A roaring city, that’s how I think of it. At the old beat up crossing streets of Dale Avenue and Ball Road is where I call home. Where cars constantly zoom by more often than we breathe. Where another gangster got shot by another and their war continues in their battle field. Where you can smell the fresh spray paint on the wall they just cover with new paint. Where most are not expected to come out of poverty, yet few are rare who do so.
A total of twelve years put together is how long I’ve lived in Anaheim. Although I moved back and forth however, nothing can ever take the feeling of home. It was never the safest place to be, not the best place to grow up on but, you develop a love to it. An area predominantly hispanic which comforted me for so long. Whether you knew them or not you knew you were protected by the people. One big family that’s how I always thought about it.
I was one who was expected to stay the same. First generation, never to come out of where I stood. Running from trouble, staying as far as I can from it. It was as if it was a wild fire chasing after me. I out ran it. It was the only way to conquer the streets. Tired but I did it and I would do it all over again if I had to.
Eso es todo mi nina.
It’s as if I can hear it so close. Those are few words that make it home. Few words where you know you did good. Few words where you know you made it out. You made it out of this maze, which was set up for you to fail and be trapped. You made it out passing the streets that forever stay to be called home.