Demographics Part I

In Autumn, 2006, I lost my job. Almost a year in to the construction industry and I was now forced to reevaluate how to devote my time and apply my Bachelor’s. The apartment had become all I had ever dreamt and more. Lounge lighting, paintings, and mirrors adorned the abode, but the view was the real feature of the apartment worth speaking of. During daytime a shimmer of light refracted from the skin of an Acela Train could catch your eye and at night, the twinkling lights of Manhattan, Queens and Long Island would fuse with the distant stars, creating an the illusion that the horizon was indiscernible. All of my apartment’s trend and beauty, mastery and mystery would be a ruse—an unacceptable illusion in this case—if I did not have a career to back it up. It would be like putting a silk hat on a pig and in many ways, this pristine gem atop 1990 Lexington Avenue, already fit that expression.

Shortly after moving in, I noticed an increased presence of newcomers. First, there were my neighbors who resided diagonally across the hall from me. Two bubbly girls from Syracuse, NY who had also decided to take the city by storm. Their storm however was not the dreams of paper money in torrential downpours, but of humor, positivity and rambunctious energy, mollified by their happy-go-lucky attitudes. We were perfect compliments from our very first meeting.
The fact was, like it or not, new residents were easy to spot due to their skin color. By my approximation, the 1,000+ tenants of 1990 Lexington were 85% black and 15% Puerto Rican. I was not sure where the four of us living up on 33 fit in to that ratio—in statistical actuality (using whole numbers) we did not.

The first incident of overt racism occurred no more than two weeks after my lease began. While the heat wave had broken, a new climatic anomaly was beginning. Several weeks before losing my project management job in construction (late August, 2006), I piled into the overcrowded elevator after a 12-hour workday. By the 20th floor, it was only me, two other women and a small girl (probably 11 years old). One woman turned and looked at me, baking away in my wool pants and heavy cotton shirt, swiveled her gaze over the adolescent to her friend and said, “A lot of new faces here, a lot of new faces…” The woman she addressed remained silent while the girl laughed. Having gone through 24 years of an admittedly wild, risky lifestyle, I had never once encountered this type of situation before. I too remained quiet. Could be worse, I thought…

Several weeks after the first elevator incident, I had already met and introduced myself to almost a dozen neighbors. Most of who purported to have resided in 1990 for many years and by their looks and age, they certainly seemed to have weathered their own storms, yet most were cordial. Early in September, the increasing number of longtime tenants being displaced became much more real to me. I trailed a group of middle-aged women through the main door and into the lobby. Another group of women was exiting the elevator, unloading lamps, chairs and various other personal effects. Along with the group of women I had followed from the street, we took occupancy of the still waiting elevator. A round woman with a push-cart launched into a heated tirade with her friends. It sounded something like, “She’s leavin’ now?! I ain’t movin’ out! They may want me to move outta here, but I ain’t leavin’! Been here too damn long for this shit!” Had it not been for the upwardly accelerating elevator car, her rising blood pressure might have sent her packing right then and there. Her friends nodded, Mmmhmm’d, but also looked concerned for the rotund woman’s health. Once again, I found myself playing the dumbfounded mute.