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Black usually leaves me in the most amazing mood, except for when he plays like he Hansel, leaving me crumbs.
“Who knew you was a gangsta?” I gasp. “That man had me like he was gonna run off with me, but he wasn’t no match for the Campbell Soup!”
“The ghetto,” I cry. “And I don’t want to be here anymore.” “First,” she snarls, “ghetto is a person. The hood is a place. Second, you walk around here like you don’t live here.”
Let’s talk about the fact that you expected I got friends here. Or the fact that you assumed I would be safe knocking on a stranger’s door in Tillman Park? Which we have established is the hood. You wanna tell me why you thought that? Couldn’t be because I’m black, could it?”
I’ve never seen a street as alive as this, but it’s too intense. Like an electric wire has come loose and charged every person in the crowd. I really want to get out of here.
As Pops says, the nice folk in the suburbs like to stay good and scared of what’s happening down here in the hood, so that’s the story reporters always want to tell.
When you push people to their breaking point, and they ain’t got no power, they’ll find a way to take it. What’s so wrong with that?”
Lena’s right—I haven’t tried to understand this place at all.
I couldn’t see those things until Lena accused me of walking around with my eyes closed. But the truth is, nobody else could either. The truth is, I didn’t contribute to my community.
