What They Do

They’re posted up at the corner store every day.
I know what they do.

Car pulls up,
Stops,
OG walks up to the window,
Walks away,
Car pulls off.
No stepping inside the store.
I know what they do.

I pass ’em by on my way to school.
OG smiles at me.
I smile back,
And continue walking,
While knowing what they do.

One fiend on every block asking for change,
They’re never at the corner store, but always near that way.
Fiends speak to me and smoke around,
But you’d never catch ’em and the corner store men sharing the same ground.
A mother pushing a stroller approaches the store,
Younger homies give her space to enter.
She thanks OG for being able to buy her baby chips from the money he lent her.
That mother’s one of many alike.
No fathers and their children,
Or fathers and mothers and their children,
Ever enter that store.
They’d never congregate that way.
It’s only single mothers or worn out old ladies,
Who to be in a convo with OG would go out of they way.
Babies and chips, babies and chips.
I know what they do.

Three drive-bys in three months.
Candles laid all over the streets.
OG’s gone for a minute,
Then back the next week.
And fathers decrease.
I know what they do.

With a sense of pride in myself,
I let OG know what’s transpired.
My voice echoes on that quiet street so wide.
“I’m going to college this fall with a full ride scholarship.”
He reaches out his hand, gripping mine firm,
Because we both know,
Not many young men out this neighborhood make it.
He grins at me, then lets go my hand.
His eyes meet mine for an extra second.
There’s no melancholy coming in.
In his eyes is a genuine smile,
As it’s always been.

The next day I pass, younger homies say congratulations.
I don’t know any of their names, just their occupation.
I give them thanks, and go about my way.
This one fiend lays on the street up ahead, her eyes astray.
She glances up, and the anxiety in my heart pours
As I keep on stepping.
I give her no time of day.
It’s not her fault what they do.

It’s easy to neglect when the damage is less direct.
Bills pile up, evictions have risen.
The whole neighborhood has a cloudy vision.
But I’m just tryna take my lil sister to the park.
She loves riding her bike.
So I’ll keep on walking, I’ll play my part.
Just nods I allow of my talkative sister as we pass them by.
She’ll have no convo, I’ll fight her stubbornness.
Like her finally wearing the helmet I ordered.
We’ll pass by the corner store each weekend.
And every time,
I’ll tell her face forward.
Because I know what they do.

Why is it people who look like me are out posted on the block?
Why is it our brothers left and right get addicted to rock?
Why is it our sisters have to clean up the mess?
Or die themselves from the same substances that left our brothers dead?
Why is it contaminated white powder in the flatlands curse the people?
While rich white lines in the hills bless rich white lines?
Narratives of a loud minority have working class people scared of working class people.
We’ve villainized our own soul.
And one people’s shattered dreams, is another people’s profit.
Asking questions without seeking answers has taken a toll.
That answer, it’s becoming more clear.
Why the divide’s so strong,
And why what’s fake is true.
Why in the first place we have a corner store crew.
Search for Russell City.
And you’ll see
what they do.

Omar Mejia is a first-generation college student, first-year Journalism major from Oakland, California. After having his life transformed through civic engagement in his sophomore year of high school, he began community organizing in the local, state, and national communities. Omar is committed to keeping a foot in the community as he positions himself for a career as a political journalist. Find him on LinkedIn.