In turbulent times in my life, I need a fresh injection of familiarity to re-center myself. Like most people, I’m disturbed my life changes. Yes, they occur, and yes, they can be weathered, but the comfort and certainty of what is—even if that is inherently uncomfortable and uncertain—can sometimes be preferable to the possibility of what can be, as that is undefined.

And that is what we call “conflict.”

Since I left New York years ago, I made sure to return frequently, two or three times a year if possible. They have been mostly happy affairs, where I indulge in my favorite place on earth, with some of my favorite people, and feel more a part of the world. Bellingham is a lovely place, but I do feel isolated from the things that make me tick. There was that one time I went home for my father’s funeral, but even that ended in a party and a celebration of an impending birth. This visit was one of the happy ones; my family descended upon the New York area to celebrate my nephew’s graduation from high school.

As my flight glided in over Jamaica Bay and into Kennedy Airport, I couldn’t help but think that this visit couldn’t have happened at a more necessary time.

Day 1: Pinstripe Pride

My party and I traveled separately, and my plane beat theirs to JFK by about 45 minutes—enough time to clear customs, retrieve my luggage, and head to their terminal and await their arrival. My niece (Nyilah), my brother (David), and his friend (Alicia), all came through the exit in a timely manner (I might have waited 10 minutes), and my sister Dionne, who graciously agreed to shuttle us from the airport to civilization, was still about 20 minutes out. We decided to pass the time as best as we could: by grabbing Dunkin’ Donuts, a franchise that is conspicuous by its absence in the Pacific Northwest. Alicia was mystified by our affection for this place; as a Canadian, her knowledge of coffee was limited to Tim Horton’s (which is everywhere in Canada) and Starbucks (which is everywhere else). “Imagine,” David says, “if Tim Horton’s was thugged out. Like, if it were run by DMX or something.” I did my best DMX growl to push the point home, and we got a laugh out of that.

20 minutes and a coffee later—water for me because I’m trying to be the first writer/night shift worker to go caffeine-free—my sister arrived and drove us the seven miles or so from JFK to her place in Brooklyn. During the trip, she and Nyilah caught up in the front seat; Nyilah left Brooklyn for Bellingham in March to pursue a career in sleep medicine, and even though they’ve talked every day, it was the first time they’ve seen one another in three months. David, Alicia and I sat in the back and mostly commented on how tired we were after a six-hour, cross-country, red-eye flight. We camped out at Dionne’s place for a while until my brother’s hotel room was ready.

When their room was finally ready, Nyilah and I rode with them into The City. Somewhere in the slow traffic in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge, I realized that despite the high-end amenities that migrated across the East River along with the people priced out of Manhattan, I was home. This was where I grew up, where I was tested and forged, where I learned patience and aggression in the same breath. These were lessons that were tested and relearned when we finally crossed into Manhattan and crawled along the FDR Drive.

After an hour or so we finally dropped off David and Alicia, we road-raged back to Brooklyn—a 30-minute drive dragged out to an agonizing 90 minutes. My sister lives in Canarsie, a neighborhood on the far eastern end of Brooklyn, and about as far away from Manhattan as you can get while still being in Brooklyn. It was an hour from Midtown to the Brooklyn Bridge and another 30 minutes from the bridge to her place. We were not impressed after that ride, and even though it had been 40 hours since I slept, I had to make a quick turnaround to get ready for the evening’s activity, catching the Yankees and Angels at the New Yankee Stadium.

Oh, hell yes.

A quick shower shocked me awake and made me keenly aware of how bad I must have stunk. I got dropped off at the L train and made my way to the Boogie-Down (Bronx), with a stop in Midtown to collect David and Alicia, and to meet up with my younger brother Akeem, with whom I would bunk for most of this visit. The ride on the 4 train from Grand Central Station was cramped and sweaty, but relatively short, and at the end of the rainbow was this beautiful oasis.

It was only my second visit to the New Yankee Stadium since its legendary predecessor was torn down in 2009. I haven’t quite developed as strong of an emotional connection to the new park as yet since I haven’t been here when the team has won just yet. But history hit me as soon as I walked in and I hoped tonight would be the night. The main attraction was super-rookie Aaron Judge (#99), a behemoth of a man who has not only been tearing the cover off the ball (.331 batting average with 24 homers and 55 RBIs going into that game), but has hit some mammoth home runs this year, including a nearly 500-foot blast that came to rest about 100 feet back and 20 feet up from my seat in the left field bleachers. Judge didn’t disappoint, and in the fifth inning, he drilled one 420-plus feet to dead center field. The team, however, did disappoint, and by the seventh inning my fatigue had caught up with me. I left with the team down 8-5, and we eventually lost 10-5.

Still, though, not a bad first day.

#2017 #family #Yankees #vacation #NewYorkCity #Brooklyn #Bronx #writing