It was during the Clinton years when I finally left Spanish Harlem. I moved to the Upper Westside of New York City, where I drank rivers of coffee at the Hungarian Pastry Shop on 111th Street and Amsterdam Avenue. I’d sit there wondering,
Where does my neighborhood of El Barrio fit into this Anglo world of literature?
I was refilling my cup on a spring day with a Magritte sky and air so crisp it made you wanna cross the street to Saint John the Divine, made you wanna believe in a god who counts your birthdays, when I met a girl named E-. She was sitting outside, her legs were crossed, one shoe dangling, an open book on the table next to an ashtray of dead Camels she polished off like seconds...