I'm a Stranger Here Myself

The guys working the counter of my favorite deli on Atlantic Ave are convinced I'm Lebanese. My wool cap, they swear, is a burnoose; my features have a clear Middle Eastern stamp. Not that I know of, I smile, waiting as they take their time packing up my lamb patties. They are unswayed, and throw in a package of pitas for free. Ma'assalama, they call as I head out the door.

Closer to home, I stop by my corner bodega for the Times. The guy working the afternoon shift calls out "Hello beautiful lady!" when I walk in the door. We're friendly; he's had a long day and is eager to chat. It's cold, but at least it keeps the teenagers from loitering on the corner; he has yet to hear about his medical residency interviews. "Are you an immigrant?" he asks, the apparent natural next step in our conversation. "Pretty much everyone in this country is, at some point," I deflect, reaching into the fridge for milk. "No, you look like you just came over." What does that look like, I wonder? Brown hair, brown eyes; I could be from anywhere. I tell him that my mother is first generation American. "Ah, I could see it in your face. And of course, your accent." "I'm from New Jersey, I can't help it!" I laugh in protest as I make my escape.

I myself go through phases of thinking I recognize everyone I pass on the street, but what are the chances of that in New York? In a city of 8 million, I see my deli friends more regularly than I do some closer members of my urban family. No one wants to be anonymous; we all nervously tug at the threads of community, making sure they're there, just in case. Lost in the crowds we recognize what we want to see and, for a moment, feel less alone.