Derailment/Home at TATIANA

Khadjiah Johnson

KHADJIAH JOHNSON is a comedian, food writer and poet. She's the editor-in-chief of the genre bending indie-food column Scotch Bonnet, and a contributing writer for The Food Network.

This month's entry is a contrapuntal. Read "Derailment" (left side) , then, "Home" (right side), and finally both sides together (Derailment/Home) from left to right. You can also use the audio clip below to follow along.

EDITOR’S NOTE: This piece is best read on a larger screen like a desktop or laptop.
If you are reading this on a mobile device please use “desktop mode” to for a more accurate reading experience.

Derailment

About once a month, I grieve for Brooklyn. All the Black folk
packin’ up as gentrification flies down Church Avenue. We
fade in smoke. My father’s Nissan Altima feels like a museum
displaying how access to affordable housing becomes in-
compatible for the people who built it. And yet, gentrifiers want the
culture devoid of its creator

About once a month, I grieve for Brooklyn. The family, is
craving the island classics. I remember the tantalizing scents
scotch bonnet blessed meals, gallivanting near neighbors. Observe
people dance to soca on their stoop. But now there are
balconies, game cartridge sized apartments, and windows without
distinct seasoning.

About once a month, I grieve for Brooklyn. I was raised
on separate extremes of the 2 train; Flatbush Avenue’s earthy aroma
to Wakefield 241st crust, the complicated glory that lies in-between
clashes on the red line. The derailment splits the islands,
chronicles of my family who immigrated to the BX from Jamaica;
and me, who tried to escape Brooklyn’s dilution by riding uptown.

About once a month, I grieve for Brooklyn. On my way uptown
lay witness to the aftermath of colonialism. The new inhabitants
attempted to silence the pangs of the steel pan drummers. Oh
the wails sound familiar. The ethnic erasure, the replacements, my
desire to erase the white rebellion.

About once a month, I grieve for Brooklyn. It’s where sweet fingertips
promise to return, but take too long to do so. On Mondays, Brooklyn
and I love to act like nothing’s passed; but by Thursday I almost fail
to recognize the building I once lived in. The heartbreak, a boy,
and a new set of trials.

home

run to TATIANA. Up in the lobby, the faithful aunties
pray for the culture, decked out in sequins, all our worries
dissipating into the nimbus cloud above, and New York is
consistent with its glory. Praise to the chopped cheese,
savory bite of oxtail, and the sanctified fullness to follow—

adoring the heat of TATIANA. The opaque pot,
the sailing between dining tables. I sit and watch the server bring
the piquant mashed jewels, in a little jug. Pepper sauce makes
untrained tongues—wince. Server asks about my tolerance for
spice. There has never been a time where I didn’t indulge

in the joy of TATIANA. I want to travel through dialects
tonguing my way through caraway seeds. Toasted spices folded in
coco bread. A golden patty encasing a gleaming curried goat
loves me down my fingers. Never forget the ancestral recipes,
those who made the browning to make our days brighter—

bless the hands that made TATIANA. Allspice and clove
manifest themselves on my molars. The coconut rice and peas,
paired with the sweet jolt of the Piña Piña, I raise my head and
ode to home, even as it becomes indistinguishable. I hungrily

hold the love that made TATIANA. It’s almost time to go,
created more reasons to stay. My spoon dips in the Little Debbie
to go back in time. Across the table, my friend and I split
the cosmic brownie. Graced again with a consumable joy,