"Hey sexy, let me take you inside my place and give you something good to feel on." I am almost positive the old man with a beer can in front of me just said that. I am having a very tough time avoiding eye contact. His puffs of cigarette smoke are clouding the air. Is he going to touch me? Why is he coming so close? Why is he following me? I hear nothing but car honks and this man's irritating, loud, raspy voice. I can almost feel his bulging eyes roaming through my body. Perhaps I should stop looking down at the ground so I can find a police officer. There has got to be police cars around here. Actually, I will keep walking until I get to the station. There are some people around so I should be alright. .
The Bronx is where my grandparents and parents first moved to when they immigrated into the United States. That is also where my siblings and I were born and raised for several years. When I think of my hometown, I re-live that scene with the old man. Alongside, I picture dog stool on the ground, smoke in the air, homeless men asking for money to buy cigarettes, tape on windows and guard dogs outside some houses. Ever since the day that old man terrified me, any good memory I ever had in the Bronx was ripped away. Rarely do I recall the days my siblings and I ran for the ice cream trucks, played jump rope on the sidewalks or took walks to the park with our friends. Now, even at nineteen years old, I still feel frightened. .
A hometown is a place where one was born and raised. It is a place filled with memories that one keeps no matter where he or she goes. Most importantly, it is a place someone should feel comfortable and welcomed. Unfortunately, this is not how I feel when I think about my own hometown. Instead, I think about how terrifying it is there. I think about the countless number of times I felt harassed while going on a five minute walk to the train station. When I am outside in the Bronx, I feel as weak and vulnerable as a newborn child.