[Interlude: Aasha Marie]
She's a woman whose name has been dragged through the mud. Though her dirt is one I've played in, ever since I soiled my diapers, My feet a native of her grounds; she found me on Damen and 63rd Street. Her summers serenaded children to come play on her sidewalks; the heat summoned the animal in us running wild through this concrete jungle, this forest we call the block, our reality.
In the honesty of our imaginations we clogged our ears to gunshots and told ourselves they were fireworks, pretended the crackheads were zombies and gangbangers were just pirates lost at sea trying to find a compass to lead them to safe landing. See, we, we were narrators, masters of fiction; we became the best storytellers, weaving characters together, creating our own safe haven in Englewood, nested on Chicago south-side. Hatched from her eggs, these young dreamers - poets, rappers, thinkers, and preachers - gazing towards the future on the yellow brick road that led us downtown. Her beauty is unmatched. Her park allows us to relive the new millennium, her shining gem, one we see our reflection in, altering our appearance in her mirror.
The bean, suddenly morph into Jack, climbing the giant's stalks known as skyscrapers, barely reaching the top. We fall hard onto Lake Shore Drive, headed towards the lake named Michigan, the good witch of the east, her blue waters playing copycat with the sky. Today, she is overcast but still gorgeous. Her waves laugh, welcoming us into her boats where we played Captain, trying to sink each other's battleships before night fall so we can stare at her light show, signalling us through buildings, several stories high that it's time to return to the southside and tuck our vivid imaginations in bed with us.
We forget, we forget our city is windy. She blows us back to our side of town before we can even click our heels. We breeze past guaranteed rate field, leaving our competition in the dust on their white socks. They scoff at us as we grow wings, flying over the Dan Ryan, wanting to make a pit stop at Harold's Chicken, the scent teasing our nostrils; we can taste Chicago on the tip of our tongues rich with wealth in our words creating brand new horizons that parallel our skylines.
We bring honor, we bring honor to the city, though inside of us a fire is kindling. We continue to ignore the media reports saying we have robbed her of her dignity. Once clothed and trade and commerce, the busiest damsel on the southside, prejudice and pride caused the feet of those who once called her home to flee, and now those deemed hoodlums and less desirables inhabit her now.
They say, Englewood is bare, emptied of any inhabitants who care that nowadays she has become a desert, devoid of life, being sucked out of her. The only water she sees are tears, caused by the feet of those that are swift to shed blood. Stains, bloodstains on our shoes point us to a greater redemption, a love that penetrated our hearts two thousand years ago, One who influenced our stories with great parables, washing away the dirty residue of doubt, guilt and shame. This pure blood that bathes us in hope, knowing that our earthly houses are marked with a red X for demolition or even abandonment; we know that one day that we will rise a new life from State to Ashland, from 71st all the way east to Paxton.
These streets were made for walking, and that's just what we'll do, carrying a brand new future for Englewood, exchanging lies for the truth as we spread the good news.
