Dinner at Graham and Aja's up at 127th St. The cab drops me on 128th; the cross street is blocked and I mistakenly think I'm on 127th. I get out and look for the house. Some men sitting on a stoop eye me and I say,"hi." One man responds by saying "thank you." There is indeed a brownstone fixer-upper with the same number as Graham's. So, seeing that the front door is open, I go in. I knock on a door on the 1st floor where music is playing. No answer... seemed like the wrong music anyway. Up on the 2nd floor the apt door is open, but the place is empty. A busted-up toilet comes into view.
I decide this can't be right so I go down and check the mailbox: Diallo. The name of the guy who was mistakenly riddled with bullets by the NYPD? Was this THAT house? I think to myself, if it is, it deserves a plaque or something. But it's not. That was in the Bronx and it's a common Guinean name. Thanks to cell phones, I find the right place.
Snowflake is the New Cracker.
Graham's neighbor Tiffany, a pale, Irish-looking woman, says that, though 'cracker' used to be the common epithet for white folks in Harlem, another word has replaced it. Now it's 'snowflake,' as in "hello, snowflake."
