"I'm a New Yorker," he said. "I live in New York City. I walk the streets like everybody else does." -- a recent candidate for Mayor.
If you're guessing the speaker of the quotation above is Mike Bloomberg, you're almost right. It was Ron Lauder talking to the NY Times back in his 1993 campaign for Mayor --one in which TERM LIMITS was his big issue, which of course, he has since reverved himself on, like so many "Mike-a-like's."
Ron Lauder was whom I first thought of when I saw Mike Bloomberg. A thin slice of colorless salmon. A man addicted to his pose for his Bar-Mitzvah photos -- the one that makes him look young and promising and a little like Harry Truman.
I couldn't see any reason to get excited about him, until I heard him say on television that some parents don't realize how just how bad the education their children receive is. For a flicker, I thought, "Hmmn. An academic elitist! Someone who might have the courage to go out there and tell a group of immigrant parents that they should expect more from schools here than they received in the places from which they fled. Or just that, "Good penmanship does not equal good writing." The latter is a hard one to dispel even from immigrants of my mother's generation, whose women especially have had their hands invisibly bound in such a way that every curl looks like a bakery bow. How can you concentrate on what you are trying to say when you are so busy decorating a cake? I know people do, but my point is, that I once had to explain this to a parent who honestly did not know --- that her child had no understanding of sentence structure so, in fact, her English was very poor, not excellent as she had been told by her still-colonialist style school "back home". I promised her she would learn and she did and she graduated a much better writer, no less sloppy a calligrapher.
Candidate Bloomberg, I thought, would never open a school called, "Ghetto Film School." He would see that there is no remaining irony in that title. That it is a travesty, no matter how good the offerings might be --even if the school (which is slated to open next year) offers a six-week film course which sounds suspiciously like the for-profit courses of that kind all over Manhattan. Was Spike Lee made in six weeks?
40 Acres and a Mule. Now that's an honorable -- in your face -- reclaiming my nation title. I would love Spike Lee if only for the name of his production company, but of course, he has talent, intelligence and diligence.
I know, someone is going to write to me that this is a wonderful school with amazing people....And I'm sure it is. I just think that if I had a kid I would know how insulting that title was. Yes, the "Ghetto" has been branded in Rap Videos and Holocaust movies. That's another reason not to use the word.
Back when Alan Lomax crossed mountains and strata of class to record music, the word, "Folk" was used to describe struggling, working people. I imagine that is a major aim of this school.
So, why not do something daring and call the school, "Twenty-First Century Folk Films." It would embrace so many histories even in that clumsy attempt at a title. And it would acknowledge, too, what Mother Jones published in its Jan/Feb 2009 issue: "Class is the New Black." You can go to that article via this link: http://www.motherjones.com/news/feature/2009/01/class-is-the-new-black.html
The year of our first president of African-American descent shouldn't be the year that Ghetto Film School opens. I know that I am making a big deal over a title -- but I think that unless they have some outrageously good historian on staff who puts a big exhibit on all of the ghettos of history in the lobby and then asks, "What is a ghetto?" the name will always give me chills. Maybe that's the point. But, I asked myself, what if I started a school called, Clinical Depression Writers Academy. I promised that it would be devoted to giving voice to the suffering in the same way that Prozac Nation, The Noonday Demon, The Hours and Crime and Punishment had. Would you send your kids?
I used to think you named a school to inspire those who entered into it. What about naming the school after Oscar Michaux, one of the first African-American filmmakers?
No matter what anyone thinks of Bloomberg's rapid closing of schools, attempts to cut veteran teaching staff and change the culture of our public schools, they might look at "Ghetto Film School" as a representative statement of the current Dept. of Education Aesthetic.
I can't think of anyone, parent, child, teenager...whom I can say that name to without feeling shame.
Let's not even go into the other facts of the week:
If Bloomberg fires 16,000 teachers he will be cutting all the young people and faculties of the small schools he said were so important. All THAT MONEY spent will have been wasted as if in a Ponzi scheme. Maybe that was the point -- to bankrupt the DOE so that it could only run on the least number of teachers possible and maybe he doesn't care if they're experienced or novices. He just wants our schools to have as little as possible.
Then, there's the brilliant and frightening possibility posted on re-posted on Ednotesonline.org from Accountable Talk: http://accountabletalk.blogspot.com/2009/01/trading-tenure-for-jobs.html
31 January, 2009
26 January, 2009
The Loss of Teachers' Voices
When was the last time you heard an interview with a teacher about education on a major radio or television station -- I mean an active teacher, not someone who used to be one.
Whenever discussions of education are held, it's the voice of politicians or businessmen. You rarely hear any statement with that heartening introduction, "I've been teaching on the same street to the children of ... for 36 years."
Those people do exist and I work with some one them. And they are fantastic teachers. But, these days they spend their days leaning against windows in quiet moments, afraid of what is going to happen next. Administrators come and go, and with them changes in policy, but in the process they wear on the nervous systems of dedicated professionals who really care about your kids. I say, your kids, because I don't have any children in the school system, but some of you reading this, do.
There is nothing fair about seeing people who have worked arduously with kids for almost as long as I've been alive finding themselves in fear of what they KNOW will be disaster.
A new program gets introduced to the school -- well -- new to this administrations. The faculty has tried it before and it didn't work. And they're demanding that teachers do it again. The kind of insanity -- of doing what fails over and over, is not unique to schools. But teachers find themselves alone when they are forced to do it. When a company does this and fails, they are publicly scorned. When a teacher does this, no one takes the time to ask how the failure happened. They just blame the teacher, who knew it wouldn't work all along.
Why didn't the teacher protest? There is no forum for protest in the Dept. of Education. None. You don't like it -- you're insubordinate.
And you can be fired for being insubordinate.
So, colleagues I deeply respect, bite their nails after over 20 or 30 years of knowing how to teach, facing the reality that they will not be able to do what they most want to and are best at doing. They will work within an insanity for which only they will be blamed.
Whenever discussions of education are held, it's the voice of politicians or businessmen. You rarely hear any statement with that heartening introduction, "I've been teaching on the same street to the children of ... for 36 years."
Those people do exist and I work with some one them. And they are fantastic teachers. But, these days they spend their days leaning against windows in quiet moments, afraid of what is going to happen next. Administrators come and go, and with them changes in policy, but in the process they wear on the nervous systems of dedicated professionals who really care about your kids. I say, your kids, because I don't have any children in the school system, but some of you reading this, do.
There is nothing fair about seeing people who have worked arduously with kids for almost as long as I've been alive finding themselves in fear of what they KNOW will be disaster.
A new program gets introduced to the school -- well -- new to this administrations. The faculty has tried it before and it didn't work. And they're demanding that teachers do it again. The kind of insanity -- of doing what fails over and over, is not unique to schools. But teachers find themselves alone when they are forced to do it. When a company does this and fails, they are publicly scorned. When a teacher does this, no one takes the time to ask how the failure happened. They just blame the teacher, who knew it wouldn't work all along.
Why didn't the teacher protest? There is no forum for protest in the Dept. of Education. None. You don't like it -- you're insubordinate.
And you can be fired for being insubordinate.
So, colleagues I deeply respect, bite their nails after over 20 or 30 years of knowing how to teach, facing the reality that they will not be able to do what they most want to and are best at doing. They will work within an insanity for which only they will be blamed.
25 January, 2009
The Alternate Universe of Borough Park
Just as Larry arches into a half' G-cleff, tail up, head curved down a bit to get an angular view of the B-I-R-D-S, Benie instinctively wolfs down water in an enormous slurp, turning Larry quickly around. "It isn't as much fun without me," is the message and Larry, acknowledging the intense wings the two of them share, follows Bernie with his eyes. Right now, though, he'd rather look on the window, so "fast game of tag up and down the bookcases" begone! There's time for that in the puffier part of the day, when the birds plump quietly and unseen.
Just watched Werner Herzog's "Encounters at the End of the Universe." Began a week ago, finished this morning, and it brought with it a great peace. The South Pole is sparsely peopled by types Karen wanted to be, though I don't know if in the forever-sense. A woman travels across a border hiding inside a clean sewage pipe being carried on the back of a truck for five days. The small round shape -- the imposed lens would've been fascinating, infuriating and inspiring...but also nauseating. This same woman (whose name was "Karen," of course) traveled across Africa in a garbage truck crossing arteries of territorial hatred, and finally escaping captivity with the help of drunk Russian Scientists. I think Karen Hunter's instinct to fly was a good one, especially if crossing violent, gorgeous earth.
Almost slept, but couldn't quite -- Friday I collapsed after taking a long stroll, completely in vain, across 18th Avenue, in the Center-North of the Alternate Universe of Borough Park. Though I don't have a bag ready to go to Ethiopia, Nigeria or Alaska (and I want one), one thing I have is a map of streets which are other-wordly, or, at least, discordant. Walking past manicured tiny lawns makes me feel just a bit more interested in what placing a knife to the back of my knee and lopping it off would do to me. The confinement of my body is whale-like and with the up and down changes of air quality -- half-radiator/half cold wind, all cold-wind, all moistish cool, my asthma is running for president of the United Federation of Thrashed Lungs. It sends mailings out while I sleep and has built a coalition among the residents of bronchial tubes inside teachers experiencing this punishing, quixotic air. My asthma promises no nasal drip tapping, or hanging chads of handkerchiefs. Paper ballots, with some healthy lungs doing the monitoring from Eustachians for Justice.
Almost made it to the stores I had wanted to see but it was too close to sundown -- the 30 or 40 shoestores which fill the Universe of Borough Park, home to a dozen or more Hasidic Jewish Communities were all closed, every last one. Running from about 40th street and 13th Avenue to 60th Street and 18th Avenue, are bakeries, stores which sell fine silver, pocket-sized booth selling specialty skullcaps (like a knitted on with the Yankees symbol on it), slightly bigger bagelry's, kosher pizza and falafel warehouses, and intermixed among these, clothing for the well-dressed European woman and man of 1941. Setting aside the special fur-laced hats and high socks which some Hasidic Jews wear, the vast majority of the Hasidic community is simply walking around high quality Film-Noir wear. Well-tailored suits with broad shoulders for both genders. Shapely and sensibly sexy black dresses or jumpers--everything with a soft curve to it, as if it were an upward breath that could lift a bit in a Swing dance. There's plenty of silk, lace and wigs designed to look like real hair worn over what are undoubtedly well-done hair styles, by women honoring the rule that no one but her husband should see her mane. This is a particular shame and a source of irony as ALL of these women choose wigs which must be close to what their actual hair looks like and which are damned good. It's like the rule that says we can't have a full figure statue of a person which is completely anatomically correct -- it must have a blemish to show that it is not real, it is not an idol. The seam which you can sometimes see in the wigs these women wear is that same flag "You are not getting the real beauty."
Almost an odd 40's movie, but not one because you cannot escape the long beards and curly locks on the men who also carry cell phones, work on laptops and drive Land Rovers. It's another planet, as Karen would say, and it's one I like to walk through sometimes, when the alien in me needs company.
People come to these specific blocks like those immigrants to Antartica. They are wrestless and looking for others like them -- who need to experience a rigor, a set of strange rules which put them at odds with nature and allow them to play chess with mortality. On Saturdays, when according to Orthodox Judaism, you cannot make anything or engage a force of power (like electricity) to cause a machine to make something, the Jews of Borough park storm up the avenues leading out of their continent and into Bensonhurst, Sunset Park and Bay Ridge. These are rarely spirals of contemplation, but usually power-walks. Why so fast? To see what you never have time to see on other days? Or, to move with the speed of a plane above interesting, but potentially dangerous territory.
I stop on my walks and go into a few caterers and sweet shops. By now, I am a regular at one of the local supermarkets, as well, and the owner doesn't know what to make of me. I can usually identify the music being played -- prayer music sung by famous cantors like Yossel Rosenbaum. I buy products which only have Hebrew written on them. Of course, I am that word which Chaim Potok made famous in The Chosen: Apikoros -- Hebrew for hypocrite.
Herzog wonders about the motivations of current explorers of the South Pole, noting that Shakleton's attempt 100 years ago, was on behalf of the British Empire. Wishing it could have been left unseen, unnoticed, or, at least, "unconquered," he seems to relish the stories of those who find themselves there to find community. The saddest story of the film involves a young man who came to preserve a local language -- I won't tell you what happened because you should rent or buy the film. But, the inevitability of Ph.D's taking to the highways for study and because they are not natural parts of whatever is left of the market economy, hit me in the stomach. You know when you study something that has several possible applications, but is not a single skill, that you will have to adapt and find your way to use it. That we may as well still be waring wigs and carrying our work in scrolls as far as the rest of the world is concerned, hadn't quite reached me until that moment. Karen had been told that because of her artistic and intellectual interests she would be better off in Europe as Americans tend to marginalize people not enlivened by consumerism. I told her that was bullshit and still believe it.
The Alternate Universes of Borough Park, the East Village and Inwood stood for me as proof that you can sustain your ideas and your art if you insist upon doing so. But, I was never as aware as I am now of how the market could pack an idea in mothballs and package it, buying real estate around it for people to consume and re-consume it. Much worse, how a bad economy could make the individual feel that anything not of immediate use is frivolous. Very few of my friends go to hear live music downtown, even if they live there. Yes, the bands have changed. But, that used to be the point.
What a comic, thin, man in a traditional dark suit and ice floe beneath his chin called, "The Great City of Borough Park," is a truly profound entity. It's a loosely planned community in the religious sense -- there are multiple kinds of Hasidim, and within them different groupings. As if someone had run around the blocks gluing down pieces of Shtetl, there are tiny shuls (synagogues) that fill tiny houses with hand-painted signs identifying them. Then there are the virtual classical parodies which serve glorious school buildings, community centers, houses and synagogues and, alongside them enormous chandeliers nearly breaking through the bay windows of garden apartments. The unwritten economic agreement to keep the neighborhood affordable for the community who lives there is unparalleled in NY. ( Hasidism do occasionally rent to non-Jews when the few apartments which become vacant aren't immediately gobbled up by the "cousin-of my youngest niece and her husband who are expecting quintuplets," etc.) That you can still find not just outfits right out of The Third Man, but Challah made with honey and eggs with no concern for cholesterol, is itself worth the walk.
For me, though, it's an opportunity to be an alien among my own aliens -- I can balance two worlds at once. Neither is home, and I envy both the people in Antartica and the Jews of Borough Park that willingness to make allegiance with a lifestyle.
Someday, I'll pack Larry and Bernie up in a Volvo (once I learn to drive) and we'll go to whatever that place is which will feel right. For now, I am a very slow traveler. I was and am willing to go faster and could have made that plainer when Karen was here. In the stillness is same desire which the bird's offending Larry have to "plump" and be "home" for a while. I found that home was created by the love of the bird I was flying with which is probably what they feel too.
Just watched Werner Herzog's "Encounters at the End of the Universe." Began a week ago, finished this morning, and it brought with it a great peace. The South Pole is sparsely peopled by types Karen wanted to be, though I don't know if in the forever-sense. A woman travels across a border hiding inside a clean sewage pipe being carried on the back of a truck for five days. The small round shape -- the imposed lens would've been fascinating, infuriating and inspiring...but also nauseating. This same woman (whose name was "Karen," of course) traveled across Africa in a garbage truck crossing arteries of territorial hatred, and finally escaping captivity with the help of drunk Russian Scientists. I think Karen Hunter's instinct to fly was a good one, especially if crossing violent, gorgeous earth.
Almost slept, but couldn't quite -- Friday I collapsed after taking a long stroll, completely in vain, across 18th Avenue, in the Center-North of the Alternate Universe of Borough Park. Though I don't have a bag ready to go to Ethiopia, Nigeria or Alaska (and I want one), one thing I have is a map of streets which are other-wordly, or, at least, discordant. Walking past manicured tiny lawns makes me feel just a bit more interested in what placing a knife to the back of my knee and lopping it off would do to me. The confinement of my body is whale-like and with the up and down changes of air quality -- half-radiator/half cold wind, all cold-wind, all moistish cool, my asthma is running for president of the United Federation of Thrashed Lungs. It sends mailings out while I sleep and has built a coalition among the residents of bronchial tubes inside teachers experiencing this punishing, quixotic air. My asthma promises no nasal drip tapping, or hanging chads of handkerchiefs. Paper ballots, with some healthy lungs doing the monitoring from Eustachians for Justice.
Almost made it to the stores I had wanted to see but it was too close to sundown -- the 30 or 40 shoestores which fill the Universe of Borough Park, home to a dozen or more Hasidic Jewish Communities were all closed, every last one. Running from about 40th street and 13th Avenue to 60th Street and 18th Avenue, are bakeries, stores which sell fine silver, pocket-sized booth selling specialty skullcaps (like a knitted on with the Yankees symbol on it), slightly bigger bagelry's, kosher pizza and falafel warehouses, and intermixed among these, clothing for the well-dressed European woman and man of 1941. Setting aside the special fur-laced hats and high socks which some Hasidic Jews wear, the vast majority of the Hasidic community is simply walking around high quality Film-Noir wear. Well-tailored suits with broad shoulders for both genders. Shapely and sensibly sexy black dresses or jumpers--everything with a soft curve to it, as if it were an upward breath that could lift a bit in a Swing dance. There's plenty of silk, lace and wigs designed to look like real hair worn over what are undoubtedly well-done hair styles, by women honoring the rule that no one but her husband should see her mane. This is a particular shame and a source of irony as ALL of these women choose wigs which must be close to what their actual hair looks like and which are damned good. It's like the rule that says we can't have a full figure statue of a person which is completely anatomically correct -- it must have a blemish to show that it is not real, it is not an idol. The seam which you can sometimes see in the wigs these women wear is that same flag "You are not getting the real beauty."
Almost an odd 40's movie, but not one because you cannot escape the long beards and curly locks on the men who also carry cell phones, work on laptops and drive Land Rovers. It's another planet, as Karen would say, and it's one I like to walk through sometimes, when the alien in me needs company.
People come to these specific blocks like those immigrants to Antartica. They are wrestless and looking for others like them -- who need to experience a rigor, a set of strange rules which put them at odds with nature and allow them to play chess with mortality. On Saturdays, when according to Orthodox Judaism, you cannot make anything or engage a force of power (like electricity) to cause a machine to make something, the Jews of Borough park storm up the avenues leading out of their continent and into Bensonhurst, Sunset Park and Bay Ridge. These are rarely spirals of contemplation, but usually power-walks. Why so fast? To see what you never have time to see on other days? Or, to move with the speed of a plane above interesting, but potentially dangerous territory.
I stop on my walks and go into a few caterers and sweet shops. By now, I am a regular at one of the local supermarkets, as well, and the owner doesn't know what to make of me. I can usually identify the music being played -- prayer music sung by famous cantors like Yossel Rosenbaum. I buy products which only have Hebrew written on them. Of course, I am that word which Chaim Potok made famous in The Chosen: Apikoros -- Hebrew for hypocrite.
Herzog wonders about the motivations of current explorers of the South Pole, noting that Shakleton's attempt 100 years ago, was on behalf of the British Empire. Wishing it could have been left unseen, unnoticed, or, at least, "unconquered," he seems to relish the stories of those who find themselves there to find community. The saddest story of the film involves a young man who came to preserve a local language -- I won't tell you what happened because you should rent or buy the film. But, the inevitability of Ph.D's taking to the highways for study and because they are not natural parts of whatever is left of the market economy, hit me in the stomach. You know when you study something that has several possible applications, but is not a single skill, that you will have to adapt and find your way to use it. That we may as well still be waring wigs and carrying our work in scrolls as far as the rest of the world is concerned, hadn't quite reached me until that moment. Karen had been told that because of her artistic and intellectual interests she would be better off in Europe as Americans tend to marginalize people not enlivened by consumerism. I told her that was bullshit and still believe it.
The Alternate Universes of Borough Park, the East Village and Inwood stood for me as proof that you can sustain your ideas and your art if you insist upon doing so. But, I was never as aware as I am now of how the market could pack an idea in mothballs and package it, buying real estate around it for people to consume and re-consume it. Much worse, how a bad economy could make the individual feel that anything not of immediate use is frivolous. Very few of my friends go to hear live music downtown, even if they live there. Yes, the bands have changed. But, that used to be the point.
What a comic, thin, man in a traditional dark suit and ice floe beneath his chin called, "The Great City of Borough Park," is a truly profound entity. It's a loosely planned community in the religious sense -- there are multiple kinds of Hasidim, and within them different groupings. As if someone had run around the blocks gluing down pieces of Shtetl, there are tiny shuls (synagogues) that fill tiny houses with hand-painted signs identifying them. Then there are the virtual classical parodies which serve glorious school buildings, community centers, houses and synagogues and, alongside them enormous chandeliers nearly breaking through the bay windows of garden apartments. The unwritten economic agreement to keep the neighborhood affordable for the community who lives there is unparalleled in NY. ( Hasidism do occasionally rent to non-Jews when the few apartments which become vacant aren't immediately gobbled up by the "cousin-of my youngest niece and her husband who are expecting quintuplets," etc.) That you can still find not just outfits right out of The Third Man, but Challah made with honey and eggs with no concern for cholesterol, is itself worth the walk.
For me, though, it's an opportunity to be an alien among my own aliens -- I can balance two worlds at once. Neither is home, and I envy both the people in Antartica and the Jews of Borough Park that willingness to make allegiance with a lifestyle.
Someday, I'll pack Larry and Bernie up in a Volvo (once I learn to drive) and we'll go to whatever that place is which will feel right. For now, I am a very slow traveler. I was and am willing to go faster and could have made that plainer when Karen was here. In the stillness is same desire which the bird's offending Larry have to "plump" and be "home" for a while. I found that home was created by the love of the bird I was flying with which is probably what they feel too.
20 January, 2009
Hopeful Eloquence
My fellow citizens:
I stand here today humbled by the task before us, grateful for the trust you have bestowed, mindful of the sacrifices borne by our ancestors. I thank President Bush for his service to our nation, as well as the generosity and cooperation he has shown throughout this transition.
Forty-four Americans have now taken the presidential oath. The words have been spoken during rising tides of prosperity and the still waters of peace. Yet, every so often the oath is taken amidst gathering clouds and raging storms. At these moments, America has carried on not simply because of the skill or vision of those in high office, but because We the People have remained faithful to the ideals of our forbearers, and true to our founding documents.
So it has been. So it must be with this generation of Americans.
That we are in the midst of crisis is now well understood. Our nation is at war, against a far-reaching network of violence and hatred. Our economy is badly weakened, a consequence of greed and irresponsibility on the part of some, but also our collective failure to make hard choices and prepare the nation for a new age. Homes have been lost; jobs shed; businesses shuttered. Our health care is too costly; our schools fail too many; and each day brings further evidence that the ways we use energy strengthen our adversaries and threaten our planet.
These are the indicators of crisis, subject to data and statistics. Less measurable but no less profound is a sapping of confidence across our land – a nagging fear that America’s decline is inevitable, and that the next generation must lower its sights.
Today I say to you that the challenges we face are real. They are serious and they are many. They will not be met easily or in a short span of time. But know this, America – they will be met. On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord.
On this day, we come to proclaim an end to the petty grievances and false promises, the recriminations and worn out dogmas, that for far too long have strangled our politics.
We remain a young nation, but in the words of Scripture, the time has come to set aside childish things. The time has come to reaffirm our enduring spirit; to choose our better history; to carry forward that precious gift, that noble idea, passed on from generation to generation: the God-given promise that all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness.
In reaffirming the greatness of our nation, we understand that greatness is never a given. It must be earned. Our journey has never been one of short-cuts or settling for less. It has not been the path for the faint-hearted – for those who prefer leisure over work, or seek only the pleasures of riches and fame.
Rather, it has been the risk-takers, the doers, the makers of things – some celebrated but more often men and women obscure in their labor, who have carried us up the long, rugged path towards prosperity and freedom.
For us, they packed up their few worldly possessions and traveled across oceans in search of a new life. My fellow citizens:
I stand here today humbled by the task before us, grateful for the trust you have bestowed, mindful of the sacrifices borne by our ancestors. I thank President Bush for his service to our nation, as well as the generosity and cooperation he has shown throughout this transition.
Forty-four Americans have now taken the presidential oath. The words have been spoken during rising tides of prosperity and the still waters of peace. Yet, every so often the oath is taken amidst gathering clouds and raging storms. At these moments, America has carried on not simply because of the skill or vision of those in high office, but because We the People have remained faithful to the ideals of our forbearers, and true to our founding documents.
So it has been. So it must be with this generation of Americans.
That we are in the midst of crisis is now well understood. Our nation is at war, against a far-reaching network of violence and hatred. Our economy is badly weakened, a consequence of greed and irresponsibility on the part of some, but also our collective failure to make hard choices and prepare the nation for a new age. Homes have been lost; jobs shed; businesses shuttered. Our health care is too costly; our schools fail too many; and each day brings further evidence that the ways we use energy strengthen our adversaries and threaten our planet.
These are the indicators of crisis, subject to data and statistics. Less measurable but no less profound is a sapping of confidence across our land – a nagging fear that America’s decline is inevitable, and that the next generation must lower its sights.
Today I say to you that the challenges we face are real. They are serious and they are many. They will not be met easily or in a short span of time. But know this, America – they will be met. On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord.
On this day, we come to proclaim an end to the petty grievances and false promises, the recriminations and worn out dogmas, that for far too long have strangled our politics.
We remain a young nation, but in the words of Scripture, the time has come to set aside childish things. The time has come to reaffirm our enduring spirit; to choose our better history; to carry forward that precious gift, that noble idea, passed on from generation to generation: the God-given promise that all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness.
In reaffirming the greatness of our nation, we understand that greatness is never a given. It must be earned. Our journey has never been one of short-cuts or settling for less. It has not been the path for the faint-hearted – for those who prefer leisure over work, or seek only the pleasures of riches and fame.
Rather, it has been the risk-takers, the doers, the makers of things – some celebrated but more often men and women obscure in their labor, who have carried us up the long, rugged path towards prosperity and freedom.
For us, they packed up their few worldly possessions and traveled across oceans in search of a new life.
For us, they toiled in sweatshops and settled the West; endured the lash of the whip and plowed the hard earth.
For us, they fought and died, in places like Concord and Gettysburg; Normandy and Khe Sahn.
Time and again these men and women struggled and sacrificed and worked till their hands were raw so that we might live a better life. They saw America as bigger than the sum of our individual ambitions; greater than all the differences of birth or wealth or faction.
This is the journey we continue today. We remain the most prosperous, powerful nation on Earth. Our workers are no less productive than when this crisis began. Our minds are no less inventive, our goods and services no less needed than they were last week or last month or last year. Our capacity remains undiminished. But our time of standing pat, of protecting narrow interests and putting off unpleasant decisions — that time has surely passed. Starting today, we must pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and begin again the work of remaking America.
For everywhere we look, there is work to be done. The state of the economy calls for action, bold and swift, and we will act — not only to create new jobs, but to lay a new foundation for growth. We will build the roads and bridges, the electric grids and digital lines that feed our commerce and bind us together. We will restore science to its rightful place, and wield technology's wonders to raise health care's quality and lower its cost. We will harness the sun and the winds and the soil to fuel our cars and run our factories. And we will transform our schools and colleges and universities to meet the demands of a new age. All this we can do. All this we will do.
Now, there are some who question the scale of our ambitions — who suggest that our system cannot tolerate too many big plans. Their memories are short. For they have forgotten what this country has already done; what free men and women can achieve when imagination is joined to common purpose, and necessity to courage.
What the cynics fail to understand is that the ground has shifted beneath them — that the stale political arguments that have consumed us for so long no longer apply. The question we ask today is not whether our government is too big or too small, but whether it works — whether it helps families find jobs at a decent wage, care they can afford, a retirement that is dignified. Where the answer is yes, we intend to move forward. Where the answer is no, programs will end. Those of us who manage the public's dollars will be held to account — to spend wisely, reform bad habits, and do our business in the light of day — because only then can we restore the vital trust between a people and their government.
Nor is the question before us whether the market is a force for good or ill. Its power to generate wealth and expand freedom is unmatched, but this crisis has reminded us that without a watchful eye, the market can spin out of control — and that a nation cannot prosper long when it favors only the prosperous. The success of our economy has always depended not just on the size of our gross domestic product, but on the reach of our prosperity; on our ability to extend opportunity to every willing heart — not out of charity, but because it is the surest route to our common good.
As for our common defense, we reject as false the choice between our safety and our ideals. Our founding fathers ... our found fathers, faced with perils we can scarcely imagine, drafted a charter to assure the rule of law and the rights of man, a charter expanded by the blood of generations. Those ideals still light the world, and we will not give them up for expedience's sake. And so to all the other peoples and governments who are watching today, from the grandest capitals to the small village where my father was born: know that America is a friend of each nation and every man, woman, and child who seeks a future of peace and dignity, and that we are ready to lead once more.
Recall that earlier generations faced down fascism and communism not just with missiles and tanks, but with sturdy alliances and enduring convictions. They understood that our power alone cannot protect us, nor does it entitle us to do as we please. Instead, they knew that our power grows through its prudent use; our security emanates from the justness of our cause, the force of our example, the tempering qualities of humility and restraint.
We are the keepers of this legacy. Guided by these principles once more, we can meet those new threats that demand even greater effort — even greater cooperation and understanding between nations. We will begin to responsibly leave Iraq to its people, and forge a hard-earned peace in Afghanistan. With old friends and former foes, we will work tirelessly to lessen the nuclear threat, and roll back the specter of a warming planet. We will not apologize for our way of life, nor will we waver in its defense, and for those who seek to advance their aims by inducing terror and slaughtering innocents, we say to you now that our spirit is stronger and cannot be broken; you cannot outlast us, and we will defeat you.
For we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness. We are a nation of Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus — and non-believers. We are shaped by every language and culture, drawn from every end of this Earth; and because we have tasted the bitter swill of civil war and segregation, and emerged from that dark chapter stronger and more united, we cannot help but believe that the old hatreds shall someday pass; that the lines of tribe shall soon dissolve; that as the world grows smaller, our common humanity shall reveal itself; and that America must play its role in ushering in a new era of peace.
To the Muslim world, we seek a new way forward, based on mutual interest and mutual respect. To those leaders around the globe who seek to sow conflict, or blame their society's ills on the West — know that your people will judge you on what you can build, not what you destroy. To those who cling to power through corruption and deceit and the silencing of dissent, know that you are on the wrong side of history; but that we will extend a hand if you are willing to unclench your fist.
To the people of poor nations, we pledge to work alongside you to make your farms flourish and let clean waters flow; to nourish starved bodies and feed hungry minds. And to those nations like ours that enjoy relative plenty, we say we can no longer afford indifference to the suffering outside our borders; nor can we consume the world's resources without regard to effect. For the world has changed, and we must change with it.
As we consider the road that unfolds before us, we remember with humble gratitude those brave Americans who, at this very hour, patrol far-off deserts and distant mountains. They have something to tell us, just as the fallen heroes who lie in Arlington whisper through the ages. We honor them not only because they are guardians of our liberty, but because they embody the spirit of service; a willingness to find meaning in something greater than themselves. And yet, at this moment — a moment that will define a generation — it is precisely this spirit that must inhabit us all.
For as much as government can do and must do, it is ultimately the faith and determination of the American people upon which this nation relies. It is the kindness to take in a stranger when the levees break, the selflessness of workers who would rather cut their hours than see a friend lose their job which sees us through our darkest hours. It is the firefighter's courage to storm a stairway filled with smoke, but also a parent's willingness to nurture a child, that finally decides our fate.
Our challenges may be new. The instruments with which we meet them may be new. But those values upon which our success depends — hard work and honesty, courage and fair play, tolerance and curiosity, loyalty and patriotism — these things are old. These things are true. They have been the quiet force of progress throughout our history. What is demanded then is a return to these truths. What is required of us now is a new era of responsibility — a recognition, on the part of every American, that we have duties to ourselves, our nation, and the world, duties that we do not grudgingly accept but rather seize gladly, firm in the knowledge that there is nothing so satisfying to the spirit, so defining of our character, than giving our all to a difficult task.
This is the price and the promise of citizenship.
This is the source of our confidence — the knowledge that God calls on us to shape an uncertain destiny.
This is the meaning of our liberty and our creed — why men and women and children of every race and every faith can join in celebration across this magnificent Mall, and why a man whose father less than sixty years ago might not have been served at a local restaurant can now stand before you to take a most sacred oath.
So let us mark this day with remembrance, of who we are and how far we have traveled. In the year of America's birth, in the coldest of months, a small band of patriots huddled by dying campfires on the shores of an icy river. The capital was abandoned. The enemy was advancing. The snow was stained with blood. At a moment when the outcome of our revolution was most in doubt, the father of our nation ordered these words be read to the people:
"Let it be told to the future world ... that in the depth of winter, when nothing but hope and virtue could survive...that the city and the country, alarmed at one common danger, came forth to meet (it)."
America, in the face of our common dangers, in this winter of our hardship, let us remember these timeless words. With hope and virtue, let us brave once more the icy currents, and endure what storms may come. Let it be said by our children's children that when we were tested we refused to let this journey end, that we did not turn back nor did we falter; and with eyes fixed on the horizon and God's grace upon us, we carried forth that great gift of freedom and delivered it safely to future generations.
Thank you. God bless you. And God bless the United States of America.
I stand here today humbled by the task before us, grateful for the trust you have bestowed, mindful of the sacrifices borne by our ancestors. I thank President Bush for his service to our nation, as well as the generosity and cooperation he has shown throughout this transition.
Forty-four Americans have now taken the presidential oath. The words have been spoken during rising tides of prosperity and the still waters of peace. Yet, every so often the oath is taken amidst gathering clouds and raging storms. At these moments, America has carried on not simply because of the skill or vision of those in high office, but because We the People have remained faithful to the ideals of our forbearers, and true to our founding documents.
So it has been. So it must be with this generation of Americans.
That we are in the midst of crisis is now well understood. Our nation is at war, against a far-reaching network of violence and hatred. Our economy is badly weakened, a consequence of greed and irresponsibility on the part of some, but also our collective failure to make hard choices and prepare the nation for a new age. Homes have been lost; jobs shed; businesses shuttered. Our health care is too costly; our schools fail too many; and each day brings further evidence that the ways we use energy strengthen our adversaries and threaten our planet.
These are the indicators of crisis, subject to data and statistics. Less measurable but no less profound is a sapping of confidence across our land – a nagging fear that America’s decline is inevitable, and that the next generation must lower its sights.
Today I say to you that the challenges we face are real. They are serious and they are many. They will not be met easily or in a short span of time. But know this, America – they will be met. On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord.
On this day, we come to proclaim an end to the petty grievances and false promises, the recriminations and worn out dogmas, that for far too long have strangled our politics.
We remain a young nation, but in the words of Scripture, the time has come to set aside childish things. The time has come to reaffirm our enduring spirit; to choose our better history; to carry forward that precious gift, that noble idea, passed on from generation to generation: the God-given promise that all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness.
In reaffirming the greatness of our nation, we understand that greatness is never a given. It must be earned. Our journey has never been one of short-cuts or settling for less. It has not been the path for the faint-hearted – for those who prefer leisure over work, or seek only the pleasures of riches and fame.
Rather, it has been the risk-takers, the doers, the makers of things – some celebrated but more often men and women obscure in their labor, who have carried us up the long, rugged path towards prosperity and freedom.
For us, they packed up their few worldly possessions and traveled across oceans in search of a new life. My fellow citizens:
I stand here today humbled by the task before us, grateful for the trust you have bestowed, mindful of the sacrifices borne by our ancestors. I thank President Bush for his service to our nation, as well as the generosity and cooperation he has shown throughout this transition.
Forty-four Americans have now taken the presidential oath. The words have been spoken during rising tides of prosperity and the still waters of peace. Yet, every so often the oath is taken amidst gathering clouds and raging storms. At these moments, America has carried on not simply because of the skill or vision of those in high office, but because We the People have remained faithful to the ideals of our forbearers, and true to our founding documents.
So it has been. So it must be with this generation of Americans.
That we are in the midst of crisis is now well understood. Our nation is at war, against a far-reaching network of violence and hatred. Our economy is badly weakened, a consequence of greed and irresponsibility on the part of some, but also our collective failure to make hard choices and prepare the nation for a new age. Homes have been lost; jobs shed; businesses shuttered. Our health care is too costly; our schools fail too many; and each day brings further evidence that the ways we use energy strengthen our adversaries and threaten our planet.
These are the indicators of crisis, subject to data and statistics. Less measurable but no less profound is a sapping of confidence across our land – a nagging fear that America’s decline is inevitable, and that the next generation must lower its sights.
Today I say to you that the challenges we face are real. They are serious and they are many. They will not be met easily or in a short span of time. But know this, America – they will be met. On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord.
On this day, we come to proclaim an end to the petty grievances and false promises, the recriminations and worn out dogmas, that for far too long have strangled our politics.
We remain a young nation, but in the words of Scripture, the time has come to set aside childish things. The time has come to reaffirm our enduring spirit; to choose our better history; to carry forward that precious gift, that noble idea, passed on from generation to generation: the God-given promise that all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness.
In reaffirming the greatness of our nation, we understand that greatness is never a given. It must be earned. Our journey has never been one of short-cuts or settling for less. It has not been the path for the faint-hearted – for those who prefer leisure over work, or seek only the pleasures of riches and fame.
Rather, it has been the risk-takers, the doers, the makers of things – some celebrated but more often men and women obscure in their labor, who have carried us up the long, rugged path towards prosperity and freedom.
For us, they packed up their few worldly possessions and traveled across oceans in search of a new life.
For us, they toiled in sweatshops and settled the West; endured the lash of the whip and plowed the hard earth.
For us, they fought and died, in places like Concord and Gettysburg; Normandy and Khe Sahn.
Time and again these men and women struggled and sacrificed and worked till their hands were raw so that we might live a better life. They saw America as bigger than the sum of our individual ambitions; greater than all the differences of birth or wealth or faction.
This is the journey we continue today. We remain the most prosperous, powerful nation on Earth. Our workers are no less productive than when this crisis began. Our minds are no less inventive, our goods and services no less needed than they were last week or last month or last year. Our capacity remains undiminished. But our time of standing pat, of protecting narrow interests and putting off unpleasant decisions — that time has surely passed. Starting today, we must pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and begin again the work of remaking America.
For everywhere we look, there is work to be done. The state of the economy calls for action, bold and swift, and we will act — not only to create new jobs, but to lay a new foundation for growth. We will build the roads and bridges, the electric grids and digital lines that feed our commerce and bind us together. We will restore science to its rightful place, and wield technology's wonders to raise health care's quality and lower its cost. We will harness the sun and the winds and the soil to fuel our cars and run our factories. And we will transform our schools and colleges and universities to meet the demands of a new age. All this we can do. All this we will do.
Now, there are some who question the scale of our ambitions — who suggest that our system cannot tolerate too many big plans. Their memories are short. For they have forgotten what this country has already done; what free men and women can achieve when imagination is joined to common purpose, and necessity to courage.
What the cynics fail to understand is that the ground has shifted beneath them — that the stale political arguments that have consumed us for so long no longer apply. The question we ask today is not whether our government is too big or too small, but whether it works — whether it helps families find jobs at a decent wage, care they can afford, a retirement that is dignified. Where the answer is yes, we intend to move forward. Where the answer is no, programs will end. Those of us who manage the public's dollars will be held to account — to spend wisely, reform bad habits, and do our business in the light of day — because only then can we restore the vital trust between a people and their government.
Nor is the question before us whether the market is a force for good or ill. Its power to generate wealth and expand freedom is unmatched, but this crisis has reminded us that without a watchful eye, the market can spin out of control — and that a nation cannot prosper long when it favors only the prosperous. The success of our economy has always depended not just on the size of our gross domestic product, but on the reach of our prosperity; on our ability to extend opportunity to every willing heart — not out of charity, but because it is the surest route to our common good.
As for our common defense, we reject as false the choice between our safety and our ideals. Our founding fathers ... our found fathers, faced with perils we can scarcely imagine, drafted a charter to assure the rule of law and the rights of man, a charter expanded by the blood of generations. Those ideals still light the world, and we will not give them up for expedience's sake. And so to all the other peoples and governments who are watching today, from the grandest capitals to the small village where my father was born: know that America is a friend of each nation and every man, woman, and child who seeks a future of peace and dignity, and that we are ready to lead once more.
Recall that earlier generations faced down fascism and communism not just with missiles and tanks, but with sturdy alliances and enduring convictions. They understood that our power alone cannot protect us, nor does it entitle us to do as we please. Instead, they knew that our power grows through its prudent use; our security emanates from the justness of our cause, the force of our example, the tempering qualities of humility and restraint.
We are the keepers of this legacy. Guided by these principles once more, we can meet those new threats that demand even greater effort — even greater cooperation and understanding between nations. We will begin to responsibly leave Iraq to its people, and forge a hard-earned peace in Afghanistan. With old friends and former foes, we will work tirelessly to lessen the nuclear threat, and roll back the specter of a warming planet. We will not apologize for our way of life, nor will we waver in its defense, and for those who seek to advance their aims by inducing terror and slaughtering innocents, we say to you now that our spirit is stronger and cannot be broken; you cannot outlast us, and we will defeat you.
For we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness. We are a nation of Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus — and non-believers. We are shaped by every language and culture, drawn from every end of this Earth; and because we have tasted the bitter swill of civil war and segregation, and emerged from that dark chapter stronger and more united, we cannot help but believe that the old hatreds shall someday pass; that the lines of tribe shall soon dissolve; that as the world grows smaller, our common humanity shall reveal itself; and that America must play its role in ushering in a new era of peace.
To the Muslim world, we seek a new way forward, based on mutual interest and mutual respect. To those leaders around the globe who seek to sow conflict, or blame their society's ills on the West — know that your people will judge you on what you can build, not what you destroy. To those who cling to power through corruption and deceit and the silencing of dissent, know that you are on the wrong side of history; but that we will extend a hand if you are willing to unclench your fist.
To the people of poor nations, we pledge to work alongside you to make your farms flourish and let clean waters flow; to nourish starved bodies and feed hungry minds. And to those nations like ours that enjoy relative plenty, we say we can no longer afford indifference to the suffering outside our borders; nor can we consume the world's resources without regard to effect. For the world has changed, and we must change with it.
As we consider the road that unfolds before us, we remember with humble gratitude those brave Americans who, at this very hour, patrol far-off deserts and distant mountains. They have something to tell us, just as the fallen heroes who lie in Arlington whisper through the ages. We honor them not only because they are guardians of our liberty, but because they embody the spirit of service; a willingness to find meaning in something greater than themselves. And yet, at this moment — a moment that will define a generation — it is precisely this spirit that must inhabit us all.
For as much as government can do and must do, it is ultimately the faith and determination of the American people upon which this nation relies. It is the kindness to take in a stranger when the levees break, the selflessness of workers who would rather cut their hours than see a friend lose their job which sees us through our darkest hours. It is the firefighter's courage to storm a stairway filled with smoke, but also a parent's willingness to nurture a child, that finally decides our fate.
Our challenges may be new. The instruments with which we meet them may be new. But those values upon which our success depends — hard work and honesty, courage and fair play, tolerance and curiosity, loyalty and patriotism — these things are old. These things are true. They have been the quiet force of progress throughout our history. What is demanded then is a return to these truths. What is required of us now is a new era of responsibility — a recognition, on the part of every American, that we have duties to ourselves, our nation, and the world, duties that we do not grudgingly accept but rather seize gladly, firm in the knowledge that there is nothing so satisfying to the spirit, so defining of our character, than giving our all to a difficult task.
This is the price and the promise of citizenship.
This is the source of our confidence — the knowledge that God calls on us to shape an uncertain destiny.
This is the meaning of our liberty and our creed — why men and women and children of every race and every faith can join in celebration across this magnificent Mall, and why a man whose father less than sixty years ago might not have been served at a local restaurant can now stand before you to take a most sacred oath.
So let us mark this day with remembrance, of who we are and how far we have traveled. In the year of America's birth, in the coldest of months, a small band of patriots huddled by dying campfires on the shores of an icy river. The capital was abandoned. The enemy was advancing. The snow was stained with blood. At a moment when the outcome of our revolution was most in doubt, the father of our nation ordered these words be read to the people:
"Let it be told to the future world ... that in the depth of winter, when nothing but hope and virtue could survive...that the city and the country, alarmed at one common danger, came forth to meet (it)."
America, in the face of our common dangers, in this winter of our hardship, let us remember these timeless words. With hope and virtue, let us brave once more the icy currents, and endure what storms may come. Let it be said by our children's children that when we were tested we refused to let this journey end, that we did not turn back nor did we falter; and with eyes fixed on the horizon and God's grace upon us, we carried forth that great gift of freedom and delivered it safely to future generations.
Thank you. God bless you. And God bless the United States of America.
19 January, 2009
Make it go away
1) Mediocrity in Education. Settling for scores instead of learning.
2) Small-mindedness. The framework that understands that students need more time in school because of circumstances beyond their control and yet won't agree to it.
3) Arne Duncan and his clone in DC and NY.
4) Obama's refusal to be bold and brave. Sometimes you need to take a stand before you reach across the table and lose your choice.
5) Biden's silence.
6) Postings that say NY will lose the most jobs this year.
7) My union's belief that because teachers look tired that we're useless. With that, my union's love of unchecked capitalism which, of course, makes no sense.
8) The silence of parents when their schools close.
9) The feeling that nothing matters, anyway.
2) Small-mindedness. The framework that understands that students need more time in school because of circumstances beyond their control and yet won't agree to it.
3) Arne Duncan and his clone in DC and NY.
4) Obama's refusal to be bold and brave. Sometimes you need to take a stand before you reach across the table and lose your choice.
5) Biden's silence.
6) Postings that say NY will lose the most jobs this year.
7) My union's belief that because teachers look tired that we're useless. With that, my union's love of unchecked capitalism which, of course, makes no sense.
8) The silence of parents when their schools close.
9) The feeling that nothing matters, anyway.
11 January, 2009
When I think of Tom.I think of a night,
When the earth smelled of summer
And the sky was streaked with white,
The soft mist of England Was sleeping on a hill.
I remember this, And I always will...
There are new lovers now
On the same silent hill,
Looking on the same blue sea.
And I know Tom and I are a part of them all -- And they're all a part of Tom and me.
--Intro to "Hello Young Lovers" Rogers and Hammerstein's The King and I
The formal restraint of a prepared memory -- the story you tell everyone, the face you wear, the closing and unclosing of the hand and then the resolve to leave off there has become habit. There aren't any friends who knew me when...not where I work, so I am this new character. A ragged, but nevertheless, a type -- the mistress of bedeviled children, religious in her belief that somewhere in eternity, her joy remains intact.
When the earth smelled of summer
And the sky was streaked with white,
The soft mist of England Was sleeping on a hill.
I remember this, And I always will...
There are new lovers now
On the same silent hill,
Looking on the same blue sea.
And I know Tom and I are a part of them all -- And they're all a part of Tom and me.
--Intro to "Hello Young Lovers" Rogers and Hammerstein's The King and I
The formal restraint of a prepared memory -- the story you tell everyone, the face you wear, the closing and unclosing of the hand and then the resolve to leave off there has become habit. There aren't any friends who knew me when...not where I work, so I am this new character. A ragged, but nevertheless, a type -- the mistress of bedeviled children, religious in her belief that somewhere in eternity, her joy remains intact.
04 January, 2009
03 January, 2009
Shuffling off to Buffalo
They were joking that soon the place would be a Dunkin' Donuts. "That's a pretty big Dunkin' Donuts," said the cashier, a young woman maybe 22 years old, trying to project confidence that her store was not closing -- yet, anyway. As I walked through the glass doors of Virgin Records on Fourteenth and Fourth avenue, a junkie, his wool hat taped to his skin by sweat, balanced on one foot, haggling with the security guard. I couldn't hear what he was saying. No one could -- he was just mouthing words with no sound. People shifted, weaving a bit. "Where to go?" "Another store full of sales? To the movies?"
On line at Thirteenth street and Third avenue, the face on the man directly in front of me was raging. "Come on, already," he mumbled, but he knew not to scoff too loudly at the customer currently at the window because the crowd on line was with the guy. You could feel the sympathy in the quiet way we all listened. "I'm sorry, but those passes are only good on Mondays." "You mean they're not for weekends?" "No. They are only for Mondays." "Where does it say that?" "It does not say that, but that is the rule. We only honor those passes on Mondays." "So, I can't use this?" "It is only good on Mondays." Three couples ahead of me, the negotiator pressed his head against the air and gave the cashier one last look. "Okay, so let me have two regular tickets." He pushed his eyes downward into his wallet. The frustrated gentleman ahead of me sighed. Meanwhile, in back of me, a couple discretely put their passes away and left the line. I decided I didn't want to sit for two hours and continued ambling along, feeling for the lift that used to come from walking through Manhattan at night.
I had decided not to just take a walk in my sluggish Brooklyn neighborhood because it makes me claustrophobic. There are only a few people out after dark, stores are mostly closed, and walking by rows and rows of houses just makes me feel alone. So, I got on the subway and got off at Union Square hoping to join in the energy of people hustling, drinking coffee, shopping, looking for movies, plays, music and chatting. People on their way to have fun are very easy about letting others brush in and out of their conversations. If they're confused about which way to go, I often just jump in with directions. The other night a group of teenage boys wanted to go to Chinatown, but also seemed to want to stay put in Greenwich Village. "What do you want to go for?" It turned out they were looking for some cheap jewelry. Since they weren't looking for brand name knockoffs, I directed them to the many sidewalk shops on eighth street and to K-Mart. "If you just want anything, you don't have to go to Chinatown." Frankly, they could've gone to their local store, but the purchase had given them an excuse for to get away from their suburb and themselves. They were extremely gracious and they smiled from the bottom of their hoodies until their noses. The boys had told me that they liked being on the street in which we stood because there were so many young people. "NYU," I said, but no flash of recognition shone through their pupils. They went off speedily after thanking me, bouncing in their sneakers toward a troop of people in their teens and twenties hovering around Astor Place. As they left, I realized they had heard about bargains in Chinatown, but not one of the city's major universities. A party school, no less. Was my city better known as a discount warehouse than a place to get drunk and have sex?
Though I'd never gone to Chinatown to shop in my 40 years in New York, my friend Karen had gone with one of her friends and her pre-teen and teenage daughters to look for high fashion look-a-likes. I remember especially Karen telling the story of being whispered to by this ethereal Chinese woman while walking with her friends on Canal Street. "You looking for Prada?" After she nodded, the woman led the group down a staircase into a basement full of handbags. Karen enjoyed the fact that the woman had approached her and not the others because she seemed to delight in making her the offer -- like it was a special gift. However rehearsed her manner may have been, the moment of connection between the two had been giggly and sweet. This was the kind of experience that made Karen feel happily like she was visiting from another planet and she should be alert to silly and striking possibilities.
My trip into Manhattan on Friday was torridly grey, in stark contrast to that memory, and to my encounter a few days before with those kids. I'd met those boys in the afternoon and there were students and people on their lunch milling in a quick pulse. The scant crew walking around as the sky became a thick, drab navy, were mostly just watching each other, not out of fear, but restlessness. Like me, no one seemed to have a particular destination in mind and the stores stood helplessly--every window was full of signs announcing huge sales and muzak bounced like a wave of tennis balls into the crowd slowing it down. For some reason, the soundtrack to Mamma Mia was being played and replayed without a break -- as if a back up sound system kicked in as soon as the other stopped so that there would be no silence.
When stores in New York go out of business or have huge sales to raise cash, usually, they get very loud. They blast their sound systems so that their announcements can be heard for miles and husky men with red faces are hired to call to passersby whatever phrases they think will get people into the store. "Cheap lingerie, Mama. Make your boyfriend happy tonight....Or your girlfriend. Whatever makes you happy. God loves everybody." The preacherly tone often builds. "Just trying to help my brothers and sisters out, now. Stop cursing and do something positive. Buy your mother and father something." And if you happen to lock eyes with the speaker in a pause, he will wish you a good night, a safe trip, or tell you that god blesses you. For some reason, it feels honest and warm even though he's said it to thousands of people and their dogs and he's shouted it a few times at passing cars. It's like listening to a false prophet -- the intensity with which he believes in the power and possibilities which could result from his ideas can shake you, even when you and he know the premises themselves are false.
But those men were nowhere this early evening. Paper signs hung like loose coats leaning over the ocean of glass while the relentless, cartoon-disco continued its manic bounce. There was no one trying to catch your eye and people were mostly talking about the fact that the Village was not very crowded for a Friday night. Only the teenagers felt comfortable just getting a drink somewhere. One or two restaurants were packed -- not the cafes -- but the macrobiotic places, the juice joints and The Dumpling Man. If you were going to spend your money, it was going to be on small, healthy-feeling items.
People were silently measuring the worth of the items at the stores, sale or no sale. "Will I really use this? Why? Sure, I've always wanted it, but I've spent a long time without it." I needed to buy something for my class and I picked up a cheap, literary-ish, former bestseller for the ride home. "I've got to get a new library card," I thought as I let myself soak in the bed of icy wind, soothing my joints. I could've walked for hours, but there was no life to look at and I was unwilling to carelessly stop somewhere for a coffee or to fake drinking a beer. (I can't drink, it makes my stomach dry and raw.) No one was interested in hanging out, and that, besides the funereal quality of the passion-free music, was what made the streets unsavory. We were all tourists and we were going home as soon as we hit our marks on the map. Only the journey was not novel, but completely without awe. I felt faceless, and I was because I had no sense of my own identity. My job is in limbo and everything is consciously day-to-day.
There was an empty row of seats on the "N" train, but I vaulted toward them anyway as there was no way I could've managed standing for even part of the way home. Walking down the stairs, I became dizzy from the unfulfilled need to get out of my own head for a few hours. When I leaned forward and lifted my book from my backpack, I saw the word "Pray," etched on the door. A few years ago, before they made it illegal to take pictures on the subway, I'd taken quite a few shots of similar carvings saying things like "Worship God" and "Go to Church." In Manhattan, they are etched on public phones, bathroom stalls, kiosks, ATM machines and traffic poles as well as train cars. Does this happen everywhere else?
But, I hadn't seen these messages for a long while. The aggressive attack on graffiti in New York had erased them along with the bubbled lettering of people's names which used to proliferate on the granite. So, I was suprised to be faced with this word, scratched into the metal, chastising me. I had a picture of the same message in ink in my collection at home, but the letters were longer and thinner in the one facing me.
Who does this? Who has the time to take a key (the usual implement) and dig into steel with enough power to create curves, not just lines up and down? The person who engraved the one I was looking at, unlike the one pictured, chose a spot about six feet from the floor. Someone tall whose hands had a wide and muscular wingspan.
Perhaps it was an out-of-work barker so disgruntled by the fact that business was so bad that it hadn't even created part-time work for extra gravediggers, he defaced the door with god-like rage.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)