This concrete-jungle had been painted green for my arrival, which was in great contrast to the sandy oasis of the Phoenix valley that I previously called home. Rumbling over the Whitestone Bridge, I caught the first glimpses of the Manhattan skyline delicately balanced on top of the shattered-glass East River. The taxi swerved around highway potholes and debris, continuing towards my new home where I began to feel the pulsing beat of The Boogie Down.

My years in The Bronx danced in bachata, the rhythm and soul were present from the smokestacks in the clouds to the rats in the dumpsters. I had somehow scored an invite to the greatest party in America, becoming one with the Bruckner Boulevard and the neighborhood Halal cart. 

The Bronx is a sisterhood. 

This ‘hood took me as I was, for all of my fears and insecurities and biases and frustrations. She offered to drive me home in the dark and carry my groceries up sixteen floors. She protected me from the figures in the dark who drunkenly called out in lust. She provided privacy to cry at the 207th street, 1-train station. With tear-stained, bloodshot eyes, I thanked the woman for allowing me to sit where her purse once rested. 

When I was twelve, I was selectively mute. My mouth refused to utter the knot of barbed wire that formed in my throat. How much violence can a child witness before it is all she sees? A family could raise their fists in anger, winding up for the blow, but never once would she retaliate. How many words can stab a child’s heart before there’s no muscle left to pierce? The family would call her ugly, a “porch-monkey”, a selfish and disrespectful daughter, but not one sound was fired back. 

With her knotless braids, French tips, and newest Balenciagas, The Bronx schooled me in authenticity and grit.

“Speak up” She yelled when I only dared to whisper. 

“Talk back.” She instructed as I hid in the shadows.  

Ella me ayudó aprender mi idioma secundaria porque I had to pay my dues to the sisters before me. The Dominican salons, the churro stand, the running club that met on Tuesday nights each separately demanded my respect. If I was to be accepted into this Grand Concourse family, I had to show my determination. Before The Bronx, I was swayed by the whims of those around me. I found survival in ruthless adaptability, porous boundaries, and a welcome-mat disposition. How else was a lanky, Black girl from a mosaic “family” in a thousand cities supposed to endure? It took only one woman pushing me aside in the Fordham shopping district to straighten my back and puff out my chest. This is not a borough for the weak. 

I walked on the cracked sidewalks towards a restaurante Oaxaceño en el Sur del Bronx with a purple awning, the front door littered in bumper stickers reading Liberación, Refugees Welcome, and No Cops Here. I was greeted with warm hugs and handshakes of solidarity; I was not there to eat, but to serve. With a knife in hand, I sliced apples and carrots while dozens of hungry people stood in line outside of the glass entryway, singing along to Benito playing proudly from the apartment across the street. The owners, both undocumented and steadfast in advocacy work, taught me everything I needed to know about life in one day. 

1. We are nothing without our community, and 
2. We are nothing if we do nothing for our community. 

This sister of mine kissed my deepest wounds. Nightmares of a mother, ex-partners, ghosts of the past, and killers of the future were no longer wedged into whatever miniscule crevices were left in my brain, rather they were brought forward in a light of solidarity. My stories were met with knowing nods and finger snaps. 

This is a love letter to my soulmate, my sister, El Bronx. Not only did she understand this life, but she had lived it with all of its pain and all of its pleasure.

Destiney Kirby is a senior medical and public health student in New York City as well as an up and coming writer. She explores identity and the human experience through her lyrical, impressionistic writing style that she has developed through her essay “Everybody Has A Story” published in Pulse-Voices from the Heart of Medicine, essay “On Hair Care” published in ROOM, and through the New Directions writing fellowship.