ghetto

ghetto \'ge-(.)tō\ n 1 : a residential area populated by people with limited access to valuable resources 2 : depending on cultural background, the ghetto may be called “el barrio” or “the hood.” People who don’t live anywhere near the ghetto call it “the wrong neighborhood,” “a bad area,” “the place where those people live.” Regardless of what they call the ghetto, anyone who lives there wants to get out, though if one escapes, the ghetto will likely remain within him 3 : a way of life, motivated by the will to survive at any cost. This is the only rule that governs the ghetto and serves as the foundation of the ghetto mentality, one that develops in early childhood. Born and brought up in the ghetto, one learns that there is never enough, so take what you can, whenever you can get it, then show it off to let everyone else in the ghetto know you came up 4 : the ghetto is a strict teacher, discipline often deadly. Tests are administered daily, failure is put in check immediately. Tempers are quick to click, voices loud, faces serious. Eyes shift, looking for weakness, anyone caught slippin’ becomes a potential victim. Girls learn different lessons than boys in ‘da hood. Primarily, her body is not her own; its value and safety depend on how well she manages “it”, see OBJECT. Boys learn that survival is not expected so many live as if their actions have no consequence. Survivors of the ghetto are glorified like war heroes, though society salutes them like homeless Vietnam veterans. Drugs and alcohol are rampant, vice the easiest means to avoid the process of critically thinking a way out of hopelessness. Apathy and laziness are the children of such despair. Even the streetlights seem dim, like possibility muted. Death becomes an attractive alternative. Still, there is an unseen sense that things could be different “if I could jus’ get me some more…” The sentence usually completed with a temporary fix, money or respect, both transient. In the ghetto, more money means more problems, and you have to hurt somebody to get more respect, which always invites a visit from Ms. Payback, the bitch, see KARMA. In the end, the only “more” earned is emptiness. There are those who know this and have learned to grow beyond the limits of the ghetto. Some leave for good, others return now again to remind themselves how thankful they are to have left. Others still may come back long enough to encourage others that they too can rise up “if only they could just….” Though this sentence may end differently for each person, leaving the ghetto is dependent on just two conditions: what one has, see FAITH, and what she is willing to give up, see ILLUSION 5 : There were periods of time when I lived on the edge of the ghetto. Most recently, I lived in Phoenix, an area so ghetto the city refuses to provide garbage services. I feared mostly for my teenage daughter who had to walk through the streets in the early dawn to catch the bus to school. I had to deny my toddler the pleasure of playing in the yard. Broken glass and dime bags littered the small patch of dying grass in the front of the apartment complex. Trying to contain an active toddler to an upstairs patio is a daily frustration that compounded the general tension I felt while living in the area:

“Crackhead bitch!”

“You ain’t shit!”

“Fuck you!”

“Trick!”

The fussing and fighting were commonplace. Each argument varied in language and content but the message was the same: Something is terribly wrong and I don’t know how to fix it! Sometimes I prayed for them. Mostly though I shouted back.

“It’s three o’clock in the morning!”

“People gotta’ work ‘round here!”

“My baby’s try’na to sleep!”

“Shut the fuck up!”

The latter won me the quickest response: “Fuck you too, bitch!” That was the last time I offered comment. In this ghetto, everybody knows where everybody lives. They know what car you drivin’. Tires can end up slashed or missing, and front doors are easily kicked in. Two buildings down from my complex, a woman was stabbed to death. It was two weeks before anyone found her body, eaten away by her own dogs. It took two Steel 211’s and a blunt to blur my vision enough to ignore that reality 6 : By definition, the ghetto is the poster child for dysfunctional living. It’s difficult for people who don’t live in the ghetto to understand how we could live this way. The truth is, we can’t. We do not live, we survive. The difference glares like snow reflects light. How we survive is different for each of us. I survived because I didn’t start in the ghetto, I wasn’t conditioned to believe there is no other way. I knew there was another world outside, I’d been there and I expected to return as soon as I was able. My history granted me that hope. I’d like to say that my spiritual faith strengthened my will to get up in the morning, go to work, be productive and function as if everything was alright already. Instead, it was faith in my social privilege – I knew what it was to be free. That knowledge fed my power to change my perspective on external conditions to better suit my children and me. Though the patio was small, I filled it with life, fresh green palms and flowers blooming bold color. My wind chimes soothed unsettled nerves and the stench in the breeze kept the mosquitoes away. Children from ‘round the block would come play with the rocks I brought from the Rogue River. There was an organic cooperative garden a quarter mile from us. After patio play we’d ride our bicycles to survey what was growing, naming all the good things to eat. We did art together at the community center, making treasure chests out of recycled cigar boxes. Behind the center, the city did build a new playground, though in less than a week it was littered with potato chip bags and empty bottles of cheap beer. I wrapped plastic grocery bags around my hands like gloves and starting picking up the garbage. It didn’t take long before the children pitched in. I took advantage of the teachable moment. “Don’t let nobody leave their waste in yo’ space.” I can only pray it stayed with them. I pray for the woman who for years has led the children and youth at the center, watching people from outside come to volunteer a few hours, then go back to the comfort of their own neighborhoods. Though I lived there, I must have seemed like one of those outsiders who came and went, leaving the ghetto children behind. I admit I had selfish reasons for serving the role I did. I wanted to feel free within, to occupy my mind with wonder rather than worry 7 : I wonder about the children often. I saw one since I’ve moved. He told me that he and his grandma planted greens at the garden. I wanted to tell him the story of the Phoenix and its promise of transformation, but he had to go. “My grandmamma waitin’.” I remembered, the ghetto ain’t got no patience.