A TASTE OF FREEDOM
I was nine years old when I first experienced the Bronx. We had just moved to
a house near Prospect Avenue. It was a
change from the old St. John’s building,
which was still only a couple blocks away.
The new house was red brick with a
sort-of balcony on the first floor; lucky, I
lived on the first floor so I would get to sit
out there, or so I thought. When I tried,
my father called me back into the house,
warning me of the danger of being
outside by myself. It was the same speech
given to me every time I was caught doing
something remotely independent. Still, I
would get in trouble in less than a week
for ignoring his words.
It was the first day I went out
into the neighborhood by myself, and
I can remember it clearly. Sneaking out
onto the balcony through the window
was the best part. I remember breathing
in the fresh summer air and searching
for a good place to go. The bodega next
door seemed like the right choice. I was
going to buy a brownie with the money
I took from my mom’s purse. Climbing
down from my balcony I started towards
the end of the block. Instantly, it felt
different walking the street. I had no one
to hold my hand or to tell me to walk
on the right side of the street instead of
the left. The sun was brighter without
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my mom’s body to block it. Those boys
around the block seemed to yell insults
louder, and my older brothers were no
longer there to tell them to shut up. Even
walking into the store was different: I felt
small and scrawny. I’m barely five feet
now, so back then I was probably the
least intimidating thing the man behind
the counter had ever seen. I was caught
a few minutes later, when my mother
walked into the store and dragged me out
just as I was about to make my purchase.
She yelled at me then started crying,
telling me how dangerous it was outside.
All I could think about while she talked
was how it hadn’t been dangerous—just
different.
EMELY ALONZO
I feel like I grow up a little bit
more every time I’m allowed to go out
on my own. Every time I get to ride the
train or get to drive the car. I’m free in a
sense. But at the same time this weight
of responsibility for myself and whoever
I’m with washes over me. I’m becoming
an adult. I’ll soon watch over someone
younger than me. I’ll have to decide
whether or not they are allowed out.
Or whether or not they take the train
alone, when they drive, and what they
are exposed to. Sometimes I miss being
young. I miss being guided throughout
the world I once thought was completely
harmless.
Hear the public school kids screaming
the sound of two Spanish
speakers saying,
“Oye habla pues, como estas.”
I see the old man from the
apartment building below
wear his faded blue Yankee hat.
12TH GRADE
MY STREET
When I look out my window I see
the sun shining brightly
the food truck with a long line
a familiar face with a beard, moustache,
and a faded scar running from
the base of his cheek
to the tip of the chin.
The smell of freshly made
breakfast pulls me away
from my outside world
from the sun
the old man
Snoopy
the loud kids
and the Spanish conversation
the man with the scar and
the newly harvested plans
for the afternoon.
I see my cousin
walking Snoopy
her black curry cocker spaniel with
lots of energy crossing the street.
He jumps up my lap and licks my face.
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