“Ay yo, lil’ mama.”
A candy-apple green Oldsmobile with shiny chrome wheels pulled up beside me.
“Shit,” I whispered under my breath. I kept walking, flashing an uneasy smile.
“How old you be,” he said in his syrupy Southern accent.
I laughed. “I’m 15.” I paused. “A minor.”
“Well, you don’t look 15,” he said. I shrugged my shoulders and continued to walk. The car crept on by. And I was thankful.
Here I was, a nosy reporter with my Poynter badge and my Canon camera, parading around the ‘hood taking photos. I was in Palmetto Park, a black neighborhood in St. Petersburg, Fla. It was sizzling hot, one of those days you just wish you were inside.
I wanted to explore my beat and tell their stories.
I must have looked like an outsider, a person of authority. The person I feared I would become, the one they did not trust. Read more