Shirley Avenue 

Groveland Avenue

3050 Brighton Street 

Western Run Drive 

Homeless

3910 Clarks Lane 

I’m mapping everywhere that I’ve been. And not just as myself. Not just as myself. My SELF. but my selves. Not just as Angela and George’s daughter. But as Ciara and Kevin’s cousin. As Cynthia’s niece. As Stella’s grandbaby. As Harvey’s SacheMo. As Bridget’s baking buddy. As Renee’s rollie. And as Oriah’s Aunt. As Miya’s Lover. And so on and so on. 

Growing up in Baltimore, the city of neighborhoods I used to feel so out of place. I couldn’t claim one. I never felt like I stayed anywhere long enough to have real allegiance to it. Not the kind that my class mates did. I wasn’t from a block. My big cousins didn’t belong to any group on a corner. And my older brother hardly was around long enough to do anything but chase girls. 

At some point I began to claim Ova West as my home. But as a first generational Baltimorean, and daughter of a somewhat Baltimore hater, we never subscribed to the East vs. West dilemma that was the way when I was growing up. And honestly, it seems like that Baltimore is gone. Or perhaps I just don’t have access to it. I feel wistful to a time where I didnt feel like I belonged– Isn’t that something? 

Fast forward to today. What is my Baltimore neighborhood? Which neighborhood do I claim? I claim them all. I cannot and will not choose one. They have each made me in their own way. 

So I won’t choose. Instead I’ll choose a feeling. A neighborhood feeling.

My community is any one where there is family. 

My community is any one where the corner store lady’s name is Kim and she lets you get cigarettes for your Auntie, even though you don’t like that she smokes. 

My community is where the lady’s on the bus stop watch out for you, chat you up and tell you you look nice today. 

My community is the one where cousins roam the streets in packs, eating candy and playing make believe. Making mischief but not too much.

My community is listening to Dru Hill sing at the Fudgery down da harbor. 

My community is any one where you can hear the song of Arabbers and the ice cream truck right away– you have about 2 minute before you miss them both. 

My community is the glisten of light on water

My community is dance contest on the front steps and pouring hot water when you drop your popsicle

My community is pulling up to the function and spending 20 minutes greeting all the friends you aint know you was gonna see

My neighborhood is the space between my Aunt Cynthia, Aunt Bridget and Granny’s house

My neighborhood is powder on chests in the summer

My neighborhood is space between my after school job and my best friend’s house 

My neighborhood is where they know me by name, and shoo people away from sitting on my car. 

My neighborhood is watching the Kinder Man perform in front of MICA 

My neighborhood is chairs in the spot after your dug yourself out

My neighborhood is watching the same tree across 4 seasons. 

My neighborhood is visiting my grandparents in a new house with the same yard furnishings

My neighborhood is my favorite fish place 

My neighborhood is my favorite chicken box spot 

My neighborhood is where I’m asked how I’m doin. 

This neighborhood, this community transcends geography and even time. It’s hard for me to claim a neighborhood when where I feel at home is in the feeling of community versus the place of it. I love that I still run into people I went to elementary school with. People I worked with as a youth organizer. People I used to ride the 44 bus with. Familiarity. Familiars. Family. 

My home neighborhood is indescribable. Unable to be contained. 

Just like me.