At 6am, after about three-and-a-half hours of sleep, I go on a run in weather that is literally in stasis. The temperature sits at a humid fifty-something it's been holding at since the day before, and low clouds hover at the brink of tears.
The South Bronx is silent.
I don't have headphones in, but Tchaikovsky's 5th symphony is the soundtrack of my feet pounding the pavement, the brooding first movement pushing me forward. The tire shops on 3rd avenue, the bodega. The grimy parking lot at the edge of 138th street and Concourse, and the pretty Catholic school at 152nd. Yankee stadium, majestic even on this gray morning.
If only the rest of the country were like the Bronx. Urban and gritty; pretty in an uneven, unclean kind of way. Then she'd have won.
In a fog, my girlfriend and I walk through the Bronx about two hours later. The clouds are shedding a few tears now, and the hush is pervasive. With a kiss, my girl sends me off to face my students.
The basement of this community college is sweltering today. The facilities crew must have prepared for mid February, but gotten the end of April instead. Down here it's quiet too---a real anomaly. Hushed voices in sing-song Dominican Spanish express the range of shock and outrage. "Lo mataré" someone says, and there are nods all around.
I walk the hallways like I'm Serena Williams gliding onto centre court at Wimbledon, the title match in the balance. Cool. detached. Exuding confidence. My stride says "nothing is different."
I enter my classroom and one of my students gives me a black power fist. "We ass out, right?" He inquires. Impassively, I shrug.
"Question number 1," I begin. Class is starting with a pop quiz as it often does. I am the picture of mundane.
Ten minutes into the lesson, and my students have had a enough.
"Yo mista," one of my brightest students says, "you don't feel nothin about the election, or what?"
If only she had been more insistent, more demanding, like this inquisitive young mind. Maybe she would have won.
Darkness is already descending when I get to the brewery, my second job. It's late afternoon but it feels like midnight. The temperature has taken a dive, and the rain is steady now.
It's not silent here. One of the brewery owners is in with a group of investors, talking dollars and cents. The conversation rambles aimlessly to hyphenated last names and last month's weddings. Someone's wife just gave birth. They love the pale ale.
As I set up the bar space in preparation for opening, the owner sneaks looks at me, and then outright stares. "Poor poor you."
Clearly, my posture is flagging. True grit takes energy. I marvel at Serena Williams' unflappable on court focus.
The brewery smells like barley, a roasted almost nutty aroma. The smell of marijuana is here too, understated but present. It could be the hops, or maybe one of the brewers is lighting a J.
If only she had been more hip, more nuanced, like the alchemy that makes a beer, that makes a brewery. Maybe then she would have won.
An old man in rags staggers in the corridor connecting the 6 train to the 4/5 line. My shift over, I'm heading home and I'm weary.
"Please" the man entreats, his hands reaching outwards questing, searching, probing.
Apathy keeps my feet moving. Keeps me from asking hard questions. From finding out the truth of his destitution. Of the destitution of so many.
Maybe if I'd been been less apathetic, less ignorant of the struggle of so many. Maybe I'd have worked harder to help her campaign. Maybe she'd have won.
On the 5 train home, I'm munching on a sandwich I bought from the place right outside the 7 train stop in Long Island City. I'd wanted it hot, had expressed that desire clearly. My sandwich is cold, though. I knew it would be. I'm black, so I don't matter and it doesn't matter if my order is correct. I've had this problem before at this establishment and so many others, but I'm hungry now, and it was open and I was hoping for something different. Yeah, right.
If only. If only. Then maybe. Just maybe. If only.
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