My neighbourhood in Brooklyn is just perfect. Gentrification will make its sure‑footed way to my little corner eventually, but for now that’s still a way off. This means I can afford my rent and enjoy the bang for my buck in square footage and transport links. Some mornings, when I get my coffee with a side order of small talk at the independent, black-owned coffee shop three minutes from my front door, I let my mind wander. This would be a cute scene in the utterly mundane but somehow compelling biopic based on my life. Then there are days that feel like a very different sort of movie. The type of movie that sees the police in attendance at the laundromat on a sunny Saturday afternoon.
There is no pub culture here, so I’ve learned to find the pleasure of community in the launderette; this is the place through which all human life passes. As I separated my darks and lights, Elaine complained about her “giant freak head” on a Seinfeld repeat on the telly. A few metres away, something rather more bruising was brewing. The powder keg’s constituent parts: a man; his rambunctious young children; a woman just trying to get through her mountain of laundry in peace; and the type of bright sunshine that begets elation and/or rage. Today’s lesson? Do not admonish a stranger’s kids, even when the father appears to be oblivious of the noise his offspring are creating. Insults were traded, slurs were yelled, threats made as children cried. The only thing to dull the excitement was the arrival of the police.
Afterwards, we experienced a communal comedown, folding quickly and avoiding eye contact. Even perfect neighbourhoods have their less than perfect days. This is home now.
