PHILADELPHIA, PA – Let’s unpack this shameful shift that’s crept over the past decade or so in Philadelphia like a slow-moving fog, dampening the streets and smothering what little light we had left. Once upon a time, there was a sacred rule in Philly’s urban Black culture, a code etched into the concrete jungle’s foundations. The hustlers, pimps, and players respected the sanctity of youth with promise. Athletes, bookworms, and dreamers were a different breed—off-limits. These young men and women were seen as the ticket out, the hopes of the block incarnate, and even the coldest fuckin’ killer wouldn’t dare derail their trajectory.

Back then, you’d hear it in passing: “This ain’t for you.” It wasn’t a suggestion—it was a command, a line in the sand. It meant: You’re the light in this darkness, and I’m not about to drag you down into my abyss. Whether it was a drug deal going down, a burglary or a dice game heating up, the young athletes and scholars were shooed away. Their presence alone demanded respect, a reverence that was reciprocated with every step they took toward their dreams. That respect was love, even if it was a love born out of guilt and unspoken regret.

But that love? It’s gone now—evaporated like dew under a blazing, merciless sun. Today, the line between the court and the curb is blurred, and no one’s keeping the wolves at bay. It’s like no one cares anymore—not about the promise, not about the potential. The streets have grown colder, their inhabitants harder. And the result? Blood-soaked dreams and bullet-ridden futures.

Take Noah Scurry, a rising star at Fels High School. He had the kind of talent that made folks lean forward when he stepped on the court—a kid who could’ve had the world at his feet. But on his way to school, the streets claimed him, cut him down in a hail of senseless gunfire. A life that once brimmed with potential was reduced to a statistic, another name in the endless roll call of young Black boys and men killing each other. And this ain’t an isolated tragedy. This is Philadelphia, where the headlines scream of athletes shot on school grounds, their cleats and helmets no armor against the madness. Homes invaded, families shattered, the echoes of gunshots ricocheting through neighborhoods like a mournful refrain.

The question—where does it all end?—hangs in the air, heavy and unanswered. The love is gone. The sense of duty to protect our own has been replaced by a numb indifference, a lethal apathy. The gangsters and hustlers, once guardians in their own twisted way, have abdicated their roles. Instead of shielding the promising, they pull them down, dragging them into a vortex of violence and despair. There’s no “this ain’t for you” anymore, no safe passage for those who dare to dream beyond the confines of the block.

We don’t like us—that’s the brutal truth.

And until we confront this self-loathing, this internalized hatred that fuels the cycle of violence, the blood will continue to flow, and the light will continue to dim. Somewhere in the ruins of what once was, we need to find that love again—that fierce, protective love that says, “You’re worth saving.” Because without it, we’re lost.