To Inglewood (Part 1)

in the summertime

To the city whom I love and left and always long to return
I reminisce on the nourishment that you gave me
Growing learning loving
Hidden in the two bedroom apartment on Market Street
From the gunshots, the drive by’s
The drug deals in my garage
Ridding my bike by the late summertime light
Thanking god for the daylight savings, inviting me to trek one more time up the hill before I was inevitable called, beckoned, speeding down,
Down into the safety once more
No matter the pain and aguish, market street was home, messy roach infested home that it was, it was home
A bastard home that was not fit for four, little light skinned children destined to become intellectuals (Berkeley, Irvine and Santa Cruz don’t you know)
I, never knowing the ‘dangers,’ only the limitations of my exploration
I, never knowing the ‘poverty,’ only knowing to never leave the food out for too long because the bugs would get in it
I, never knowing the black box, only knowing the summertime hbo movies
Hoping for Tatino’s chicken fingers and big sticks
I, never knowing the people, never knowing the people
Lost in translation, the community, the people the potential friends were always potential enemies and the curiosity became fear, not fear of those who created Inglewood Compton South Central Bedford Sty Southside Chicago East Oakland, Brooklyn
But the fear of people with skin tones deep and dark, warm and golden, the beautiful complexity of street intellectuals, rebels, warriors comrades my people, foundation for my struggle
The women only loud and fast
The men only deviously out to get me, money, drugs
One the devil incarnate
One the wrong kind of feminine
All wrong