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I rode down Northside Drive and cut up Bankhead to a Dollar General where my passenger was waiting. I always send the text first: “Hey, this is your driver, Ti.” It was a small gesture, but one that feels like showing respect to the city as much as the person.
The store used to be a CVS, but after too many robberies, it became a Dollar General.
In my rearview, I felt the weight of history in the cracked asphalt, the hum of traffic, and the faint smell of fried food. Bankhead used to glow with life—Club Crucial, Rally’s, music spilling from cars, parking lots turned stages, people parking lot pimping the night away. It was the Westside’s heartbeat.
Now, that energy has been swept away by crime, heavy traffic, and gentrification. The Black gathering spaces that once lit up these streets are gone, leaving a quieter, more cautious rhythm.
But I still feel comfort here. I know these streets—the ghosts of laughter and music—and I can navigate them safely.
Clicking on my hazards, I realized why I drive these streets. This isn’t just about getting someone from point A to point B.
It’s about carrying stories, holding a little space for life to unfold in the backseat while Atlanta keeps surviving, celebrating, and moving.
In that lot, standing in the shadow of what was and what is, I felt like I could do the same:
Bear witness.
Preserve memory.
Pull myself up, ride by ride.
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