The Rough-House Gospel

Aet from Pinterest EL BARRIO ESTÁ CALIENTE - @ALAMAYY

Some days, lately, feels like there’s too much to forgive. I’ve been a blues man since happiness died in that first drive-by. Thirteen turned both lucky and unhinged from reality, where ghetto youth become God’s children.

It had to be written. I know that day it was. We all believed. We could make it out. Cheered on and distracted by girls who played with ballers that didn’t bounce. They stood tall. Shrunk when the ground helped them rest. Left their girls weary, struggling to live with less. Sons lost without men with discipline.

The school that made boys into men was the rough-house. Nana made you fight fair and square, then fed you both because angry men healed through food, love, and care. She warned to wear a condom when you needed to be tamed by more.

Grandpops chimed in with “young pups don’t need a litter slowing down their run.”

Couldn’t help thinking he was talking about us. Grandchildren he raised, while his own were running to be put down from their plague of addiction

Wounds healed slow. Tended with pours that stung. Made you official when you could handle an elder’s life water.

I saw angels those days. Spirits with faces of love, peace, and danger. Every one of them for me. When you live a certain way, you try to manifest joy and feel pain.

That’s when I saw how my scripture was written unless I changed my story.