I have a daughter, Chelsea. She has this smile, it lights up a room. She lights up a room. And I have a sister, her mother Dena. On the street you might call her Shadow. I call them my family. If you think that doesn’t make sense oh well – this isn’t your tribe, your village; its ours.I don’t have a street name, much to my dismay.

For awhile in The Flats the cartel boys kept calling me something in Spanish – after 3 years of spanish class I can still only order ice cream or beer, but the way they said it every time I walked down the hill from the motorhome left me no doubt i’d finally earned a nickname. Besides the language barrier (I got google translate, yo.) the most dangerous man I knew told me to give them a wide berth so I couldn’t just ask. “They’re spoiling for a fight, Amber. Stay away from them.” he’d told me.

After agreeing and explaining I haven’t even mastered english I proudly told Whitey i’d finally earned my gang name.

“Oh?” he asked, barely paying attention as he muttered darkly into his phone. I told him, best I could remember.

After making me repeat myself 3 times he started laughing.”Well what is it?!” I demanded, “What is my mexi-street-gang-name?!”He tried to look serious, shook his head, and started laughing again.

“That bitch with the backpack.”

Sounds legit.

Published by SlabCityOracle

artist, lunatic, activist, minister, interpreter for God, mom...

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