Hey Poppy!

I have a love/hate relationship with Washington Heights.

Love: the community, neighborhood atmosphere. Once it's warm out, no one stays inside. Their living rooms are communal, on the sidewalk, in the streets, in the parks. Countless lawn chairs are unfolded on the sidewalk, radios and stereos accompany your walk home, children run chaotically around between countless groups of bingo-players, all the men are grouped around their tables of dominoes. They are serious about their dominoes. Soon the fire hydrants will be broken open to blast cool water into the street, but it's not quite hot enough for that yet (I finally saw the first one yesterday, so it's getting there). The sidewalks, streets, and parks are strewn with collective chicken bones. My dog has a hey-day. Everywhere I walk, any time of day or night, whether I have no makeup and my gym clothes on, or if I'm all done up for a night out, I unfailingly get hit on. "Hey Mommy!" "Hey white girl!" *lip-smack-kissy-sound* From guys around my age all the way up through the old men with no teeth, everyone checks you out. Does this get old? Yes. Did it make me uncomfortable at first? Absolutely. Is it nevertheless flattering? Yes. I don't quite understand the reasoning behind this incessant hitting-on; do they ever think it will get them anywhere? But it will never change. No matter how many times I pretend I can't hear them through my iPod. Dominican men will, however, help a girl out. If they see me struggling, carrying a heavy load of laundry up my stairs, it is out of my hands into theirs. I don't often give them the opportunity, but once in a while it is very appreciated. I can walk the streets by myself here at 4 in the morning and not feel at all in danger. Am I going to make a habit of it, or make myself conspicuous? Of course not. And is the reason for it generally a favorable one? Not really. But it is still useful. (I live in a two-block span of the highest drug trafficking in upper Manhattan. Because of this, drug lords keep a very tight rein on what goes on in these two blocks. There isn't a lot of trouble around here because that would attract police attention-- obviously not desirable from a drug lord's perspective.) There is a bodega in a two block radius open at all times in case you get the sudden urge for oreos, plantains, candy, or anything else unhealthy. There is generally a great deal of friendliness around here, especially if you speak Spanish. There is no way you can't feel a part of the neighborhood here, and I really appreciate that.

In my new place, I will still be in the Heights, but it's a more diversified Heights. Here, on 172nd and Amsterdam, Sarah, myself, and the two girls across the hall are the ONLY non-Dominicans. Once you get west of Broadway, this isn't quite the case. So the cultural identity is manifest to the extreme here. And that includes the aspects of the neighborhood that I am not so in love with.

Hate: THE EXCESSIVE NOISE ALL NIGHT LONG. The Dominican culture very much appreciates music, dancing, and having a good time. No matter how many people you live around or how late at night it is. In fact, I find it much easier to sleep during the day than at night. I have already expressed, in a previous post, how much I appreciate a love of music and dance in a culture. AND, I would prefer not to hear music blasting through my earplugs at 3 in the morning when I have to get up at 5:30 to go to work. I don't even have a typical 8-5 job like many New Yorkers do, which would make the situation all the more inconsiderate. This is what I am most excited to leave behind. My new street is ever so much quieter, and it will be such a relief. Currently, I lay down in bed on the weekends with quite a bit of stress, nervous that I won't be able to sleep that night. And dealing with possibly irritating clients for 8 hours the next day on three hours of sleep is pretty daunting. The typical Dominican practice is to open all the doors of a car parked on the street, and crank the music as loud as it will go. Which is EXTREMELY LOUD. Which is loud enough to rattle things on my desk. On the fourth floor. There are typically 2 cars on each block set up in this way. So I lay down, close my eyes, and I feel that bass BUM. bum bum. BUM. bum bum. Like a constant, off-kilter tapping on my heart. A police car rolls by, and they turn it down. And then they turn it up again. Obviously, not everywhere in the Heights is like this. I just happen to live in a pocket of 100% Dominicans. Who are living their culture loud and proud. And I would prefer to sleep at night, so I'm saying so long. I am also saying so long to the pungent smell of weed that constantly pervades the western half of my block. To the old men (every man) who will not leave me alone, whether it be with their mouths, gestures, or eyes. To the streets and park that are trashed every single night.

Some of these things may happen in other parts of Manhattan. And I am hoping (and expecting) that not all of them do simultaneously. Or that at least my ear plugs will keep enough of the noise out. Because I'm not asking for perfect silence, I am only asking for enough quiet that none of the noise will leak through my ear plugs, which I am perfectly willing to wear every night in exchange for enough sleep.

So it is, with a bittersweet goodbye, that I bid adieu to 172nd and Amsterdam. Despite everything, I am grateful for my 9 months here. It has been truly different from any other living situation I have ever experienced. I welcome that. I am really glad to have gotten to know some Dominican culture, and history, while living here. I have been happy in my very first own apartment. It was a nest perched up above a park, however infested it may have been. It was mine, and I loved it.

Hello 163rd and the annoyances I don't know exist yet.