Personal Narrative: A Place To Live On Irving Street

I used to live on Irving Street, right on the border of Queens and Brooklyn. The Mexicanos and Puertorriqueños called it el barrio— the neighborhood. A place where they could hide from white supremacy and racism while enjoying themselves with their people, and, boy, did they know how to party. Coke, pot, meth, whatever your debauchery required. This was the place to get it. It was a paradise, that is, if it was your barrio. If you weren’t a part of them, you were nothing and nothing does not mean that you are simply left alone. Irving Street wasn’t only dangerous at night when the wolves decided to bear their fangs; it was highly inimical outside in broad daylight and even inside where we guarded whatever semblance of safety there was. You hear the low hum of the slowly …show more content…
As they open their doors, the stench of trash and alcohol rolls into their nostrils. They see the familiar sight of bottles and mouldy food strewn around the streets. After all, garbage trucks came every two weeks if we were lucky. Unemployed portly men in undershirts line the streets with grins filled with silver and gold, chattering with each other about current events like nothing that happens in the street affects them. They wave their tattooed hands in vague gestures, cat-calling at some and jeering at others whenever they find the opportunity. Even these people can only be approached with lowered heads. If they are feeling particularly pettish, they will confront any chino, gringo, or mayate. If you want to pass without harm, you just hand over your lunch money without complaint. You can fight off one, but you cannot fight them all. Unlike other gangs, though, no amount of money was considered protection money: protection was exclusive to Latinos. The money is just a little reprieve from further harassment. No one is safe, even under the warm aura of the