She'd sit in her car, the windows rolled up, waiting for the lights to change; and she'd stare
out as the Bronx streets seethed around her. The October wind sent litter swirling up on her
windshield. Sometimes subway cars rumbled overhead and the whole earth shook. She'd grip the
wheel as a delightful formless thrill passed down to the pouch of her stomach.
The students she taught lived around here; she recognized the street names on their attendance cards. She'd never once seen any of them walking by, but her head was heavy with agitation: this was where they lived, where they disappeared to at the end of the day, into
these blocks of cross streets with their congested sidewalks and double-parked cars; the aimless wandering and defiance of authority; stop signs, fire boxes, mail boxes smeared with wiggly graffiti; too many heavy-thighed women; too many children clutching junk food wrappers; the young men hanging about or swaggering off with that carefree rolling gait.
And yet it could be a decent livable place if only they'd get a grip on things, clean up the grime of drugs, get those guns out of criminal hands; get those kids, her kids, back in classrooms.
Her grandfather grew up in a rough, slummy neighborhood like this. He was a striver, a man of
grit and boundless optimism. You had to believe things would change if you wanted them to change.
She sat stiffly and close to the steering wheel, a little smile on her pale face, the open friendly smile of a stranger passing through.
After what seemed like interminable minutes the cars ahead of her started moving; she knew she'd be late clocking in; she didn't see the sense in worrying about it. She drove a late model Japanese car. It was difficult every month making the car payments, but she considered it a sound investment. No chance she'd break down anywhere in the Bronx.
(from "Ah, Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 