Record store
New Orleans, LA
February 2013
Sometimes my connection with New York City feels barely tangible. I can walk here for hours and not expect anyone to know me. The staff at the local bodega that I visit nearly every day do not recognize me. Why should they, when I am one of millions.
When I moved to America, I purchased a record player. It was a strange decision, since I had not ever owned a record before. But I suppose when I think about it, I moved to this country with two suitcases of clothes and a few small objects to remind me of home. Nothing permanent, nothing that couldn’t be moved in one taxi ride. So it made sense to start amassing records. On their own they are slender and lightweight, but when you lift a stack they are surprisingly heavy. Maybe nothing anchors you more than records and books, and maybe that is why each time I return to my apartment with a new record I feel like I am building my home.