Flatbush, New York

It's like a jungle, out here
So much struggle, out here

And my dream's still unphased....

Alicia Keys, Empire State of Mind Part II

Dedicated to Deslyn Franklyn

The mother of one of my closest friends died last week. In a Brooklyn brownstone, she drew her last breath, a heart weary from the pain of over-love of children so far away, feet tired of walking to the subway to between Lexington and 33rd street, blood congealed by a never ending winter, soul burdened by the harsh realities of New York life. She was not the first to die, and she will not be the only one. Many have died weeks, months, years, before and drift the streets of Flatbush like corpses, haunting barbershops, rotishops, hairshops- the meaning of their lives flat and empty, snuffed out prematurely.

The almond toned Guyanese girl, with legs to die for and a killer smile, had her dreams of being a model slaughtered almost instantaneously. She was informed by her boyfriend that she had to earn her keep; she now contents herself to practicing "fierce" ANTM shots with her Blackberry camera and posting them on Facebook, in purple, yellow, and orange technicolour clothing combinations, defying her aspiration's bereavement. Her red carpet is the small area of the weave shop where she works, advising customers on the right type of hair to channel Nicki Minaj.

A Grenadian ex army corporal is being all he can be in a shoestore south of Utica, his vision of serving in the UK marines lying as flat on the floor as the gangsters he once made lay prostrate. The Trinidadian teacher who migrated for a better life has not fully sacrificed her degree- she practises "early childcare training" in her job as a babysitter to New York's Jewish elite in Manhattan. O'Levels and A'Levels don't count. Its Hustle and Flow or Crash. Young Jamaican girls who came seeking college degrees have hearts that are now stone cold and eyes that are already deceased- they wrap immobile bodies and lives around poles that had seen better days in frosty Harlem to pay bills and to buy formula for kids they did not necessarily want, but who prove to be their salvation. The currency of these living dead is papers- a green card- to be traded and bargained and wheeled and dealed, the cost of the American dream.

West Indians have long migrated to New York for a better life. They think that they pack their struggle away by packing an empty suitcase and boarding a flight to JFK but they soon learn that a suitcase is not enough to hold a dream of a better tomorrow, enhanced education prospects, enough money for a house and a plot of land in the pregnant Caribbean plus Boysie’s school fees, plenty toys for the baby, and requests every month for money and school books and a barrel and some tablets for the rheumatism please. Some leave their children behind in the care of neighbours, family and friends, hoping to win in the lottery of the American dream, inspired by the macabre vestiges of gold-chain, gold-ring, costume jewellery, brightly coloured clothes and ten dollar shoes that those who manage to return flaunt as evidence of the largesse of the after-life. Their children grow not to know these absent parents, these cracking cackling voices at the other end of the telephone, who seem like Santa Clause except they do not even come once a year.

Their tiny apartments remain unkempt while they clean the houses of their employers to perfection, their own children roam the streets of the Caribbean while they tuck the children of their providers to sleep. The cockroaches that infiltrate the city sleep better than they do. They are far from home and hearth because they do not know that their very same employers have left Brooklyn to move to Jersey because of their influx. If they know, they do not care. They balance weekly cheques like they used to balance buckets on their heads from the standpipes- precariously. Rent, electric, gas, cable, credit card, store card, Western Union.

Some live in limbo- not knowing whether they are going or coming. They have no papers. They do not exist on Governor Paterson’s books. Like spirits in prison, they are in America but cannot enter it. Funerals, weddings, christenings, baptisms, births and deaths of sometimes their own children pass them by - afraid to venture outwards back home lest they are not allowed back in. Those who do not have medical aid pray not to be ill and when they are ill, they pray that their persistent, hacking coughs will go away. They remember the youthful days when armed with a ten dollar bill, you went to see Dr Varma for every ailment no matter how minor.

Parents and children back home wait on dreams that never come true. The pre-cut house is still not fixed, the side verandah and the second bedroom still has gaping holes that leak in the night and there is a new TV but the old sofa has no stuffing. They will send for you next year. There is yet no bathroom inside the house. Promises of a better tomorrow are broken but each time reinstated, parents and children back home know that you have not forgetten them- that you will send it next month please God, after the damn super get off your back about the increase in last month's rent, and after you collect the sou-sou hand from Leo.

Parents and children back home eagerly anticipate a barrel for Christmas filled with tins and packets and bottles of samples of your good American life. They pass pictures of you and your new baby to friends and family, a photo that hides that Errol beating you and this time go be the last time he put he fucking hand on you because he think you don't know he sleeping with that nasty red-skin Jamaican bitch, and oh gosh you can't afford for this curry mutton to stain the top because you have to bring it back to Macy's tomorrow because God knows you can't afford it but you have to buy things and bring it back because Grenadians mouth too bad and they will say you seeing trouble especially as you see Melo wife on the Q train almost every day, and that's why you don't want them in you place at all or even know where you staying because they will badtalk you and tell people you living in a basement. Them bitches.

Yes, Flatbush has many corpses. They congregate to create another Caribbean, this time one purified by snow. They celebrate last suppers over jerk chicken, pelau and rice and peas. They have processions for their Via Dolorosa at Secrets or The Island where they genuflect to the gods of bacchanalia, confessing to sadness beyond their years in weekly vestments purchased from Strawberrys. The crosses they bear are sometimes too much to carry, and they often falter.

Yes, my friend’s mother died last week and she left many corpses behind.

Image from forgotten ny.com- all rights reserved.