I like the past. I don’t know if I’ll ever write much about the present day. The past interest me too much. Not because it was better. Maybe it wasn’t. But there are things about it I can’t seem to leave alone. The people. The neighborhoods. The way families lived. The things people did for money, for love, for survival—and the trouble they got themselves into along the way. Maybe that’s why so much of what I write seems to wander backward.
I remember immigrant families crowded into tenement buildings, just down the block from celebrities and wealthy families in beautiful brownstones. They passed those homes on their way to factories, breweries, and the garment district—close enough to wealth to feel the pain of poverty.
I remember the social clubs around Mulberry Street and the handsome men with beady eyes who never seemed very comfortable making small talk because that meant taking your eyes off the street, and that could cost you your life. Everybody had a nickname—Joey Thumbs, and the Mick—and even as a kid, you understood there were things you didn’t ask about.
As a teenage girl, I was warned by the men in my family never to walk past certain social clubs or down certain blocks. I didn’t need a long explanation. You were told where not to go, and you didn’t go. Still, there was something fascinating about those men. The sharp clothes, the confidence, the money, the cars. You could understand how a kid without much might look at those men and think, Maybe that’s the life.
And then there were the neighborhoods. Each one with its own vibe. So many different cultures and different lives. Where else can you go where another nation is just a subway ride away? The subway connected all of it. Underground caverns of grime, noise, smells, and danger. Even people who could afford not to ride them did. Cheapest way to get around, and nobody wanted to deal with New York City traffic. So, underground we went, sharing oxygen and germs. But as soon as you hit the air and the streets, it was every man for himself.
I don’t live in New York City anymore, but apparently, a lot of New York City still lives in me. Maybe that’s why I sometimes feel a little different, like I don’t quite fit in. New Yorkers are different. We speak differently. We think differently. We have a lot of heart.
But don’t cross us, because then you got a problem.
So these memories, mixed up with my imagination, find their way into my writing, here on the page. And fuhgeddaboudit! I’ve barely opened the door.
See ya later.