Narc

Copping weed in a sleepy suburb that's always been more country than city was almost impossible for me growing up, the city even harder for me because of my clean-cut good looks. I joked with my buddies at the corner store that no one even wanted to stand near me during our town St. Pat's Parade because (according to one of them), "You look like a cop!" If being a detective means I'm aware of open container laws, cognizant of my surroundings, and respectful of my neighbors even during a daytime "beer buzz" by still recycling appropriately, then I'm the Sheriff of this here town.

After being rebuffed by do-ragged bangers hanging curbside in the tough gang towns of Rockland run by drug dealers during the 80s, me and my friends turned to the city for our teenage rebellion, but I was quickly becoming a curse to them in their nefarious deeds, in an anti-anti-establishment cancel out. We'd cut class to take the city bus to buy weed near Central Park, only to be ID'ed by a beat cop who laughed at my underage library card (the only ID I had), throwing our small dime bag into the trash with the order to take the first bus back home, which we did, after debating about trying to find the little baggie in the garbage pail.

It didn't end there, either. Me and my friend who'd emigrated from Ghana as a girl tried hanging out in her family neighborhoods of Harlem and Downtown Brooklyn, but without my Hispanic home-girl outfit from back in the day (slicked-back ponytail that made my hair look darker, bright red lipstick, big hoop earrings, and tight jeans), the people in those 'hoods treated me like an outcast on my own native soil, to be shunned and feared as a girl-child not of their kind. 

The pinnacle of my brief career as a country criminal officially ended in the back of a Harlem liquor store with my girl, Donnel. She'd said she bought weed from the guy behind the plexi-glass window with a pull-out money drawer before, so it should be no problem. We laughed on the street before going in that he'd be afraid of me as a "white girl", which was the only way to explain my presence in certain parts of New York City that hoped they'd killed or frightened off the natives a long time ago. I mean, I look this way at 47; you can see from my photos how youthful I've always been.

And it's true; there's a purity and wholesomeness to me that doesn't go away with alcohol, or pot, or cigarettes, or junk food, because I don't let it. I want to live, even in the chaos of this world. And so, with one quick walk to the back of a ghetto liquor store, the nervous demeanor of your average black man livin' on my mean streets told me everything I needed to know about what my choices would be. In his wide-eyed stare, I immediately knew what side of the line that he'd drawn between us I stood on, and it was with the good guys.

"Uh uh. I ain't sellin' to huh." My friend improvised like the slick con she can be, rolling her eyes at him. "Oh, come on, man! I've bought from you before, no problem!" He wasn't buyin' it. "She a cop! You a narc?" He asked me flat out, but my friend pushed me aside. "Look at her! When was the last time you sold weed to a 15 year-old narc?!" And it was pretty incredulous, his irrational fear about a baby-faced teenage girl. But, just like that, I knew it in my heart, that this native New York girl wan't no criminal, and I never would be. As we left the store empty-handed, I could feel my less-principled friend cutting ties with me mentally, diverging in the opposite direction, because (s)he was right about me. I'm no fucking criminal. I AM THE LAW.

McAir

The first time I flew overseas, I was 19 and flying with my working class boyfriend from Brooklyn, which meant we were already connected before we stepped foot on the plane. His older brother had a union job at Aer Lingus, the Irish airline, because of his Irish roots. We'd been regaled with funny stories at their local bar in Bay Ridge about the comic misadventures of the shanty set, a colloquialism derived from the derogatory term for low class Micks who're "Shanty Irish", as it relates to their less-than-stellar housing situations. Irish "on the dole" live in sponsored housing just like here, called "Council Flats"; a mindset reflected in their cumbersome responses to international flight, as well.

We'd already heard from his brother Doug about the neighborhood guy he booked on a cheap flight as a favor, who'd stuffed as many American-made jeans as he could into a bunch of garbage bags that he crammed into the plane's overhead compartments, only to be foiled by the physics of storage that found his loot exploding into the aisle before being escorted off the plane by security, because illegal contraband is in violation of several international laws. He'd sheepishly explained to them that good jeans were hard to find in Ireland, and at the late 80s price of $10-25 a pair (depending on the buyer), he'd be sure to make a killing that'd sponsor several flights back and forth.

Ya, right? It was true, too. Levi's jeans were a thousand times better than the tacky, cheaply-made, thinly-fabricated knock-offs available to foreign markets at the time, with their poorly placed pockets and overly long pants legs that scraped the ground to become tattered around the cuffs rather early on. They just didn't look right, especially on Europeans. We'd been, in a word, "prepped" for our experience beforehand, and our fellow fliers did not disappoint us on this first, uniquely Celtic crossing.

After being seated, I'd already seen the most handsome Catholic priest in collar I'd ever seen in my life; a beautiful blond boy barely in his 20s, young-looking like us. Whew...Irish clergy were different. His brother Doug had a nice surprise waiting for us, too. He'd tried to bump us "up" into First Class, but the stewardess told us Brian Dennehy, the well-known American actor, had already been seated there, as she handed us a couple of Mimosas. Ah, best to be careful about it, then. With that, we were already plugged into local gossip. She said it was being told that Mr. Dennehy was looking to buy a pub in Dublin (the big stars do that as investments, like Bono from U2), and a potential deal that could be so financially favorable was to be supported by all of us, especially if we were keen for an economic boost, which we were.

As nervous a flier as I can be during long flights with turbulence, I'd never felt safer than I was on that flight, bolstered as we were by a large gaggle of nuns seated in coach with us. Surely, G-d won't knock us out of the sky with this many clergy on board? And you know what? He didn't! It was a smooth ride until the prop plane trip to Amsterdam, but even the weather gods can't do much about that. Like my first time to Italy, I swore as we left on our returning flight from Galway that I'd be back to Ireland, and I'm proud to write that I kept my promise, even at great expense to myself. Would you expect any less? I wouldn't. To you and yours on this special Irish holiday month, and for every day after. Be safe.