Dear New York City,
Namely the Notorious B.K.
Thank you.
For loud, bottle-slamming neighbors,
and walls too thin to scream.
For new Starbucks-laden street corners,
and giant mutant rats carrying stroopwafels up park gates.
For the geriatric R train,
crawling into crowded stations.
For iconic, bubbling pizza,
feeding the famila for cheap,
burning our mouths,
while we catch cheese,
dripping between plates and tongues.
For “showtime, showtime!” performers,
dodging heads while they dance,
peddling for a few cents.
For hole-in-the-wall and castle-like churches,
murderous traffic,
and infinite restaurants I’ll never try.
For Buddy’s Burrito stuffed tacos,
Surfish BIEN maduro maduros,
Negril jerk salmon, burning just right,
And Rakuzen,
where my best friends and I stuff ourselves after church.
For hosting my first date,
and witnessing my heartbreak.
For 917, 646, and most of all, 718.
For Sunset, Bumset, or Gunset.
For hip-hop running each avenue,
and salsa illuminating cross streets.
For Spider-Man,
who inspired this Puerto Rican Brooklynite,
to climb walls too high.
For light that reflects off the Manhattan skyline,
when you look to your left on the BQE,
hitting the East River at a gorgeous 15-degree angle.
For the Brooklyn Bridge,
and the tourists we elbow to walk across.
For letting me travel through the Owl’s Head,
to Shore Road,
where I laughed, and I cried, and I prayed,
and if the path was clear, where I put on concerts,
for an audience of One.
And if it wasn’t, where I begged God to move me another step,
because LORD,
8,000 plus of those in the morning is exhausting.
For Lazaro, my local miracle worker,
who turns these crooked edges into straight lines,
twice or three times a month,
while I sit in the barber’s chair, half-asleep.
For dreams I’ve lived, dreams I’ve written, and dreams I’ve forgotten.
For Harlem, where siblings CCNY and Columbia stand.
For The Barrio, where my grandmother rests her head every evening.
For Alicia Keys, and Jay-Z,
who were damn right about your lights and streets.
For letting me find my tribe,
For letting me find questions,
For helping me find answers,
Thank you, NYC.
Dear Borinuquen,
Puerto Rico,
Isla del Encanto,
Shining Star of the Caribbean —
and your people’s hearts.
Thank you.
For helado de parcha,
at my favorite ice cream shop.
For pan de aqua flakes.
For the tropical rain aroma,
and Bat-guano in the caves de Camuy.
For all your best dishes:
Crumbling mofongo,
Steaming arroz con gandules,
Crispy cuerito pernil,
Soothing pollo guisao,
Crunchy tostones with mayoketchup,
Greasy chuletas,
Dripping-hair mahn-GOH,
Cherry-topped piña colada,
Punch-you-in-the-mouth coquito.
Sing-song summer piragua!
Ay que rico!
For lailailailailailohleiloh,
a Boricua take on selah.
For the coqui’s carols,
beyond La Navidad.
For Mar Chiquita,
whose tia embrace nearly drowned me.
For pinchos on Crashboat Beach,
where else could I eat shark on a stick?!
¡Para los Tainos! ¡Y los Africanos!
For calls to Santa María, Madre de Dios,
even when Hurricán Maria responded with a slap.
For too-thin stray dogs,
earning our frowns with unkempt fur.
For montañas I refuse to drive on.
For streetlights that never turn on.
For surviving blackouts,
and blacking out our bandera.
For parrot wing fincas,
and jíbaro poetry.
For holding my scattered family’s lives,
their remains,
their laughter,
their tears,
and their hopes.
Thank you for letting us leave you behind,
helping us exhale when Nueva York is too much,
helping us remember who we are,
helping us hear the broken cries of our ancestors,
in the rhythm of congas,
and the movement of bomba.
I love you now more than ever.
Now that Abuelita rests in your ancient fertile soil.
Now that café con leche is among my morning priorities.
Now that I found who I am.
Thank you, Borinquen.
Thank you both.
You are my people,
my family.
my legacy.
my fortress.
my lighthouse.
my heart.
my music.
my lament and praise song.
my home.
Bendición? Y Dios te bendiga.
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