The New Yorker
To be real, I never had that connection to New York City. From birth to eighteen, I had been one of its ants. Small but pulsing, feeding on the energy it heaves in its exhale.
I was part of the reeking smell
I was part of the hope
I was the youth
I was the second generation-narrative to Dominican Immigrants
I was all that and then some
I was New York Presbyterian birthed amongst little Dominican Republic in Washington Heights, where Ps4 Duke Ellington Elementary School cradled me from child to kid, where I found my poetic tongue with Mr. Keys and Mr. Cantou and Ms. Thomas.
New York City — where I learned about the story of God, was fed the word and seeded a spirit of fear for the book of Revelations, and was raised amongst boys whom I push-ups with and gypsy cab’d with – driven by an uncle who impacted my compass, was fed the word and seeded a spirit of admiration for the book of Deuteronomy.
To be real, it pissed me off that everyone made it seem like the city really was made of dreams like it was grape flavored down your throat. It was everything but grape. It was mucous you were spittin’ back, down to your bellies. It was cold mornings of loud barkin’ never gonna get out the hood talk’n. It was fucking New York City. It was my fucking city, scrambled eggs through the glass it looked pretty cuz we was all in the pot, mixed up – black, brown, yellow, and white with a pretty ass Miss Liberty. This was the city everyone kept asking about why I left, “cuz a poet can make it in NYC,” but they ain’t see how silly it was all to me to claim a place that scared the shit out of me.
Healing
I swear to everything I love, there is no escaping the voice that demands your return. Though there was a need to flee, there was also a necessity to come back.
Eight
Eight years of sleep talking, mood swings, lies, aching, longing, loneliness, headaches, bad diets, and evil spirits.
I am responsible. I take accountability for bungee jumping into the arms of an unknown ditch. I’m the bitch who fiddled in sticks and got pulled back up to fix her shit…
there it sticked
then it clicked
one did feel mos’ 26
Mos’ 26
It’s important for me to talk about this beef between me and NYC. It fed the woman I am. I did not feel like a woman at twenty-five, or twenty-four, not at twenty-one. But this trip around the sun has riddled a growth out of all the seeds I chose to plant — that whatsoever comes out of the ground grows from my intention and choice.
My choice.
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