”I hung around with the thugs, and even though they sold drugs, they showed a young brother love.”
The Ohio Valley. If you’re not from there, you’ve never heard of it.
There’s not a lot of opportunity. There maybe could be, if there was some sense of community – but there isn’t. There’s only competition, spite and vengeance, ego and delusion; crabs in buckets.
My parents made a choice. Raise me in Harlem at the height of the crack epidemic, or the seemingly safer Saint Clairsville.
They chose the latter. These are those stories.