Exiting my parent’s house, I turn left and walk down East 40th Street to the end of the block and make another left, onto avenue D. I realize that in just turning the corner and walking down about three blocks, I’ve already passed by three different churches. Three churches within three blocks of each other, and another two several blocks up in the opposite direction. Each one approaches God in its own unique way. I’m reminded of all the churches I’ve been to in my life: lively and musical Pentecostal services, reserved Jehovah’s Witness services, and once, an even more reserved Catholic service. That’s how my family saw church. It didn’t where you went as long as you could feel close to God. There were exceptions, such as my aunts, who went to two different churches and joked that the members of the other church were going to hell, but generally, the most important thing was faith. As I make my way down the street, I think about how important religion used to be, and how different things are now. My mother is still very religious, but rarely goes to church because of work. The rest of us barely go because of lack of interest. After walking down a few blocks further, I make a left left onto Nostrand Avenue.
Nostrand Avenue stirs up a strange mix of emotions for me. It’s noisy, and not very appealing to the eye. At the same time, however, there is so much to enjoy: a variety of restaurants, clothing stores, game stores and more recently a Caribbean bakery that makes small, soft, delicious beef patties for only one dollar. I have a feeling they’re Haitian beef patties, because they’re nothing like the Jamaican beef patties at the Golden Krust across the street, which I often ate while growing up. Seeing Golden Krust honestly creates a feeling of disappointment in me, not because it tastes bad, but because it reminds me of when my Aunt Tully and Aunt Sharon would visit from Jamaica and bring real Jamaican beef patties. They were frozen, but after a little time in the microwave, they came out better than any beef patty I’ve ever had before. To me, they were even better than “Juicy Beef” patties, which the rest of family consistently says is the best in Jamaica. She also brought sugar cane and fried fish, (made the good way, by frying it with vinegar, sweet peppers and onions) the memories of which only makes seeing Golden Krust even more of a disappointment. The taste is similar, but definitely not the same, and it brings back the nostalgic memories of when my aunts used to visit. Aunt Sharon passed away and Aunt Tully hasn’t visited in some time now, but I still remember how much fun it would be when they did visit, and how amazing the food that they brought tasted.
Aunt Tully and Aunt Sharon were businesswomen who bought shoes in America to sell in Jamaica. As I approach the Newkirk Avenue train station, I’m reminded of when I took the train with them one day to visit the man they bought their shoes from. It was one of the few times, when I was younger, that I took the train in a direction that would bring it above ground at one point, and I remember being surprised as I saw light entering the car I was in as it was coming out of the tunnel. When they met with the man, they were always very happy to see each other. Then the heckling began. No matter how “good” things were going back home, or how the family was doing, when it came to buying shoes, both parties suddenly became broke. Each had kids to feed. For my Aunts, it meant they couldn’t afford to buy the shoes for too high a price. For the salesman, it meant that he couldn’t afford to sell them for too low of one. One way or another, after some complaints, bargains, lowest offering prices, and deliberation, shoes were bought in bulk to be shipped back to Jamaica. I’d been to the store in Jamaica as well. It was essentially my Aunts and their business partners sitting near the entrance of a rainbow colored tunnel, trying to avoid the heat. The entire tunnel, containing every color of the rainbow along with blacks browns and grays, was filled with shoes. Every color to match whatever dress or purse you could have.
As I enter the train, I look around, searching for a seat, but also for interesting characters that might give me a story to tell my friends later. Fortunately or unfortunately, it’s a quiet train, so I take a seat and pull out a book to pass the time. Time passes, slowly but surely, as do the stops. Eventually I’m at Nevins, where I wish I could get off and go to Junior’s Cheesecake, where my parents used to get cheesecakes for my brothers and I on our birthdays. To my stomach’s discontent, I actually get off one stop later, at Borough Hall. As I walk towards the escalator, not in the mood to walk up the three different sets of steps, a woman with an accent that I can’t quite distinguish stops me and asks how to get to the 4-train. I explain that they have to walk all the way to the other end of the platform and then take the stairs. Even though they look like they understand me, I still feel a slight urge to take them all the way the 4-train platform. I think about how many times my mother and grandmother got lost on the train, and how much easier their lives might have been when they first came if they’d had someone to give them directions. At the same time, I remember how afraid I was to ask for directions when I first started taking the train, and how many times I ended up missing stops or getting lost as a result.
I exit the station onto Court Street and begin walking toward Atlantic Avenue. I see vendors seeing organic fruit and pastries and question whether I should buy some apples for my mother. My mother’s always liked all types of fruits. While sugar cane and mangoes probably top the list of her favorite fruits, she has always really liked strange fruits, or just fruits from other countries. I remember how she told me that one of the best gifts my dad ever got her while she was still in Jamaica were some American apples. Not only did they taste good, but their rarity in Jamaica also brought prestige with them. While I’d like to get her something, there isn’t anything I think she’d find interesting. I’ll try Sahadi’s on Atlantic Avenue instead. Similar to Nostrand Avenue, Atlantic Avenue has a plethora of interesting restaurants and shops to see. Sahadi’s in particular imports all kinds of sweets, nuts, and vegetables from around the world and somehow manages to sell most of it at a reasonable price. My mother loves to buy cashews from here, and I decide to buy a pound for her before I head to my real destination. After paying for my purchase, I exit, walking down Atlantic until I reach Henry Street. Crossing the street and turning left, I walk down until I see it. Cobble Hill Health Center: My mom’s former job and where I currently volunteer in the Recreation Department. It hits me again, as it often does, just how hard my mother had to work to get where she is today, and just how little I tend to appreciate it. All the long hours she had to work just so that more than 19 years later, I could volunteer here for fun. I’m glad I bought her the nuts, because I realize even more at this moment just how much she deserves them.
