It doesn't take too long from meeting me to learn where I'm from: Newark, New Jersey. It's a badge of honor, yet my relationship with my hometown hasn't always been on the best of terms. I would credit the better part of the last 10 years for that, moving away to New England to attend undergrad, graduate school and begin my professional career.
Yet, there's one geographic relationship that has probably never been strained at any point of my existence. This part of the city is well-known by natives and maybe known from those outside of the city through the high school that has historically served the neighborhood: Weequahic High School. The surrounding, baseball-diamond shaped area of Newark's South Ward, the Weequahic section, is what immediately comes to mind for me when I think of "home". While I only lived in the area for the first 10 years of my life, the fabric and essence of the neighborhood was foundational in the lives of my parents and immediate family; as they all hailing from the plot of land serviced by the 07112 zip code. The section felt like our own little town: a hospital, a library branch, a fire station, a bakery, a pizza parlor, a barbershop, a grocery store (although Pathmark was technically in Irvington) and last but certainly not least, a park--where the neighborhood's name originates from. In speaking with a co-worker, I had an epiphany. Somehow we had gotten on the topic of identity. This co-worker, a white male, was speaking about his association with his Italian heritage. And I--an African-American--spoke to the importance of this sense of belonging, of having a source. I spoke about there even being a difference between 'African-Americans' and Haitians, Jamaicans, Nigerians and other Black folk with either direct Caribbean or African roots. It might not seem so to those outside of the Black community but something seemingly so minute was an unspoken divide in identity and belonging. Then he said it! I don't remember the exact wording, but he essentially equated my association with my hometown to his Italy, a Haitian's Haiti, a Jamaican's Jamaica. Newark was my motherland. More so, the Weequahic section--the place I specifically had this origin relationship with. It was where I hailed from. Where my ancestors came from. Mind blown. Yet true. It was why I identified so passionately with this small, densely-populated section of Newark. It's why I became a fan of the Cleveland Browns, the first team outside of the New York Mets I had a connection with: this was the only professional team that shared Weequahic High's colors of orange and brown. For people brought to this country via slave ship as property; stripped of their names, culture, and mother tongue it made all the sense in the world that we would create again. New customs. A new sense of identity. And that's what growing up in the Weequahic section was all about. My family lived on Weequahic Ave between Bergen and Parkview Terrace. The son of the owner of the pizza parlor that was around the corner on Lyons Ave would tell me often how he grew up with my parents. Everyone knew everyone and back in those times if you did anything wrong, anyone on the block would discipline you as if they were your own blood. While kids growing up would cling to any piece of being from New York City that existed, or didn't, I was so proud to be from the Weequahic section. I had the privilege of growing up around my great-grandmother as I didn't have grandparents in my life. Hearing her stories, soaking up her knowledge and wisdom, I not only longed to be of that time that my parents came of age in but very much preferred it to what I saw in my generation. And while I am proud of my generation, in retrospect, for their bravery in fighting the status quo; I believe there are too many gems from our elders that should make its way into our daily lives. Such as knowing who Mrs. Nellie is. Knowing who Mrs. Butler is. Mrs. Lee. Understanding the importance of the relationships forged in-person over time is missing today. People, not kin to you whatsoever, equipped with just as much desire to see you succeed as your own relatives. Home. Moving to the Central Ward at 10. Going to Seton Hall Prep for high school. Moving to Massachusetts for college. My great-grandmother's passing. The house we all collectively gathered at every Thanksgiving--which sometimes fell on her November 24th birthday--no longer being in my family's possession. None of that could ever taint my love for this place. When I thought about what I wanted to study as a major in college, I thought of that strip of Weequahic Ave. I thought of the Newark Riots. I thought of the crack-cocaine epidemic of the 1980s. I thought of the present-day status of my city and my neighborhood. I wanted to understand. I wanted to fix. When I wanted to brand my writing--posts between here, What You Expect and wherever else my name graces the byline--there was only one choice for a logo: an homage to the Weequahic section. When I thought of a hashtag I could use to complement that logo, it was obvious: WQHC--Weequahic without the vowels. All I ever wanted to accomplish was to put my neighborhood on the map. I wanted the kids growing up to have pride in being from the Weequahic section. To chant this like those across the Hudson River claim the NYC borough they hail from. Mostly I just wanted to make the elders from Weequahic Ave proud. I hope I can continue to do that and hopefully take baby steps to restoring the great name the Weequahic section once had. Photo Cred |
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Ty FosterQuestion everything. WQHC Archives
June 2020
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