birds, bees, plants, springtime, my new york

i was writing a bit the other night... and i am not ashamed to admit that i was writing for someone who i have a huge crush on who will be visiting new york very very soon.  the premise of my writing was to [briefly] create a portrait of what new york has been like for me for the past 24 years to give to him when he takes off, hopefully to bring perspective to his visit. 

while doing my writing, i realized that the more i piece together my memories, the more i remember, the more i realize i am figuring out a lot about myself, my past and my identity; the little details that put together the way i talk, the way i see myself, my relationships, the framework for my solitude.

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this morning i woke up and it finally sounded like spring.  i beat the alarm to a beam of sunshine and the first set of bird chirps of the season.  i may have imagined rustling leaves like i often imagine the warmth of embraces or visions of myself as a gentle old fag. i watered the plants, walked around the apartment picking up straggling clutter, and sat on the couch while the water boiled, waiting for the forecast on channel one.  this thursday will be incredibly sunny and warm. as my only day off, i plan to spend it at the park with a stack of books and ideas for lessons to plan. after a few hours of reading and working, i will take the hour and a half subway ride to my mom's house where i will leave my brain and enter my body again, to remember and give care and attention.

*****

it seems, sometimes, that i have made a small nest for myself, where during my off hours i can retreat, relax, and reflect. isolate myself to quiet and stillness and produce something verbal to put in the archives in case i should forget.

when i left my house this morning, it all became relevant again. a bit of flirtation from a shop owner a few blocks from my apartment who a few months ago threw my groceries in my face because he couldn't figure out if i was a dyke or a fag.  i had stopped going to that store, but this morning i walked in because it was open that early and i needed to replenish electrolytes after a weekend of puking my guts out every few hours.

as i walked to work a few blocks from my house, i walked past an older white couple pushing a stroller with a small blonde child in it.  i rarely see white families in bed-stuy, and i definitely never see older white families here. when i walked past, they slowed down to create distance. it often amazes me how obvious it can be.  i shook my head, disappointed, and i think it shook me. i dropped my bottle, it spilled, the white baby started to cry. i blushed at the attention i'd brought to myself. heard the parents debate about my gender as they told their baby that it was just an accident and no one was hurt. it was awkward. i was awkward. they were awkward. i thought about what it means to be here for me.  i am brown, still working class, still living in the hood.  but there is privilege i access, violence my presence here keeps going. but i am still too brown and too poor to actually be one of them. and i feel good about that. in some ways it legitimizes me, their fear, and that is some complicated and fucked up shit to reconcile.

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when i was growing up, there were no white people in my community except for cops.  all of my neighbors were people of color and i believe the first white people i met were cops and case managers at the welfare office.

*****

my new york has been segregated, gentrified, violent, gentle, comforting, abraisive, repellant, attractive, insular, exclusive, glamorous, gritty.

some mornings i wake up to sirens. other mornings i wake up to bird chirps. i mostly wake up on time. and the day takes off from there.