not in dublin anymore, toto
East Harlem.
Not quite south enough to be El Barrio, where panaderias and cuchifritas line the shop awnings, where i feel close to San Antonio and places closer to South America that i've been. And not west enough to be the Heart of Harlem, but on the edge of gentrification.
In Ireland, i looked like a lot of the people there. If folks didn't look me in the eye, i didn't think about it. i was probably glad. Somehow being ignored in my new neighborhood has felt more aggressive. But it's probably mainly in my head. The more i walk to the express stop at 125th and Lexington, the more i feel like it's ok for me to be here.
A couple of days ago i waited in line twice at the PO. The first was to pick up a shoebox full of Luna bars sent lovingly from Texas. The second was to send an anniversary gift lovingly to my parents ("could you please put it on the back?" i implored the lady who insisted i add a return address sticker to the package, and had slapped it over my carefully arranged front address image. "sorry to be a snooty artist," i smiled).
While i waited in the second line, a tall man muttered in and made his way to the stamp machine. He had no fingers. A courageous woman behind me in line--i say courageous because she has no hair on her head, and wears it without apology--smiled. We had shared smiles earlier, outside, on the street. This man, she told me, had once been a successful businessman. Before getting onto crack. Now he's lost everything. Including his fingers.
Another woman ahead of us commented about the family standing at the window, applying for passports or citizenship ("to come live here" she said), who were apparently making fun of the man. "Why they want to come here if they gonna make fun of what's here?" she said, or to that effect. I suddenly felt glad to be standing in that long line. It was a place to meet with the neighborhood--a genuine cross-section. A place to declare, "i live here. this is my home, too."
I hope i have more reasons to go there (packages are always welcome). I might even try one more time to read Eudora Welty. ("Why i live at the PO")
Not quite south enough to be El Barrio, where panaderias and cuchifritas line the shop awnings, where i feel close to San Antonio and places closer to South America that i've been. And not west enough to be the Heart of Harlem, but on the edge of gentrification.
In Ireland, i looked like a lot of the people there. If folks didn't look me in the eye, i didn't think about it. i was probably glad. Somehow being ignored in my new neighborhood has felt more aggressive. But it's probably mainly in my head. The more i walk to the express stop at 125th and Lexington, the more i feel like it's ok for me to be here.
A couple of days ago i waited in line twice at the PO. The first was to pick up a shoebox full of Luna bars sent lovingly from Texas. The second was to send an anniversary gift lovingly to my parents ("could you please put it on the back?" i implored the lady who insisted i add a return address sticker to the package, and had slapped it over my carefully arranged front address image. "sorry to be a snooty artist," i smiled).
While i waited in the second line, a tall man muttered in and made his way to the stamp machine. He had no fingers. A courageous woman behind me in line--i say courageous because she has no hair on her head, and wears it without apology--smiled. We had shared smiles earlier, outside, on the street. This man, she told me, had once been a successful businessman. Before getting onto crack. Now he's lost everything. Including his fingers.
Another woman ahead of us commented about the family standing at the window, applying for passports or citizenship ("to come live here" she said), who were apparently making fun of the man. "Why they want to come here if they gonna make fun of what's here?" she said, or to that effect. I suddenly felt glad to be standing in that long line. It was a place to meet with the neighborhood--a genuine cross-section. A place to declare, "i live here. this is my home, too."
I hope i have more reasons to go there (packages are always welcome). I might even try one more time to read Eudora Welty. ("Why i live at the PO")
posted by ceciliabrie at
2:57 PM
1 Comments:
have you read yada yada prayer group yet? your post reminded me of how sometimes God puts "cross-sections" of people together (with interesting results). Big hugs! Glad your trip to Ireland was grand.
By
amelia, at 10:28 PM
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