Walking Queens Village

I close the door behind me, take a deep breath, and take two steps down into a peaceful courtyard. Looking to the right I see the vacant park benches where the old folks sit when it’s warm enough. There’s nobody outside on this dank, April morning except one courageous squirrel and a couple of hungry robins looking for their breakfast. . I say “hello” to my neighbor, a grandfather from Sri Lanka whose 5-syllable name I can never remember. Turning to my left I see 88^th Ave, a curved road lined with maple trees and cars of every color including my black Buick. The trees are now suddenly filled with green leaves. When did that happen… last night? I walk past my car, cursing the damn bird that dropped a giant turd on my windshield. Taking a shortcut through the 2-story buildings that make up my co-op development, I chuckle at the sight of a “No Trespassing” sign. Ha, I’m finally not a trespasser. I hope somebody stops me to ask why I’m on private property. My destination is my mom’s house on 219^th Street, the house I grew up in.

Queens Village has been my home for 37 of the 44 years that I’ve been alive. The streets and houses within its square blocks serve as a photo album filled with snapshots of my life. Another shortcut takes me past a row of green garage doors. I spot John Gunther’s old apartment. I notice the window of the tiny bedroom where I stayed for two weeks when I got kicked out of my house. This shortcut lands me right in front of my brother’s house. I had lived there for fourteen years until I bought my new place in February. I wonder how my nieces are, if there’s any mail for me, and why I haven’t yet started up the motorcycle that I’m keeping in his garage. Mom’s house is only four blocks away. I’ve decided to take the “scenic route” so I can see the old neighborhood. A middle-aged man is walking back from the store with his Sunday paper. An old, sickly-looking man is walking an old, sickly-looking dog. Technically, this is New York City. You wouldn’t know it from this morning’s tranquility. Even Springfield Blvd., a main road, is unusually quiet today. Passing by the chain of Mom & Pop stores brings back many memories. It also accentuates the subtle, yet obvious changes that the neighborhood has undergone. Neil’s Drug Store, Charlie’s Deli, Malley’s Candy Store, Downey’s Bar and Sam’s Cleaners are now a bodega, Nail Salon, Real Estate office, Laundromat and another bodega. What’s wrong with this picture? What happened to this place? Am I the only one left?

While feeling that the neighborhood has lost its charm and character, I continue down Springfield. People aren’t looking me in the eyes when I pass them. Moreover, they seem surprised when I offer a greeting. Throughout my walk I’ve been noticing new houses, all bland, square, brick structures with no personality or character. Our Lady of Lourdes (my old school) doesn’t appear to have changed at first glance. Something’s missing… The schoolyard’s empty… Where are all the kids? Why isn’t anybody playing stickball, football, hopscotch, or just riding bikes? I think of all the fun I had in this schoolyard. I remember the games, the fights and the random mischief. The big church has not changed on the outside either. A few people in jeans enter it, followed by three gray-haired ladies in dresses. The Q-27 drops off some more churchgoers, and then lumbers by as I make my way down to Jamaica Ave.

When I was a kid, going down to Jamaica Ave was called “going to the Village”. There was a certain “flavor” to the Village that I can no longer detect. The once magnificent Queens Theatre, for example, has been abandoned for years. In the early 70’s, the town united to protest the changing of the theatre’s films to porn. They not only stopped showing porn, they stopped showing everything. It remains boarded up to this day. Woolworth, Kitty’s Pizza, and Winter’s Ice Cream Parlor have been replaced by a 99-cent store, a Car Service, and one of those storefront churches. The city actually did a nice job restoring “the Plaza”. What was once a seedy hangout for druggies is now a tidy, memorial park dedicated to local war veterans. The once familiar flavor of the neighborhood might be gone, but it appears to have been replaced with an assortment of new and exciting flavors.

Queens Village has become enormously multi-ethnic. On this particular day, I pass by Haitians, Jamaicans, Filipinos, Puerto Ricans, Indians, Portuguese, Chinese, Koreans, Mexicans, just to mention a few. I like the diversity. Still, I sense something is a tad askew. On my walk, I couldn’t help but notice how everyone seems to be on his or her own little mission. Nobody seems to have time to deviate from what they’re intent on doing. Despite being crowded, I see little interaction between neighbors. As I watch the Village come alive on this day, I daydream of organizing a big Multi-Ethnic Festival on Jamaica Ave. It’s time to put QV back on the map! Let’s get everyone together and bring back The Village! I turn right on 218^th Street. Here are more brick boxes. Disgraceful! Can they make these houses any more hideous? A few homeowners are out doing yard work. There are a couple kids riding their bikes on the sidewalk. Ha! We never had to wear those stupid looking helmets. The snapshots of my childhood continue to present themselves. I pass the old homes of old friends, teenage hangouts and our old football field next to the library. I pick up the plethora of advertisements from mom’s stoop, walk up the driveway, take out my keys, and go inside the house of my childhood