couple.”
“My bad.” I drop my guard. “Okay … Is it true that …” I can’t keep it that real. How do I repeat the hurtful gossip about her now that I know she trusts me? “… you got expelled from Mott Haven for stabbing some girl and burying her under the football field?”
Candace hits me in the arm. “Shut up!” We laugh a bit, and then she says, “I was taking an elective in environmental justice, and I did my final presentation on New Orleans since Katrina. I knew things were bad at home, but, man …” She looks away from me, and I follow her eyes to the MTA’s Train of Thought ad across the car. In silence, we both read it.
There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born here, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size and its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter—the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something…. Commuters give the
city its tidal restlessness; natives give it solidity and continuity; but the settlers give it passion
.
Candace smiles at the ad, then turns back to me. “The school system in New Orleans was always bad, but now it’s worse. The crime rate’s off the meter…. Anyway, I finish my presentation, and the teacher asks if anyone has any questions. I’m one of the last people to go, and nobody’s been asking anybody questions all week. Then this girl Dacia yells, ‘You one of them refugees?’ And everybody starts laughing at me. Well, maybe some people were just laughing ’cause Dacia was supposed to present next if there was time left in the period.”
“Yeah, she was just asking questions to waste time.”
Candace shrugs. “Anyway, I say, no, I’m not a refugee, but the girl is like, ‘You kept saying how New Orleans is the City That Care Forgot and how the Black folks there were treated in an un-American way or whatever and that things are so bad that you had to leave and you can’t go back. That means you a refugee!’”
“And the teacher didn’t shut her down?”
“She tried. She explained that a refugee is a person who flees a foreign country to escape danger or persecution. Then the teacher asks me if there’s anything I want to add. I say, ‘Yes,’ and I look straight at Dacia and say, ‘Don’t call me a refugee.’ Then the teacher says it’s her turn, and I can go back to my seat. Then she starts clapping, and everybody else claps, too, but as I pass Dacia’s desk, she says, ‘Nice job, refugee.’ So I threw my notebook at her.” I start laughing. “That’s not funny, Efrain!”
“Did you break her jaw so the doctor had to wire it shut?”
“No!” But her eyes flash with horror.
“You hit her, though.” I can’t stop laughing. “You connected, didn’t you?”
“I would’ve missed her except she kind of walked into it so the edge of my book caught her in the nose.” A lot of girls I know would be bragging about that, but Candace sounds embarrassed. “Her nose bled a little, but I didn’t break anything, I swear.”
I stay laughing. “I believe you,
mami.”
“What do they say about me at school?”
“That you hung some dude from the bleachers.” Before she can answer, I add, “And there’s another one that goes
Candace snuck an AK-47 into the school and shot up her gym class.”
She finally smiles. “Uh-huh, I did that.” Candace no longer cares about the hurtful rumors, and that’s all that matters to me. “And you fixin’ to be next, so keep it up.”
“There’s one more story about you that they used for an episode of
Law & Order.”
“Efrain, stop exaggerating!” Candace leans into me giggling.
Her touch pumps the idea into me like a transfusion. PE to KE. “I’m taking this year-long civil rights class and have to do a senior thesis,” I say.
“My bad.” I drop my guard. “Okay … Is it true that …” I can’t keep it that real. How do I repeat the hurtful gossip about her now that I know she trusts me? “… you got expelled from Mott Haven for stabbing some girl and burying her under the football field?”
Candace hits me in the arm. “Shut up!” We laugh a bit, and then she says, “I was taking an elective in environmental justice, and I did my final presentation on New Orleans since Katrina. I knew things were bad at home, but, man …” She looks away from me, and I follow her eyes to the MTA’s Train of Thought ad across the car. In silence, we both read it.
There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born here, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size and its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter—the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something…. Commuters give the
city its tidal restlessness; natives give it solidity and continuity; but the settlers give it passion
.
Candace smiles at the ad, then turns back to me. “The school system in New Orleans was always bad, but now it’s worse. The crime rate’s off the meter…. Anyway, I finish my presentation, and the teacher asks if anyone has any questions. I’m one of the last people to go, and nobody’s been asking anybody questions all week. Then this girl Dacia yells, ‘You one of them refugees?’ And everybody starts laughing at me. Well, maybe some people were just laughing ’cause Dacia was supposed to present next if there was time left in the period.”
“Yeah, she was just asking questions to waste time.”
Candace shrugs. “Anyway, I say, no, I’m not a refugee, but the girl is like, ‘You kept saying how New Orleans is the City That Care Forgot and how the Black folks there were treated in an un-American way or whatever and that things are so bad that you had to leave and you can’t go back. That means you a refugee!’”
“And the teacher didn’t shut her down?”
“She tried. She explained that a refugee is a person who flees a foreign country to escape danger or persecution. Then the teacher asks me if there’s anything I want to add. I say, ‘Yes,’ and I look straight at Dacia and say, ‘Don’t call me a refugee.’ Then the teacher says it’s her turn, and I can go back to my seat. Then she starts clapping, and everybody else claps, too, but as I pass Dacia’s desk, she says, ‘Nice job, refugee.’ So I threw my notebook at her.” I start laughing. “That’s not funny, Efrain!”
“Did you break her jaw so the doctor had to wire it shut?”
“No!” But her eyes flash with horror.
“You hit her, though.” I can’t stop laughing. “You connected, didn’t you?”
“I would’ve missed her except she kind of walked into it so the edge of my book caught her in the nose.” A lot of girls I know would be bragging about that, but Candace sounds embarrassed. “Her nose bled a little, but I didn’t break anything, I swear.”
I stay laughing. “I believe you,
mami.”
“What do they say about me at school?”
“That you hung some dude from the bleachers.” Before she can answer, I add, “And there’s another one that goes
Candace snuck an AK-47 into the school and shot up her gym class.”
She finally smiles. “Uh-huh, I did that.” Candace no longer cares about the hurtful rumors, and that’s all that matters to me. “And you fixin’ to be next, so keep it up.”
“There’s one more story about you that they used for an episode of
Law & Order.”
“Efrain, stop exaggerating!” Candace leans into me giggling.
Her touch pumps the idea into me like a transfusion. PE to KE. “I’m taking this year-long civil rights class and have to do a senior thesis,” I say.
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