West Tampa: Project’s Heartbeat

K Luvv's story reminds us that although home is where the heart is, our heart will always be the place our home resides; and he is his home's heartbeat.

In 2018, West Tampa’s North Boulevard Homes were torn down and around 2,000 residents were dispersed throughout the city, relocating to neighboring housing units. Most of these families resettled in the East Side— near Sulphur Springs or the University area. This series of events fit well into the same narrative of residents uprooted from Central Park Village, Ponce de Leon, and College Hill.

​From the outside to some, these projects were poverty and crime-ridden. For those there, they were a home that merely needed some upkeep or renovation. Many of the residents had lives that interlaced and tearing down these apartments created a lengthy intermission in the narratives whose settings took place in them. These projects had a heartbeat that could be felt through the stories of the people there.

Kevin Luvv Jr., also known by his street alias, “K Luvv,” graduated college 3 years prior from The University of Monticello at Arkansas. He came back to Tampa before the origin of his story slowly became a fertile ground for wreckage and the planting of something new. While storm clouds gathered over the city on June 17th, Luvv stood on the corner of Spruce St. and Oregon St. consumed by nostalgia. “Nobody really cares what these street signs say now. We all know what it is for real.” He spoke with a steadied wisdom and shrewdness when telling stories of the everyday experiences at this corner— they tagged it “4Way” coming up. But the street signs symbolized, for him, not just an intersection of cars, but rather a mark and pivotal element of his childhood.

Every few minutes he pointed toward a new location that had a story attached to it, before reflecting on what was then North Boulevard Homes and is now an empty plot surrounded by fencing, awaiting reconstruction.

​Kevin perched near a tree and surveyed the corner and pavement before sharing tales of earlier days and, more specifically, an experience with law enforcement during a moment when someone was killed in what is now known as West River Flats– after multiple changes to its name. He mentioned that the names some former residents still use are “Spruce Terrace” and “Oak Village.” “Yeah all this sh*t new, but we used to chill on this same corner right here. We still come out here now.”

He went from being the subject of the photoshoot to helping direct the shots and placement, allowing the photographer, Tre Butler Jr., to capture the focal points of the story. The world rarely hears narratives like Kevin’s. Most people from Tampa, both older and younger, remember seeing or hearing of him coming up. Even if known in passing, K Luvv wasn’t a face or name to forget. West Tampa was like an outlying village. But this was his home.

Luvv graduated from Plant High School in 2010. He is currently in graduate school at The University of Arkansas at Little Rock with his schooling being funded by one of his former football coaches, HUD Jackson.

Everyone deserves to have their story told. A moment during the conversation we had reflected and was remindful of a sobering reality from John Singleton’s 1991 classic, when Ice Cube’s character, Doughboy, lamented solemnly, “Either they don't know, don't show, or don't care about what's going on in the hood. They had all this foreign sh*t. They didn't have sh*t on my brother, man.”

Luvv’s sentiments regarding his story subtly illustrated this same truth.

Why is your story significant? How would you like it to be told?
“I’m different from anybody comin’ out of my section. It’s certain things I didn’t have to go through to understand it. I don’t care if my story ever gets told."

For those who grew up in Tampa’s inner-city, you could identify, undoubtedly, who was from West Tampa. They were usually not far from one another, or related. But most people from that side of the town would never miss an opportunity to remind you.

My mother was from Tampa Park, and my father was from Jackson Heights. We bounced in between the inner city and the suburbs throughout my childhood, so I never knew what to call “home.” People from the West knew, undoubtedly, where their home was. Even when gentrification, with the possibility of returning to what was once a cultural hub, sought to displace them.

Luvv motioned his hands toward the corner, assuredly, before saying, “Man, it used to be bout thirty n*s standing out here, and don’t let nobody drive through that we ain’t know.” He learned the language of the streets at a premature age and when life had lessons to teach, he became a student early.

​Now working toward his master’s degree and being in rooms with the right people, helping him experience a more reposeful world outside of project lounging, he still spends his downtime hugging his old block, giving and serving it himself. Whether by nighttime bike rides and grilling for his peers, or intimate and hospitable encounters with the homeless.

Kevin is, in his own way, an organizer and community man. He’s created a kid-friendly, Annual Father’s Day block party for fathers in the city. He mentioned, “The block party will always be held somewhere in West Tampa with a playground for kids. It’s crazy because I don’t celebrate holidays but that’s a day to pat another black man on his back and tell him job well done. I celebrate that sh*t every day, ask any of my potnas’. I’ll call them boys and tell em Happy Father’s Day at any time cause that sh*t year-round.”

He mentioned in earlier comments about fatherhood; “The only thing I worry about is “do my kids know and understand that their father loves them?” If I never make nobody else smile. Them the little people I feel obligated to do that for.”

While covering his story, our interactions were both enlightening and confirmed some theories about why black men who grew up fast and in harsh environments won't easily turn away from remnants of a life we’d expect them to make haste to leave behind, especially when a new reality welcomes them. Higher education didn’t give Luvv much of what he didn’t already have. The streets continually instill in him a rationale and awareness that undergraduate programs didn’t cover in their curriculums. “College never really taught me anything. I had a biology night class my sophomore year during the football season that’s probably the only class I actually learned something in. We covered a lot of things.”

Have you fully transitioned out of your past life? If so, what does West Tampa do for you now?
“It’s crazy to say but I’ve never left my past life, I’ve always been 1 foot in school & sports & 1 foot in the streets. I had my first daughter on my 19th Birthday. By 21 years old I had my second daughter. My daughter's mother didn’t want to hear “I got to wait on my financial aid check.” I had to make sh*t happen. West Tampa is what keeps me grounded, it’s the place that embraces me with open arms. It shaped me for the good, bad, and ugly. If you can make it out of this b* you will be ight in life.“

Graduating from college didn’t mean unlearning the streets and his upbringing. There seems to be no tradeoff for those who walk this life. What the world offers can’t replace or take away what a home gives. K Luvv’s current reality reveals that he still keeps West Tampa with him, in mind and body even when, physically, it is void of the essence that was once there. He reflected on visiting his friends who are incarcerated and how survivor’s remorse sometimes plagues his thoughts as his life has considerably changed.

​Luvv carries the substance of his neighborhood. From emblematic tattoos inked across his body’s frame to an old-school car that was passed down to him that he’s named and used as an expression of his flair. These are all artifacts of his story.

Your car. What does it symbolize for you?
“Me, Where I’m from. I’m a Florida boy, that’s considered our ghetto Rolls-Royce. We grew up on trick daddy. All he screamed was “Donk Ryde or Die.” I used to play bingo key lock waiting on this sh*t. If you look at my car, my paint is nice and classy. My insides are just original. My music and panels flushed and when you look at my feet that’s what sticks out them motherf*g Daytons and Vogues. Young n*s may be like “this n* old school” but old school n*s be like “that lil n* know something, he special.” Dayton's not no regular rims.”

Acknowledging the pulse in West Tampa would have led to the city better treating its ills. Written accounts like Kevin’s remind us that his home, and other neighborhoods subject to the quietus nature of gentrification, are still homes for many. His feet have carried him outside of Main Street’s and Exit 42’s borders, revealing to wherever he lands himself that the West still has a heartbeat; and he is one of its pulses.

While his home was being remade, Luvv saw it fit to renew himself. Survivor’s guilt, spiritual renewal, and a heart that continually returns him to his neighborhood. Kevin has opportunities to transition out of a life with which his empathy and need to reconcile his future call him back. He navigates the reality and tension of someone who vividly knows the pressure of being a trailblazer— both a citizen and sojourner of two worlds. One he loves enough to not leave behind, and one he realizes he can guiltlessly step into. But he reminds us that it’s possible to tread both; no matter what path life invites him to, he will always remember to get off Exit 42.

While exchanging emails Kevin was asked what he wanted to title this chronicle— giving him the freedom to narrate his own life and play, even subtly, a unique role in the creative direction of this story. We deserve that. Regardless of how negligible the world tells us our stories are, we can still, ultimately, decide how we want them to be remembered. Unsurprisingly, he chose, “West Tampa: Project’s Heartbeat.”

Told by: Kwon