Washington Heights

WASHINGTON HEIGHTS, EAST MEETS WEST.

Bodies are piled on top of each other, but they are plastic. They are only clothed from the waist down. Rows of luggage line the street, staring at people all day long, longing to be taken far away. Boxes of toiletries are heaped into open boxes and men stand before this scene as night bears down on the sky. Time is up. Sometimes they look satisfied while other times they hold a nervous jitter of disappointment; it all depends on how many deodorants are left, or how many bodies have been unclothed. In short, it all depends on how many dollars they have made today.

The morning comes and a different, yet closely similar, crew begins to fill the sidewalks. They push carts with fruit, knives, plastic bags and containers. For hours they peel, they chop, they squeeze and they turn oval shaped mangoes into flowers.

The scene is not a remote land. It is New York City. One of the truest eclectic cities in the world, so true to its promise of diversity that there are still refugees and CEO’s living in closer proximity than people realize.

I recently moved to Washington Heights. Although I have lived in other countries, I have never before felt an immediate culture shock so unexpectedly. I suppose that is where the “shock” comes from. Washington Heights is a funny land. Usually when you mention the neighborhood to people downtown they have one of two impressions and both are guided by their obvious divide: east if Broadway and west of Broadway.

East of Broadway is what my broker referred to as a place for “The Lower East Side refugees.” It is the place that all the LES rent-stabilized tenants were pushed into when their neighborhood decided to become gentrified and sell less fried “pastelitos” and more Soy Latte’s. It is the place where English is seldom heard and the fondness of home lands fills the air met with the stench of financial struggles. The rhythm is always festive and almost every week there are flags waved; many flags of red, white and blue but none with stars. Women hang clothes on their fire-escapes and men turn sidewalks into porches. It’s like the past floated by and stalled somewhere between Wadsworth and Amsterdam…

Broadway, living up to its fame of making bold statements, is the divide. The other side has no flowered cut mangoes or “pastelitos.” Men do not sit on the sidewalks, rather they walk their puppies to Starbucks, and jog their jogging strollers through the beautiful hills of “The Heights” (Yes, West of Broadway they call Washington Heights ‘the heights’) Mothers do not solely dominate the day-time play scene at the playground. In this neck of the heights, there are almost just as many stay-at-home dads. There are also many Jack and Jill’s that have not only one mommy, but two. People stop and chat, coming in out and out of small gourmet stores, sipping the newest organic wheat grass juice. Yet, there is still a spicy element to ‘The Heights’ that maintains it’s differentiation from the pretentiousness and stifled creativity of let’s say –The Upper West Side. Somehow, the aroma of the freshly fried “pastelitos” or the monotonous beats of high pitched meringue float across the Broadway divide. They float to the playgrounds where little blonde girls are learning to say “gracias” and “por favor”, to where organic mothers recently relocated from San Francisco rave about the fresh fruit on the “other side” of Broadway. To where, everyone has a Hispanic friend or neighbor.

Although there are vast disparities between these two realms, divided by a mere block or so, they still manage to infiltrate between each other and one would certainly not be the same without the other. Alone they would be untouchable by outsiders, exclusive and “cliquey.” Yet Washington Heights holds such a distinctive nature because the ports between these two lands are still open.

The culture clash between the two is palpable in countless ways. However, as a parent this is where I notice it the most. The parents East of Broadway, predominantly Hispanic, have a more old fashioned way of parenting. When their children misbehave they get a spanking, when two adults are talking a child is never to interrupt. The West of Broadway parents, who all seem to bear their first child “later in life” see this discipline oriented manner of parenting as “passé”. They read books on parenting and follow guidelines the way one would when conducting a scientific experiment. They have a parental-vernacular which includes “good listening”, “good sharing”, “let’s compromise” and “as we discussed.” Today at the play-ground a mother asked her temperamental daughter if she needed some “private time.”

Sociologists could have a field day with this place. They would probably have to question why the more progressive West (economically) has less innate parental abilities. I am certain that more westerners could handle business negotiations or tell you which company has the most promising stocks. They could also probably tell you which pediatricians in NYC are rated at the top. Yet, if you want to stop a parent on the street and ask him/her a natural remedy for a childhood ailment or the best way to rock a baby to sleep-you’ll have better luck on the East side of Broadway.

I worry that one day Washington Heights will loose its charm. That, like the Upper West Side, the magnetic impulse to deviate to a like-kind will prevail and yuppies will seek yuppies. The Real estate industry will use this opportunity to charge higher, highly unreasonable, rents and slowly there will be less of a relationship between two worlds that have converged on the basis of propinquity. It is feared that eventually the diversity at the playground will curdle into a homogeny of parents who share results rather than stories.

Eventually there will be a new Washington Heights and the current residents on the East side of Broadway will be called the “Washington Heights refugees.” Newcomers who can afford $2500 a month rent or 1 million dollar co-ops will sit at the playground and hear stories from veteran parents of “the heights” about what “east of Broadway” used to be like. Each newcomer will receive a different tale. Some will hear about how bad the neighborhood used to be, down the hill, on the other side of Broadway and how happy they are now they the neighborhood has improved. Others, however, will fondly remember the flower cut mangoes and the friend their daughter had in school who taught her how to say “Como estas?” Yet, the refugees will not care about these stories, good or bad. Rather they will be encompassing a new neighborhood, as they feel shoved from one hole in Manhattan to another trying to survive; never truly knowing the positive they have done for our city.

My point is that Washington Heights, as divided as it may seem, may be disjoined economically but socially it is a place of acceptance. Since I have been living here I have often found that tour books and tour guides are flawed in their failure to mention Washington Heights. Of all places, Washington Heights is the perfect exemplification of true New York. And they should all jump on the bandwagon while they can. While the drums are still banging and the hips are still swaying, before the heritage of this town becomes too expensive to survive.

- Shamie Cuthbert