- Image from Unsplash Mike Conway
Growing up in North Philadelphia comes with its struggles. It’s not the most glamorous place in the world, especially if you were living in the Kensington area like I was. A lot of locals nickname it the “Bad Lands”. The main reason it’s called the Bad Lands is because there’s an ongoing opioid epidemic. In certain areas (usually train stations) you’ll find needles littered on the ground. You’ll find people on the corner shooting up, and others leaning up against walls or laying on the sidewalk. There was a point in time where I literally had to step over someone, who was high on who knows what, just to get to school. I was twelve.
Alongside the opioid epidemic, it goes without saying that I come from a low-income neighborhood. This neighborhood was predominantly populated by black and brown individuals. Most of the people I knew were pregnant, on the streets dealing drugs or high school dropouts by 16. It was an intimidating place for someone who just wanted to go to college. In fact, I remember family members doubting me when I told them I wanted to attend college someday. “Cuando los cerdos vuelen”, they’d say. (“When pigs fly”)
I had a lot against me. I ran the risk of repeating the mistakes of my community by just existing in it.
My father’s side of the family was especially doubtful of my ability to make it to college. The Rodriguez family, the side of the family I got my last name from, runs a circus of their own. Each cousin that was a girl already had 2 kids by the time they were 17. Each cousin that was a boy was selling drugs, doing drugs, or in jail (usually for selling drugs). Each one of my aunts and uncles is living off welfare and disability (99% of them were lying to their insurance companies), and chose not to work because of their dependency on government checks. Most never finished high school, and many died along the way; including my father. Despite that, there was no way that I was going to end up like them.
Speaking from the perspective of someone who had to deal with that, and still ended up in college, there’s definitely some pride there. How could I not be proud of becoming everything my family isn’t?
Unfortunately, there are still the scars of someone who had to grow up without a dad. There are still the scars of a child who wanted more from life but nobody was willing to hand that to me. There are still the scars of the doubtful, mean, hurtful, and selfish words spoken to me when I was just a kid. Sometimes I can still hear the echo of their voices in my head. Sometimes I wonder if it would be easier to fall into their way of life. Though, without even realizing it, I guess I was able to make pigs fly.
