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I grew up broke in the unruly neighborhood streets of the ghetto. Poverty stricken, loud, and unbearable living conditions were amongst us in Harlem. The town was inhabited by Caucasians in the yester years but now the streets bore home to a more undisciplined and ill-mannered group of citizens; Latinos. Similar to many immigrant families, some of us tried to assimilate with the American culture and yet others just flocked to their own people.
The streets, as they were known, were straight out of a John Singleton “hood” movie as was often referred to his work. We had gunfights. We had pit bulls running wild. We had our own share of street pharmacists. We had the users of these un-prescribed drugs so high that they were oblivious to their surroundings as they yelled obscenities. Yet, the cops were M.I.A. But, while all of this was going on, mommy dearest had me locked upstairs in my room reading “Are you there God? It’s me Margaret!” and wondering if I too could play outside with the rest of my peers. Thank goodness for my mother. Its unfathomable to think of the person I would be today had she given in to my pleas.
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