Josiris Ureña grew up in the Bronx. This is the first of a new column in these pages featuring ficitional work, poetry and other writing.

In the days when hip-hop was coming up we rode our bicycles around the block and let the bass of any random song play with our hair. We went around once more even though it was getting dark and we'd make plans to see each other the next day on the block. In the summer we hung outside our windows with the promise of an ice cream truck medley in our heads. We ran down to meet Mr. Softee with quarters in our hands and let the creamy, soft white run down our chins.

In the fall we collected leaves and put them in bags to get extra credit in science class. We walked down the hill and left our moms way behind us, so we could join up with Ruby or Jasmine of Sedgwick or University avenue. In the winter we froze. None of us wore hats because it wasn't cool and so we played with the snow just long enough for the city trucks to haul our angels away. We never did have time to build snowmen.

The bus zoomed by and we didn't care to miss it, because we were probably going to cut first period anyway. Sometimes when we cut school we drifted into candy stores only to find one of our moms ready to take aim at the delinquents. We'd run from the paddy wagon (that was the name we gave the cops' van) and hide in pizza shops that sold us a slice and a soda for two bucks but kicked us out if we hogged the seats too long. The Chinese place with its handwritten sign "No Outside Food Allowed" made us eat outside if even one of us had a ham and cheese wedge. They made it clear we could sit there and eat but on their terms.

In the days when hip-hop grew and then briefly left us for "gangsta" pursuits we looked to alternative and bopped our heads but came back to our first love when the commotion had died down; we had let its bass and beats entice us in our youth and so we came back to days of bike rides around the block, Softee down our chins and hip-hop beats running through our hair.

The Bronx I speak of isn't just a place; it is a feeling; an attitude. It is the feeling I get when I hear an ice cream truck passing by with the slight promise of something purer than the snow itself. It is the imprint of a snow angel, the warmth wearing a hat in the winter offers you, a hat once rejected but now worn proudly. The Bronx is the feeling of assurance you get like when your mother, walking you to school, trails behind you as you speed up to meet Jasmine on the corner of Strong Street. It's the feeling of knowing she's watching you and is protecting you from a distance and is just waiting for you to hold her hand again before you cross the street. We all grow up and eventually feel too old to hold her hand, but we always long for that reassuring hand. The Bronx is that hand I slip back into, because holding that hand means nothing can faze me. The Bronx is the courage that runs through my veins and spews out innocent cynicism…sometimes.