March 18th


I leave the school library and walk down Fifth Avenue.

I haven’t done this in over two years.

It’s 70 degrees today—spring is two days away.

I had forgotten how many tourists the city attracts.

They all look up at the Empire State Building,

thinking, “It’s not that tall—is it?”

I find myself looking up at it too,

but their glares are prolonged.

My glares are but glances in-between sips of my morning coffee or puffs of my morning
cigarette.

Instead of pondering its height, I shake my head, wondering how many of its empty offices could be converted to homes.

“It’s not that empty—is it?”

Suns and clouds notwithstanding, the tourists want to remember this moment.

They want to tell their friends about it.

Their friends will ask, in various Western European tongues, “It’s not that tall, is it?”

Down Fifth, I stop to buy drumsticks at Guitar Center.

The sticks I want are 50% off.

As the clerk attempts to process the discount on their computer, they warn that the “apocalypse” is looming.

They’re having trouble applying the discount.

“If we don’t have no bread and gas is expensive as hell, it’s gonna be Mad Max out here.”

I don’t disagree.

I want to ask if they think we’ll see something tantamount to the Arab Spring spread all across the Global South, eventually reaching the imperial core.

I really want to ask, but they’re having trouble applying the 50% discount.

I don’t know if their troubles in applying the discount stem from Guitar Center’s complex
computer system or from their apocalyptic disposition.

Maybe it’s both.

I need that discount.

Staring at their computer, they say they’ll be fine because they know how to bake bread.

“I used to like cooking it with weed.”

I’m at Washington Square Park.

The scene is filled with students, skaters, tourists, and amateur musicians.

A lot of people are smoking weed.

The cops huddle in groups of four to five on the periphery.

I wonder if I’ll hangout here during the looming apocalypse.

There’s so much sound today.

So many languages being spoken,

so many impoverished drum fills by amateur jazz musicians.

“Jazz is the last refuge of the untalented.”

At West Fourth, I stop to watch basketball.

An older gentleman hits a tough jump shot from the elbow—

we make eye contact.

As I smile at him, he points at his shirt, and it reads:

“Chill. You can’t guard me.”

I nod in agreement.

They can’t guard you.

It’s a close game, but I leave,

trusting that no one can guard my determined new friend.

He’ll emerge victorious from his first game in months.

Later that night, he’ll get home.

Sweaty and sore, taking off his shoes, he’ll tell his wife:

“I hit a tough jumper from the elbow.

This kid and I made eye contact,

and I pointed at my shirt.”

He points at his shirt and his wife says,

“Chill. You can’t guard me.”

“That’s right, baby. They can’t guard me.”

He stops as he takes off his left shoe, looks down, and thinks for a minute—

“It reminded me of back in the day.”

Down below, two girls wait by the door to get on the subway.

I ask if they need it opened.

“Yeah.”

I look around for cops and hop the turnstile.

They’ll never catch me.

They can’t guard me.

I open the door for them and head to the downtown train.

“Thank you.”

Walking towards the M Train, an old man slowly plays a drum roll on a snare hanging from his neck.

I hope he plays during the looming apocalypse.

June 9th

“I’m concerned about my future.”


I saw my parents today for the first time in four years.

The fifth time in 10 years.

My mother gets shorter every time I see her,

my father wears his age in his eyes.

They’re staying at a hotel next to the Gowanus Houses,

where Spike Lee filmed Clockers.

Shortly after the lackluster hugs that initiate our reunion,

we decide to walk the Brooklyn Bridge.

I describe what the Bridge looked like during the Uprising—

the cops, the chants, the clashes.

They don’t ask any follow-up questions.

My mother takes a lot of pictures,

she’s always taken a lot of pictures.

It’s been nearly 31 years since my mother has been in New York,

when she was two months pregnant with me.

My parents walk slow.

It’s a combination of their age and the fact that they don’t live here.

Anyone who doesn’t live here walks slow.

As I try to make my parents laugh,

my mother complains about my little sister’s incessant texting.

She’s asking for money.

She’s asking for money because she’s an addict.

I saw your sister a few days ago, my mother says,

she says she’s two weeks sober,

but I don’t believe it.

Then why give her money?, I ask.

I’ve been asking this question for years,

and it never fails to dampen the facial expression on my mother’s face.

She’s very adept at changing the subject when faced with a difficult conversation.

There are monologues now, my mother says.

She describes a monologue in which my sister claims that God speaks to her.

God tells my sister that she was placed on this planet with a purpose,

she is on a mission.

What is this purpose?

What is this mission?

My mother doesn’t ask my sister follow-up questions during or after these monologues.

God also warns my sister that she will die at 27.

I think this would be a premature death but not an untimely one, seeing as how God is sounding
the alarm.

Her 27th birthday is in three days.

Her 27th birthday also marks the 27th birthday of my first memory.

I am three years old, walking around a hospital.

I see my cousins playing cards in the lobby.

One day, Cousin One will join the army while Cousin Two goes to law school.

I walk past them.

I look into a room filled with newborns and I continue to walk.

All those newborns are celebrating a birthday this week and I cannot imagine many of them
speak to God.

I happen upon the room where my mother is.

There is a small, mounted television in the corner of the room.

It must be 5 or 6 o’clock, because she is watching Primer Impacto,

A kind of pornographic tabloid show featuring raw footage of car crashes, kidnappings in Latin America, and a flamboyant psychic named Walter Mercado.

It’s Sidney Lumet’s Network on Univision.

First impact.

I see my mother.

She is tired but happy.

She is 31 years old,

My father is 44.

They are young and have no idea what is to transpire in the next several decades.

Had I known then, I would’ve told them to interpret Primer Impacto as subtext.

The show, the show, I would’ve said, pointing to the TV.

My parents would’ve glanced at me, thinking this was an attempt to steal attention from my
newborn sister, and not asked any follow-up questions.

It’s very obvious, now that I think about it:

Primer Impacto was God’s first transmission to my sister.

Today, my mother is 58, my father 71.

They are old and small, walking slightly behind me on the Brooklyn Bridge.

And my sister is a recovering addict still receiving transmissions from God.

Tomorrow, I graduate, and I am concerned about my future.