The rain is falling to a familiar tempo
Dropping as the beats drop on Brotha Man’s radio
Dropping to the sound of church bells up the block and little kids in the barrio
Dropping like basketballs on concrete in the hot summer sun
The rain falls like momma’s tears when grandaddy died
Like my heart falls because I could not cry
It tumbles to the mumbles of the homeless man stumbling by
It pours to the roars of the men as commercial whores pass their eyes
The rain is falling and calling me to stay a while
Calling me to analyze and internalize the natural sounds of my concrete jungle
Bundles of garbage bags fragrance the air as funk and H20 collide
The rain divides the souls of the panicked from those of the carefree
Running wild eyed and hungry for wet sounds dropping to the ground
Like the rope twisted and tight in a nearby double-dutch game
As the rain pounds against their backs their feet pound down on the rain
I find there’s nothing like this park on a day like this
Its like a musical made just for me
Just for me.

I was so caught up in the rain, it’s a wonder I even noticed her pass me by. Her eyes were big and hypnotic. They drew me in and refused to let me go. She had long braids that twisted and fell perfectly down her back. They were perfect. She was perfect. I imagine she and I aren’t too far apart in age. However, we’re far from similar in any other way. My attention was on her for as long as I could disguise my interest. The girl in the long twisted braids walked straight towards B.T. High School. The further away she moved the closer I leaned in towards her. I couldn’t miss a step. I don’t remember taking a breath. Her baggy jeans revealed Joe Boxers. She looked like a dancer from a TLC video. She looked cool. If I had half as much ass as she, I could attempt to pull off a look like that. But who would ever expect a straight-laced prep school girl like me to ever do such a thing.

As soon as she reached the park gates, a male’s voice shouted “Raquel, wait up!” She glanced back slowly, smiled, and waited. They joined hands. I squinted to read the back of his shirt. It read, “A ghetto Love is the Law that we live by.” I was both confused and envious at the same time. I want a ghetto love ... whatever that means. I want to be consumed by the simplicity of the closed little university that is F.G. Drive, my neighborhood, and yet not my home.

I’ve hated every day that I had to walk pass these streets towards the concrete jungle that is the city. I hate the Madison Avenue shops. The little old white women with their fluffy dogs and furs to match. They’ve got more money than I could imagine and yet their inclined to take the bus. Its got to be an old people conspiracy. Their goal is to torture me with their slow pace and wrinkled hands; to annoy me as they push for seats and make a twenty-minute bus ride all the more unbearable. I hate the prep kids and my little prep school, whose name is less than important to me. I hate having to blend in by day and blend in by night. Ghetto-black girl wannabe rich girl in the day. Uppity-black girl wannabe ghetto gal in the night. That is what I am, at least that is what they call me. "They" are the means to my end. The haters and the hater-etts. The ones who believe I am in this rich school because I'm poor and black rather

than human and intelligent.

The ones who believe my momma is a brown noser and a sell out who thinks her daughter is "too good" for their schools. The ones who are the first to wish me luck and the first to curse my name when I succeed. No, they don't tell me these things to my face, but that’s what their eyes say when I walk the halls and walk the streets. That’s what my heart feels when I trade Lauryn Hill in for Brittini Spears, or when I take off my Penny Loafers and put on my Timberland boots.

Raquel, oh how I envy her. She doesn’t have to see that other world. She never has to know it even exists. She was made for the barrio and it was made for her. It is only when I sit in that park amongst my people who are not my people that I feel as though I exist. Listening to the sounds that are not my sounds. As the rain fell today, I felt like a part of a beautiful musical. I was more like a prop than I cast member of course; more like a tree than an actor. But I had a role amongst the hip-hoppin’ rhymes of the dudes and the hip-huggin tight jeans of the gals. I could for two seconds see myself stumbling along with that homeless man. As the rain fell I could imagine myself playing double-dutch with the girls, and actually being good at it. I belonged. It made sense.

God, I hate it when Dad calls me Red. Even worse than that is when Derek attempts to follow in my father's foot steps. I tried so hard to avoid him this morning at the park, but some how he found me. Why I decided to be his girlfriend I’ll never know. I guess it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Time dies though. It dies every second of every day. Or is it another way? Do I die every second while time lives just one second more? Yes. That must be how things are. It would be a wonderful thing if time died though. Even better if my actions died with time. As soon as I made a concrete decision time would pass and so would that act. There would be nothing for me to be held accountable for. I could act without needing to react. There would be no time for reactions when the actions are so quickly forgotten. But what life would that be? Not a very goood one I suppose.

My point is that there just isn’t enough minutes in the day. There isn't enough time. My mornings in the park are far too short. It was raining today, but it didn’t matter. I enjoyed the rustling trees and the peace that I can always find between my toes and the grass. I’d

give anything to spend more time there and less time baby sitting my little brothers, cooking dinner, and cleaning house. I can’t tell you how many times I'm glared at as I take the twins to nursery school. Random eyes watching me in sad disapprovement at what they believe to be an unwed teen mother. Perhaps if the twins were white, they'd see me as the immigrant babysister. Because of who am I and where I live all I could be is a some unwed mother or some white kids babysister. Right? Is that all I deserve to be?

Too many questions. Sometimes I need to run away from all the questions and eyes. Sometimes I just need to stay in that park for awhile and find peace of mind. I sware it took all the strength I had to put on my shoes and get off that old park bench. I slowly inched my way to school oblivious to everything and everyone around me. It wasn’t until Derek called out my name that I noticed a random girl staring at me with an intensity that scratched at my skin. She looked like one of those rich prep school girls. She was all done up in her uniform and penny loafers to match.

I can’t stand those girls. I couldn't stand her. She kept looking at me like she was better than me. I tried not to notice her, but in that brief moment in time I couldn’t help it. All day at school I replayed her eyes in my mind. The look on her face as if she was saying, “Her ass is too Big! Her style is too ghetto, and those boy boots she’s wearing. Whose the boy in the relationship? Its so hard to tell.” She said nothing to me, not a word. And yet her eyes said enough to keep my stomach in knots all day. If things were different I could be a prep girl. I’m smart enough, but who am I kidding. That type education requires intensity, a passion for learning ... a red heart. The one thing I don’t have.

Why does my mother hate us? Me and my people...

The-more time- you-spend-in-that-
park-the-less-time-you-spend-on-
those-books. Getoutofthosecloseandfix
yourhair. Looklikeagirl. Beasmartgirl!"

Neither man nor God could convince me that she took a breath. What little voice I had could never squeeze between the anger in my mother's words. Its as though she was screaming the black right off of me - at least the only bit of black I felt I had left to claim. I know she loves me, but why does she hate me so. Sometimes I feel like to be black to her is to be everything she strives to run away from. Her incessant nagging and brainwashing makes me numb inside. Don’t get me wrong. I love my mother, and I know she only wants me to have a better life. But why is a better life for her a whiter one? Why do I have to go to an Opera rather than the Apollo. Daddy says I’m way too deep for my age, but I don’t want to learn about my culture in a college classroom or from television. I want to be saturated in the street life. I want to trade my uniform in for something hip and classically new.

I wish it was as easy for me to act black as it is for me to be black. I wish I was Raquel.