“Us” or “them”?

Katonah Pizza and Pasta

Photo: Michael Kirby

An Arab-American in Irish Woodlawn

“You look lost,” an older woman says to me in a watered-down Irish accent at the bus stop at Woodlawn station—the last on the uptown 4.

“I’m heading to Katonah Avenue,” I say.

“I’ll get you there,” she offers. “Where are you from?” I consider explaining that I’m American by birth, Palestinian by origin, Kuwaiti by childhood, Egyptian by upbringing and Austrian by adolescence, but I decide to do us both a favor and give her the abbreviated version—Arab-American.

In any case, the concept of being “from” somewhere is foreign to me—as unfamiliar as this north Bronx neighborhood. The only semiconcrete association I have with the borough is that “Jenny from the block” is from a street somewhere around here. Woodlawn, for its part, is white. The original Irish immigrants settled here because of the low rents; today the neighborhood is filled with illegals who’ve overstayed their tourist visas. The empty streets are lined with trees, and low rooftops are dotted with American and Irish flags. Passersby make small talk, and the locals’ brogue emanates from some two dozen bars.

As I inch closer to talk to my new friend, a voice interjects. “Do you know this man?” demands a petite woman to her left. “And you! Why did you start talking to this lady?” Neither of us respond.

“Please identify yourself!” she barks, insisting I show her a badge, and then warning the other woman, “Be careful, don’t take chances.”

Ignoring her advice, my guide motions me toward the approaching Bx34 bus. Badge Lady follows. Once we all board, the stalker comments, “That’s a good American accent. My cousin is an FBI agent. You have a Middle Eastern name, but a good American accent.”

Woodlawn

Photo: Michael Kirby

Her fascination with my patois makes me suspicious of her intentions, so I ask to see her badge. Dalva Coimbra. That is definitely not an Irish name; maybe it’s Brazilian. Some gall.

Exiting the bus, I walk toward the first place I see: Katonah Pizza and Pasta (4307 Katonah Ave at 237th St, 718-994-8337). As I reach for the door, Badge Lady pops out. “People get suspicious around here,” she growls. “You can’t just approach people. I work for Bloomberg.”

A young man leaving the pizza shop interrupts: “Leave him alone. He can do whatever he wants here. It’s a free country.” As she walks away, I feel my shoulders loosen. “She was saying inside, ‘Watch out, some Arabic guy speaks very good English and is trying to start trouble,’ ” Nickolas Gelai, a 17-year-old Albanian dressed in baggy jeans, tells me.

Gelai too asks me why I am here. I explain that TONY sent me to write about the neighborhood as a cultural outsider. His eyes light up. “If you want to write about something, write about the gang fights, man,” he says. A few weeks ago, five kids from Woodlawn took on a small army from Yonkers, in an apparent fight over someone’s girlfriend. Nearby Yonkers is notorious for street gangs, including the Latin Kings. “We got a crazy nightlife,” he says. “I know some guys who got their heads clipped.”

Seeking a bar, I bid Gelai adieu and make my way across the street to The Rambling House (4292 Katonah Ave at 236th St, 718-798-4510), one of several Irish pubs in the area. Outside, an old man leans on a bench, smoking.

“Hi, there,” I say, apprehensively.

Michael Cooney, 68, who came to America in 1960, takes me in with open arms. There is something comforting about Dr. Mike (as the locals call him) and his ramblings. His frequent repetition of phrases like “I won’t defraud you, my boy,” and “Oh, I’m old, boss” makes me instantly trust him.

Dr. Mike has a son stationed in Afghanistan. “My son is a linguist,” he says. “He knows your language, boss.” I ask if he is proud of his son. He pauses, and then throws out his cigarette. “Wouldn’t you be? He used to fly down during the first Gulf War.”

I tell Dr. Mike that I lived in Kuwait, and that my grandparents are still there. Pulling a fresh cigarette out of his pocket, he adds, “As long as people are good people, I don’t care, boss.”

On my walk back to the bus stop, I check out Greenland Deli (4313 Katonah Ave between 237th and 238th Sts, 718-324-3533), whose aisles are stacked with Irish products. An older woman pretends to hide her catnip from the store clerk, who grins back and says in jest, “What are you trying to do? I see you!” As I pay for my water, I overhear the same clerk say in Arabic to his friend, “Go wash the car. Here is $5.”

I assumed he was from Yemen judging by his accent, but his American lilt was just as good as mine. I ask for his name.

“Younis,” he says. “Younis Ali Ahmad.”

Heh. So even in Irish Woodlawn you can find someone like yourself, someone with “a Middle Eastern name but a good American accent.”—Ahmed Shihab-Eldin

60 % of Woodlawn’s 7,741 residents are of Irish descent