A sinners neighborhood. The windows are locked, the doors are locked, the stairways are locked. The people come out in the morning and hide in the afternoon, when the sun is setting. The walk by some other people on their way to work, a sea of Caucasian faces, trapped in the hinges of the creaking car doors in the avenue, and they don’t even look at each other’s feet. They are like horses, are scared of everything, of everyone. These were sinners, this was an immigrants’ town, the immigrants’ space. They shouldn’t belong and don’t belong in a world with bright blue skies and green pastures. In this special spot, the skies are grey and there is no pasture to plant a seed of life. The streets are wet and dirty, the jumpsuits hanging by a thread, its white polyester scarred for life, likewise the owners. The houses are tight, which made the people mad because they could read and be heard, talk and be heard, not talk and be heard. Yes, this is Chinatown.
November 22, 2009