It was a cold, rainy night when I stood at the ATM last week. All of a sudden it hit me–the smell of urine. I haven’t had to endure the sharp stench of urine for a very long time.
The name ghetto princess whispered through my subconscious like an echo from ages past. Meant as a compliment, I could never imagine anything but a girl in a tight ponytail, hoop earrings and jeans so tight that nothing was left to the imagination.
This was one of the most unpleasant memories of my childhood. I grew up in the Queensbridge Housing Projects of Long Island City, New York, colloquially termed “QB.” QB was synonymous with “Nas.” We always lived on the 5th or 6th stories, so we usually took the elevator to our apartment. It was usually almost always full of urine. As in, you had to tip-toe around the edges of the elevator to push your button , or else you risked tracking the urine into your apartment.
The joys of living in New York City.