So my New York portion of my vacation continues.
I spent the morning with my niece in the gym. My sister had gotten there after work, and had been there earlier than us. She was on the way out as we were on the way in (sidebar: working out agrees with her. She looks great!). An hour and a half later, my niece and I navigated public transit back to Canarsie. I missed the subway, I have to say.
The two of them had events in their schedule to do, so I made myself busy for a few hours (read: slept) until it was time to visit good friends of mine, Jesse and Stephanie.
I have known these two for a the better part of a decade. They're one of the most perfectly matched couples I've ever met. Their daughter is an incredibly cute child who has an addiction to a children's show I've never heard of before today, and whose theme song I will never be able to get out of my head. I haven't seen them since Stephanie came to my father's funeral. I've always enjoyed their company as they are funny, smart, opinionated and fun-loving. They play games, enjoy a beer, and love life and each other. It's quite awesome, actually.
Last year they moved from Lower Manhattan to Brooklyn, as many couples of a certain age tend to do these days. They moved to Fort Greene, which in my youth was very much the 'hood. My, how that has changed.
After a couple of hours bs'ing on their patio (and that time went QUICK) we went to a little restaurant on Greene Avenue called Prospect. They had recommended it highly and as I said to Jesse, for the first time ever, I deferred to someone's superior knowledge of Brooklyn. Food was phenomenal, and we sat and ate on the patio seating area..
As we ate we chatted more. It had been two years since I had seen either of them, there was catching up to do, there was exchange of humor, there was the expression of hope that Bernie Sanders would win the presidency, and the plan for seeking political asylum in Canada if Donald Trump won. I told them about my girlfriend who was at that moment, probably, doing something incredibly cool on a camel and how strange it was for me to be with the same woman for as long as I have.
After dinner we had dessert (I won't bore you with the details as to what, but just know that it was fantastic and awesome) and more conversation, talking about Marvel movies and Star Wars. It was food and drink and the rambling old friends make when they haven't been in each other's company in far too long.
Six hours and 2800 calories after I arrived, we said our goodbyes and made a plan to hang out again before I went back to Bellingham.
Two takeaways: first, good friends are an awesome thing, and one should absolutely never take them for granted. Secondly, Fort Greene has really changed from what I remember. Putting aside the fact that I very likely couldn't afford to live there anymore, the change is profoundly positive.
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
Back in the Mud (Vacation, day one: Brooklyn NYC)
So I'm on vacation.
I had been looking forward to it for the last little while. I had been working my butt off for the last month specifically so I could do this. I haven't had a proper vacation in far too long. My girlfriend decided earlier this year that she wanted to go to Morocco.
I decided to go home to New York.
And while she's having an absolute ball in Morocco, experiencing the people and the culture up close and personal, I'm re-immersing myself in my hometown.
And she and I will meet up in London and exchange vacation stories.
Here's how my day one went.
After working all night on Sunday and traveling all day and night Monday, I arrived at JFK Airport on Tuesday morning, having spent six hours cramped in a middle seat behind the guy who wanted to explore the range of his seat back, next to a mid-20s woman who thought my arm made a great pillow, and next to a guy who would not stop man-spreading. I hate flying while tall.
I got to my sister's home, which serves as home base for this week, and hung out with my niece who has most of the week off from work. We went for a run.
And periodically during the day, I slept. Like a rock. A week of saying "no sleep til Brooklyn," and when I get there, I sleep. Mission accomplished.
Today, while my girlfriend was camel riding in the desert, I did a whole lot of not much. And I loved every relaxing second of it. This is the first time I've been back home without an agenda: no sick parent to see, no funeral to attend, no birthday celebration, no guided touring. This part of my vacation is about reconnecting with family and old friends.
Don't get me wrong, I have a plan in place to hit Coney Island (I haven't seen it since the redo), catch a Yankee game while the Red Sox are in town, get drunk with various combinations of friends, and even hit the playground basketball scene I haven't been around in seven years. But for today, I slept. It'll make for a boring story when I see my lady in London (more on that in a later post), but there's something to be said about being home and sleeping.
Can't wait for tomorrow!
I had been looking forward to it for the last little while. I had been working my butt off for the last month specifically so I could do this. I haven't had a proper vacation in far too long. My girlfriend decided earlier this year that she wanted to go to Morocco.
I decided to go home to New York.
And while she's having an absolute ball in Morocco, experiencing the people and the culture up close and personal, I'm re-immersing myself in my hometown.
And she and I will meet up in London and exchange vacation stories.
Here's how my day one went.
After working all night on Sunday and traveling all day and night Monday, I arrived at JFK Airport on Tuesday morning, having spent six hours cramped in a middle seat behind the guy who wanted to explore the range of his seat back, next to a mid-20s woman who thought my arm made a great pillow, and next to a guy who would not stop man-spreading. I hate flying while tall.
I got to my sister's home, which serves as home base for this week, and hung out with my niece who has most of the week off from work. We went for a run.
And periodically during the day, I slept. Like a rock. A week of saying "no sleep til Brooklyn," and when I get there, I sleep. Mission accomplished.
Today, while my girlfriend was camel riding in the desert, I did a whole lot of not much. And I loved every relaxing second of it. This is the first time I've been back home without an agenda: no sick parent to see, no funeral to attend, no birthday celebration, no guided touring. This part of my vacation is about reconnecting with family and old friends.
Don't get me wrong, I have a plan in place to hit Coney Island (I haven't seen it since the redo), catch a Yankee game while the Red Sox are in town, get drunk with various combinations of friends, and even hit the playground basketball scene I haven't been around in seven years. But for today, I slept. It'll make for a boring story when I see my lady in London (more on that in a later post), but there's something to be said about being home and sleeping.
Can't wait for tomorrow!
Friday, July 10, 2015
The A La Carte New Yorker
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.
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.
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.
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