Pride
By Zuri Benitez
We were not supposed to be proud. We were not
supposed to love these things so hard: the chipping paint,
the missing floorboards, the gas stove we have to light with
matches, the cracks in the windows, the moldy bathroom
tiles, the mice and the roaches.
But I've never known anything else. These broken
things all spell home to me.
They are like the many worn sheets and blankets Mama
and Papi brought with them from their childhood. They are
older than us, and there are stories lodged in their cracks and
crevices, their stains and their tears. And if I listen closely
enough, I can hear the whispers of the ones who came before
us. They’ve left these holes for us to fill.
Ambulance sirens at night put me to sleep. Cars honking
and neighbors cursing at each other let me know that love
lives here. We care enough to be angry and impatient.
Sometimes I wonder... if my neighborhood ever floods
or breaks in half, and someone throws me, only me, a
lifeboat or a lifeline, will I take it and leave everyone and
everything behind?
This college is a lifeboat and a lifeline.
But my neighborhood is not flooding or splitting in half.
It's being cleaned up and wiped out. It's being polished and
erased. So where do I reach back and pull out memories as
if they’ve been safely tucked away into a trunk or an attic
like the people on TV who have enough time and too much
space? Where do I call home? Where can I place a layer of
brick to use as my platform, and hold my head up high to
raise my voice and my fist?
Sometimes love is not enough to keep a community
together. There needs to be something more tangible, like
fair housing, opportunities, and access to resources. Lifeboats
and lifelines are not supposed to just be a way for us to get
out. They should be ways to let us stay in and survive.
And thrive.
By Zuri Benitez
We were not supposed to be proud. We were not
supposed to love these things so hard: the chipping paint,
the missing floorboards, the gas stove we have to light with
matches, the cracks in the windows, the moldy bathroom
tiles, the mice and the roaches.
But I've never known anything else. These broken
things all spell home to me.
They are like the many worn sheets and blankets Mama
and Papi brought with them from their childhood. They are
older than us, and there are stories lodged in their cracks and
crevices, their stains and their tears. And if I listen closely
enough, I can hear the whispers of the ones who came before
us. They’ve left these holes for us to fill.
Ambulance sirens at night put me to sleep. Cars honking
and neighbors cursing at each other let me know that love
lives here. We care enough to be angry and impatient.
Sometimes I wonder... if my neighborhood ever floods
or breaks in half, and someone throws me, only me, a
lifeboat or a lifeline, will I take it and leave everyone and
everything behind?
This college is a lifeboat and a lifeline.
But my neighborhood is not flooding or splitting in half.
It's being cleaned up and wiped out. It's being polished and
erased. So where do I reach back and pull out memories as
if they’ve been safely tucked away into a trunk or an attic
like the people on TV who have enough time and too much
space? Where do I call home? Where can I place a layer of
brick to use as my platform, and hold my head up high to
raise my voice and my fist?
Sometimes love is not enough to keep a community
together. There needs to be something more tangible, like
fair housing, opportunities, and access to resources. Lifeboats
and lifelines are not supposed to just be a way for us to get
out. They should be ways to let us stay in and survive.
And thrive.
( Ibi Aanu Zoboi )
www.ChordsAZ.com