Dear Albany,

If I can't talk to you, who can? It's your girl, Gina Mae. Southside raised and southside bred.

You're out of control, sir. Or madam. Whatever floats your boat. Is it the Flint water? Are we so down on ourselves that we want to live up to the hype of that horrific prophecy that Dr. King made nearly 50 years ago? That we're a failure and will never change? We're killing ourselves. And our nonchalance and obliviousness is killing our children. Before they even get a chance to see whatever little sliver is left of "The Good Life City."

Where's the city where we battled it out on the gridiron or in the paint or maybe a scuffle here and there? The Kid-O-Ramas? Boys and Girls Clubs (Jefferson Street Branch stand up!)?

My soul weeps for you. It bleeds for you. Is it so bad, Albany, that we resort to such traumatic actions? Is there nothing more to do than kill each other over...well, that's the thing. There's never a valid excuse or reason. Albany, have you ever wondered why young people, at the slightest opportunity, jump 19, 82, 300, and 75 and never look back? Have you ever wondered why there's no more good news in the good life city?

I'm trying to hold back from COMPLETELY cussing your ass out. I still align my loyalties with you but it's hard to rep my city when there's a constant rotation in my ear about child abuse and child murders by people I went to school with. Or the senseless murders of friends and their loved ones. I'm thinking about you, Josh. And Leon. And Kaywee.  My closet, just like my heart, can't hold any more "R.I.P." shirts.

If you're trying out for First 48, please cut that short.

In closing, this shit has got to stop. I would say kill yo'self, but you already doing that.

Shaking My Head with Concern,

A 'Bany Girl