My Black were slaves to the white race,
Brutally killed, if we had a word,
Forced to assimilate,
And economically taken advantage of.
My Black is classified as the “n” word,
Let alone everyone believin’ what they have heard,
I wish Bigfoot was real so that way if I have a bet with my dad, I’d win.
But he wouldn’t take the bet, so then my dad would say “No, cause he’s not real anyways.”
Windy City, or Chi-town, whatever you call it.
It’s a beautiful city despite some flaws.
Riding on the orange line all the way to downtown,
Seeing all the art on the buildings as they pass by.
The sky was a deep shade of dark purple and the sun wasn’t visible anymore.
I could feel the breeze coming from the lake, even through my sweater.
This fall, eighth grade students from Arthur Dixon Elementary wrote about the nostalgia, pride, and grief they find in Chicago. Read their memoirs and poems online in "Voices of Unity."