Dancing in the Morn Light

A few mornings ago, I was a character in a beautiful New York scene: A group of about twenty schoolchildren poured onto the Columbus Circle station platform and danced their little hearts out to the tune of Duane Holmes's jazz standards. These kids, all colors of the rainbow, wore sunny smiles, skipping, hopping and boppitty bopping to the music. At once, they linked arms and took turns twirling and twisting their bodies to the infectious rhythms. Their energy lit up my whole being with glee.

It was one of these New York moments that assured me I was at the right place, at the right time. Often I wonder if there isn't somewhere else in the world I should be, but that morning, I did nothing but smile from 59th Street to Herald Square.

I talked to Duane the next day and we both wish I had taken a picture of the children dancing. "They really felt it," he said, somewhere between a laugh and a smile. But I was too afraid of being intrusive and taking a photo of 'other people's kids.' So I'm writing about it to remember the sweetness that befell all onlookers that day and to honor Duane's contributions to making New York a vibrant place to be. Duane's music breathes life into an otherwise dull morning commute and forces subway goers and comers to just stop. And enjoy the sounds of the City.

In Memoriam Nat Green

I created this blog in 2010 when the title came to me like a third rail flash of light on the A train, a mashup of Talk Talk's "Life's What You Make It" and subway breakdancing tunes buzzing in my ear.

I'm officially launching the blog now to remember my neighbor Nat, who died suddenly from respiratory failure on December 9, 2013.

New York's What You Make It. And Nat Green sure made it sweet. Whenever I saw him in the lobby of our building he would greet me with the brightest smile you ever saw. He would then ask about my parents, "How's Felicia? How's Joe?"

"Alicia and José," I silently repeated, but I didn't bother correcting him. Nat's well-trained American ear obeyed the fricatives and affricates that were his master.

As we exchanged stories in our living room the day that Nat passed away, my mom confirmed that he never called her Alicia, and he probably never knew that Felicia wasn't her real name. We laughed and thought it was sweet. I have a soft spot for nicknames, and although he didn't mean it that way, giving my parents English names added to his charm.

My father remembered his encounter with Nat on September 11. Nat had walked all the way from downtown Manhattan, near the World Trade Center, to our building on 207th Street. "Meester Green, how are you?," my dad asked, to which Nat responded by shoving him out of the way. My father was at first taken aback by Nat's uncharacteristically gruff reaction, but came to learn moments later that Nat's journey that day consisted of walking farther and farther north, away from the debris and chaos in the southern tip of the island. The 13-mile walk went straight to his head and he just wanted to be home.

Nat made home a sweet home. What I loved about Mr. Green was his bright smile that made our brass keys sparkle and his hearty voice that made the silver locks reverberate with excitement as they opened the doors to our humble Inwood abode. He called me "baby" (because I guess I never stopped being one in his eyes) and in a community where I exchanged countless affectionate greetings with neighbors almost exclusively in Spanish, his terms of endearment in English really stood out.

For as long as I can remember, from riding past him on my first pair of rollerblades, or hurrying into the elevator that he was holding for me, Nat was there to remind me that I was part of a vibrant and culturally rich community. I was filled with pride when I showed off a longtime resident like Nat to out of town guests like my friend José María, who contrasted the constants in his small village in Extremadura, Spain with the quicksand characters of New York. Nat was my constant.

Now Nat is one less familiar face on the subway. As the city changes, I wonder if buildings will have a Mr. Green. If kids like me will know what it's like to treat their neighbors like family. I wish I would've taken the time to talk to Nat and listen to his stories. There are so many people in our city with interesting life experiences that people don't stop to take in. More and more 'neighbors' are anonymous automatons among each other and that makes me sad.

It always warmed my heart to run into Mr. Green on the subway and say hello to a slice of home. Mr. Green's presence filled a room with light and warm energy. His memory harkens back to a time when we had Christmas tree lightings in the lobby, and building-wide gatherings with neighbors. When Dr. Fletcher had his office on the first floor, and he patched up my nose after I fell face first onto the yard's concrete because I was feeding one too many pigeons outside our window.

Thank you, Mr. Green, for being a kind neighbor and a beloved member of our community. May you rest in peace.