A little something I wrote back in 2004 about my experiences at my old spot in the Bronx. Yes, it’s unfinished and unedited. Not sure if I want to take it further. Still thinking.
Harper Avenue gave birth to my self-awareness. It was home for more than 29 years and the place where I awoke from childhood double-dutch, hopscotch, Bubblicious, Monopoly and frisbee into womanhood. I can’t remember anywhere else, save for a few scattered memories of Jamaica, my birth land, and Bell Avenue, a street six blocks north of Harper. Harper Avenue saw its share of the world, with family, visitors and travelers who brought cultures from around the globe. It has been to Jamaica, St. Thomas, Puerto Rico, Bermuda, Germany, Japan and various countries in Africa. It has seen the likes of the wealthy, the poor, the straight and the gay. We had everything from television stars to drug dealers and thieves, nurses and bus drivers, executives and babysitters. This eclectic group comprised the heart and life of a neighborhood overflowing with stories and history. Most of this history lies behind the closed doors of 36 something or 38 something, Harper Avenue. The private history, hidden from the eyes of those who did not realize there was a world outside their own, a world of fried fish, dumplings, rotti, yams, bananas and the occasional rum cake. This culture, wrought with idiosyncrasies, saw worlds and people who could never understand why the news of breadfruit on the fruit stand was a rare delight that deserved an afternoon barbecue, or a Sunday dinner with a garnish of friends and neighbors.
One could never imagine that this avenue, filled with experiences spanning the globe and decades, could maintain its roots, despite the hustle and bustle of city cabs, pasta and rigatoni, not far away, just within hearing and smelling distance–roots that remind us of roasted cashews on a Friday afternoon, just before the sunset. Those cashews with a scent that sailed across islands, melding into other nuts, hiding the origin from those who would steal the secret of a life well lived.
The upstairs and downstairs clanging of dinner being served and bellies being filled, were reminders of the history only a town could make, a history built by the lives of many people. Out of many, one people. That is our motto that has traversed time and oceans from another home, the home of our ancestors.
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Tags: non-fiction, stories, story
Ahhhh. The memories of Harper Ave. Let’s not forget the backgamon games. The sound of that basketball dribbling early in the morning each and everyday. Remember Jason? The nerve of him waking the entire block up so early in the morning with that basketball. He arrived at my house ready to play. Hadn’t even had breakfast yet. How many times did you spot Desmond Rankin hiding in that tree across the street from your house with his binoculars spying on everybody on the block. He actually thought he was still in the military. Living on Harper wasn’t always fun and games with Mr. Rankin around. I recall you couldn’t even play on the sidewalk in front of your house because Rankin would chase us away. He didn’t care for us kids playing in front of his house. Oh man!!! Those were the days.
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pittershawn Reply:
December 2nd, 2009 at 4:51 pm
@Delroy Levy, Wooooowww!!! Amazing all the things you remember! Desmond was hilarious, wasn’t he?? Amazing. And that man, Mr. Rankin. There is nothing to say about him. One of a kind. :: blinking ::
Ahhh the memories…
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