Alas, any such illusions were cruelly shattered as I stood outside of a Target in Hicksville alongside my fellow victims of UVB, shamelessly rubbing recently-purchased aloe vera over our lobsterfied bodies in the middle of the public sidewalk. Aghast at my embarrassingly public display, but unwilling to stop, I remarked "God, I feel so ghetto." At that exact moment, two black women walked past us, and the first coolly responded:
"Y'all not ghetto."
It had been spoken. Ghetto we were not. My devastation knew no limit. The most ghetto moment in my life, visibly rubbing myself outside a discount shopping center in some random white trash town, just wasn't ghetto enough. Damn, so why did I suffer through 3 years living on the South Side? Why did I watch all that BET and learn the words to "99 Problems?" Why did I buy these sweet kicks?
Ok, so I don't actually have sweet kicks, but I think I deserve some cred for surviving a place where we not only heard gunfire at night, but actually found bullets (not casings, but bullets) in the street outside our apartment. Sure, I was enjoying high-priced coffee, eating sushi, wearing sweatshirts with shorts, and indulging in other stuff white people like at the same time, but living next door to active gang warfare has to count for something. Besides, I speak Mexican, bitches.
It's time we recognized that ghetto is not a skin color- it's a way of life.
Keep it real, y'all,