It was the grim year of 1994, when colors meant gangs and neighborhoods signified territories. I grew up in one of the roughest neighborhoods in the city, a place so lawless it had its own set of rules and where fear thrived like wildfire.
Our neighborhood was cordoned by brick and mortar and abandoned houses with invisible fences. A neighborhood that always had that one word that kept everyone from coming together.
School was the only refuge from this volatile atmosphere. However, after school was another thing. Like clockwork, every day, as the yellow school bus rolled into the neighborhood, my heart pounded against my chest. Waiting at the corner of our block was the enforcer - Big Mitch, as we aptly named him. Big for his gargantuan physique. His domineering presence was a shadow over our everyday routine.
This particular afternoon was no different. As we scrambled to get off the bus, we could see him standing there, glaring menacingly, smiling and all you can see is the gold teeth with a mean smile that would make even the brave flinch. As we were coming up, we were expected to nod, showing respect. One thing he instilled in us was “Give Respect You’ll Get Respect”.
He stopped Nino and me. Today was the day. I knew it. My instincts screamed out to me. No one’s coming to take over our neighborhood without a fight, Big Mitch
said, throwing an accusatory finger our way. We exchanged a glance; this was inevitable. The gathering crowd created a crude circle around us as Nino and I nervously clenched our fists.
As I faced off against Nino, we locked eyes, and I could see in his eyes that we both felt the same. This wasn’t personal; it was about survival. With a quick, mutual nod, we threw ourselves into the fracas, neither of us ready to back down.
We weren't fighters; we were just the little boys playing throughout the neighborhood, lost in the brutal turf war. Our punches landed on each other with frantic desperation. Yet, we found a way to stand tall, bearing the scars that declared our belonging.
Eventually, the brawl ended. Nino and I were initiated, for better or worse, as one of the cornerstones in our neighborhood. I look back on that day with a lump in my throat. It was the brutal rite of passage that bound us, cemented our status and sadly taught us how to survive in roughest neighborhoods. And to think we were merely fifteen... just kids.