Work is on the edge of SoHo, Chinatown, and the tourist relic of Little Italy. It is one of the few parts of Manhattan that still feels small and tough and grimy, not with money, but with the effort of people trying to make things work out. Like cities in so many other parts of the world, but unlike so much of Manhattan, the city smells and the city sounds encroach upon the narrow streets. Strange meats, strange fruits, strange flowers. Windows of arbitrarily arranged imported goods.
Our front door is set into the block and unmarked. If you were watching us, we'd just seem to be coming and going, and not doing anything special. The adjacent unused first floor landing and the tiny windbreak of our stairwell make for good places to loiter. DL and I came out the other day, for lunch. I stepped onto Lafayette. A small, old Chinese woman grabbed me by the arm. Her grip was surprisingly, almost painfully sharp and forceful. "You buy!" she said. In her other hand splayed an assortment of pens and pencils, wrapped in a rubber band. I smiled, she did not smile back. I shook my head and pulled my hand free.
I walked down Grand St. to the B train, going uptown. Dusk was settling, but there wasn't much happening on the streets. A few aimless Spaniards, and the wiry, ageless Chinese men in the doorways. The men whose eyes lack interest, but who give the impression of being physically ready for something to happen. I passed the markets, where the fish is set on ice, and the fish blood and the ice water wet the sidewalks and flow into the streets. I ducked into the subway, and a train soon came.
The small Chinese woman came running down the platform in an peach, over-stuffed down coat. Her face was round and puffy, her hair a small, silver halo, her mouth enclosed in folds and wrinkles. She took small, fast steps, running past car after car, door after open door, doing the New York hustle, trying to get as well positioned for her exit station as possible. Her husband, old and fragile, with a Greek fisherman's cap, followed well behind, yelling in Chinese. I couldn't understand, exactly, but I got the gist of it. "Woman! Why are you so crazy! Stop running! Just get on the damn train!" She was having none of it.
There must be treasure in the city garbage can on the corner of Grand and Lafayette, or it must be a habit of thrift that the old Chinese lady remembers from some harder time. She has a wool hat on, and I can hardly see her face. The little projection wears the weather of a lifetime. It would make me sad to think that she needed the cans that she pulls out, when I occasionally see her making her way around the block. She doesn't have a big bag, so much, just a small collection. Maybe some cruel son or husband won't give her an allowance. Maybe she finds it fun.
It's a hard life and I'm constantly amazed, how many people have made their way into the great wilderness of the American immigrant experience, with strange dreams and even stranger visions. To find this marvelous city, New York, in all its small, tough, gray struggles. All these parents brought across, by their successful sons and daughters and nephews and nieces, to be here, to live here. Of course, what do they know? What should they expect?
What could you possibly imagine of this life, that it would be this way? It's the strength of the grip that always takes me back. Much stronger than mine.
Photos from a Flickr search for "Old Chinese Woman." Really a lot of lovely photos, worth a look.
Our front door is set into the block and unmarked. If you were watching us, we'd just seem to be coming and going, and not doing anything special. The adjacent unused first floor landing and the tiny windbreak of our stairwell make for good places to loiter. DL and I came out the other day, for lunch. I stepped onto Lafayette. A small, old Chinese woman grabbed me by the arm. Her grip was surprisingly, almost painfully sharp and forceful. "You buy!" she said. In her other hand splayed an assortment of pens and pencils, wrapped in a rubber band. I smiled, she did not smile back. I shook my head and pulled my hand free.
I walked down Grand St. to the B train, going uptown. Dusk was settling, but there wasn't much happening on the streets. A few aimless Spaniards, and the wiry, ageless Chinese men in the doorways. The men whose eyes lack interest, but who give the impression of being physically ready for something to happen. I passed the markets, where the fish is set on ice, and the fish blood and the ice water wet the sidewalks and flow into the streets. I ducked into the subway, and a train soon came.
The small Chinese woman came running down the platform in an peach, over-stuffed down coat. Her face was round and puffy, her hair a small, silver halo, her mouth enclosed in folds and wrinkles. She took small, fast steps, running past car after car, door after open door, doing the New York hustle, trying to get as well positioned for her exit station as possible. Her husband, old and fragile, with a Greek fisherman's cap, followed well behind, yelling in Chinese. I couldn't understand, exactly, but I got the gist of it. "Woman! Why are you so crazy! Stop running! Just get on the damn train!" She was having none of it.
There must be treasure in the city garbage can on the corner of Grand and Lafayette, or it must be a habit of thrift that the old Chinese lady remembers from some harder time. She has a wool hat on, and I can hardly see her face. The little projection wears the weather of a lifetime. It would make me sad to think that she needed the cans that she pulls out, when I occasionally see her making her way around the block. She doesn't have a big bag, so much, just a small collection. Maybe some cruel son or husband won't give her an allowance. Maybe she finds it fun.
It's a hard life and I'm constantly amazed, how many people have made their way into the great wilderness of the American immigrant experience, with strange dreams and even stranger visions. To find this marvelous city, New York, in all its small, tough, gray struggles. All these parents brought across, by their successful sons and daughters and nephews and nieces, to be here, to live here. Of course, what do they know? What should they expect?
What could you possibly imagine of this life, that it would be this way? It's the strength of the grip that always takes me back. Much stronger than mine.
Photos from a Flickr search for "Old Chinese Woman." Really a lot of lovely photos, worth a look.
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