Discover… Y, H and Ñ

Photo: Angela M. Counts

Often we encounter a city nostalgically, never really seeing it’s real attributes but looking at it through the lens of old movies, novels, and popular imagination. Think London, Paris, Cairo, Hong Kong, Mexico City, and Chicago, even our dear Boston. “Go Red Sox!”

But what if we slow down and enter the space we’re in? Breathe it in. Look at its contours, like reconsidering an old lover. What do her hands really look like?

"Yield, But Don't Walk"
Photo: Angela M. Counts

Y – Yield. As a constant commuter and not a flaneur sadly, I view the city from its road signs. I must always be ready to yield, to stop, but rarely can I pause or reflect.

H – Honan-Allston Public Library. Upon entering this quiet space of books, I notice the soaring skylights and just below old men perched on cushy leather chairs facing the sun and Harvard Street. Walking further, I find tucked in the back of the library a room where an English language tutorial is taking place. And just outside of the classroom is a hallway dedicated to an art exhibit. 

Ñ – As I walk the labyrinth of the Allston Library, I hear the voices of an ESL teacher and his student.  The teacher: How old are you? The student: My son is five and my daughter is two. The teacher repeats the question twice more, and then the man replies “I am thirty-two.” His voice is much older sounding than his 32 years. But there is determination in it.

"Dirty Money"
Photo: Angela M. Counts

Just past the room with the two men, I encounter a turnstile, like the kind one used to see in five and dime stores, the kind that used to hold paperbacks. In this section of the library are resources for new U.S. immigrants, and on the turnstile is a novel with the title: Dirty Money. While I position my camera to take a picture of the turnstile, a youngish man waits patiently. I peruse the books and English language guides enclosed in plastic, a respectful distance between us. I feel like an immigrant, that there is an unspoken bond between us. A half-hour later, I leave the library with a new card and a new book by Joyce Carol Oates. Up ahead, I see the man walking down the street with one of the books enclosed in a special plastic carrying case.