Ironbound Thursday

It's 7:30 at night and I woke up from a late afternoon nap and wanted to explore. I hesitate to take to the streets in an unfamiliar place at sunset, but the spaces always seem to be lit up so much better at that time.

Walking out of my apartment I've chosen the river as my goal. I had heard that there were some projects going on at a riverfront park, so I figured this would but an interesting space to investigate. Turning the corner down Ferry Street, I passed by a little boy and girl chasing each other around in circles. Actually, it was the little girl chasing the boy. Both were latino, I assume Brazilian, and seemingly having a good time. The girl put the boy in a choke-hold at one point. The boy then got away; she then screamed, "get back here nigger" which I found slightly of-putting and quite bizare since neither of them were obviously Black. The girl kept going after the boy and he continued to escape. She kept yelling the same, condeming phrase at him over and over (I cannot remember it now) with a playful yet clearly viscious tone. Keeping things lighter, however, the boy wasn't phased by her threats of violence. He giggled, and kept her chasing him.

When wandering foreign streets at twilight you tend to be chosen by fewer boulevards that you would have during daylight. I say that streets "choose" because, while there is always an element of agency, I cannot say with confidence that it is always my choice to walk down a certain street. Light, for example, pulls me towards certain streets and away from others. Architecture also has this effect. Commercial storefronts, bricked-over warehouses, and front steps all carry varying levels of power to move my feet forwards, backwards, left and right, at respective times.

Walking down "the neck" I verred off Ferry towards the river. Cut-off by a freeway-like overpass over the river, I changed from walking west to walking back north again. I passed several cafes opaque to the outside world that I imagined to have patrons dining on copious amounts of hearty bread and red wine on the inside. I couldn't tell, however, from my brief encounter whether or not what I imagined was true. My musings were not strong enough to pull me in.

Further on down a fairly dark and empty street I kept my eye out for the basement trap doors that these old houses tend to have. They lead into the basements of the two and three-flats in the neighborhood and often have people jumping in and out of them. I then came up to a park that was lit up with bright soccer field lights and people everywhere. Kids and coaches were on the field with plenty of onlookers standing on the sidelines. I heard a woman's voice blaring from a loudspeaker. As I walked towards her I realized I had fallen upon an event.

There was a stage and a bandstand set up with audience chairs and some booths. A was truck parked on the grass that I saw a little boy running away from with a sample tub of ice cream in his hand. I thought I'd take my chances. Childlike, guiltily following a child, I walked up to the van. After completing a handout in Spanish with the little boy, the ice-cream woman did not regard me with the slightest disdain or curiosity, but pleasantly asked me which free sample I wanted. I don't know why hearing her speak to the boy in another language and give him the ice cream intimidated me. I guess I felt that I was infringing upon a privilege that I had no right to, but I knew she couldn't refuse me. She, however, saw no difference in me or the boy. So I got some "Valencia Blood Orange" sorbet.

After a few minutes an almost ten-piece band of white, Black, and Latino men came to the stage. They announced that they were from the Bronx and asked if people wanted to hear some salsa. The began to play and the crowd immediately began tapping and moving to the rhythm. One dark Black man stood up with his baby daughter in his arms and started to salsa. The little girl kicked her legs up and down from high in the air. The Black trumpet player sizzled the salsa lines. More people stood up and started dancing. Then the played a merengue. The white guy took liberty with his slide trombone. Everyone was having a good time. I took some pictures.

On the way back up to Ferry I passed a line of older men and women sitting out on the sidewalk in lawnchairs. The were relaxing and talking--speaking in Portuguses. They were all wearing white and had white hair. I wanted to photograph them talking and watching the street, but I couldn't.

I ended up at Penn Station where I could not figure out what train to take to New York nor whether or not I had enough money. I saw on one fare machine that a one-way to New York Penn Station was four dollars. I also needed a ticket back and only had five dollars. So I left the station.

I came back and read an article by Andreas Huyssen call "Modernist Miniatures: Literary Snapshots of Urban Spaces" and was thoroughly intrigued by the idea of people being affected by space, not space affected by people:

'Nicht gesucht hat den Platz, wen er findet' (trans) 'He whom the place finds did not seek it.' The uncanny reversal of human subject and urban space in the German sentence immediately disorients the reader. the human subject becomes grammatical object; the empirical object becomes grammatical subject.

Fascinating day.