When I first came to New York City, I lived in a part of West Harlem that was on the edge of what was commonly referred to as Little Dominican Republic. Before I moved to this neighborhood, I didn't even know that the Dominican Republic existed. My idea of what a Latin person was supposed to be was what Hollywood gave me:  varying shades of brunette with a strong tan and an attitude, but basically causasian.  All of that crumbled to dust as I found myself surrounded by people who were very much like me and who assumed time and time again that I was one of them. As far as I was concerned, I was:  we were all nappy-headed, to some degree, with black features.  Variations on a theme. Time and again, I would go into their restaurants, expecting some exotic treat from some faraway place, and it would be the same chicken and beans and rice I already knew.  Surprise, surprise.

I found that if I walked down the street and didn't say anything, everyone pretty much greeted me in Spanish, which pleased me to no end.

I didn't want to be Dominican. I wanted to find a place where I could feel as though I belonged, so I could get my bearings and figure things out. Everyone has their Moment of Readjustment when they come to the city.   Sometimes it takes awhile but it's easier to do when you're in a neighborhood that suits you.

Everywhere I went, all I heard was Spanish: in the music blaring from cars as they rolled down the street, in the people chatting around me as I ran errands, in the brightly colored signs of the stores. Little old men would play dominoes outside in the evening while children played. Then someone would open their living room window and play DJ for the entire block.

Don't get me wrong. It may have been Little Dominican Republic, but it was still  Harlem. There were plenty of black folks all over the place, and they all thought I was soooo country. It wasn't in the way I spoke. It was in the things I didn't know and the way I behaved. I didn't know why there were no yellow cabs. Or no fresh fruit and vegetable stands, like there were in other parts of the city. I was genuinely surprised to see little children  screaming up and down the street after 11 p.m. on a weeknight. I didn't know why there was never a quiet moment. Somebody was always outside yelling or laughing or crying or shooting off a gun or something. I thought it was a big ball of fun, actually--until I was ready to go to sleep.

West Harlem was definitely another country.