I spent the end of the summer sweating.
I sweated sleeping, even when I slept alone.
Showers were comically redundant.
Dark shirts were multi-colored, and white shirts were opaque.
Skateboarding, pizza, bodega beer, rooftops.
and every conversation led to one of two subjects:
Athletic prowess
and the way the neighborhood used to be.
We're 24, at the top of our game...
You'd beat me in high-jump, dashes
I'd win at everything else cuz I'm stubborn.
Summer feels so good.
El barrio used to be so different.
Only Rosa's restaurant is left from those days
somehow it got so cool, so expensive
Used to be artists, fuck Duane Reade and Starbucks
High-five homie.
Now I live in Crown Heights, eight months later.
I didn't sweat this winter, except with fever.
I drank less beer, but did get an open container ticket.
I skated in slush and snow, cuz I'm stubborn and want to win.
The rooms in my apartment are huge, cuz this used to be all Jewish.
But ten years ago it was all black, and dangerous.
"We could never go to Franklin Street, back in the 90's."
"Whoa, you live at Eastern Parkway and Franklin? That's such a dope neighborhood!"
I live with "dope" young professionals
Outside my window I hear the roots of rap music, constant banter.
I ran in the park, and scared a hawk from its roost.
I ran past joggers and designer dogs,
I ran past unnecessary signs "Peligro Hielo Fino."
I ran past the place where last week, 17 year old Sharif Abdallah got in a fight,
and the other kid got his dad, who came and killed Sharif.
Sharif used to walk past my window.
"Whoa, you live at Eastern Parkway and Franklin?"
I was happy to jog and get a good sweat.
Then I went to work: lattes and ice cream.
It's a nice neighborhood; a parade of strollers and proud parents.
It's the library and museum and park and ice cream.
We could talk about how it has changed, too.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Midwest Sensibilities
Under a steetlamp light at 12:31am in Brooklyn, New York. My legs are unevenly tired; I ride regular and don~t feel comfortable switch, so my right foot does all the pushing, pounding pavement.
On a black iron fence around a baby-blue playground, an eagle soars one-winged through starry stripes, big enough to make Rush Limbaugh cry. It was painted (or repainted) in place, by fourth graders or half-asleep Parks employees, so the black fence received quite a lot of red, white, and blue.
Coming from the show, heading home, the hipsters fade around South 1st, and by Division Street it´s all Hasidim in mink hats and sadness, cages on the balconies. After Myrtle, pizza and rap and curbside quarrels reappear, but there are still quite a few Honda Odesseys.
The band tonight was incredible, with horns and back-up singers and anthemic hooks, but the crowd stood quite erect, attentive but not head-bobbing. Listening for something new. We´ve heard so much. We all have thousands of songs. Easy searches bring us new music daily. We´ve all been to big concerts, and seen the world´s most talented musicians on 84-inch HD Blueray. We´re not easily impressed.
And so we pick. A room filled with "my generation," who read and listen and talk and eat, and feel quite comfortable leaving a plate of food if they don´t like it.
"Let´s try out that recipe you were talking about," she said to me, with love in her eyes. "And if it doesn´t work, we´ll just order something in!"
The comment says so much about the city. It celebrates it. You can have anything and everything, now, and if you don´t like it throw it out and try something else.
My mom would just puff up, full of Minnesota, and spit! "Eat what you´ve been served; don´t be picky!"
Picky. This word comes into my head so much here in New York. And where I come from, this was one of the worst, ugliest words. Being picky at my mother´s table was being disrespectful, and although we joked about the common phrase, "remember the starving children in Ethiopia," we did remember them, and we ate what we were served and that was that. Chuck roast is just as good as Filet Mignon. They are just for different occasions.
But here in New York, it is different. As soon as the music stops, someone is critiquing the symbol-heavy drumming. The actors are still bowing, and already she is questioning the director´s choice to include the rape scene, the n-word, or the comic interlude. The curry was too spicy, there is a better place in Soho. This show was overly balletic, and didn´t allow the dancers to improvise. Too little sauce, crust too doughy.
"Eat what you´ve been served! Don´t be picky!"
"If it doesn´t work, we´ll just order something in!"
On a black iron fence around a baby-blue playground, an eagle soars one-winged through starry stripes, big enough to make Rush Limbaugh cry. It was painted (or repainted) in place, by fourth graders or half-asleep Parks employees, so the black fence received quite a lot of red, white, and blue.
Coming from the show, heading home, the hipsters fade around South 1st, and by Division Street it´s all Hasidim in mink hats and sadness, cages on the balconies. After Myrtle, pizza and rap and curbside quarrels reappear, but there are still quite a few Honda Odesseys.
The band tonight was incredible, with horns and back-up singers and anthemic hooks, but the crowd stood quite erect, attentive but not head-bobbing. Listening for something new. We´ve heard so much. We all have thousands of songs. Easy searches bring us new music daily. We´ve all been to big concerts, and seen the world´s most talented musicians on 84-inch HD Blueray. We´re not easily impressed.
And so we pick. A room filled with "my generation," who read and listen and talk and eat, and feel quite comfortable leaving a plate of food if they don´t like it.
"Let´s try out that recipe you were talking about," she said to me, with love in her eyes. "And if it doesn´t work, we´ll just order something in!"
The comment says so much about the city. It celebrates it. You can have anything and everything, now, and if you don´t like it throw it out and try something else.
My mom would just puff up, full of Minnesota, and spit! "Eat what you´ve been served; don´t be picky!"
Picky. This word comes into my head so much here in New York. And where I come from, this was one of the worst, ugliest words. Being picky at my mother´s table was being disrespectful, and although we joked about the common phrase, "remember the starving children in Ethiopia," we did remember them, and we ate what we were served and that was that. Chuck roast is just as good as Filet Mignon. They are just for different occasions.
But here in New York, it is different. As soon as the music stops, someone is critiquing the symbol-heavy drumming. The actors are still bowing, and already she is questioning the director´s choice to include the rape scene, the n-word, or the comic interlude. The curry was too spicy, there is a better place in Soho. This show was overly balletic, and didn´t allow the dancers to improvise. Too little sauce, crust too doughy.
"Eat what you´ve been served! Don´t be picky!"
"If it doesn´t work, we´ll just order something in!"
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