Beacon Hill

A poem by Lanoir

Beacon Hill is where the 36 route runs and rules.
I lived on Beacon Hill in some of my childhood.
Red Apple Grocery, infinite skies, cheap nail fills, Jarritos & churros; Mexican delicacies, and the Delite Bakery. I’ve been going there since I was like 12 or 13?
Filipino treats and Filipino sweets.
Filipino dinner at Inay’s Cuisine.
Filipino honeys walking down the street with long hair of natural jet black and maybe sometimes dyed in the colors of auburns, rouge, copper, and gold bleached.
Friday night break dancing at Jefferson where the b boys and b girls sweating and kids will be crushing.
There is nothing in this city better than riding in your bike or driving in your car down Beacon Avenue.
I remember cruising down the sidewalk on my sparkling cherry red fat tire bicycle, feeling like a G.
I was raised in my grandma Virginia’s little house of the color peach on Beacon.
I remember she would pack us lunch to go to Mt. Baker beach.
All of my mom’s sides holidays and family celebrations were held at that little house.
All of us packed in there like sardines eating lumpias with soy sauce, drinking Pepsi, and watching the Super Bowl on TV.
I remember finding my Uncle Jeff’s hustlers in the back shed and showing my siblings.
Oh Beacon Hill, your fairytale like back roads and green light allies.
Open and welcoming front yards and backyards secluded with mystery.
I walked the Jose Rizal Bridge to go to China Town and yelled
“I’m the queen of the world!”
Because standing there in the spring with the sun shining on the city and me, the smooth wind going through my cotton shirt just feels very royal to me.
I’m sitting here on this 36 bus and I see the short baby faced old Asian ladies sit up in the front.
Their soft curly gray afros, warm hearts, and strong lingo.
Their unforgiving loudness and excitement and simple swag just makes me smile.
They speak in a language I cannot comprehend but it feels comfortable and it feels like home.

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