I need a sign to let me know you're here
All of these lines are being crossed over the atmosphere
I need to know that things are gonna look up
'Cause I feel us drowning in a sea spilled from a cup

When there is no place safe and no safe place to put my head
When you feel the world shake from the words that are said

I need a sign to let me know you're here
'Cause my TV set just keeps it all from being clear
I want a reason for the way things have to be
I need a hand to help build up some kind of hope inside of me

As I sit and listen to the white boy singing about finding safety in the world, I remember my past. I prayed often, as if my life depended on it. I shared those feelings with those white boys. I remember those feelings because I still feel them to this day. If only anyone knew how many times I considered ending it all due to lack of hope. I thought for years that there was nothing worth living for. There was little chance that I would make anything of myself. I could see the people around me and how they turned out; oh yes, I was very keen of how life was for us. We were a family, a neighborhood, and a way of life. We lovingly and spitefully named our habitat the ghetto. It's funny how we could hate it so much until an outsider attacked us. Our guard would go up and suddenly, we were proud of our lives, of our rundown homes, of our prostitute mothers and sisters, of our barely employed fathers, of our delinquent, gun carrying children …of our ghetto.

In my ghetto, there was no getting out. You were born, raised and died in the same household. The neighborhood hero was a rapper named Tiny; he beat the odds and moved across town to pursue his career. Last I heard, he was killed in a drive by. We all had dreams of getting out. Some would do anything it took to get out: sell drugs, sell bodies, and even kill. Most of those people just ended up in prison; we heard it was almost better than home. We all did the best we could. It's funny how the honest workers suffered more than the felons. My family was a testament to that.

My mother worked at a small grocery store and my father worked at a tire factory. I can remember the smell of rubber on his hands and clothes when he came home every night. Both my parents dropped out of high school to raise their family. I had two older brothers before me. The poor souls, they worked harder than anyone I've ever met. My mother would take on double shifts and my father would work as much overtime as possible, and yet, we still barely made ends meet. My parents were hardly home and I was raised by my brothers. I don't hold it against them, I know the only reason they were never home was so we could survive. The neglect was unintentional; all they wanted to do was love us.

I can remember the day I told my parents I wanted to be a doctor. I was about 12 years old and free to dream. Although I was oblivious to it then, I can remember the look of deep regret and pain masked by a hopeful smile upon my mother's face. She sighed deeply and patted my head. She said, "Eric, you can be whatever you want to be if you work hard enough." Somehow, she knew what she said was true and false at the same time. I don't think she ever honestly believed in her statement. Deep down she was probably praying I would change my mind. She didn't want to see me get disappointed. Both of my brothers had been big dreamers as well. Rodney wanted to be a lawyer and William wanted to work with computers. Sadly, both dropped out of high school and ended up in prison for a short time. They both joined my father at the tire factory, where they continue to work to this day. I was lucky; I had my lucky break, but I went through hell to get it. Most people don't know my story; I'd rather not relive it out loud, though I dream about it every night.

"Hey Foreman! Lunch is over, mind doing your job? And no, I don't mean stealing a car. There's a sick patient that needs a Lumbar Puncture stat, oh yea, and you need to break into his house; the git is lying to me about something. And get rid of those shoes, only I can have them." The voice of my boss, Dr. House wakes me from my reverie. Miserable man; and he thinks his life has been rough. I mimic him in my mind often, "Oh I'm so miserable, I lost muscle in my leg and my girlfriend left me. I'm just going to be a cynical jerk and hate everyone." He wouldn't make it one day in my neighborhood, though he could probably make a decent living selling all his Vicodin. Dr. House doesn't even know my past. He likes to tease me about being a law breaking black kid, but he really does assume I grew up in a middle class, happy family. It's kinda ironic really. I wonder if he would feel guilty if I told him that I had grown up in a ghetto. Probably not; he would give one of those "I'm learning from your life lessons" looks and then forget it 5 minutes later. That man is a brick wall.

I do the Lumbar procedure, one of my least favorites. Even the strongest of men whimper at the touch of the needle.

I put my jacket on (it's fricken cold outside) as I get ready to raid a man's home. I was told to bring Dr. Cameron with me. Fragile doll-she's my little white sister. She knows my story, well parts of it; I don't think she could handle the whole truth. She always gets nervous right before a break-in. Good thing my brothers taught me how to pick a lock and stay calm. I sigh as we get into my Lexus; if only they could see me now. This car cost more than my childhood home. As Cameron reads off the man's address, I slump in my seat. It's in my old neighborhood on the other side of the county; ok so they might just see me now. It's going to be one of those days.