A few months ago, I read about an oil leak under Brooklyn.
I don't want to look it up. I don't want to feel like a journalist -- I will next week, I promise. I want to trust what I know just now -- what I write and what feels like
my father grew up in Brooklyn. I used to come here (I'm here for a writing conference this week) every year. I remember one year when I begged my father to not say (to my grandmother) when I was coming in to town and let me wander around for a few hours on my own. But I got out at 42nd Street -- and it was scarier then. People would offer me money -- people would whistle and offer and I couldn't have been much more than 10...
An oil leek in Brooklyn.
Sometimes there is just something wrong with where you come from. It's been broken and dalapetated enough to let
the toxic waste pour all around the foundation
of the very place you grew.