“Writing the Apocalypse” is a weekly series featuring the poems, essays, and recollections of Puma Perl, with subject matter influenced by her experiences as a NYC resident during the COVID-19 pandemic.

 

Fear/less: Still My City | BY PUMA PERL

You’re too stupid to be afraid, my mother used to say.

Maybe I was. Wandering the streets, riding subways,

entranced by the Red Hook light hitting metal,

by the clotheslines, the pigeon coops.

Getting lost, coming home after dark.

Keeping secrets.

 

Painfully shy, my fear of people never caused fear of my city.

 

I was not afraid, at age seven, in Brownsville,

going to the store with my cousins,

tucking our dollar bills under our arms,

just in case.

 

Not afraid, at nine, walking to Coney Island

along McDonald Avenue, the rank smell

of caged chickens following us,

trying to find out if it was still all there

in the winter.

 

Not afraid the night I rode up to El Barrio alone

because the Young Lords had taken over a church

and I believed that the cause would keep me safe.

And it did.

 

I learned the rules of the street along the way.

Who to avoid. When to keep your mouth shut.

Stay away from doorways. Walk like you know where you’re going. Don’t take your money out. Jump the gates. Climb the fences.

Run faster than the knife that might cut your pretty young face.

Don’t tell anyone.

 

Survival skills.  And no matter how smart they are,

young girls never get away unscathed.

Some bad people, some bad nights.

 

But I was never afraid of my city.

 

We are still here, making music and poetry, making art.

Sometimes with others, mostly alone.

But we’re here, mourning the dead, shouting at the news,

voting early, holding it together. Most of the time.

Or some of the time.

But still trying.

 

At the beginning, we texted, we called.

Are you ok? Are you ok? Are you ok?

Greetings to everyone, messaged Ron from Prague.

Be safe, my darlings.

My Italian friend called from Treviso.

Stay home, Puma, he said.

Read a book. It will be over.

Someday.

 

More texts/

Are you ok? Are you ok? Are you ok?

 

We never used to take attendance.

Not even in the 70’s when they called it

Fear City.

 

Back then, like now, we were not afraid of our city.

 

We were always home.

On rooftops, street corners, broken

glass, basement clubs.

There was no word for homeless.

We were always home.

 

I am not afraid of my city.

Neither am I intrepid.

 

My heart races on the subway stairs

and stepping into elevators.

My eyes sweep the crowd.

Masks, no masks, masks.

My hands reach for the sanitizer,

the wipes, the spray.

 

But I’m no longer afraid of people.

And I am not afraid of my city.

 

I hate every new wrinkle and crumbling tooth but I’m glad

that I did not grow up in fear. And I got to grow old.

I remember the feeling of invulnerability.

 

What in the world,

like Bowie said,

What in the world can we do?

 

We live, those who have survived.

I live.

Newscasters look at us with sad eyes.

Sometimes we get scared, too.

 

But when I lie in bed at night,

thirteen flights above the river,

listening to the rain,

traffic noises muted,

I am struck almost senseless

by the lights of the bridges and

the safety of my concrete walls

 

I am not afraid of my city.

 

puma perl, revised 10/20/20

Puma Perl is a poet and writer, with five solo collections in print. The most recent is Birthdays Before and After (Beyond Baroque Books, 2019.) She is the producer/creator of Puma’s Pandemonium, which brings spoken word together with rock and roll, and she performs regularly with her band Puma Perl and Friends. She’s received three New York Press Association awards in recognition of her journalism, and is the recipient of the 2016 Acker Award in the category of writing. Her most recent books can be found by clicking here.

 

 

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