A longtime friend of mine posted that he was about done with New York City.
I can't necessarily say I blame him. As much as I love the city I grew up in, I've come to appreciate the things that everyone else in the country takes for granted, such as getting what you pay for in housing or the ability to live comfortably on one job. Well, that last one has been kind of so-so for most since 2008, but the point is New York is a shark tank, and most of its residents are swimming without an air supply and with a cut on their arm. They may stay afloat for a time. They may even find rescue. But very likely they will be eaten alive.
That was a hard thing to admit. The shark tank that is New York taught me skills that still come in handy today. I learned how to grind, how to work hard, how to persevere in New York. I learned that the competition spends eight hours a night sleeping, and if you could somehow function on four, you were ahead of them. And when I finally left, when I reluctantly accepted defeat, I swore I wasn't done. Six years after my move west, I still have this fantasy of moving back into the pressure cooker, and doing it right. I'd buy one of those overpriced Battery Park City condos I used to doorman for, I'd be able to live well, and make a ton of money doing whatever it is I was going to do. I'd have a driver's license and maybe even a car to use on the weekends.
Like I said, total fantasy. It used to be that you could make it work on a decent wage in the city. Then it used to be that you could grind it out on a really good salary in Brooklyn. Now? Not the case. My brother used to say all the time, "You gotta be rich to be poor in New York," and these days that statement isn't far off. I remember back in the day telling people what I made in my struggle, and having them look at me like I was nuts and say "That's a lot!". It never felt that way.
However, I still go back every year. I have to. The best parts of me I get from the friends I had and the experiences I had in Brooklyn. I get it from the subway rides and the street meat and Coney Island trips. I get it from Prospect Park and South Street Seaport (rest in peace) and the old World Trade Center. I get it from basketball at Marine Park and football on East 21st Street.
That's all stuff I can see in a week.
Don't get me wrong, I still love New York, the same way I love a restaurant menu. It's just that these days, I pick what I want and take it to-go.
Friday, July 10, 2015
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
It Takes A Strong Woman To Raise A Neighborhood
Last night, I had a chat with a patient, like I always do.
Every night I chat with my patients in an effort to keep them calm, comfortable and focused on something other than the time it takes to put so many wires on them for a sleep study. Usually, I'll talk about them: where they're from, what they do, their family and so on. Sometimes, I talk about myself: the move from New York to Bellingham, being a Yankee fan in Mariners country, that I'm a writer, or how I got into sleep disorder treatment.
Last night, I talked for half an hour about my family, specifically my grandmother.
My grandmother is 95 years young. If you've ever met her, young is absolutely the right way to say it. When we were kids, she lived with us. My mom did the single mother thing and while that was an impressive and Herculean undertaking that I can't be grateful enough for, it's nearly impossible to do with seven children without some form of co-parenting. My grandmother has been directly involved in our growth and raising since well before I was born. She served as secret-keeper, disciplinarian, security guard, chef. She told stories, offered guidance, encouraged moral values. She got us out of bed (usually against our will) and made sure we got to school on time. She helped guide my six older siblings and me to a strong work ethic and a sense of right and wrong. And if the story stopped there, I'm sure all of you would be singing her praises.
What if I told you that she didn't stop there?
Starting from my earliest memories in the mid 1980's, my grandmother ran something of an impromptu day-care form our apartment. Flatbush was a working-class, Caribbean immigrant neighborhood back then. New parents who simply had to return to work to make ends meet would drop children off at our apartment in the morning and come get them after work. These children were young, some just a few weeks old, and my grandmother would care for them as she cared for us. They would be in our apartment every day from the time they were little until their first day of school, with my grandmother charging a generously small fee ($50 a week, if I remember correctly). And after their first day of school, those children would often end up in our apartment until their parents got home from work.
Now, no story is completely happy. While most of those kids would go on to be normal, functioning members of society, some of them fell victim to the trappings of a bad neighborhood. Some of them got involved with bad people who did messed-up things. But they would see my grandmother in the street and they would stand up straight, smile a smile they likely forgot how, and politely say "Good morning, Mama, how are you today?" like they were the kids she remembered them as. Respect, from people you wouldn't have expected it from.
My grandmother is 95 years young and thankfully still going strong. While she can't lift children the way she used to and she can't chase around toddlers the way she'd want to, she still loves children. I think they keep her young. She's been telling me since my mid-20's that she's waiting around for me to have kids, that she wants to see my kids. I tell her the same thing every time.
"Keep waiting. I like having you here."
Every night I chat with my patients in an effort to keep them calm, comfortable and focused on something other than the time it takes to put so many wires on them for a sleep study. Usually, I'll talk about them: where they're from, what they do, their family and so on. Sometimes, I talk about myself: the move from New York to Bellingham, being a Yankee fan in Mariners country, that I'm a writer, or how I got into sleep disorder treatment.
Last night, I talked for half an hour about my family, specifically my grandmother.
 |
| My grandmother at her 88th birthday. She hasn't changed. |
My grandmother is 95 years young. If you've ever met her, young is absolutely the right way to say it. When we were kids, she lived with us. My mom did the single mother thing and while that was an impressive and Herculean undertaking that I can't be grateful enough for, it's nearly impossible to do with seven children without some form of co-parenting. My grandmother has been directly involved in our growth and raising since well before I was born. She served as secret-keeper, disciplinarian, security guard, chef. She told stories, offered guidance, encouraged moral values. She got us out of bed (usually against our will) and made sure we got to school on time. She helped guide my six older siblings and me to a strong work ethic and a sense of right and wrong. And if the story stopped there, I'm sure all of you would be singing her praises.
What if I told you that she didn't stop there?
Starting from my earliest memories in the mid 1980's, my grandmother ran something of an impromptu day-care form our apartment. Flatbush was a working-class, Caribbean immigrant neighborhood back then. New parents who simply had to return to work to make ends meet would drop children off at our apartment in the morning and come get them after work. These children were young, some just a few weeks old, and my grandmother would care for them as she cared for us. They would be in our apartment every day from the time they were little until their first day of school, with my grandmother charging a generously small fee ($50 a week, if I remember correctly). And after their first day of school, those children would often end up in our apartment until their parents got home from work.
Now, no story is completely happy. While most of those kids would go on to be normal, functioning members of society, some of them fell victim to the trappings of a bad neighborhood. Some of them got involved with bad people who did messed-up things. But they would see my grandmother in the street and they would stand up straight, smile a smile they likely forgot how, and politely say "Good morning, Mama, how are you today?" like they were the kids she remembered them as. Respect, from people you wouldn't have expected it from.
My grandmother is 95 years young and thankfully still going strong. While she can't lift children the way she used to and she can't chase around toddlers the way she'd want to, she still loves children. I think they keep her young. She's been telling me since my mid-20's that she's waiting around for me to have kids, that she wants to see my kids. I tell her the same thing every time.
"Keep waiting. I like having you here."
Friday, June 19, 2015
June 21.
Father's Day is upon us again.
I give a shout out to all the dads I know, the good ones, the bad ones, and mine.
First off, to the good ones I know, like my brothers. Keep on keepin' on. I want to be just like you when i grow up.
To the bad ones: Try harder. Keep your daughters off the pole and your sons out of prison.
To my dad: I miss you. You were hilariously funny, and your children still recount your stories when we get together. You were strong willed, and stubborn to a fault, but you believed what you believed without apology. You were proud of your children, and we did you proud. I miss talking to you about things like the Yankees and the Knicks, which you loved passionately. When we couldn't talk about much else, we always had that. You did the best you could with what you had, and it's taken me nearly two years after you've departed to understand that, to accept that.
To my father, I hope to continue to do you proud. Rest well.
Friday, January 9, 2015
Out With The Old, In With The New/Cool As The Other Side Of The Pillow
Happy 2015, y'all!
Yeah, I know, I'm about two weeks late. Couldn't be helped. My December was kind of epic. I watched my best friend get married, moved into a new apartment, worked like a psychopath, had Christmas Eve Dinner, made Christmas Morning French Toast, had Christmas dinner, unpacked my last box just a couple of hours before getting trashed on New Year's Eve. I needed a break.
But here we are, on the other side in 2015. This is the year that we're supposed to have our hoverboards and the Chicago Cubs win the World Series (I'd bet on the hoverboard coming first). It's a year full of promise, of expectation, of ambition. Or of the same old resolutions. Whatever.
I'm sure we've all made the promise to be better off financially, to be better with our significant others, and the promise that this will finally be the year we get healthy. I know I did. I think I made those promises last year, too. Oops.
To be fair though, last year was awesome, for me at least. I got to knock some items off my personal bucket list. I did a small book tour for my novel The Favorite (shameless plug). I did three book signings and a reading. I got to see something I wrote on the shelves in a bookstore. And it won an award. I'm almost sad to see 2014 go in that sense.
2015 though, that's going to be a monster. I'm going to finish the manuscript I've been working on for the last three-plus years (thanks NaNoWriMo). I'm going to master this tricky marketing thing. I'm going to bust my hump to do a quarter-million words of fiction this year (down from last year's million because, well, damn). I'm going to read and review one book per month. And I'm going to interview independent writers, artists and musicians as often as I can. And I'm going to use this blog. A lot.
Happy New Year.
***
I'd like to take this moment to give a shout out to the late ESPN anchor Stuart Scott who died last week of a particularly persistent cancer. Mr. Scott, besides being a beacon of professionalism and having a style that is often imitated and never duplicated, was by all accounts a badass in the face of his diagnosis, training in MMA fighting while working and doing chemotherapy right up until the end of his life. He is a legend in his own time and an inspiration to this writer. After all, if a man facing terminal cancer can not only be at the top of his profession AND train his body in combat, then there is no reason why a healthy person like myself can't do anything they set their mind to.
Yeah, I know, I'm about two weeks late. Couldn't be helped. My December was kind of epic. I watched my best friend get married, moved into a new apartment, worked like a psychopath, had Christmas Eve Dinner, made Christmas Morning French Toast, had Christmas dinner, unpacked my last box just a couple of hours before getting trashed on New Year's Eve. I needed a break.
But here we are, on the other side in 2015. This is the year that we're supposed to have our hoverboards and the Chicago Cubs win the World Series (I'd bet on the hoverboard coming first). It's a year full of promise, of expectation, of ambition. Or of the same old resolutions. Whatever.
I'm sure we've all made the promise to be better off financially, to be better with our significant others, and the promise that this will finally be the year we get healthy. I know I did. I think I made those promises last year, too. Oops.
To be fair though, last year was awesome, for me at least. I got to knock some items off my personal bucket list. I did a small book tour for my novel The Favorite (shameless plug). I did three book signings and a reading. I got to see something I wrote on the shelves in a bookstore. And it won an award. I'm almost sad to see 2014 go in that sense.
2015 though, that's going to be a monster. I'm going to finish the manuscript I've been working on for the last three-plus years (thanks NaNoWriMo). I'm going to master this tricky marketing thing. I'm going to bust my hump to do a quarter-million words of fiction this year (down from last year's million because, well, damn). I'm going to read and review one book per month. And I'm going to interview independent writers, artists and musicians as often as I can. And I'm going to use this blog. A lot.
Happy New Year.
***
I'd like to take this moment to give a shout out to the late ESPN anchor Stuart Scott who died last week of a particularly persistent cancer. Mr. Scott, besides being a beacon of professionalism and having a style that is often imitated and never duplicated, was by all accounts a badass in the face of his diagnosis, training in MMA fighting while working and doing chemotherapy right up until the end of his life. He is a legend in his own time and an inspiration to this writer. After all, if a man facing terminal cancer can not only be at the top of his profession AND train his body in combat, then there is no reason why a healthy person like myself can't do anything they set their mind to.
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
"The Fact That We Have To Say It.."
The grand jury in New York decided today to not indict the cop who choked Eric Garner to death on a Staten Island sidewalk. This comes a week after a grand jury decided to not indict the police officer in Ferguson, MO for shooting an unarmed Michael Brown. This has led to the not-unexpected and not-unfounded outrage in minority communities about their treatment at the hands of police, how people of color are viewed as "problems before people." Mayor Bill de Blasio of New York has come out and said publicly that "Black Lives Matter."
Here's a little background for those of you that don't know me: my two oldest brothers are now-retired NYPD. My ex-roommate from about 10 years ago is my oldest brother's former patrol partner and a former member of a community affairs division. I have no illusions as to how difficult it is to be a police officer, especially in a large city. But there has to be some kind of way to deal with us that doesn't involve a dead body, especially if there's no threat of physical harm. I'm willing to concede that the officer in Ferguson testified to there being some kind of immediate threat to his person; not saying I believe it per se, but it's what he said under oath. Eric Garner posed a threat to no one. At no point during the video of his chokehold nor the moments leading up to it was he in an aggressive posture, nor was he at all at an advantage. He was on the ground in seconds gasping that he couldn't breathe. Did the cop know that Mr. Garner was an asthmatic? Likely not, but should it have mattered? Why did it escalate so quickly to "choke out?"
Mayor de Blasio had good intentions when he stated that Black lives matter. His wife is a Black woman with whom he has two children. But the President's response to that about an hour later is much more on point: The fact that we have to say that says we haven't come as far as we think we have. So now what we have is a climate in which being "threatening" is enough for a Black man to die, without any concrete definition of what "threatening" is. The way one dresses? Walks? Talks? The kind of music one listens to?
Size and physique? The way that the establishment interacts with us has to change, it has to. We're Americans, and we're supposed to be innocent until proven guilty as opposed to threatening until dead. The way we interact with the police has to change, because they aren't supposed to be our enemies. Equal protection under the law, that's what we're promised.
I shouldn't be scared to be Black. Someone shouldn't have to say my life matters in order to legitimize it in the eyes of law enforcement. And we should have overcome this 50 years ago.
Here's a little background for those of you that don't know me: my two oldest brothers are now-retired NYPD. My ex-roommate from about 10 years ago is my oldest brother's former patrol partner and a former member of a community affairs division. I have no illusions as to how difficult it is to be a police officer, especially in a large city. But there has to be some kind of way to deal with us that doesn't involve a dead body, especially if there's no threat of physical harm. I'm willing to concede that the officer in Ferguson testified to there being some kind of immediate threat to his person; not saying I believe it per se, but it's what he said under oath. Eric Garner posed a threat to no one. At no point during the video of his chokehold nor the moments leading up to it was he in an aggressive posture, nor was he at all at an advantage. He was on the ground in seconds gasping that he couldn't breathe. Did the cop know that Mr. Garner was an asthmatic? Likely not, but should it have mattered? Why did it escalate so quickly to "choke out?"
Mayor de Blasio had good intentions when he stated that Black lives matter. His wife is a Black woman with whom he has two children. But the President's response to that about an hour later is much more on point: The fact that we have to say that says we haven't come as far as we think we have. So now what we have is a climate in which being "threatening" is enough for a Black man to die, without any concrete definition of what "threatening" is. The way one dresses? Walks? Talks? The kind of music one listens to?
Size and physique? The way that the establishment interacts with us has to change, it has to. We're Americans, and we're supposed to be innocent until proven guilty as opposed to threatening until dead. The way we interact with the police has to change, because they aren't supposed to be our enemies. Equal protection under the law, that's what we're promised.
I shouldn't be scared to be Black. Someone shouldn't have to say my life matters in order to legitimize it in the eyes of law enforcement. And we should have overcome this 50 years ago.
Tuesday, November 25, 2014
Ferguson.
In line with my new directive to actually speak my mind...
The police officer didn't get charged with a crime by the grand jury. I'm not entirely surprised. Putting aside my personal feelings on the subject, without incontrovertible video proof, there was no way that grand jury was going to charge a cop for shooting a black kid. And as Ferguson, MO burns in rage and goes to war with itself, the narrative now changes to the media head-shaking about the violent and uncivilized citizens of this broken-hearted city, all while subtly implying that somehow, he deserved it. That, like Trayvon Martin, if he just decided to be Black somewhere else, none of this would have happened.
Okay, maybe that was a little more personal feeling than I intended.
The problem for me is that the narrative should be concern about the increasing militarization of our police force. The fact that police seem to seek confrontation more than ever. That there is shockingly little psych evaluation of police officers before they fire a shot, instead of after the fact. That racial profiling, that many men and women of color-- including myself-- have had to endure, is still the go-to method of determining likely criminals. But we will likely hear none of this.
We instead hear the garbage spewed forth by people like Rudy Giuliani, stating that police brutality or overreaction isn't the issue, black-on-black crime is the issue. This is somehow our fault.
I'm going to sidestep the racial issue. I'm going to table the police brutality issue. A city burns tonight. We should all be concerned as to why.
The police officer didn't get charged with a crime by the grand jury. I'm not entirely surprised. Putting aside my personal feelings on the subject, without incontrovertible video proof, there was no way that grand jury was going to charge a cop for shooting a black kid. And as Ferguson, MO burns in rage and goes to war with itself, the narrative now changes to the media head-shaking about the violent and uncivilized citizens of this broken-hearted city, all while subtly implying that somehow, he deserved it. That, like Trayvon Martin, if he just decided to be Black somewhere else, none of this would have happened.
Okay, maybe that was a little more personal feeling than I intended.
The problem for me is that the narrative should be concern about the increasing militarization of our police force. The fact that police seem to seek confrontation more than ever. That there is shockingly little psych evaluation of police officers before they fire a shot, instead of after the fact. That racial profiling, that many men and women of color-- including myself-- have had to endure, is still the go-to method of determining likely criminals. But we will likely hear none of this.
We instead hear the garbage spewed forth by people like Rudy Giuliani, stating that police brutality or overreaction isn't the issue, black-on-black crime is the issue. This is somehow our fault.
I'm going to sidestep the racial issue. I'm going to table the police brutality issue. A city burns tonight. We should all be concerned as to why.
Something to Talk About
I haven't written in my blog in a while.
There are comfortable reasons why. I've been busy at work, I've been on vacation, I've been working on other writing projects. I've been busy finding a new apartment and preparing to move there. I've been busy living.
All of these things are true. None of them are the real reason. I haven't written in my blog of late because I haven't had anything to say.
In January, while anticipating my novel's release, I made what could only be called a business decision when I decided that I would not write about politics or race or religion or my opinion on any of the controversy of the day. I didn't want to offend and alienate potential customers. I was afraid. Consequently, I haven't had much to talk about because politics, race, and religion seem to be the top three conversation pieces in this country. So, in my effort to not offend anyone, I've essentially silenced myself.
It's a messed up commentary on the world we live in today. But we'll put that aside for now.
It is a thought process that has bled over into my personal life, and I find myself silent more often than not when a situation demands to be called out. I've let things pass because I've felt it was inappropriate to comment on it, or unwise to alienate certain people. Jeez, I'm strategizing my personal life!
When you're young and you have nothing to lose, you tend to speak your mind more; after all what difference does it make if some random person doesn't like you. But as you get older, an you acquire stuff -- possessions, careers, respectability -- you get less likely to risk the trappings of comfort and adulthood by speaking your mind. So in holding on to your stuff, you kind of lose your compass.
And to that I say, f**k that.
I will speak my mind more. I will say what people may not like to hear, not to be controversial, or to be funny per se. I won't do it to be crass or clever. I'll do it because I want to be honest with myself, and honor the things I believe in. I want to question the things that I don't understand, and expose the things that make no sense.
I want to have something to talk about.
Oh, yeah, coincidentally-but-not-really, there was a grand jury verdict today that caused a little hubbub. Make no mistake I'll have something to say about that.
There are comfortable reasons why. I've been busy at work, I've been on vacation, I've been working on other writing projects. I've been busy finding a new apartment and preparing to move there. I've been busy living.
All of these things are true. None of them are the real reason. I haven't written in my blog of late because I haven't had anything to say.
In January, while anticipating my novel's release, I made what could only be called a business decision when I decided that I would not write about politics or race or religion or my opinion on any of the controversy of the day. I didn't want to offend and alienate potential customers. I was afraid. Consequently, I haven't had much to talk about because politics, race, and religion seem to be the top three conversation pieces in this country. So, in my effort to not offend anyone, I've essentially silenced myself.
It's a messed up commentary on the world we live in today. But we'll put that aside for now.
It is a thought process that has bled over into my personal life, and I find myself silent more often than not when a situation demands to be called out. I've let things pass because I've felt it was inappropriate to comment on it, or unwise to alienate certain people. Jeez, I'm strategizing my personal life!
When you're young and you have nothing to lose, you tend to speak your mind more; after all what difference does it make if some random person doesn't like you. But as you get older, an you acquire stuff -- possessions, careers, respectability -- you get less likely to risk the trappings of comfort and adulthood by speaking your mind. So in holding on to your stuff, you kind of lose your compass.
And to that I say, f**k that.
I will speak my mind more. I will say what people may not like to hear, not to be controversial, or to be funny per se. I won't do it to be crass or clever. I'll do it because I want to be honest with myself, and honor the things I believe in. I want to question the things that I don't understand, and expose the things that make no sense.
I want to have something to talk about.
Oh, yeah, coincidentally-but-not-really, there was a grand jury verdict today that caused a little hubbub. Make no mistake I'll have something to say about that.
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