Skecthing the City

Welcome Home
A
t noon, I was walking downtown on 5 th Avenue.
People turned to see me wearing some old
ripped jeans and a long blue sweater, well a
man’s sweater. Appearance, what would
be New York City without fashion? I go to school, and
everyone is worried about the latest Nike’s and Jordan’s,
the newest clothes and if they belong to a famous designer,
like Alexander McQueen or the newest Channel’s perfume
that smells fantastique. Downtown New York is all about
what you wear, like Carrie Latet once said “Pretty is the
Queen that rules our land.”
But does appearance, and the intent to be “pretty” ruleour
city? I ask myself that question until I head down to get
home. Uptown gives me a different feeling. Once I reach
225th street I pass the bridge connecting Manhattan and
the Bronx. I feel that I finally blend in.
I notice people wearing clothes that don’t combine, people
with crazy hairstyles, groups of kids hanging in the corners,
mothers holding grocery bags, smiles, smirks, the sounds
of horns and of the train moving in its filthy tracks. I listen
to the squeaky sound my sneakers make as I walk. In
these dirty streets is where I feel free, where they are not
pretense. Here I am not what I wear; I am who I dare to
be. I don’t feel fear, or insecurity. I feel powerful, but a
sense of caution still lingers in my head.
I check my phone. One missed call from Mama, which
means she’s already worried that I am not home. As I
walk, Marble Hill is empty. But it’s ok! It’s mostly lonely at
night. I walk and notice one of the biggest buildings in my
block. This building brings back old sour memories; this is
why I am not fond of it. In the summer, at the entry of this
old pile of bricks there’s a man that sits in his wheelchair,
his long beard resembles my grandfathers’ but his eyes.
They are cold and resentful. To me? No, I hadn’t done
anything bad to him, to life? Probably. He sits there and