September 21, 2015 - 15:05
“De tín marín do pingüe, cucara macara, títere fue, cuantas patas tiene un gato? Uno, dos, tres, cuatro!” My left foot was out the game, now I only had my right foot left to win. “De tín marín do pingüe, cucara macara, títere fue, cuantas patas tiene un gato? Uno, dos, tr-“ *BANG* Loud screams and the sound of people running almost muffled the sound of my sister yelling for me to run inside. “Corre, lola!” I scared but I wasn’t surprised. My grandma’s neighborhood wasn’t the safest in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. I watched as all my neighbors ran into grandma’s house and locked the doors as to protect us from the bullets. It was going to be okay, it would just be a little while until we felt safe enough to go back outside. And we would continue with the game. Maybe they would forget my left foot was out and I could have a better shot at winning.
In my home back in Lynn, MA my new playground was different from that of DR. There was little danger in my quiet dead end street. I would rush to finish my homework every day after school so that when my neighbor Makayla knocked on my door to play, my mom would have no excuse to say no. We would ride our bikes, our paint our street with chalk, or build snow igloos.
But I never felt a difference between my playtime in DR and my playtime in Lynn, despite the difference in safety. Kids just want to play, and they’ll find a way to do so regardless.