coming back home to Atlanta is always different each time. I wonder who drew these. it separates two worlds, it seems. as I come to realize what is true, I see more death in living things. I see more lifelessness in lively people and places. abandonment comprises the whole of the other side. we are left to face that in the end. what can be done?
well I will make sure to keep our death ridden home alive even as some scream to die or flee it. it is our home nonetheless no matter how far away we move. no matter how close we are to forgetting it, it will stay with us, under our feet, between our eyes.
even after I graduated from college, I wondered what was there for me. I constantly said nothing, but there’s plenty. how much am I willing to invest in brokenness not just around me, but inside of me? how much am I will to ignore until I think it disappears and gentrification cleans up the mess that its family made in the first place.
but the Adinkra symbol on the far left reminds me that our past is not wallowing away. it is right here. when I look at that same symbol that is tattooed on my left side I see the past of me, the past of us.
it’s still present.
we just need to look around, feel, love and build.
but where do you start when you are in hell, entrapped by the flames of your reality? that’s what we all have in common. it’s that we don’t know where to start while we try to finish the job of pulling ourselves out of desolation. as we try to feed our babies and avoid a bullet.
which way is out when you want to be at home, but you can’t stay there?
is that really home?
no one said that home HAD to be comfortable.
but why does home have to be filled with memorial sites on every corner when I pass by and remember someone being stabbed in front of the Lunchbox or being thrown into kudzu filled space after being murdered? or seeing the home and hearing the shots that took the life of a 92-year-old woman at the hands of the police? or home of a woman who was just playing cards on her porch & fell to her death after being hit by a stray bullet?
a new generation in rotation for death at the hands of old friends or enemies. seeing their faces on WSB or remembering them when your family or neighbors tell you a first or last name or a nickname.
home is filled with much pain and grief.
boarded up homes.
women with their legs wide open on the corners in broad daylight.
men with death in their eyes.
friends that are now adults wondering why?
but it will always be home.