Reflections

GHETTO BREAD You see, there is a difference between the hood and the ghetto. In the hood you got your real friends, you got some family, and people look out for one another. But in the ghetto, it’s a different story. You always hear people from the ghetto saying, “Come back and see us sometimes” or “Don’t forget where you came from.” Hell how could I forget when I endured for a few years and I must have cried a thousand tears. How could I forget about one of my neighbors who was white and pregnant by a sorry ass dude who was mentally and spiritually ignorant of this insecure woman who would eventually become addicted to drugs and throughout her home would be nothing but thugs, Smoking and drinking in front of her kids while she was upstairs giving some head. Then come knockin’ at my door askin’ “You got some bread?” So I’d tell her, “If your kids are hungry send them over here, I’ll make sure they’re fed.” I remember niggas on the street calling themselves ghetto fabulous because they were able to buy their uncle’s ’82 Cadillac that start off as a bucket even though their kids needed new shoes but fuck it. They had to try to floss in front of a crowd that was lost and searching for invisible directions that always led to paths crossed which resulted in a heart unable to defrost. Then next door was the drug dealer whose wife was a crack head and victim of unclassified love for dollar, dollar bill ya’ll. While her husband was on the grind she’d was trying sell her soul behind closed laundry room doors for just one more hit of that crippling crack shit. “Hey, how you doing?” was replaced with “Hey, where the bud at?” Handshakes and triple pounds are replaced by a complicated Patty Cake. Forty ounces lined up on the pavement with just enough beer left in them to extinguish the fire from the cigarettes. Nappy head, chicken head, cluck, cluck, cluck, go comb yo damn head! Cover up that weave that don’t blend in with your own hair ‘cause it’s been fried by relaxers and color that don’t match your identity. Now in my case, my man would work, for about a month. Then get fired for drinking on the job, but it wasn’t his fault. He just had an asshole for a boss, at least that’s what he said. Then there were times when he’d be gone for days. Always coming to me with some money making scheme. Said he was hustling and clockin’ ends I’m still waiting to see, six years later in the form of a check. He was always in and out jail. In jail without the bail. Now I’m home alone in this hell hole with my kids, scared to death of bullets flying by my window ‘cause of what some other fool did. I had to crawl on all fours, scurry and yank my kids down and huddle in the hallway because there weren’t any windows there. Praying “Please Father keep my family safe from harm, please Father keep my family safe from harm, in the name of Jesus!” Now how could I have explained to my children that there was nothing to fear when in my eyes and in theirs were nothing but tears? We comfort each other until the turmoil is over. Then it was back to doing whatever I was doing. I can’t go back to a normal because that wouldn’t be true, but then I came to realize that this nightmare was in actuality my reality and I couldn’t wake up. I couldn’t escape the drop of the mortality rate because I had lacked the ability to be free. I was a prisoner there you see, doomed for destruction and failure. This was not happening to me voluntarily. Or was it? So there I was, knocked up again. And guess where my baby’s daddy was, in the pen. Was it my fault he was locked up? Or was it uncontrollable circumstances of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or did he just fuck up? Then he wants to put the blame on everybody else because he couldn’t take responsibility for his own mistakes. So, while daddy is gone, momma has to maintain the home and make ends meet. I felt like I was fighting a war that just couldn’t be beat. When the middle of the month came money was tight, so I swallowed my pride and held my head high. Then humbly begged, if you will, so that I could prepare a meal and feed my children. And although I was struggling, I was glad that I didn’t have to deal with that drug addicted man of mine who would steal, even from kids at the drop of a dime. He put his hands on me once, and yet he survived the stab wound so close to his heart. I guess at the time “Nothing but death could keep us apart!” Lucky for me my eyes were opened and I decided to embark on a new journey that would mark the start of a remarkable life. I have moved on and out and ahead. Not wanting to go back there ever again. And now the fourth generation is telling me, “Don’t forget where you come from.” My reply to them is “Don’t forget where you can go. Outside that brick wall and broken security gate. There is life out there. I’ve experienced it. Now you tell me, how could I forget where I came from?