My wife sometimes
Jokes that she
Wants me to be a
Bit more polished.
Maybe wear capris
Like rich Italian guys.
Or maybe like a scarf
Or something.
And I say what
I always say.
I'm from Park Hill.
It's part of our schtick.
She shows me some
Ruffle-necked Versace
Model in a magazine,
And I remind her:
I'm from Park Hill.
Lest she forget.
There will not be
Manicures and
Sculpted eyebrows
And whatnot.
I mean, I've made
My concessions.
I mostly wear clothes
That fit. Button ups
Even. The occasional
Bright colors instead of
Navy blue and gray.
Oh, and I drive a minivan.
The list goes on.
But there are limits.
I'd be lying if I said
Park Hill isn't down
There, a hard edged
Jaw line, eyeing my
Softness and shaking
His head. He still
Carries some weight.
Even after all these years.
In Park Hill, we
Are not soft. We
Learn that.
In Park Hill, we wear
Baggie jeans and
Hoodies.
We don't make eye
Contact, unless we
Are ready to fight.
Park Hill gives us
Nicknames like
Rusty razor blades.
Mine were:
Piss skin.
Halfbreed.
Nobody.
Punk-ass.
Chicken.
Menace.
I was a gangly,
Fearful, punk-ass kid.
Park Hill did not approve.
Soft wasn’t the currency
In my neighborhood.
The popular kids
Were the kids who could
Punch faces bloody
And cuss, and tell
Filthy jokes on the bus.
The ones who were not victims.
Not scared of everything
Like me.
Park Hill favors
The strong and
Snacks on the weak.
I want you to smell it:
Gray air and cracked streets.
The liquor store sleeps
During the day.
Hunkered down,
Wrapped in the
Tart smell of urine.
I want you to taste it:
The delightful burst of
Sour Apple Laffy Taffy
In our mouths
That we bought with
Food stamps
That my homey's cousin
Would give to us
To buy candy and bring
Him the change.
When you are a drug
Dealer, and clients pay
You with food stamps,
This is how you
Liquidate your
Assets.
Little did we
Really care.
Because … candy.
In Park Hill, my reflection
Was alleyways and
Liquor store and
Barber shop and
Broken fences
And bullies.
I learned myself.
Nothing and nobody.
Never gonna be
Anybody.
I remember when
I gave in. I thought
To myself:
If that’s what the
World thinks of me,
Then that’s what I’ll be.
I tried to be a menace.
I was pretty bad at it.
But I gave it a shot.
Hung out with guys
Who thought violence
Was funny.
I was in the car
When crazy E
Leaned out the window
And threw a heavy
Traffic cone at a lady
Standing at a bus stop
As we drove by.
It hit her in the chest.
She crumpled.
And we didn't even know her.
And that was the point.
We burnt rubber
Laughing.
I was half laughing.
This outfit didn’t fit me
And I knew it.
But I tried it on for a while.
It was the only outfit
In my closet.
The one I was
Being told
Was mine.
It felt good to give in.
With others who had given in.
Like a brotherhood.
We never asked,
Why do we do this?
Why do we surrender
As an act of war?
Why do I take the label
That you etched on my face
With a knife
And get revenge
By taking your knife
And cutting it into
My heart?
Sometimes when I tell
My firecracker five year old
To go to her room,
She fights me, and disobeys
And gets a consequence.
And then I say again:
"Go to your room."
And now, she goes to her room.
And then looks back at me
With a cleverness in her eyes,
And she says:
"That's what I want to do.
I like it in my room."
We don't like the story,
So we write fiction
Right on top of it.
Go ahead and take it.
I didn't want it anyway.
Go ahead and kill me.
I wanted to die anyway.
Smiling as the tears
Fall down our faces.
Park Hill, I don't
Think about you much.
With your streets
Cracked as lips.
You're a complex knot,
A confusing hardness
In my belly. Like a relative
In prison you don't
See anymore.
You are a jumble of
White mom and
Black dad and piss skin
And liquor store and
Bloods and crips,
Video games at
The corner store,
Comic books.
Park Hill, you
Stole my bike
Like it was a hobby.
In summer, your air
Could get so hot
It would liquify
The asphalt in places.
I'd poke the gummy
Blackness with my toe.
You gave me my
Best friend.
We would draw
Comic book characters
Together for hours
And hours.
Quiet together.
Always together.
Dion, my blood,
I never told you
I loved you. I didn't
Know. We didn't talk
Like that. But you are
My blood. My own blood.
Family.
When I left Park Hill,
I never looked back.
I didn't know how to
Hold it all. I couldn't make
It all fit. I ran.
You remember how
We used to whip
Those dudes on
Street Fighter 2
At the Seven Eleven?
We had them donating
Quarters, bro.
Remember that apple
Cobbler at the food court
At the Tabor Center?
Closest we ever got
To heaven, and that brother
Would always smile and
Scoop us extra.
Remember that alley behind
My house where you
Could avoid the gang
Members, if you were
Willing to risk
Walking by that pitbull
Who had dug a hole
Beneath his fence
Big enough to shoot
His head out sideways
Like a hungry hippo
And try to drag you
Screaming into
His yard?
I remember the day
My dad grabbed my mom
By the front of her shirt,
In the kitchen,
Burning his rage
Into her eyes
With his eyes.
I remember his jaw.
Hard, like he had
A mouthful of
Thumbtacks.
Like Park Hill.
You remember
The parking lot
At Stapleton airport
Where the snow plows
Would dump all the snow?
Snow for miles, snow
Miles high, filthy beautiful
Castles of snow that you
Could explore for hours.
Adventure, a thick smoke
In our lungs.
Park Hill, I am one
Of your sons.
You are that black pitbull.
In my alley.
Silent as a kitten.
Until the right moment
When you lunge
And rattle the fence
Like thunder,
Jaws wide, shooting
Beneath the fence,
Whining for someone
The chew.
I guess somebody
Loves you because
Someone kept feeding you.
But I wonder how many times
You bit them. I don't
Wonder. You bit us all.
I ran from you. And I love you
And I hate you. And I love you.
And I want to forget you
And remember you.
And I guess I'm a little
Proud that I survived you.
And you're the reason
I still can't wear red.
I feel like I'll get shot.
And I want to go
Back in time and visit
Myself, that Park Hill boy
In all his gangly
Nappy-headed insecurity,
That screechy voice that
Makes me sick whenever
I hear it on video.
That skin that wasn't
Black enough to be black.
And definitely not white.
That kid who was
Always out of joint.
Out of the socket. Kind
Of hanging there, limp.
I want to scoop him
Up and tell him. And Dion
Too. Like a big brother
Who made it out, and comes
Back with a sweet ride,
And big, booming stories
Of the big wide world,
And gifts, and secret
Handshakes and
Big hands cradling
Your knotty head,
And a grin that stares
Into your eyes
And knows you.
And somehow
Loves you.
And really does.
For some insane,
Incomprehensible
Reason.
And I want to tell them:
You guys are not worthless.
Look at me. Look at me.
There's more.
Park Hill isn't the world.
There are places out there
That don't eat you alive.
I'm serious.
You are precious. Park Hill
Doesn't know any better.
Pitbulls make for bad
Nursemaids.
It was a setup
From the start.
Pitbulls bite you, not
Because they hate you,
Not because something's
Wrong with you. They bite
Because they are pitbulls.
And that's what pitbulls do.
Can you imagine
A pitbull baking you a cake?
Come on, son.
You don't have to hate them.
But you don't have to
Put your arm in their
Mouth, either.
Hear me?
And it's OK for you to
Hug your homies and tell them
You love them. I know,
I know. You're going to
Pretend I never said that
Punk-ass stuff, but it's true.
I love you. Say it with me.
You love each other
Like brothers. And that's
A gift. You can say things
Like that.
You have no idea
What's possible.
You can dream, homies.
The world is big, and
She bites sometimes.
She bites hard. But,
There's more.
You are loved.
I don't know what to say
To you, now that you're
Here in my arms. It's
OK to cry. You can be
Who you are. Breathe
Out.
There are different ways
To be strong. Not just
The hard-edged
Bloody-fisted toughness
That Park Hill smiles upon.
Kindness is stronger.
Compassion is stronger.
Love is stronger.
Your gentleness that
Feels like such a
Curse that you would
Rip it out of your chest
If you could,
It's a gift. There's a
Place for it. You are
Fearfully and wonderfully
Made.
You are not defective.
At least, not in any ways
We aren't all defective.
You are perfectly fashioned.
A beautiful child of God.
I know this sounds
Like punk-ass nonsense.
I know. I know. And
Tomorrow there will be
A bully who wants to
Punch your face, and
This will sound irrelevant
To the point of absurdity.
Just let this in a little.
Like a seed. Like an
Echo of a song
Somewhere.
A sweetness that you
Are brave enough
To long for.
You are more than
What you see around you.
I promise you.
I never got tattoos.
This poem is my tattoo.
On the inside.
Here's the design:
The liquor store
And Dion. And
A vicious black
Pitbull. A Nintendo
Game controller.
A scowling traffic cone.
A spiderman face.
A bicycle with
Angel's wings.
All these images
Entwined in the vapor
From a bowl of steaming
Apple cobbler, with this
Recipe beneath:
Two parts fear,
Two parts longing,
One part joy.
I went back to you,
My little corner of
Park Hill, years ago.
Maybe to drink
Memories like a
Bitter forty ounce.
To walk your cracked
Streets as a man.
I went back to you, Park Hill,
And you weren't there anymore.
A bunch of white people
Now. Luxury apartments
And coffee shops nearby.
I didn't even get to
Watch you die.
To give my gritty
Eulogy.
To tell your fading eyes,
I forgive you. To make
My peace with your
Broken teeth.
To tell you I would not
Trade your scars
For all the money
In the world.
To kiss you
In the end. I think
I'm strong enough
To do that now.
I went back to you, Park Hill,
And you weren't there anymore.
Just what's left inside of me.
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