It's like, soooOo touristy to write about being on the train in New York, while being on a train in New York.



So anyway,
I'm on a train
in New York.
The 2-3, making local stops all the way through, because it's the weekend. Which for me, means that what would usually be a 30-minute ride is now stretched to an hour. There are so many faces. So many bodies, hunched together, shoulders bouncing off each other. It's the only place where someone can be jolted by a sudden stop, almost fall on their ass, and save themselves by darting their arm for a pole, all while keeping a relatively nonchalant face. It's New York. The EN-WYE, son. Gotta stay hard.

It's late, the train is crowded, and on the 96th street stop two men hop into the car, hella jolly. they eagerly wait as the passengers take their places, and as soon as the doors ding shut, they shout in unison, "It's worship time! You know we need some help!" and break into song. the one in front pulls out a crumpled starbucks cup and bounces down the isle while the passengers drop their eyes to the floor, as if on queue. it's like elementary school all over again: if i don't look at him, he won't call on me. nobody wants to look, or bob their head, or tap their foot for fear of revealing any sign of being entertained, thus falling into the obligation of pitching at least a quarter. The only one looking is a kid who looks so much like he's on shrooms that his face is in that "why are there pink elephants singing to me?" kind of expression. when the singers finish, the quickly exit the car, but not without chirping, "Y'all have a good night now! And don't forget to smile, because it won't mess up your hair!" I get off my stop, walk the blocks to my Harlem sublease, and arrive right before the summer rain starts shining up the floors. Some kids are sitting on the stoop. "Excuse me, sorry," we all say at the same time. They say it like as if they might be intruding. I say it for the same reason.

When traveling,
I detest more than anything,
looking like a tourist.
Being Asian in Harlem, it's pretty hard not too.
Walking down Lennox each night, I wonder what is contained in the stares that follow me. Most people take a glance, do a quick up-and-down, and move on with their day. Other times, there might be a click of the tongue, sharp sucking of teeth. Once, even a "Oh hell no." It has been so long since I've felt such a void in validation. In truth, there's not much that I can say. Directly across from my apartment, 129th street draws the line of separation in a text-book illustration of gentrification. To the right is a 24-hour laundry spot where you can often find patrons bring in their clothes with a variety of compartments, including but not limited to hampers, garbage bags, shopping carts, pillow cases, and right off of their own bodies. Next to that are three grocery stores that, unless you're looking have a wonderful candlelight dinner with beer, canned pasta, and porn, aren't really much help (but then again, who wouldn't be into that kinda dinner??) Late night on the weekends, cops are stationed on corners like wastebaskets. They watch, stone-faced while the kids joke to themselves, mouths gaped open, sometimes haze of black&milds snaking from between their outstretched fingertips. They coexist in the way that lions and deer may, when no one's hungry or feels like running. I don't know if lions are ever not hungry, but then again I don't know if cops are ever not dickheads. But I've lived these past two weeks here as a tangent. An anomaly. The Asian kid that might have accidentally moved into the neighborhood from a Craigslist posting, or who saw the rising popularity of Bathing Apes in hip-hop as an open invitation to immerse himself in black culture. If anything, I'm probably just an indication, an artifact, of how things in Harlem are changing. Because on the left side of 129th is a brand-spanking-new condo complex with a huge banner reading, "PREMIER CONDOS." And the people moving into there are wearing much tighter jeans, and listening to a lot more Beck, if you know what I mean.

The thing about
the white people in Harlem
that I have to admire,
is that they are straight-up, hella, unapologetically white. It's not the type of white person I would've expected in Harlem. In fact, I have to admit that, during my entire stay, I haven't seen one Malibu's-most-wanted-thugged-out white dude...you know, the kind that's the only white guy in the crew, and usually wears baby blue. The white folks in Harlem keep it pretty real...they're not trying to fool anyone--flannel shirt, Dickies, and all. For real though, it must take guts to walk down Harlem at 2am dressed like a Sunday school teacher.

But I know that they, along with I, play a role in this gentrification. Just like Bed-Stuy, and Jackson Heights, and so many other parts of New York that people weren't necessarily recommending their buddies to move to ten years ago. But cats gotta stay hard. If you live in a notorious part, you get your props. No one wants go come from Pleasantville anymore. Claiming hoods...it's not just for rappers anymore. And as much as I want to deny, there's that rush, like you have a piece of the action. Like because you spend a few nights in Harlem you're suddenly a part of the history, like the Renaissance has shifted you in some way, like now you're a bit fresher because when people ask you where you're staying, you can say it with that swag. "I'm stayin in Ha'lem." But really, it's not much different from the grill-wearing-hipsters who've taken over Williamsburg.

Lately, I've been reflecting on what it means to inhabit. Being in situations where I sometimes find myself sleeping in a different place every night of the week, I've found it harder and harder to settle, or feel comfortable to unload, feel at home. Two weeks later, my suitcase is still a tornadoed heap in the middle of the living room. I'm leaving tomorrow (to stay in Brooklehhhh) so most likely it'll stay that way for another week, just in a different living room. And I've been questioning what it means to inhabit another person. Whether in mind or heart. Finding myself in situations where I'm forced to realize that my words actually affect somebody, someone might actually hold my lines with them, to help them through their day or life. It's an incredible honor, but extremely overwhelming, and more than ever I hate how horrible I am with names. Especially when I meet someone...for the third time. Or carry out an entire conversation while repeating over and over in my head, "wheredidimeetthisperson... wheredidimeetthisperson... wheredidimeetthisperson..." In all of these situations, I simply hope that my inhabitance results in upliftment, even if I don't completely understand what it means to be living in the vastly historic air of Harlem, or within the scope of an Asian kid seeing one of his own rock the mic for the first time. I hope that it remains transparent how deeply affected I am, next time I don't recognize the trainstop, or the name that belongs to the last hand I shook. The people and places that construct my experiences, I never want to take for granted.