Before I even knew how to say hi I,

Was outcasted, ostracized, denied

Kicked for being different, spitted at for daring to be born

What was I supposed to do, when even adults sworn

They could not hear the cry for help of a poor seven year old

What was I supposed to do, change schools and

Watch my parents struggle firsthand

To get money to pay for a better school

In a better neighborhood?

Crime rates high, cumbia music on, peruvian flag up

That’s mi barrio, the place I grew up in, yup

The place I loved, the place I cherished

Living with the people who all perished

Under the cruel hand of a deceiving dictator

Who pointed at the poor indigenous people and yelled “Traitor!”

Who brought my motherland to its doom

After the presume of a resume of the pursuit

Of Happiness

Yes, we were lied to, and yes,

It wasn’t something we could undo and so I understood

That nobody cares about the poor in the hood

So why should I try, after all I deserved the treatment I got

Or so I thought

Until my eyes were locked upon a pencil and sheet of paper

And I realized, oh, God heard my prayer

I wrote and I wrote, and I drew and I drew

And so I went out, even past my curfew and I knew

Creating, was something I could not live without

Take it away and know that I will shout

Till my lungs give out

You can take away the pencil and paper

But you can’t take away my worth

I know now, creating is what I’m here for

It’s something I will never live without

And mi barrio, with no doubt

Taught me who I am