't make the change in my life that was needed."
Eventually, he did. Be it divine intervention, a support system that wouldn't let him quit, the game of football or a combination of each, Jackson finally made the change. He finally decided to save his life.
Today, he's the star running back for the Nevada Wolf Pack and a nominee for two national awards, including one given to the athlete who best combines community service with athletic and academic achievement. Jackson, a man who went to four high schools and was kicked out of two of them, is already a college graduate with a degree in communications. He's working on his Master's degree.
And at 21 yards old, he beat the projection of his former on-campus suspension teacher who told the class Jackson would be dead or in jail by age 17. When he first arrived at Nevada in 2013, Jackson sent that teacher a Facebook message. He wanted to update him on his current whereabouts.
"I just wanted to let you know that somewhere along the line I figured it out," Jackson wrote.
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At age 17, Jackson graduated high school, becoming the second in his six-person family to do so (his mom graduated high school at age 40, Jackson said, and his dad and three siblings never got a diploma).
"I've never seen a kid work as hard as he did to graduate on time," Ryan Nill said. "He had to go to the continuation school, but he was taking a ridiculous amount of credits to try and catch up and graduate. His counselor at his continuation school even told me that she's never seen a kid work that hard."