He was always fond of the palm trees.
They stood tall in their own power.
He looked up to them, not in a literal sense, but figurative, in that he felt like he could learn from them. The world he comes from doesn’t provide solid ground to stand on, but the palm trees were always grounded.
Never blown over, no matter the force of the wind. Not easily swayed, nor easy to convince.
The palm trees.
Symbolic to the people in the city. They lined the boulevards, avenues, and streets alike.
Watchers of the movements of the city. This was…
He never knew peace.
He feared happiness more than he feared pain.
Pain was temporary, but the longevity of happiness left him uncomfortable.
Moments of peace were disrupted by thoughts of fear. His mind would often drift to the darkest of crevices. Like sand, whenever there was a grasp at internal peace, it slipped through his fingers.
He thought the worst of most situations and developed a unique skill to talk himself out of his own happiness — an escape mechanism from ever feeling joy.
Smiles came rarely. But he didn’t wear a grin.
His expressions were melancholy.
Seventy degrees in the winter, eighty degrees in the summer. Palm trees that line the asphalt boulevards rise above the skyline.
A young Angeleno finds his way in what they call the City of Angels.
A city of dreams.
From Downtown to the Westside, from the Valley to South Central, the city’s culture is defined but there was always something particularly special about Mid-City.
Mid-City is the heart of the city. It lies at the intersection of culture. The neighborhood’s main arteries, Pico & La Brea, can take you from Santa Monica to Downtown, or Beverly Hills to Baldwin Hills.
“This is something I can do now” are words of belonging and attainment expressed by a young Black girl from Detroit when celebrating the historic barrier broken today by Kamala Harris — a Black woman sworn in as Vice President of the United States of America.
Today makes me think of the importance of representation and the impostor syndrome that many young and old Black boys and girls confront daily.
Impostor Syndrome is the voice in your head that tells you you’re not good enough.
When you’re Black, impostor syndrome hits harder as a byproduct of racial discrimination.
The people revered the sky.
The celestial sphere brought meaning and purpose to their life.
The hands of time were cosmic in a sense.
The cycles of the sun and moon dictated what was and what wasn’t. Consequently, the era’s of time forebode uncertainty as much as they brought about clarity.
The past always slipped away, and things stood still in the present as if time and space combined. But the future, no matter how promising or bleak, was always something to hold and look forward to.
The future is all he knew.
He lived in his head.
Brand Marketer | Digital Strategist | Writer — Born in Los Angeles, educated in Arizona, elevated in New York. @Yermzus on IG & Twitter.