Young, Black and Innocent

I sit at my desk by the window staring at the blank page on the computer screen. My thoughts are interrupted by the laughter and profane braggadocio of a group of young men gathered outside. I do my best to ignore them and open the window blinds. Soon my room is filled with the scent of junipers and cherry blossoms. I gaze at the two-story houses that stand like sentries guarding my private kingdom; beige buildings with red tile rooftops set against a cloudless, blue backdrop.

The constant chirping of birds, playful shrieks of happy children and the faint barking of a dog, come together in a familiar suburban symphony. Occasionally I hear the ice cream man making his rounds and the drone of the mail truck, which brings about the nervous anticipation experienced by those who have submitted their work ti a publisher or twoor twenty.

What a difference a move of a few blocks makes! This house is a far cry from the cramped apartment I lived in. There the view from my desk was one of a vacant parking lot, with junkies and whores on parade. There were bothersome neighbors, who always seemed to have the water, pitcher and the Kool-Aid, but no sugar. The sounds of that world produced the cacophonous blend of squealing tires, slamming doors and profane, late night lovers quarrels.

Again, my thoughts are interrupted by the sounds of exuberant horseplay among the young men, and my mind drifts back to my youth

Lazy summer days spent on the back porch of my parents home, daydreaming and turning billowy clouds into faces and inanimate objects. I recall reading late into the night, when everyone else was asleep, then pushing myself from bed the next morning to get ready for school. At sixteen, I would sit in my dads recliner until two three in the morning reworking a couple of lines of a poem or short story, until I got it "just right," only to read it a month later and rearrange the whole thing.

My friends and I would sit in the park and from our cars watch the ladies stroll by -- Afro puffs, double-hoop earrings, culottes. That night wed go to a house party and meet those same ladies. Theyd play hard to get, and they were. The next day wed get together in Granny Steptores garage and boast of who we "got play from" and planned to swoop on. Back then, "La, la, la" meant "I love you" and Motown truly was "The sound of young America".

Summer romance.

Youd find that one, and the two of you would hang throughout the summer at the pool, the park, the movies, parties. You had your song (for me and mine it was the Dramatics Be My Girl). Back then, love songs were about love and the pursuit thereof. The real tension came later first kiss, meet the father

By the time the first day of school rolled around, came that expected, but nonetheless sad, farewell

Alas, both romance and the house party seem to be relics of the past.

Disagreements were settled with snaps, or maybe even a fistfight. Afterward, it was over; the combatants went their separate ways. Fights were over women somebody bad mouthing you, or outright challenging you to duke it out Guns rarely figured into the equation, and if so, it was for self-defense not because someone was from a different set, got mean-mugged or was being hated on.

The world was a different place, full of protest borne from optimism. music didnt just make you bob your head and get up and dance: It made you think. We were blessed with poets like Smokey Robinson, Curtis Mayfield, Stevie Wonder and James Brown -- who told us to say it loud, that we were black and proud. You had to stand for something, or youd fall for anything.

Todays music is all about sex and gunplay sometimes in the same song. Every woman is labeled bitch and ho and the ladies dont seem to mind. Today, everybodys got a gat, a clique and an attitude. Fistfights are pass and black unity means gathering at a church to bury another victim of errant gun play and misguided machismo.

Sitting here looking out the window reminds me of the "Good ol days" and mutter a silent prayer for todays youth.

Timothy N. Stelly, Sr. is a northern California poet, novelist and screenwriter.

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