a rainbow emerged from the outskirts of my bushwick bedroom. at first, she’s faint, glowing in the distance but dissipating the moment she touches the pale blue cloud. i bottle myself up in the brick-wood-white square-by-square bedroom, and with a squint, i see her. and she’s looking at me too. i go out to meet her, standing on the ledges of my very damp rooftop—baffled that she could appear, after all it rained so fucking hard earlier, i’d imagine she wouldn’t show her face. but here she was. and i needed her. i needed to see her on top of my bushwick apartment rooftop in my square-by-square neighborhood in a city that feels like one of those CVS pop-up cards, the ones where the music sizzles in fast and cut-out buildings take form, but once opened it never closes again. except maybe a bit of God’s rain is what heals new york’s immune system. everything is still, and there’s also a rainbow.
after what feels like the longest weekend and a half of fighting crocodile tears on the Loser train, i’m at peace in my own home—shockingly. then one of those ugly spot bugs that chip away at the trees makes a guest star appearance on my exterior ceiling and i mutter an, “ew.” i throw some random thing, hitting it. even the way he moves just feels like AI. he is the thanos of all the ugliest bugs. —he does not die. so i go inside.
if i sit long enough in my room, without the lights on, i start to turn into a worm. that doesn’t really mean anything, but i slip into the cracks of nothingness. here, in my hometown, i question what that word means. i wonder if the meaning of home is more ethical to origin or emotion. i was born on the back side of queens, and when towers fell, my mother sat on those archival Q-something buses where the public transportation had stairs. —stairs. where did all of the buses with stairs go? where is the new york that made me scrounge for loose change under couch cushions so i can see the world? what happened to the new york that used to feel like a world?—my world? i grew up in here in this body of water. she’s raised me, i can still locate my first kiss. both versions, the one behind the bathroom in the elementary school park across the street near aunties favorite chinese restaurant and the laundromat that was generous to pour their deeply blue detergent in white cups for all of the poor families like mine to use. the other—in the 179th street station near one of the lasting mcdonald’s playhouses. this place has known me since when i refused to shape my eyebrows. we have a bond, i look forward to her spring, i feel closer to the cusp of beauty when she floats flowers down as i pass.
she sometimes becomes my antagonizer, she pokes me in my arm and comments, “you’re lonely, you’re lonely, you’re lonely.” i respond to her with “i’m not,” and look forward to runs in undiscovered areas of the most central park in the world. i am my own conquistador. i collapse in the firm grass, sweat on my head, shoulders, knees, and up in my sports bra. i stare into sporadic clouds. i admire new york’s sun, and then look to my left and right. she lays down, stomach to green pasture, her feet in the air (for giggles i’ll say she’s wearing timbs), and she leans her chin down on wrists, and says, “you’re only running because you have no friends.” i show her my other times, and she’s quick to echo, “more and more i can see you disappearing. you’ll be invisible when the rain comes.” i am alone in green pastures, and i’m optimistic about it, and then splashes of nameless people walking in quads, symbols of music notes and laughter glowing around them turn into mosquitoes, biting at the confidence of my mannequin, and i surely and very slowly grow conscious that i may be invisible.
clink our glasses at the hottest bar on the curb of soho where the homeless man gnaws at his own invisibility, everyone is so happy. happy—happy—happy, beers fizzle, naughty little ginger ales, belly-flopping down our windpipes as we all sit elbows to elbows in the outside forum. the conversation rotates on a spin cycle—relationships at mild speed, a new addition to the roster, a removal, a shitty date, and a quick unfollow, my new roommate’s sleeping with my ex, and we’re all entertained for a romantic storm. spin the bottle again, pour bleach on the conversation as we speak of the very draining talks of job applications, unpaid internships, bosses that gatekeep, bosses that gaslight, bosses that don’t pay on time—bosses that don’t pay. but at least we’re wearing ferragamo. we are all advertisements to each other, four-course meals on the cold platter of photo dumps, all secretly suffering in silence, all equally looking at our bank account and mentally praying to see several more zeros than what we see now. all turning up to parties on the fifth and sixth floors on fifth and sixth avenue, clinking new glasses, hoping to have the best off guard on getty’s images.
all of us diddly-daddling over the question, “what do you do?” all of us answering, “i’m a creative.” “i’m a this.” “i’m special at that.”
networking parties are just opportunities to financially flirt, and we all interlace each other’s hands and whisper, “i can be special for you.” quick—lets get each other’s social media. how can i be so sad when i’m always so hot? how am i reminiscing about younger moments sitting on cold and dark brown sand in the overworld of california when madonna’s got her back arched at the off-white party? —the one i didn’t have to barge my way into? why am i yearning to get out of the maze if all of my new friends think i’ve already won? even when i seem to be invisible, called out in the middle of a plastered crowd, complimented from head to toe, arms locked with people who aren’t nameless but feel faceless, i also feel faceless. i could be anyone. i just happen to be me.
i lock myself in my bedroom on a wispy sunday night, and i cry until my eyelids grow into pillows. not too loud though, don’t want my roommates to think i’m having a breakdown. here is a city that sets its alarm clock for fifteen-minute interval naps—she’s on the go, she’s unaware that she may be sleep-deprived, care-deprived, unconditionally love-deprived, counsel-deprived. she’s nourished in fashion, healthy in adoration, mature in business, and the moment she might take a second to close her eyes, the tsunami that inner-city kids have been told would come since seventh grade might finally overtake her. she might not swim if she’s aware that she could drown. so she must pump her heels across the pavement quicker, bobbing and weaving anyone that can’t keep up. at some points, i feel like i walk next to her. in other times, she ties a rope to my ankles, and my back turns into ripped jeans. i miss a new york that still felt like home. i miss the one that doesn’t have to matter about who you work for or who you belong to, but the one that exists because we do too.
what i thought i missed was being around people who listen when i speak about myself, but i miss being around others that value the discussion of the self in general. i miss conversations that foreplayed at vulnerability, and an honesty so raw the discussion fertilizes. we don’t all have to love each other, but we should all know each other. i miss sitting on the floor of a friend’s apartment in my ugliest pajamas, fingers dusted in popcorn guts, looking my very worst. because that’s when i felt the closest to the spectrum of myself. i miss when friendships and relationships didn’t have to be so distant from each other—sensuality, depth, and cold truth in full custody of relationships and romance because we’ve become the society that forgets what our best friend’s favorite colors are. their favorite juices. their deepest regrets. we somehow yearn for vulnerability only when it’s a two-for-one coupon to sexual intimacy. i am not a prude, i understand this plague because i’ve been caught in this storm before. i just refuse to die by its vain sword again.
loving shouldn’t be about winning. love shouldn’t be compromised with collaboration, situationship fervor, job opportunities, and jetblue mileage points. here you may never hear from certain people if you are not a token of lottery. here, you may disappear the moment your very cool career spits you out when the current has passed you, when you’ve made it to your turn in line but the party gets cut short—here, when you are not in the moment, you are almost a corpse. here i think i could disappear, and the ock would still refry his beef bacon from the day before. the dancers on the 4 train will still bend their arms in a way it probably shouldn’t, the cocktail party near ludlow is still going to start at 8, and the G train will eventually begin to work. sometimes i recognize my home may not be here, even if it was my first destination.
little bits of myself are scattered across ocean beach and you can find some of my fingernails in the many retail stores i worked in on haight street. one of my socks is lost in a hostel in munich, and i’ve left bread crumbs at the switzerland canal. my deepest loves—with warmth, with texture, with joy, and charity are exist in people i barely see. people who’ve evoked a laugh out of my cry. my night in shining armor’s are marinated across a remote village, and with them, love is a job i wish was in person.
i lose my voice on sunday night, and escape to maryland on tuesday. i exhale slowly on the megabus, and watch the sky turn into a ghostly shade of blue. i may still be invisible on this bus, but i am just as invisible as every other traveler next to me. together, we’re all collectively on one journey. and for some, the journey stops at union station while for most, we battle forever. i grovel with if it’s me that needs changing or this swallowingly large apple, and while i can’t figure out the kinks just yet, i find myself centered by potomac’s greenery. it’s a suburban lifestyle, and i walk the neat carpets of my mother’s townhouse with comfort in an empty itinerary. in the silence, i can finally hear the song of the birds. the raccoons tell a joke in the trees when the lights go off, and the rise and fall of a car engine passing the window is a gentle reminder of existence without force. this may not be a place i’ll stay forever, but here i’ve found a home that has also found me. and i’m always a little hurt when i have to leave. even if i was just ready to go.
i get back to the city on a saturday night, and i’m back to feeling like a worm. i am a textbook in conversation, the friends i do have here are citing me for reference but might not actually be attentively reading. new york, the city of the main character; we all seem to forget to support everyone else in their dream. we just bargain for each other to come undone to enlarge our superstardom. we never grow tired of talking. even if it’s about nothing. we like nothing, because then we can talk more—and listen less. listening requires learning, and learning requires healing, and healing comes with growing, and growing comes with living, and living is the unknown. the puzzle pieces don’t quite fit together, and we’ll cut the crusts off to make art out of destruction. lives aren’t falling apart if it can be documented. is the collective need to speak, and keep speaking, rising like dough when the microphone’s pointed at us just a trauma thing? our parents were also bright stars that took up so much space. we’re all just looking to fulfill the leftovers.
i run to catch my breath in a city that keeps stealing it from me. i’ve got nothing on me except my keys and my phone, and i march into the greenery because it’s been doing an excellent job of saving me. God’s made a special place out of parks for me recently, it is my altar when i’m far from the tabernacle. on a specific day, a sunday after yesterday, the clouds scour a rageful blue. it’s bluer than blue. funnily, the word for “blue-gray” is livid. God sends a forewarning that He’s livid. i keep walking into the park, i’ve come too far. i set my timer, and begin my run across the cinnamon-colored track. pellets of rain come down languidly, and i shrug my shoulders at it. the calm before the storm meets its combatant. the rain comes fast, and i still run, now finding this whole event laughable. i dunno, this is kind of fun. the dial turns up one more notch, and my lashes glue together, the curls in my head frowning. i cannot see. i cannot see. i can’t see. i dodge into nuggets of short trees looking for coverage—this is kind of terrible. grapeseed cream from my hair is blurring my vision. i run from tree to tree, deciding to ditch the one mile around the track and replace it to a mile back to the station. my phone is intimidated by the consistency of the water, and my fingertips begin to wrinkle. a tickle of fear is adamant across my body, i’m far from my house, i’m drenched beyond capacity, and i am alone. no one here knows me. i’m taking in so much water onto my body, my breath is shortening while i’m running, and i cannot see. for a splinter, i imagine if death reeks around the corner. i wonder if he’s planning on getting me. from tree to tree, a dog hospital sits in the distance. rows of expressionless people in activewear are perched—standing ducks i should call them—watching the ferocity of the rain. they don’t pass a heavy glimpse, even if it looks like i just went through water war. in some ways it’s welcoming.
we are all in our own wars. some disastrous. some discreet.
i catch my breath as i watch the water pepper puddles with kisses. none of us say anything. but we don’t really have to. all of us are still faceless and nameless to each other, but the humanness each other provides creates a support system that might’ve not been there if only one of us was standing beside the rain. we’re all equally annoyed, grim, and smudged with wetness. hair sticking to the back of our necks, our feet smothered in squeaky shoes. for the first time in a long while, here in this city, i feel like myself. drenched, freckles of mud painting my thighs—but very me. after a while i catch an uber, my bottom painting twin peaks on the leather of my driver’s seat, and in a blink, my lashes now dry from being inside; i’m back at my bushwick apartment. there i am after a shower, sitting on my bed before the rainbow beckons me. i stand before the Lord in my striped shirt and pajama pants and lean my arms on the soaked wood of the ledge. the rainbow in all her glory, curves into the sky. and i can breathe. the song of the birds can be heard once more. the car engines still rap in the distance, but the volume of them is lower—they come and go as a reminder of existence.
all new york needed was some rain. just a bit of rain. this moment might not last for long, the stillness, the calamity, the airiness, it’ll all go, but the fact that it was even there for a second gives me a sustaining joy. i captured it, you know. so i’ll always have it. even though spring has come and fall is adjourned, i pray that when the leaves fall, so will the city’s ego. the branches will coat themselves with listening, and learning, and healing, and growing, and living. and it’ll grow a new big apple for us to all take a bite out of. but for now, i’m just a worm. and the invasive ugly spot bug is on the rooftop of my bushwick apartment. so i’m going to rejoin the square-by-square brick-wood-white bushwick bedroom i live in. i’ll close my door, welcomed back into the gray. but i am hopeful to know a rainbow exists from outside my window. it was put there for me.