The Corner

Orhan Pamuk, Nobel Laureate, upon hearing for the zillionth time that his claim to fame was to bridge the gap between East and West through his writing yesterday said something like, “The metaphor of the bridge is so antiquated; my responsibility is to build new metaphors.”

It is indeed almost impossible to not construct these spatial metaphors for life: the journey, the trip, the bridge, the gap and the monument—be it mountain or tower or pyramid. I think it says something about humanity’s innate Creator complex, and central investment on building its destiny. Let’s face it, the Buddhist way of just being who and where you are is not as attractive as the Master of the Universe way of “if you can make it there, you’ll make it, anywhere, so here’s to you, New York, New York” . I would venture that we all have a little Genesis story inside: clay molding of ourselves. Destination: happiness. My metaphor exercise of the day is The Corner.

The corner of the world that I come from being so small, having allowed me such an expanse of choices and array of mistakes because I was invisible to most maps. A corner of the world particularly inflated with romantic, heightened expectations about the exceptionality of my life, my golden promise of making things impossible possible. This because I was told all the time that my being here was already tremendously miraculous. Everything I survived before coming to New York was proof positive I could survive anything. The Corner of the world that I come from could be extremely sheltered and brutal at the same time, thus making it hard to discern the my true limits and true potential. For better or worse.

The corner as the place where he has now returned to, to be that which many people like him are, a hustler. It is a place that contrary to the rest of the world, attributes him due praise, fame and fortune, at least as possibilities. A place where he is not just a man trying to make it, but The Man. A place where he can apply himself to something he likes to do, and does well, and reap predictable returns and provide for himself. Provide for himself a measure of contextualized dignity. The necessities of life. The fuel with which to put one foot in front of the other. The corner where he gets respite from the sense of continued failures. Where he gets the comforts of the familiar. The corner as a dead end place pretending to be a transitional place for so many men, for so very long. It has codes, uniforms, hierarchies, outposts and traffic-ridden paths. It has the tropes of everything else that lies beyond it. It has risk-benefit analyses predicated on very specific ethics (like instant gratification). It has life: a new girlfriend, new friends, laughs again, drunken nights, rowdy moments and quieter moments, a lot of weed, new beginnings, new ends. And, one would hope, dreams. And one would hope to not have to qualify or judge those dreams, one day, if that were possible. But for that to be possible one would have to be of that corner and I just am not. The Corner gets to have him in the end.

The Corner where he first kissed me, the corner of 122nd Street and Riverside Drive. There’s a fence there. If you lean on it, because a man gently pushed you, your heels hit a ledge on the sidewalk and you naturally step up so as to be slightly taller. He propped me up those couple inches, leaned in, and quite frankly, kissed me in a way that changed everything. I have razor sharp connection back to that corner moment. There is a whole person I would not be that begins with that corner moment; there is certainly a first instance of womanhood and self-worth and confidence and. I own that corner forever irrespective of what it comes to mean for him or not mean for him. It's interesting to generate meanings with someone that only you yourself come to understand. But that first kiss corner is fundamental for me. I get to have that corner in the end.

The Corner for what it feels like to hear that he has moved on and is happy. Where I feel I was left standing, stranded, all my bags laying there and no ride home. No home to ride to. Now all my stuff, the stuff of these seven years, is just out here on this corner, subject to the elements, various degrees of deterioration, and when all of it dissolves like paper in water, I do not have more of it in some storage space. The corner where I am left to contemplate this depletion of my resources, this my waste, this my loss.

And finally, today, 79th Street and West End Avenue. Crisp and cold but sunny. The day where it all sinks in. I did not choose this. I was brought here by my life (kicking and screaming) but there is no use fighting maps just because you cannot see them and now suspect they may not exist. I’m not New York City, I am not a numerated, structured maze. I am not incrementally growing when I head North and losing when I head South. I am not beholden to solving a problem, simplifying this life algebra. I don’t really know much standing on this corner, waiting for the light to change. But I am ready to cross the street.