on Saturday night, we walked down a street in the wee hours of the morning where men chatted loudly outside strip clubs, where women leaned against the store windows with their cheap lights and bargained for a night's company, where smoke was dense and where immigrant restaurant owners kept busy hours selling kebobs, fajitas and spring rolls.
There, in that moment, everything dissolved. Because in that energy, in that mix, there was nothing distinct, nothing too different.
And it was liberating. the thick air, heavy with the cheap perfumes, cigarette smoke and all that slang was dizzying but yet I inhaled it quickly.
The Indian/Pakistani/ Bangladeshi neighborhood converged with an all-Hispanic one. In that 10-minute walk, it finally felt I was in a big city where there is scope for everyone, where there is space for everyone and where we can can all make it.
A half-an hour train ride away was a world where I only stared at tall buildings, designer showrooms and women carrying Gucci bags, their best foot forward in Jimmy Choo shoes ... and it seemed shut out ... something that's so out there
but back in the little restaurant, staring at the television that showed Bollywood songs, and sipping the thick, sugary and milky tea, in between mouthfuls of achari chicken and roti, it all seemed to come together ... to make sense ...
there is a world for everyone. Yes, and that's where we belong. We need to find ours.
Just as the old man spread out a worn blanket near the subway entrance, preparing for another night, his box with newspapers, food, and some clothes was tacked against the wall, he looked at ease with what he had, the little he had, a handful of the world. Perhaps he was grateful he got the spot. he nodded at me as i passed him.
