⧉ A neighborhood ramble
Welcome to the seventh issue of OVERLAP ⧉

A neighborhood ramble
Where do you live? is a loaded question; the answer is tabulated and the response is rendered as a brief flicker of judgement or approval. New Yorkers have memorized a secret index of cool — an internalized database that’s constantly updated with fresh information.
If you’ve ever been a regular somewhere, you know this feeling: the profound satisfaction of familiarity corrupts the database and disrupts the hierarchy of the index. In a city where everyone is anonymous, recognition comes as a surprise and carries an unexpected power. In other neighborhoods, the sidewalks are cleaner, the light is more golden, and the street art is more inspired. But those neighborhoods aren’t home.
My family and closest friends live in other places; when I’m not traveling or hosting, weekends are for catching up on the things I’ve neglected during the week. Saturday mornings are surprisingly quiet in this part of town, and I relish the time spent wandering between errands.
I start my day at a cafe that is never empty but somehow always has an open seat or two. Its lattes are designed for drinking and not for Instagram, which may be why it’s never overcrowded. Ariz takes my order at the register and adds an extra stamp to my loyalty card. I settle in at the counter, sipping coffee and writing in my notebook. Marcela walks by and slips me a cornetto, glazed with honey, on a bright white plate. It’s smaller than the others, she says, so she doesn’t want to sell it. She winks and walks away.
A few blocks away, Ishwari burns incense in her shop, and the air inside feels fresh and heavy at the same time. I’m looking at the jackets, and she steps on a ladder. The shelves are stacked high with folded cotton in vibrant colors and patterns. She pulls out one I hadn’t seen from the ground and drops it down for me to try. It’s perfect, and she has an almost mischievous look when I try it on. She just has a way of knowing what looks good on someone, she says, and I believe her.
Across the street, I duck into a market to refill empty jars in my pantry: split yellow peas, jasmine rice, cinnamon. It’s a labyrinth of aisles inside — what used to be a few separate storefronts, now connected by interior doorways. A row of rice and lentils, a shelf of hot sauces, an alcove of oils, tea upstairs, spices everywhere.
At the pet store, Jose watches with an amused smile as I strap 40 pounds of cat litter to my luggage cart. You know we deliver, he says, then sprints for the door. The shop cat has wandered out on the sidewalk again. I make my own escape and roll my purchases down the block.
Scott, the afternoon doorman, holds his hand up for a high five when I walk through the building lobby. I check my mail while he tells me his latest idea for a podcast: interviews with other doormen in the city. They’ll share stories about residents — anonymous, of course — and the scenarios they encounter.
I’m still thinking about the stories these doormen might tell while I put groceries away. I’ve been out for a while, and I wonder if the baristas and shopkeepers are on their way home by now. People make the neighborhood, and the neighborhood is in constant flux.
Light cuts through the balcony window, shifting west and throwing the east side of the Empire State Building into shadow. Low-slung blocks of townhouses and converted stables fill the foreground — architectural leftovers from a time when the well-heeled gentry housed their servants and horses on the downhill slope between Madison Avenue and the East River. Lights switch on in distant windows, hanging like lanterns on a darkening skyline.
Many people come to New York to feel the freedom of anonymity, and disappearing in a crowd is its own secret power. But connecting to the past and longing to be known in the present are deeply human desires. Every neighborhood has a community — maybe hundreds of little communities. Finding your own is, at least in part, a matter of paying attention.
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Remember the fourth issue of this newsletter, when I wrote about a class at the School for Poetic Computation? I started the piece above during that workshop. My fellow classmates helped me refine my idea, and Joanne McNeil, our instructor, gave the most helpful editorial feedback I’ve ever received. I’m incredibly grateful for their generosity.
I’d love to hear what you think — reply to this email or send a note through my website. You can also forward this to a friend or two and invite them to subscribe. All the archives are online, if you’ve missed any previous transmissions.
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Auntie Jess recommends:
Poets of color. Code Switch celebrated National Poetry Month with a beautiful episode.
Homecoming. An entirely different kind of poetry — the glorious spectacle kind. If you haven’t watched this film by Beyoncé, I don’t know what’s wrong with you.
Small Riot. Many celebratory Beyoncé gifs were exchanged when my bestie sent the first issue of her newsletter on Sunday. Subscribe now so you can say you knew Rachel James before she was famous.
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Thanks for reading. I’d love to hear from you — hit reply to share your favorite neighborhood secrets, poetry recommendations, newsletter boss ladies, or anything else that’s on your mind.
Until next time,
Jessica
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