The Hood

121st Street is at war with itself. The cement does not yield to the bodies that walk upon its shore, nor the men that fight upon its concrete shell. Here, everyone falls and most bleed. This same street we were born on is the same street we will die on.

If my zip code determines my destiny, then this unbent discord is my fate. I suffer on these streets and it is not beautiful. A crack pipe is a crack pipe. A bullet is a bullet. A vacant lot is a vacant lot. Not all violence can be romanticized, but all the people have stories to tell. There is a romance in how we choose to remember.

Urban pain is unanswerable. Each broken window serves as a cracked rib. Each policeman was a stepdad with a stronger hand than heart. Each gang banger was once a baby that wasn’t held enough. The existential dilemma is a luxury for the rich and on this street, we only think of tomorrow.

At home, we bury wads of cash under floorboards to save up for college that none of us go to. At home, mom doesn’t come home until ten at night and leaves at six in the morning. At home, dad drinks more than he eats. At home, there is no quiet and seldom rest. The hood cannot afford to sleep.