I Lived in a Neighborhood Where I Couldn’t Go Out for a Walk
Now I’m getting all of my steps in
FBI raid in my neighbor’s house. Drug deal behind my house. A trunk full of cocaine. Boyfriends on the street pulling their girlfriend’s hair. Families throwing punches. Even the neighbor’s big, black pit bull wandering the streets for hours.
Sunny San Diego is known for its beaches and picket-fenced homes with immaculate green lawns. Those homes were the ones my family and I drove past in awe before watching the scenery change from ideal to undesired.
I spent hours of my life staring out my room’s window. I’d try hard to see the furthest possible point and imagine myself there. I’d watch airplanes fly by until they vanished behind clouds and wondered, with a twinge of envy, where the passengers were headed. I watched the cars drive on the freeway and guessed if they were coming or going home.
My home felt not like a prison but as if Stephen King had written that inescapable dome over it. I couldn’t step out for a refreshing walk because I’d crash straight into the glass. I couldn’t throw on my shoes, let alone put on noise-canceling earphones, and run when I felt trapped. Even if I had the possibility, walking past littered Jack In The Box wrappers, Hot Cheetos bags, and graffitied walls didn’t love up to…
