I can honestly say growing up in this small Florida community was not easy, but it was worth it. Outsiders considered it ghetto, ratchet and a playground for winos--any eyesore in an otherwise normal, boring city of Hollywood. It was the butt of all the jokes I heard from cops and other emergency personnel who made nearly daily trips to this part of town for burglaries, fights, car thefts, drug busts and other felonies. Other than Liberty City located in Miami, this town gave itself a bad rap for well, being bad.

The residents however had a completely different view of this city. They loved it! It was where you can listen to old school rap and R&B on every corner on the weekends and jam to the music. No party? No problem. Many people just communed in the streets with their boomboxes with the neighbors dancing down the street with them just like an urban Pied Piper. It wasn't unusual to hear the neighborhood DJ on every corner rocking the mic and shaking the walls and rims with bass enough to register on the Richter scale. (It always gave my mom a headache and an itchy finger to dial 911).

After the Friday and Saturday street parties came the Sunday morning mourning. The lively mood from the weekend suddenly turned into a solemn worship service. Now these same streets were filled with gospel music. Talk about contrast. People came out of their homes wearing their Sunday best hats, lace dresses and lace wigs to proceed to church. Since there were churches on every other corner, choosing one would be like a crap shoot unless you had a home church. My church unfortunately made me feel a little obligated to go and half the time I fell asleep during service.

My mother would slap me and proceed to give me a stern warning. She once told me that if I fell asleep too many times I would not wake up thanks to God's wrath. I didn't necessarily disagree with her but I decided to take matters into my own hands--and join another church I haven't fallen asleep since. I guess the Spirit wasn't feeling it either.

Monday is now on the horizon and at the time I looked forward to walking to the bus stop and communing with my friends who were real characters at the least. I had one friend who was a Lil' Kim wannabe, another friend named Peanut who had quite a sick sense of humor that always got him in trouble especially with the bus driver.

Once while the bus was at a stop light Peanut grabbed an entire box of donuts and threw them on the cars below. They landed on the window shields and of course the drivers turned on their wipers smearing the sugar and filling all over it. He laughed, I laughed but the bus driver was not smiling. In fact once she parked, she chased him to the back of the bus yelling obscenities where he opened the emergency exit and sprinted all the way home. I still get a belly laugh from that.

Carver Ranches represents so much more than the negative aspect of a poor black community. Most resident have seen the up's and down's of living there and many will not dare go elsewhere. A large majority of residents are Bahamian immigrants and have rooted their livelihoods there and that is where they and their families will stay no matter what. Too many memories still flood my mind about this place. It's where I first rode my bike (and nearly got run over), I met my best friend, got my first real taste of Southern black culture and also got to convene with fellow Bahamians without having to leave the country.

Sure it may look different than it did in the past but its essence is still the same even though the name has changed. Carver Ranches, now known as West Park may not be the easiest city in the world to live in but many of the residents that still live there make it a sanctuary for the ages.