The 93-degree heat of Harlem in the middle of July has me wishing these converse sneakers were flip-flops. The streets are lined with cotton-sheets drying as fast as they are hung. Three young teens sit on the street corner swapping spit through a 2liter mountain dew bottle and discussing upcoming tattoo ideas. Music blares from all angles. I try to look up to see if the sound is ricocheting from the high-rise buildings, or from the cars down the way…but the sun it just too brutal for my eyes.. I smell hotdogs and sugar and my stomach growls. I can’t concentrate on anything long enough to fulfill my needs of drinking some water, filling my stomach, or changing out of these heavy jeans because my concentration keeps getting interrupted by the graffiti around me. The story of the town. The roots of the hood. The memories that can’t be spoken by word and is otherwise forgotten by new news. This art. It’s beautiful. So many people visit this town and spit on it. Good ole’ white folks be saying we ruined it…trashed it…destroyed the architecture. They are such fools. They are blind. They can’t see beauty if beauty smacked them square between the eyes. This graffiti tells a tale…can’t you see it? There’s some pain…some stabbing…a shooting, a lost set of food stamps…an abusive father, an ex-lover gone missing, a can of tuna for thanksgiving, newspaper covering windows and boiled water for bathing. Don’t call something ugly if you aint got the experience to call it ugly.