Zone 18

Stepping over needles hidden in the weeds of my grandparents' front yard. Watching the boys on the corner smoke sour diesel, we are equal. Sitting between my aunt’s knees, she parts my hair, I cry, it hurts. My dad sleeps across from me; under the doves hanging on the wall. My neighborhood cousins knock on the door asking for my dad to play ball. The streetlights go out, and we run towards our three-story row home jumping over the hole in my front porch. “Pop pop pop” we hit the ground “pop pop pop” the world freezes. Somebody just got cracked. There is a man lying on the ground. Blood spills into the streets; his body lay waiting for the police. We sing songs in harmony, turning back on the tv. Sandlot was my favorite movie. As I fell asleep, I heard screams. Probably the cats playing in the bloody streets. My dad sleeps across from me under the doves hanging on the wall. Another Black man gone.  

 One morning the house shook fervently for about a minute. That minute was so intense we became one body. Something was wrong. Our body had been hit. I peeked through the yellow blinds and saw a dense mass of grey rising up the right side of the house. They all noticed the same and came running. Once we got outside, we saw him. The man who hit our body. He fumbled out of the car, shaken up from the impact. In his attempt to bolt from the scene he ran in fast zig zags. Our eyes glued on him in amazement as we watched the men in blue chase him. Our body has many parts, separate from the rest, I wanted him to go free. The rest of us stared at the massive dent in the brick wall. “That’s it, we gotta move,” I yelled in front of the whole block. They laughed; I didn’t find charm in that.  

In my early 20’s I left home and looked for Yakamein on the menu in Chinese carry outs. I was always disappointed. In every city/town I moved to, I looked for comfort or a sense of familiarity. It never found me, or I never found it. At night I couldn’t sleep. There were no cats fighting in alleyways. There weren’t any helicopters flying above my head obnoxiously looking for missing persons, “Johnny go home.” Police sirens weren’t whizzing past my window at 3a.m. Everything was still, quiet, and dark. I heard my own voice during those times. Nevertheless, I missed home.  

Chicken Box, 4-piece wings and fries, saltpeppaketchup. Cheesesteak; American cheese, fried onions, hots, tomato, lettuce, mayo, and ketchup. Triple Mix; sweet tea, lemonade, and fruit punch. Snowballs; chopped ice, egg custard, and marshmallow. Italian Cold Cut; salami, ham, pepperoni, provolone cheese, hots, banana peppers, oil, vinegar and mayo. Dirty yak; thick noodles drenched in motor oil, extra fried onions, shrimp, and a hardboiled egg. I have been starving trying to make a home out of what’s on my plate. It’s been two years, 30 restaurants, 3 false starts, and 1 imitation, delusions of things that taste alive. Yet, this place keeps me away. 

There was an organ in the sunroom. That is where we hid the first time we heard gun shots. Everyone fell to the floor immediately, laying as flat as possible. We ran to the sunroom and buried our bodies under the covers. Grandma had an organ there. When unused, unloved objects were not blocking my passageway, I would stare at the keys. “Keep ya head up child things are gonna get easier,” with this tune in my head on repeat. “Keep ya head up lil red,” I imagine Tupac singing to me.

As I released those frequencies, I begged the keys to speak to me. I had been having dreams, always imagining a different life for me. A little brown girl, plucking keys, singing soprano, her thoughts were finally free. “Daddy, you're too loud!” I screamed high pitched every time he got carried away with his snoring. I slept on the little couch across from him. Some nights he would have to stay awake to massage my legs. Behind every cramp a tear fell and then a promise came, “this used to happen to me, it’s a sign that you’re growing.” Pain is a temporary thing which life’s hardships sometimes bring. 

Like the zombies who roamed the streets, zone 18 was home for me. I loved those dirty streets. It's where I adopted Kitty, my flea infested kitten, who loved to be swung around in plastic shopping bags. It's where my socks got stuck to peanut butter mice traps. It's where my bare butt got burnt on the radiator, mouthing off, impatiently waiting for my grandmother to dry me off. It's where I watched my grandfather make his green goo hair products. It's where my family and I gathered around the only television in the house to watch Avatar the Last Airbender. It’s where I learned to survive.