77th and Roosevelt is the true JFK. Replace Boeing with the E, M, R,
F, and 7. Barreling overhead subway, thousands unload onto crowded
platforms. The spice hits you first, like peppers were plucked from the
traffic lights. A hint of cologne and exhaust. It shouldn’t work but it
absolutely does. Down the block, saris dyed in bright yellows
and pinks and oranges. Set next to fitted, trimmed kurtas. Black, green, or blue, all with intricate embroidery.
The go-to shops for Eid and Diwali. Weddings, too: bridal sets,
golden necklaces, and rainbow bangles adorned at storefronts.
Across the street, a class on haggling. Like Uncle didn’t know that
was the price for bangan. Aunties cutting lines like we don’t see
them. Sons, forced to come to Jackson Heights, double-parked on a
one-way. Q-Buses at the mercy of Camrys and Acuras. It’s chaos. It’s
perfect.
Praise the generations that brought a piece of home through customs.
Authentic outfits, palates, and audacity. I’ve come today for samosas
that soak brown paper bags with oil. Many mimic but they’re mild at
best. My clothes taste these chilis. Can’t leave without chai. Boiling
hot, light brown, fragrance of cardamom, cinnamon, and cloves. I
finish every drop. The bottom of the cup is the saddest sight. I’m
already homesick.
“Ode to Jackson Heights,” by Usman Hameedi, from Staying Right Here. Copyright © 2023 by Usman Hameedi. Courtesy of Button Publishing Inc.
Artist statement
I wrote this poem because I wanted to capture one of my favorite neighborhoods and share it with others. I love that Jackson Heights is so authentic, in its food options, attitude, and environment.
I have so many memories of us going there for groceries and dinner. It is always unapologetically Jackson Heights and in many ways it has taught me to stay true to myself.
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