Neighborhood Creases

 
Neighborhood creases
Boo boo was an artist on an ironing board.
He perfected that shit.
I remember he used to make the creases on his pant legs so straight that rulers
would use them as reference on how to act in the world.
A line so straight it reached back in time to his ancestors’ struggles.
To Zoot Suit resistance and sleepy lagoons.
Starch in one hand, steam in the other.
He pressed his dickies like his life depended on it.
Like somehow it was a reflection of the kind of vato he was.
Like his clothes had to be in line with his spine.
Like he and the iron were lovers and he was teaching her how to slow dance for the first time.
He would wake up early as fuck so he could give each leg at least a half hour of attention.
This foo walked turtle pace on purpose so as not to cause waves down his 501s.
He wouldn’t sit down at school at all.
Not even in class.
Not even when the principal came and told him he would be suspended.
He got good grades so he could
afford to be defiant.
His style was defiance.
He would rather take it in the chin than on the shin.
So he said no and just walked home.
Very, very slowly.

Boo boo was so serious about it
he would slip his pants in between two wooden boards, tucked it gently in the middle of his mattresses and slept on it for
eight hours just to start the process in his dreams.
We used to call him wrinkle free since 83′

His brother taught him how to do this.
How to take pride in turning
everyday actions into art
Like shining his armor so he would glisten in battle.
And everyday was a battle
And everyday was a chance to shine.
And you never knew when the straight crease of your life would be wrinkled by time.
Or a stray bullet.
Or a walk down the wrong block.
Or losing a brother to a life he wasn’t hungry for.
Or the inevitably of having to count your tomorrows on one hand.

So he lined them up.
Like an architect
Like a poet.
A crease as expression
A crease as rebellion
A crease as the holiest of tributes.

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(Featured image from Pexels)