I grew up in New York. Not the five boroughs. Not Long Island. Not Westchester. Not even Albany. I grew up in Niagara. Next to Buffalo and Canada. This means for the first 16 years of my life when people asked how living in New York City was, my response was “I’m not sure, I’ve never been. I basically live in southern Canada.”
My first time in NYC, I was auditioning for Juilliard. Whilst I didn’t get in, I’ll never forget taking the subway 10 blocks the wrong direction. I’ve since learned what uptown means. Where I’m from, “uptown” isn’t a concept. We just say we are going downtown. I’d never also never seen a region mostly full of non-white people that wasn’t the reservations. The music, the food, the idea that no one is out of place was relieving. In Buffalo, unless you like church or football, you’re pretty much on your own. Much like Alabama!
The Partnership For The Public Good conducted a study that found the Buffalo-Niagara metropolitan region is the sixth most racially segregated city in the United States. Within the black population of the city of Buffalo, 85 percent of them live on the East Side. The city also has 51 census block groups with limited access to grocery stores. All 51 one of these groups are located on the East Side of Buffalo. Buffalo has the highest rate of child poverty.
I currently live on campus at Mercy here in Dobbs Ferry. This is where I learned that not only proper bus stops are a real concept, but that people actually use them! I also learned that sidewalks weren’t just for the wealthy neighborhoods. I notice the lack of green space but the abundance of deer. And the solitary wolves that appear to be starving. I’ve found I am also often the only person with a driver’s license in my friend groups. The idea of the subway being used for more than just the hockey stadium is honestly overwhelming. Everything back home is always a 20 minute drive away. Anything under four hours is considered a day trip. I find here, many complain beyond 15 minutes.
I know farmers, hunters, the people around me who sustain the community by their labor in the fields. Last semester, I helped harvest an American Buffalo. No gloves, covered in blood. Some of the animal meat was still warm. I sent photos to my friends here in Westchester, most of them were horrified. To me, it was just an average Monday. I grew up near Seneca and Tuscarora Haudenosaunee reservations. They are regions owned and governed by indigenous peoples. Whilst most in Buffalo go to the reservations for gasoline or marijuanna, they are also rich in culture and community.
The community in Buffalo is also heavily surrounded by sports. I’ve always said we aren’t a sports town with a drinking problem, we are a drinking town with a sports problem. Not liking football or going to church generally leaves you a little isolated. Sports aren’t nearly as much of a big deal over here. “Go Bills” is how we say hello back home. The Buffalo Bills silently connect everybody.
In a place with so much diversity, the NYC metropolitan region, I’m always shocked at the stark level of individualism. Almost as if something has to affect you personally for people to care.
Last semester, a peer of mine told me that schools around here teach as if indigenous Americans are dead. Like an ancient, mythological creature. I cannot count the number of times I’ve been asked if I live in a teepee or rode a horse to school. I can’t help but laugh. My people didn’t even have teepees. Grown adults are asking me these questions. Many see New York as this utopia of diversity, I sure did. Honestly, I’ve never felt more alone.
My way of life is called “primitive” or “old school” by many here. I call it self-reliance. What most fail to realize is that poor means something totally different back home. Being poor here means complaining about $3,000 a month rent. I know people who would dream of making $3,000 a month and will never see that money in their lifetime. Not only does poor mean something totally different, so does being rich. People here equate being rich with large amounts of money, and I find that strange.
Because despite the poverty of Buffalo, I’ve never felt more rich than watching an eagle fly across Niagara Falls.
