Let me start by saying yes, I grew up w/ my hood
in my life. My hood loved me the moment I screamed
an ambulance quiet. My hood showed up to all major events
in my life & also the ones so tiny I only turn to them when I need
something else to forget. My hood thought my mama was ice water
& my hood often felt hell bound. When my mama & my hood danced,
my hood felt livable. My hood’s a carnival of weed & wrong turns
& won’t change its story, only its writers. My hood remains
both dead & alive, depending on what kind of God you got. Folks
be so quick to ask girls like me if our hoods loved us, if we had
hoods to begin with even, I know they want me to say more
about the drugs n’ shit my hood was involved with; this
would make my hood easier to understand & dismiss. A hood
with nuance. They don’t think of nuance when they think of Black
hoods, but audacity does not surprise me. My hood was murdered early
one April morning, or it might’ve been yesterday, really it could be soon
I visit my hood a lot & I won’t lie, sometimes I cringe when I think of how
often that disenchanted path has had me stepping over my own
!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!!10!blood.