Some say where you come from inspires who you become. I walk through these streets lost as the familiar has become unfamiliar. Empty stoops, over-priced real estate and the flood of outsiders. Replaces a neighborhood once filled with crowded street corners, bootleggers, loud music and children at play. Filled with a flood of mixed emotions, I make my way down Putnam Avenue, reflecting as I stroll down memory lane. Beyond these gentrified blocks lies the memories and stories created in these streets, my hometown. A visit back home before the transformation would have been filled with caution and paranoia. As a child you have no inclination to how much of where you come from, can affect who you become. A child trying to find rainbows through the constant dark cloud of reality. Sheltered through family jewels, filled with guidance and love. A family trying to protect they're youngest member from what lied outside our Brownstone windows. The curiosity as child led me to seek what was being hidden. I can remember vividly frequently lying in darkness with lights from passing sirens filling my bedroom. Walking past crowds as cops secures a lifeless body lying on the concrete covered with white cloth. The neighborhoods owl who'd frequently sit leaning out of her second floor window screaming warnings. "Drive by" she'd yell with a perfect view of the tinted car awaiting to cross the street light. A vivid memory of a time playing with a handful dolls alongside a childhood friend outdoors. The neighborhood owl's voice pierced my ears as we plaid under her window. Her yelling prompt me to find the closest cover behind a gate and trashcans . Leaving only seconds between innocent bystanders from the exploding bullets ringing through our block. Embracing a neighborhood girl of poverty, her mother a recovering addict, and a sister to nine. In that moment, we hid behind a trashcan, no time to climb the flight of stairs to safety. Twenty years later, the remembrance of that fear is instilled in me. Lying face down on the concrete trying to avoid being another statistic, longing to survive another day. The feeling of being petrified still haunts me. Startled at any unfamiliar sound, paranoia is my best friend. My eyes are everywhere, darting and searching for any possible threats. Sometimes I lay in the bed, reverting back to that child. The front door being the magical closet, but there was no mystical land or talking lion awaiting you. There were no happy endings, only the ice cold streets of Brooklyn, New York. Understanding , once you exit the front door you were on your own. The stoop was your safe zone, leaving others no choice but to abide by the code of the streets. Otherwise it led exposed to the vulnerability of the relentless streets. The hottest summers couldn't cool down the tragedies and coldness of the streets. So I feared for my loved ones from a distance. There I sat on the stoop occasionally playing on the sidewalk. A young child possessing front row seats to the madness and reality of an infected community. The survival of the fittest, awaiting and counting off each family member who’d return. They say it takes a village to raise a child. So the neighbors became like family and the block became our home. Through the darkness we celebrated life through block parties, barbecues, and gatherings. Until we finally got that knock on the door from the man with the suitcase. We were one of the first to shake off to gentrification. Welcoming the coffee shops, city bike lanes, and finally the arrival of the police to ensure their new transplants would be safe from the toxins of a dying community. I left with Brooklyn forever imprinted on my soul. Adjusting to another borough, Queens would become our new home and neighborhood. After all, this was New York City, Queens was no different from Brooklyn. Only a fool would let the grass, trees, and homes with yards deceive you. The new borough would only prepare me for new challenges. Though Queens would never understand what I’d seen in Brooklyn. I take my shades off and look around at what we call genderfication has done to my hometown. Bed-stuy is now Bedford Heights as Brooklyn has become the new hip place to be. Staring off at the corners once filled with lurkers, stoops filled with families and friends now gone. Filled with memories and stories you'd just had to see to believe. They are all just fragments of my memory and lessons which have prepared me for a world full of coldness. I sit on the stoop that once belonged to my ancestors and remember these streets made me. I close my eyes and smile taking a deep breath. I wouldn't want to call any other place home. We all have stories and some a bit nicer than others. No one has lived your life but you. Whether your childhood or hometown was good or bad ,they have molded us into who we are today. Life is a journey, take your memories and allow them to teach you. The amount of life we live should remind us , the past and present circumstances can come and go. It’s about what we do after our life lessons. I’ll never forget where I come from . So next time you wonder why I talk like that and why walk like that, just know it's the Brooklyn in me.
