“Stay calm,” I told myself. I stood frozen with my three friends in the middle of the sidewalk. It was like any other regular day after school, but on this day, the hub of the kids crowding the sidewalks and rushing into the bodega was interrupted. One-shot after another. I saw a mother running in the opposite direction from the echoing noise, a child in her arms, three younger children behind her. I remained calm, brushing aside my panic.
That day, I was in the closest proximity I had ever been to a shooting in my neighborhood, which was, unfortunately, one of many. While in shock, my thoughts went to various other incidents in my community. I thought about the small children — how they would remember this day for the rest of their lives and how my friends and I, even as young adults, would still be traumatized by events like these.
People walked past me, pretending not to see a thing. From 138th Street to the Grand Concourse. From the blocks of Burnside Ave to Kingsbridge. In every street, notorious gangs penetrate fear upon the people. Every night, police sirens sound made me desensitized to the crime outside my sheltered brick building. Dim street lamps and empty train stations guided me home. Vigils on every other block were a constant reminder that every day in the hood was playing roulette.
Day after day I would sneakily hop the D line to go downtown where I thought I would feel safe riding in the trains and shopping in the stores. Instead, I was met with glares of white people in boujee stores. I was met with rich white people’s stares that told me I couldn't afford to seamlessly glance at their purses and boots. I was met with white people holding tightly to their purses and being intimidated by my presence. I did not belong in Tribeca, or Lafayette, let alone Greenwich. So I hopped back on the D line and made my way past Harlem and Northern Manhattan where they wouldn't dare step foot unless there was a New York Yankees game or a sight of “attraction” like the Joker Staircase or their ultimate scheme: gentrification.
For what it’s worth, reality set in.
The summer before college they installed city bikes on the block. Behind my building was an 18 story building being constructed with a sign that read “to be completed 2024." I was suddenly brought back to playing in the water splashing fire hydrants in mid-July as a kid. The summer rays of heat that reflected on the glistening sidewalks illuminating the labyrinth. On the corner, dembow boomed and the rhythm to “coco mango cherry” became symphonies to the Dominican men playing dominoes gambling with what was left of their life. Mister Softee offered delicacies like those that the street vendors would sell in the winter that reminds the neighborhood of their home miles away. The asymmetrical brick buildings looked like mountains stacked on top of each other. Clothes and shoes hung from fire escapes. Apartments held five families, first and second-generation migrants who came with nothing, but settled in tenements from what seemed like ages ago. They lived through insecurity and sketchy landlords yet always had a bowl of rice to share, birthday parties, and barbeque invitations. For us, this is home.
I spend the majority of my year in dull and gloomy Ithaca, and while gentrification continues to strip my community of family and love, I have faith that the concrete jungle will uproar in anger, disrupting the plan to overthrow us.
©anacarmona2020
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