You could say I lived in the "bad part of town." Maybe I did, I don't really think that way. I considered my home, my neighbors, my community wonderful. My parents didn't like to visit us very often. Corrupted by societal stereotypes that suggested that living in a neighborhood with people other than my parents was actually a shameful act. It made them disapprove of my way of life. The place I resided in was quite progressive. Some locals were like me, free-spirited individuals who, after college, chose to live in a less orthodox way than we had grown up. However, there were several immigrants seeking freedom or people who wanted to create a new name for themselves, and other people of the same type. Basically, Joell, the name of the district, was a haven for us misfits. Joell wasn't the slum of the city, but it wasn't the rich uptown area either. We had people trying to juggle two or three jobs to feed their kids. Graffiti defaced the walls. Our roads were in desperate need of paving, and people who could afford cars got old, beat-up ones from used dealers. But we had some of the hardest working people. Brilliant minds were hidden in our faded wardrobe. We were the losers who endured harsh criticism from those who despised us. Completely ignoring them, the residents of Joell go about their lives with a remarkable amount of optimism and dignity. However, I remember that on a dreary, gray morning in early November I made my way to a city council meeting, as most journalists should. and I was quite sad. It's the kind of day where a grimace seems plastered on your face and you can barely drag your feet to get where you're forced to go. Sullenly, everything seems to be useless. The sidewalks were ruined... middle of paper... the parents who came to criticize my apartment and preceded the lines at the pantry became miserably long, that issue of my magazine came out. The story summarizing Joell's meeting ended up in one of the center pages, you know the one, often skipped by readers. It was well written and accurately described by that author, but with such a boring subject. Not very popular with season ticket holders, as anyone who lived in the area or was actually interested in it would have already known about it. Readers ignored the boring topic I was supposed to write down for the magazine. Yet on the cover was a photograph of graffiti, a focal point in a crowded, gray cityscape. The first article, in that edition, began: “I remember one sad, gray morning in early November I was going to a city council meeting, as most journalists should, and I was quite sad.…”