It’s been months since the world stopped moving and I have yet to hear those claps at 7 pm that New York’s becoming so famous for in every inspirational advertisement on TV. I think people around this neighborhood care for others going to work and holding off the spread, it’s just not an outwardly expressed thing.
Same energy for Memorial Day really. I could spin a decent tale about my grandfather being drafted, or the old vets that wander up and down our blocks like phantom limbs of decades past, but that isn’t what I think about. That’s just what you’re supposed to say because it’s callous not to honor people that have died for you to stay at home and live.
My Unc’s house parties used to be legendary, and because his family owns the house immediately next door, they would often spill from one house to another and one backyard to another. Sometimes it would take over and spill into the streets, packed with people’s cars, recreational drugs, plates, and of course, drinks. I highly doubt I should’ve been running around as a kid, but eh, it was the 90s. Unc’s the kind of person that thrives on that kingpin persona, which from what I can tell, his bid upstate in Sing Sing did little to slow down back then. He’s since calmed in his old age, but will gladly recount the glory days in a hurried accent and wave around his thick-muscled arms if you give him any three-second opportunity to start talking.
We’d usually spend a sunny Memorial Day worried about barbequing chicken until it’s tender, grilling hamburgers without that horrid lighter fluid aftertaste, and impromptu block parties with music so loud that it was bound to have cops shut it down, which are all pretty standard for any holiday or Black family gathering to be honest.
Maybe this year was more subdued, but the spirit and mirth was there.
Dragons that sleep in the corner of male egos were carefully sidestepped in favor of keeping the peace. There were no fights or arrests or shootings, there was no war between us and them.
Food was shared and enjoyed from somewhat of a distance, but not so far as to not make eye contact with the cook and give a quick nod in congratulations on not burning anything. Kids laughed and played on the bumpy, haphazard concrete sidewalk because that’s what they always do, crisis or no crisis.
Neighbors spoke or reconnected.
Families danced around their porches and syncopated to Biggie’s hypnotizing music that played so loud it touched the heavens well into the night.
The best part always comes at the end, when people are still too wired to sleep so they just retreat into their houses, or linger out front, and tell stories about the whole day over and over again as if we didn’t just live this event together. Pops is one of those that delights in animatedly acting out each moment like a comedy skit until all of us are rolling and holding our sides.
Someone adds in the voices. Someone else starts dancing again to demonstrate how crazy it looked outside. Inevitably, the conversations stretch further back, pulling from other years and decades and family members that have long since past.
My sisters break out the clumsily stored leftovers. The awkwardly stacked or foil-covered plastic plates that don’t really fit in the fridge to begin with. The food’s usually soggy by now, having been shoved hastily into one out of fear of being judged, but still tastes amazing.
We eat the food again and relive the memories. We become the stories for our future selves to rehash, well after the virus.
This is how we have come to survive, and how we honor those who have died.
