Maybe The Burbs Ain’t for Me

Five years ago, when Eileen and I decided to leave the Bronx and move our family to the suburbs, we had a list of things we wanted. There were the usuals, good schools, a safe environment, and an easy commute. A few custom ones, walking distance to the train(I don’t do the bus or municipal parking, hard stop), be close to the high school(to keep these girls from lingering after school), and to have a sizable Black and Latino population. That last one proved to be the most difficult. We didn’t get it, but I keep an eye out.

There were a few items we hadn’t accounted for.

Our first week here, Eileen picked me up from the train on a rainy afternoon. We sat in front of the house talking for a moment before I was to get out and she would go pick up the girls. A red sedan pulled up next to us, and an old lady rolled down the window to ask if we were lost and needed directions. I didn’t take a moment to ponder her question, instead giving her a deadpan look and rolling the window back up.

There were the neighbors who were friendly enough to greet us as we walked around the neighborhood. Oddly, though, after exchanging names and identifying our respective homes, their next question would inevitably be to ask what we did for a living. As if verifying that the deposit we put on the home didn’t come from some illegal activity or charity. I regret to inform you Drew, we got it the old fashioned way, toiling away at a life sucking desk job.

One such neighbor asked where we originally came from. Sensing that she didn’t care about my time growing up in Queens, I told her our families were from the Dominican Republic. She doubled down and wanted to know if we’d just moved from there. Bitch, you think we left DR with the money to move into Westchester? Yo con eso cuarto no salgo de la isla.

A guy down the block invited me to a local event called Barn Night. The name pretty much sums it up. On the other side of town, I found a house with an actual barn next to it. A men’s only event, where they stood around talking, drinking beer & whiskey, and smoking cigars, all while classic rock played in the background. This wasn’t very far from what I envision hell being like. I tracked down my neighbor to let him know I was there. He asked what I thought of the music, I noted it wasn’t for me. Then he informed me there’d be a live band doing rock covers.

I put a hand on his shoulder and said “I need to get the fuck outta here, for the good of everyone.”

Even the quiet of the suburbs throws me off. Few things I find more unsettling than coming home late from work, being the only person getting off the train to empty streets and closed stores. And by late, I’m talking about 9:30pm, there’s not a soul in sight. No one walking their Maltese or Cane Corso. Why is there no in-between on dog breeds? Where are the pits at?

There needs to be some kids standing on the corner blasting dembow, so I don’t feel like a van will roll by and snatch me up. Yes, numbers would indicate that 300lb men are not your ideal kidnapping target. The act of lifting and tossing me in a van would lead to an awful night for all involved. Sadly, statistics and logic do little to quell my anxiety.

Even finding a meal at that hour requires you to hop in the car. Local supermarkets are shutting down at 9pm.

The ethnic aisle in these supermarkets consists of a handful of Goya products and some taco kits. As a sufferer of frequent mangu cravings, I need plátanos readily available.

My local Stop n Shop occasionally carries these tiny plátanos. It takes like four of them to feed one person. Now, conventional thinking would have you believe size doesn’t matter. Especially since you’re going to cut up the plátanos anyhow. But I need some plátanos that will make me feel insecure about my manhood. Dame unos plátanos Barahoneros!

Beggars can’t be choosers, as they say. I’m forced to grab my sack of plátanos and break the hell out. Of course, no mangu is complete without the proper accompaniment. Eggs, I had plenty of in the house, but I needed the salami or the cheese. Yo no necesito los tres golpes, let’s just make this a two-hitter.

Salami yo se que no iba encontrar, but they had to have some queso Tropical. I completed a full cavity search on the dairy aisle and found nothing. Cheddar, Colby Jack, Muenster, Parmesan, and Parmigiano, but no Tropical to speak of. The only ones with a Spanish pronunciation were cotija and manchego. Fine cheeses in their own right, but they won’t get anywhere near my mangu.

The time had come to ask for help, and I figured the deli counter would be the most appropriate spot. Sure enough, there was a Jamaican guy putting the turkey back in the fridge.

“Excuse me, brother. You guys carry queso tropical?”

He looked back at me and, without missing a beat:

“You looking for the frying cheese?”(I fought the urge to write that in a pseudo-Jamaican accent, but when reading, you do you.)

Yes sir! I gleefully responded

The look upon his face changed, and there was pain in his voice as he told me they don’t carry it.

“You won’t find it near here, but—”

What’s he pausing for? Give it up! My grip on the bag of baby plátanos tightened as the anticipation grew.

“Go to the Food Bazaar in Mount Vernon, them carry all that.”

Thanking him, I threw up a fist, I guess for solidarity, it was definitely weird. Either way, I put back the pint-sized plátanos, for someone else’s disappointment, punched Food Bazaar into Waze and drove the twenty minutes over there.

Not only salami and queso tropical, but longaniza as well. Y uno plátanos del tamaño de un brazo.

These are the sacrifices I’m forced to make for my family. My parents left their home to come to a foreign land. I put up with microaggressions and travel 20 minutes(on a good day!) to satisfy a craving.

En route, I even spotted a Dominican barbershop. In their endless creativity, it was literally called Dominican Barbershop. I’ll save that encounter for another edition.