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I am West Side born and bred. I made the announcement, beaming with pride as usual, as I stood in the gymnasium of the West Side's Christ the King School recently, where I was invited to speak words of inspiration as a native son.

"I'm glad to be back on the West Side. I call the West Side, the Best Side!"

The students cheered.

It is often my calling card -- this proclamation of my West Side roots. But for many, it is apparently the thing in my past of which I should be ashamed.

In their minds, "West Side" conjures up images of all that is bad. It is a reminder of that so-called brand of life on the other side of the tracks, of poverty and broken glass and the place where supposedly no grass grows.

We were once dubbed the "American Millstone" -- that dead weight draped around society's neck.

I once heard a preacher -- referencing a scripture about a rabbi from Nazareth -- ask with a chuckle, "Can any good thing come from the West Side- "

There were those South Side sisters I once argued with after they remarked, "There ain't no pretty girls on the West Side, they all got scars on their faces."

And there is the notion that West Siders are not to be messed with, unless you want your butt seriously whipped. (That reputation still sometimes comes in handy.)

For years, we home-grown West Siders have been the butt of jokes, often seen as second-class citizens, deemed by some South Side African Americans to be their unsophisticated, uncouth, dark-skinned cousins -- project-dwellers devoid of middle-class values. And for those West Siders who will not deny our roots, there is always some put-down, waiting, like an icy wind, to slap us across the face.

Much of what I have heard over decades, in seriousness or in jest, about my side of town and the people who call it home, might be laughable were it not at times so hurtful and the misperception and perpetuation of stereotypes so damaging.

I, for one, am sick and tired of the denigration, snide remarks and innuendo about this place that for as far back as I can remember has always had a certain richness, realness and resilient blend of life, loyalty and love, whatever the ills that also beset it and its people.

What I remember most are apple tree days in Mr. Newell's backyard, where the older boys shook its emerald limbs until it rained apples. I remember the white spray of the fire hydrants and child's play on blazing summer days; sweet Sunday mornings, the scent of pot roast and the sight of families flowing into storefront churches; baseball on vacant lots between boys and men; and laughter, love and lessons enough for a lifetime.

Among them: Never judge a book by its cover.

Not long ago, during an interview, a commentator, noting my good diction and my resume, remarked that it might be hard for some folks to believe I really grew up on the West Side.

Why- Plenty of West Side kids like me grew up to be doctors and lawyers, journalists, architects and professors and just plain good citizens.

So why don't you live on the West Side anymore-

It's simple: Because the good people and institutions of the West Side gave me the education, drive and opportunity to be able to live where I choose. And maybe, some day, that just might be the West Side again. After all, I've discovered the South Side ain't all that.

And besides, there's just no place like home.