Personal Narrative: The Sign

One could say I had lived in “the bad area of town.” Maybe I did, I don’t really think of it like that. I considered my home, my neighbors, my community, wonderful. My parents didn’t like visiting very often. Corrupted by the stereotypes of society that suggested living in a neighborhood with people unlike my parents was actually a shameful act. It made them frown upon my way of living.
Where I resided, was quite progressive. Some locals were like me, free-spirited individuals who, after college, chose to live in a more unorthodox way than we were raised. However, there were several freedom-seeking immigrants or people who wanted to create a new name for themselves, and other people of that sort.
Basically, Joell, the district’s name, was a haven to us misfits.
Joell wasn’t the slums of the city, yet it wasn’t the affluent uptown either. We had people trying to manage two or three jobs to feed their children. Graffiti defaced the walls. Our roads desperately needed to be paved, and the people who could afford cars, had the old beat up ones from the used dealerships.
We had some of the hardest working people though. Brilliant minds were concealed within our faded wardrobe. We were the underdogs enduring the harsh criticisms of those who looked down on us. Completely ignoring them, the people of Joell, lead their lives with a considerable amount of optimism and dignity.
However, I can recall, one dismal, gray morning in early November I started off to a city council meeting, as most journalists should do, and I was quite glum. It’s the type of day where a grimace seems etched into your face and you can barely drag your feet to get to where you are obligated to go. Sulking, everything seems to be purposeless. The sidewalks were ru...

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... parents coming to criticize my apartment and preceding the lines at the food pantry became miserably long, that issue of my magazine came out. The story summarizing the meeting for Joell ended up on one of the middle pages, you know the one, often skipped by readers. It had been well written and thoroughly described by that author, but with such a dull topic. Not very popular with subscribers, since anyone who lived in the area or actually was interested in it, would’ve already known all about it. Readers ignored the tiresome topic I was supposed to annotate for the magazine.
Yet gracing the cover was a photograph of graffiti, a focal point in a busy, gray cityscape. The first article, in that edition, started with, “I can recall, one dismal, gray morning in early November I was off to a city council meeting, as most journalists should do, and I was quite glum…”