Neighborhoods (Heat)

Neighborhoods behind bullet-proof glass

Neighborhoods paved with broken glass

Neighborhoods straining under the overweight

Where the word “trust” fell to the bottom of dictionaries

The phrase “common sense” fades

The word “responsibility” flickers on and off

And the word “survival” barely makes it—funeral homes are a booming business

Neighborhoods where the sky and its majestic sunsets are wasted on cell phones and cars

No control is as bizarre as extreme control

It’s not safe at night in these neighborhoods; there is really nothing to do there anyway, so don’t go out Neighborhoods where, like in mosquito infested swamps, corrosive ideas are persistent and they want to get you:

Be prepared to ward them off

Be prepare to be weary

The sky was clear when I finally left the house. It was going to be a long walk. Usually in the mornings there are clouds left from the dawn to cover the sun from time to time and give me relief as I walk the four miles or so to the public library of Detroit. The clouds usually last until a little past ten, but today is supposed to be the hottest day of the year so far, and the clouds evaporated early.

The temperature has been hovering around the nineties the last couple of days with the heat index making it feel like a hundred sometimes (that is in Fahrenheit).

I felt OK and went towards Michigan Avenue instead of towards Livernois Avenue, from where I turn left onto Warren Ave, and then on to the library. I went to get some chips because I knew that the two eggs with left over rice and sour cream I had for breakfast weren’t enough to hold me all day and I wanted snacks for when I got hungry.

Walking along houses is cooler because they have trees; it’s along the big avenues where the sun has no rivals and just burns. But neighborhood streets are short and they lead nowhere, so I have to take the big avenues.

After the Super Dollar store where I bought ripe plantain and tortilla chips, I made my way to Warren Avenue and braced myself for the burn. The walk is almost nice at the end of the day on the way back when the sun is dying and dipping under the horizon, but this morning, with no clouds in sight, it behaved like a disillusioned and bitter old sun, though it was still young (at nine something in the morning).

The walk lasts about an hour and fifteen minutes depending on my pace, but this morning the pressure of the heat was annoying, and the heat of the sun seemed to want to plug my nose and not let me breathe the hot steam that passed for air. It took forever to get to the library.

I passed teenagers on bicycles circling around their neighborhood. Yesterday (or the day before yesterday), one of them asked me if I wanted some weed. There were the usual bus commuters hiding under whatever shadow they could find. Most bus stops have no protection from anything. They are only a thin metal pole stuck in the ground with a small sign on top that says bus stop.

The neighborhood after the railroad tracks has more trees and I looked forward to it. It’s closer to the Wayne State University, and I looked forward to that even more because the campus is surrounded by trees. It’s so much cooler there, literally, than the deserts of avenues -- I have to walk by some college kids here and there, but it’s a small price to pay.

Once in the library, I write the writings of an underdog that is going under. The system destroys those who don’t “get with the program,” but I don’t keep quiet about it. I raise my voice through my writings.

To who are my writings directed? To anybody in the system. These are combative writings, not bedtime stories.

This is written from the spirit of desperation coming from Detroit’s battered neighborhoods, for the ones at the brink of homelessness. It speaks for the homeless sleeping in Montevideo’s front stores, or Berlin’s parks. It speaks to the confused college student who has a hard time “getting with the program,” choosing a career, and who needs a push to follow his path. It’s written for the traveler growing older and running out of funds.

These writings let the system know that somebody out there knows what it is, and that not everybody is taken by the mesmerizing of toys (cellphones, cars, video games, computers, and the like). Not everybody is intimidated by the pressure to succeed (choose a career, at least seek middle management, entertain the masses with your writing, make money to impress your parents, other relatives and your friends). Not everybody falls for the trap of comfort (some don’t even need a bed), not everybody submit to the stigma of being poor (thinking that one is poor is at least doubly stupid. First, one accepts to be labeled, second, one agrees with the idea that having crap -- material stuff is what matters, a false assumption that for some reason people pretend it’s not), and finally it lets the system know that not everybody seeks refuge in apathy and inactivity.