I remember 52nd St. I remember catching the El train at City Hall, and taking the 15 minute journey into another world. The first thing that greets me as I disembark is the smell. My olfactory senses heighten, as I separate the incense from the chicken patties, the scented body oil from marijuana. All the smells from the street join together and hover over everyone, creating a different sky; a sky just for brown people. The energy iminating from the crowds draws you almost against your will into the hustle and bustle of necessity. Into a world where the day's profits mean new shoes for sons and daughters, a full set, a hit or a shape up. I walk from Market St in the middle of the sidewalk, avoiding collision with the men and women who sit on either side. The music blasting from the man who sells bootleg c.d.'s turns my path into a Soul Train line, as my stride echoes the rhythm and the people on the sides of me nod their heads in anticipation of their turn. Here, the closer you are to the street, to the neighborhood, the more respect and prestige you can expect. One's status is independent of years of schooling, number of languages spoken and how much money he has obtained legally. Kings and queens of the ghetto walk proudly amongst their subjects, adorned with real silver and fake hair. I reach Walnut St. and open the heavy door to the beauty salon. The smell of relaxers evoke memories of childhood hair care and I smile at the young woman at the desk. I greet the stylists with a "what's up, what's goin on?" with a twang normally absent from my everyday speech. See, I'm wearing a Penn sweatshirt, but my enrollment at an Ivy League is insignificant. Almost immediately, my vernacular travels almost two years ago, to a time when I spent hours shooting the breeze with smokers, dudes in gangs and fast girls. Possessives and adverbs are the first to go, then monosyllabic words. The addition of the slightly Southern cadence in my voice completes the process, and I hope that the change deflects the attitudes held toward the name on my shirt. Listening to conversations about baby daddy drama, cars, clothes and trashy novels bring a warming sense of comfort over my body, one that I don't feel at school, or even with some of my friends. As I leave the salon with an extra bounce in my step (one that only comes to a black woman after her has been done), I feel an overwhelming sense of pride. I look into the faces of beautiful brown people, with locks, kofi's, miniskirts, long beards and even longer braids, tattoos and white teeth and feel blessed to be black. Everyone, from three to eighty-three, knows something about struggle and that knowledge makes their laughter louder, their hustles more effective and every new day more valuable. I'm walking with individuals who are defiant in their will to live, to have, to get by.
