Navigating My Own Spheres of Influence Growing Up in the South Bronx

We have all heard the songs, seen the rap videos, and, for some, remember the headlines—stories about the drug and crime infestation of the South Bronx in the 1980s in NYC. I moved to the area when I was 9 years old and began attending 4th grade in Hunts Point, an area synonymous with crime and prostitution. It wasn't the ideal place for a young girl fresh out of a traumatic couple of years with a less-than-stellar parent.

At the tender age of 9, I had already experienced all nine of my ACEs (Adverse Childhood Experiences). I remember feeling very withdrawn from my surroundings, and, frankly, I’m glad I did. I could have easily been drawn to the street life to escape some of my inner turmoil, but something inside me lacked interest in it. I didn’t see the appeal of getting “jumped” (beaten up right outside school)—a regular occurrence for girls involved in the fast life. I just wanted to be invisible, and I did an excellent job of it for many years.

However, I can distinctly remember certain things that pulled me out of my shell (my mind) and back into living a joyful childhood in my body. One of those was music. It was everything to me, and, luckily, growing up, music was playful and fun. Rap music was popular, but so were pop and R&B. Music became my safe place, helping me calm my nervous system and escape everything around me. I was a songwriter and poet even at a young age, always creating lyrics and melodies in my mind. My mother nurtured my love for music by buying me albums and a boombox every year. The push to express myself creatively was life-saving.

Another saving grace was my neighborhood friends. I was able to hang out with them in front of my building, and we always had a good time singing and dancing to our favorite tunes. We even fought over who was going to marry someone from New Edition or Michael Jackson himself. I enjoyed everything artistic—movies, television shows, fashion—you name it, I loved it. I devoured magazines like *Teen Beat* and dreamed of the lives of A-listers. Once again, my mother supported my interests, and this became my saving grace for many years.

By the time I turned 14 or 15, my mother took me to an audition that changed my life. I landed a spot at an arts center called Mind-Builders in the Gun Hill area of the Bronx. Though it was over a 30-minute ride and walk to get there, the experience was worth it. Here, I was finally able to explore and see myself as an artist. I spent hours singing, dancing, and acting—I was in heaven.

The biggest gift this center gave me was a sense of community, miles away from my neighborhood, and friendships with people from all walks of life. Many of my friends had parents who were business owners or property owners. I celebrated Kwanzaa for the first time and was surrounded by mentors who wore dashikis and spoke proudly about being Black in America. They loved themselves, and it showed. In turn, they showed me what loving myself could look like—something I hadn’t seen until then.

One thing is for certain: I was truly influenced by this community space, and the relationships I built there stayed with me into adulthood. I can attribute many positive qualities about myself to this experience. For instance, the extensive acting classes I took have come in handy throughout my life. I can put on a smiling face during the most adverse situations. I can reach deep within myself to deliver speeches or professional development presentations because of my performance days at the center. I’ve built resilience through these experiences, and I know I can do hard things.

It’s hard to overstate how important it is to create safe spaces for children and teens. The healing these places can offer is enormous. Mind-Builders was not just a haven for creativity; it was a foundation for my self-worth and resilience. Every community deserves spaces like this, where children can discover themselves, heal, and thrive.