THE BRONX: Chaos & Callings
How safety came from a surprising place.
Listen to the poem read by Jo. or read below. This post references incest abuse. If you’re a survivor or supporter seeking resources, head over to Incest AWARE or Sibling Sexual Trauma.
The Bronx called to me.
Well more specifically
It slipped through my DM’s
Through a text message
From an old friend.
Elizabeth.
We lived together in El Salvador
Where I studied abroad.
There I first learned how to hold pain.
The history of oppression.
More importantly though,
There I studied the language of liberation.
Where I learned for the last time
That God wanted nothing more for me
Then to be free.
I had posted on IG
“I want a home in NYC.
Know of a place?”
Then Elizabeth wrote to me.
And connected me with Danielle.
Who wanted to sublet her apartment.
In The Bronx.
The one I live in now.
In the attic of a
Green Victorian
Row House.
With a purple front door
That I have to
Body slam
With my shoulder
In order to open it.
The basement and
first two levels
are for a family of four.
A wife, a husband,
And two sons
But only one who lives
With us.
And for laundry.
I use the washer and dryer in their kitchen
(Which I have to run three times
To get my clothes done entirely)
Only on Wednesdays.
A real privilege in this city.
All days, I live on the top floor
Of three steep sets
Of creaking steps
Where a cat
The same grey
As the color the carpet makes
Circles at my feet.
I arrive to
My white front entry
With squared glass panels
And push it open to be with
My one bedroom.
The mattress on the floor
The often dirty sheets
The windows facing east
Toward the tall buildings
So I can witness the sun
Meet the sky every morning
As we both rise
And I watch the two train pass by.
The bedroom is attached
To the pastel pink tiled bathroom
With yellow painted walls
And black mold clinging to the grout
Covered over in clear caulk.
The shower head,
Sits on the long wall
And sprays liquid either too hot
Or too cold directly into the curtain,
And onto me standing in between,
Then finally into the peeling white tub.
The one with a turquoise stain
That travels from the faucet of the bath
To the drain
That’s always blocked by something.
Then there’s the long hallway
And three closets for
All the things
I don’t have
As a former nomad
Who carried my
Home in my body and on my back
Most of my life
After I left the place I was lost
For the very last time.
Eventually, I arrive
To a surprisingly
Large kitchen for NYC.
With a fridge
And a counter
(A counter!)
And a sink
And a full sized oven
With four burners.
There’s enough room for a long table
against the back wall to store
my appliances:
A toaster
A speaker
A kettle
A blender.
But there are only two outlets in the wall
And the wiring is too weak
For a power strip
So I plug and unplug
The four devices that dance
throughout the day.
The length of the blender cord
Is too short to reach
So I must balance it
On top of the toaster
To make my smoothies.
There’s a large cut out in the same wall
That the table rests upon.
The hole opens the view to the living room
With golden hued wood floors that
The light of the day illuminates through
The windows that face the street.
That is usually quiet except for the
Occasional sirens
Or a car bouncing from its base
Music playing so loudly.
When I leave the house
I say goodbye to the bunny
Who lives in the boy’s room
On the second floor
And head out to the street
Pulling the door shut
With just as much
Effort as I opened it
Before.
The cement city greets me
Holding trash
And rats
And the shit of dogs.
And Outdoor cats.
And a bad reputation from
a complex history
Of violence caused by
oppression
And racism
And poverty.
But that’s not what I see.
Instead I breathe the lively
Community where I feel
Beauty
And resilience
And strength
And activism
And memory.
I dodge the
Motorcycles that ride by
On the sidewalks
As I stride to the subway
Or the botanical garden
Or the cemetery.
Depending on the season
It is usually too hot
Or too cold here in NYC.
Rarely in between.
Often I walk
My new neighborhood
Laughing.
Because it was never
Where I expected to be.
Held by all this
Creative chaos
Of survivorship
And diversity
And dignity.
This life feels
Full to me.
Peaceful.
A neutral place that
Surprises my body daily.
Where I feel safe and free.
A fulfillment of our destiny.
Finally.
But I still ponder if I should leave.
If instead I should stay wanting the
Prim and proper and perfect
Place of my upbringing.
To return to the life of my family
In Newport Beach by the sea.
Where my reputation does not
Accurately reflect my history.
The haunting of that home
Still stalks me.
Where it sits painted off-white
with red brick walls
That hide the chaos of it
By keeping predators in and
protectors out.
In my old neighborhood
Where the sun is always shining
Where the weather is warm
Where everything is white-washed
Or if not, expected to be eventually.
With the millionaires
And their mansions
And their money
And their manicured lawns
And their made-up people.
With their large private properties
With fences and full closets
And locked doors
That store secrets,
But open easily
If you just have a key.
Where you’ll see
multiple counters in the kitchen
And all the outlets one could need
For the appliances stored in between.
Dishwashers even.
Clean grout over white tubs
Shower heads on the short wall
Where they should be obviously.
With water that drains easily.
And their own laundry machines.
That dry clothes effectively
The first time.
With the mattresses on bed frames
And clean sheets
And quiet streets
And windows that face west
To watch the rising of the sun
Instead of east.
With the fancy cars
That everyone drives
Individually.
The perfect place (apparently)
that holds my history
of their perpetrations
Against my body.
That I told my family about
Seeking support
When I could hardly function
At 22 due to the weight of their abuse.
But silence met me.
That of my community
And my church.
And a demand
From my family
That I forgive
So the abuse could
Be passed down
To the next generation
Of children
By fathers
Who told me
They reflected
God the Father.
Today everyday
I breathe in the beauty of the Bronx
Relieved.
As I await for my old
Home to be replaced
By the new one finding
A space and a shape in my
Forever burdened body.
I don’t want to leave this attic
In this wild city
But I admit
That I struggle to stay.
Because I’ve been running
For so long
From where I was wronged.
The place I was told
I was supposed to belong.
Full of everything
I had to want
To be happy.
It’s so hard
To believe
That I could’ve
Finally achieved
A home that is right for me.
Over the foundation
Of someone else’s family.
With next to nothing
But a feeling.
So perfectly safe
In surprising and strange
imperfect ways
That are all still so unfamiliar to me.
Yet must be something like
belonging.
The trauma bound to my body
Relaxes in this new home
That tickles my funny bones.
With its rats
And its trash
And its mold
And the cold
And the heat
And the shit
In the streets
And the crypts
And the gardens
And the gifts
Of freedom
And safety
And family
Welcoming me.
Like memory
Before the
memories.
So you see,
The Bronx called.
Saying “come,” Annie.
The name given to me
Before I chose Josephine.
When god asked me to run
Away from my family.
The ones who claimed the right
To own my body
And left me with disabilities
Forever defined by their histories.
That made everything and everyone unsafe
Especially safety.
I am answering
The call of the Bronx
By returning Daily.
Full of grief,
And gratitude.
As I practice
Settling into
A home I have
Never known.
And yet recognize
In my body
As if it had been
There this whole time
Just waiting for me
To arrive.
This poem was written during The Voices & Faces Project Writing Workshop for survivors of gender-based violence, led by survivor Anne K. Ream and Yale creative writing professor R. Clifton Spargo. This is a wonderful weekend workshop that focuses on writing for activism through workshopping pieces in community, as well as studying the words of former activists. Take a look at the organization’s future offerings on their website.