CHAPTER 2 #2
Lines in their skin, wisdom in their eyes, movements a bit lazy but never soft, don’t get it twisted.
We called them Unc. The younger dudes talking about,
“C’mon, Unc, you old man.”
Or when they be schooling the new hustlers on how to do it better, they holler,
“Get outta here wit’ dat, Unc.”
They would laugh it off. But they never argued it.
They had already lived the life the block was still trying to sell.
They done stood on corners. Done chased money.
Done lost people. Done made choices they couldn’t take back.
They wasn’t as strict as the ol’ heads. Didn’t sit on porches all day watching like the aunties.
But they was still outside. Still a part of things, just with a certain distance.
They would give you game without making it sound like a lesson.
“Don’t get caught up in dat.”
“Watch how he movin’.”
“That ain’t whatcha think it is.”
They didn’t preach it. And if you listened, really listened, you could save yourself from trouble. But most kids on my block didn’t. See, the OG’s spoke from experience and experience don’t always sound exciting when you young.
Some of them had jobs. Real ones. Wore work boots, lunch pails, early mornings.
But the block still had a hand on them they couldn’t shake.
Every now and then, you catch them watching the younger ones move the same way they used to.
Seeing the same mistakes lining up. Like they was watching a younger version of themselves walk straight into a storm they already survived. Or didn’t.
Some of them carried ghosts too. Friends that ain’t make it out.
Brothers that was locked up. Versions of themselves they had to bury just to keep going.
They stood as proof too. Proof of what happens when you stay too long.
When you almost make it out but don’t fully leave.
They carried that middle ground that gave us perspective.
They brought truth to the block. The kind you don’t understand when you young but refer to later, when life start lining up the same way they said it would.
Then you realize, they wasn’t just talking some bullshit.
They was trying to hand you lessons gently before the block made you learn it the hard way. And on my block, that mattered.
The block’s greatest enemy was the police.
Not because they was always there, but because when protection was needed most, they was nowhere to be found.
Sirens didn’t mean help. They meant something was already wrong.
Once those lights turned the corner the atmosphere on the block changed.
Conversations dropped mid-sentence. Laughter cut short.
Kids got pulled back without being told twice.
“Get back ova here,”
Aunties said, low but sharp. Nobody asked why.
We already knew. They cars rolled down the block deliberate, with the windows cracked just enough for they eyes to scan everything.
Not looking at people, looking through them.
Searching for what they already believed was there.
Keep your hands visible, that was rule number one.
Don’t reach too fast. Don’t move too sudden.
Don’t give them a reason, for them, a reason didn’t have to be real. It just had to be enough.
I seen boys get stopped for nothing. Slammed against walls, assuming they guilty of something they ain’t even understand yet. But the law ain’t come to ‘understand.’ They came to control. Asking questions that wasn’t really questions.
“Where you going?”
“What’s your name?”
Demanding. Same questions. Different tone, every time. Telling you that you don’t belong in your own space.
Grown men who worked, who had families, who carried themselves right, get talked to worse than an animal.
Respect never a part of the exchange. The worst part is how normal it is.
It was built into the block the same as the cracked sidewalks.
Their presence meant things could go left real fast, and once it did you had no say in how it ended.
So, our problems got handled inside the hood.
Aunties stepping in. Ol’ heads talking things down.
OG’s pulling you to the side before it got worse.
Calling the police came with risk. Questions.
Time. Attention you ain’t need and the last thing you wanted.
Too many stories. Too many moments where help wasn’t help.
Where things escalated instead of settled.
Where somebody ended up in cuffs, or worse, over stuff that could’ve been talked through.
So, we learned. Keep it close. Don’t invite forces in that don’t know how to leave right.
Handle it ourselves. Even when it wasn’t perfect. Even when it wasn’t enough.
Trust ain’t something you lose all at once.
It wears down. Moment by moment. Interaction by interaction.
Until one day, you stop expecting anything good to come from it.
On the block, that’s what it was. The understanding that, out here, you had to watch yourself.
Because the authorities wasn’t really watching out for you, they was watching over you.
The best part of my hood was the kids. We wasn’t just playing with other kids on the block, we was learning too.
And you got taught whether you was ready or not.
You learned how to fight. With fists, with words, with timing, knowing when not to move and when to move.
You learned how to read people before you read a book.
Who was bluffing, who meant what they said, who you could trust.
How to survive embarrassment, how to laugh things off.
How to find your place in a system that didn’t have rules written down, yet everybody understood.
Kids watch everything. Then we repeat it. In our own way.
We had our own system too, our own economy. Loose change turned into candy. Candy turned into trades. Trades turned into favors.
“I got two Now & Laters.”
“I’ll give you a popsicle fa dat.”
“Bet, hold dis for me, I’ll let you ride my bike.”
Everything had value. Not money value, block value. Who had snacks. Who had toys. Who had access to stuff other kids didn’t. Even information moved.
“Yo, they fightin’ on 53rd.”
“Miss Janine lookin’ fa you.”
“Aye, yo’ mama comin’.”
That kind of knowledge was worth something.
The kids kept the block moving in ways people didn’t notice. We carried the energy. Noise. Life. We also carried habits. Patterns. Things we picked up early and held onto longer than we should’ve. You ain’t just grow up around other kids, you was raised by them too.
One night cops dragged a man out the house in his pajamas and handcuffs. Derek. I played hopscotch with his daughter Natasha. His shirt was halfway off, his kids on the steps screaming. His little boy kept yelling.
“Daddy! Daddy!”
The police shoved Derek into the car like he was a piece of trash. Mama grabbed my arm, hard.
“Don’t stare. That ain’t yo’ business!”
But it was my business. That was my block. Even at four, five years old, I knew this was the world I was growing up in. A world where the block raised you just as much as your mama did. But childhood on my block had an expiration date, and it came fast.