The Bronx is Gratuitous
By Emilia Tanu
To read this piece and others in the print version of the zine. Order here.
Tenderness.
Is the world truly devoid of tenderness?
My little family of four(ish, depending on how you want to count Bernard of Clairvaux, our celibate monk cat) had lived in the South Bronx neighborhood of Mott Haven for two years. We moved there to be closer to my work in urban education. In addition, we have a community of like-minded friends in the area and were able to find an affordable childcare option for our toddler and infant.
Like most young families in New York City, we have moved roughly every 1-2 years due to the circumstances of various jobs, finances (rising rents, the pandemic, the changing economy), and my husband’s medical training. Each time we’ve moved, Christ’s gratuitous love has shone through the tenderness of strangers whom you have no choice but to s-q-u-e-e-z-e by–physically and socially–through the hallways of a an overpriced walkup or a narrow, dirty sidewalk.
Surprise must be one of God’s favorite ways to crack postmodernity. His power to soften the human heart, to render it unassuming and defenseless, is sheer proof of his divinity. And if there are defenses…if one insists on holding onto the illusion of her own self-sufficiency, the increasingly untenable socio-economic reality of living in a city like New York forcefully shatters it all. Deeply aware of my own contingency, I find myself begging to be surprised by grace…for a divine encounter in a sprawling metropolis–where it can take a regular commute of 30 minutes to an hour to see a dear friend in-person.
I was surprised by the gratuity of God’s tenderness through the encounters with neighbors I don’t actually know, by neighborhoods in which I was a mere honored guest…the Invisible made almost too visible.
In my newlywed apartment, somewhere on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, my husband and I had a neighbor named Cathy, whom we would run into at daily Mass on occasion. An older single woman with a massive white dog, we would occasionally make small talk, until one day she shared her phone number. She would send poorly written texts to us about local retreats and events at the parish, disregarding any social discomforts of the age gap between us and dive into small talk about controversial topics like vaxxing.
In my first baby apartment, somewhere in Alphabet City, our elderly, single, female, neighbor named Alex lived in one of the few rent-controlled apartments in the building. A lifelong member of the community garden across the street who, assailed by multiple health problems that left her frequently homebound, would slip the registration form of the community garden under our door as well as flyers about local neighborhood events. And when Ellie was born, she gave her a custom mosaic “E,” made up of various pink stones. Her two front doors had funky, earthy decals, and we could hear her lively conversations with guests in Spanish through our walls.
Mott Haven is where we had lived the longest so far. Upon our first of many daily commutes to daycare, the grocery store, church, work, or visiting friends, pushing Ellie in a stroller, many persons on the street would give their blessings to Ellie. At our local subway stop, we had many people (sometimes they are not the most sane or sober) help carry our stroller up the stairs. Pam, who lived on the third floor of the building next door, would look out her window and yell out to say hi to Ellie scootering around on the street below. Loud compliments, unsolicited advice (admonishments) about the fact that we didn’t put a hat on her, “she’s going to get sick,” “watch your step on the sidewalk,” “you dropped this stuffed animal!”
“Hi baby!”
“¡Que linda!”
Mercedes, our other next door neighbor, asked us if we wanted to buy her house as she hopes to move to Florida for retirement. Jay, our landlord, who frequently wears Christian graphic t-shirts a la 2000s Hillsong allowed us to be flexible with extending our lease on a day-to-day basis while we planned for our next move.
Our back porch neighbor, Danny, whose windows looked into ours, invited us to a community fair celebrating Taino (people indigenous to Caribbean islands like Puerto Rico) culture in the garden on our corner, which he runs. The garden’s members frequently partied into the summer nights on the sidewalk while our next door neighbors from Barbados and the DR played their competing sounds of reggae and bachata.
“If she ever wants to come in here we need to put her in a mosquito net!”
“Come in and I’ll share some eggs from the chicken coop!”
“Hey are you all coming to the party this weekend? We’ll be on the other side of the garden.”
In our neighborhood, there was no lack of desire to live. It was infused with a fierce presence of sounds, smells, and fashions. They found ways to resist the despair of the “daily grind,” simply by their vibrant personalities and being unapologetically themselves.
The flowers, banners that ripple, candles shining through the night at the Shrine to Our Lady of Guadelupe across the precinct. A health code violation BBQ, erected on the sidewalk, on the first day it hit above 60 degrees. Gushing water from fire hydrants and speakers in the trunks from SUVs. Unsolicited small talk from the devout Muslim man who runs the bodega across the street about how Viagra isn’t going to improve a relationship because it does not improve the emotional connection between two people.
We recognized that we were guests in Mott Haven–and it was an honor to be welcomed here with gratuitous love. Gratuitous love has looked like Ellie getting a free lollipop every time we went to the little Mexican grocery store. Gratuitous love looks like getting hand-me-down toddler Tims, an Adidas tracksuit set, toddler Uggs, and Marvel superhero Jibbitz for tiny Crocs from Ellie’s daycare teacher Miss Nicole.
A list that is almost endless, it is the gratuity of unconditional, sometimes unable-to-be-reciprocated love that can only heal the suffering of loneliness.
As my family moves on to the next step, to another neighborhood to be closer to my husband’s work, I will keep my eyes open for the gratuity of people’s humanity which resembles a spark of the divine. Lest I forget…I’ll fall back on my heart, whose caverns of loneliness and neediness will beg to be surprised once more.
Emilia is a wife and mother of 2 who lives and works in New York City. Her work includes the formation of Catholic educators who serve in under-resourced communities. Emilia’s personal charism involves being way too excited about the vocation of the laity in today’s cities. Read her piece on being an unironic tradwife. @etchornay10