The Poor Grass In The New Place Essay

This essay has a total of 1253 words and 5 pages.

The Poor Grass In The New Place

I am strangely idealistic early in the morning. I almost feel like singing sometimes.
There is something about Times Square at 7:30 AM. You notice a lot. The desolateness. The
workers in their blue jumpsuits, loading and unloading. And the calm in a place not
usually known for calm. This is where I wake myself up most mornings with a walk from 42nd
to 56th St when I opt to get off the train a little early. The few I run into with some
regularity smile at me with an unspoken friendship.


I find pleasure in the view of skyscrapers reaching up to the blurry skies. So different
from the reality that is the near-ghetto landscape of Bushwick, the place where I had been
only an hour before. The place where I live. I can almost feel everyday on the L, the
second I leave Bushwick, like I'm leaving to another world. That second brings back the
memory of another world I left. The small island where I was born, the place I can barely
even remember anymore. I think sometimes with a smile and sometimes with self-pity of
those first months in an alien place.


I was six that year. My parents never explained anything to me. Mi mami dressed me up one
day in a little flowery dress and it was really hot and we all went in a long taxi drive
to this huge place with lots of people and we had all these bags and then everyone was
crying and then we went in this thing and we were flying and I got scared and I was crying
and we got here and that's it. That was all I understood. And we had to start our lives in
an incredibly alien place.


I was very unhappy. I hated the other girls at school before I could even understand them.
I envied their smiles and their new shoes and their Mickey Mouse book bags. How I lived my
days with envy. It was my companion on the way to school and on my lonely way back. That
big, red brick, building loomed intimidating in the distance that first day as I neared
the corner of Wilson Av. But it really never stopped looking that way. School was a blur
of pointing fingers, impatient faces and bored, droning voices who mispronounced my name.
I was always so silent, staring at the ground. I noticed how worn the tiles in my house
were and how old my sneakers were and how poor the grass looked. And how poor everything
looked.


Because we were immigrants and she could not speak English, my mother always felt a little
bit at a disadvantage with the other mothers of the world. She felt that she could not
protect us and feared rapists and murderers and terrorists and psychopaths and drug
addicts and kidnappers and just about any stranger. Being the youngest, I was especially
protected. My whole life had to be lived in the 5 rooms of our tiny apartment. The only
people I knew were the five members of my family. I was never allowed to leave the house
except to go to school. I never went anywhere or did anything.
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