Jackson Heights, NY

April 2, 2013

(Inspired by a Facebook status update I made, and quickly deleted)

The sun sets on a day that was gray
to begin with.
It strikes me that despite the crust of bodies all around me,
I am by myself
An American born Indian
with short cropped hair showing a couple splashes of grey,
in blue jeans, and a black leather jacket.
So tough.

The sounds of South Asia
and the smells of its food
surround me.
So do boys talking about science fairs,
cricket, and kabbadi,
and men preparing for prayer
at the community mosque.
No women,
except a few in burqa
and me.

I hear more Hindi, Urdu, Punjabi
than I do English.
Eight blocks earlier, while walking,
it was all Spanish.
I wonder, what do Americans --
that is, white Americans --
make of all this?

I had planned to sit down in a cheap snack shop
and eat what I can't get at home.
But I am alone,
an American born
Indian
with short hair, blue jeans, black jacket.
So tough.
But so uneasy about dining alone.

This crowd of dresses,
smells, and languages
is familiar,
but not my own.
That makes it strange
because I am ignored.

It strikes me the morning after
that the American -- the white American --
might have felt fear
from what was unfamiliar,
and might have been overwhelmed
by not being ignored.
There might have been snide remarks,
racist slurs,
fist fights,
and swear words.
That might have been dangerous,
unsafe.

I did not feel unsafe,
or out of place,
just merely alone.