On this Memorial Day 2020. As I sat in the drive-through of a suburban Starbucks. In one of many reddish-orange slices of this country. Each sparsely populated with people who align blue.

This one in the state of Florida, to be exact. My day-dreaming daze began to focus on a “God Bless Our President” bumper sticker. Then ventured up further to a “Trump 2020” window-sticker. And zoomed back to reveal a white truck, driven by an older white man.

I noticed fear in me. A familiar fear that I feel every time I see these and other symbols. As I’ve traveled along, on the road of life, in our beautiful country called America.

 

They all evoke similar feelings in me. Fear.

As a black man traveling in the south. Each time I see a confederate flag, a trump 2020 flag, a fallen veteran flag, even the American flag… the local sheriff’s medallion on the side of a car, the bullbar and floodlights of a state-trooper. They all evoke similar feelings in me. Fear.

History tells me it’s hard to tell who’s safe, in these quaint, and at times picturesque surroundings. Am I seen as a friendly neighbor, or as a deadly threat? And based on that perception, what might happen next. A benign situation in “stand your ground” friendly USA, can escalate to a matter of life and death. Just, ask the families of Ahmad Aubrey and Trayvon Martin, and the nameless black men who have fallen victim to “stand-your-ground” murders here in the good ole south.

 

Where Exactly Is My Community Now?

And yet, the fear in these surroundings fights against a contrasting fear of living on this planet during a pandemic. As I contemplate my moves ahead, I am tentative to commit to a return to the only home I’ve ever known. The city that seldom sleeps. Except for in times like these. I feel joy and sadness for my memories of New York. Where exactly, is my community now?

‘Love thy neighbor as thyself’ is one of the most known maxims, religious or secular, in all the world. Many take this as a golden-rule that beckons us to contemplate our actions towards our fellow humans. Others, present company included, fixate on the word neighbor. We try to make sense of who this word includes and who it does not.

I’ve lived in the East Village of Manhattan for nearly 13 years. 10 years in the same apartment building. For most of that time, my relationship with my building neighbors was minimal.

 

I wanted to keep a low profile.

For the first many years, neighbors were somewhat oblivious to me. My primary concern was not being a bother in any way. I wanted to keep a low profile.

The first bond formed was with the neighbor across the hall, Dee.

Dee’s an eccentric east-village lifer with a real new york accent, and a voice and presence you hear half a block away.

I can tell there is adventure beyond her doors. I hear her speaking to her singing birds, calling at least 5 by names. She has a dog that barks like all hell when anyone comes home unless she’s already home to calm him, or her.

Dee’s helped me into my apartment a few times. Though, my desire not to ask for her help keeps me quite alert to my keys. The last time that she helped me get into my apartment, I heard quite a cacophony of noise as she rearranged the objects I imagined to be blocking her way.

As she climbed out her window, onto the fire escape, and into mine, she might have fallen a few times. She emerges every time with a huge smile, and always encouraging words, that seem to arrive when I’ve been down on my luck.

She’s been my Italian mama when I’ve needed her most. Calling me her “angel” or “bambino” just for carrying some groceries up the stairs.  I’m happy my bothers brought us closer.

There’s Allen on the first floor, with the cute little poodle mix named Ruby. I called him Glen, in my head, for years, until one day I said Glen out loud and he was able to correct me.

He said he liked the name Glen though, so that was ok by him too. A quirky response, from a quirky man. I liked it.

I’m pretty sure Allen smokes weed, cause I smell it when I pass his door. My building is pretty chill that way. There’s rarely an hour that you don’t smell a slight hint of the sweet stuff in the air, and no one ever expresses concern.

 

“Oh, Yea. I Think I’ve Seen You.”

And how could I forget Jenny? The astrologer on the fourth floor. I’d see her, and overhear her conversations at the Russian Baths on Tenth Street for years before I’d work up the courage to say hello. It went something like, “Hey. I’ve seen you around. You’re my neighbor. You live on St. Mark’s right?” She responded, “Oh yea. I think I’ve seen you.” and walked away.

I shuttered from the feeling of rejection as I made my way the opposite direction, into the hundred-degree sauna to my right, which had just been doused with fresh eucalyptus oil.

I first heard of Jenny at a wedding upstate. My college mate’s ex-girlfriend, who is some heiress to a famous Manhattan restaurant group and now married to a hipster salad entrepreneur, recognized my building where she’d visit Jenny to get readings.

Jenny and I have become friends. She invited me over to her apartment for chocolate and broke into a random story about a sixties Jazz pianist that she clearly, currently, has the hots for. Even though he’s dead. We could both relate to love in that way.

 

Everything Is Gonna Be Ok, In My World, In The End.

She’s offered to give me an Astrology reading. But we haven’t followed through. When I reflect on the offer however, I feel warmth. Her body language and light expression when contemplating reading my chart gives me the sense everything is gonna be ok, in my world, in the end.

I’m grateful for her presence, and for the gradual build of our relationship. She’s helped me get comfortable with who I am. A Sagittarius sun, Scorpio moon, and Pieces rising of course. A unique star in the verse.

She’s a real New Yorker, just like me. Not cold and unkind. Cautious. Cause we contact a lot of people. And we all know, people can be draining. That’s why trust builds over time. And with effort. And with chocolate. And with wine.

When I look back on my time living in this building, I realize my fear of being the new guy, the outsider, the yuppy… kept me from taking steps to know my neighbors. But once I did, I gained more family. I’m grateful to have received the gifts of life’s lessons, as I encounter new “neighbors” along my way.

 

I Come With Curiosity. I Come In Peace.

And when I’m jogging, and see two or three of the symbols I mentioned before, then a standard plain-closed edition white man, I smile and wave.  I think to myself,  “It’s never too early, too late, too laborious, or too painful, to show a willingness to make a new friend. I come with curiosity. I come in peace”.

I haven’t been back to my apartment since late February. Now that the world is starting to open up, I know that I’ll return soon. After 36 years of living, learning and loving in the Big Apple, contemplating my last bite, tastes bitter and sweet.

Many of my east-village neighbors are in their 60s and above. They survived the New York that I survived, so I trust they survived Corona. Alas, time will tell. I look forward, with love and concern for their safety. I believe they can feel that love from afar, and are mirroring it back to me, regardless of where my body might be.

So now, as we travel through the present, to the world we want to live in. I ask, who else do I get to call my neighbor?

~

This story is a continuation of the Elephant Journal story, “What if Kerouac Was Black & On the Road in 2020.” Join Michael Tennant on Instagram for more on this journey and for inspirational quotes on empathy!