The Writer In Me

Hood Welcome

I remember my mother bar-b-quing in the backyard shortly after we’d moved into the neighborhood. We’d ducked inside to get pans to put the burgers in and I’ll be damned if we didn’t see a bunch of kid’s heads rush past the kitchen window at the gang way on the side of our house. By the time we made it to the front door, they‘d rushed through the fence and were headed back up the street where they lived. My mother almost died, cracked her side laughing. Seconds later, after we got over our anger, we joined her. It was a sight to see. That meat was hot as hell, but there they were, running and holding on like their hands were buns - ketchup and mustard be damned. On my mother’s orders, when we saw them outside again, we brought them into our home to see her. She told them not to ever pull that mess again. Said if they wanted something of hers just ask. She scolded them as if they were hers and later, their mother came down the street and thanked her for it, then whipped their behinds. The next time we had a bar-b-que, they were invited as were other bad ass kids in the neighborhood. We all became good friends at some point. But, as life would have it, most of us separated as various circumstances moved us into different realms. Some got caught up on drugs, some drinking, some ended up in prison, others moved out of the state (God bless them for having the good sense to do so), and some are still here. But, for most of us, the friendships were left on 23rd street. That really sucks.

MY INTRO TO DA HOOD

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MY INTRO TO DA

HOOD

Hood Welcome

I remember my mother bar-b-quing in the backyard shortly after we’d moved into the neighborhood. We’d ducked inside to get pans to put the burgers in and I’ll be damned if we didn’t see a bunch of kid’s heads rush past the kitchen window at the gang way on the side of our house. By the time we made it to the front door, they‘d rushed through the fence and were headed back up the street where they lived. My mother almost died, cracked her side laughing. Seconds later, after we got over our anger, we joined her. It was a sight to see. That meat was hot as hell, but there they were, running and holding on like their hands were buns - ketchup and mustard be damned. On my mother’s orders, when we saw them outside again, we brought them into our home to see her. She told them not to ever pull that mess again. Said if they wanted something of hers just ask. She scolded them as if they were hers and later, their mother came down the street and thanked her for it, then whipped their behinds. The next time we had a bar-b-que, they were invited as were other bad ass kids in the neighborhood. We all became good friends at some point. But, as life would have it, most of us separated as various circumstances moved us into different realms. Some got caught up on drugs, some drinking, some ended up in prison, others moved out of the state (God bless them for having the good sense to do so), and some are still here. But, for most of us, the friendships were left on 23rd street. That really sucks.