A Thanksgiving in New York, from the Bronx to the Trump Tower – Liberation

I took the red line all the way. There were five of us going down into the bitter cold of the Bronx and this Thursday morning. I put my hands in my pockets, got out of the metro and crossed the bridge. Old newspapers flew in front of me. A kid passed hands in his pockets. In the distance, the winged points of Manhattan. I passed the motorway leading to Upstate and took a right. There it is, the famous Sedgwick Avenue. Well, famous, not really: not a cat, not a soul, an absurd ribbon of messy road on the edge of a hill, opening onto the expressway.

I look at the numbers of the small houses. I’m still missing a bit. A car rolls past me. Two guys walk across the street and look at me. I really don’t give a fuck right there in the Bronx at 11:10 a.m. on Thanksgiving. I pull my beanie over my head, slip my gloves into my pockets a little more and look down. Another brilliant idea.

I arrive in front of number 1520. Two huge nested towers, that look like prison cells. Apartments offering only tiny loopholes on the outside. It was here, in August 1973, that hip-hop was born. Here that DJ Kool Herc organized the premieres block parties, in the interior courtyard of this building, frenzied parties during which he threw fire on his decks, abrupting the rhythms and thus opening the way to a new sound and a new world. I approach the entrance.

A guy in a thick red jacket and cap …

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