The Seventh Day

It's strange when the neighborhood turns white.

I’m a white man who lived among the Black folks of Bedford Stuyvesant years before they started building cafes and hosting poetry readings.

I must admit, I side with the natives of this land when they say the white people are crazy and should not be allowed to buy up all the property here, just because they can afford to do it.

Someone bought the place next door and is gutting it out. He made all the tenants who lived there pack their shit a go.

I miss the ex-con who was my neighbor for years. He had a gun and I swear, he shot the thing in his back yard. He was simply practicing with his gun. I come from a land where they kill dear with guns and we practice all the time.

He must have thought I was crazy when I kept working in my garden, only yards away from where he was pulling the trigger.

He sat on his window ledge in the evening and smoked weed while I was on my stoop sipping Starbuck’s coffee.

He watched as tomatoes grew more than five feet high in my yard as the summer progressed.

We never struck up conversations and sometimes we had battles with our radios. He just loved the Notorious B.I.G. and I’m a BIG George Michael fan. George hadn’t had an album out in years, so last summer, I filled the airways of Bedford Stuyvesant with the lyrics, "I was going down for the third time. My heart was broken. I thought that loving you was out of the question. Then I saw my reflection and said please don’t let this go."

I played the song over and over again as the vegetables slowly grew.

My body still hurt badly from being paralyzed. But after learning to walk and use my mind again, the soil felt godly.

When I remember all that pain I realize that perhaps I was wishing that my neighbor would accidentally shoot me and put me out of my misery. It w

as a magical summer between my Black thug neighbor and I, even though we never struck up useless chat and poetry readings with one another.

It was nice to have an audience while I played Martha Stewart. I wonder what he thought when I was out there in my boxers and no t-shirt, bending over mooning him in the bright morning sun.

Hundreds of white people with their flower beds have moved in the Stye. None will replace the handsome thug with a gun.

A prissy white family will likely move in next door and I'll be forced to watch them outside roaming their gardens in their pajamas when I try to find peace while having my first cup of joe on summer mornings.

Despite all the new Martha Stewarts taking over the block, my garden is the most beautiful of all in New York City. They can plant all they want in their tiny beds. I have an entire backyard with a huge vegetable garden and a green thumb.

The apple tree and cherry tree are in blossom again.

It will not be long before I’m back outside with George Michael blaring away. I hope those Kelly Clarkson wanna bees like Eighties Queens!

I don’t think I’ll enjoy "Patience" without the subtle rhythms of the Notorious rapper singing back-up to Mr. Make It BIG.

I just hope white people don’t move in and ruin the vibe of the Garden of Eden with their hill billy music.