Secret Headquarters
August 5, 2011
Summer in New York, I've discovered, is just like every sunny day in Manila: crowded, humid, sweaty, bright as the sun. It feels like the world is gently but consistently pressing your entire head, and your skull is the only thing between your soul and everything. As if there's just that sturdy bone wall separating your individuality from the casual threat of being a part of the universe.
It's been 4 hours since I left New Jersey. Two trains and about 24 staircases since the morning, I've lost about 5 pounds of body weight and 2 pounds worth of packed food. The destination is Harlem. But I don't arrive there. I'm in the zone and Harlem happens to me like a cat to the face, sudden and surreal. On the street, I'm carrying a backpack and pulling a duffel bag on top of a suitcase with one good wheel. I've got a hat on my head, shades over my eyes, and headphones on my ears when a demand is made on my attention.
A middle aged black woman is trying to talk to me. In demeanor and appearance, she is so normal. I rally out of my sensory exile in time to hear her say, “I just wanted to say, you know, there are black men all over here, yeah, you know. The black men around here are going to be down on you. Mm hm, count on it. But we all know the men of your race, and every other race, got it going on. Yeah. Don't you worry about them. They just jealous. Jealous boys.”
Hello New York. It's good to meet you.
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The very next day after I move in there's a block party. Nothing says party like free grilled meats and beer. My new neighbors are an interesting and friendly bunch. It's like a UN meeting. Yellow, Brown, White, Black...The isn't a country unrepresented.
All the cops are white though. Every five minutes or so a police car drives by the street corner to our right. When I ask my housemates why that is, one of the guys tells me, in an off handed way, that they're looking for some men who shot and killed a woman the week before on the next street.
The party continues normally. Kids are playing on the wide cement sidewalks. There are games and prizes and more free food. The church across from the house is hosting a basketball game for teen girls. During time outs they play hip hop music. I'm not really listening but I think I catch lyrics about going to clubs, grinding, licking, and getting fucked in the ass. There's some scattered disapproval.
As the sun begins to set the police activity suddenly picks up. The same man who told me about the shooting nonchalantly walks up to me and says the cops have four teenagers up against a wall, assuming the position, two blocks away. They've been arrested for the shooting. Everyone is pretty sure they have the right people, he says, though he doesn't clarify who “everybody” is or if that group includes himself.
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I love my room. Hardwood floors. Air-conditioning. Fully furnished. Small enough to clean easily but big enough to have someone stay overnight. Mostly soundproof.
I'm thinking of putting a row of clocks on one wall. They're going to all be the same. Each one will display a different timezone and a label, one for each of the following places: New York, Los Angeles, Metro Manila, and London. A fifth clock at the end of the row will have no hands and its label will say “Neverland”. Or maybe it'll say “Gallifrey”. Or I could get one with 37 hours and label it “Mars”.
Summer in New York, I've discovered, is just like every sunny day in Manila: crowded, humid, sweaty, bright as the sun. It feels like the world is gently but consistently pressing your entire head, and your skull is the only thing between your soul and everything. As if there's just that sturdy bone wall separating your individuality from the casual threat of being a part of the universe.
It's been 4 hours since I left New Jersey. Two trains and about 24 staircases since the morning, I've lost about 5 pounds of body weight and 2 pounds worth of packed food. The destination is Harlem. But I don't arrive there. I'm in the zone and Harlem happens to me like a cat to the face, sudden and surreal. On the street, I'm carrying a backpack and pulling a duffel bag on top of a suitcase with one good wheel. I've got a hat on my head, shades over my eyes, and headphones on my ears when a demand is made on my attention.
A middle aged black woman is trying to talk to me. In demeanor and appearance, she is so normal. I rally out of my sensory exile in time to hear her say, “I just wanted to say, you know, there are black men all over here, yeah, you know. The black men around here are going to be down on you. Mm hm, count on it. But we all know the men of your race, and every other race, got it going on. Yeah. Don't you worry about them. They just jealous. Jealous boys.”
Hello New York. It's good to meet you.
-------------
The very next day after I move in there's a block party. Nothing says party like free grilled meats and beer. My new neighbors are an interesting and friendly bunch. It's like a UN meeting. Yellow, Brown, White, Black...The isn't a country unrepresented.
All the cops are white though. Every five minutes or so a police car drives by the street corner to our right. When I ask my housemates why that is, one of the guys tells me, in an off handed way, that they're looking for some men who shot and killed a woman the week before on the next street.
The party continues normally. Kids are playing on the wide cement sidewalks. There are games and prizes and more free food. The church across from the house is hosting a basketball game for teen girls. During time outs they play hip hop music. I'm not really listening but I think I catch lyrics about going to clubs, grinding, licking, and getting fucked in the ass. There's some scattered disapproval.
As the sun begins to set the police activity suddenly picks up. The same man who told me about the shooting nonchalantly walks up to me and says the cops have four teenagers up against a wall, assuming the position, two blocks away. They've been arrested for the shooting. Everyone is pretty sure they have the right people, he says, though he doesn't clarify who “everybody” is or if that group includes himself.
-------------
I love my room. Hardwood floors. Air-conditioning. Fully furnished. Small enough to clean easily but big enough to have someone stay overnight. Mostly soundproof.
I'm thinking of putting a row of clocks on one wall. They're going to all be the same. Each one will display a different timezone and a label, one for each of the following places: New York, Los Angeles, Metro Manila, and London. A fifth clock at the end of the row will have no hands and its label will say “Neverland”. Or maybe it'll say “Gallifrey”. Or I could get one with 37 hours and label it “Mars”.