If You Can Make It Here... Part II

so i decided that if there were going to be parts ii and iii and so on (and that’s just to catch you up to present day) that i had better get going…

and so the journey continues. into a neighborhood called prospect-lefferts gardens. i loved it (for awhile). a huge historical district with rows upon rows of stately and beautiful brownstones. and not many new yorkers had heard of this place... just a few blocks from prospect park. so i could run when i wanted (which i wish was more often), walk to the saturday green market, sit by the pond and watch couples have their wedding pictures taken, listen to groups of kids freestyle (& fight), chill with the drum circle, feed the ducks, sit in the shade and read, inhale so many wonderful flavors i thought my stomach would burst from the scent of it all. http://www.prospectpark.org/

this new space was huge. it was a neighborhood with things that were familiar—iced coffee, mexican food, the botanical gardens; and with things not so familiar—dozens of people milling on my dead end block, drug deals by day and night, a homeless guy who had been living on the roof of my building for what i was told was more than a decade, the soothing sound of the subway rattling by as it came up from it’s depths. my new neighbors gave me a tulip plant to welcome me to the hood. it felt good. i could get to the train in two minutes.

the Q.

for me, the Q train is a world unto itself. i love love love the Q train. it’s a world party at all hours—people headed to the edge of brooklyn, speaking russian and its melodic variations, or young and old alike with beach towels and sunscreen headed for coney island for the day. or heavy-lidded brooklyn accents, thick, local, unforgiving. they made me giggle. but my favorite part was the colors—all the colors. and the energy that comes with that. each car on the Q was its own mini-planet. brown and yellow and black and creamy. tan and white and night and day. big latin families, hipster couples, russian women done up to the nines, elderly men with grand canyon wrinkles from hard living. rich, poor and the stratus in between. most times, people were talking, laughing, arguing—living out loud on the Q. the differences may be subtle to folks who aren’t on the Q with regularity, but there is a sense of ownership over this train line. a sense of place, with attitude that says (with lip smack and head bob) “mmm hmm—clearly you don’t live on the Q line.”

i bought my first share in a cooperative farm—called community supported agriculture (csa) and they have them all over the country. everyone—please take a minute in the next weeks, to think about where your food comes from? who plants it, harvests it, delivers it? how is the land treated? how are resources utilized? depleted? in a time when fuel prices are insane (and you kid yourself if you think they’re going to ever be “low” again)—think about local eating. it’s also a wonderful way to connect to your community (remember when we used to know our neighbors?!), to learn how to cook every kind of green imaginable (or whatever flourishes in your local climate). i can’t eat a store-bought tomato without judgment. the food i ate was harvested the morning before it arrived in my kitchen. i knew the farmer, i knew the people who picked the veggies (as i was one of them). and for far less than it would have cost me at the local grocery, i had fresh, local, organic produce for almost 8 months. and whether or not you believe it, new york is one of the greenest places i have ever lived. an unexpected yet pleasant surprise. www.localharvest.org/csa

life in lefferts. the west indian day parade goes right down flatbush avenue. it is as close to mayhem as i’ve ever seen. round the clock mayhem, at that. nypd out in seriously full force, west indians out in even fuller force. street vendors selling mini-flags representing every country imaginable—trinidad & tobago, haiti, jamaica, barbados, grenada, martinique. storefronts flying life-sized flags and grilling out front. again, the smells. (my mouth waters as i type) all along the side streets, long tables set up buffet style and filled with mounds of food—kids running and playing. parents yelling and laughing. although there was an undercurrent, a rivalry, between the varying countries. it was almost palpable as the groups wandered, chanting and fervently representing their own worlds. this party goes nonstop. i was lucky enough to have a friend in the building—he is from trinidad, is a part of the street culture that i was struggling with [see below], beautiful, adventurous, and willing (is that the right word?) to hang with the white girl in the building. so in the middle of the night he took me to the epicenter of the celebration—for me a mix of exhilaration, fear, wild curiosity (paired with wild abandonment) – for the customary speeches and fireworks and hollering (and gunfire) that set the parades in motion. colors and languages and flesh were everywhere. a sea of never-ending people and motion and noise. was i really in brooklyn? i was...
http://www.wiadca.com/ or www.brooklynpubliclibrary.org/ourbrooklyn/carnival

life on beekman. oh, the noise, the noise, the god-damned noise. i feel as if life on beekman place redefines what noise is: it makes you turn the volume up on your tv until you blow a speaker, it vibrates your bed at 2am with bass thumping, it makes you doubt humanity when two mammas go head-to-head with fists and bars, it makes you add to the mayhem by screaming at the top of your lungs occasionally just to get the release. it makes you (feel) racist. it makes you double back on yourself, check out who you are, why you believe what you do. it makes you cry. it makes you rail at the government. it makes you feel poverty in your bones, blessedly as a bystander, witnessing what happens when there is no education, no work, no ownership, and no respect. it withers your soul. all of this out my living room window. and my kitchen window, and bathroom window, and bedroom window.

noise.

but there was the oaxacan vegetable stocker at the bodega across the street. he would set aside fresh cilantro and avocado. there was ali’s roti, my induction into the wonderful world of spiced bone-in chicken with potatoes and wrapped in piping hot roti. my laundry was across the street and the dominican woman who managed the place gave me piping hot cups of coffee. i found myself in unfamiliar & uncomfortable territory when she would talk to me, in a conspiratorial whisper, about her relief at “bright-skinned” people moving onto the block. gently challenging her, i would ask her what is was like when she first arrived in brooklyn with her then-newborn son. she would sigh and get quiet. i’m not sure if much of it resonated, but i do know that she listened, contributed, challenged me back. there were the “gentlemen” on the corner who never, ever left—playing dominoes and tilting their weathered and dirty hats to me every, single time i walked by.

i have really tried to notice life. to take advantage of this place—the five boroughs (yes, all 5 of them!) there are so many nooks and crannies to this place that you could look all hours of all days of all years, and just scratch the surface.

so that’s my scratching the surface of places-i’ve-lived-#2. i now have place-to-live-#3 and i am hoping it sticks and is place-i-live-for-good. am feeling hopeful.

at some point i will have to talk about my work—what a staggering place to work with adolescents. the systems here are monstrosities. they are simultaneously antiquated, chaotic, nightmarish and innovative, progressive, hopeful. all of it is overwhelming. but there is one thing that remains a consistent—kids. they are angry, rebellious, oppressed, ignored. they are wise, hilarious, deep, inspirational. i cannot imagine a world without them. i move towards them on the subway rather than away. i find solace in their space when the adult world gets too much for me. they give me faith that the family unit—a rare thing indeed in this faltering, flailing country of ours—can be whole again. if only we would take time to hear what they have to say—these kids, these parents, these communities.

aaaaah, a story for another time. stay tuned.

If You Can Make It Here... Two Years & Counting, Part I

where does one begin when the goal is to give the annotated version of my life since arriving in the city that never sleeps?

do i start with my first summer, the one of leisure—wandering the city at will, melting from the infernal subway heat, sunny afternoons spent watching world cup soccer and drinking beer and listening to a dozen languages being spoken, feeling overwhelmed by the vastness of the options before me, almost paralyzed by the options before me. learning the subways and buses, travelling to the cool mountains upstate, exploring the museum mile (after mile after mile), discovering languages from countries that I wasn’t sure i could find on a map… and i adore maps?!!? walking across the brooklyn bridge over and over again and discovering that I am definitely a brooklyn girl (who needs the mayhem of manhattan when you can have all that PLUS trees… just over the river?!)

or what about those afternoons that i hid in the apartment from the bustling lack-of-privacy, watching netflix, eating pizza (albeit some of the most delicious and exotic pizza i’d ever had—grandma slices? slices covered with baked ziti or chicken parm?) and wondering “why the fuck did i move to this place?”

it’s hard for me to go back that far, to unpack all the ground that I’ve covered: I’ve lived in four places, travelled to six states plus d.c. (quite the feat for us texans—we can spend two days in the car and still be in texas), spent countless hours in all five boroughs (and that’s a feat for most native new yorkers), and am currently on job #2. i’ve taken up boxing, own a share of a cooperative farm in upstate ny, and have become a yankees fan— *gasp* although i sometimes prefer a down-home coney island cyclones game.

i’ve been to country after country after country in all the five senses—the West Indies in their entirety (look’em up—i, too, was amazed at how many wonderful island countries there are, and how distinct and fiercely independent each one is…), India (northern & southern), Russia, the Ukraine, Bangladesh, Mexico, Columbia, Ecuador, El Salvador, Uzbekistan, Thailand, Iran, Senegal, Cuba, The Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, Greece, Italy, French (northern and southern), Belgium, South Africa, Lebanon, Turkey, Spain, Venezuela, Korea, Japan, China, Morocco…

should i tell you about my neighborhoods?

the first one was in a neighborhood called east flatbush, and when i told this to people, eyes would pop wide and people would say, in an astonished whisper, “why? how?” i never really figured out how to answer that question—but i did know that i was essentially one of a kind, no where near a subway, no bodega or shop or restaurant with familiar contents. i cried a lot. cursed my life a lot. and then i discovered haitian-creole food, plantain chips in a snack-sized bag, oxtail, beers you could by for 75 cents a single, street jerk and bacalao. i had collins, my jamaican super. if there ever was such a thing as love at first sight. he took such good care of me. a cross between a teddy bear, a stern & protective father and an enormous lumberjack with an accent so thick that some of our conversations to say “good morning” lasted well into the afternoon. is there really such a person as this in the big, bad City? on bedford avenue there is… he was there when my kitchen ceiling flooded, and my bathroom flooded, and my kitchen ceiling flooded again. he drove me to the lumber yard and answered my middle-of-the-night phone calls to tend to thumping music that rattled the bed. i got called crème puff and snow flake, but he reassured me that no harm would ever come. and in spite of the long, dark walk from the 2 train, it didn’t. i never felt in harm’s way. people waved. said hello. had fights on the street corner. the mexican muchacho who owns the auto repair shop and the gigantic rottweiler liked to chat en espanol. and then, only a few blocks from home, in a teeny tiny carniceria, i found quesillo. real, honest to god quesillo. not the mozzarella-made-into-a-ball crap that you find in major groceries. but ripe, stringy, oaxacan heaven.

that’s when i knew it was going to be ok.

so i befriended the 17 year old trinidadian kid next door (hmmm… did he befriend me?!), convinced him that his music was killing me, shared leftovers with his mother (ulterior motive: to get her to share her leftovers with me), let him borrow my bike when he needed it. gave him lessons in what to say when the cops stopped him on the street (as they inevitably did, for what would a poor youth of color being doing on such a lovely bicycle?), got painting tips from his mother, and when i told them goodbye i felt like i was letting them down. such is life when you are the person who doesn’t want to exemplify gentrification—but feels so lonely when your world, the familiar and comfortable, are not close by. the internal struggle i underwent was the topic for many a long discussion with friends, neighbors, colleagues. it is one that goes on to this day…

so i moved. and then moved yet again. i had one job. now i have another job.

a year or two has passed.

but those are stories for another day. so stay tuned.

More than 75 blocks

yesterday was one of my most amazing days. i have just walked more than 75 blocks. i have just been to the dominican republic without leaving manhattan.

my private tour began at 157th (about 45 minutes on the train)... a brilliant blue and sunny day. snow gleaming in the bright light. we hiked through the trinity cemetery, through the hispanic society of america, and then up along ft. washington park. wandered through scenic, residential streets with imposing and stately buildings that followed curves and were painted brightly. along sidewalks that someone had had the foresight and creativity to make flower, tree, wind: imprints into the sidewalk-- giving the concrete the feel of country. past such calm one almost forgot we were in the city. you could have heard a pin drop as we walked along and pondered who lived on the inside.

and then washington heights. this is a neighborhood that exists in its own space and time. the signs are in spanish, the people are speaking in spanish, the gente are hanging out on street corners-- seeing and being seen. the dominican empanadas filled with cheeses and meats and piping hot. one dollar. past shops who hang their clothes in the street, hawking their wares with large, hand-written signs: "2 skirts, $10"; "any bra 99 cents"; "dresses $5." mannequins that were modeled after women with flat stomachs and big, curvy, beautiful butts and legs. bodegas with meats hanging in the windows, peppers in jars, fresh dominican coffee. posters galore letting us know when the next big dance would be taking place, who would be playing the bachata, the merengue, the salsa. music coming from jam-packed barber shops-- social gathering places where folks go to just be, to have a beer and feed the gossip-mill. although one such locale made it clear that if you weren't getting your hair cut, you had 15 minutes to do your platicando and then get out.

i bought two of the biggest avocados i have ever seen. one dollar. not one person in the tiny grocery spoke english, the receipt made reference to dominican culture. the salami section was gigantic, the dominican sweets in abundance... as was the helpfulness and curiosity (why is this gringa here?) of the folks working there. more street food-- habichuelas con dulce. small paper cups of pure joy-- sweet, cinnamon-y, but something nutty from the beans. small crackers. two dollars. served only during the lenten season in the d.r. i am told it's usually made in gigantic batches and served in homes. but here the community comes out to share in this heavy, dreamy concoction. i'm told it's not easy to make...


we walked from the harlem river to the hudson river, spanning the tip of manhattan to the east and the west. and out onto the dykman pier, on the edge of the tiny neighborhood of inwood-- an extension of the dominican world of washington heights. we found a small gathering-- cooking up something that smelled wonderful, sipping cerveza out of paper bags, no women in sight. a small "in memory" nailed to a tree (2/17/08 por willy) and a small altar overflowing with budweiser cans and votive candles. men communing with men and the dead, listening to music from home here on the edge of the craziness. a small boy playing in the snow at the end of the pier while his father fished and yelled at his son to be careful ("ven para aca, papi! cuidate!") beautiful views of the shoreline and the imposing george washington bridge. everything bright white and dark brown. i will have to remember this place when it warms and the small, rustic looking "bar" opens to the "public."

next on the agenda was a real meal. but en route, why not hike around the cloisters and watch the cross-country skiers, and listen to the silence-- just blocks from the sounds of reggaeton and cars racing each other down deserted street sides.


food. so so so many choices spanning so so so many blocks. la casa del mofongo. 29 kinds of mofongo. beautiful, loud, move-your-body music. dominican carnival on the television (en vivo, because they have gotten away from the underlying religious connections. for los dominicanos, it has more to do with the month of february and dominican independence 2/27). big masks representing the spirit of the devil who was thrown out of hell to walk his days on earth. parties reminiscent of new orleans. i got a lesson in how to drink beer a la dominicano-- VERY cold, no foam, poured without touching the lip of the bottle to the rim of the cup. if these things don't happen, the beer is taken away and another is brought. so here we sat-- on a very chilly sunday afternoon-- feeling like we were on an island. eating the best chicharrones i have had in ages. inhaling mofongo with different meats (no goat for me this time). about 99% of the folks were dominican, so i got to practice my spanish all afternoon. i got lessons in how to tell the difference between a bachata, a merengue, a salsa. what to listen for and how to dance to them-- when to move your hips slow and low. and why they were different based on where they originated on the island-- in poor communities? in regions with more african influence? all ages and sizes and shades of brown. families. lots of kids. men checking out the women. women checking out the men. a line that wound around the brilliant table we had lucked into, smack in the center of it all. dancing, eating, drinking, history lessons, feeling like time and place has somehow altered itself. gone was the urgency of the city. people waiting in the long lines, patient, enjoying the process. taking that time to play with their kids or talk to the men who sat at the bar and drank all afternoon. children laughing and playing openly with no one telling them to be quiet or sit down.


we had every intention of moving on. but the music was calling. the ice cold beers were flowing. and the people were laughing, so we stayed all afternoon, into the evening. passing the time without worry or hurry. truly feeling like we had made it to an island and were finally relaxing into the carribean mode of tranquilo. without ever leaving this amazing little island of our own.

Habichuelas con Dulce

(gracias a cesar)

Ingredientes:
1 Libra de Habichuelas rojas blandas con

1 astilla de canela.

2 Latas grandes de Leche Evaporada Carnation.

1 Lata de Leche de Coco.

1 Lata grande de Leche condensada La Lechera.
1 Taza de azúcar.

3 Astillas de canela.

8 Clavos dulces.

½ Cdta. de nuez moscada.

½ Taza de pasas.

1 Libra de Batata cortada en dados y hervida con sal.

1 Cda. de vainilla.

¼ Cdta. de sal.

2 Cdtas. de Mantequilla.

Galletitas de Leche para ponerla al servir

Modo de Preparacion: Licué las habichuelas con su líquido y cuélelas, agregue la Leche Evaporada Carnation y la leche de coco. Vierta la mezcla en una olla y lleve al fuego, incorpore el azúcar, la Leche Condensada La Lechera y las especias, cocine a fuego medio por 15 minutos, agregue la batata, las pasas, sal, mantequilla y vainilla. Cocine a fuego lento por 15 minutos más o hasta obtener la consistencia deseada. Retire del fuego y sirva fría o caliente.

note to readers: battery issues; too few pics

I have no idea what I'm doing

So here I am, typing a blog, clueless as to how I ended up here. Yet simultaneously wishing that the wonderful world of blogging had existed when I was living abroad-- rather than 10 page e-mails, with the tedium of choosing who would be in the To: field versus the cc: field versus the bcc: field. Tedium.

It is my hope that this forum will allow me to see my every day life in New York City the way I am able to see every day life when I am living outside our country's borders: with awe, wonder, disgust, (ir)reverence, horror, simple awareness. Pay attention to it rather than simply moving through it. We'll see. I'm fairly lazy by nature... but the things that strike me as noteworthy in this giant metropolis are taking up too much space in my brain. Things that I want to say out loud.

Like the Korean gentleman who got onto the 2 train on Thursday, carrying his own chair. Not a collapsible camping-type chair, mind you, but an honest-to-goodness kitchen table chair. Missing part of an arm, but completely functional. He placed is against the center pole, sat down, and proceeded to immediately fall asleep. Who was he? Why did he need his own personal chair and what allowed him to go ahead and bring one along? How did he choose which chair ?

Or the man who hopped on the Q train, smoking a cigar and humming something familiar, something symphonic. Particularly because he relaxed against a warning for fires on the train...

More astonishing about this wondrous, overwhelming place is the public sense of privacy. Things here occur in the open, on stoops and sidewalks and in windows.

Bathing,

grooming,

laundry,
eating, napping,
noshing on the days atrocities...

These are the things that perplex me, fascinate me, daily.
Mini-irrelevances that, combined, make a pretty interesting world.

We'll see.