ALMA: I’m walking, talking, breathing New York. I’ve been here six months and I feel like I own it–it’s mine. I’ve begun to wear high heels. I like the way my hips move in them. The clicking on the pavement along with the movement of my hips makes me feel sexy. When I’m walking–when my heels hit the pavement in Harlem, Chinatown–the Village, Midtown–I feel sexy–my hips sway to the rhythm–the various rhythms of different neighborhoods–different streets. I try to explain this to Gene but I can’t. I need him to come up and see it–See how I feel. See how I now walk/see how I now move. In Harlem, I walk to a Southern beat–various Southern beats. I do it Northern-style. Slick, clean, fast, Northern-style. Sometimes it’s like walking/dancing to Robert Johnson and Otis Redding. Other times–it’s harder/faster–more dangerous-like a Parliament/Funkadelic song. When my heels click in El Barrio, it’s like walking/dancing/swirling to Tito Puente and Hector Lavoe. In Chinatown–I hear music where I don’t know the name of musicians but am aware of a different rhythm–a rhythm filled with the sounds of bells and chants and my heels click to that–they can click to that–my hips move–differently but gently to that. I am moving in different kinds of weather–not just Southern heat. I am no longer barefoot in Southern heat in a dirt yard. I’ve adapted myself to the fall–the NEW YORK fall and the big sweaters that come with the fall. I am full booted and bundled for New York falls and winters. My hips are swaying–not just to the rhythm of Southern backdoor men. My hips are moving now by themselves, free, uncontrolled, and spontaneous. (Beat) When my Trinidadian roommate tells me about her home, I can see the trees and West Indian women talking and laughing on porches. When in class, my teachers–who are in fact more than teachers–my guides–when my guides give my fellow students and me book assignments, I can via those words, see Dickens’s London. I can see Gogol’s Russia. When I’m in the Museum of Modern Art, I can smell Georgia O’Keeffe’s paint. In the Apollo Theatre, I can/see/hear Billie wailing, James Brown sweating, Marvin and Tammi teasing each other and teasing us. In the Village, I feel the rhythm of the pavement where Bob Dylan and Hendrix walked. (Pause) I never knew how full life could be–it is so full. How expansive everything is outside of South Carolina. I cannot walk that walk anymore–that thick-heeled, crusty, hot, Southern dirt road walk–How could I possibly go back to that? I never knew I could enjoy the fullness of my walk–my hips. I can’t wait to show this to Gene. How do you explain a new walk?