TEARS & SYRINGES

Every morning after getting off the 3 train in Brownsville, I am constantly looking down to make sure that I don't step on syringes. I see them, sometimes in piles, on the walk to my school and my heart breaks knowing that my people are pumping death into their veins to escape the harsh realities of life.

The days that I'm not focusing on dodging syringes, I catch myself literally holding my breath. Why? Well, there's a set of guys who always speak and are cordial to me in the most hood way possible..lol...but they have 2-3 of the most vicious pitbulls on chains. They encourage the dogs to fight each other and on any given day I literally get lightheaded from not breathing because the dogs get so out of control within the path in which I have to pass. What if the owners lose control and the dogs get loose and attack me? What if my days of running track have faded into the wind and the dogs tackle my ass taking turns digging into my jugglar? (If my parents knew this...they would probably pass out!)Yes, I have played all of this out in my head at least several times a week as I walk to school. Oh and let 's not get on the crackheads who are in a world of their own who yell out obsentities who sometimes creep up on me and scare the living daylights out of me!

Oh and who can forget the unpredictable soundtrack of life I carry everyday...the IPOD. Don't let my ipod happen to randomly shuffle to a sad, slow song from Nina Simone, BillieHoliday or Sade. I remember one day when I saw a pregnant woman who appeared to be 40ish and strung out on drugs and Billie's song, Bless the Child, came roaring through my ipod during the shuffle. My eyes welled up and my shades were the only thing that shielded my eyes directly connecting with the woman. Was I crying because she was harming the young helpless child she was carrying? Was I crying because this human, another black woman like myself, felt as if she had no choices and succumbed to the pitfalls of life? or was I crying because maybe some sort of guilt set in because no one "seemed" to be helping this woman and child in need..including myself? or was I crying because someone, like myself--from middle class America, was now being constantly bombarded with images that I did not grow up with on an everyday basis?

Most of my friends know that I've had my fair share of wild and whimsical experiences while working in TV doing segments in crackhouses in Baltimore, ganglife in South Central LA, to triple homicides in the deserts of New Mexico, but to see this day in and day out now just made my heart heavy. To see the eyes of contentment of the young brothers on the corner who appeared to be barely 19 just overwhelmed me dearly.

After I complete my 5 minute ,humbling yet sad, walk to school everyday, it inspires me to work the hell out of my kids EVERYDAY to make sure they are not another statistic on the streets of Brownsville. I want to show them there are options in the world and that they are WORTHY of greatness no matter what their background/past is.

As soon as I entered the school one morning after seeing the preganant fiend, my tense forehead slowly loosened up and a smile consumed my face because I peeped one of my favorite students in the corner of the cafeteria practicing her speech, which was due later on that day. For a few seconds, I hid in the cut, listened to her correct herself, and enunciate her words like we practiced. I silently smiled and headed up on the elevator to start my day.

At that moment, I put all the worries of the outside world in my back pocket. The heavy burden in my pocket kept me on my toes all day long and prevented me from sitting down the entire day....for I had a surge of energy in my blood like that of a nearby crackhead hitting the pipe. I knew the source of my high. I had been thinking about the feeling of this high since the previous night. It was the day in which my kids would take the centerstage and deliver their first speech titled, "What is love?"....