I Live in the Projects

I stroll through the wide pathway, the looming, identical brick buildings threaten to engulf me, a tall, green gate guarding the rusty dumpsters, I hear little kids using four-letter words I never even heard until I was at least 15 years old, I pass two gangsta’s talking about someone getting canned and their rap sheet, an 11 year-old boy asks my friend to have sex with him, the same homeless, pregnant woman shuffles around day after day with her shopping cart filled with her belongings and in the empty park on a cold, blustery day, two men exchange drugs with a flick of the wrist.

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I live in the projects, there are no two ways about it, and every time I mention it to someone they ask me if I am frightened to be living in such a place. On some level there is definitely an underlying fear and I am aware that I must be cautious. However, there is something unreal and almost special about being able to watch a world that is so foreign to me. Amongst all of its vulgarity there is a world that is full of trust, love and a strong sense of community. I watch the little children playing in the park, their parents not around, but their neighbors are watching. I see the guys hanging out by the entrance, they aren’t just bumming around they are the watch guards of their home. I see the older people walking around in the morning, greeting the people that clean their streets, talking to them with respect and care.

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The other day I was walking down the street with a few people (who were all from New York) and we passed by a group of black people standing around and talking. As we were passing, a guy, probably in his mid-20’s looking like your average gangsta’ low-riding pants and all, asked, “Excuse me, do any of you have a tissue?” As I stopped to respond, the thought that this was a ploy to mug me crossed my mind, but I shoved it out of my head, “have a little faith,” I told myself. So, I opened my purse, pulled out my tissue and gave it to him. He promptly gangsta’ shuffled over to a little girl of about 4 and wiped her nose ever so gently. It was so sweet. The people I was with had not stopped or even acknowledged the man’s question, they had just ignored him. When we had walked away, one of them remarked, “That was really brave of you.”

Brave, shmave, I was just doing a decent thing. They probably, like I had, thought he was going to mug them. But I have learned that humans aren’t always so rough, and even when they are, often it is just a façade.

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Tonight I heard yelling and my thoughts went immediately to gang fights, but when I looked out my window I saw a bunch of guys playing a makeshift game of football in the frigid weather at 11:30 pm.

This is where they live. This is their home. They are people too, with fears, challenges, a mother and father, siblings they love this place that they call home.

But I am not familiar with their version of a home, I grew up in my own home, not in government housing, I grew up with a green backyard, not an alley with a garbage dump, I grew up knowing I will always have a warm place to sleep and food on the table, I never had to wonder where my next meal was coming from, I know that I will be respected in the world, they know that they may have to fight for respect.

What do I know of them?

Nothing.

Just my prejudices, my biases, the stigma that I have attached to them, the lies I have been told, and information gathered from movies I have watched.

Nothing.

Nothing real, nothing of their true lives,

Nothing of their fears and aspirations,

Nothing of their trials and joys,

Nothing of their families or friends, nothing.

Their lives are totally foreign to me, and for that I cannot judge.

Making Room for Others

Last semester I encountered a professor who I did not particularly respect, he was annoying, talked super fast and jumped around from topic to topic when he taught, which was difficult since it was a history class. Normally, I would have just switched classes but this was part of the core and I had to take it. The first half of the semester I just tuned him out, was bored and felt aggravated at his inability to teach, but then mid-terms came around and I had no idea how I was going to study. I ended up having to teach myself 3,000 years of history, which proved to be extremely time consuming and I ended up getting a B- on the midterm because I was not prepared. I made a quick calculation and realized that if I wanted to get an A in the class I had to change something and it had to start with me.
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I decided to give the teacher another chance and try and focus on his positive traits, so I walked into class, sat down, focused and vigorously took notes to keep up with his speed. Much to my surprise, I began to realize that this professor was actually very smart, knew what he was talking about and throughout the days a very clear picture of history began forming in my mind. Needless to say, it was an extremely humbling experience for me.

By the end of the semester, I had gained a lot of knowledge, not just of history, but of the human condition and that sometimes all you need to do is step outside of yourself and look to the positive in others, trust in them and they will deliver.

Curly or straight, does it really matter?

Last week I straightened my hair. In my au natural state I am as curly as can be, so every once in a while I like a change, I like to be able to run my fingers through my hair (without getting stuck), I like to be able to go without the gooey feeling of product in my hair and I like the light feeling on my head.

So I straightened my hair and as usual I received a lot of compliments and shocked faces from people who have never seen me in straight hair before. I was reveling in my glorious straight hair, a sophisticated, older look, that to me is more glamorous. And then came Shabbos and it was time to wash my hair before it started to drip oil. I was disappointed, I was feeling so good and care-free with my straight hair, I had an unusual spring of security and confidence in my step. I almost didn’t want to go back to my curls. But cleanliness rules, so (not to worry) I did take a shower.

But a bizarre thing occurred; my curls did not rejuvenate like they usually do when I drench them with water. Most of my hair sprung back into place but there was a chunk of hair on the front left side that was mostly straight with a slight indent (that some may call a wave). I was horrified. My friends tried to reassure me saying, “don’t worry, wash your hair again and it will spring back.” I tried to believe them on the surface level, but deep inside I knew the truth and it was painful; I had killed my hair with the iron and I was going to have to wait for my hair to grow out to get my curls back again.

The past couple of days I have gone through a mourning period of denial, anger, acceptance and rebuilding. It really has been a deeply altering experience, after all, this is my hair we are talking about! This is often how people are able to pick me out of a crowd. It is a fundamental aspect of who I am! My precious curls!

Tonight I was sitting at my kitchen table and I was reading about the existence of mankind in a book by Rabbi David Aaron, “The Secret Life of G-D,” and how our existence is not completely necessary, but rather we exist solely because G-D chose to and continues to create us, and then it got me thinking about my existence in general and then without further notice a light bulb turned on and I had an epiphany: my hair does not define my existence, my soul does.

The way I act, my confidence, my real value is not contingent on whether my hair is straight or curly, its origin comes from a more lasting source. It comes from a deep rooted core called the soul, our divine source, which is the root of our confidence. It is our soul that is created in a Godly image, which makes us unique, invaluable and indispensable. Hair or any physical aspect of ourselves is just an external representation of our unique soul, just a physical reminder that each person is truly an individual.

The fact that we are a Godly soul is what dictates our true value.

Nothing more and nothing less.

Still Singing

I woke up this morning and my soul is still singing.

The feeling is still here.

The music is still playing.

I am still soaring.

My smile still stretching from ear to ear.

And now, I want to take on the world, one positive action at a time.

I don't want to play the victim anymore, no more, "why is this happening", or "how could this happen," it is time for action.

It is time to truly trust in Hashem.

It is time to tap into the music of my soul and understand my mission.

It is time to take the music, GO and DO.

It is time to start life.