Success is to be measured not so much by the position that one has reached in life as by the obstacles which he has overcome.
Booker T. Washington
The year was 1981 and the sun was pelting down on the concrete like a wide-nosed hose attached to an ocean. The urine scented streets made the unbearable heat…, unbearable. Clearly only the strong could survive such a hot and sticky atmosphere. Nevertheless, these city streets, as well as the surrounding Bronx blocks, made up the actual birthplace of Hip Hop. If a tree never grew in Brooklyn there are some unexplainable roots in the Bronx. 
On this day, the Hip Hop culture was being cultivated on the corner of 163rd street and Union Avenue. And, by mid noon, the sun was hotter than a Do The Right Thing scene. The boogie down curtain opened in 23 Park, and as far as the eye could see the park is simply littered with litter and people littering. Twenty-three Park was so named for the public school that once rested adjacent to the playground. Now the (former) school is a part of the litter. It was not long ago PS 23 was the pick of the litter for parents choosing an educational facility for a young child. Rumor has it that the former Secretary of State, Colin Powell attended PS 23—severely challenging that tree growing in a concrete city theory.
There is a silver chain-linked fence that surrounds the basketball courts that are laced with variety of self-titled playground legends. Onlookers peeked through the fence at all of the ballers that are donned in low-top sneakers and high-top fades. At this juncture Nike, the Portland-based sneaker factory, was still a half a decade away from infiltrating this park—the NBA seemed even further. No time or space for advertising, just raining jump-shots drizzling from the blue collar hands of the likes of: Pee-Wee Smalls, Ivan Jackson and Morris High School legend, David Crosby. Spectators from all over the city watched as countless jump-shots and endless finger-rolls, rolled softly in the air, sometimes ricocheting off the metal backboards to a chorus line of ooohs and ahhhs. Witnessing the ball handling wizardry of Willie Mitchell underscores the gap between corporate interest and community confines. 
Not far from the basketball goals—not to be confused with goals of playing basketball—are mounds and mounds of neighborhood kids statistically doomed for the grave or steel cage by 21. These kids are dressed in anything but swim wear, but that doesn't stop them from playing tirelessly in the front of an open hydrate. In some states this open hydrate "activity" would be illegal, but here in the Bronx its just another day in the life. The water “sport” that's taking place is just further proof that necessity has always been the mother of invention. The police cruised by, in police cruisers, overtly praying that they were anywhere else—on a cruise, perhaps. Almost simultaneously, the neighborhood B-boys stare back, each side not remotely trying to hide the mutual distain—sort of like a West Side Story script. On this very hot day, the ice grilling almost seems welcomed, if for no other reason than to add a chill to the mugging air. The chilling disdain from the two groups of people (that will never formerly meet) seems unreal—but is real. And, the light blue, Buick duce-and-a-quarter cruising in the one car parade, proves just how real, with the Shalamar hit blaring to a slow speed….It’s got to be real/ girl, I can write a book on how you making me feel.
The contempt for both the police and the neighborhood B-boys can be cut with a knife—and sometimes it is. On the south end of the park sits a 25-foot high, graffiti –tatted, handball wall. The wall divides couples playing the inner city version of tennis or racket ball (minus the racket and tennis ball).
The ball of choice is a hard, pink rubber Spalding slightly larger than a plum. The Bronx is not far from the U.S. Open, which is annually held 7.4 miles away, (in Queens); but watching this game, that distance seems like 400 years. As the night begins to creep in and the non-residents creep out, a white moving van (of sorts) pulls up. If U-haul were to do an inventory spot check, I’m pretty sure there would be one motor vehicle missing. Finding the truck wouldn’t be hard either, this despite the spray-painted attempt to hide the brand name. The driver (totally ignoring the NO PARKING sign), hops the curb and pulls right into the middle of 23 Park. About a dozen guys unfold from the two row seating and spill out into the park. Some people stare, while others just ignore them as they ignored the parking restrictions. One of the guys moved to the back of the truck, opened the lift and started to unload a cabin full of equipment. The unloading began: massive speakers & rolls of neatly wrapped speaker wire, a bull horn, lights, turntables, an eight-legged table, a mixer, night lamps, amps, a couple of receivers, another amp, an industrial fan, a orange extension cord, a police barricade—yep a police barricade, and 10 milk crates of records are all amongst the hurriedly emptying equipment. In less than 20 minutes, the crew is set up and ready to perform for the TOTALLY unsuspecting and now semi-circled crowd.
In an instant, with the equipment snuggly plugged into the tax payers street lamp a neighborhood kid from PS 23 named, Melvin Glover picks up the mic and spits…. Broken glass everywhere/people pissin’ on the streets ya know they just don’t care/I can’t take the smell, I can’t take the noise got no money to move out/I guess I got no choice. Rats in the front room, roaches in the back/junkies in the alley with a baseball bat/I tried to get away, but I couldn’t get far/cause the man with the tow truck repossessed my car.
For the rest of the world it’s apparent that a Hip Hop legend is born, but in the Bronx, this is simply just another day in the life.
click blog arrow for bonus beat
1 love,
Ray Lewis
