Sommé street.

I can’t stand the hood. But I can’t be anywhere else. No one would say it’s the best place to live in. It’s not quaint. The people are loud. The cars slam their doors fifty times a day. Toddlers run around when it’s summer and block traffic.

Women walk around at night crying, because their husbands beat them. There’s  that one weird white guy that plays loud rock music all day, and his kids seem okay with it. His Moroccan neighbors, and the brick that flew through rock man’s window in two thousand six.

There’s nothing else I can belong to. Nor do I want to. I owe it to the kid on the corner that got stabbed in the neck when he was robbing some guy’s house. My neighbor that sells weed, and goes to jail more than he changes shoes.

All I do is thanks to them. They shaped me. Only because I disliked them, but they shaped me anyway. The bald bastards outside cafes, smoking Hashish all night, drinking tea, and being a scourge on society. The fifteen year olds with their track suits, and fake gold chains, and their hair that looks like a barber’s abortion. And the hypocrite pieces of shit, walking around with their beards and short pants, selling me “Al-salam Alaykum” when I know they’re the same bastards that were with a prostitute last week.

But no one can blame a beast for its nature. That’s the only pride I can take with me when I walk these streets. Even though they make me sick. They still accept me. Never forced me to prove my humanity. Being on the same level. They’re scum but not inhuman. And I found equality in them. I found relief. Belonging. A home.

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