May-a own rising
(A tribute to Maya Angelou)

I am a black educated, conservative young woman. An average class lady residing in West College Hill. The nickname my father gave me as a child is Momo, which in Swahili means “a silent burning fire.” My home is an old, red brick house, and in about ten years or so it will probably be in shambles. Still, I rise. My neighborhood has fallen into decadence. The little boys that I befriended as a child have drifted into the “get rich quick by any means necessary” lifestyle. An education is no longer a privilege to them, but a choice. Still, I rise. Drug distributors roam the sidewalks, while the addicts knock on my front door for spoons or to beg for every nickel or dime in my pocket. Knowing the abuse to my charity, I reluctantly give in to the forgiving smile glaring upon me. Still, I rise. Girls stand on the corner end of the block and flirt with the men in the candy pink or money green luxury cars. Five minutes later and the girls on the corner vanish in the black engine smoke, driving towards a dead-end existence. Still, I rise. Happy homes are broken apart. Babies conceive babies, while the fathers’ linger in denial. Eventually, the mothers’ become overwhelmed and are forced to run for a chance to live free, but they neglect their responsibility and leave their children behind. Still, I rise. At the neighborhood park every girl and boy dresses to a T in the latest $60 labels. Sitting on the bleachers, the girls pop their gum and chat loudly about everything that means nothing, while they cheer on the hoop stars who continue to dream of the future instead of living for today. Walking past the park, the girls and boys giggle towards my direction. I simply smile. Still, I rise, rise and rise. Thinking of my family, I imagine the day where life for each of us will not bring one burden or hardship. The days when our feet are not sore, our hands are unwounded, and are backs are mighty against all odds. Still, we rise together. Ending the day, I am forged…