| 4.1.00 New York
in March: Beauty,
Tragedy, Hand in Hand.
As winter gives way to spring, and as I prepare to leave
for
yet another sojourn to the left coast, I leave you, my readers
with some random thoughts, written at two separate sittings.
There is some overlap, and some are off-the-top-of-the-head
opinions that i'll probably regret having penned at some
later date, but here they are. Happy first of April!
Every once in a while, vacation doesn’t
have to mean leaving
town…and on such a beautiful week as the one we’ve been
having, perfect timing.
Monday, an out of town friend and I welcomed spring with
a sojourn through Central Park, entering at Central Park South,
finding ourselves on 110th Street much sooner than we expected.
Daffodils were in bloom in the sunnier spots, Forsythia buds were
evident everywhere. The Sheep Meadow was a perfect shade of
green, and the view from Belvidere Castle inspiring.
We journeyed east to El Barrio, up to the "new"
125th Street, and
headed straight for Starbucks, after which we ducked into the
Apollo and back out again, into the madness of the mostly
teenaged, spring-happy crowd, shopping and yelling and carrying
on as those who have long tired of winter are wont to do, as they
embrace the warm weather, garbage smells and all.
Tuesday I rode up river to Nyack and back with another
friend,
sitting in on her studio class in a dowdy theatre district office building,
observing her and countless other hopeful stars-of-the-future
sing their hearts out, taking tips from their class mates and the
ever critical yet ever supportive matronly teacher, the star maker
who hopes that some day her efforts will come to bear.
It was an intriguing look into a world i've rarely had the
opportunity to observe.
Riding home through Times Square, the lights seemed to
blaze a
little brighter, the crowd seemed to be a little happier, as the
warm day turned to chilly March evening. New York seemed
happy, free.
On Matinee Day I ducked into a preview of a new and
surprisingly
entertaining staging of The Wild Party, where I watched my teen
idol Toni Collette and the eternally hot sex-kitten Eartha Kitt prance
and gyrate and drip sexuality for two straight hours. I leaned
over the railing of the mezzanine, hanging on to every word as
these two beauties brought the roaring twenties to life on this
mesmerizingly colorful set with equally colorful characters laying
on its plush couches and in the seductively furnished bedroom,
pursuing all manner of fleshly pleasures. There were women kissing
women, men kissing men, wives kissing other people’s husbands,
boyfriends kissing husbands, wild drunkenness, illegal drugs and
a little attempted rape.
Madness, all of it, but beautiful and wild and everything
that we
dream about when we’re sleeping, and sometimes fantasize on
when we’re awake.
But amidst all this budding beauty and arrival of a new
spring,
the city is in turmoil – the latest shooting of an unarmed civilian
by the boys in blue, Patrick Dorismond is laid to rest, another
mother weeps needlessly.
This comes on the heels of two tragic media circuses, the
Diallo
and Louima conspiracy trial. Some cops have gone to jail, some
have been vindicated, others await their fate. Young men continue
to hang on street corners, angry residents await the next
confrontation, resentment between the races hangs in every
Brooklyn subway station and in the streets.
What is the answer? Nothing quick and easy. But how about a
little understanding for starters? Let self-interests take a
back seat, and as time ticks on, on its way towards another
long, hot summer, seek peace with those near us.
No amount of legislation will ever bring it to this city.
The power lies within.
-------
How easy it is to be consumed by one’s career,
the direction
in which one’s life is going, the activity that surrounds your
existence, the company you keep, the friends you make, the
lovers you love, hate and love again – and then in one short
moment, you find yourself dragging, kicking, resisting as the
pull of reality compels you to see, to behold, to watch, to
observe, and to shed tears.
I speak of the horror of the unrest in Flatbush
surrounding the
tragic death of Patrick Dorismond, murdered by an undercover
cop in Midtown last week.
Tragic enough, this was, yet the anger, the outrage
and the
weeping of the mothers, brothers, fathers and sisters
consumed a neighborhood not so far from where I live, just
steps away from my door, a sunny morning stroll through
the beauty of Prospect Park.
Bottles, rocks, gashes, blood, more tears – it
was remembered
at the time that "riot is the language of the unheard." What a
burden we carry as a country that welcomes near all across
its borders – that all who enter hear are heard, are made welcome,
are treated as equals.
It is a burden that we fail so often in carrying,
where many
groups find less acceptance, less trust from those who came
before, less opportunity – be it the barrier of language, of
class – this is our reality, that here in this giant city, this
megalopolis, there exist entire groups that have not found what
it is to truly be Americans.
Is this wrong, or is this right? This is not a
question, I feel, that
we as a country are capable of answering. Do we truly know the
direction in which we desire this nation to be moving? Or are we
completely incapable of thinking beyond our own small lives?
It is time for this great city to scratch it’s
collective head and
ponder these questions – where will we head as a community
in the 21st Century? Will we be prepared to take the time to
grow this city in the direction that will be beneficial to all? Or
will we find ourselves growing further and further apart?
For sure, a quick survey of many American cities
finds them in
a sorry state of polarization, where racial tensions run higher
than in New York, and races, classes and cultures find themselves
co-habiting never.
New York is privileged enough to find itself
integrated, groups
intersecting and meeting at all levels and in all capacities, more
than most places.
But it is not perfect. Yes, the number of
cop-on-civilian murders
has fallen drastically since the Dinkins Administration, and yes,
the Los Angeles Police Department finds itself in a state of
disarray that New Yorkers would probably never allow, yet since
when did New York model itself on other United States cities
-- since when did it grab at an opportunity to look to the past
for guidance?
There is work to do.
Email: davidr@lifeingotham.com
Next Update: 20 April (i'll be back!)
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