Kitty Power

More Faith In The Surroundings

I've said before where I live: lovely, lovely South Jamaica. I spent most of my formative years in East New York, so most things here don't surprise me or alarm me that much. Packs roaming the streets or chilling on the corners or in front of stores, whatever. The possible hookers next door, ho hum. Middletown and the array of crackheads trolling Main Street bothered more in actuality. Especially since Rochdale looms across the street. It's like a Starrett City or Co-op City, with the same misfortunate of being practically located in a wasteland, but at least it's quiet. The first and last time Farmer swung by this way, he made some disparaging comment about not knowing that I lived across from the projects. I bite my tongue on replying that I didn't know I was with a dumb white motherfucker either, so I could guess we were even. Being that projects aren't a Jamaica phenomenon, you'd think someone would know when they're not seeing some on sight.

Anyways, my still bleary eyed net travels were interrupted by Ms. Mommy tearing in the room, asking me if I heard what happened while she was away. I answered in the negative and she relayed the story she read in the paper. I supplemented it online. It's fucking sad. That restaurant is barely half a block from my house and I saw that guy all the time. Things like that make you lose faith in your surroundings, in the goodness of people, in your security. I go about this neighborhood -- or at least, my two block radius -- like a ghost. It's my dumping ground, where I lay my head, where my mom lives, but I could care less about the place because it's not where I want to be. And that's a problem. Neighborhoods should ideally be communities where people know each other and people aren't going wild because they can do whatever they want in other people's self-preserving disinterest. The worst part is that the monsters who would do such a thing were kids. I hated reading how what a devoted family the murdering fucker whose apartment was the scene of the crime. Where the fuck were they when the place was being turned into a bloodbath? Where were the neighbors when that kid was probably screaming?

This story just depresses the shit out of me, especially since I've been reading about the infamous neighbors just minding their own business murder and the "broken windows" theory in the midst of a story about someone wanting to make a change. It motivates me to make a move since I'm not remotely attached to this place considering how far out of the way it is for me plus it's not even my home borough. I hate Queens. I've said it. I always have. Fake ass suburban out of the way place. That's what it's always been. Even the "cool" parts are wack. It's the place to be for families and those building a life, but if you're over the age of 16 and under 45, there's basically nothing here. People who live out this way have dead eyes. It gives me the creeps. But, that's a tangent. I think of this as the flame to get my ass in gear and out of dodge turned up that much higher.

Posted by Candicissima at February 15, 2004 03:08 PM