The only person who’s got your back is you.

“Salem Rose, you can’t trust any motherfucker. You can talk with people, and be cool with them, but don’t break bread with them. People are ruthless and disgusting, and the only person who’s got your back is you. Nobody got you like you got yourself, Salem Rose. You have to take care of yourself and tell everyone to go fuck themselves.” “I know dad,” I would always tell him, giggling because I knew he would get mad at me if I swore.

FROM HUMBLE EYES BY SALEM ROSE 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 94

“Granny, this isn’t my house,” I told my grandmother, a wonderfully kind woman who I loved spending time with when I was younger.

“Yes it is, honey,” she said in her calming tone that would always put me at ease.

My family didn’t move around much when my brother and I were children. The first one was the move from the run-down trailer park in Winslow, Maine, where we could see the neighbors from our kitchen table. We went to an equally run-down duplex in Waterville, Maine.

This apartment used to be a big, beautiful house in its time, which, as told to me by my mother, was built in the late 1800s. I was excited that we finally had a little bit of a yard to run around in.

Our neighbors were in the apartment behind us which was connected in the basement. The thin wall that separated our kitchen from the neighbors living room let us hear just about every move they made in there. We heard their arguments, parties, and everything in between.

There were old, wooden floors that were splintering, scuffed up, and not even remotely well maintained. The trim, which seemed to have been a natural oak color, had been covered with a thick layer of white lead paint. It seemed that everything was covered in white paint.

Even the stairs were covered in shiny white paint that made them a slippery hazard. My brother went to run upstairs to get something and he slipped. He gashed his chin open. My mom was panicked and tried to stop the bleeding. She called a cab to go to the hospital with him. He went and had to get stitches. He still has the scar on the bottom of his chin.

The stairs weren’t the only hazard hanging around the house. There were large, steel radiators throughout the house and we’d whack our heads on them, fall into them, burn our little hands.

My father was big on making sure that everything was locked. He grew up on the streets of Brockton, a rough city filled with drugs, gangs, and poverty. Although he lives a rather quiet life now, he went through hell and back growing up. He’s filled with so much paranoia and anxiety about almost everything.

I understand where he comes from, though, and I’ve ended up looking at the world like he did.

We had someone break in. They only stole a sound system and some CDs. We didn’t really have much for people to take.

I never knew who it was but my dad did. He told me that it was the neighbors living in the back half of the house. They came in though the basement.

I got a lecture that I had heard so many times before. “Salem Rose, you can’t trust any motherfucker. You can talk with people, and be cool with them, but don’t break bread with them. People are ruthless and disgusting, and the only person who’s got your back is you. Nobody got you like you got yourself, Salem Rose. You have to take care of yourself and tell everyone to go fuck themselves.”

“I know dad,” I would always tell him, giggling because I knew he would get mad at me if I swore.

“And if anyone ever tells you any different, you tell them to come and talk to your old man.”