Walking The Journey Together

It started like play: Shoves, a slap, laughter from the crew. Then the dance turned ugly—knuckles flying, knees scraping, blood slicking my nose like war paint. I didn’t back down. Sean didn’t either. But when it was over, we sat there—two busted-up kids breathing heavy and nodding in silence.

Growing up on the Southside of Chicago in the 80s was no walk in the park, especially for a fist-fighting kid like me.