We have these parties a few times a year. They are always in the city. In one of “those neighborhoods” the type devoid of whiteness and respectability. The sort of neighborhood where white kids from the suburbs come and try to buy heroin from any black person they see. Where the police patrol extra hard, but only during the day, where everyone knows someone in a gang, someone who has been shot, or been to prison. It’s grimy, it’s dark, but it’s still home, it’s still where I was born.
It’s my safe space, the place I go to when I need to feel secure. Tonight is no exception. I am on the platform waiting and waiting because the el* is late and I’m getting cold, and I am going to be late to my own damn party.
Tonight the main event is a jazz party. Where we get…
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