Wednesday Night in Manhattan: A Poem

The giraffes from the zoo move

in slower colors.

Their necks cream and grey

soggy paper cups that looked

this morning like half-hearts

beating under leaves.

Farmers markets are pale

behind her eyelids, faded

newsprint wrapping itself

around the synapses in

her brain. Honeycomb is light brown,

jam spreads like liquid paper

with globs of strawberry. It foams,

froths in her mouth.

We know the rubber bands,

little bits of trash. The chicken painting

on the wall. The wicker headboard pricks

like a rainbow porcupine.  

The salty heat of coffee. The man

twenty stories down who crosses the street

with a cat on his head. No matter the smell

of the market, this morning is a

shadow of now.

Post 7: Good night

My phone bleeps and I roll over onto my stomach. The air mattress deflates a little. God, who could be texting me at this hour? Light filters in through slattern windows, though it’s manmade light, running down the window like an egg yolk. It’s one in the morning, Siri tells me. Thanks, Siri.

“Good night Ali! LY!” The text reads; it’s my dad.

He’s done this almost every night like clockwork; I guess I know his schedule better now that I’m away. And every time it makes my heart soften a little: I am what he thinks about before he hits the hay, his daughter halfway across the country.

Suddenly, the prospect of leaving again doesn’t seem so ominous.

I sneak a glance at Sarah and Elizabeth, both sprawled out in slumber, and wonder what communications with their parents have been like. My parents afford me a lot of freedom, not that watered-down freedom that is so often force fed to teenagers. I mean real freedom, the freedom to explore myself and the environment I find myself in.

Afterworld NYC

According to a sign on Amazonian Afterlife in the American Museum of Natural History, “At death, Amazonian Indians believe, the soul leaves the body and travels to the afterworld, far away on earth or in the sky. They do not believe in a heaven or a hell. All souls go to the same afterworld or, if there are several, which souls go where depends on how people died rather than on how they lived. For example, a violent death may send a soul to a different afterworld than a death from natural causes.”

New York City is the afterworld of death by choking. The Union Square Market is a pale imitation of markets in poetry. There are few aromas, and when there are, they come in wafts of wet trash, rather than clouds of grilled meat or fresh flowers—peonies look more fragrant and purple than they smell. Everything is dense. Apples the size of a baby’s head, crumb cakes like bricks of butter and shortening with crisp apple toppings. Pies that weigh as much as a woman, and woman selling them who weigh even more. Blocks of cheese sweating in the early-morning dew while the Camembert is left to sleep in dark  boxes lined with wax paper.

New York City is the afterworld of death in soft chairs

A woman hogging the larger table beside us at the bookstore has her iPad out, switches between playing games and reading a book on her Kindle app. In her flowered dress, pink beads, and black bonnet, she’s dressed for a 1950s garden party. Every time we talk, she gives us the stink eye, and I can’t figure out why until I see the pink beads. It must be hard living in the wrong decade, pretending SoHo is a Parisian Plaza. Her flats have black bows on them, and she orders a grilled cheese with Vermont white cheddar and Dijon mustard. She asks for “no mustard,” but the sandwiches are premade, so she settles for a straw in her can of Blue Ribbon.

A List of Things for the Scrapbook

Before we left home, my mom promised Alix, Elizabeth, and me mini scrapbooks to put all of our ticket stubs, etc. in when we got back. Below is an incomplete list of things I kept in my purse for this scrapbook, which may or may not give you a sense of how we spent our time in NYC:

• A receipt from Alice’s Tea Cup, “New York’s most whimsical tea house!”
• A business card from Alice’s Tea Cup
• Two movie tickets for X-Men: Days of Future Past at the Lincoln Square Cinema
• A business card from Fat Witch Brownie Bakery: “Witches are baked just for you. Make them disappear in a week or put them in the refrigerator or freezer.”
• A business card for Richard Townsend from MOBIA (the Museum of Biblical Art)
• A ticket to the Metropolitan Museum of Art: General Student Admission
• A movie ticket and receipt for Chinese Puzzle, a French movie, at Lincoln Plaza Cinemas
• A receipt from our first grocery shopping trip to the Gourmet Garage with 64 items listed
• A ticket for the Cort Theatre on 138 W. 48^th St.: Daniel Radcliffe, The Cripple of Inishmaan
• A card from Shake Shack: “Present this card on your next visit for a FREE SHAKE”
• A ticket for the Longacre Theatre on 220 W. 48^th St.: James Franco & Chris O’Dowd, Of Mice and Men
• A ticket from The Frick Collection for admission on Tuesday, May 27^th, 2014

Post 6: Balto?

Elizabeth and I saunter down 66th in the heat of the day, talking about Disney movies.

"You ever see Balto?" I ask.

"Like a million times," She flails. "He's at our museum!"

I'd seen him there before.

On a basic level, I empathize with Balto because, like a half-wolf and half-dog that finds it difficult to fully identify with either half of his heritage, so much of how I understand the world comes from my sense-of-self as a person of two places.

My mom was the first of her eight siblings to go to college, and she worked her way through as a totally financially independent woman. But we come from a place deep in Louisiana that doesn’t value education the same way that the rest of my immediate family does. I love my huge extended family, but my upper-class, predominantly white, suburban prep-school education often makes me feel estranged from them. Simultaneously, I will never completely feel at home with my cousins as they race each other on tractors in the southern heat.

But this dual nature, I’d like to think, gives me a unique perspective in the world, much like it did for Balto. He saved hundreds of children once he was able to marry the two parts of himself. I think, if I could do that, I could do good in the world too. 

Post 5: Post Graduation Jitters

The day after this year’s Columbia graduation, I picked up one of The Daily Spectator’s newspapers to flip through while waiting for the M60. Senior profiles were a new concept to me, and while I perused with one eye on the street, an article caught my attention: a recent grad named Lulu was discussing her community service on campus. In her interview, she said that it totally shaped the next four years of her life, and for the better.

Well, if you want me to tell you the truth, I felt empowered. Before she had even gotten to Columbia, she felt that the university and the experience she had there totally changed who she was and what she stood for. That could be me, I realized. I could have a transformative experience, something really meaningful that helped me carve a path for myself. This is a real opportunity for real independence.

I set the newspaper down and stared out at Ollie’s Noodles for a bit. All of a sudden it hit me: what I’m going to be doing at Columbia is going to have a real impact on the world. I could do great things for people, really help them the way others have helped me or the ways I wished I could have been helped. I could make some lifelong friends before school even starts based on our love of outreach and aid. I want to connect with people who want the same good in the world that I do.

When the M60 finally broached the curb, I packed away my Spectator, thought of all of the possibilities that Columbia posed, and was truly, honestly excited. 

Overheard at Starbucks on 67th and Columbus Avenue

There was a little girl sitting across from a woman who could’ve been her mother. The woman’s phone rang, and she picked it up. “Hello?”

“Who’s that, Jilly?” the girl asked.

“Yeah. Where’s the entrance to the tram? Is that on 2^nd Avenue?”

A long pause ensued, during which time, the woman listened and the girl repeated over and over, “Who’s that, Jilly?”

“So I’ll text you when we get to the tram. You’re welcome. Bye.”

“Who’s that, Jilly? Is that my mommy or my daddy?” Nanny, then.

“That was Bret. You’re going to his house.”

“I want to go to Bret’s house now.”

“Good. We’ll pack up your snack and leave right now.” The girl got up and ran toward the door. “El,” the alleged nanny called. “Wait for me.”

“No! I’m going to Bret’s.”

“If you don’t wait for me, I’ll throw away your snack.”

“Noooooo.” It was the scream of a child in broken-leg-level pain.

“Then wait for me.” She left behind Travel Section of the Times, an empty box of chocolate milk, and a partially full bottle of San Pellegrino, like a shrine to her dragging life.