Ghetto Life

I sat on my porch, my mind pondering many things.

My name is Daloon Banks and I live in one of the most dangerous, poverty-stricken cities in America.

I was wondering about me. Not me, personally, but who I represent. My African-American background.

This may come off a bit insulting, but what is the good coming out of being “black”. First off, what does this government, the people of America classify as “black”. How would you know an African American individual when you saw them?

Dark skin, usually tightly curled hair and dark eyes. Well, I’m not sure I have dark skin, my skin is nearly high-yellow and lots of blacks call us lightskinned. I have brown eyes and my hair is naturally black, maybe a touch of dark brown in it and really can get kinky at times.

I know I’m mixed. Somewhere in my background is European influences, yet I still go by as “black”. Maybe because bi-racial is overrated. I highly doubt anyone is one hundred percent pure in only one ethnicity, everyone is mixed with something.

That can explain the variety of colors in the African American community; high-yellow, light brown, latte, cinnamon, brown, milk chocolate, dark chocolate and the darkest African -American color that black people have been brainwashed to think is ugly.

Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if I were white. I might actually have a father in my life; I might actually live in the suburbs instead of this ghetto trash of a neighborhood. No discrimination and slick segregation. Now that would be the life for me. To be finally respected. To walk into a store without people staring at me. Wondering if I were a thug or drug dealer.

You might also wonder why there is so much crime. Why not call the police? Laugh out loud, what police. If we had no jobs here, I’m sure we would have considered getting police officers.

The last time I remembered seeing a police officer was when I was ten years old. It was one of the most embarrassing days in my life and I remember it like it was yesterday.

I was walking home from the corner store that day. Yet, this sudden commotion caught my attention across the street. This was my greatest mistake.

Across the street, far down the road was a police officer. I ran, trying to see what was going on. My mind heard cries from my mother yet I ignored them. A cop lay bruised and beat up in the middle of the road. I came just in time to see three figures darting around the corner. I knew what had happened. It was the oldest trick in the book.

They had called in falsely. When the cop came, they lay hidden but as soon as the cop got out the car they beat him to the ground unconscious.

You might ask yourself why?

They wanted his weapons. I knew this when I looked at the police officer’s strap and all his weapons were missing.

Like a fool, I reported his condition through the walkie-talkie.

Nearly five minutes later, the cops and paramedics were there at the scene. I thought I had done the right thing, to help this man. Yet, I was wrong.

I was beat in the street by clubs. My muscles were hurt when they ended and I fought to not cry yet stray tears rolled down my face. They threw me in juvenile jail thinking I was the suspect. I was only there shortly, the cops couldn’t pin any evidence on me and the man had disclaimed me as his thief. I thought I was going to get a thank you from the man, yet he never intended to meet me, nor thank me from possibly saving his life. My mother was right about never getting in the mess of the streets. It never ends up in a possible way.

That was the day I told myself never to get involved with cops or even helping them. It only meant me trouble, and the person you were trying to help wouldn’t even give any slight thanks, they took it for granted. Like it didn’t matter if I saved their life. Well, if they couldn’t do that, then why should I help them? They only get you in more trouble anyways.

That was the question I was asking myself over and over again.

I walked in my house, for the street lights were turning off. It was time for the “darkness” to slowly eat up the streets. The people who searched for precious things in the darkness. It was time to take cover.