I’ve tried sending letters, mails and I’ve even showed up at the local authorities, in the hope of getting help, but nobody seems to care. I feel that I live in the shadow of the society. Harlem is where I live, among thousands of other poor black people. It’s a place where hope and dreams has left the people a long time ago, that’s the saddest part, I think. As we were born in slum, we will die in slum that is a fact.
I live with my mother and my three brothers who are younger than me. We live in a small apartment with only two rooms, so I sleep with my oldest brother Elijah. I haven’t seen my dad for many years since he left us when my youngest brother Ali was born. My mother works from early morning to late in the evening, so she can support the family, and afford us attending school. I hope that I someday will be able to give back what she has been giving me.
One day, walking home from school, I passed the old railroad and something caught my eye and not at least my interest. I had seen it before, but never given it a thought. This was it, the way to make my point clear and be heard. I went to see some of the graffiti boys, which I knew, were of the good kind. I gave them my well prepared speech, hoping for getting their acceptance. I was lucky, they decided to let me in and I was supposed to meet them at the railroad at midnight. I knew the risks, but this was a chance, I just couldn’t miss.
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