New York City is its own world.

A jungle made of thick woods.

Its roots are full of the world's richest nourishment:

culture.

Home to many

and an escape to many more,

I am a result

of this greenwood.

My mother,

an immigrant from India

and my father,

an African American man from the deep south.

New York City thrives with my heritage.

Time square buzzes with the sounds of music.

The music that my ancestors of the south created.

The music made of mother nature's croaks and hums.

Jazz and hip-hop.

Jackson Heights's streets are lined with stores of South Asia

The scents that my ancestors brought from the east

The scents that boil out from curry and incent sticks

Jasmine and sandalwood.

For my roots are not those of a tree.

 They are the load-bearing walls,

holding up a forest,

 of cement and concrete.