They call it “the hood.”
We call it family.
They call it “ghetto.”
We call it culture.
It’s loud — but it’s home.
The ice cream truck rings at the same time every day.
Kids run out barefoot, waving crumpled bills.
They call it noisy.
We call it real.
They call it dangerous.
We call it ours.
Where they see “projects,”
We see the roots of resilience.
We made homes out of scraps,
and turned pain into power.
They fed us leftovers — we turned it into soul food.
They gave us shame — we turned it into pride.
Our curls aren’t “messy.”
They’re history, thick with story.
Our food isn’t “too spicy.”
It’s seasoned with generations.
Our music isn’t “too loud.”
It’s the sound of survival.
So no,
you don’t get to look down on what we built
just because it doesn’t look like your white picket fence.
Because this right here?
This is sacred.
And you can’t take it from us.
Posted in response to the challenge The Value of Communities - Writing .
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