My Local DMV

With all the madness going on in my life, I unfortunately had a blond moment and forgot to pay my car insurance, which resulted in receiving a license suspension notice from the DMV by a certain date, if my plates weren't returned to DMV. Or the other alternative was to pay the fine for the days I was uninsured. Of course, I opted for the latter.

Today was truly an errand day and everything worked out superbly. Has anyone noticed that Wamu Bank plays the best music? I had to ask the specialist how is that their music always takes me down memory lane? Apparently, the music is provided by Satellite radio. Ahhh, makes sense, as I jammed to Roy Ayres' "Running Away" while opening a business account (yay!). After spending half an hour at the local Wamu and getting a bank check for my hefty fine, I made my way down to the DMV Office.

Please note, I live in an urban part of Queens where Jamaica Avenue is the local shopping area. The community is heavily West Indian and Black American. It's not an area I frequent, unless I'm taking the E Train from Jamaica Center into the city. The shops are not my kind of fashion taste.

The DMV office was PACKED and to say the least, hot and stuffy. Monday was not the day to go to the DMV office; I should have done this on a Wednesday. People were angry. At one point a clerk retorted to a license holder, "SIR! Please step back! I need to take this woman's photo," and the man storming off with a "Damn" and mumbling a stream of expletives. It was going to be a long and uncomfortable wait.

I got in line, received my ticket, found a seat, and watched the board for my number, which was D862. The D's were at D856. Somewhat delighted, as I was sure this wasn't going to take too long. Wrong. Four o'clock rolled around and there was a standard announcement informing us that the DMV was now closed and they will not be letting anyone else in. This announcement repeated itself around three times. I sat there thinking, There's no way I'm getting out of here before 5pm. Then just out of the blue, the horns to the intro of Sade's "Is It A Crime," blares from the speakers. Everyone was startled and we all kind of looked about the office at each other. But within no time, we were humming, rocking, tapping feet, and swaying to Ms. Adu as her greatest hits graced our ears. Friggin' brilliant! The Jamaica, Queens DMV has it down to a science - "Quick! Put on some Sade, the natives are getting agitated!" Worked like a charm. I left the DMV singing, "Sweetest Tabu," and in a good mood.

I’m a New Yorker?

They say after 11 years of consistently living in New York City, you can claim the title of being a New Yorker. Approaching my 12th year of living in New York, can I truly claim this label?

From the first time I visited New York in 1992, her vibrancy -- which many major cosmopolitan cities try to emulate -- struck me like a new boyfriend you always want to be around. Her diversity forces one out of ignorance, with an energy that feeds passion. Where else can you experience music in the parks like those in New York City? From Central Park’s Summerstage featuring all the worlds music, dance and theatre, LES street fairs, East River Park's eclectic events with equal following, the Harlem book fair, the intimacy found at Mount Morris Park events, watching classic movies in Bryant park, events at Seaport to house music, reggae or hip hop jams in Fort Greene and Prospect Parks, the Atlantic Antic annual street fair, BAM, Wingate Festivals that are so nostalgic, you think you’re at a family gathering - and experiencing all this with friends and family during New York's summer heat.

One thing I love about New York, is within all the community and social gatherings, if you choose, you can go unnoticed for miles and days, becoming an invisible voyeur. Returning to work after a vacation, the coffee cart man near my job at the time asks, “Hey. Where you been?” He noticed I’d been away. I briefly told him where. His response was a short, “Nice,” and confirms my order without my actually making it, “large, milk, no sugar, plain croissant.” Not interested in details, just acknowledging a face he sees everyday. It is nice to be unnoticeably missed.

You’ve heard my rants about New York City cabs, but there are those times when you’re acquainted with a friendly driver, waffling on about whatever, and you interject at the right times with, “yeah,” “right,” “okay,” only to realize once you’re out of the cab, you were holding a conversation you didn’t understand much less what the topic was about.

But let’s not forget the grime of New York -- the things that certify me as a New Yorker by witness, as most things now, fail to unnerve me. The homeless are sadly making a come back. Our Mayor is more concerned with capitalistic gain rather than pool resources into the impoverished. So as a result more homeless people will be occupying the trains during peak hours (and trust me, it won't smell like roses either). I often get attention from the coherent ones, with the “Hey Cutie,” “I like your hair lady,” “How you doing baby?” with toothless grins and WTF! body odors. What’s upsetting about this is, these come-ons happen when I’ve actually made an effort for work by putting on a little mascara, lipstick, and being pleased with my overall reflection. It always leaves me with the deflated thought of, and this is all I can pull today...charming. Although I'm a certified snob to bum come-ons, I have felt that sense of loss when passing by my resident homeless person’s location and not see any remnants of their existence and think, Where is he? I hope he’s alright. It’s starting to get cold out here? Although we may see homelessness as a nuance and sheer laziness, they are human and often times, we don’t know the story of how they got there.

Then there's the thing of witnessing a wonderful sense of community. Being woken up out of your sweet slumber on a Sunday morning to hear a wailing woman running down the street should cause some alarm, right? Not. Living in New York City, hearing a wailing woman running down the street, with a herd of people running behind her, piques your curiosity because you know there's going to be some great entertainment. The right thing to do is call the police. But you know it's okay not to as the community will handle it good and proper. Poor guy.

New York is not without her perversity, and thankfully, I’ve not been flashed in public yet. But my most shocking sighting of homelessness was one morning on 52nd Street between 5th and Madison. My eyes often wonder about and fixated on a homeless guy who walked up to a green US Mail storing box, pulled his pants down and out shot poo. As quickly as he did it, was the same speed in which his pants came back up fleeing the scene. Completely shocked, and in disbelief of what my eyes just saw, I still made my way to the deli and bought my morning muffin to go. Obviously, I wasn't that distraught about it.

One night, driving around with a friend looking for a building in Harlem, someone slams and rolls across the bonnet of the car, a la Starsky and Hutch style and lands on the ground, closer to the passenger side. Car coming to a screeching halt and thinking, Oh my God, I just witnessed a killing, my friend got out of the car and gingerly stepped over to see if the person was alive. Bending down to touch the woman, she looked up and said, “You got a cigarette?” in the huskiest voice I’d ever heard. Turned out, she was a homeless junkie and being the honest citizen my friend was, he provided her with his car insurance information and she made a killing from Geico to feed her addiction.

Subway tales are never ending, and can be its own posting [note to self]. But one thing that must be duly noted is, New York City has the best underground train entertainment. From brilliant vocalists, musicians, break dancers, choirs, and most recently, Pole Dancers to spice up that ride. Sometimes I wonder why life is so hard for these panhandlers. But on reflection, life isn’t hard for them. These people manage to evade their taxes by doing the thing they love -- to live, while we pay our taxes doing something we kind of “like” to not have the things we love taken away. Maybe I should rethink my aspirations. But no, public excretion is too much to fathom.

So can I truly call myself a New Yorker? In all honesty, not completely. I still have difficulty navigating through the subway system. I still get lost downtown. I haven't tried to conform to "Americanism" by dropping my South London accent. But what I love and sometimes hate about New York, is its non-conformist attitude. Being "different" is embraced to a point of annoyance. I often try to keep responses short and pithy as not to bring too much attention to myself or else I get the leeches - who only want to know you because you're British.

So with my, I'd say, expatriate, 60% New Yorker, legal alien arse, I will take this all as license to crack on and get my citizenship. It's all about the elections of 2008! I've got to be a part of it.