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Posts Tagged ‘New York’

Someone’s Voice

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 25, 2013| 59 Comments »

I AM NOT A HAMMER! Not a hammer. He screamed inwardly, directing his intentions at the tall, rough-brick buildings, the foreboding, overlooking passersby, the ominous, taunting sky. Screamed on the inside and what good did it do, but translate to another twisted face of his. The fear and anger welling up once again. If only he’d learned in time to pipe up, if only his voice could back him, if only the right person had asked the right things, if only. If only. If only.

Ah, but that is the curse of the foster kid shuffle. Is it not? The souls it claims tumbling out in ruins, vacillating between the unstoppable, menacing dissonance in splatter-surround-sound, incessantly playing between ears of the touched, and coming out loud, disconcerting… Or the quiet ones; The ones still entangled in the monster-under-the-bed deluded illusion of the “if I can’t see them, they can’t see me” variety. Eyes averted. Lost beyond the depths. A despondency measured in dog years.

Herein is where our homeboy lay. He’d been pushed out into the sun under a bad star from the jump. Tunnels of NYC ain’t no place to form a baby, especially when a woman didn’t know what the fuck was wrong with her until the day she uncontrollably wet herself, and was stabbed by alien pains emanating from the depths of her belly when she was mostly used to being numb.

Cries and primal, animal sounds rung the dark maze beneath the streets that morning, about an eighth of a mile shy from the nearest shaft of dusted light. A baby was born onto a worn mattress full of unspeakable stains. Picked up reluctantly by filthy, unexpectant hands, and held, finally, to a tattered breast on a tired body with a rapid heartbeat, and the first. blossoming. of instant. surprise. love. a person can only know once they’ve been left to bleed and all else had failed.

And speaking of blood, holy mother was it a mess. Messy from day one. This woman! She had no idea. She was just walking in the shoes that she’d been given a generation or two ago. She couldn’t be sure. Family history was never rich on the roster. But she’d stayed on the same path as her own mother. Tending her habits above all else. Passing them on to her skinny, miracle child.

It was novelty at first. Because she’d never really known care. Never really known responsibility. Didn’t know the first thing about child rearing but hot-damn would she do her best. Her capabilities were few- let’s not glorify. I mean, an addict in deep is an addict in deep. But little can be done to stifle that innate knowledge that woman share. The one that is connected to ancestry. To source. The umbilical chord of the universe. She tended best she could, long as she could, until the mouth became too needy. Her own needs too greedy, to give proper attention to a babe.

So off with it on the kind of hot summer night where the nail-exposed overhangs drip with polluted condensation and people move molasses slow to keep the heat at bay. Off with it, this kid, this monkey, this needy thing she never wanted, couldn’t even remember how it happened in the first place. Off with this and onto some store’s front stoop where come morning a startled Asian grocer would find a itty-bitty-stinky-baby in a box and stare at in amazement for one shocked moment, wondering how people could be so cruel, before picking up the entire box that weighed all of 6 pounds and bringing it into NYPD’s 5th Precinct on Elizabeth and Canal, to be stared at suspiciously and questioned with intimidation, armed with about 30 specific, limited to shop-talk- English words. Oh poor secret Asian mang.

Fast forwarding our tale and on with it. Our poor guy. Our poor baby who would be sure to grow slight in height, and not far in the mental. Our poor guy who was to be pushed, dropped, dragged, and kicked through an unchecked system of house after house and on. Filled with predator and mouse. Loud television and louse. Lack of love, direction, or reliable constant. The irony of taxing the shit out of parents desperate to adopt, and adversely allowing the shittiest of the lot to be foster parents. And paying their asses. The horror. No criteria having mother-fuckers. Something to shake your head at.

Our boy never developed much of a taste for outward speak. Didn’t have much to say. Maybe he didn’t know how. Perhaps he lacked the overlooked tools of expressivity or composition. Teachers thought he a lost cause. Not much you can do with a lump that sits in the corner, refusing to engage. So in he went and out again. And at the glorious age of 18; the ripe age where we are fit and tied to greet the world; the age where we no longer need guidance or help at all, ever, and are ready- all of us- for complete and utter independence- our homeboy was let out.

He was like an instant street rat. Literally like a fucking rat. Where he learned from the rodents basic survival. Eat what you can find. Drink where you can find. Sleep in the little nooks where people are not apt to disturb you. He took to the streets with arguable natal instinct. The streets gave him selective shelter, opened up his fuzzy focus. Taught him the freedom to sit and stare. The freedom to bark or growl or yell at random- all of which he practiced, just to see. But it wasn’t him. He was the silent type. You know. On the city pulsed and he felt off-shook by the beat. Our boy never had the luxury of feeling steady, really. His only purpose was today, I suppose. The ability to reflect on purpose is paired with those on the elevated levels of the comparably modern day caste system. Paired with those where the concept of hedonism can ring. Where people can afford sarcasm. His pockets bore holes and his currency nil.

Our boy. Left to eat the dust. Left an empty shell of nobody. He never got to be. Some people never do. They run through depleted soil from dia numero uno. No chance. Bleek grim. A sad ending from the beginning. A side bar. An untended, deficient weed.

In a world of hard focused happy endings I embrace the grime. Tip a 40 oz., a pinot with your pinky in the air, your G & T, your whisky neat, rip the tip off your blunt if you gotta- for all the living ghosts out there. They’re out there right now, shuffling, rocking, hiding. Tip it and sip it and know you got it good, and if not good, better than a lot.

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Point of Contact and the Big Idea

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 24, 2012| 10 Comments »

There I was- flipping through a ragged, time-worn, cardboard box at my parent’s house. I gingerly sifted through yellowed and thinned pages, in my own time capsule, revisiting a fair amount of the two dimensional art of my youth. They kept so many of my creations. Occasionally I’ll wonder the purpose of keeping a diary other than to get the immediacy of pressures off my chest because I hardly think that there will be a day where I am driven to revisit all of my petty boy-riddled qualms of old. It seems, at least, that that’s the most of what my journal entries have seen over the years. But this- this was different. This was ART! Encapsulated. I understood the inability to dispose of it. Such richness. I totally had an eye for fashion and have apparently been designing clothes since I could pen myself a plausible idea. Lots of drawings were comprising sleep overs; quite likely an influence from every little girl’s treasured book Madeline. They were very big fun though. Yet another reason I’m glad to have the XX chromosome thing in place. Another common topic was of little girls puking. Yup- you read it right. Little girls puking. I was no stranger to belly aches- especially in the car (lo siento, padres) so I guess I just wanted to spread the love or at least normalize it so everyone got sick all the time too. Oh, yeah and kids are weird, sooo go figure.  BuT- the most common theme in my drawings? Homeless children.

I drew and drew and drew this topic in so very many capacities all throughout my growing up. Kids behind dumpsters, kids under bridges, under awnings, on corners, in the snow, with a dog, kids alone with signs, kids with parents, kids with questionable chaperone. Some of them were even throwing-up too…  A clear memory that I have is asking my mother why we couldn’t just take someone home with us. I thought if everyone in the city took somebody home the homelessness problem would be solved. Grown ups are so dense! Come on people, don’t you see?? And this of course was NYC circa 1980-1990’s, when the mental asylum Bellevue, was shut down and emptied onto the streets of Manhattan. I had vivid fantasies of setting up the extra room for our(?) homeless person and coming into the bathroom while they were obligingly in the shower, handing them a bag courteously,  and taking their smelly clothes in exchange for new, clean ones. Problems solved! Even as a 5 year old I guess I knew that one of the larger deterrents to my Adopt-A-Homeless-Person program was the stank factor. Needless to say this never manifested.

Many years later I would wind up tutoring homeless kids for a while. It was such a tremendous experience with so much variety that I couldn’t surmise it with one quick descriptive word. Ok- intense.  If I must. Bear with me- I’m building my “fretting for the homeless portfolio”.

I tried to tackle the problem from several different angles throughout the last ten years plus. At one point I worked diligently on an idea that I thought was rather brilliant. It stemmed from talking to people living on the streets that seemed unmotivated to find work. After all, it’s hard enough to find something when you’re clean and showered, let alone educated. My idea was to hook up seasonal farm work opportunities to homeless shelters, and have houses of worship do their good deeds by providing ride shares to the people. Flawlessish? I called so many freakin’ farms that did not appreciate the thought of a bunch of hobos smashing their berries or sleeping in their corn or whatever. Did everyone on the other end of the line read Grapes of Wrath? Sheesh. And to boot, I couldn’t find any churches, synagogues or mosques to do the driving. Foiled.

My fascination with homeless (housing disabled?) waxed and grew and on the side I kept a notebook full of years worth of spontaneous interviews with street dwelling folk. I wanted their stories. Badly. Occasionally I would set out with the intention of conducting the interviews, sometimes I would see someone too interesting pass up. (I told you- my curiosity might just be the death of me some day. Please play “Blaze of Glory” at my funeral. I’m not kidding. I’m working up to earning it but no, I’m not trying to die anytime soon.) I had a long list of questions and my spiel was to go up and ask if they were hungry and I could buy them some lunch or a cup of coffee in exchange for some question answering. The notebook, I regret to say, is sadly long gone, lost to the same sea that claims matching socks, sunglasses,  and bus transfers, but some of the questions that I had in there went something like this:

*Where did you grow up?  * What was your family like?  * When did you start living on the streets?  *Is it scary?  * Do you get assistance?  * Do you want to live in a house/ apt some day? * Drug related questions. * Saftey related questions * Adventure related inquiry * Favorite stories?…

This is a small sampling. The questions were very subject to change, depending on the person I was asking and their openness and willingness to divulge, naturally.

I’ll tell you though, boy have I heard some shit!

There is one that stands out above the rest though. I was interviewing this guy, a mid forty’s man originally from an upper-middle class home in the suburbs of NJ. Born to religious parents. Happy childhood. Good relationships with brothers and sisters. He liked partying a little too much and got turned on to heroin. He’d always been the rebel in the family; the black sheep. He’d been living on the streets of several states for well over two decades by the time I met him. He seemed happy to tell his story. He seemed so sound. Peaceful. I asked him if he wanted to be off of the streets and his response was, and I remember it so clearly: “Man, you people feel bad for us out here, but we feel bad for you! Most of us don’t want those responsibilities that you have. There’s too much to do. A house, a car, bills, paperwork. Responsibilities. They are overwhelming. Yeah, it can be dangerous, but we don’t want what you got. I believe in God. And out here- ain’t nothing between me and God.”

Take that in.

The concept of the interviews originated not just to satisfy my own forever’s-worth of curiosity. It was to serve as a bridge. Long ago I recognized people’s limited abilities to care for something/ someone at a distance. We tend to favor what and who we know. Throw another sad sap’s face into the world and if the public at large doesn’t recognize it, it’s easier to walk on by. Walk by a face on the street of someone who was in your past, who you know in a more intimate way- perhaps a friend’s father, an old neighbor, a former student, and things change. There is a sense of ownership and most of us have a built in mechanism to care for those we know. I felt that if we had people’s stories and could actually personalize them, find them relatable, then people would have more compassion and vested interest in getting people help that wanted and needed it.

So I ran off to get a sharpie and some name tags. What’s she doing now? I had a new experiment in mind. If we bore name tags there would be a missing piece of the lacking reliability solved. Like “Oh! Your name is Joey? That was my grandpa’s, name and he was really influential in my life. I love guys named Joey.” Etc. So on the name tags went the name, because knowing someone’s name is personal and pretty undeniably humanizing. Then three random things. 1. Favorite band 2. A place I’ve traveled 3. What I love. Really, it could’ve been anything. The objective was to show the public the humanity of people, as it’s so easily dismissed or ignored in our world where people are so overstimulated and walled.

I resolved to wear a name tag for a week straight to see the effects and how people might approach me and how it would change dynamics. I had visions of grandeur!

Well, I’m embarrassed to say that I wound up getting irritated with the receptivity, especially considering that I was fresh out of a multi-year relationship and going out a lot and was on one, so having my name on blast was putting me out there to a general crowd that I didn’t want all up in my business. I tried to maintain it throughout the day time instead, but I was working in a school and it wasn’t the right place either. Eventually I lost interest because my life style at the time didn’t lend itself to the particular vision I had hoped for.

Do know that I have not given up on my idea of being a liaison/catalyst for bridging the worlds. I actually still quite fancy the idea of name tag personification. Perhaps I will conduct this experiment in more refined ways and pick my project back up again. Like only do it in certain areas of the city while doing specific activities. And get some new hobos on board…?

I will do it! I’ll do it for the people sitting under awnings tonight, getting splashed by the cold rain. And I’ll do it for that little, barfy, concerned drawer me inside.

Back on the grind, baby.

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9/11 A New York Story

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on September 11, 2012| 2 Comments »

It’s been 11 entire years since that fated day in September. That terrifying day- where it is easy to remember a stillness void of calm, and a heartbeat’s pounding of anticipation’s unknown. Each of us remember where we were that day… What we were doing… Some of us remember where we were standing when we heard… And then there were those of us that saw.

That particular year I was pulling a stint in Colorado, tucked away from the crumbling buildings and smoldering remnants where my family and friends were. Where I called home. Where I grew up. Despite being far, there were no safety guarantees for anyone. There was no escaping the eeriness that had  thickly and unwelcomingly lay down upon the country. Creating this incomparable muteness, removing flights from the air, and instilling a fear that we as a whole had yet to experience.

My mother worked in midtown Manhattan. My father, in L.I., but had a job interview scheduled at the towers for the following day (the difference a day makes!). My other family and friends in and close to the city, and the people we knew working at the towers… it was terrible. No one was reachable. The lines were all down. We didn’t know who was alive and allright and we didn’t know how wide spread it was going to get. It was the most dreamy-doom feeling that I had ever experienced. It was all too large to understand. And that was just me- the abridged, clipped version of that day, a person who had not experienced it 1st hand.

Today’s post is a story of a friend of mine, Cheryl, who did experience it 1st hand. Her story has a silver, no- a golden lining. Not everyone was so lucky. I’m glad that she could tell her tale. It’s a very worthy read. It is insightful, raw and real (with even a touch of sass!), and gives us another reason to give thanks.

—————————————-

It was September 11, 2001. It was my first day of work after college. I was so excited. I didn’t sleep at all the night before. I kissed Ezra (my 4 year old roommate) goodbye and got a thumbs up from Mike and Aubrey along with a “you can do it” smile. I left the house in Jersey City about 8:00 am which I NEVER do as I normally can sleep till noon. I took a cab to Journal Square Path Station and started walking down into the building. I remember it seemed really empty which surprised me because we were smack in the middle of rush hour. Everyone there seemed engaged in heavy conversation and I noticed a lot of people were leaving as I was heading in. Huh?? I asked a worker standing outside what was going on and he said a small private plane hit the WTC. I asked if the trains were still running and he said “yes ma’am” so I headed in and got on the next train hoping to wind up on 14th & 6th near where my new job as a sound engineer was.

The next little bit I completely blacked out about and remembered just a few years ago.

So the train departed. I was oblivious to what I had heard earlier and was focusing on my skirt which was way too short and my heels which were way too high. Those that know me know that I never dress that way at all so I had to make sure everything was looking good when I got off (FYI if you are a sound engineer I would not recommend wearing heels and skirt to work). To those not familiar with the Path Train, it leaves from NJ to NY and stays above ground until it hits the Hudson (Pavonia/Newport) and then it goes back underground, through the tunnel and stops at WTC, Christopher Street and then 14th (I think). Right as we approached the tunnel I noticed smoke billowing out from one of the towers and at that split moment, when I looked up, I saw another plane hit the other tower, and then my train went underground heading straight for it.

As we rolled into the WTC station, there was complete and utter chaos. People were banging on the doors to get in, and the conductor made an announcement that we would not be stopping and that he would be taking us straight to Penn Station. Wait. What? We’re not stopping? I looked around and realized for the first time since I got on that train that I was the only one in there. The people outside were begging for me to open the doors. They were pleading for me to help them. I started screaming to stop the train “PLEASE STOP!!!” but we didn’t’, we just rolled passed them. They were running alongside banging on the car! I think I went into shock and complete fear as they tried to pry open the doors. And then blackness. We were out of the station and heading to 34th Street. I was crying. I was scared. I could hear rumbling and screaming. When I got out I was so confused. It was quiet. Like really, really quiet. Scary quiet. Like from the movie Legend quiet. Everyone was just standing with their mouths gaped open or their hands to cover it… and when I turned around I could see both towers were on fire, smoking. Smoldering. This was real? Shit. Shit!!. Fuck. What do I do??. Where do I go?? Someone help me! Wait. Get a grip! Calm down. Take a breath. Breathe. Ok, you’re breathing. Now run!

I didn’t know where to go or what to do so I just ran to my new office/music studio on 16th and 8th and when I got there everyone was just staring out the large window that had the ideal view of the devastation. Within those moments, the first tower came crashing down and everyone screamed and gasped and cried…we all went to the roof and watched the 2nd tower plummet soon thereafter… everyone started running out of our building, I was knocked down because I was wearing those dumb heels and that stupid short skirt. Ugh! I got up and left the building with everyone else. I remember I had to pee like there was no tomorrow, but all the shops were closed. No one would even let me in let alone come to the doors in fear of riots. I couldn’t blame them, but man, I had to go.

I remember wishing someone was there to tell us what to do and where to go and what was happening….I mean, there wasn’t a cop anywhere. I then stood on a long line to use the payphones to call home, (you know this is an old story when there’s a pay phone involved), but by the time I got up to use it, the landline was dead. No one even had a working cell phone. A Verizon guy told us the phone lines were down because the antenna was at the top of the WTC, he had a small radio and he said that there were bombs reportedly in the subways and on the bridges, so to stand clear and get the hell out of there.

I walked up 6th ave. and that’s where I saw the mass exodus of people heading uptown. The fire trucks and ambulances were covered in soot along with a lot of the people. I was scared. Really, really, really scared. I remembered my dad’s friend had an office right where I was standing so I wrang up and he let me in. My dad’s friend assured me everything was just fine and that he had an inside scoop that there were boats coming to get us off the island (Sounds like Hunger Games, I know). I used the bathroom and then the alarms started going off so we all had to evacuate. I stepped back outside onto the sidewalk and noticed that the slow exodus soon turned into a running mob!! So I started running too. Damn these heels!!! I ran about 20 blocks and stopped. I began walking backwards so I could watch what was happening as well as continue moving away. Then, I bumped into this guy and all his papers went flying up in the air. Poof! As I began apologizing and helping him pick them up, I realized I knew him. He was a friend from school that I had just graduated with. We had hung out on graduation day. We hugged. He said he was gonna walk over the Brooklyn Bridge. I tried to convince him to come back to N.J. because all the bridges were closed. He didn’t care, he had to get home. Before we departed, I had asked if he remembered James from our class. He was the only one I could even think of that would have James contact info. I had a big crush on him since school ended, but I couldn’t seem to find any contact info anywhere not even on the internet. And with a name like James Doe, a black guy from Brooklyn, it was nearly impossible. David was like “Yeah, he actually called me the other day looking for your contact info, that’s so weird.” I was shocked. I gave him my email and phone number and said “Please, when you make it home call me and also please pass my info along to him.” And he did. (Yes, I was giving out my phone number to get a date during a terrorist attack, sigh, only me).

I began walking up to like 90th street or wherever so I could get myself on one of those boats heading home. After I got there they were like, “no, sorry they are leaving from 14th street”. Fuck!. Are you serious??? So then I walked all the way back to 14th street. My legs were tired. I had already ditched my shoes and I had sores on my thighs from the walking. Eventually I snuck in line and got on a cruise ship headed for Jersey. The entire ride was silent. When I got there, Aub, Mike and Ez were already there to take me home. I don’t think I said anything to anyone until we got to the house and then I just lost it. I tried to compose myself so Ezra wouldn’t be scared but I couldn’t. He came in my room, smiled, sat next to me and put his head on my lap. I moved over to the window and just sat there, and then he came over and hugged me and we both sat there together, watching the towers burn to the ground.

I think I have only taken the train once since that day. I insist on ALWAYS wearing comfortable shoes and clothing when I go to the city, even at the expense of my friends who I constantly embarrass when I show up to a high class venue in Nike’s.

I tell this story as I remember it. To add a few things, James did call me 2 days later. We went on our first date a week later. I was in love big time, and today we say is our 11th Anniversary. We now have a beautiful almost 10 year old daughter, Sasha, the love of my life whom I would go through a thousand other terrorist attacks for just to be with her.

Thanks for listening,

Cheryl

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Palomita Amigita

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , on February 8, 2012| 16 Comments »

The mornings are the nicest time.

The softest, sweetest.

My bed holds me close as possible while I track remnant trails of dreams behind my eyes …

So often the droned flutter of scurrying, new-day duties carry my mind up to your scrappy nest, or your fictitous body down to my favorite pillow.

-Where I cradle you.-

and you coo to me of your endeavors,

and your take on the world below,

and how you feel about your family,

and what you discuss when in unison.

I get to ask you questions on aviation, hierarchy, and simple philosophy.

My nose pressed against your dusted feathers, perfect puffy fragile belly,

rapid fire heart.

Outside~ where you really exist you are poached, and purposeful, and street wise.

-A real city slicker.-

You will be the last to die. You who’ll consume anything.

Little piggy. Little rat. Little pigeon.

Oh, soiled, little dove, I want to know you.

I dropped to my knees when you perched on my screen!

Did you move in above my window because you sensed my loyalty?

My awe for and respect to you?

Your song makes me feel at home, in summer, on a fire escape, skinned knees hanging down, streets below.

Your hum is my vehicle of transport~

On your wings I wander light,

Inspired to create in your honor.

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Scraping the Surface of my N.Y.

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on October 18, 2011| 12 Comments »

This makes me happy.

Sandwich anybody? Dumpling tacos? Ricey rice?

Born in the hospital across the street from Central Park, and raised between L.I., the East village, and uptown in Washington Heights, I was. The taste for travel was developed at an early age, being the daughter to two adventurous spirits. I left the East Coast long ago, but still vie for it from time to time, on an inexplicably  deep level.

What I miss is the mash up. The haphazardness of it all; along with the solid working order. Everything is atop of everything else; no body is phased. Try to surprise me, eh? What I miss is the in-your-face-ness; The dare-to-be-ness; so infused and embedded in the culture at large…

I mean, come on: "Dozens of delicious flavors and 3 shitty ones" blazed above the door. Snaaaarkyyy

Another thing that I long for that remains insatiated in me is the real, heavy, richness and diversity in culture there. Walking around a few blocks, one is guaranteed to pass a conversation where you can’t even identify the language. Ah! I miss home. I miss super authentic ethnic food from an uncharted hole-in-the-wall restaurant.

E 6th St is rife with Indian food places. If it looks famliar... you probably WEREN'T here. Haha.

Not that I claim that it is anything close to utopian, but people seem to coexist there, overall, better than where I currently reside. In Portland OR, the community is nice, considerate, environmentally aware, progressive, and many other fantastic things, but we lack genuine integration. It’s rather sad and doubly awkward. The grass is always greenerrrr. Assuming that there is grass, of course.

Five Points/ LIC

This city, which, in truth deserves a tremendous amount more of my time and attention to really do a proper entry, is so f*$%^n’ random. Anything really goes. I love it. It is nuts. I don’t know if I will ever/ could ever live there again. But my goodness, it is the best city I know.

yes, these ARE toothbrushes. You're right! Yes, they are in a special protective keeper, discarded at the foot of a tree on E. 12th. How ever did you know?!

A stop off the LIRR in Queens, this trash burned. One man tried to help(ish) by pouring a 12oz. water on it. Policeman walked on bye. It was "contained".

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