I didn’t hang out with my old friends in Jamaica anymore. The route I took to the subway was along Hillside Avenue, so I rarely even ran into them. Even when we were close, my friends and I had never gone down the hill. I’d only ventured to South Jamaica when my father took us to the movies or my mother brought me to dance class.
The differences between the two communities on either side of Hillside had already been ingrained in me. As much as I loved the candy store and the Jamaican beef patty place that I stopped in almost every day on my way home, the tartan kilt, blazer, knee socks, and loafers I wore made it hard for me to blend in. But I never felt unsafe. On the white side of the neighborhood at the top of the hill, I had once felt comfortable, but I was never safe.