My side of town

The first time I invited people over to my house was during my freshman year. It had been a group of four girls, and all of us had piled out of the car that had been pulled up to pavement next to my house. The street lamps were the only source of light on my street, but it was still so bright outside due to my close proximity to Downtown Nashville. I remember climbing out of the car and laughing with one of my friends as I watched the other two race to the navy blue door on the side of my white house. I remember asking them why they were running so fast to get inside, in which one of them turned to me and had a look of disgust on her face.

"We are trying to get inside so that we don't get shot," She said to me, as if her answer had been so obvious . I remember standing there, my eyes scanning over her face to see if she was joking, only to realize that she wasn't. Anger was the first thing that I felt; it was so hot and powerful that I thought that it was going to consume me. However, by the time that I had let them into my house, another emotion had taken over me completely. It was shame. And there is a big difference between anger and shame; anger fades but shame never really does.

I realized that my upbringing was different from the people that I went to school with in seventh grade. Prior to that year, I had been like my classmates; I had lived in a beautiful part of Nashville where my grass was always plush and green and my neighborhood was always safe. My dad had adored my old house; the were enough rooms for each of us to have our own, there were more than enough bathrooms, the foyer consisted of sleek wooden floors and white couches, and we had a rather gaudy movie theater. However, my seventh grade year, when faced with the decision to attend a private school in Nashville or remain in our wonderful house, my father gave up his dream house to send us to school. Now, my family does not face financial hardship. In fact, we are very well off and I am exceptionally spoiled as a child. My father, a graduate from Harvard and Vanderbilt, and my mother, a woman from the illustrious HBCU Spelman College and from Boston University, had made sure that we had many of the things we needed and wanted. But there were three children in our family and all of us were going to expensive private schools, and we did not want to constantly be budgeting ourselves. So, we moved out of our house and to the other side of Nashville, where we then resided in my wonderful white house that overlooks the city.

There were many things that I loved about the new house. First, it was a historical landmark, for it had at one point belonged to a writer from the Harlem Renaissance. Another thing that I loved about my house was its location; it was across the street from a track, and I always felt like the city was a breath away.For the first time, I was surrounded by families that looked like me, and there were stores that were dedicated for women of color. Everything was a new adventure; each spray painted building told a story, each winding street had its own secrets. On top of this, I loved the way that my mother had decorated our house. My mother had made the most of our house by pinning our family photos on the wall of the staircase and planting potted plants on our front porch. She made sure that the house was routinely painted white, that our lawn was immaculate, and that the inside was thoroughly cleaned once every two weeks by maids. My house was more than just a house; it was my home.

I hadn't thought that there had been anything wrong with my house or where I lived until that day in my freshman year, and then everything came into perspective for me. To everyone else, my spray painted buildings screamed of poverty and mischief. The stores that were dedicated to women of color were unappealing and the winding streets pulsed with danger. Most of all, the people that I lived around, people who looked like me, were only going to be seen as gang bangers, rapists, high school dropouts, and people who were not to be trusted. It made sense to me then that I was different, that my house was different, that where I lived was different and that this difference was not a good thing.

Naturally, I did what most people do when they are ashamed; I hid. I didn't invite people to my house for a long time, unless I was incredibly close with them. I refused to be dropped off at my house unless it was the last solution, and when people dropped me off at my house I made sure to apologize. I apologized for the track that I loved so much, and said that it would be renovated soon. I apologized for the hair care stores that I had longed to go to and said that they were going to build new apartment buildings there. Most of all, I apologized for my people, saying that I wasn't like them. When it was time for me to go home after school, I made sure to wait until all of the cars had left before I hopped on a bus to downtown because I didn't want to see pity on people's faces. When I was introduced to parents, I made sure that I sounded as professional as possible and not at all like a girl from the "ghetto". For years, I did this and I hated myself for it.

Until this year.

A few months ago, my father took me to the African Store on the corner of my street. The second I walked into the store, I was overwhelmed by the sweet and spicy scents of perfume and shea butter. I couldn't help but marvel at the brightly colored fabrics that hung from the ceiling of the shop, and the hundreds of books on the shelves that told me about my history and culture. Most of all, I adored how there were skin products and hair products designed for women of color like me. I stared at the posters of black women, smiling and proud of who they are and where they came from. That store was a gem in my neighborhood that I had overlooked for so long, because I hadn't cared to look. In that store, I bought my first bar of African black soap and container of shea butter and decided that I was going to be proud of where I came from.

Now, I can say that I am not ashamed. I love my streets where children play and people hang on their front porches talking about everything from God to politics to music. I love my father's chapel that sits in the center of a campus, and I love the students that help him to cook and clean every sunday morning. I love the track across from my house; I love every broken piece of gravel, every hole, every worn hurdle. I love my house; its white pillars, its navy doors, its brick porch. I love how close I am to my bus stop, how close I am to the city. I love my people; the cadence in their laughs, their skin that comes in various shades of brown, their bold and bright smiles that reek of resilience. I like my culture and most of all I like who I am and where I come from. I like my curls, my caramel skin, my brown eyes; Me. So when I invite people over, I am proud of my house. I do not hesitate when I ask someone to pick me up near my house. I love my city, every inch of it, including my side of town.

The most important thing that we need to remember is that people are people, even if they are different from us. I don't blame people for not wanting to come on my side of town. It's hard to understand something that you will never have to be apart of. I'm not saying that everything is safe; no, I am not stupid. But I am saying that love and happiness and joy and good can come from a place that you are not familiar with. I am saying that making assumptions about groups of people that you don't know is wrong. Do you know every person that lives in North Nashville? Do you know their thoughts and dreams and their desires? Do you know their vices and their intentions? The respect of life must come from all groups of people, or we can never progress as a society.

I feel like that this blog post is the first of many about this topic, but I am glad that I got to be real with you guys for a few moments. Thank you so much for reading and don't hesitate to reach out to me for questions. Thank you.

With love,

Nia

Also, the picture is not a picture of my house. Lol, it's just my view from my house. Pls don't be creepy and stalk me. That would be no beuno.