Movin' On Mon

The Top Ten Signs I Need to Leave Flatbush

10.) I actually put in a harder days work than all of my neighbors combined – and I'm unemployed.

9.) I sometimes confuse my cat Grace for one of the super-sized rats.

8.) I prefer excreting in a toilet rather than the corner of Nostrand and Lenox.

7.) The average wait time for a train is 45 minutes, as one of the resident stinky bums is sure to leap on the tracks before the subway hits Winthrop St.

6.) My skin color is such a novelty, it is hard to make the three block walk home without being pet at least once.

5.) I've begun to eschew the name Christie, and answer only to: Snow White, White Girl, Bitch, and I'd Hit That.

4.) My new perfume is called, Eau De Friedchickenpizzapoop

3.) My neighbors fervently reassure me daily of Jesus' pending arrival and I just don't have enough room for all of us in my junior one bedroom.

2.) I am not the only Christie Cassano on the block – some other nice ladies like me enough to borrow my identity when getting a manicure or even an abortion.

1.) Tyrannosaurus Roach infestation. Yummy...


I'm going to hell, but bear with me. I've kept mum all year regarding my living situation, but reticent I shall be no more. Tomorrow, I pack up my shizzle and leave dis crib (sorry, ahem. I'm under the influence of hood-speak) for the next unlucky, unknowing New York newbie eager to catch a domicile deal. I thought of etching a note into the closet to the effect of "RUN NOW", but we each need to travel our roads and learn our lessons alone, no? After all, a year ago, this felt right. Even after two months I could write off my more interesting days as "roughing" it. Somewhere between the furniture-grinding sex above me and the apparent donation of my wallet to Key Food, it became virtually unbearable – that I would sooner spend the weekend with my parents than in Brooklyn. Walking down Nostrand Ave is like taking a cheese grater to my nerve endings.
Maybe it's the black supremacist who waits at the subway exit (I do a pretty good Russian accent now to ward him off… "No speak English. Just walk home…"). Or maybe it happened when my neighbors decided to steal some speakers and blast the new 50 Cent album on repeat at all hours, base vibrating the light fixtures. For fear of coming across as a racist I want to make one thing clear – this is hardly an issue of skin color as it is human decency. If anything, the denizens of Flatbush have a bigger issue with my skin color than visa versa.
It's strange, but a part of me wishes I could just bottle up a piece of this experience. That way, I could never get too carried away with myself as things grow better. Of course, if it were possible to bottle up certain pieces of life experience, I think we'd all have shelves full of bottles to reflect upon (and they'd be a bitch to move). I came to New York resolute on holding onto the peace I found in Oklahoma, not letting this abrasive place rattle me so much outside of reality. Flatbush definitely shook me up beyond remedy of friends and wine, but I observed the change happening. I think it's okay to get a little hard when the ultimate goal is survival. Now I have no excuse. I have my cute little apartment with it's cute little balcony and my cute little cat and my cute little boyfriend and it's time to start living in New York.


Arrivederci Little West Indies!