Does anyone get their portrait painted anymore, other than presidents and first ladies? I was thinking about that after going to two exhibitions, one at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the other at the Whitney.
The first one was entitled Sargent in Paris, and it explored the emergence of John Singer Sargent as one of the premier portrait painters in the 1880s. He was commissioned by people in high society to paint themselves, their wives and children. I don’t travel in high society, so it is possible that old money, or the richest folks among us, still do that. If they do, I haven’t heard of the artists who do it or seen exhibits of their work. I am more familiar with hiring a photographer to do a shoot, but even that isn’t common, though some do it for an engagement or new baby. Back in the day, and I’m referring to the Guilded Age, it was apparently a sign of status to engage someone like Sargent to do a portrait.
From what I read while I walked through the galleries, Sargent was quite adept at nurturing the relationships one needed to sustain his career. There is no denying Sargent’s artistry, I love his work, but I think his ability to hobnob with the circles that could pay him enhanced his career and reputation. I wonder if he liked that part of his job. Maybe it came naturally to him. I would hate it. It is possible, like Michael Jordan who had both talent and tenacity, Sargent had both the social skills and the exceptional talent that allowed him to achieve the heights of success as a portrait artist.
Though Sargent was an American, he only visited here. His parents were ex-pats who moved around Europe. He was born in Florence, and he died in London. Despite spending a good deal of time overseas, he did leave his mark here in America, particularly in Boston where his murals decorate the ceiling and walls of the main branch of the public library. He, unlike some artists, was celebrated in his lifetime. There was a period after he died where his work was less respected because it was viewed as the work of a mere illustrator, without much creativity. Then his reputation rose again as the art world took another look at the nuance of his portraiture and skill of his brushwork.
Here are some examples of the range of his work from the exhibit:
an unusual approach to portrait paintingan example of making the color white interestingA view of the Alhambra in Spain
I love Sargent’s canvases – his formal portraits and his paintings of nature. He was so versatile. He could do watercolors, and he could paint in the Impressionist style. Whatever he did, his use of color was so vibrant, you can feel the texture of the fabric of the dress his subject wore. He also makes white come alive, which is unique – not everyone can make white an interesting color. And, even though he was often simply painting a portrait of someone I never heard of nor cared about, he manages to make them compelling.
This is the one commonality I found between the Sargent exhibit and the other show I attended, Amy Sherald: American Sublime at the Whitney. You may know Amy Sherald as the artist who painted Michelle Obama’s portrait, and that canvas is included in the exhibition at the Whitney. That work got some attention, but of the pieces on display that one was the least interesting to me.
Like Sargent, Sherald paints ordinary people but makes them notable. I suppose it isn’t accurate to say Sargent portrayed “ordinary” people, since they were, with few exceptions, very rich, but they weren’t famous in the way we understand fame today. Sherald’s subjects, with the exception of Michelle Obama, aren’t rich or famous– they are regular people. Sherald is interested in presenting people of color, offering less emphasis on their skin tone and more on their everyday lives – reflecting their joy, their dignity, their pride. She also plays with our expectations of gender and race, showing people in surprising settings.
Sherald’s work is also a celebration of color, but in an entirely different way than Sargent. Her canvases are bold, and while Sargent may have been considered bold, it was in the context of the Victorian era. Sargent’s most controversial painting, Madame X, presented a woman with the strap of her evening gown off her shoulder, which he later fixed to appease the sensibilities of the time. Sherald is far more daring, pushing the boundaries of our expectations. I’m sure some viewers, I’m thinking of social conservatives, would not appreciate her perspective. I love that her work makes you stop, think and reconsider assumptions.
Here are some examples of her work:
Sherald’s canvases, with the notable exception of the Obama portrait, are not on commission. She spots people on the street that she finds interesting for one reason or another, or she has an inspiration, and she asks permission to photograph that individual and then paints from the photograph. Unlike Sargent, she was not able to make a living as an artist until later in her life. She waited tables until she was 38 years old.
Though I did not set out to see these two exhibits to compare and contrast them, it turned out to be an interesting exercise. If you are in NYC, I recommend seeing either one or both. You can expect huge crowds at the Metropolitan. I went on a member preview day and there were lines. I’m not sure if that was due to the popularity of Sargent or the popularity of the Met. It was far less crowded at the Whitney which made for a more enjoyable and relaxed experience. There are plenty of other things to see at each museum, obviously, and if you haven’t been to the Whitney since it moved downtown, the building itself is worth a visit. The Sherald exhibit runs through August 10th, while the Sargent is open through August 3rd. If you see either one, feel free to come back here and comment. I’d love to hear other perspectives.
Here are some photos I took of other exhibits that I particularly enjoyed at the Whitney:
I went to the Museum of Modern Art. I hesitated before buying my ticket online because it is holiday season in New York City and that means crowds. There are always crowds at New York City’s most iconic attractions: MoMA , the Metropolitan and the Museum of Natural History are among them. But, this time of year is a whole other thing.
My strategy for any place with crowds, including Disney World, is to take the path of least resistance. I don’t have my heart set on seeing any one particular thing – I will see what I can see. Most of these places have so many choices, so much great stuff, that you can’t really go wrong. With that in mind, I decided to venture forth to MoMA.
Indeed, it was crowded, but I’ve been to exhibits where it felt like you were packed like sardines, moving slowly along a conveyor belt to see the art, which definitely detracts from the experience. This was not that – at all. In fact, I found galleries where I could sit down and look at the pieces leisurely.
I’ve commented before on this blog about the fact that works of art, or my response to them, change over time. I find I like things that I didn’t appreciate years ago. I see other works that I loved as a young person that don’t move me as much. I love that about art. These days I gravitate to things that are whimsical – especially in sculpture. For example, this work by Thomas Schutte (an artist I had never heard of before):
The museum devoted a whole floor to an exhibit of Schutte’s work. It was incredibly varied – paintings of all sorts, sculptures of all sorts. On one card next to a display of drawings, it described a project he had undertaken that I found interesting. “Over the span of one year, Schutte drew his reflection from a round shaving mirror, recording his moods and temperaments in diaristic sketches. ‘It’s the attempt to fathom oneself,’ Schutte remarked, ‘and it failed miserably.’” I was amused and heartened by his willingness to share this. We usually only see an artist’s best work and we aren’t necessarily even aware of their failures. I can’t say I loved all that I saw of the Schutte exhibit, but it got me thinking and I appreciate that.
I also find now that I have more appreciation of canvases that are saturated with color, like these:
RothkoVuillard
They made me think about my mother. I remember Mom telling me that she had never appreciated Rothko until someone told her to sit down, take a few minutes, and let the color envelop her – and then she got it. She got what he was communicating. As the card next to the painting explained:
“For Rothko, art was a profound form of communication, one capable of conveying the ‘scale of human feelings, the human drama,’ as he described. Through works like these, he hoped to create the conditions for silence and contemplation.” I’m not sure I “got it,” the way my mother did, but I saw and felt more than I have in previous viewings.
It was funny to me, as I walked through the galleries, different pieces reminded me of different people. Besides my mom, who is always accompanying me when I go to an art museum, in my mind at least, I worked with a woman, Courtney, who had an appreciation for color. She told me about Pantone – the folks who catalogue colors and tell us the color of the year (for 2025, they just announced, it is mocha mousse, by the way). When I looked at the Matisse exhibit, which highlighted his paper cutouts, you could not help but be struck by his color choices. The display of Matisse’s array of colors, made me smile and think of Courtney.
Matisse: cutout that was a design for a holiday-themed stained glass, the resulting stained glass (not created by Matisse) and his color palette for his cutouts
No visit to a museum is complete without stopping in the gift shop. MoMA and the Metropolitan have stellar gift shops. I have to restrain myself. I picked up a few Hanukkah presents, but didn’t overdo it.
Here some other shots from my visit. I ended my day by walking, amidst a million of my closest friends, to Rockefeller Center to see the tree. I may not celebrate Christmas, but I can appreciate the twinkling lights that brighten our winter.
Views from inside the museum:
Some classics:
WarholSeuratDali
Does anyone convey loneliness or isolation more effectively than Edward Hopper?:
Two more interesting sculptures (at least to me), one on the right by Schutte (which had to do with the influx of immigrants in Germany in the 1990s):
Aunt Clair’s ashes were sitting in a cardboard canister in the closet of our Manhattan apartment. The third anniversary of her passing was coming up soon. Her final wishes were to have those ashes spread over her parents’ graves. For many reasons, it had not been possible to make that happen, and as her yahrzeit (Yiddish for anniversary) approached, I was distressed.
When Aunt Clair died, I made the arrangements with the funeral home. She had no spouse or children, only nieces and nephews. I was her health care proxy. I had to identify the body before cremation. It was jarring to see my aunt without her spirit, it almost didn’t look like her, but sadly it was. The representative of the funeral home was kind and explained how things worked. I wrote about her funeral and shared the eulogy on this blog previously (https://stories-i-tell-myself.com/2021/11/08/a-eulogy-for-aunt-clair/.)
The first problem with fulfilling her wishes was that when I inquired at the cemetery, I was told it wasn’t permissible to spread ashes there. We could buy a plot and bury the remains, but there wasn’t a spot near her parents, and it was expensive. After consulting with family members and my own conscience, I decided that we would at least spread some of her ashes there discreetly. I imagine that the cemetery had its reasons, but I doubt it was because it would harm anything. I also didn’t want to take the chance of calling attention to ourselves, so I didn’t want to plan to spread all of the ashes there.
One of the things I learned through this process is that the amount of ash was more than I had imagined, though I had nothing to base my idea on. The canister was heavy, and it was tall.
I thought, given her love of biking and the frequency with which she would cycle from her apartment in Greenwich Village to her sister on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, that spreading the rest of her ashes through Riverside Park would be appropriate. I looked on the city’s website and believe it or not, it is legal to spread ashes in city parks*. It is not permissible to spread them in bodies of water within a park.
So, why were her cremains still sitting in my closet three years later? Life and death happened.
I recall when I picked up the ashes from the funeral home, the representative said, “You know how common it is for people to move into an apartment in New York City and find an urn with remains buried in a closet?”
I looked at him incredulously, “No.”
“You’d be surprised. People don’t know what to do, they put them away out of sight, forget, and they sit there for someone, years later, to discover. I’m just letting you know.”
“That won’t be the case here” I reassured him, and as I walked away, I thought, “That’s crazy. Who would let that happen?”
I have a better understanding now.
I had no prior experience with cremation; it isn’t a common choice among Jews, though apparently more are opting for it according to the guy at the funeral home. Aunt Clair wanted to be cremated, but she also requested that a memorial stone be laid at the foot of her mother’s grave. She had arranged for a footstone at her father’s grave in memory of the family he lost in the Holocaust in Poland, so she thought this was possible.
After the funeral, I brought her remains back to my apartment. After a few months passed and thinking that we would have an unveiling for the footstone on the one-year anniversary (and we would spread her ashes at that time), I began the process of ordering the memorial stone. This proved to be complicated to arrange. It was not a typical request. The cemetery didn’t want it to be confusing as to who rested in the plot. After a lot of back and forth that isn’t worth detailing, we came to an agreement about what the stone could say. It wasn’t exactly what Clair wanted, but it was the best we could do. It took more than two years for the stone to come to fruition.
When the stone was finally available, other things were going on in the family. We were not able to arrange a time for the ‘unveiling’ of the memorial and we didn’t spread the ashes. In the interim Clair’s sister, Aunt Diane, passed away, as did my mother. A whole generation was disappearing. Another year passed.
As Aunt Clair’s third yahrzeit loomed, I decided I didn’t want to wait any longer to fulfill her wishes. I wrote an email to my brothers and cousin and said I would like to visit the cemetery and spread her ashes on Friday, November 15th. Jewish cemeteries are closed on Saturdays (the Sabbath) and my Mom’s unveiling was planned for Sunday, November 17th. It would be a good time to make this happen. My cousin, who lives in Massachusetts, responded that her daughter’s due date was November 20th so she would not be comfortable traveling to NYC so close to that time. Aunt Clair would certainly understand that, as did I. It turned out the timing didn’t work for anyone but me and thankfully Gary. Despite that, I decided to go ahead with the plan
November 15th was a cool, sunny day as we drove the Jackie Robinson Parkway, a narrow, curvy roadway that connects Brooklyn and Queens and passes through a series of huge cemeteries. The trees were not yet entirely bare, the yellow and gold leaves shone in the sun. I had the location of my grandparents’ graves written down and we drove to the appropriate section of the cemetery. I thought I remembered my way to their graves. Gary and I combed the rows and couldn’t find them. I checked and rechecked my notes. Finally, I remembered I had taken a picture the last time I was there and maybe that would help. I searched my phone, those smartphones can be quite helpful and in the photograph I found a couple of landmarks that helped – a majestic tree and two large grave markers in front of my grandparents’ more modest ones with the name Feingold on them. We found the spot and now understood why we hadn’t seen them before – they were entirely blanketed in ivy.
Gary and I peeled away the ivy and exposed all the markers. Aunt Clair’s stone was there, as expected. I looked around and seeing nobody around, I took the baggie with a portion of Aunt Clair’s ashes out of my pocket and spread them over the graves. “May you rest in peace, Auntie.” I said. Gary and I paused and stood quietly for a bit. Then we got back in the car and headed back to Manhattan. Part one of my mission had been accomplished.
Gary clearing ivyAunt Clair’s memorial stone
The sun was still shining brilliantly as we made our way to Riverside Park. It was also quite breezy. I wasn’t sure how I was going to do this. I carried the canister in a canvas bag. As we walked, a plan revealed itself to me. We passed a garden, now gone to seed until the spring, and I thought this was a perfect spot to provide what perhaps could be fertilizer. I looked around and nobody was paying attention – I knew I wasn’t doing anything wrong, but I also worried it might be disturbing to onlookers. I spread a good deal of the ashes throughout the garden, and nobody seemed to notice. There was still a lot of ash left.
We continued walking through the park and came upon a memorial to the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. The shrubs surrounding it presented itself as another opportune spot. Though Aunt Clair was not a religious Jew by any means, she was fiercely proud of being Jewish. This would be a meaningful location, as well. Gary reminded me to stand upwind as I poured the ashes over the bushes. I had not been as mindful of that the first time.
The canister was still not empty, and I knew of one more spot that I wanted to visit. Aunt Clair was an admirer of Eleanor Roosevelt and there is a statue of her at 72nd Street just inside the park. We continued our walk south to find it. I was pleased to see that there were plantings around the memorial. I spread the remaining ashes there.
Walking south in Riverside ParkStatue of Eleanor Roosevelt
Throughout our walk, aside from talking about mundane things, Gary and I shared memories of Aunt Clair. I felt good about what we were doing. I was grateful to have Gary to share it with. He knew her well and shared his own unique relationship with her. We had come darn close to fulfilling her wishes and I think we honored her spirit. Part two of our mission was now accomplished. I was glad she was no longer sitting in my closet.
We took a different route through the park back to our apartment, walking along the Hudson River. I felt peaceful. The sun lowered and its rays glistened on the water. The day was fading, and I was satisfied.
In an unusual turn of events, Gary and I had a free day in New York City. The weather forecast was perfect – sunshine, no humidity, high temperature in the low 70s. I had an idea for what we should do with this unexpected free time. “Let’s go explore Brighton Beach,” I suggested.
Brighton Beach is a neighborhood in Brooklyn. It has been nicknamed “Little Odessa,” because it is home to many immigrants from Russia and Ukraine and it is by the sea (like its namesake on the coast of the Black Sea in sadly what is now war-torn Ukraine).
Usually, Gary turns his nose up at Brooklyn – it is a running joke between us. He thinks Queens is the far superior borough since that is where he grew up. It is true that when we were children more of Brooklyn was impoverished and crime-ridden; Queens had some unsafe areas, too, but more of it was middle- to upper-middle class residential neighborhoods. It has been a lot of years though since Brooklyn recovered, gentrified and became the favored place to live among hipsters and artists. Brooklyn still has rough areas, but it is nothing like it was in the ‘70s. So much has changed since I lived there.
To my surprise, Gary agreed to my proposal. He was curious about it, too. I did a bit of research online about restaurants and sites. We decided to drive, though public transportation is readily available, because it would give us more flexibility. One advantage to visiting the outer boroughs, especially if you aren’t intimidated by the prospect of driving through the streets, is that you can find free parking. Anyone who has had a car in Manhattan knows what an expensive proposition parking can be. We waited until rush hour was over, around 10:00 a.m., and headed to Brooklyn.
I can’t remember the last time I drove to Brooklyn. We headed downtown along the west side of Manhattan and went through the Hugh Carey Tunnel. Back in the day we called it the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel. I took that tunnel many times with my family when we came to Manhattan to visit either of Dad’s sisters.
We emerged from the tunnel in Brooklyn and proceeded onto the Gowanus (an elevated highway with a lot of truck traffic). I remember it as a depressed industrial area on one side of that highway and residential on the other. The residential side looked better maintained and the other side seemed to have new developments, some of which was still industrial, but the area looked more vibrant than when I had last seen it.
The Gowanus took us to the Belt Parkway, the roadway that travels along the edge of Brooklyn, skirting the entrance to New York harbor and then Jamaica Bay. We passed under the Verrazzano Bridge. I thought about how big Brooklyn is and I remembered getting around the borough as a teenager on buses. There was a store not that far from the Verrazzano, Korvettes, that had good prices on records. My brother Steven, who had a huge record collection, would give me a list of albums he wanted for his birthday, and I would go to Korvettes to pick one out for him. It was quite a schlep– involving several different buses. I didn’t mind, though, riding through various neighborhoods and looking at the people and stores. Korvettes is long gone, now a Kohls and Target sit in its spot. Some things change but remain the same.
We exited the parkway and made our way to Brighton Beach Avenue, looking for parking. We noted many fruit and vegetable stands, and spotted a market bearing the name of the capital of Uzbekistan, Tashkent.
The influx of Russian and Ukranian immigrants to Brighton Beach began a long time ago in the 1970s. When the Soviet Union relaxed its prohibition on Jews leaving, many of them found their way to Brooklyn, especially to Brighton Beach. Then when the Soviet Union dissolved in the early 1990s another wave came – this time from the former Soviet Republics such as Ukraine, Uzbekistan, Georgia, etc. The new immigrants established shops along Brighton Beach Avenue catering to their tastes.
We found an unmetered parking spot on a residential side street. The Riegelmann Boardwalk runs along the beach – named after Peter Riegelmann, the Brooklyn Borough President in the 1920s – it stretches almost three miles through Brighton Beach past Coney Island. We got on the boardwalk where it starts and meandered almost the full length of it, passing iconic landmarks like the Cyclone, Nathan’s and the renovated aquarium. It was not yet noon, so it was quiet, everything was just opening. We passed a few fellow walkers, joggers and fishermen/women. We heard a polyglot of languages being spoken, including Yiddish. The sky was clear, there was a warm breeze, and the water glistened in the sunshine. We stopped to watch the waves breaking on the shore. Only a few umbrellas dotted the sand – public schools in New York City had opened that day so there weren’t very many people.
We reached a very long fishing pier, walked out to take in the view, and then turned around and started back.
We got off the boardwalk and went up to the avenue to look at the variety of stores and find a restaurant for lunch. The sidewalks were crowded with shoppers and merchandise. Elevated train tracks provided shade for the sidewalk. Periodically we heard the screech of the subway above us.
We looked at a few menus posted in windows and selected a restaurant that offered traditional Eastern European fare. We decided on the Ocean View Café, the menu was in what we thought was Russian (or maybe it was Ukranian) but it had English translations.
There were just a few empty tables, so it seemed to be a popular place for the locals who were speaking a Slavic language to the waitstaff. We ordered stuffed cabbage as an appetizer, chicken kebab with mashed potato and cheese blintzes, we shared each dish. The food was excellent.
We left the restaurant and were grateful to have a bit of a walk to the car. The cherry on top of our great day was that we didn’t hit much traffic heading back into Manhattan, only one bottleneck. Gary and I agreed it was a terrific outing. We timed it just right – nothing was too crowded, but it wasn’t desolate, the weather was an ideal example of late summer perfection, and we felt like we had visited another country – all while in New York City.
Last week was difficult. My mom’s health has continued to deteriorate, and it has presented challenges to get her needs met. Suffice it to say that elder care in this country is imperfect – and that is a generous assessment. We are a family with resources but even with that, it can be hard (perhaps impossible) to find services that match her needs. I feel for folks who don’t have the financial wherewithal or time or knowledge to navigate this terrain. And that doesn’t even touch on the emotional toll all of this takes and the baggage we may be bringing to our decision-making. So, Saturday night, when I could finally breathe, I realized that I had Sunday to myself before diving back in to Mom’s care. And it was supposed to be a sunny day! Not warm exactly, but warm enough. I decided I could be a tourist in my hometown – New York City.
When I was old enough to go from Brooklyn to Manhattan by myself or with a friend, I loved exploring. They used to have city buses that ran ‘culture loops.’ It was an inexpensive way to see the sights. I went to museums, I visited landmarks, I window shopped. I especially enjoyed observation decks – I went to the top of the Empire State Building and the World Trade Center multiple times – they weren’t that expensive back in the day. I loved walking the avenues and side streets, finding interesting buildings and people-watching.
I thought about how I might spend my Sunday. I had read about a new observation deck, The Summit. It is next to Grand Central at One Vanderbilt and stretches upward for 93 floors. The observation area is comprised of three floors and includes an art installation or two. Decision made. I would check this out. I bought a ticket online. It was not cheap.
Before starting my day of touring, I accompanied Gary to the Amtrak Station. Though I had taken the train from Albany several times since the new Moynihan Hall opened, I had not seen it. Somehow when I exited the train in Penn Station and made my way to the subway, I missed the new part. So, this first stop revealed a new sight – a vast improvement from the old, dingy station I was accustomed to. I said goodbye to Gary, he was heading home to go to work on Monday. I would have enjoyed having him join me on my adventure, but there are advantages to not having to worry about anyone else’s preferences.
I exited the station and started walking east and north. I was reminded again that New York City is beautiful. Yes, it can be dirty and gritty, but the parts I traversed were not. The architecture can be so interesting. You also find hidden gems, like this in front of the Polish Consulate on Madison and East 37th Street.
I am also often struck by how the sunlight makes its way through the caverns created by the buildings and casts shadows. The sun was brilliant, and the air was crisp and clear.
My ticket was for 12:00. When I arrived at One Vanderbilt there was quite a long line for the noon entry. I should have anticipated that it would be crowded – it was the weekend and it is New York! Somehow, I had forgotten about that. They had it well organized, with sufficient staff shepherding us through the process – the line snaked around kind of like it does at Disney World. We had to go through security, too. They issued booties – a good portion of the floors up top are mirrored and they don’t want them to get scuffed. You aren’t allowed to wear stilettos – not a worry for me since I’ve never worn a pair in my life! They also provided sunglasses, they warned that it was quite bright up there, but I had my own. It took a while to get through the whole process and I wondered if it was going to be worth it.
The final hallway before the elevator is darkened and there’s dramatic music playing. I guess they are trying to play up the excitement. I could imagine it being a bit scary for young ones. They also warn you if you are sensitive to flashing lights or loud noises that you should tell the staff.
Finally, I got on the elevator and we flew up to the 91st floor.
It was worth the wait. The views are stunning. The mirrored walls and floors create a wild, pixelated scene.
Though it was likely designed for the Tik Tok generation, I loved it. There were young folks making the most of it, creating what I am sure were super cool selfies or portraits of partners or friends, but I was surprised to find that it didn’t annoy me. It was interesting. I was mostly focused on taking in the vistas and people were considerate. They took their pictures but kept moving so you could get to the windows. Since the air was so clear you could see across Brooklyn, Queens, New Jersey, Westchester. You get a full appreciation for New York Harbor and the waterways that flow from it. All I can say is wow!
The art installations were cool, too. One room had mirrored balloons floating around. This was designed by Marie Kusawa and I enjoy her work – so whimsical and fun.
Naturally there were opportunities to spend more money – but you don’t have to buy anything in the gift shop or the café (there is also an open air terrace where you could bring the drink purchased at the cafe). You don’t have to buy the photos they take. But, there is no denying that it can get expensive. The base price, just to take the elevator and walk through the three floors of observation areas and installations is $42 for an adult. It was worth it to me.
There is a glass ledge you can step out on – they take a picture of you there. I bought this one. I tried to take my own photo, didn’t come out nearly as good.
It was a great day. Accomplished just what I needed it to. Now I will get back to the real world.
Note: This essay was written by my husband, Gary Bakst. Thank you, Gary!!! I will be sharing my take on this same event tomorrow.
It had been 2 and ½ years since I attended a live sporting event, a concert, a movie in a theater, any sort of in person event. I surely don’t have to tell any of you why – everybody knows. We have all made our own decisions about how to deal with the threat of Covid. Some have been yet more cautious than I have but many more less cautious. And I accept that there is a range of choices people can make that may fit for them.
For me, it was time to go to a Mets game. Linda looked ahead and noticed months ago that Saturday, August 27th, was Old Timers’ Day at Citi Field where my beloved Mets play their home games. I have been a Mets fan since my father taught me about baseball. We watched ballgames together, making the occasional pilgrimage to Shea Stadium to see our favorite players win or lose. I remember one game in which Willie Mays -yes, that Willie Mays – was playing for the Mets. He was old for a ball player and no longer capable of the elite level of performance that defined his many years with the Giants, but he was still that legend.
I have fashioned my children into Mets fans, cajoled Linda into supporting them and now my grandchildren are being educated early about the importance of supporting our Mets. I figure, if I can suffer, so can they. Most years, being a Met fan does involve quite a bit of suffering. It makes one tougher, better able to deal with other disappointments in life.
This year has been different. The Mets have had other good years in their history, most notably 1969 and 1986. But, unlike their crosstown rival Yankees, they are not perennial contenders for a championship. It is a rare and exciting moment, a meteor streaking through the sky ever so briefly, not an annual expectation. Perhaps with our new and improved ownership, that could be changing.
After being away for such a long time, it seemed like the right time to head back to the stadium. Covid surely remains a risk, but the risk of severe disease has diminished, it is an outdoor event and the special occasion of Old Timers Day combined to convince me to purchase tickets. I went online and bought 8 tickets for the game. I was not sure which family members would be able to make it, but the limiting factor was not going to be too few available seats.
As an aside, the Mets have a policy for getting these online tickets that I found cumbersome and less than straightforward, so I tasked Linda with converting their emails into actual access to the stadium. She found it easy and quick which did not surprise our children.
My new-fangled ticket to the Old Timers game
Ultimately, we had a nice group coming to the game. We had Linda and I, our son Daniel and his wonderful daughter, Linda’s brother Mark, his lovely wife Pam and their very nice son Sam who is also a Mets fan. And Linda’s good friend Steven who I enjoy talking Mets baseball with over the many years we know each other. The only person missing was our daughter, Leah, (who I have also successfully indoctrinated into Mets fandom, too) but having just had a baby three months ago, and living in the Boston area, made her attendance impossible.
Linda and I drove down to the city; we took the number 7 subway line to the stadium. It was filled with orange and blue clad Mets fans. The vibrations were all positive, the sun was shining and the world was a happy place.
We all arrived in time for the Old Timers’ game. They had assembled quite a large number of former Mets from players who were there for the Mets first season in 1962, to the 1969 Mets and the 1986 Mets and more or less every era of their existence. The introductions themselves were fun and the former players exulted in the attention and adoration which the packed stadium poured out upon them.
At the end of the introductions, there was a surprise. The Mets were retiring uniform number 24 which Willie Mays used to wear. It was a heartwarming moment and surely a signal that current owner Steven A. Cohen was ushering in a different era compared with the Wilpons who are widely despised by Mets fans. He is doing so many things the right way, and this was just one lovely example of that.
The Old Timers game itself was so much fun. Some of those guys can still move pretty well and some really cannot. Most still retain the amazing hitting and throwing skills that separate them from we ordinary humans. It was pure joy watching them out on the field again. We were enjoying the action on the field, the food, the drinks, the opportunity to spend time together chatting. Baseball is unlike football and basketball. It is slower. Many people keep trying to make it faster. Perhaps that is a good thing but sometimes slower has its merits. I loved the slowness of the game.
When the real game with the current crop of Mets began, it was more fun. They led by 1-0, then 2-0, then 3-0. It was a low scoring and well-played game. They made enough good plays to overcome the visiting Colorado Rockies and the crowd exulted as the final out was recorded.
Our granddaughter spent about 4 hours there which is remarkable for a child not yet old enough to have any idea what a ball or strike is. She was delightful and in great spirits and eventually Daniel left with her and they made it home without issue.
The rest of us found our way onto the 7 train when the game ended, and we caught an air conditioned express train back to Manhattan. While on the train, we learned from one of the many Mets fans crowding that subway car that our main opponents, the Atlanta Braves, had lost in the bottom of the ninth inning and the subway car erupted in joy.
We got back home late and tired and sweaty but very happy. Getting back out and doing something to divert my attention from my daily concerns was such a pleasure and going to a baseball game and watching my favorite team win was exactly the right salve. I can enjoy watching any team play but if it is my Mets, then I really want them to win. If the trip is easy and the weather is great and the food is delicious and they lose, then the bottom line is they lost. It is unlike a movie or a show where I might say it was very good or pretty good. This is binary: win/lose. And they won.
I wonder how you have made decisions about such entertainment options. Have you been going all along, have you picked some events as appropriate and others as not a great idea? And which types of events take you away from your worries?
I arrive at the corner of Bleecker and Sixth Avenue with a decision to make: continue clearing out Aunt Clair’s apartment or head home. I take a breath after running around to three banks to close out Clair’s accounts and dropping off her cable equipment. Despite the sunny skies and unseasonably mild weather, I am overtaken by sadness. It hits me: an era has come to an end. Clair’s apartment is just a block from where I stand, having made her home in Greenwich Village for 60 years. Though I know I can return any time to wander these streets, window shop, sit at a café, or see an Off-Broadway play, it won’t be the same.
It isn’t just Aunt Clair’s passing that accounts for my unsettled feeling. Everywhere I look I see empty storefronts, signs advertising retail space for rent, shop windows papered over. Empty booths for outdoor dining line the already narrow streets. It may be mild for February, but it is still too cold to eat outside. The sidewalks are busy, though. A steady stream of people coming and going. I hear hammering, metal striking metal, and look up to see construction workers on a fire escape working on a building. Greenwich Village is in transition again.
Memories of other visits to the Village flood in. Like many neighborhoods in New York City, the Village has gone through many incarnations. When I was a teenager in the 1970s there were multiple independent bookstores, side by side with headshops and record stores. I would come with a friend, and we would go in and out of those stores. I loved browsing the aisles of Azuma, a store featuring decorative items imported from China and Japan. SoHo wasn’t a thing yet, there was nothing but empty loft space below Houston Street. Though I enjoyed walking the neighborhood, I was wary of the strung-out junkies hanging out on the corners, the panhandlers, the odd characters who mumbled to themselves and the general seediness. That was the ‘70s and ‘80s.
As the decades passed, the bookstores left, New York University expanded its footprint, chain stores moved in, and the Village changed. It was strange to see the same stores (Gap, Banana Republic, American Eagle) I saw in the mall near my house in upstate New York, now just blocks away from Washington Square Park.
Like other parts of the city, the change was a mixed bag. The neighborhood no longer felt seedy; it felt safer. Some of the charming shops remained, but pricier restaurants replaced the mom-and-pop places. SoHo became trendy featuring interesting art galleries. Rents went through the roof. Aunt Clair’s building was bought by a fancy property management company. She was fortunate to be grandfathered into the rent-control program; it was the only way she could have stayed in her place. In fact, she likely could not have afforded to live anywhere in Manhattan had she been forced out.
One of the last times I walked through the Village with Aunt Clair, not long before the pandemic, change was already afoot. Some stores were vacant, much to her consternation. She explained to me that for large real estate companies there was some kind of tax advantage to taking a loss on these properties – there was no incentive to rent to a fledgling new business, hence the empty retail spaces. In her estimation, the neighborhood was paying the price to protect the interests of the rich and powerful – something that violated her sense of fairness. Not knowing enough to question her, we went on to other topics, but her analysis stayed with me.
My travels this morning, to settle Aunt Clair’s affairs, also took me past the NYU-owned building where my mother sublet an apartment for several summers. After my dad died in 2005, my mom hoped to fulfill a lifelong dream of living in the Village, a prospect distinctly unappealing to Dad. Aunt Clair, Dad’s ever resourceful sister and devoted to Mom, found a list of apartments offered for sublet by NYU professors when they went on sabbatical or taught abroad for a semester. Aunt Clair got Mom on that email distribution list and found a place for her. Mom spent at least three summers seeing shows, going to museums, and meeting up with Clair and other friends and family, a dream fulfilled.
As I stand on the corner, I think of all the experiences on these streets. I am grateful that I noticed as I ran errands that morning that three of Clair’s favorite shops – a coffee roasting/tea shop (Porto Rico Importing on Bleecker), a homemade pasta store (Raffetto’s on West Houston) and Rocco’s Bakery (also on Bleecker) are still open for business despite the pandemic and the economic turmoil that comes like waves over the decades. Some things are constant – or seem to be, until they aren’t.
I continue standing on the corner lost in reverie. I consider my options: stay and try to accomplish more clearing out of my aunt’s apartment, the essentials are done but the task could be never-ending, or get on the road to head home with enough time to beat rush hour. I look at the time on my I-phone. It is about 2:00 in the afternoon. Rush hour can be an all-day affair in New York. Driving uptown any time after 3:00 can get hairy, with schools letting out and some trying to beat an early exit from work. I haven’t eaten lunch and I still have about an hour on my parking meter. I stand there paralyzed with indecision. Slowly I realize I have had enough. I am worn out.
I walk to my car wondering when I might be back here and what I will find when I do. Whatever happens, it will be without Aunt Clair there to witness and offer her unvarnished, insightful commentary.
I know I have used the word bittersweet quite often on the blog. Lately it just seems to fit. This past week was no exception. It featured wide swings – from the deep satisfaction of connecting in person (!!!) with long-time friends (who were fully vaccinated) to extreme anxiety about Mom’s health and back to marveling at the wonder of a toddler. It has been a roller coaster ride.
I accompanied Mom for pre-op testing a week ago in New Jersey. It went smoothly, though, it is increasingly evident that any exertion takes a great deal out of her. I wish we had a better understanding of what is happening. I feel like there should be an answer – and with that some kind of fix so that her quality of life is improved. We continue to search but so far, we have not come up with anything. This has been going on since last August!
On Friday I brought her in for a procedure that was meant to enlighten us – at least with regard to the condition of her heart. In a strange way I hoped that the doctor would find something wrongthat he could address. He didn’t. Her heart is good – which should have been excellent news, and it does bring some comfort. The search continues for an explanation for her extreme fatigue and shortness of breath.
In between Monday’s testing and Friday’s procedure, I visited with family and friends who live in the New York City area. My son came into the city for the first time in over a year for work. He visited with me before his scheduled meeting. I gave him a bagel with cream cheese. He took a bite and exclaimed, “Jesus, that is so good!” He lives in Connecticut and gets bagels, but there are bagels and there are bagels. New York City may be struggling, but you can still get fabulous bagels on the Upper West Side.
Though things are far from normal, some activities are returning in new ways. A Vietnamese restaurant on Amsterdam Avenue set up some tables on the sidewalk enclosed in individual plastic bubbles. The pod was open on one side. Steven, our friendship began when I was 14 or 47 short years ago, and I were enjoying our lunch when it started to drizzle, then the sky opened up. The waiter pulled down the plastic sheeting and zipped us in. We were protected from the elements and continued eating our delicious meal. When the rain stopped, the panel was unzipped and we emerged into breezy sunshine, a blue sky to the north but more ominous clouds moving in from the south. It was one of those fast-changing weather days. Spring is in full swing in NYC.
I consumed quite a bit of Asian food during my time in the city – all of it outstanding. Isn’t it great to share a meal with people you love? Another afternoon I met Aunt Clair at a Japanese restaurant. Despite her own serious health challenges, we were able to talk about family history and current events while digging into our bento boxes. I learned more about my Dad and clarified some things, some of which will likely make its way into a future blog post.
Late that afternoon I fought traffic on the Cross Bronx Expressway to meet another childhood friend – I know Deborah since I was four years old. Anyone who has lived in the New York area has to know the Cross Bronx is infamous – it can be 3 a.m. and traffic can be at a standstill. But Waze, the navigation app that scans for the best route, told me repeatedly, “You are still on the fastest route,” as I sat incredulously staring at the unmoving tractor trailer in front of me. The good news was that I was listening to NPR when the verdict was read in the Chauvin trial. What a relief – on so many levels! In addition to finally providing some accountability and a measure of justice, I hate to think what would have happened if a different verdict had been rendered.
I met Deborah for dinner in Port Washington on Long Island. Deborah lives in another part of the Island but suggested a spot that was more convenient for me to travel to. Another excellent Asian restaurant. I realized that I was only minutes from where my cousins grew up. After the meal, since the days are now so much longer, there was still some daylight. I plugged their old address into the GPS. It was only a five minute ride. The terrain was familiar and foreign at the same time. The lovely homes, tree-lined, curving streets and lush lawns were as I remembered. The house itself was quite different. The wood rail fence and bushes that lined the property were gone. The siding was a different color. But it brought back many memories of our visits. So much has changed. My aunt and uncle passed away – as have so many other family members. My cousins live in Massachusetts and Florida respectively. I took a picture and texted it to them. They commented on the changes they noticed. More evidence of the bittersweet nature of life.
Mom needed to be at the hospital at 6:30 a.m. on Friday. I drove out to New Jersey Thursday night and stayed with my brother and sister-in-law, they live about 15 minutes from Mom. Somehow when you know you are getting up at 5:00 a.m. it is impossible to get restful sleep. I woke up multiple times to check the clock, relieved to find that I still had more time. But at 4:30 I gave up. Mom was ready when I arrived at 6:00. We saw the sun rise as we drove east to the hospital.
The procedure took less time than expected and I was thankful that she had made it through it, even though I wished there was something they could have fixed that would improve her situation. Given that she is 87 and experiencing shortness of breath, I was acutely aware of the risks of the procedure. At least she had come through it.
She was admitted to the hospital because of a complication with her heart rhythm. I went to see her in her room. Her color was actually better than it had been. She was in good spirits. Assuming that she was stable, I planned to return home that afternoon. Months earlier the weekend of April 24th was chosen by our children to celebrate my husband’s birthday. Since Covid made going to a Met game an uncomfortable proposition, the kids came up with the idea of recreating the experience in our backyard. They would come to Albany and we would all watch the game together on Saturday afternoon.
Fortunately, Mom was stable, so after staying with her for a couple of hours, I drove home. The celebratory plans were a surprise to Gary. He didn’t know the kids were coming. I arrived home at 3:30 in the afternoon. Leah and Ben followed about 20 minutes later. Gary worked a bit later than usual, proving that he had no idea about the surprise. He saw Leah’s car in the driveway and was delighted. He came in all smiles. It only got better from there.
A couple of hours later, there was a knock at the door. Our almost 3 year old granddaughter stood smiling on the porch (don’t worry she wasn’t alone, her mother and father accompanied her). I reached out my arms and she lifted hers. I brought her into the family room where Gary was on the phone with a patient. His jaw dropped. I heard him say, “Okay, gotta go. Good night, Mr. Smith.” Fortunately, he had communicated the necessary medical information so though he ended the conversation abruptly, he was in fact done. He stood up and took her from me. So began the weekend.
Though we had a great time with the kids, my mom alternately sounded horrible on the phone (struggling to breathe and speak), then a bit better, then like herself, then horrible again. I was worried. I thought about whether I should go back down to the hospital, but what could I accomplish? The kids had gone to great effort. They set up a screen against the house so we could watch the Met game. They brought crackerjacks, peanuts, beer and sandwiches. They decorated with Met paraphernalia. The weather even cooperated, sadly, the Mets didn’t. They lost 7-1. We all agreed that was as it should be in a way, we’ve been to many losses at Shea and Citifield. Happily, we watched the game (indoors) the night before when Jacob DeGrom pitched a masterpiece.
Our own version of the 7th inning stretch
Sunday morning, I blew bubbles with our granddaughter in our backyard. It delighted both of us. Something about watching the delicate orbs, rainbows shimmering on their surface, illuminated by the sun as they drifted into nothingness seemed appropriate. The fleeting nature of it, of everything, struck me. At the same time, her squeals of laughter as she chased them reminded me of the whimsy of life. I need to go with it, accept the bittersweet, as hard as that is.
Note: Today is Columbus Day or Indigenous People’s Day. It seems apropos to revisit another historical controversy – one not quite so long ago. Also, I’d like to give a shout out to my cousin Ira, celebrating a milestone birthday today, having been through a lot more than most. I wish him health, happiness and many more celebrations.
In a series of previous blog posts, I wrote about the Ocean Hill-Brownsville Teachers Strike of 1968 because it was a seminal event in both the history of New York City and my family. My Dad was a union activist and walked that picket line. That strike is seen by many as a turning point in the relationship between the Jewish- and African-American communities, damaging it so much that it reverberates to this day.
As part of my exploration of the topic I attended a panel discussion at the Brooklyn Historical Society in late January of 2019. Monifa Edwards, the valedictorian from the Ocean Hill-Brownsville Junior High School in 1968, began the session by talking about her journey. Ms. Edwards, who is in her 60s now, held herself like a dancer, lean and elegant. She spoke with assurance. She gave some background, noting that her family, originally from the Caribbean, valued education. Her parents were distressed that the neighborhood schools had such a poor reputation. As a result, they enrolled her in a public elementary school in Gravesend, way across the borough of Brooklyn, an opportunity offered by New York City to desegregate the schools.
She described a harrowing experience on one particular trip. The bus was surrounded by angry white parents. The driver and bus monitor vanished, and the parents started rocking the bus and yelling epithets. Monifa recounted that she could still see, in her mind’s eye, the face of one of the mothers – her hair in curlers, her face twisted in hate. Monifa was terrified and traumatized by the experience. She came home and told her parents that she was going to go to a neighborhood school next year, no matter what, even if the education offered was inferior.
I heard Monifa’s story and it broke my heart. I could imagine her fear as the bus threatened to tip over. It made me think of my own experience in 1973 attending junior high school in Canarsie despite a boycott of the schools because parents were against the proposed busing of black students into our district. I walked a gauntlet lined by police and white demonstrators who were yelling and shaking their fists at the few of us who dared to attend classes. It was unnerving.
Monifa continued, explaining how based on this incident, and other painful experiences, she was ‘primed to be radicalized’ (her phrase). To her radicalized meant adopting the beliefs of the Black Panthers. When she asked adults around her, how could that white mother hate her so much and want to do her harm, she was told that white people were the devil. This made sense to her young self. It explained what she had experienced. I could understand how a child would receive and accept that message. As a young teen she joined the Black Panthers in Brooklyn and they became involved in the controversy over the schools in Ocean Hill-Brownsville.
Hearing about the Black Panthers brought back images I saw on television when I was growing up. Angry young black men, wearing berets, camo and armed to the teeth came to mind. Those images were unsettling when they flashed on the nightly news in 1967, 1968 and 1969. The energy and anger that radiated was scary – especially when coupled with footage of cities burning. It felt like revolution was in the air.
As a young white girl in Brooklyn, it was beyond my control or understanding. I remember my Dad coming home from the picket line, tired and frustrated; talking about the ‘trouble-makers’ and ‘opportunists’ that were stirring the pot. He viewed the strike as necessary to protect union rights, to ensure due process for teachers who were disciplined. He thought schools needed to be protected from local politics. I implicitly trusted my dad’s judgment – I knew him to be an ethical, thoughtful person.
Dad (on the right with the blue sport jacket) on the picket line. Screen shot from Eyes on the Prize
I later came to understand that the students and parents in the community felt unheard and disrespected in the current system. Though it wasn’t my dad’s intent, the structure he was supporting likely contributed to the community’s alienation. It was a dangerous situation – with the mostly white picketers (the teachers) in a Black neighborhood, Black Panthers on the scene, epithets flying both ways, anger bubbling to the surface, police sharpshooters on the roofs of buildings across from the junior high school. Each side believing in the righteousness of their cause. The civil rights movement, which had been nonviolent, was undergoing a change, especially after the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. earlier that year.
Years later I watched the documentary Eyes on the Prize and learned more about the Black Panthers; I gained a fuller understanding of the organization. Their ten-point program doesn’t seem quite as radical today. These are the ten points:
What We Want Now!
We want freedom. We want power to determine the destiny of our Black Community.
We want full employment for our people.
We want an end to the robbery by the capitalists of our black and oppressed communities.
We want decent housing, fit for shelter of human beings.
We want education for our people that exposes the true nature of this decadent American society. We want education that teaches us our true history and our role in the present day society.
We want all Black men to be exempt from military service.
We want an immediate end to POLICE BRUTALITY and MURDER of Black people.
We want freedom for all Black men held in federal, state, county and city prisons and jails.
We want all Black people when brought to trial to be tried in court by a jury of their peer group or people from their Black Communities, as defined by the Constitution of the United States.
We want land, bread, housing, education, clothing, justice and peace.
I’m sure some of those demands would trouble people today. Freedom for all incarcerated black men is not realistic, though I can’t deny that racism is embedded in the criminal justice system. ‘Robbery by the capitalists’ is still incendiary language, as well. But the thrust of the program addresses legitimate grievances.
The Black Panther platform also included statements of belief. This part likely stoked more of the controversy.
What We Believe:
We believe that Black People will not be free until we are able to determine our own destiny.
We believe that the federal government is responsible and obligated to give every man employment or a guaranteed income. We believe that if the White American business men will not give full employment, the means of production should be taken from the businessmen and placed in the community so that the people of the community can organize and employ all of its people and give a high standard of living.
We believe that this racist government has robbed us and now we are demanding the overdue debt of forty acres and two mules. Forty acres and two mules was promised 100 years ago as redistribution for slave labor and mass murder of Black people. We will accept the payment in currency which will be distributed to our many communities: the Germans are now aiding the Jews in Israel for genocide of the Jewish people. The Germans murdered 6,000,000 Jews. The American racist has taken part in the slaughter of over 50,000,000 Black people; therefore, we feel that this is a modest demand that we make.
We believe that if the White landlords will not give decent housing to our Black community, then the housing and the land should be made into cooperatives so that our community, with government aid, can build and make a decent housing for its people.
We believe in an educational system that will give our people a knowledge of self. If a man does not have knowledge of himself and his position in society and the world, then he has little chance to relate to anything else.
We believe that Black people should not be forced to fight in the military service to defend a racist government that does not protect us. We will not fight and kill other people of color in the world who, like Black people, are being victimized by the White racist government of America. We will protect ourselves from the force and violence of the racist police and the racist military, by whatever means necessary.
We believe we can end police brutality in our Black community by organizing Black self-defense groups that are dedicated to defending our Black community from racist police oppression and brutality. The second Amendment of the Constitution of the United States gives us the right to bear arms. We therefore believe that all Black people should arm themselves for self-defense.
We believe that all Black people should be released from the many jails and prisons because they have not received a fair and impartial trial.
We believe that the courts should follow the United States Constitution so that Black people will receive fair trials. The 14th Amendment of the U.S Constitution gives a man a right to be tried by his peers. A peer is a persons from a similar economic, social, religious, geographical, environmental, historical, and racial background. To do this the court will be forced to select a jury from the Black community from which the Black defendant came. We have been, and are being tried by all-white juries that have no understanding of “the average reasoning man” of the Black community.
When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bonds which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the laws of nature and nature’s god entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to separation. We hold these truths to be self-evident, and that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, that whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its power in such a form as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accused. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object, evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, and their duty, to throw off such government, and to provide new guards of their future security.
When I read it now, I am first struck by the reference only to men. The organization may have been progressive, but they didn’t extend the call for liberation to Black women. I am also struck by the rage that permeates. We needed to acknowledge that fury. We didn’t then, and we are still dealing with the consequences. While I don’t accept a number of their remedies (or all of the assumptions), some of their answers seem appropriate (decent housing, education that includes contributions beyond those of White men, and, reparations should be negotiated). As is often the case, more attention was given to the extremes, rather than focusing what could be agreed upon.
I can certainly imagine that a young person, like Monifa, would find all of it empowering and tantalizing.
Sitting in the audience that night listening to the discussion at the Brooklyn Historical Society, I thought there was a hole in the presentation. The perspective of someone like my father, whose motivations were not drenched in bigotry or a hunger for power for power’s sake, who legitimately believed that the principles of the union were at stake, was not represented. While giving parents a voice in schools is essential, it is reasonable to ask what their role should be if teaching is a respected profession. Having served as a school board member for nine years in an upstate New York suburb, I have grappled with this question. It is not easily answered. Sadly, in 1968 the union and the community could find no middle ground.
I think in one respect that panel discussion repeated the sins of the past. An important voice wasn’t heard.
Sitting in the audience that night, I was also reminded that the messages we receive as children are powerful. I absorbed messages that I still need to examine, so did Monifa Edwards. It takes work and awareness to overcome them. Many people are not introspective, some may not want to make the effort, and others may not be willing to be honest with themselves. But if we are ever going to progress, we need to do the work.
Ms. Edwards said she had long since moved beyond her radical phase, she was able to overcome the hateful message that white people were devils. Unfortunately, time was limited and there were other issues to discuss so we didn’t learn how that process occurred or how long it took.
How many people in the world, who are currently traumatized by violence and/or abuse, are ‘primed to be radicalized?’ How many will do the work that Ms. Edwards did to move beyond hate? And, I wonder how she feels today, eighteen months later, in the wake of continued instances of black citizens being murdered by police, seemingly without consequence.
And, finally, I wonder when we will truly learn to listen and try to understand, beyond just the words.
Based on media reports one might think New York City has become a hell hole. My recent visits have not borne that out. Obviously, my experience is just that – mine. Anecdotal – limited to the times and places I have been. That time has been spent on the Upper West Side, which according to some reporting has been the site of a mass exodus. Data may reveal a decrease in population, but you never would have known it by walking through the neighborhood and strolling through Central Park this past weekend.
Gary and I celebrated my birthday in the city, joined by our daughter and son-in-law-to be. We traveled down on Friday evening. It was a beautiful, clear evening. A huge full moon hung over northern Manhattan as we crossed the George Washington Bridge. Leah and Ben, after taking a half hour to find a parking spot, arrived at our apartment. With so many Citi-bike stations and a wider bike lane eliminating parking spots from one side of Central Park West, street parking, which was scarce before, is now almost impossible to find. It is one of those trade-offs of urban living; convenience for car-owners versus encouraging eco-friendly biking. At least once a spot was found, we didn’t need our cars for the rest of the weekend.
Saturday was my birthday and Gary, Leah and Ben wanted me to choose our activities. I considered our options. Given how bike-friendly the city has become, renting bikes seemed like a good idea. The weather was supposed to be great. But many other people might have the same idea and I didn’t relish the idea of navigating heavy traffic. I looked up the Metropolitan Museum of Art, thinking if it was open, maybe it wouldn’t attract too many people. The website indicated it was open and explained the COVID guidelines – tickets were available for specific times, there would be a temperature check before entry, masks were required and guards would be ensuring compliance, sanitizing stations were placed throughout. The Met is a huge building. It seemed like it could be a safe space. We all agreed, and I bought tickets for a 2:00 entry.
We had a relaxing morning in the apartment. Gary and I went out and picked up bagels. That walk revealed some of the toll of the pandemic. A number of retail stores and restaurants were closed. There were more homeless than there had been before, but there were still families out and about and a lot of stores were soldiering on. Lenny’s, the bagel place we favor, had a line (properly spaced) out the door, and we didn’t encounter any aggressive panhandlers. The streets looked a bit battered, with the closed businesses and more trash, but nothing like what I remembered from 1980 when I was attending graduate school. The city may be staggered, but it isn’t on its knees like it was then.
We returned to the apartment and had our bagels and coffee and chilled out. We left at 1:00 so we could take our time getting to the museum, taking a scenic route through the park. We only had to traverse about a mile and change.
We entered the park at 100th street, hearing peals of laughter from the nearby playground. The vast majority of people were masked (with both nose and mouth covered!), including the children. Families were picnicking. A father was teaching his son how to play badminton. We passed cyclists, runners and rollerbladers – or more accurately they passed us. I noted many interracial couples, heterosexual and gay, of every age. We saw and heard musicians (jazz and classical), exercise classes and softball games. We even saw a group of dancers, wearing flouncy black skirts trimmed in vibrant colors, doing what appeared to be salsa. We saw birthday parties, a bridge table set up in the grass, paper table cloth flapping in the breeze, balloons tied to chairs. It was an extraordinary tableau, vibrant with life. Some may not have been socially distancing, it was hard to judge whether groups are families or households, but other than people who were eating, most were masked, and many were clumped in small clusters which suggested they were trying to maintain appropriate distance. We were able to walk with enough space to feel comfortable. The sun was shining, the air was crisp. It felt like life – maybe not normal but affirming.
I was reminded that life wasn’t normal by the persistent feeling that a hair was trapped between my mask and my lips. I stopped twice, moved to the side next to a tree, removed my mask and inspected it for the stray hair. I rubbed my fingers over my lips. I never did find it – it just kept irritating me. But I kept my mask on.
We arrived at the museum at the right time, had our temperatures taken and our tickets scanned. Some spaces were more crowded than others, but we still took in their extensive Impressionist collection. People were mindful of spacing, we found ourselves doing a dance to allow access to the works. They thoughtfully reprinted the identifying information cards in larger font so you could stand back farther and still see the artist’s name and description of the piece.
I have been to the Met a number of times over the course of my 61 years, but I am hardly a regular there. Each time I respond to the paintings and sculptures differently. One of the things I have come to appreciate more recently is the spaces that museums provide. The Met has a number of courtyards with walls of windows that offer views of Central Park and high ceilings so that it feels airy and open. The sculptures in those areas may not be my favorites, but I love the overall effect.
I had read a bit about an installation on the rooftop garden that I wanted to see. You had to take the elevator to the fifth floor to get there. They were regulating the flow of people, limiting the number in the elevator and preventing crowding on the roof. We found a long line to get on the elevator, with markings on the floor to designate proper distancing. The line wound itself around a room. We wondered about waiting, decided it appeared to move quickly, so we got on. It was well worth it – both because the room itself had some interesting pieces to look at and because the rooftop was fabulous. The installation, called Lattice Detour by Hector Zamora, was a wall made up of blocks that left open spaces, hence the name of the piece. It may not sound all that special, but it created cool shadows and great photo opportunities. The view up there was spectacular. The park and the city skyline were lit by brilliant sun against a pale blue, clear sky, with just wisps of clouds.
Lattice Detour on the rooftop garden
After enjoying the fresh air and views, we walked down the stairs instead of using the elevator, careful not to touch the bannisters. We were alone in the stairwell, just the four of us.
I got us lost looking for the American wing, but we found great pieces of modern art. It was nearing closing time. Leah and Ben were determined to find George Washington Crossing the Delaware, my left heel said it had enough (we had already walked five miles and still needed to walk home – a cab was not an option). We agreed to meet in the gift shop. Another thing I love, museum gift shops!
I picked out some gifts, paid for them, and went to sit on the front steps (those iconic steps) to wait for everyone else. The beauty of cell phones, I texted everyone where I was, so I wasn’t concerned about being separated. I people-watched as I waited. Again, the variety that is New York presented itself. One woman, dressed in a body-hugging black outfit, thigh high boots, blond hair blown dry to perfection, gold earrings glinting in the sunlight, confidently posed for her partner as he snapped pictures. Vendors were selling pretzels and hot dogs and people were buying.
It wasn’t too long before Gary and the kids joined me. We sat a bit longer, criticizing those who were not masked properly, but also noting how many more were. We began our trek back to the apartment.
Having been out and about for the whole afternoon, we decided we had enough exposure to the elements and ordered food in. So many choices! Once again, they deferred to me. We ordered Chinese from Red Farm. I poured some wine while we waited and reflected on the day.
Thank you, universe, for giving me a beautiful present. The only thing that would have made it better was having Dan, Beth and our granddaughter with us, but I had a FaceTime visit first thing in the morning. I was beyond grateful for the gift of the day. And, I was relieved to find New York City doing its thing in this new reality.
Stories I Tell Myself 