I lived on 2nd st.

2nd st is where my friends and I would play cops and robbers in the front of our lawns,  our bare feet skinned and bruised from slipping in the dirt and scraping our toes against the sidewalks cement. Where we climbed wire fences, made choreographed dances, and licked the dripping freeze pops from our palms and sticking the wrappers in the cracks of our front porches. Where I was pretend married to my next door neighbor, exchanging tinfoil rings hugging quickly then running away to avoid that taunts of our friends.

I lived on 2nd st.

2nd st is where my brother fainted suddenly in the trampoline, his body compulsing and his eyes rolled back, mouth gasping for air, labeled a seizure. His third one yet. Where I’d see men in black hoodies exchanging packages in their hands, slipping money in their pockets. Where our playtime was interrupted by a man running from authority, blood on his chest and a crazed look in his eyes. He told us to, “Keep quiet.” and hopped our fence, hiding in our garage. Where police made appearances in the night, sneaky moves, flashes of blue and red reflecting through my bedroom window. Sirens blasting through the walls like an alarm, a reminder to those that violence can never sleep.

I lived on 2nd st.

2nd st is where our road was blocked once every summer, music blasting through bootleg speakers, though we happily danced anyways. Where bikes ran recklessly through the crowds, barbecue smoke coiling into the air and attracting the noses of the hungry from streets down. Where families who never speak all year sparked up conversation and pull out the common black folding table and start shuffling blackjack cards and opening cans of beer.

I lived on 2nd st.

2nd st is where my household was the only family on the block where the father came home each night, kissed his children on the cheeks and played catch in the backyard. Where my family went to church each Sunday morning, ate our meals together, drove a minivan and opened up our home to the less fortunate. Where the parents of my 2nd st friends appeared on our doorstep, pleading for guidance and mentorship. Where I watched my mama scrap ingredients together to make dinner, where I watched my daddy take on another job, and where I watched them both love each other through the struggle that they hid silently behind their bedroom door.

2nd st is where I live. It’s where my memories of childhood transformed my perceptions and outlooks of life. It’s where I waited each morning for the bus to come pick me up, driving me to another city to attend school at a place that made me feel isolated, unrepresented and afraid to speak about my opinions. Indulging in a culture that I was not apart of, standing idly on the outskirts with my eyes big and pleading. I used to believe that 2nd st was another world where you are walking, breathing, existing. But not living. Where my identity was stuck between two mists, so thick it squeezed the capacity of my brain. As if I was frozen in a horrid moment of time. I watched these black families working their butts off, trying their hardest to pay their rent and stay on top of their bills. But gentrification came in like a thief in the night, subtle, discreet and impactful.  My friends were evicted, and I didn’t go outside as much anymore. Houses were improved but left empty. I felt empty.

But on 2nd st, I began to engage in non-profits that were focused on building community. Mending the broken gaps that scattered our youth and destroyed their dreams of success and achievement. onI found a leader within myself, as I was recognized by adults who laid a platform in my hands. I remember them saying that “we were a community. We looked out for each other.” I learned that I didn’t need to be accepted school, I didn’t have to fit in with those who believed that I was less than. My family on 2nd st reminded me that my skin color did not determine my potential, my successful capacity or my life satisfaction. I pushed those feelings of identity crisis, oppression and self hatred aside, reviving myself from being stuck between two mists, away from the horrid frozen moments of time. I was free, and the shackles of modern day slavery released as I soared towards the sky.

I still live on 2nd st.

I still remember those memories.

I still remember my evicted friends.

I still walk to the corner and get on the bus to the city far away.

I still see men in black sweatshirts exchanging packages and slipping money in their pockets.

I still hear the sirens of the police prying on the innocent.

I still feel the joy and excitement of life pressing on my body, my heart warm with passion and love for my street.

2nd st, I owe this life to you.