Pre-script:
I
wrote this before the pandemic had the majority of the world sheltering in
place. I think the need for small moments of wonder has only increased during
this time of crisis.
I grew up watching
Wild Style on TV, wearing mismatched converse high-tops, and noticing all the
random manifestations of street art in New York City. Somewhere in an empty lot there was this
giant assemblage of all kinds of stuffed animals, toys, and tires. It was
enormous— high as the tree tops. It was
in the East Village, maybe on First Avenue or Avenue A. I only caught glimpses of it at night when it
was dark and I was out smoking with friends. So I am not sure whether it was in
an empty lot or a community garden. (I
could look it up, but I don’t
really want to. I like having it remain in my memory as it is.) There were so
many of these wacky manifestations of wonder throughout the five boroughs. In
the 1980s, someone painted purple footprints all over Manhattan. The footprints
went on for blocks. I wanted to spend a day following the footprints to see
where they would go, if they lead to a destination or would just lead you on a
labyrinthian day of wandering. (I was too young at the time to go follow them
on my own.)
I wrote bodega night pigeon riot while
looking out the window on a long subway trip to work. It is a roughly 1.5 hour
commute from Brooklyn to well, Brooklyn actually. I take two trains that go
underground, two above ground (or elevated) trains and travel over the Manhattan
and the Williamsburg Bridges. I actually enjoy this Wednesday commute because
there is so much to see out the window and good people watching on these
particular trains. It was a cloudy afternoon and I began to write. I got into a
sort of liminal state and began to write what was happening outside the
rectangular subway windows. I saw
graffiti on rooftops and high on the side of buildings, signs for businesses
that were more basic than marketed (Burger, Best Liquor). And I devised some
constraints for myself. I think it was five lines and three words per line. I
wrote like that for 12-15 subway stops. At times, I found myself interrupt and
enter into the poem, a memory conjured by a street name or the shape of a
building. I allowed these associations and memories into the poem, but only
minimally. I wanted the words to reflect the city outside, more than my own
mind. I wrote and looked up and I had arrived at work. The poem captured the
temporal journey.
I try to keep my
eyes open. For years, I didn’t have
a smart phone. I held out until I couldn’t any longer. Friends would ask me
often, “Well why not? Why don’t you
just get one?” It was hard to explain in the quick pace of conversation what
the real answer was: “I want to keep my eyes open to
wonder.” Instead, I would say, “Well. .
.you know I want to be present” or “I want to protect my time and I don't want
everyone expecting me to reply to texts or e-mails instantly. Plus if I drop
it, it bounces.” That is true. But really it was for the wonder. I finally
caved and got a smart phone 7 months ago after my last flip phone died. The
flip phone fell onto a taqueria floor and broke in half. Earlier models had
been super durable. This one stunk. It was beyond repair. Having a smart phone
definitely impacts my sense of wonder. I catch myself reading articles on my
phone while I’m walking down the street. If I am not careful I may pass some
street art or moment of awe.
The neighborhoods that
the elevated trains travel through are changing. This is not a new story. While
not too long ago, they were predominantly working class neighborhoods of color, they are now full of brand new "lofts" with 15-foot lease advertisements
showing fashionable and young multicultural people smiling and playing pool. (I
guess the loft buildings have pool tables? )
From the train on
my way to work, I am an observer, a witness to the change. The neighborhoods
are gentrifying. People are being pushed out, displaced, and losing their
homes. Flower shops and Santeria spots become trendy coffee shops and bars with
millennial pink neon. Neighborhoods often lose their character this way and
slowly cities globally have become more homogenized. Although, I am a native
New Yorker, this is not my neighborhood. I don't live here. But as a New Yorker, I have always valued how many
distinct and varied neighborhoods can thrive in New York City creating a riot
for the senses. I sometimes see the whole of New York City as my home.
Closer to
Manhattan, in Williamsburg and Bushwick,
fashionable people get on and off the trains peacocking in all of their
brightly colored clothes. As I get closer to work, the older people of color,
and mothers with their children get on and off the train in their work clothes.
Gradually the signs outside the window begin to change from English to Spanish.
Once I pass Myrtle Avenue, more of the business signs are in Spanish: Pollo
Rico and El Valle. By the time I finally arrive at my stop, Crescent Street, everybody is speaking Spanish.
I photograph on
the elevated trains I ride to work using a plastic panoramic point and shoot I
bought at the Goodwill 15 years ago. This is my favorite camera. I think it
cost $1.99. I used a photo lab in Brooklyn to develop and print the
photographs. I didn’t have a smart
phone yet when I wrote this poem (yes, even in 2019). It was me looking out the
window in the city on my way to work finding the wonder in the everyday.
Amanda Deutch is a poet and interdisciplinary artist. Her poems have been published
in the New York Times, The Rumpus, Cimarron Review, and Cosmonauts
Avenue, among others. The author of six chapbooks, her most recent
chapbooks are bodega night pigeon riot (above/ground press, 2020) and Surf
Avenue and 29th Street, Coney Island (Least Weasel Press, 2018). She has been a writer-in-residence at The Betsy Hotel
(Miami) and Footpaths to Creativity (Azores). She is the Founder and Executive
Director of Parachute Literary Arts. Deutch’s poems can be found at www.amandadeutch.com. More about Parachute Literary Arts can be found
here: www.ParachuteArts.org