The postwoman was finishing collecting the morning mail from the mailboxes of Fort Washington Avenue, the Latin quarter perched beyond Harlem on the northern reaches of Manhattan, when a motorist shouted the news to her through her window. At the time, she only reacted with a small nod. Now she is walking towards her truck, holding her large mailbox in both hands. Well… she doesn’t really work. One step forward, two steps back, one step to the side, pivoting at times to continue her dance backwards, the worthy official, black or Latina, crosses the pedestrian crossing in an impeccable salsa, accompanied by the horns of the cars stopped on the avenue.
The American Post, responsible for the delivery of votes by mail, favored by opponents of Donald Trump, has suffered for months the worst outrages of the Republican administration. If his agents roll their hips with happiness at the news of Joe Biden’s victory, other scoffs of the Trump era suddenly raise their heads. From the roof of a building in the 160e street, the heart of the Dominican immigrant district, two trumpeters play the Star Spangled Banner, the American anthem. In the traffic jam on Broadway, drivers pulled out from who knows where, as many Black Lives Matter signs as star-spangled banners.
Champagne in Harlem
Around noon, this November 7, the victory of the Democratic candidate crosses New York like a carnival float, brightening up better than the miraculous sun, the gloomy autumn of the Covid. Crowds gather under the Trump Tower of the 5e avenue, around the statue of Christopher Columbus on Columbus Circle, under the arch of Washington Square.
On the 148e street, in the heart of Hamilton Heights, north of Harlem, two NYPD cars shyly stand back, while a group of young blacks from the neighborhood round up the crowd at the crossroads by distributing champagne. 10 cases of big Californian bubbles have just been delivered by the neighboring liquor store. In twenty minutes, the crowd grew to 500 people dancing to the sound of “Fuck Donald Trump”, the legendary FDT of rapper YG, spitting out from huge speakers placed on the roofs of cars.
Above us, a police drone vibrates, quickly ascending to altitude each time a party animal threatens it with a squirt of foam. Hilario, an imposing tattooed music lover, says he knows the band of generous bubble donors well. “These are my neighborhood friends, he explains without too many details. They weren’t getting too involved in politics until 2016. And then there were all those gunshots, all those George Floyd… it feels good. Did you have a bottle? “
“It’s my country too”
At the end of metro line 1, more crowded than we have ever seen during the Covid period, Times Square cracks with all its neon seams. The compact crowd, mostly masked, grows every minute between the 47e and 42e street. We discover here that a red Maga cap, the unifying badge of Trump’s meetings, burns rather well. The gleaming headgear, brandished above the crowd at the end of a handle of a sign, burns up in regular flames under the howls of joy from the spectators.
The atmosphere remains good-natured, breathing in incredulous relief more than a spirit of revenge. The Naked Cowboy, a famous guitarist in Times Square, where he officiates in underpants in all seasons, does not seem to regret his political positions in favor of Trump, but he feels very lonely today in his immaculate calcif, repeating to his detractors mockingly, in a conciliatory and sorry tone, that “Donald did the best he could”.
Behind him, an elderly lady, mask in the color of Stars and Stripes, star-spangled banner as a cape, dialogue with a nephew live on WhatsApp. It’s Gladys, a septuagenarian originally from Honduras, who arrived in New York decades ago. “I took out all my flags to remind people that this is my country too, she explains. I’ve been wanting to yell it for four years every time I see ICE, immigration police coming to my corner of the Bronx, every time I hear morons cheering for an anti-wall. Mexican which still does not exist. So today I cry like the others. I’m 72 years old, and feel like I’m starting a new life. ”
Philippe Coste Correspondence in New York
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