For he shall be as a tree
planted by the waters, and that spreadeth out her roots by the river, and shall
not see when heat cometh, but her leaf shall be green; and shall not be careful
in the year of drought, neither shall cease from yielding fruit. Jeremiah
17:8
I grew up in the birthplace of hip-hop music and culture:
the Bronx, New York. During the early
eighties I lived in the South Bronx on Evergreen Avenue, right off Westchester
Avenue. Above the street sign
“Evergreen” was the number six train line.
It seemed like all the bodegas, “corner stores” as those in the
neighborhood called them, were in competition.
The bodega that was located across the street from my building, right at
the corner, had neon lights that read “LOTTO.”
Across the street was another store, with the words “Grocery Store”
written in graffiti. Parallel to that
was another store that contained very few groceries. Stores such as those were usually cover-ups
for drug trafficking. In the next block
over, there was yet another bodega, which had a portrait of a madman sprayed on
the face of the building. The picture
reminded me of the Joker in a deck of playing cards.
The South Bronx was home to many underprivileged people. Parks, pools, and community centers were
nonexistent in my hood. So for the
people living there, especially the poor, it was all about finding ways to
laugh and have fun.
In the summer, we looked forward to opening the fire hydrant
– we called it “the pump.” We flooded
the street with water. No one cared that
the pump was supposed to be used to put out fires. The young boys wore ripped jeans turned into
shorts and were shirtless, revealing their skinny hairless chests. They made a hose by cutting off both ends of
a soup can and attaching the remaining cylinder to the flowing water. They used it to spray the vehicles as they
drove by. We called it “the car
wash.” The OGs (Original Gangsters),
respected men of the community who sold illegal drugs and made a lot of money,
drove through my block in expensive SUVs and luxury cars, blasting the latest
hip-hop songs, with smiles on their faces.
Everything about an OG was glamorous – from the fresh waxed paint on
their vehicles, to the thousand-dollar rims and tinted windows and leather
interiors, to their tailor-made suits worn with shoes that shined brighter than
Mr. Clean’s bald head. I watched the OGs
lean back, nod their heads to the music, and roll their tinted windows up for
the car wash. One by one they slowly
drove by and watched the excitement on the young boys’ faces as they sprayed
the water. The water looked like diamonds
rolling off their vehicles. Imagine
that: diamonds in the hood. It was like
a scene from the movie Cinderella,
unrealistic but not impossible. Every
young boy that was living in poverty wanted to be an OG someday, and every girl
wanted to marry one. Judging by the
satisfied look in the OGs’ eyes, giving the young boys something to do made
them feel justified about polluting the streets with drugs.
I watched teenage boys throw young girls over their
shoulders. The girls would be kicking
and screaming while the boys tossed them into the brisk cold water that
violently shot out the pump. No one
stopped us, because no one paid attention to what was going on in the ghetto. A little further down the block, near the
bodega, the guys crowded around and shot dice.
I had fun watching them crack jokes and snap on each other while gambling
for a few bucks.
Someone always had their radio in the window, turned up to
its loudest capacity, playing the hottest hits from radio stations like KISS
and WBLS. Hanging out on Evergreen was
like being in a club and hearing the DJ play your favorite songs.
I recall
jumping rope outside and playing hopscotch while hearing "It Takes
Two" by Rob Base coming from someone's window at one end of the block and
at the other end, "This is Something for the Radio" by Biz Mark,
coming from someone's car. Being part of
the ghetto gave me a rush, a feeling of excitement. The streets and I became one. I stayed out all day and night, until around
four or five o'clock in the morning. When
there was no one else to hang out with, I went home.
I hated going home. Going home meant that I might observe Mommy
coming down off drugs. When I walked
through the door, I did my usual lockup.
This meant to lock the top lock, lash the chain, and lastly slide the
long police pole, which was a special lock used for victims of domestic
violence. Every time I slid that pole
into its groove, it reminded me of the time this strange-man knocked on our
door and tried to break in. I never got
the chance to see his face. Mommy
cracked the door open and he tried to push his way into our apartment. Mommy, my sister Naomi, and I tried to push
the door shut. The strange-man shoved his
hands between the cracks of the door to prevent us from shutting him out.
If there is a topic that you would like for me to post, please feel
free to let me know and I will try to cover that topic in a future post.
You
can also ask questions, give feedback or just state your opinion about
any post you read here by simply commenting using the comment section at
the bottom of the post.
