I Never Knew Grief Could Be a Place

Missing Brooklyn: A Place I’m Afraid You Will Never Know

If you’re new to Raising Myles, Welcome!

I write letters to my newborn son, Myles, sharing my journey as a first-time dad and spreading the love I didn't experience myself. If you’ve been here before — thank you for coming back. If you’re new here, below are some good places to start:

• Most Recent Letter: Finding Love in the Small Things

• I’m Not Scared to Die, But Children Keep Getting Left Behind

• We Don’t Eat Cats and Dogs

• Am I Good Dad, or Is the Bar Just Really Low?

• Starting Daycare: I Never Knew it Would be this Hard

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Many of the letters I write to Myles start off as voice notes — like this one. The idea for the letter below came to me while I was driving. I pressed record on my voice note app to capture the feelings that surfaced in the moment. I love the freedom voice notes offer because they allow me to be honest and raw, and capture emotion without worrying.

Below is the fully fleshed-out letter — bows and all. If you’re a paid subscriber look out for the companion piece which will include the voice note. Let me know if you’d like more of these — it’s so much easier to speak straight from the heart.

I appreciate you.

Your mother and I. : Brooklyn Bridge 2022 Photog: kaptureby

16 Months

Dear Myles,

I thought grief was reserved only for people.  But when I think about it, Brooklyn raised me. It showed me how to walk, talk, and hold my head as if my chin were chained to the sun. Brooklyn, both paternal and maternal, from the softness of Botanical Garden to the rough edges of Brownsville—this androgyny—I miss them. I miss it.

Because nothing makes me miss home like a friend calling at 8 AM—crossing time zones. And even though she’s from Harlem, let’s face it, Brooklyn is New York. Do you know how many people she had to skip to get to me? How many states? A 17-hour drive, a four-hour flight, a long scroll down to the letter "M" to get to “Marc” in her call log—bless that thumb. There’s nothing like knowing you still matter to people, even when you’re no longer there. You’re in their hearts.

See, sometimes I miss Brooklyn. I miss the ooze of a chopped cheese running down my wrist after a long day. Or the stern look from the Jamaican lady when you ask for extra oxtail gravy on your rice, and she shoots you a gaze that could slice through the bones she’s serving, followed by a long suck of her teeth—A1 customer service. There’s nothing like walking five blocks this way for Asian cuisine or seven blocks that way for Mediterranean. Nothing like sharing basil fried rice with someone while the other person is eating something completely different, like a fried duck sandwich smothered in a sauce you can only get at this one restaurant. And that’s Brooklyn—the amalgamation of all things beautiful.

I miss Brooklyn. For the food, but especially for its people—who always walk like they’ve got somewhere to go, even if they’re just heading home from work. It’s always a rush. I miss averting my eyes, looking straight ahead, because you can’t look at someone too long without them catching your gaze and asking, with the swag of a thousand men selling loosies, “Yo, what the hell you looking at?” Excuse my language—that’s just the Brooklyn in me.

Good eats

I miss riding my fixie through the neighborhoods, living dangerously—no helmet, but with a front brake, of course, because now I was married and had something, someone, to live for: your mother. I miss zooming between cars, praying for green lights, closed doors, unbroken ribs, and sharing smiles with friends who rode like they had nothing to lose, just like I did.

I miss friends too—how, when I was younger, I’d say grace and scarf down my Thanksgiving plate just to make room, knowing I had to hit up Jack’s, Brianna’s, and Skyla’s—all in one night. How, in less than a mile, I could visit Haiti, Jamaica, Trinidad, and Grenada in one night—no flights, just feet and a Metrocard. This wasn’t greed; it was family. We shared stories, dreams, gossip, and played games over mac and cheese, greens, fried turkey, and drank Tings, Kremas, Maltas, and other things we shouldn’t have had before we were eighteen.

And how can I forget the vibes and every flex—First Saturdays at the Brooklyn Museum, waking up early to stand in line with Charan for a fried chicken skin donut, a block party on Tompkins, Smorgasburg at Prospect Park, a Seder at Maddie's, seeing my favorite artists at a bar I’d never been to, or when I didn’t have a dime in my pocket but still felt rich because there was always something free to do, like window shopping at L Train Vintage or just people-watching.

My favorite was seeing Black plays with your mother; they were always free and always beautiful—she had the hookup; nothing like a free date, enthralled and captivated by the imagination of people celebrating Black beauty and wonder. I miss how we talked all the way home about the play, keyed into our rented basement brownstone in Bed-Stuy, and fell asleep while the other person was still talking.

But you know what I miss the most? The dream of raising you in the place that birthed me. Missing the chance to show you the elementary school, middle school, and high school I walked to every day, from taking you to the basketball court with one hoop I first learned shoot on to that spot on Nostrand that gave you four polouris for a dollar and never charged extra for tamarind sauce. Will I ever get to take you to the A/C train stop where I met your mother? Or visiting Natural Blend, where we ate one of our first meals together, smiling, laughing, and stealing glances between every bite?

Brooklyn Bridge 2022: Photog kaptureby

I am still struggling to put “Birmingham” and “home” in the same sentence because my heart is still on the Brooklyn Bridge, on Fulton Street, on Flatbush, traipsing between Junction and Parkside. My stomach still craves foods I cannot find, and my ears miss eavesdropping on Caribbean tongues deciphering what language and land this person and that person carried on their backs, just to spill it loudly on Utica Ave. I miss walking down the street, knowing I might run into someone I went to elementary school with. See, Brooklyn made me feel popular.

But now I am in a place where no one knows my name, and when they hear me speak and ask where I am from, and I try to tell them with the bravado of a thousand men, "I’m from Brooklyn." They respond, “No… where are you really from?” The chain is not as taut as it used to be.

I hope you never know what it feels like to call a place home, only to realize that the people there cannot place you. And the people where home actually feels like home are starting to say you sound more like you're from there than here. While the Brooklyn in me doesn't want to admit it, it hurts.

I hope we can make Birmingham feel like home for me. I hope it can feel like home for you—because even though I miss the food, the people, the vibes, and the flex of Brooklyn, my heart is right here with you and your mother.

I love you as big as as I love Brooklyn — I hope you two can meet one day.

But until then, I love you, and there is nothing you can do about it.

Love, 

Daddy

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Appreciation Time: Thank you

Asha Sanaker

and

RC

for signing up to be paid subscribers. I appreciate you ❤️

If you can’t commit to a monthly subscription, but still want to support Myles’ college plan, here is my Buy Me a Coffee page.

Let me know your thoughts:

1. What place holds a special meaning for you?

2. If you could only eat one food from your hometown for the rest of your life, what would it be?

3. How do you keep in touch with friends from your past?

4. What is your go-to guilty pleasure when it comes to comfort food?

5. If you heard the voice note, let me know your thoughts.