Gang culture

 There was a boy who wore a mask long before the world ever demanded one. At home, his father’s voice was a clenched fist "Don’t cry. Men don’t beg for nothing. Men don’t break. Shut up!" So the boy learned to swallow his fear, his hurt, his longing. He pressed his feelings down like crumpled paper in his pockets, until they hardened into something sharp.

Outside, the streets offered him a different mask. The gang called it respect, a sneer for weakness, a glare for defiance. They told him, "This is family. We don’t betray. Brace up! We don’t side step." And because he had been taught that love was silence, that strength was suppression, he believed them.

One night, standing on a corner with his fists balled tight, he realized:

Both masks were the same.

His father’s love was fear in disguise.

The gang’s loyalty was fear in disguise.

And beneath it all, the boy was still there, aching to be seen, not for his hardness, but for his humanity.

We do this too. We wear masks of anger when we’re hurt, masks of indifference when we care too much. We let fear dictate our love, thinking toughness will protect us, when all it does is isolate us.

But love isn’t a mask. It’s the courage to remove it.

The boy eventually did. It hurt. It saved him.

Will we?