Spring in New York

                                                           Spring

   When T.S. Eliot wrote that “April is the cruelest month,” he lied. April is just wonderful, especially when it comes after a rainy March. Last week, spring hit New York big-time, and we celebrated by taking some very long walks.

   Staten Island. We proceeded downtown along the Hudson, stopping briefly at the slip in front of the World Financial Center, where two Spanish sailboats were tied up. They were preparing for an attempt at setting a world record from New York to Barcelona. (http://www.bymnews.com/news/newsDetails.php?id=67581) At Battery Park, we marveled at the miles long queue of tourists waiting to take the excursion boat to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. We did an end run around them and hopped on the ferry to Staten Island (free; 20 minutes).

   About two miles from the ferry landing in St. George, along Richmond Terrace, is Snug Harbor, an extremely interesting collection of buildings set in a spacious park. This was the site of a former residence for retired and infirm merchant seamen, and has now been converted into museums, a cultural center, and botanical garden. A delightful place with almost no one around. (http://www.snug-harbor.org/)

   We then bushwhacked across Staten Island, some parts of which are not very appealing, to the Verrazano Bridge. Unlike the day of the New York Marathon, pedestrians are not allowed on the bridge, so we had to take a bus to Bay Ridge.    

   We then walked many miles along 4th Avenue, stopping at a fine Mexican Restaurant for lunch. We then continued up to Brooklyn Heights, where we walked the Promenade, with its incredible views, and caught a subway back to Manhattan.

   Upper West Side. Our plan to visit the New York Historical Society, on West 77th St., came to grief after we got there and discovered that the main collections were closed for renovation. (I declined to pay the $18 to visit the temporary exposition on the Grateful Dead.)

   We ran for a half hour around Central Park, which was teeming with people celebrating the advent of fine weather. On Columbus Avenue, we ran into a Good Friday Procession of Spanish speaking Christians. One young man was playing Jesus, more or less a la Mel Gibson. Others, dressed as Roman soldiers, were pretending to beat him, several times pushing him to the sidewalk. An elderly woman walked a bit behind reading Scripture. And they say that Holy Week in Seville is weird!

   We walked back downtown from 59th St. and sidetracked off on the “Highline” at 20th Street. (This is a restored stretch of industrial elevated railroad, which runs through the heart of the Meatpacking District.) (http://www.thehighline.org/)

   We were getting hungry, but were disinclined to fight the crowds at Gansevoort Market. Once on Horatio St., wed lucked out at the El Faro, run by a couple of Spaniards whose families have been running the place since the 1920’s. Jose, the owner, claims that El Faro is the oldest Spanish restaurant in New York. Great paella, wine, and interesting conversation. (http://elfaronyc.com/page/o14v/A_70-Year_History.html)

   Red Hook. Red Hook is a hard-nose industrial/port district in southern Brooklyn. You can get there for free by taking the New York Water Taxi from Pier 11 (near Wall Street). This is a delicious ride, with amazing views of Manhattan, Brooklyn, the Statue of Liberty, and Governor’s Island. The boat leaves you off right in the front of the new IKEA store, which has more or less redirected the destiny of Red Hook—some say for the worse. We walked around the port area, where there are Civil War era warehouses and lots of industrial-maritime decay. We had key lime pie at Steve’s, on the waterfront, and then walked along Van Brunt Street, which seems to be the best the area has to offer. We got a bus back to downtown Brooklyn, walked around the Heights a bit, and then came back to Manhattan.

   Easter Sunday. The sun shone brightly, and it was very warm. Blanca chose to go to the Easter Parade and then to the Guggenheim. I, being more traditional, decided to go to church: another go-round with the Baptists at Canaan on 116th Street. ( http://www.cbccnyc.org/) As one would expect, things were hopping. The place was filled to the brim, and there was a long line for visitors. (I by-passed the line, paying the price of sitting through Bible Study for an hour before the main service.) Pastor Johnson was in his glory, and everyone seemed especially pumped up. The sermon was “Good News from the Graveyard” and featured an “Extra, Extra, Read all About It!” motif. (Three guesses what the news was!) One thing struck me particularly. During the latter part of the service there was a choreography number. Five women in diaphanous white appeared before a cross at the back of the stage, where they did their movements. But then a guy dressed as Jesus appeared from behind the curtain at the side of the cross. He lifted his hands in prayer and then began to circulate around the church. Some people appeared to fall on their knees and worship him; he patted the heads of children who adoringly surrounded him. Apart from the inherent bizarreness of the scene was the fact that “Jesus” was a white guy with dreadlocks! I must also confess that hearing the Disciples referred to as “the boys,” was a bit of a culture shock. Entre nous, however, I sort of liked it. But as before, everyone from the Church was extremely gracious and welcoming. I think that they are genuinely good people.

   Emerging into the blinding sunlight, I walked up towards 125th Street, where I found a completely empty African restaurant (“South Beach”), where I had jerk chicken, rice, and beans (for $6). I walked across 125th and stopped in to the Studio Museum of Harlem, where there is a moderately interesting collection of mostly very modern paintings and multi-media offerings. (http://www.studiomuseum.org/)

   Back in the Village, I noted a total absence of anything like a financial crisis. The restaurants were all jammed to the gills, with waiting lines at many. Streets like Bleecker were almost impassible. It looks like the Euro-tourists might well save N.Y.’s butt after all. That’s O.K.: they owe us.

"Like"

Towards the Archeology of a virus: a hermeneutics of (dis)like

     “Everything is what it is, and not another thing.” Bishop Butler

     I recently landed in New York in the midst of a severe epidemic. I had, of course—having served for 30 years as a schoolmaster--been conscious for a long time that it was in progress, but I was hardly prepared for the ubiquity and virulence of what I have witnessed. It’s Camus all over again: “La Peste.” I cannot pretend to provide a scientifically adequate description of the malady, which I happily leave in the competent hands of my medical colleagues.[1]

     But the essence of the matter is simple: the extremely frequent (quantify?) and apparently compulsive insertion of the word “like” into putative sentential units of spoken discourse. (As far as I have been able to discern, the written language remains virtually uncontaminated.)

     Just in case you don’t know what I’m referring to, here’s a sample:

     “It was, ya’ know, like yesterday, and we were, like, looking for, like, a t-shirt [rising inflection of the voice]? We, like found this, like, store, but, ya know, fuck, like the owner was, like, soo like, stupid, that he didn’t, like, have any? Like, it was so, like, fucking depressing, I, like, ya know, almost, like, barfed.”

     The disease seems to afflict primarily the young, although it has been proliferating for so long now that 30 year old arbitragers are as likely to exhibit symptoms as the pre-pubescent. (I suppose that the inception of the outbreak can be dated to more or less the same time in which nose-rings, purple hair, and tattoos, became de rigueur.)

     The disease seems equally to attack all social classes, races, sexual persuasions, and genders. I had originally thought that “higher” education provided the ideal environment for transmission, but I now see this is probably not the case. I’ve observed Ivy League graduates, recent Indian immigrants, and pretty much all the contributors to the New York ”melting pot” who have been infected. I’d also flirted with the idea that susceptibility was greater in women, perhaps as a manifestation of learned deference and fear of appearing overly assertive. But again, I now see that this is wrong. It is quite clear: no one is immune.

     The “like disease” is an example of what Richard Dawkins (THE SELFISH GENE) calls a “meme”: a unit of social behavior or belief that can be transmitted in a manner analogous to the inheritance of genes. (Other examples of memes would be the neurotic use of baseball caps (put backwards) and the custom of young black men wearing their pants down around their knees, exposing a large swath of designer underpants.)

     What is the causus infectionis? Perhaps part of the explication lies in its unquestionably attractive metaphysical presuppositions. Pace Butler, it seems true that everything is, in some respect or other, like other things. Bagels are like neutrinos, in that both are “material.” New York is like the Sahara, in that both are “big.”

     On the other hand, the phenomenon might well be a reflection of Postmodernist angst about truth. If you say that “X is, like Y,” perhaps you might evade the full intellectual responsibility implied in brazenly asserting that X is Y. (You never know if Derrida is lurking, disguised in a hooded sweatshirt, on 7th Avenue.) To be exposed to the afflicted is a severe trial on the patience of the healthy.                

     Yesterday, I was stuck behind two, otherwise attractive, young female carriers on crowded Canal Street and was forced, for at least a block, to witness their symptoms. I was more tempted to stop them and throw a tantrum than I had been earlier during the day when countless fellow pedestrians blew cigarette smoke in my face or let their dogs piss on my shoes. I’m glad I was able to maintain my discipline, for surely I would have received nothing more than a “Like, whatever,” for my pains.

     Last night, it happened again. I was pinioned, in an otherwise delightful Spanish restaurant in the Village, next to two Asian executive types, who drove me almost to the point of “going postal” with their moronic, high pitched, prattle.     

     How should we as a civilization respond? This is indeed a difficult problem, and I offer the following reflections only as tentative suggestions.

     Obviously the first step in confronting the epidemic is clearly and publicly to recognize its existence. Perhaps a major philanthropic foundation, e.g., one of those that power drill their dot.com addresses into our minds on NPR, could finance an epidemiological study.

     One potential line of cure would be Pavlovian. I’m sure it would be child’s play for some amateur inventor to design a device that would administer a mild electric shock in response to each superfluous “like.” More humanely, perhaps, the device could emit a “beep” (like those which mask profanity on the radio), although initially the din in public space would be a major concern.[2]

     Another tactic might be to enlist the resources of higher education. For example, universities and colleges could make it part of the admissions process that the applicant be able to conduct a five-minute conversation with a (trained) speech “counselor” without using “like” more than once. And/or, there might be an “exit exam” before graduation.

     These solutions, evidently, have severe drawbacks; one of the most consequential would be a massive curtailment of participation in higher education. Another is the unpleasant fallout for sons and daughters of the rich and powerful. In the end, the situation—as is the case with AIDS, global warming, and overpopulation--looks grim. The disease, like cholera and the mumps, is not responsive to reasoning. Pending the discovery of an effective vaccine, one must be content to protect oneself and to ensure that minor children in one’s care be vigilantly monitored. At the first signs of contagion, children should be quarantined and, if necessary, sent to a foreign country whose language is not Indo-European, for a protracted period of time. And perhaps it’s time to revive my dear mother’s frequently invoked home remedy: “You say that again, and I’m gonna wash your mouth out with soap!”

[1] Perhaps a promising line of investigation would be to calculate a value for the likelihood of “like” occurring over a given temporal interval, e.g., 90% probability every 15 seconds (assuming, of course, constant rate of speech production). Levels of infection could then be diagnosed on a completely objective scale and treatment proportioned to the severity of the individual case. Other models, e.g., “thick” description, will commend themselves to non-quantitatively oriented investigators.

[2] As an illustration of the “beep” option—here used for the enlightenment of others rather than as a curative strategy--I offer the example of a You Tube clip of Carolyn Kennedy (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zAgI4AS1NVg), who suffers from a very similar linguistic disability to the one under discussion here. Fairly obviously, the danger of infection by multiple speech impediments also lurks on the horizon. A hypothesis worth investigation is the suggestion that susceptibility to one virus increases the probability of contracting another, due to the general weakening of the linguistic immune system.

High on Meat

                                                  High on Meat[1]

   Today’s New York is a conglomeration of neighborhoods, almost all of them “revitalized” and “gentrified” avatars of their former selves. A prime example is Soho, 30 years ago a grungy district of factories and warehouses that was almost magically transformed first into an art colony and then into a chic center of yuppie chain stores and hip restaurants. But the same thing has happened in: Harlem, Washington Heights, the East Village, Tribeca, Hell’s Kitchen, Chelsea and the Flatiron District. The paradigm: a formerly ugly, industrial, blighted, crime ridden slum has overnight morphed into an urban resort for the super-rich, who not only can afford to park there but have erected architecturally breathtaking living spaces out of former lofts and sweatshops. New York is fast becoming a city without a middle class: an uneven battleground between the desperately poor (most of whom has been displaced to Queens or New Jersey) and the ultra-rich.

    A fine example of the current trend is the so-called “Meat-Packing District” on the lower West Side, known as the Gansevoort Market historical district. Imagine a huge cast iron and brick warehouse, with a large loading dock covered by a metal awning. Trucks pull up alongside and proceed to disgorge countless carcasses of half the specimens on Noah’s Ark. The aroma is what one would expect. But then walk half a block and you encounter the most chicy-chicy boutique, windows filled with mannequins sporting the latest outrage for only $1000. Go a bit further, and you find yourself in front of the hippest (and most outrageously expensive) restaurant featured in Zigat. The smell of cooked filet mignon mixes somewhat tentatively with the smell of recently slaughtered filet mignon.

   During the years when I formerly lived in New York, this area was blighted jungle, largely frequented by junkies, prostitutes, and a throng of non-traditional sexual pleasure seekers. The stench of rotting piers mingled with that of the huge abattoirs.

   The “High Line.” During the 19th century, the slaughterhouses and markets were served by an elevated railroad line, at times running through the buildings themselves. After trucks replaced railroads as the major means of hauling food, the rail lines fell into decay, and we almost removed. By a great stroke of luck, a number of concerned residents started a move to preserve the stretches of elevated track that remained, by this time mostly overgrown with various lush weeds and flowers. The successful result was “the high Line,” which will eventually stretch north from Gansevoort Street to 30th. People will be able to ascend staircases and find themselves in an elevated park, with spectacular views of the Hudson River waterfront. The “boardwalk” winds along beside the old train rails, through buildings, and beside luxury condos. This was a great coup of urban planning, a classic piece of preservation that will provide years of pleasure a diverse number of grateful citizens. http://www.thehighline.org/

[1] I’ve recently been stimulated into thinking a bit about urban planning and related topics by Michael Sorkin’s Twenty Minutes in Manhattan (London: Reaktion Books, 2009). Sorkin is a Professor of Architecture, who lives in the West Village and bases his insightful discussion on his walks through the neighborhood.

Out and About--New York

    Our usual running route along the Hudson takes us by the World Financial Center, comprised of three huge skyscrapers and the Winter Garden. In front (“North Cove”) there’s a dock, where we noticed several sleek racing boats had been tied up. A little investigation revealed that there would be an attempt to set a sailing world record from New York to Barcelona and that the boats were in fact Spanish. Patriotic loyalty demanded that we present ourselves and offer our good wishes. We learned that they’d be leaving in several days, but that the exact time depended on the weather. During the next few days we passed by several more times. Finally, on our pass on Thursday morning, we saw a crowd and a television camera and determined that the boats would be off within the half hour. While we waited, we made friends with several Spaniards and the TV cameraman, who shot us cheering and assured us that we’d be on national news in Spain that evening. (It didn’t happen.) When the final whistle started the Estrella Damm and W Hotels were off toward open water, we jogged along the river toward the Battery, keeping the red sail of the Estrella in sight as they disappeared under the Verrazano Bridge. Follow the race at: http://forums.sailingworld.com/showthread.php?p=10120 http://www.sail-world.com/USA/New-York---Barcelona-Sailing-Record---Day-3-and-still-at-maximum-power/68387

   Once at the Battery, we zig-zagged through the streets of the Financial District. We did another walk around Ground Zero, which remains what’s it’s been since the fateful day: a huge hole filled with ant-like workers excavating endless piles of dirt and rubble. There’s a bridge over the site, which takes you into the World Financial Center. There are impressive views of Ground Zero as you cross from one building to another. We emerged near where we’d seen the boats depart and headed back uptown.

   Bedford Sty Aida’s Café de Java (“Brooklyn’s Own Coffee House”) on Van Nostrand Avenue.

   Crown Heights The Crown Heights neighborhood, which borders Bed-Sty is predominantly black and Hassidic. The latter are centered at the corner of Eastern Parkway and Kingman Blvd., where the Center of the Labavitch sect has its temple. Walking through the neighborhood is to enter a time warp: close your eyes and then reappear in 18th century Poland. We stopped in to a bagel deli right in the heart of the action. We were the only goyim in sight. See what’s it’s really like on this great video: http://video.about.com/brooklyn/Crown-Heights-Broooklyn-Tour.htm

   Astoria. Our previous visit to Queens didn’t include the northern neighbor, Astoria. It’s another extremely heterogeneous place, with a large representation of Greeks, Asians, and Hispanics. We took the subway to the end of the line. A few blocks to the west takes you to the a large park right under the Triborough Bridge (now known officially as the RFK Bridge). The views of Hells Gate Bridge and the Upper East Side of Manhattan are spectacular. We strolled back under the “El” and ate falafel at an Egyptian restaurant. We crossed on foot over the 59th Street Bridge, and then up along the Upper East Side into Yorkville. Blanca loved Carl Shurtz Park and Gracie Mansion, especially with the flowers in full bloom. I also took her past my old digs on East 88th Street as well as the site of my former hangout (“Eric”), now long gone, opposite Elaine’s.

   Back home, we opted for a delicious Spanish meal at El Paso.

   New Jersey What better way to spend a Sunday than to make a pilgrimage to New Jersey? We got on the PATH train at Christopher, and emerged, after passing Jersey City and Hoboken, in the extremely depressing industrial wasteland near Newark. We walked around Newark a bit and then over the bridge into Harrison and then back to the PATH train to Manhattan.

   Trump Hotel As we happened along Spring St, and Varick, we passed the huge Trump Hotel, which dominates the skyline of Soho and Tribeca and is the most obvious point of reference from our balcony. It had just opened, after a history of much controversy. Two dapperly uniformed young men stood guard outside and responded with unexpected warmth to my questions. They insisted on inviting us in and giving us a tour of the place.

   Antonio Munoz Molina is one of our favorite contemporary Spanish writers. He’s a member of the Real Academia de La Lengua, the board that watches over the purity of the language and makes sure that no rabble corrupts it. He is also the author of Ventanas de Manhattan, a wonderful, loving meditation on the city that clearly had captured his heart. The first chapter describes his anxiety-wrought wait for an unnamed woman with whom he’s set up a tryst. Last night, I read his wife’s (Elvira Lindo) piece on New York, which describes the meeting with Munoz Molina from her point of view. (It turns out that she was the woman coming to meet MM in New York.

    We’d seen Kenny Werner at the Blue Note when he’d accompanied Toots Thielmann’s. Now he was heading up a quintet with some stellar pals, and we couldn’t resist.

   The Crash. On every life a little rain must fall. We woke up to the realization that Blanca’s hard dribe had crashed, which was confirmed by the “Geek Squad” at Best Buy. After a considerable “Alphonse and Gaston” act, I came to the realization of what I would have to do.

   Malcolm Forbes The headquarters of Forbes Magazine is at 5th Avenue and 12th St., and it houses the personal collection of Malcolm Forbes. There are thousands of tin soldiers (from every army and war one could imagine); model boats; Monopoly sets from the inception of the game, in various languages. The highlight for me was an exposition of paintings on “Women Reading.” http://www.forbesgalleries.com/picturegallery.html

   “El Faro” Martin Talapia is a young Argentinean who’s here on an internship from his bankin Buenos Aires. He’s rented John’s studio apartment above us. We took him to dinner at El Faro, on Horatio Street, where we’ve made friend with the gregarious owner Jose. We gorged ourselves on the “mariscada” and “paella valenciana,” and it was a wonder that Martin was able to get up from the table and rush off to Queens for a soccer game.

   Grant’s Tomb. Seeking to verify who was in fact buried in Grant’s tomb, we went there. Yep, it was Grant all right. We even had a private tour by a Park Ranger. (The mausoleum is now a National Park site.) I raised the question of Grant’s drinking, and the Smokey assured me that revisionist Civil War scholarship had cast doubt on the claim that Grant was a “real alcoholic,” as opposed to a casual binge drinker. I let on that his having been a genuine connoisseur would not have necessarily  been disappointing for me.

   Bells. We wandered across the street to the cavernous Riverside Church. Blanca had told me that she wanted to see the stained glass and hear the famous carillon. When we entered, we discovered that shortly there would be a three-pronged presentation: the carillon, an organ recital, and the Festival of English Bells. I could tell that she very much wanted to stay, so I encouraged it, although I was about as enthusiastic as I might have been at the prospect of a Christmas Carol Service with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Boy was I wrong. The bell concert was an incredible treat. There were five separated bell choirs, about 60 people in all. Imagine the first few riffs of a Ravi Shankar morning raga: someone gently pouring out thousands of golden coins onto a metal surface. The melodious tinkling was magical.

   Ana Moura. Fado nearly wrecked Blanca and me. On our first trip together, many years ago now, we drove to Lisbon. Once ensconced in Estoril, we set out after dinner in search of an advertised fado joint. After a few minutes of walking on unpaved, unlighted paths, she in ultra high heels, and puffing as might be expected from her two pack a day cigarette habit, she started to kvetch. Whine, whine, whine. I thought to myself, “this ain’t gonna work.” But somehow, I forget the details, it did work. She quit smoking, traded her spike heels for running shoes, and, on the next trip to Tenerife, climed Mt. Teide, the highest point in Spain. Anyway, she hadn’t yet seen fado, so we  headed to see Ana Moura after a gargantuan meal at a diner on Broadway and 95th St. Some things don’t mix. (E.g., Haydn and hiphop.) Ana’s reditiioon of “Brown Sugar” was just unacceptable. (De gustibus dispuntandum est!)

   Museum of Jewish Heritage. This beautiful museum is located at the Battery, and there are many fantastic views of lower Manhattan bay. There are well put together exhibits detailing various aspects of Jewish life, especially as lived in Eastern Europe’s ghettos and sthels.

   Brooklyn Botanical Garden. This is a true gem, especially when the cherry blossoms are in full swing, as they were when we visited.

   Museum of the Chinese in America This is a nice small museum in the heart of Chinatown. It focuses on early Chinese migration and later on the treatment of the Chinese during the two world wars, the McCarthy era and into the present.

   Sorolla Hispanic Society I was able to wangle two invitations to the gala VIP opening of the refurbished Sorolla Wing at the Hispanic Society. The event was incredibly richly done, with several huge open bars and a small army of waiters circulating with delicious canapés. There was a carver slicing a huge Serrano ham. The new home for Sorolla’s “Vision of Spain,” is simply gorgeous. The paintings had been gone for a year, traveling to various cities in Spain, where they were a great hit. Sorolla is “the” Valencian painter, and Blanca fought back tears as she entered the new salon. The invitees were, on the whole, “gente guapa”; among them was Blanca, Sorolla’s granddaughter. Blanca introduced herself and explained that her grandfather had known hers. She was extremely warm and friendly and was obviously enjoying herself to the hilt.

Triangle Fire

                       Triangle/Bronx (3/25, 2010)

                   The Triangle Shirtwaist fire.

     On March 25, 1911, there occurred one of the most horrible industrial tragedies in American history: the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire. One hundred and forty six workers, mostly young immigrant—primarily Jewish and Italian—women and girls were either cremated or jumped to their deaths when a fire broke out on the 9th and 10th floors of the Asch building, located on the corner of Greene Street and Washington Place, right off Washington Square Park in Greenwich Village. The causalities occurred, despite the fact that the building was relatively fireproof, because the exit doors had been blocked by the factory’s owners. Some claim that this was to prevent workers from taking unauthorized breaks or smoking in the stairwells; today one speaker asserted that it was to prevent union organizers from entering the sweatshop. Whatever the reason for the illegal shut-in, the owners were never found guilty of any crime. The fire apparently started when a cigarette butt was tossed into a pile of remnants and spread rapidly. The terrified workers encountered the entrances blocked and some were crushed in the panic. The flames and heat forced many to jump out the windows; their broken bodies fell in heaps on the sidewalk below. In the aftermath of this horrifying catastrophe, there was an outcry for the implementation of reforms, especially in the garment industry. The unions were able to begin a process of ameliorating, at least to some extent, the appalling conditions under which thousands of primarily immigrant workers were forced to labor. Each year, there is a commemorative celebration of the event.

     We arrived on the scene just as the proceedings were getting underway. There were several NYFD trucks parked outside the building on Washington Place, and a temporary platform had been erected on Greene Street, where various dignitaries were already seated on the dais. A band sang songs recounting the tragedy, and there were a number of people circulating among the crowd holding sticks to which were affixed antique women’s blouses (“shirtwaists”) with the names of the victims. Some carried pictures.

     The event was sponsored by a federation of unions, and the main speakers were union officials. The Fire Commissioner and the City Comptroller also spoke. Relatives of the victims—there are no living survivors—were recognized, as were various school groups who were sporting red, plastic firefighter’s helmets. The Union rhetoric and the pleas for continued vigilance were moving. (Speakers also alluded to a recent garment factory fire in Bangladesh—which makes clothing for a local chain of stores—which killed twenty people. ) The images of women who had become living torches jumping to their deaths as helpless firemen looked on—their ladders could not reach the upper floors of the ten story building—were hard to suppress, even after we’d left and headed toward more pleasant activities. Bronx: “Little Italy.”

The Bronx.

   We hopped on the uptown Lexington avenue train and landed in the upper Bronx. We walked east on Fordam Rd., past Fordam University, to Arthur Avenue, which is the center of the main Italian neighborhood in the Bronx. Those in the know claim that it is the “real deal,” as opposed to the desiccated and touristy “Little Italy” on Mulberry and Mott Streets in lower Manhattan. I think this is correct. (At least the people we encountered walking around were speaking Italian!) We had a delicious lunch at Mario’s (claimed by some to have been where scenes from “The Godfather” were shot). The place was quite uncrowded, and the service, including the chef preparing Blanca’s flaming ricotta and brandy pasta at the table, was exceptional. (I had chocolate cheesecake for dessert.) Me and Julio down by the schoolyard. Once out of the restaurant, we walked west to the Grand Concourse, the huge boulevard that runs north-south through miles of the Bronx. Both sides of the avenue are lined with an endless string of bodegas, beauty parlors, restaurants, and churches. We passed a store front where a young Dominican was hand rolling redolent cigars. There are frequent signs announcing the imminent coming of Jesus. Outside one church, called “El Rey Ya Viene” (“The King is Coming Soon”), a spanking new white Humvee was conspicuously parked. On its window was attached a flamboyant sticker proclaiming the message. Sounds of meringue and charanga waft through the air, and we walked miles without hearing a word of English. Close your eyes and you’re in Santo Domingo!
   Back in our hood, we stopped at Bigelow’s pharmacy, where I stocked up on shaving supplies.       
  Sixth Avenue was a bustle with people just getting out of work. In sum, another fine day in the Big Apple.

Canaan Baptish Church

                      Canaan Baptist Church (Feb.28, 2010)

     Still reverberating from last Sunday’s spiritual extravaganza at the Shiloh Baptist Church in Harlem, we decided to give Jesus another go. I selected the Canaan Baptist Church at 116th and Lenox (Malcolm X).

     We arrived early, and I immediately made friends with a nattily dressed man guarding the entrance; he said he liked my tie and addressed me as “cousin.” That got us ushered in immediately—as his “special guests”--so that we could partake of the “Bible Study” before the main service at 11:00. The teacher stood in front of the congregation and read verses from scripture and then ventured explicacion du texte, often helped out by the participants. Let’s say that her exegetical principles would have put a big smile on Derrida’s face; she could also probably snag a tenured chair in Literary Theory at Yale.

     One woman ventured that she found it difficult to understand how Jesus and God were “the same.” I sympathized and was sorry that she backed down so easily in the face of the advice to read more scripture and meditate. As the Bible lesson draws to a close, people continue to file in for the main service.

     The assembled congregation provides an incredibly variegated visual spectacle. The sisters generally wear vibrantly colored dresses or robes, and almost all of them sport magnificent headgear (fur, feathers, turbans, etc.) The majority are on the large side, thus providing an extensive canvas for their display of scarlets, magentas, pinks, violets, and pistachios. I felt as if I’d been transported into the midst of a flock of exotic toucans, parrots, and peacocks. A number wore full length mink coats. Middle aged matrons mingled with wizened matriarchs, while scrubbed children in starched white shirts and pressed pants or skirts carried out their duties with precision and enthusiasm. Across the aisle from us there was a woman of absolutely classic beauty: tall, svelte, statuesque, perhaps 25. She was dressed in a bright green flowing African costume, complete with traditional headdress. On her narrow fingers gleamed long, thin rings made of precious stones. Her skin was café au lait. She emitted a warm sensuality that made it hard for both me and Blanca to take our eyes off her. Some of the men wore traditional western suits, others African robes and dashikis.

     There were several choirs, one of older people and also a “youth” group. In one of the letter’s numbers, a young woman with an operatic voice did a number—“I Am God”-- that was pure “soul.” One sees immediately how the church has been a laboratory for the production of generations of secular black singers and musicians.

     The Pastor is Rev. Dr. Thomas D. Johnson, Sr. He is wearing a vibrant yellow embroidered African ensemble, complete with matching fez type beanie. He alternates the direction of the proceedings with a number of others, who speak about Black History Month, read announcements, recite Scripture, and perform various ceremonial offices. Several members receive recognition for community service. The program contains a list of sick and shut in parishioners as well as families in mourning.

     The sermon is entitled “under the shadow of God’s wing.” The main conceit here is God as a mother hen, spreading her wings to protect her “chicklets” (“or whatever you want to call them”). Somehow, in a kind of rhetorical free fall, the theme of wings gets Pastor Johnson onto a jet plane, struggling to take off and then beset by turbulence. But not to worry; Jesus is the pilot. The flow of the words coheres solely via images; there is no attempt at providing logical connections. Whatever conviction is produced comes from the transfer of pure emotion rather than by the giving of reasons. The content remains bewilderingly indeterminate. (I found myself admiring the signing translators standing dutifully beside the preacher. They reminded me of the poor young woman who was assigned to my logic class for several weeks. I will never forget her attempting to render, with great animation and lightning speed, my exposition of the Ontological Argument into deft movements of arms and fingers. I seriously doubt whether she succeeded, and I will never know, since the student she was helping dropped the class soon afterward.)

     Johnson is a masterly speaker. He modulates from almost a whisper to a stentorian shout, his rhythm often approximating that of a song or chant. His voice is his instrument, played confidently with all the virtuosity of Miles Davis’ trumpet, Coltrane’s sax, or Art Tatum’s piano. He knows he holds his audience completely in thrall, a fact attested by the frequent cries of “amen,” “yes,” and “hallelujah.” The Pastor reminded me of a guy I used to go and see in Washington Square Park when I lived on 20th Street many years ago. He showed up every Sunday, and he usually gave a harangue, standing up on the top of a bench, that would last at least an hour. I never had the slightest idea what he said; I have no clue what his “position” was. (The only theme that seemed to be constant from week to week was an impassioned denunciation of “rubber titties.” But his delivery was mesmerizing; I felt as if I could listen to him for ever.

     I was glad to discover that the congregation included others beside the “poor in spirit.” The agenda was interrupted: “will the owner of a white Mercedes, license XXX, please move the vehicle.”

     Late in the service, the visitors were recognized. Perhaps 10 pasty faced tourists were asked to stand (as if we didn’t already stand out enough!), and several congregants came over and warmly shook our hands. Their welcome was totally sincere. One of the “greeters” was an older man who sat right behind us and continually shouted fortissimo: “Hallelujah, glory, Jesus I love you.” After the sermon came the benediction: “Keep the faith, baby!” As things wound down, the “deacons” and other persons of note formed a procession that circled the auditorium, accompanied by a rousing chorus and clapping hands.

     As we left, people greeted us and smiled. After the two hour service, we were hungry and, after being discouraged by crowds at Amy Ruth’s and Sylvia’s, we walked to 125th street and found Manna’s Soul Food Restaurant, where we had delicious southern style buffet.

     We arrived home in a daze, our senses having had a long and exhausting workout. But it had been one of the most amazing spectacles I’ve ever been privileged to witness, and I know that we’ll go back again. Hallelujah! Yes!