It's a little cooler in bk these days, and I don't just mean the weather. Apologies to my avid reader (not a typo) for all the dead air, but dIaMoNd has been a busy girl. My brother and I decided, around the time of the last entry, that we needed to make serious moves. While I learned new things on the streets of bedstuy, we figured we could learn things on another street in brooklyn, that were good.
It has definitly been one of the more difficult processes of my life - finding roomates, rooms, and apartments and ultimately how to pay for all of it (still sort of working on that one). After about a month and a half of looking, I was ready to give up. We found a great roomate, meg. After placing a deposit down on a place, the real estate company held on to out money and led us to believe we had it, and told us two or three days before moving in that we didn't. But ultimately everything seems to be working out for the best, and we are now in ...park slope! i hope, dear reader, that you won't be concerned that this will turn into a lengthy baby bjorn/book club review. dIaMoNd will still be reporting from the streets and staying down to earth.
It seemed that most of my problems were solved the day I moved in, that I was leaving them behind me in the stuy. As we were finishing the final load of boxes and cleaning at our old apartment, I noticed a woman standing across the street from my apartment, in front of the children's playground. I watched her set down her shopping bags, drop her blue jeans, and pee on the sidewalk. This was at about 3:00 in the afternoon, and all of the children from the local school had come to play. I called to my brother, we couldn't believe what we were witnessing. The children in the park began to heckle her through the chain link fence...
"Yo, lady, how you gonna pee right there."
"Miss my little sister is right here why you peeing right in front of her there's a bathroom right there..."
and indeed, the children spoke the truth. She was less that 100 feet from a public bathroom, located in the playground. An adult crossed the street and also pointed the restroom out to her, and walked away. A few minutes passed and I continued about my business, only to then notice that she decided it was time to wipe, and the pants were back down, little white tissue sprinkling the sidewalk. The children swarmed around her on their bicycles and scooters, Lord of the Flies style. When they started throwing hackysacks and rocks at her, we decided it was time for yet another 911 call. We managed to make it another 45 minutes, and the coinciding arrival of the police force (a gentle reminder, the station is three blocks away) trumpeted our departure.
A night on the town in celebration was in order, and I went into the city for a co-worker's birthday. I came home late (of course) and spotted a police officer outside of my door as I crossed the street. I asked her what was up, and she stared at me, and rolled her eyes. "Um...the rape..." she responded. "The rape..." I asked, innocently.
"Um...you don't see all the signs everywhere...um...how could you not know."
"Well, I just moved in yesterday...think you could fill me in."
And so, a man, or men, have been attacking women in Park Slope on their way home from Yoga/Work/Juicebar/Aquatots. Eleven incidents to date, I believe.
I felt exhausted.
"Listen...I just moved here. From Bed Stuy. To get away from this."
"Well," she answered, "It's a good neighborhood, but you need to be careful."
I thanked her, and headed towards the door. She stopped me.
"Oh, and miss....from what we can tell, you fit his profile exactly."
Great.
This is all sloping a little downward (p.i)...and i don't mean it to. I really like this place, a lot. Meg and I went to a safe slope rally and marched down the avenue, chanting things like "Hey Hey Ho Ho this rape culture has got to go!"
The good thing is, about this whole situation, is that in Bed Stuy, I think the screams are silent. This is the sort of thing that probably just wouldn't take precedence in the old hood - not when people are being shot.
Am I happy to hear about these troubles? No. But I've learned, from where I've lived, to protect myself, and be smart and safe. I'm guessing that's sort of what a brooklyn girl does. More to come on all of the positive things I am experiencing here in brooklyn, check back on an update on my new favorite place in the city.
Much love... <>*$dIaMoNd*$<>
Friday, September 30, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
a CaR iS sToLeN (aGaIn)
I'll give you a minute to absorb that...it definitely took me more than that to realize and accept the fact that some hoods had again taken poor Sarge for a ride. About two weeks since the previous incident chronicled here, I was beginning to feel a little more comfortable about leaving him home alone. After all, he was clubbed after each use, so even if they rifled through him, they wouldn't be able to move the old man. And I certainly did not add anything of value to him, or visit xhibit for a pimping. we were safe.
so i thought.
a monday evening coming home from work, contemplating food (as usual), I did my daily car glance. Nothing. I jumped into action, having experience, and immediately called my brother. No, of course he had not taken the car, and there, on the middle of the street I started bawling. Just the idea that someone, over the course of two weeks, had stolen my car TWICE, made me feel completely unsafe and violated. So, the police were called, and two young officers actually showed up this time in response to a 911 call.
Frustratingly enough, I had to watch them drive up and down the streets I am between, because they had no idea where my address was, even though I live around the corner from them. I finally had to flag them down on the corner, and they took me in the police car and drove me around looking for sarge. I made a joke about "not having been in one of these in awhile" and my audience, behind Plexiglas, was either deaf or unamused. We located the car not far from where it had been previously, and I had to get out in front of the entire neighborhood to attempt to reclaim him. I was terrified that someone would snipe me or something from a window up above. a little dramatic, i guess.
We were wondering how they moved the car - they clipped the steering wheel and cut the club off of it. Really?! For a 1988 Buick LeSabre? All that? Well, the car wouldn't start. I assumed the battery was dead, and I was forced to leave him there alone for two days until I could get a tow truck to come. During that time I had to pass him to and from the way to work, unable to help him to freedom.
When I was finally able to get a tow truck driver to come jump my battery, he pointed out that the battery wasn't dead - my keys are simply useless. I can start, and drive my car, by sticking a phillips head screwdriver into the steering column just so. Luckily, the guys who borrowed it left me one in my armrest console. So I stole back my own car, again, and got in the car and drove him to the safest part of brooklyn I could think of , in a heavily Hasidic Jewish neighborhood in Williamsburg.
Sarge is now safe upstate, nestled among the trees where he belongs. I'm not sure how much longer he'll make it, although he's only got 132,000 miles (yeah...read that odometer wrong, def not 300,000) and he runs quite smoothly, it feels strange to drive him now, knowing that someone else was blasting music in him, or sitting in his multicolored seats. We'll see what happens, but for now, he deserves a location, and dIaMoNd is considering relocating....to williamsburg.
oh, and those
Much love... <>*$dIaMoNd*$<>
a MaN rEqUiReS sUsteNaNce
a few days ago on the train, a gentleman pushed through the doors of the previous car and entered the little bubble i'd be sharing with my fellow passengers for the past few minutes. it is a common monologue, a man down on his luck, desperate and ashamed, but not enough to ask for food, or change or whatever he requires at that moment. the heart tugs, but the head says no more often than not. on this particular occasion, the homeless gentleman, sans-abri, had a very specific request in mind.
well, at least someone around here knows what they want...and I have to say, the apple ones aren't half bad...
well, at least someone around here knows what they want...and I have to say, the apple ones aren't half bad...
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
a CoMpLiMeNt Is TaKeN
i'm pretty popular in my neighborhood, if i do say so myself. i try not to let it get to my head. I think it's like when the foreign exchange student arrives at your school; it doesn't exactly matter what she/he looks like/thinks like/ does, they're different, and noticeable.
it's a common occurrence for me to walk down the street and get some attention from the gentlemen who pass by, or sit on their stoops in the afternoon sunshine. when was younger, i'd shy away from the comments and catcalls, simply bowing my head and shuffling away. i've come to realize, however, that most of the time, it's harmless. A 'hey beautiful" or a "miss, you're gorgeous..." can be taken different ways, and i choose to smile, say thank you, and continue walking. i don't really feel like unnecessarily pissing people off, and it ends more smoothly than trying to argue.
so a few weeks ago, i took a walk to the local Walgreen's, or "wags, " as it's affectionately known to some. it's really the mecca of everything for me in my neighborhood - it's sort of the only chain-y type store around, which makes me feel a loving connection to my suburban roots. kind of sick, isn't it. a beautiful and sunny bushwick day embraced my walk a few blocks away, and i felt a smile on my face and in my heart.
almost there, and i heard a deep voice call out after me, "I like that, that's real pretty." And so i turned, flipped my hair over one shoulder, and beamed my most effective smile. "Thanks!" And standing there, at about 6'1", was a....woman, in overalls. I froze in place as we made eye contact, and she "mmm'd."
Politeness above all else,right? So I turned slowly, and slipped in to Walgreen's to stare at the shampoo for a while.
Much love... <>*$dIaMoNd*$<>
it's a common occurrence for me to walk down the street and get some attention from the gentlemen who pass by, or sit on their stoops in the afternoon sunshine. when was younger, i'd shy away from the comments and catcalls, simply bowing my head and shuffling away. i've come to realize, however, that most of the time, it's harmless. A 'hey beautiful" or a "miss, you're gorgeous..." can be taken different ways, and i choose to smile, say thank you, and continue walking. i don't really feel like unnecessarily pissing people off, and it ends more smoothly than trying to argue.
so a few weeks ago, i took a walk to the local Walgreen's, or "wags, " as it's affectionately known to some. it's really the mecca of everything for me in my neighborhood - it's sort of the only chain-y type store around, which makes me feel a loving connection to my suburban roots. kind of sick, isn't it. a beautiful and sunny bushwick day embraced my walk a few blocks away, and i felt a smile on my face and in my heart.
almost there, and i heard a deep voice call out after me, "I like that, that's real pretty." And so i turned, flipped my hair over one shoulder, and beamed my most effective smile. "Thanks!" And standing there, at about 6'1", was a....woman, in overalls. I froze in place as we made eye contact, and she "mmm'd."
Politeness above all else,right? So I turned slowly, and slipped in to Walgreen's to stare at the shampoo for a while.
Much love... <>*$dIaMoNd*$<>
Monday, May 23, 2011
A cAr Is StOlEn
it's summer now in BK, and the beginning of next month marks my third month living here. i have learned to navigate the streets of Bed Stuy in my little buick le sabre, an old but dignified beast gifted to me upon the passing of my grandfather two years ago.
The odometer reads 300,000 miles. I just can't seem to believe that is possible, but the car is only a year younger than I am, so I think it must be.
i got up this morning, like i do most mornings. It was a little earlier than normal, I had been called in to cover for someone missing at work. So about 8:30 I sleepily stumbled out of my building and searched around for my car, to move it (we have alternate street parking, known as musical cars) to a good location.
No 1988 Buick LeSabre with an icon of the Blessed Virgin in the rearview window. No White Brickmobile with a dent in the driver's side from where the candy truck sideswiped me during a blizzard. nothing. I called up the brother and asked him, like siblings do, "hey! did you move my_(shirt, lasagna, bath towel, etc.)___?"
he hadn't. in fact, he saw the car X earlier the evening before. i wasn't crazy, afterall, or at least, the lack of car in it's spot did not offer proof as such.
I gathered that the vehicle had been either a) towed or b) stolen c)raptured.
So I gathered my sleepy brother and walked down the street to the police station (isn't that reassuring, only steps away?) where i was informed that I could not report a crime on foot, and that i must return to the scene of the crime and dial 911. it was also implied that i may have "misplaced" the vehicle, and i questioned for a second whether or not i had perhaps stolen it myself in my sleep. i did not, and quickly walked back to the scene of the crime, dialed 911, and waited.
our friendly neighbors (from ohio) came out to see what all the hullabaloo was about. Really though, they just saw me frantically pacing the sidewalk. They stayed with us for a good half hour waiting for the sirens to come screeching the half mile to our street. About an hour had passed since I had noticed Sarge (my buick's name) was missing.
We stood discussing possible options with our neighbors. They assured me I'd get it back soon, that some kids probably just took it to the bronx for a joy ride.
Out of nowhere, a man on a bicyle comes whizzing down the block and pulls up in front us.
And so, the gumshoe detective on the bicycle was thanked for his time, and promised $20 as soon as the author had time to get to an ATM. My brother and I stole back the car, and immediately purchased THE CLUB. Sarge was home at last.
The joyriding crackheads must have been dissapointed by the contents of what they found in the car. They made off poorly, taking only:
they did not opt to take :
i am happy to report that i left the empty box to my GPS in the car, so i hope those motha$%^& were sorely dissapointed when they realized it was empty. my car is home, and clubbed.
911 opted not to arrive, and instead gave a phone call about four hours late and told us we could, "make a report at our local precinct."
Since, dear reader, we have learned together that one cannot make a report "on foot," I wonder how I might have gone about that sort of thing if my car had not been recovered. luckily, we have been reunited, and I have learned a valuable lesson.
Just because your car is a piece of shit and has nothing valuable in it, doesn't mean a crackhead won't break into it.
More gems comin' to you soon from your diamond in tha ruff....
Much love... <>*$dIaMoNd*$<>
The odometer reads 300,000 miles. I just can't seem to believe that is possible, but the car is only a year younger than I am, so I think it must be.
i got up this morning, like i do most mornings. It was a little earlier than normal, I had been called in to cover for someone missing at work. So about 8:30 I sleepily stumbled out of my building and searched around for my car, to move it (we have alternate street parking, known as musical cars) to a good location.
I looked left.
I looked right.
Up.
Down.
All Around.
No 1988 Buick LeSabre with an icon of the Blessed Virgin in the rearview window. No White Brickmobile with a dent in the driver's side from where the candy truck sideswiped me during a blizzard. nothing. I called up the brother and asked him, like siblings do, "hey! did you move my_(shirt, lasagna, bath towel, etc.)___?"
he hadn't. in fact, he saw the car X earlier the evening before. i wasn't crazy, afterall, or at least, the lack of car in it's spot did not offer proof as such.
I gathered that the vehicle had been either a) towed or b) stolen c)raptured.
So I gathered my sleepy brother and walked down the street to the police station (isn't that reassuring, only steps away?) where i was informed that I could not report a crime on foot, and that i must return to the scene of the crime and dial 911. it was also implied that i may have "misplaced" the vehicle, and i questioned for a second whether or not i had perhaps stolen it myself in my sleep. i did not, and quickly walked back to the scene of the crime, dialed 911, and waited.
our friendly neighbors (from ohio) came out to see what all the hullabaloo was about. Really though, they just saw me frantically pacing the sidewalk. They stayed with us for a good half hour waiting for the sirens to come screeching the half mile to our street. About an hour had passed since I had noticed Sarge (my buick's name) was missing.
We stood discussing possible options with our neighbors. They assured me I'd get it back soon, that some kids probably just took it to the bronx for a joy ride.
Out of nowhere, a man on a bicyle comes whizzing down the block and pulls up in front us.
"Ya'll looking for something." My neighbord leaned in, "Yeah man, you know something?"
"Ya'll looking for a white car?" "Yeah man."
"Well, you didn't hear it from me, but i may know something about that car." "oh yeah?"
"Yeah man, maybe it's parked down the block." "Oh really."
"Maybe someone got in to it with a screwdriver and a hotwire." "Uh-huh."
"So do I get my reward?"
And so, the gumshoe detective on the bicycle was thanked for his time, and promised $20 as soon as the author had time to get to an ATM. My brother and I stole back the car, and immediately purchased THE CLUB. Sarge was home at last.
The joyriding crackheads must have been dissapointed by the contents of what they found in the car. They made off poorly, taking only:
1 (large) bag of Kitt'N'Kaboodle cat food.
(trust me, my cat is pissed. when i told her she said, "let me find out some motha$%^& done ate my food on me. i'm tight right now")
(all) of the change in my ashtray, about $0.78 worth.
1 (new) water cooler, retail value: $19.99
they did not opt to take :
a teakettle
a collection of feminist short stories
the icon of the virgin mary
i am happy to report that i left the empty box to my GPS in the car, so i hope those motha$%^& were sorely dissapointed when they realized it was empty. my car is home, and clubbed.
911 opted not to arrive, and instead gave a phone call about four hours late and told us we could, "make a report at our local precinct."
Since, dear reader, we have learned together that one cannot make a report "on foot," I wonder how I might have gone about that sort of thing if my car had not been recovered. luckily, we have been reunited, and I have learned a valuable lesson.
Just because your car is a piece of shit and has nothing valuable in it, doesn't mean a crackhead won't break into it.
More gems comin' to you soon from your diamond in tha ruff....
Much love... <>*$dIaMoNd*$<>
a DiaMoNd Is BoRn
a DiAmOnD iS bOrN
Much love... <>*$dIaMoNd*$<>
tru lyfe in BK.
Encouraged by friends and adventures, I give you my life in Bed Stuy, Brooklyn.
I take my nom-de-plume from a dear friend of mine, the toothless gentleman that I recently met on the corner. He stopped me as I walked back from the train one afternoon and rested a weathered palm on my arm. "Miss. Excuse me. No disrespected intended, but you are a diamond in the rough. You know what that is?" I told him I did, and thanked him, and hurried on my way. He called after me, "How about your mother, is she single?"
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