When you've called a particular slice of surroundings home for your whole life, it's natural to be protective of outsiders that gatecrash the turf. But I'm beginning to wonder who in the hell left the gate open because I'm noticing a steady stream of Section 8 refugees infecting my humble enclave. That reads terribly classist, but sometimes you can't sugarcoat dingleberries into Goobers no matter how hard you try. I remember growing up as one of the few Black families around here and as the migration of brown faces continued throughout the 90's, it was a given that White flight was bound to kick in sooner rather than later. And now I can literally count the few stragglers from yesteryear left on one hand including the chain-smoking Marge Simpson clone next door. At first I didn't mind the changes...hell, it was nice to add some new variables in the mix and not a summer went by without my huddle of girlfriends around the way scoping out fresh male specimen as the latest U-Haul truck pulled up to a doorstep. And I've renounced my place on the welcome wagon since these newcomers are the types to bring down a girl's property value. I'm talking screaming rugrats running up and down. Unfamiliar faces eyeballing me as I'm reaching for my house keys on the way home from work. Parking spaces hogged by the showoffs who feel the need to have all four of their vehicles on the street simultaneously and Cheez Doodles wrappers carelessly strewn on my lawn. Being accustomed to peace and quiet is a thing of the past now that the elderly Guyanese woman next-door on my left flew the coop a couple of months ago only to be replaced with a Jamaican dude in his mid-30's who seems to think Vybz Kartel and G-Unit are appropriate when blasted at 1:00 in the morning. It's fuckery like this that just breathes new life into the mantra, "you can't let Black folks have shit." I've got one eye on the classifieds and the other staring out the front door. Summer's coming and it's gonna be trouble, trouble.