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How Do We Know What We Know?

by Tricia

My line of work depends less on what I know than how I know it.

Yesterday I walked out my front door on the way to work, and I knew it was spring. Not because the calendar says so; because of independent, observable phenomena.

I live in a brownstone above a 24-hour bagel shop on a street that connects most of the subway stations in Brooklyn Heights to the Promenade. For you Manhattanites and other foreigners, that's the tree-lined walkway above the BQE and East River, rhapsodized by everyone from Walt Whitman to Spike Lee.

From the Promenade, you can see most of lower Manhattan, including the Staten Island Ferry terminal and the building my little sister works in, One New York Plaza. To the right is the Brooklyn Bridge; in front of you is the Statue of Liberty. Heading left from her torch, you're looking at New Jersey, Staten Island, and the Verrazzano Bridge. You used to be able to see the Twin Towers.

So, as I was saying, I'm on my way to the 2 at Clark Street, and this is how I knew it was spring:
There's litter on my stoop: sandwich wrappers, cigarette butts, and empty coffee cups. People are eating lunch on the stoop now. Spring.

The cherry blossom leaves almost obscure the litter on my stoop. Cherry trees only bloom this time of year. Spring.

The door to the bagel shop is propped open. Sammy, the Trinidadian guy who works the graveyard shift, doesn't do that until he's satisfied that it's a civilized temperature. Spring.

The double-wide strollers and the meandering tourists have begun to clot up my street, turning my neighborhood into a resort town. Spring.

And of course, the most important thing: my TV is on the YES network almost every day, carrying major league ballet into my living room. Batter up!