The Commonly Misunderstood New York City Teen Hustle

I had just finished getting my NYU ID card. Prior to that I was completely distraught. Ever since I received my acceptance letter I was tormented by the idea that my acceptance would be revoked. Even three days before class starts, my mind swims with the possibility that I would get kicked out, especially since I didn’t even have my fall course schedule registered. Throughout high school I was able to afford the bagel and cream cheese from the corner deli because I sold red-velvet cupcakes at school, despite the constant threats of suspension appointed my way. My cupcake business was beyond successful, I was able to buy myself an iPhone, a four-day stay at Orlando and an 8-day stay in Los Angeles (I even went to the Coachella Music Festival and the MTV Movie Awards). Now that I graduated I work part-time at Aeropostale. The entirety of my walk from the station to the NYU campus consisted of my fear of getting kicked out and not having my successful, albeit illegal, cupcake business to support me. I was pestered by the thought that I’d end up working at Aeropostale until death do me part.

Distracted by my worries, I lost sight of what was happening before me, a handsome young Latino man stopped to compliment me on my beauty. Concerned with getting to my destination I didn’t realize he was talking to me until I walked passed him and he kept calling out that I’m beautiful, but that a beautiful woman shouldn’t be disrespectful and not accept a compliment. I smiled while I continued walking but didn’t avert my gaze back to him because I thought by then it would be too awkward.

 After I got my ID, I proceeded to take the train back home. I wore my ID around my neck with pride and sat down hoping people would see the acronym “NYU” on the purple card around my neck. Shortly after a group of boys entered the train asking the passengers if “anybody would like to buy some candy” as they were trying to keep a honest dollar in their pocket. Of course at first I got annoyed by them, these very loud, rowdy boys claiming they needed the money for their basketball team.  

 Being downtown Manhattan, most of the passengers were white. The white man sitting next to me asked the boy for an Oreo, and hebought the last one. The boy’s rowdiness descends as he is conversing with his customer and thanking him for his donation. After asking “would anyone else like to buy?” and receiving no response, the boy sat down amidst in his endeavors. His short lived proper tone with the man beside me instantly turned to his more comfortable urban vernacular. I was still high in my own head with my NYU ID wrapped around my neck. I dissociated myself with the way he was speaking and thought little of his mannerisms. He then took one the prepackaged Gushers he was selling and ate them. I saw how the man who just finished buying an Oreo from the boy looked at him with shame, probably thinking “I just gave you a dollar so that you can eat your own supply”. Or maybe he thought nothing of it, only he knows.

 But then I shortly realized that I am him. I am the urban speaking, lower-class person-of-color ridding the same train (uptown) to where I truly reside. I took off my NYU ID and tucked it away in my purse. I instantly felt like myself again, no longer someone trying to impress others because of my newfound education status. I listened intently to how he spoke and how happy he was in his own world. The train stopped on 42nd and two Spanish boys, about 8 years old, got on. They leaned on the door and start singing John Legend’s “All of Me”. To say the least, and not sidetrack from the story, they were very good and I wanted to give them a dollar but did not have any cash.

The boy who was selling chocolates takes out all of his money so naturally I think he’s going to give a dollar to the kids because it takes one to know one. He starts to count all the money that he has in his bag and does not make the gesture to donate to the kids. The kids stare at the money, wide-eyed, expecting for a donation, but move on when the chocolate-selling boy does not extend the courtesy. His friend digs into his pocket and hands the two boys a handful of coins and the little boys scamper off the next cart.

 "BOY YOU DUMB AS FUCK GIVING THEM MONEY. They ain’t buying our candy. I’ll be fucking damned", and he went on about how he is a hustler and he sees those kids as competition. He went on about how no one is lining up to buy his candy so he’s not about to pay some kids who are probably making money to give to some “OG” (which is probably a wild assumption but very plausible". He continued so say that he’s “‘bout this money”, that when he’s older he’s “gunna have bands”.

 "If I ain’t make it as a ball player, I'mma have my own business boy, you gunna see me as an older man and I’m gunna be racked up boy, ya heard, I'mma be racked up with this money.“ I admired his persistence, his driving force to make it out of whatever struggle he was in or the propelling nature to just avoid ever being in the struggle was reflected in me as well.

"You ain’t making no money selling these Oreos and candies boy. Sell cupcakes at school. I’d make up to 110 dollars a day, I dead went to LA - I made 1500 dollars in like a month.” I exaggerated the month part just to motivate him a little bit, but even just having 1500 dollars at his age was motivation enough.
“Oh na LA, yo, you went to LA, oh na u poppin. My school don’t let me do that shit.”
“Me either, foh, I was always in trouble”

“How’d you do it then, you would like hide it in your bookbag?” He asked still aligning his singles in a stack.

“Yeah, I’d keep it in my locker, but I still always got caught. I just graduated high school, that’s how I paid for everything.” He looked at his friend and said’

“Yo you here this. She made bread with cupcakes boyyy,” then he looked at me and said “but my friend can’t cook.”
His friend, who’s been silent this whole time goes, “Boy I can cook more than you, shut the fuck up” in a high-pitched joking voice.

The chocolate seller goes, “Boy, corona and eggs ain’t cooking nigga” which was rewarded by laughter from several adults who have been listening the entire time. 

The train got to 125th and the boys got off and that concluded my encounter with two young impoverished children like me.