Category: Blog Post 7 (Page 1 of 2)

“ Sir, that will be two dollars and seventy-five cents”

Reaching inside of my leather pockets, I come up empty handed. I tap my front pockets and then back, fumbling between my keys and phone I find nothing but lint. I feel the glares of the passengers behind me like rays of heat. I apologize to the MTA cashier and silently step aside to the subway walls. Catching my breath, I take off my jacket and place it in my back pack. The subway corridors seem unusually warm during the winter. I wipe my sweat from my forehead and proceeded upstairs to 66st street for some air. Taking a deep breath of brisk fall air, I thought of my cognitive map of Manhattan. I thought of its many blanks. I will not be taking the subway today. I turn around to Lincoln center, I recognize the doors of Fordham University’s library to Breads Bakery where I would often study.

Coming to New York City for College was a rite of passage, I followed the legacy set by my three older sisters. Fordham University has a special place in my home. It is home. “Fordham is a home away from home”. My oldest sister Neilofar would often say this when she was upset. The household I grew up in could be strenuous at times, and it seemed to them that those beautiful rod iron gates functioned as a sanctuary. This concept was nothing new to me and my siblings, education was an escape that we all learned young. At the age of twelve, I learned the beauty of a library. The muted colored books on a shelf had a dull beauty to them that I could only learn by running my fingers along their dusty spines. The quite tables taught me how to hold my gasps for breath for three seconds intervals as to not disturbed the defining quiet. The most comfortable spot in the library could be found on top floor between the book shelves, this is often where I would find my solitude. I’ve followed these old tendencies when I would visit Fordham’s library, out of force of habit as well as respect for the home of my sisters. My reciliation ends as I run my fingers along the last iron rod of the Fordham gates. I’ve reached the end of my cognitive map, what lies below 63^rd street remains a mystery. I procced onward.

“One, two… three” I mummer this to myself as I carefully watch my steps. There is a certain pattern to avoiding cracks in the side walk. I time my steps: ” one” at the beginning of the block – “two” the end- “three” to the middle of the next – the pattern repeats its self. Humming along, I found that my little game has lead me right into the center of times square. Above my head I see a hundred lights, and in front of me I see a hundred faces. I wonder to what could have compelled each person to come here, at this time, on this day. I look below, to see a homeless man on the side walk with a small can of cashews. His face is wrinkled, black, and tired.  I try to avoid eye contact, but he reaches his hand out to me. The man asks me for fifty-three cents, proclaiming how he needed to find his shoes. I froze in place for a second by his nonsensical ramblings, starring into his withered eyes. After a couple of seconds which felt like eternity, I walked on .

“ Lincoln Center, Columbus Circle, then Times Square” I repeat this to myself, filling in my cognitive map. I follow a slightly deranged women out of Times Square. She parted crowds in time square with nothing but her demeanor. I was fascinated with her, she clearly had a score to settle with someone, but I’m not sure she knew who it was with. I continued with my pattern of avoiding cracks down the blocks of Broadway. Every so often I would take a look at the petite black women I followed to Penn station. Every time took the time to loom up, I would see her next victim of her aggression. First was a trash can on 44th street that made the fatal mistake of being in her way. Next was a tall blond white man who felt the need to comment on the women’s demeanor. I laughed as I saw him almost run when the women turned around to address his comments. Her last victim was a fat middle age taxi driver, who from the comfort of his car yelled at her across the street. Parting with the women, I felt bad for initially judging her. I only followed her only ten blocks, but I was saddened when I imagined how much she is bothered throughout the day. The torment, the anger it she started to make sense to me.

Arriving at Penn station, I see that I had missed my usual 8:15 train and would have to take the 8:44. I reflect on my walk, twenty nine minutes that’s all it took, and that has made all the difference.

And so, I departed my room on the Upper East Side of Manhattan on 97th street. As I exited through the revolving doors, the cold Autumn air hit my face hard causing me to throw my hands in my pockets and tighten my hold on my own body. I began to walk downtown, but not 10 paces in front of me before I heard a man beg me for money. Quickly, almost instinctively, I shook my head at him, not even breaking stride. As I looked at the halal cart on that corner, I wondered the question that has eluded mayors, governors, presidents: how do we get people off the streets and into shelters, homes, and jobs. What is it that we can do to help people who are in need. I hurried across the busy 96th street intersection as the light was for the cars and I made it just before their light turned green.

My attention was shifted from that of the homeless crisis in New York City to a very innocent dog leashed to its owner. It walked with pompous and was practically walking its person. It was brief, but any sight of a dog always brings me happiness, confidence, and joy no matter what my state of mind is at the moment.

My feet carried me beneath one of the millions of scaffoldings in New York City. It always seems like this city is under construction and being repaired and nothing is ever working. But my mind began to ponder the thought, “If the city is under construction all the time, is that good or bad? Does it mean that nothing in this city works, and that it is in constant need of repair? Or does it remind people in the hustling bustling New York City moment that this city is always striving to be better than the past?” These questions kept repeating in my mind for the next couple of blocks as the corner stores and delis receded and in their place, passed Dunkin Donuts and Starbucks, giving me the reassurance that I was indeed nearing the fast paced, commercialized 86th street.

To get away from this, I made a quick right that would put me onto Lexington Avenue, and as I walked along the two way street, many cars honked and many people yelled. It wasn’t music to my ears, but it was my New York City white noise. The cars’ engines revving, the loud honks, the exclaims of unhappy pedestrians, the light footsteps of people on the sidewalk. It’s been apart of my life since I could remember and as I recollected on my childhood, I spun-move around a woman that was exiting a restaurant. It was a basketball-like spin move and I finished it off with a fake scoop layup off my left leg with my right leg bent to my hip. With a smile on my face, I went back to normally walking. I love making strangers on the street smile from my random, unorthodox ways of getting around people. I suddenly got a burst of energy and began to speed up my walking, and rerouted my path from the regular sidewalk to walking along the curb near the street-trees and dips of the sidewalk for commercial driveways. I passed so many people with my brisk walking and kept listening. I saw a man in a tailored suit yell for a cab going in the direction of downtown; I saw an older man sitting on a bench reading the newspaper. I saw myself in these men. Not really, but I hope to become a man that will be successful and be busy, like the man in the suit. But I also hope to be like the older man, being able to leisurely read a newspaper in the middle of the afternoon. We’ll see who I become, but for now, I’ll continue walking among New York City.

And so for the rest of my evening walk, my thoughts bounced back and forth between my deepest reflections and dealing with the metallic sting in my mouth. I spit my gum out at the nearest trash can, and walked down 75th street in Jackson Heights, Queens: my new home as of 2016. For a neighborhood that is constantly bustling with noise and people, it’s awfully quiet and solemn tonight (aside from the occasional clatter from the 7 train and the hum of running cars).

I took a left onto Broadway and caught glimpse of a homeless man sleeping in a multi-colored, floral blanket. I forced my eyes to look elsewhere, as I tucked my head down and continued my walk; you’d think I’d be used to the sight by now but I catch myself from time to time. That feeling of sympathy and helplessness, the curiosity for their story, the guilt for unconsciously assuming their fault for such a dire situation; some days I feel the mix of emotions more than others. I later assure myself that we are all just victims of circumstance, and I continue my walk down Broadway, crossing over into Elmhurst.

As I cut through the cold crisp air in the middle of the night, I managed to pull my eyes from my feet and take a glance around the neighborhood I grew up in. Though I live only a train stop away now, a different and more nostalgic set of memories are displaced all across this childhood home of mine, making it unlike any other. Despite being so close to each other, Elmhurst is different than Jackson Heights in ever which way, I’ve watched it grow and change through the years, and the walk I’m on now, I’ve done a million times before.

I glance over at the latest bubble tea spot across the street from me. That specific location is perpetually changing, one store going out of business after another: a café, a deli, a dollar store, a pharmacy, and now a bubble tea spot. And right next to it, the Chinese bakery of more than 18 years remains. I was in the middle of asking myself why, when my thoughts were interrupted by an intense buzz in my pocket. I promised myself I wouldn’t spend my walk on my phone, but I couldn’t help but to answer it. A close friend calling, telling me about a piece of metal on the highway he almost drove into; the rest of his story faded as I realized how comforting having a companion could be on walks like these. I’m not always used to walking alone for the sake of walking, I’ve always spent them in good company and conversation. But I hang up the phone walk past Baxter Avenue alone once again.

With my hands stuffed in my pockets and my eyes trailing the different cars on the road, I notice a couple in a parked car having a conversation; the yellow light overhead illuminating both of their faces. I quickly look away, feeling as if I’m intruding a personal space, a personal conversation. It’s a feeling I don’t usually get in a situation I often find myself in.

I often make the drive back to Queens from Manhattan on the Ed Koch Queensboro bridge. One of my favorite things to do while I’m still on the Manhattan side is quickly peer into the different apartments of the skyscrapers neighboring the bridge. Each observation for each window lasts for only a split second, but for that split second I get a peek into someone else’s life. The life of someone I probably will never meet or get to know, a life that is spent never crossing paths with mine. Sometimes I’ll see a piece of artwork, or a TV with a football game on. I always wonder why they never close their shades. I never saw any people whenever I peeked, so I never felt that pang of guilt. Seeing the faces of the couple in the car, made awareness of the intrusion all the more real.

At Whitney Avenue, I decided to cut my trip short and head home. I hopped on the Q53 and kept my head down the rest of the way.

9:07 :: Out of my front door. On to the pathway that leads to the street. On the street which goes around in a circle. Tonight, Eye’ll break free from my usual walk. Tonight Eye’ll see where my mind takes me.  Eye’ll see. One hour.

9:16 :: Why exactly did Eye pick to walk by the community field and bay area? Eye don’t know. Maybe it was something about the water. Maybe it was something about the vastness yet quietness of the sea. How much potential is stored in the waters, and yet it sits waiting for Nature to take its course. As Eye strolled down the road, the many trees on the field seem to wave and welcome my presence. For all, in the dark, the street lights barely light and make out the skeletons of the trees now in Autumn, but their bodies seem to be all loving and wise. The body of creation that allows a tree to be a tree, simply. Wise and tall, all Eye could think about were my times meditating under the tree, downloading memories and knowledge from the Akashic archive; the wind blew softly against my face, sending goosebumps down my spine. Eye acknowledge how far I came. Time doesn’t.

9:34 :: As I turn the corner, the swift motions of my legs carried me out of my small shell of a rather private community down Woodvale Ave. From one of the main streets here in Staten Island, Hylan Boulevard, Woodvale Ave looked like a rollercoaster going all the way up, trees covering both sides of the sidewalk, and very dimly lit street lighting made it look almost a no brainer to walk up. Up. And up. And up, but I don’t feel “up”. I feel down. Really down. So much so, that both experiences caused me to question whether there actually is a sense of direction in the worlds above. Down here in physicality, we are here to create. Up there, in spirituality, we simply are. Orientation never seemed too important to me, although my life depends on it. So, I closed my eyes thought of a number from one to three, and selected path two to turn on from Woodvale. Eye leave the how to infinite consciousness. Eye just simply know what.

9:50 :: How am I even walking? What causes me to walk? Why did I even leave the house? Do I even know anything outside these walls? The cool air of the autumn night. The dimly lit streets of the Staten Island suburbs. All of the elements of nature, still intact, but with human formation. And here Eye am. Eye see. Eye feel. Eye experience. Is this all there is? Experience? Isn’t it the grandest of all consciousness? The manifestation of thought into words, and then action? And Eye am walking around thinking about the small things like satisfying obligations which Eye signed up to be put under. Eye think about the rest of the world, and why everyone else is doing life completely differently. After all, welcome to Babylon – actually, Eye mean America. Eye’ll head back. I’ll walk back down Woodvale, up the community streets into the circle. Eye like it here. Loops and things and a simple cipher: think, speak, act.

10:07 :: Home. Breathe. Okay…. Tools. Walks. Spaces. Ideas. Papers. Pens. Computers. Clouds. Elements. Nature. And who am Eye? Infinity is a big thing. Not so much of a ginormous thing, but a big thing. Eye don’t like to think about it because then Eye will never think of anything else. Who am Eye? What does this all even mean? Are we just all “winging it” here on Earth? Who am Eye? Eye feel pretty comfy with my plane, Eye’m winging it just fine, and yourself? Yes, you can always land. Just be mindful, you’re going to have to wake up in order to realize your full potential. It all starts with this:

10:10 :: Who am Eye?

Manhattan, Friday:

On Friday’s, I come to Baruch in the morning for the Friday section of my math class which ends at 10:20. After my class, I usually dart to the bus stop to get on the express bus back to Staten Island. This time I didn’t, I thought hey it’s Friday and an adventure never hurt anyone. I walked out of Baruch’s Vertical Campus through the main entrance on 24th Street as I normally do. I began to walk up towards Park Avenue South and I saw the homeless man who’s sign was featured in my photography project. I looked at his sign, briefly thought about the instagram assignment and walked on towards Madison Square Park. I walked through the park heading towards the uptown R train. It’s finally getting cold I thought to myself and internally promised I would start wearing hates to keep my head and ears warm even though, I never do. I walked into the uptown R station and took the train up. The train stopped for an extended period of time at 34th Street so, I got off. The platform I had gotten off onto was relatively empty and the only sounds came from the departing train.

I walked up the stairs and immediately I was greeted by a sound that I knew was a violin from my many years of musical training. I walked all around to find the source of this music, going right, left, and right again. Finally I saw the woman who was playing right near the entrance to the Downtown B,D, F and M train platform. I stopped and leaned against a pole with a Victoria secret advertisement on it, and listened to the woman playing her violin. She was middle aged and her playing was physically soft but the sound she created could fill rooms, and it did. I gave her a dollar while she playing as I thought about my musical career and how I love to play for people. I finally entered the downtown platform that I had been standing near and got on the F train that had just come. I couldn’t decide what stop to get off at so I chose 2nd Avenue, I like even numbers, it seemed like sound logic.

I got off as 2nd Avenue and followed the signs for the Houston Street, Allen Street exit, I had never been here. When I exited, I was welcomed with a crowd of people. They were clearly tourists, huddled around a map, looking at subway lines and pointing to street signs. One woman almost stopped out of the crowd to ask me for directions but then quietly stepped back in. From the exit I headed towards Stanton Street (pictured above) and took a right and headed into what seemed like a park with basketball courts and a play ground for children. There were a few teenage boys playing basketball and I quickly remembered the basketball courts at my high school and seeing the boys and girls playing there. Across from the basketball courts I saw something that caught my eye, an overfilled garbage can that clearly needed to be attended to ( pictured above). I thought about how it was something I would’ve photographed in my photography series. I thought about how the boys playing basketball ignored it even though it was right next to them and how the bystanders also ignored it. I thought how this was just another factor of our everyday lives, trash that was not being attended and producing waste much faster than it can be removed.

Immediately across the street, something I saw when I picked my head up from photographing the garbage can, was a mailbox ( pictured above) It caught my again because again, it was something I would have used for my photography project. I looked at all the graffiti on it in all the different colors and began to think how it was drawn on as if it wasn’t important to us anymore. I thought after this about our electronic society and how we use mail now to only deliver packages that we ordered online. I thought about how people used to write their thoughts on paper and now our thoughts are all in texts floating around somewhere in the digital cloud. As I thought about the cloud, I looked up at the actual clouds and realized that it would be getting dark very soon and that it was probably time to head home.

Sunday in Staten Island:

On Sunday’s, I work at my neighborhood bakery that has been around since 1892. I had been going to this bakery since I was a child and knew everyone that worked there, it was a staple of our neighborhood. After leaving work at 6PM even though it felt like 10PM by how dark it was outside, I decided to take a detour home instead of taking my 5 minute straight walk home. From the bakery I walked straight down Arthur Kill Road instead of my usually right on Gurley Avenue. I walked by some houses, houses I had seen frequently when driving by them to go places. These houses always gave me an unfamiliar yet familiar feeling. I knew them by appearance but I never knew the people inside, if they had been the same people for years, I wouldn’t have known, I didn’t know their stories or where they came from. In front of one of these houses which I noticed was close to the corner of Arthur Kill Road and Elverton Avenue was a campaign sign for Max Rose for Congress( pictured above). This is seemingly normal but, not for South Shore Staten Island, I live in a conservative neighborhood and my area’s politicians have always been strictly Republican so, this sign gave me a little hope and made me think about change and betterment for my community. As I kept walking straight towards Colon Avenue I was looking down while listening to fun.’s Some Nights album and I noticed someone’s home and I noticed their tiny entry area that seemed to be extremely worn out ( pictured above). While the rock was rust colored and cement colored I was focusing on the tiny pieces of nature underneath. The grass was bright green under the light and the bright red leaves stood out from the other crumpled brown ones. I started to think about nature, about seasons, about the quick passing of time and how it truly waits for no man. I thought about how I just started my first semester of college and how it is already over. Lost in my reflective thoughts, I hadn’t realized that I had walked all the way back home.

It was the evening of Tuesday, November 6th. My last class, English, had ended early and I was stuck with the many options I had left. I could go home, I could go eat, I could study, I could do some math homework, I could begin writing my many papers I had coming up. Yet the temptation to go home was so strong.

It was around four o’clock when I ended up walking around Madison Square Park. The whole day had been gloomy and wet, but this didn’t bother me. The views were amazing. It was the time of year that the leaves of the trees turned from green to vibrant shades of yellow, orange and red. I fell instantly in love; I had to stop and admire all the beautiful shades the different trees displayed. These colorful days only last briefly, as the leaves quickly fall off and leave the branches barren.

Beautiful Scenery in Madison Square Park

I begin to wonder how this, the inevitable cycle of the natural seasons, correlates to life. Good times are always met with bad times. One must endure hardship to reach bliss, and vice versa. This is what always comes to mind whenever I see beautiful views in nature. I also remember that soon it will be so cold and snow will fall, but I stop myself from having these thoughts too much as I realize it will ruin my walk. I continue to admire the gorgeous fall shades the trees beautifully display.

I notice the park is uncannily empty. I begin to wonder why. It is now around five o’clock in the evening, shouldn’t everyone be out of work and on their way home? Where are all the kids and moms who always play at the park? Even the cute dogs and their walkers are nowhere to be seen. I only see the occasional person with a briefcase and umbrella in their hand. That’s when I realize. It’s drizzling, the sky is filled with heavy clouds and is remarkably gray. It is soon about to pour. And it begins to pour.

I run west out of Madison Square Park and quickly try to make a decision as to where to go. I make myself to a nearby food place, Hill Country Chicken on Broadway and West 25th St. As I purchase a small apple pie cup, which was amazingly delicious, I get a text message from my mom. She wants to know if I’m still in Manhattan so we can go home together. I completely forgot she was in the city and quickly reply that I am. She wants me to meet her in the next hour at her office on 28th St, only a couple blocks away!

I finish my pie cup and begin walking northward on Broadway. It’s no longer raining so I walk slowly and admire the people who are also walking. I begin to wonder where they’re all going. Are they going home or to a second job? Maybe they’re even going to take night classes, or maybe meeting a date at a nearby restaurant. The possibilities are endless.

I finally arrive to where my mom’s office is. I’m early so I wait outside for her to come out, and that’s when I see the Empire State Building. My mom’s office is located at such a precise location where one can easily see the Empire State Building without many obstructions–which is hard to do in the city of New York. The tower is lit red, white and blue. I begin to wonder why these colors in specific, when I remember today was the Midterm Elections.

For months I had been excited to see the results of this election. Today was finally the day America would see a change in politics. Hopefully. I then began to remember the vast amount of people I saw with “I Voted” stickers. I also remembered my own election day process, as I had gone to vote early in the morning before going to school. As I stared at the beautiful Empire State Building, I reflected on the democratic practices our country runs on and how grateful I am to be apart of such a great country, despite all the controversies and hardships we have endured. It was a great way to end the day.

Empire State Building displays red, white and blue lights for Midterm Elections

For my Sunday afternoon, I decided to take a walk through Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. Although from Staten Island, I spent a great deal of my childhood in this neighborhood. Most of my friends are also from here and I went to elementary school here as well. This walk was an overall reflective experience for me.

View of the bridge walking down 4th Avenue

I exited the S79 Bay Ridge bus at the 92nd Street stop. I step onto the sidewalk. This is all very familiar to me. I feel as if I’m about to meet up with my friends who live nearby. I walk up 92nd Street, passing by the many restaurants and shops along the way. I pass by pizza parlors, diners, bakeries, and several fast food joints. I feel the cold air pierce through me, touching my fingertips and nose. This is a very cold day. As I walk down 4th Avenue I see the Verrazano Bridge with the blazing sun in view. As I continue to walk I come across a man sporting a red book bag. He appears rather confused and unsure of where he is going. Perhaps he is on his way to a specific destination. Maybe he is waiting for someone. Maybe he is simply unfamiliar with this neighborhood.

I proceed to walk further down and approach my old elementary school, St. Patrick’s, located between 97th Street and 4th Avenue. As I stand in front of the steps I reminisce my time here. I remember waiting on these very steps for my mother to pick me up back when I was in Fourth Grade. A much simpler time, one that was less stressful in comparison to the present. “If only I could go back, just for a little while” I think to myself. On my journey I also pass by the church. I imagine a huge crowd was here earlier in front of the main entrance for Sunday mass. I then continue towards a local park down the street.

I approached John Paul Jones Park. The park is not so packed, but as I stroll through I pass by several people. One man bundled up in a coat walks his dog, a young teenage girl takes a selfie as she kicks leaves on the grass, and one elderly man sits at a bench. I then notice a young child with a soccer ball, kicking it around with what appears to be an older woman. From a distance I assume this is his mother, but as I walk closer I notice it is an older sister. I stand and watch very briefly. The child then fails to maintain control of the ball and it rolls towards me. I gently kick it back to the siblings and they thank me for doing so. This is too brings me back to my childhood. I see the boy and I am reminded of childhood innocence, back when the question was what games we should play at the park rather than what papers were due by the end of the week. I see the older sister and wish I had such a connection with my own sibling. I would usually go to the park alone with a grandparent and kick a ball around, ride a bike, or maybe simply have fun on the swings.

Shore Road Park

I then walked further down to Shore Road Park. You can get an even closer view of the bridge here. As I enter the park, I pass by a father rolling a stroller down the entrance ramp. I then see a mother watch her children, a son and a daughter, play a game of volleyball in the park’s volleyball court. This part of my journey reminds me of the importance of family. I walk alone but I see others enjoying their time with loved ones. Perhaps the child in the stroller, or even the two children playing volleyball will walk the same path as me in the future, reminiscing childhood memories as I am now. I understand from my trip that this is all a cycle. Everyone has their story to tell and yet the story remains the same. Only the characters change. Yes, I was once a character here, playing volleyball with my friends. However, my time has passed. I am now just a visitor. I will be back, but there are new faces to experience what was once routine for me. And so, it is time to go home. I board the bus and my journey comes to its conclusion.