White Boyz In Da Hood

I'm white. No matter how tan I am, how short I cut my hair, how baggy my pants are, or how much slang I use, I've still got less mellanin than my neighbors. And as cute as it always sounds, little black kids do not think I'm "just light-skinned."

Being a white guy living by choice in Hunting Park, or probably any inner city neighborhood, is like living with acid reflux. There's always this reminder in the back of your throat that you kind of don't belong. That your existence here is suspect. That maybe you've got a Messiah complex. It's weird to live somewhere because you think that somewhere needs you. Most people move to places for economic reasons, to be near family, or, if they're lucky, because a million dollar home on the beach kicks ass.

So, do my neighbors need me? Am I doing some big noble thing by living here? Am I a pillar of white stability in a sea of brown chaos? No, not really. Something about this neighborhood blew my mind several years ago and it hasn't stopped. I can't live in the suburbs or in rural Indiana where I grew up. It's just not in me. I like it here. I feel weird being the white guy living next door, but so what. Indiana doesn't have a corner store open at 4am for all my pizza roll needs. People in the suburbs look at you funny if you don't take a shower. And Hunting Park is where my church and my friends are.

So I'm here, for better or worse. Break out the Mayonnaise.