I’ve lived here all my life, to be exact. I’ve lived away,
but always come back. I lived in Minnesota, out in the boondocks halfway
between Brainerd and Bemidji. My son was born in a town called Hackensack,
population 208. I went there to help my husband escape his drug habit. It
actually worked until we came back to New York.
I Lived in Dominican Republic too for a year, in a rich
mansion in Santiago belonging to his parents surrounded by small hovels of
poverty throughout the nation. I lived in that rich house for two months. His
sister despised me but wanted a body suit given to me for Christmas by my
stepmom. She offered me more and more money but I wouldn’t give it up. I didn’t
even like it that much; it had sentimental value only.
When I couldn’t take the richness anymore we traveled the
entire country, visited Puerto Plata and Rio San Juan where he was born. We
went to his aunt’s farm and stayed there for half a year doing Yoga and eating
fresh fruits everyday. A man down the road heard I liked oranges and brought me
a bag of oranges bigger than me. Workers climbed coconut trees so I could drink
fresh coconut water and eat the sweet meat. I never had anything so delicious.
When I worked September through June, I traveled for 14
years during July and August.
No matter where I’ve gone, I’ve always returned home to
Washington Heights here in New York City.
I stand by my southern window watching the lights on the
George Washington Bridge. They flicker red and green Christmas colors and even
though I’m a mile away, I enjoy the sight from my 16th floor perch.
The city spouts spires like golden castles. I live and
survive, worry perpetually about land mines. My mind is a seascape. I live in a
dream of primordial instincts. Sounds from traffic from Fort George hill fill
my ears. Once several years back the hill was dangerous. A man was raping a
woman in a van and I was home sick. I called 911 but couldn’t remember the name
of the hill and kept screaming, “Snake Hill,” since that was the name I’d
always called Fort George Hill. It was named Snake Hill because of all the
curves you can’t see around when you near the top of the steep incline. 911
reporters couldn’t understand where I was talking about even though I gave the
other coordinates, the address at the top is Audubon and 193rd and
bottom of hill meets Nagle and Dyckman Street. “Calm down,” they urged. In
desperation I screamed out the window, “You son of a bitch, leave that woman
alone. Everyone can hear what you’re doing.” He must’ve heard me and took off
in his big white van. I didn’t see her get out. I wonder still if he left her
alive. The cops arrive 12 minutes later. They finally understood where I meant.
Back then no one parked on Snake hill or rarely because if you did you’d come
back to find your car without tires or worse, no car. Now people search daily
for a parking spot on the hill. A year ago kids held car races there. It is
safe.
A siren breaks through the relative silence of traffic. There
is no night in my city of dreams. Traffic is constant.
Was I born here for a reason? To cause me pain or is this a
trick of mind?
