"131 West 71st Street between Columbus and Broadway please". I can't tell you how many times I've heard my Pop say that to cab drivers. As i sit here, in front of the place where my childhood memories lie, I begin to reflect; I begin to remember various pieces of information that make me the person who I am today. I grew up here, on the Upper West Side. My school was a five dollar cab ride away. My tutor was a five block-walk away. The doejo where i took karate classes for six years was an eight minute walk away. In my eyes, everything was accessible to me. Yet, when I moved to California, things weren't so easy to get to. I missed that about New York. There's a church with a red door next to my old brownstone. There is (and always was) a homeless person sleeping in the door way of the church. Our dog walker who walked our dog Hymie for 15 years got married on Halloween in that church. As I examine the remains of what used to be my home, I take notice to the left side of the brownstone. I was eight years old when we arrived home late Sunday night only to find the word "fag" graffitied in black paint on the side of our house. I'm sure you can imagine how my gay dads felt about that one...There's something about my brownstone that's different now. It's not as happy...it looks darker, lifeless almost. My Pop loves animals and was so hurt when he saw that the new owners of the house had put up chicken wire on the ledges of the windows to keep the pigeons away. The gate leading up to the doorway that the city of New York made us take down is now up again leaving bystanders with the notion that they are not welcome here, kind of like how i feel right now. I rang the intercom buy no one answered, when we lived there, the house was never empty. I love this area, but understand why my parents felt raising five children in New York was impossible. I feel at home here, on this block, in this neighborhood. It's familiar to me in ways that school is not. When I'm alone at school, I feel like an outsider. I feel like I can't completely be myself. I don't like feeling that way. Part of me wishes we still owned our brownstone. I would be living there today, and would bring life back into in ways that the current tenants clearly are incapable of. This six story home once seemed like a castle to me, but now it is only a memory that fades each time I attempt to refresh it.Sunday, September 19, 2010
faded.
"131 West 71st Street between Columbus and Broadway please". I can't tell you how many times I've heard my Pop say that to cab drivers. As i sit here, in front of the place where my childhood memories lie, I begin to reflect; I begin to remember various pieces of information that make me the person who I am today. I grew up here, on the Upper West Side. My school was a five dollar cab ride away. My tutor was a five block-walk away. The doejo where i took karate classes for six years was an eight minute walk away. In my eyes, everything was accessible to me. Yet, when I moved to California, things weren't so easy to get to. I missed that about New York. There's a church with a red door next to my old brownstone. There is (and always was) a homeless person sleeping in the door way of the church. Our dog walker who walked our dog Hymie for 15 years got married on Halloween in that church. As I examine the remains of what used to be my home, I take notice to the left side of the brownstone. I was eight years old when we arrived home late Sunday night only to find the word "fag" graffitied in black paint on the side of our house. I'm sure you can imagine how my gay dads felt about that one...There's something about my brownstone that's different now. It's not as happy...it looks darker, lifeless almost. My Pop loves animals and was so hurt when he saw that the new owners of the house had put up chicken wire on the ledges of the windows to keep the pigeons away. The gate leading up to the doorway that the city of New York made us take down is now up again leaving bystanders with the notion that they are not welcome here, kind of like how i feel right now. I rang the intercom buy no one answered, when we lived there, the house was never empty. I love this area, but understand why my parents felt raising five children in New York was impossible. I feel at home here, on this block, in this neighborhood. It's familiar to me in ways that school is not. When I'm alone at school, I feel like an outsider. I feel like I can't completely be myself. I don't like feeling that way. Part of me wishes we still owned our brownstone. I would be living there today, and would bring life back into in ways that the current tenants clearly are incapable of. This six story home once seemed like a castle to me, but now it is only a memory that fades each time I attempt to refresh it.
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Lindsey that made me cry <3
ReplyDeleteOh my goddd! Em baby! i love you don't cry please!
ReplyDeleteI had originally commented on this before we were assigned to comment for homework so I didn't get to elaborate enough on how beautiful this is!! Well, here's my chance.
ReplyDeleteThis was so beautiful and so full of emotion and so full of you and your feelings. The way that you can express yourself through your writing is such a beautiful gift and you should feel so lucky. I felt exactly what you must have been feeling sitting on that step by just reading this and it made me shiver to imagine you reminiscing on how alive the house had been when you lived there. The experience you shared about the graffiti on the walls of your home...there are no words Lindsey. There is just so much beauty in this...i guess it would be described as tragic beauty but at the same time I don't think I can call it that because all of the experiences you have shared with your family have turned you into such a smart and wonderful young woman who is going to go on to do such great things. This writing is just a hint of that. Thank you so much for sharing this with us, Lindsey. <3 I love you.