Malcom X Blvd.

I live in Sunnyside on Bliss St. How could life get any better? I admit, it may be a somewhat deceiving name for a blue-collar street in a blue-collar neighborhood in Queens (in 7-line Queens, nonetheless), but it is safe and relatively clean. Clean by outer-borough New York standards at least. I cannot think of a time in which I felt in any significant danger. Well, other than the one isolated road rage-turned fist fist fight-turned 7-iron assault incident, which was technically in Woodside, not Sunnyside.





I live here for various reasons. I work just a few steps from the Times Square stop, and that is the terminal destination of the 7 train. It gives me a 25-minute door-to-door commute, which is better than anything you'll find outside of Hell's Kitchen. So one reason i live here is the commute. The second reason is that it is about 10 minutes from Shea Stadium and Arthur Ashe tennis complex. I can literally leave my apartment as the Met's pregame show starts and make it to the stadium for the first pitch if I wanted. And since Shea has $5 seats in the nosebleeds from time to time, it is hard to pass up. I love me some baseball.





I also live here because the rent is cheap compared to anything that you'll find in Manhattan. That is to say cheap compared to anything not on the Lower East Side or in Harlem/SpaHa. About a month ago I was a signature away from moving in with a friend in a reasonably-priced apartment on 111th, just north of Central Park, just on the Harlem of the Upper West Side/Harlem border. I guess that I regretted it a bit over the past month since there are benefits to actually living in the City: the NY, NY address, easier access to the rest of the city, (for us young single adults) membership in a YSA ward, etc. But then I went and visited that same would-be apartment this week. Never again (never) will I consider moving to Harlem. In comparison, Bliss St. in Sunnyside lives up to its name.





I took the 7 to the 2, where I got off and started walking up the stairs. In the break between stairwells I came across a dilapidated tile mosaic with broken excerpts from a quote. The legible part read, "We are all brothers and sisters ..." before the tiles became too broken and scattered to read. Plus, it's not good manners to stop in the middle of a staircase.



When I came out of the staircase, I was confronted (as a manner of speaking) by a disheveled man selling a Velcro wallet. After having living in NY for as long as I have now, I consider myself somewhat of an expert at coldly ignoring beggars/salesmen. Or so I thought. When he asked me, I shook my head without making direct eye contact and continued walking. "Sir, excuse me. Sir?" Persistent little bugger, he was. Then I made eye contact. Once I did that, it was all over. After all, he wasn't going to buy rugs or booze with the money (his words, not mine), and he had just lost his job. He just needed money for a bit to eat and (again, his words not mine) I do have a good heart. So yes, I gave him a dollar. Damn my good heart.

The first street intersection that I came across was Central Park North and Malcom X Blvd. All I could think to myself was, "I don't think I'm in Sunnyside anymore..." I can't explain how or why it felt different, it just did. For some reason I felt like someone was going to pull a prank on me. Like they were going to give me a wedgie or "Got your nose!" me. I made my way to my friend's apartment. It's a fairly nice place, but about the same as what I have in Sunnyside, only a few hundred dollars more. Again, what you might expect from anywhere in Manhattan.

That night I went out to grab a bite to eat because I often get hungry. I'm funny that way. I went to this pizza and chicken joint that looked like a place where good fast food went to die. Inch-thick Plexiglas separated the customer from the staff, with a hole cut out through which you could fit any various-shaped food containers, but probably not large enough for a man to fit through if he had the occasion to. As I contemplated my order (and the choices were many) a man who smelled of hard liquor and a hard life asked for something to eat. Just a slice of pizza, that's all. Again, I looked him in the eye. I'll learn better some time.

As he waited for his slice of pizza to be heated up, he and I shared some casual conversation.

"You know, we like you people in Harlem."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, we want more of you whites here. You respect our women, and we respect yours." For a moment I felt like we were having some sort of cowboy-Indian barter. I believe that they used women as currency.

"Gee, thanks!'

"Lots of good white people out there. I even like Obama." Obama ... is he white? I thought it best not to ask.

"Obama, good guy. He's a democrat, you know ..."

"I don't like that Hillary. My man Obama, he's about equality and change. Hillary's all about asses. (As he said that, he put his hands where his ass might be if he were Hillary, apparently.) Who do you vote for."

"Me? Well, I don't generally share my particular political persuasions in such an informal forum." A slight pause, him looking me in the eyes.

"You're a good person. And I can tell in your eyes that you have a good woman. You do, don't you? And when you have a baby, I can tell. It's going to be a beautiful baby. I can tell that in your eyes." I wish that I had a pen and paper at the time. I wanted to put it in my scriptures as an amendment to my patriarchal blessing.

What an interesting place for so many people to live, Harlem.