A Reflection…

Back in the day, when we were young.

Dear whoever,

To he or she with a moment to spare, to listen. Sound like I know exactly what I’m about to say, right? I don’t. This is just a reflection. A snapshot of thoughts I’ve had throughout life, staring at stared at my own reflection. Those short moments when you stand alone, assessing. Do I have enough to make it through the day? Will I have enough to take unknown hits that will surely come my way? IDK, but you’re late for school, class or work so hurry up, let’s go.

While binging on ‘Me time’ recently I got back to watching documentaries. Not because I’m a nerd, I am. Not because I was bored, I was. I watch them because I love seeing how life is viewed through different lenses. I loathe not so reality TV shows. I grow tired of the music videos that show my culture but not our stories. My computer is always almost dead and my TV’s always seem to collect dust. Lately I feel like I only keep them to entertain company. I stumbled upon “56 up” and “7 up” from the “Up Series” started in 1964. They set out to follow the lives of 14 fourteen children from different socioeconomic backgrounds, checking in on them every 7 years, as a means to get a glimpse of England in the year 2000. They ask the children questions about life aspirations, school, boyfriends/girlfriends, politics, views on race, etc. I was found myself intrigued by the foresight of this project. I looked back on my childhood and wondered what it would’ve been like if one of the adults in my neighborhood had this same foresight. Staring out their window in 1991 watching kids playing in the street. Wondering how many and which of these children will make it to their 30’s. “Eenie, meenie, miney, mo.” Who will be the first to go? As the years pass more and more are friends missing from those old pictures. We aren’t even thirty yet. Where’s my DeLorean?

Twenty-one years ago at tender age of 8 I was a dreamer. I was an only child with an imagination that would keep me occupied for hours. My mother must have loved it. I dreamed of Apollo type missions into the unknown. I longed to go on quests to foreign lands like Indiana Jones. I was born poor very aware of the feeling but never dreamed of money. Never envied Uncle Scrooge or his nephews. In my mind was the universe, rich ideas and endless possibilities. However, outside my door the world was relegated to the front of our homes. There were 7 of us (kids), ranging in age from 7 to 11. We played tag, hide-n-seek, American Gladiators (with Nerf guns and old pillows), ride bikes, roller blade but don’t pass the last tree before the corner. It was 1992 and Dope boys, our neighbors, controlled the corners. These 20 something’s wore the clothes and shoes we always wanted and drove the cars our parents wish they could afford. We didn’t think they were bad people; they’d grown up around us too. They’d speak as they walk by, hold their blunts down so we didn’t see what we smelled coming, lol.

Monday’s were when I learned duality. When I was back in Maryland, back in class at my Catholic school. My friends there couldn’t relate to my tales so I eventually stopped telling them. I saw and heard how different our weekends were. Maybe it was bad, what we were seeing. Maybe its not that normal. The look on my friends faces weren’t smiles, more like disbelief. They couldn’t identify with my stories from this foreign land, DC. Funny though, on sleepovers I’d see older their brothers snorting what my neighbors smelling, smelling like my neighbors smelled. Same zips (bag) different ZIP (code). I knew things weren’t that different just not why. “You gon’ learn today!”

Martin Luther King Day came and went in a daze. Skate boarding behind my grandpa, a WWII vet, we’d just seen a murder. Guess where we were going?

Around the corner, a young mad had hopped out of his car and emptied his clip seeking vengeance. I saw the force that bullets carried into the 20 something’s body. I heard a sound that I would become all too familiar with once I reached my adolescence.

Pop… Pop… Pop Pop Pop Pop Pop Pop

Every now and then my Grandfather stories would open up and tell me tales from Asia in WWII. “They bumming.” he’d say, with his southern twang. He said that when he was in the trenches in dodging bombs and bullets a fellow soldier told him “The ones you hear ain’t meant for you.” Thankfully throughout my adolescence I would find this saying to be true. This was my first encounter in life with death. I was the first time I realized that someone you know could be here today and never seen again. I wish it could’ve been my last at least for a while. “Best Friends Forever.” Kids think they’ll be friends forever. Sometimes, in some places, forever comes too soon.

Now back to the mirror. If you’d asked me at 7, a bright-eyed dreamer, what I wanted to be when I grew up you would’ve heard an astronaut and an archeologist. By 14 I’d made my first concession, an engineer. If you’d asked me at 21 when it was dark and my friends were dying, I would’ve said “Alive.” The fatalist mentality that comes along with walking out the house to survive had now got me too. Looking at the mirror today wondering if you’ll be here to look at it tomorrow. All while getting dressed to go out to party with my best friends.