This afternoon, I sat next to the facilitator in a conference room full of conversational clatter. It was a monthly meeting in which advocates who work on legislative policy for Boston youth share their work. Every time I attend this meeting, I feel like I don’t belong there. The lingo alone leaves me lightheaded. I mean, what is a “9c"?
I reached that point where, if this was a movie, you’d start to hear birds chirping. I began to doodle, wondering if I just don’t want to challenge myself to learn, or if I genuinely don’t belong. I love the streets; I love everything about the them – the litter, the vacant lots, the people, the drunks and the drug dealers, the forsaken parks and the prostitutes.
I want to see the prostitutes become prominent leaders. I want the drug dealers to become community organizers. That is where I belong. I am from the streets. The streets – Washington, Harvard, Esmond, Bicknell – are in me.
(And a “9c"? It’s a "statutory power of the governor to do emergency balancing of the budget.” Yawn.)
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