Take a Chance
You visit my neighborhood and you are afraid. Your wide, flat eyes see dangerous people. Brown, black. Tattooed, pierced. Titanic dreads, dashikis, burkas, salwar kameez, kente cloth, yarmulkes, angry t-shirts, do-rags. Men in makeup and bald women. Silver rings up to the first knuckle. Leather.
I see the globe, an opportunity to share and learn, brothers and sisters with friendly smiles and
helpful hands. I see my neighbors and rejoice in our differences and our sameness.
You see concrete and age. Graffiti murals on dusty red brick. Sinister painted planters and shadowy places where calamity lurks.
I see history. I see the Victorians who built this neighborhood. I see crumbling architecture,
beautiful in its precariousness. I see living art. I see shadows split by dusty beams of sunlight. I
see home.
You hear sirens and angry shouted words. Bone-rattling bass lines. Screeching tires, air-brakes, trucks beeping in reverse, the crash of dumpsters.
I hear church bells, neighbors laughing riotously on front stoops, children playing football in the
street, frenetic life.
You smell exhaust and gasoline. Strange restaurant odors and odd essential oils. Tobacco, cloves, and pot.
I smell garlic, lemon grass, roasted lamb, patchouli, hookah smoke, laundry on the line, old
bookstores and fresh, life-giving bread.
You taste dust.
I taste freedom.
You refuse to touch.
I grab with both hands.
Open your eyes and see the outer edges of things, not just what is obvious. Dark corners can hide treasure. Expand your view to rejoice in the vibrant inner city.
Take a chance.