I grew up in what Ron Finley would describe as a food desert. Little Debbie cakes, Kennedy Fried Chicken, $1 pizza slices, sour gummy worms, liquor stores, and churches; these are the things that make up my hood, my community. The other day Fordham Rd. had a street fair filled with bouncy castles, food vendors, and a table for the NYPD to set-up shop for community members to air their grievances. Pushing a sleeping toddler in a stroller, I thought of where my neighborhood stood prior to the gentrified air it is beginning to carry, the neighborhood with the consistent rumble of sirens and drive-by bullet noise, and marveled at the change, the shift — maybe this can be a place my daughter will feel safe in. And maybe she will. But, this is still the place where the closest thing to a healthy option is the Chipotle that is conveniently placed on the same strip of block as the newly built TJ Maxx and Starbucks adjacent to the Fordham University campus. Near my avenue exists bodegas, Chinese food, Burger King, Popeyes, and McDonald’s. The infrastructure that is the inner-city has created a food pyramid that is more dollar menu than it is farmers market.