Happy Banned Books Week!

My librarian grad student friend recently informed me that Banned Books Week is September 26-October 3 (it's always the last week in September.) I suppose this doesn't have much to do with Brooklyn per se, other than the fact that I work in a bookstore, but here is my one public service announcement for the year. Spend the week reading a banned book, or just reading. And is anyone else shocked and dismayed that Slaughterhouse-Five is STILL banned in some schools?? Ditto The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. And Beloved, and Tango Makes Three (which is a NON-FICTION story about PENGUINS), and Native Son, and The Grapes of Wrath...I could go on. For a list of books banned in 2007-2008 alone, see here. For the American Library Association's page on book banning, see here. For more books, and info on the Kid's Right To Read Project, see here. Oh, and if you want to see why JK Rowling did not get the Presidential Medal of Freedom, see here.

Having been raised by people who let me read whatever I wanted, I am mystified by people who believe in the corrupting power of literature, so much so that they go all Bonfire of the Vanities on other people's rights. (granted, I was "corrupted" in that I read To Kill a Mockingbird for the first time when I was 12 and wanted to, god forbid, make the world a better place.) So curl up with some tea, some Vonnegut (or whomever) and enjoy!

Also: my librarian friend (HI KAREN!) has started a blog of her own, as a class assignment, which can be found here. She will be writing about library science and information technology, among other fun things. She also supplied me with most of the links mentioned here, too. Check it out!

Tunnel to Towers Run

This morning I was in a 5k, in a downpour no less. I will now give you all a moment to regain your seats, as presumably you fell off of them in astonishment.

As anyone who knows me well knows, I do not voluntarily run--ever. But this was for a good cause. The Tunnel to Towers Run is a memorial to Stephen Siller, a firefighter from Brooklyn who was trying to get to Manhattan on September 11, 2001. The traffic in the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel (which connects the two boroughs) had gridlocked, so he put his car in park and sprinted through the tunnel, carrying all his gear. Every year since then there has been a run in his honor, with all the funds raised going to pediatric hospitals (he left behind 5 children) and other charities throughout the city. Over 20,000 people participate (for more on the run, see here.)

We actually walked most of it, as the roads were slippery and we are both on the injured list (Melis--torn ligaments in the ankle, me--3 year-old torn ACL, ironically injured while I was running in the rain). Still, we ended up being almost in the middle of the pack, mixed in with some of the runners and mostly with the faster walkers. The run started in Coffey Park, Red Hook, Brooklyn, which is the entrance to the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel, where one lane was closed to traffic. It went through the tunnel and out into Manhattan, where we went along Battery Park and ended very close to where the World Trade Center was. Here are some views entering the tunnel and then inside it:

Being in the tunnel was eerie, because there were no cars, and I kept thinking about how we were underneath the East River, and that was freaking me out. But it was certainly something to see all the different people who had come for the run, especially the fire companies from London, Dublin, Toronto, DC, Wooster, Rochester, Syracuse, Jersey City, Miami, Garden City, Palm Beach County, and Boston, not to mention all the NYC suburbs (Yonkers, Rockaway, Syosset, and probably lots more.) Many of these Firefighters were running in full gear, which is just crazy. And there were older people, younger people, parents with kids, people with matching shirts, 700 West Point students, and Chuck Schumer, who was standing in the middle of the crowd. Once we left the tunnel (and I was really glad when we did), we were greeted by NYC fire companies in dress uniform, some sporting banners of their friends and colleagues who were killed. They were cheering on the runners and giving high-fives, all while the rain poured down.

On Friday, the truck carrying the t-shirts for the run caught on fire. We went and got FDNY shirts from a street vendor so we would have something to wear, but they did have t-shirts at the end of the race, too. A hotel in Staten Island volunteered to wash and iron 14,000 shirts that they were able to salvage, so they wouldn't have to spend money to get more shirts.

I was sitting in my 9th grade geometry class when I heard about the September 11th attacks, and at the time I didn't know what the World Trade Center was, exactly. I was--obviously--sad, but I didn't know anyone who died, and it seemed to exist almost abstractly for me. It was therefore odd being here on the anniversary, even though I wasn't in Manhattan. I forget how close I really am to that site, and how affected everyone here was. I forget that a lot of the buildings are still being fixed. I forget that you could see smoke from my apartment. If you're like me, running through a tunnel makes you think about the impermanence of life and the senselessness of violence, not to mention those people who are willing to run into burning buildings to save others. But if you're like me, you will also remember those hotel workers in Staten Island, cleaning 14,000 shirts for free, and like me, you too will be reminded of the resiliency and kindness of people.

P.S. All photos taken by my cousin Melis!

DUMBO

In the spirit of trying new things, I spent my day off last week in DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass) which is a burgeoning artsy neighborhood. DUMBO in the '70's and '80's was a little dodgy, with a lot of abandoned warehouses, but like a lot of places in Brooklyn it's been revamped. Now the warehouses are studio space, which is available cheaper than other places in Brooklyn. I peered into some (a lot of metal working/big sculptures) so that was cool.

There is a little waterside park in between the Brooklyn Bridge (right) and the Manhattan Bridge (left) which is really nice. It's across the way from the South Street Seaport in Manhattan which is tourist central, but since it's Brooklyn, you get good views of Manhattan AND no tourists. Win-win.

DUMBO has a lot of green space and benches, but the downside to being by the bridges is that it is LOUD. I was on the phone with one of my friends while walking nearby the Manhattan bridge when the subways were going overhead, and it was deafening (also, I find being directly under bridges unnerving in general). But the water view is lovely, and more importantly, I had some solid opportunities to people-watch.

And here is a last shot of the bridge peeking through some buildings. DUMBO is the site of an old shipyard as well, and the streets are cobbled. It is worth a visit. AND, for the history nerds amongst us, it was also the site of the Battle for Brooklyn, one of the first battles of the Revolutionary War. Washington and his 8,000 troops were stationed in Brooklyn, and the British invaded with 20,000 troops. Washington lost Brooklyn, but sustained zero casualties and snuck his men over to Manhattan in the middle of the night.

Hiya, Gorgeous

"How you doin', gorgeous?" said the man in the faded blue shirt and khakis tonight as I was on customer service/information detail at work. "Thanks babe," said another. I've gotten called honey, hon, sweetie, sweetheart, dearie, baby, mommy (that by my Hispanic co-worker, who calls all women "mommy"), kid, ma'am, girlie, miss, and my favorite--doll. That one came from a Long Island Transit worker (and no, I'm not making sweeping assumptions about his job based on his accent and the amount of hair gel he was using: he was wearing a Transit shirt.)

I don't know how to respond to this. I have worked retail before, but in a stoic community, prone to angry outburts about the cost of newspaper, but not prone to terms of endearment. A big part of me probably thinks I should be offended. I mean, getting called "ma'am" makes me feel old, and "baby" makes me feel like a malleable little girl, neither of which fits me. And when people do use my name (since I have to wear a name-tag), they usually mispronounce it. Yet, I am a total hypocrite about this, because 1.) I am a big fan of terms of endearment, and routinely direct them at my friends and family, particular "sugar." and 2.) I only like being called things other than my name by people who have known me forever, or are endearing, or are related to me. (Oddly, for someone with a fairly short name, I have quite a few nicknames, which I have no problems with.) Having those different, special, sweet names for people makes for connection and attachment and inside jokes, which is why you DON'T go around calling strangers "honey." At least I don't.

But darn it all, it is kind of nice to get called "doll," even if it is by someone you don't know. When I was living in Norwich, there was this one completely awesome bus driver with a pink mohawk who used to refer to me (and every other woman, most likely) either as luv or darlin' or dearie. And let me tell you, that bus driver always lifted my mood--but maybe that was because of the English accent.

Perhaps I don't hate these words from strangers because I keep thinking that my time for this treatment is waning. You get to a certain age when people stop calling you "sweetie." Soon enough, I will be getting respect and distance, instead of so-called compliments like "you're lookin' good today, babe" from people I don't even know. And I know, deep down, that respect is a much better thing. But for the moment...just call me gorgeous.

Normalcy, or Something Like It

I fear that the longer I live here the more boring this blog will become, since everything I'm doing is just becoming...normal. Regardless, I had a really nice weekend, even while working both days, and here is why:

Firstly, my friend Anna called me earlier in the week and said she wanted to come to the city this weekend, and could she spend the night with us? (and yes, I clearly only hang out with people who have the same name as me. We've been friends since middle school. It confuses people no end.) So we met up after I got out of work on Saturday and she had done some museum hopping, and the weather was beautiful, and my (magnanimous!) cousin treated us to sushi at a very, very nice Japanese place a few blocks away which has a little outdoor patio, and then we walked around the park at dusk. I pulled my air mattress out to the living room (it's nice to have a mobile bed, eh?) and we had a sleep-over. One of the many reasons I like Anna is that when she called she informed me that all she was bringing was a toothbrush and an extra shirt (being a very inefficient packer, I'm always impressed by those who travel light). Since she is an artist, she always notices interesting doors or the tops of buildings, that I tend to just walk by without paying any attention to. She's also the one who gave me the ride to NYC when I moved out, and I spent the first night in New Paltz with her. So that was all lovely.

Secondly, the weather is glorious, and Sunday Night Football has started, and Fall is in the air, all of which I approve of. And we made pizza for dinner. And I am currently imbibing a Brooklyn Brown Ale. And the Bills won!! (I will enjoy it while it lasts.)

Thirdly, I had an interesting walk home. I left work this evening bit sad: that I had to rush Anna along this morning while we ate bagels so I could make it in on time, and abandoned her to figure out her way back to Manhattan, and the fact that it was so so nice out all day, and that I was inside. Where, incidentally, I watched a child throw a tantrum, which involved crying and blowing his nose on a wad of cash, which his mother then handed to me. Yeurgh. Anyway. I decided to forgo my usual purposeful walking and instead amble along/through Prospect Park on my way home. A lot of times, people will leave books and magazines that they don't want out on their stoops for people to take, and today I found a Dorothy Sayers compilation. Some mysteries I had read, and some I hadn't, but either way--Dorothy Sayers rocks my socks, so I was excited to get that (the irony is that I was just coming off a shift at a bookstore..but I will not pass up free books!). Today was not only the end of Ramadan, it was also the end ofRosh Hashanah, so there were tons of people around. On every street corner were at least two Orthodox Jewish men, playing curved horns. I got asked whether I was Jewish by them, as did most people walking by. I really wanted to say, "no, why?" instead of just "no," but I decided that might appear rude, so I will just have to live in curiosity about what, exactly, the horn call meant.

As I looped over by Grand Army Plaza and the Public Library, there was a a group of men African drumming and clapping. Inside the park were large groups of people playing soccer, lounging, and singing, and close to the entrance was a man playing "Eleanor Rigby" on a clarinet. In front of the library were two men who were break-dancing to hip-hop, while another man filmed them. A man with a shaved head walked by me, and on his head was a tattoo of the world. Like, as if his head were a globe. (I thought it was a gutsy move, style-wise.) There was a Henry Hudson 400th year party at the Brooklyn Museum, and there were the standard museum/trustee crowd milling about in evening gowns and tuxs. All of this, plus the normal street musicians, skateboarders, kids, dogs, and cars.

I kept thinking of the Dr Seuss book And to Think that I Saw it on Mulberry Street and all the stuff that the kid sees on his ride home. Perhaps this is not interesting to anyone who 1) grew up in a city, or 2) is not me, but these things are why living in a city can be so worth it.

Trade-Offs

This post was motivated by a semi-rotten avocado.

(I should probably preface this by saying that I really like avocados, and would willingly eat an entire one by myself.) A few nights ago I was making dinner and cut open an avocado that I had bought that day, and it was half rotten, and then when I did cut out the good part, it browned immediately, and I had a mini-fit. I think this was prompted more by general homesickness and the fact that my feet hurt, but there I was: smacking my knife on the counter, slamming kitchen cabinets, and muttering. My cousin looked over and mildly asked what on earth I was doing. "Why is all the produce here gross?" I ranted. "Everything is so expensive, and I had to wait for half an hour at the store to even BUY this defective avocado. AND WHY ARE THERE PEOPLE YELLING ON THE SIDEWALK? What is WRONG with this stupid city????"
"Trade-offs," my cousin replied.

What is more important to me? Good avocados, or culture? Good avocados, or public transport? Good avocados...or adventure? At that moment, I would have picked the avocado (or being able to drive, or having a backyard with a garden again) but now, as usual, I'm not sure.

Today the air was crisp and cooler and the sky was bright, bright blue. I was leaving the Brooklyn Museum and stopped to watch a step-team practice in front (for those of you William Smithers...think the Hip Notiqs, but 12 years-old.) Little kids ran around the fountain, and older kids skateboarded up and down the stairs. A modeling shoot was happening a few feet away. A violin-cello duo set up to play for some cash. It was noisy and crowded and interesting. Trade-offs.

As I walked home, I passed the places that I've come to know, like the deli with the ex-Marine cashier, who gave me tips about staying cool when it was so hot in July ("pour one capful of water down your spine, that's what they told us in the desert.") And the fire hydrant that occasionally sprays water, which people then wash their hands in. And the crossing guard who compliments my shoes.

Here is an early morning view from the shuttle stop near my place, since I don't have any pictures of these everyday moments. You put up with the snarling morning commute and the cat-sized rats and the noise, because it is ultimately worth it. I'm going to keep trying to have my avocado, and eat it too.


P.S. This is unrelated, but Peter, Paul and Mary was the first concert I ever went to, and in honor of Mary, I would like to add:
Light one candle for all we believe in
That anger not tear us apart
And light one candle to find us together
With peace as the song in our heart

Thanks for the music, lady.

Everybody Loves a Parade

The West Indian Labor Day Parade happens every year on Eastern Parkway, and as this is 6 blocks from our apartment, of course we went! (plus, I'm a sucker for all things parade-y.) And it is, no joke, 7 hours long. We got there early and walked a bit to check out the stalls lining the street, and the food and spices smelled fab. Crown Heights' biggest population is from the Caribbean, and there were flags from all over.

The first 2 hours were just politcal campaigns walking, which got old quick. But a lot of them had good Caribbean music playing, and there was running commentary from the crowd, so it was still fun. I came back a few hours later, when the real parade had started, and the costumes? WELL worth the wait.

As my cousin's Grenadian colleague Miss Charles put it, "Caribbean girls. Confidence through the ROOF." No body-image problems here, refreshingly enough. Also, what parade is complete without devil costumes?

I think the right word for this is goddess-y.

We got back from the movies around 9, and there were STILL people mingling, eating, and dancing, although the parade had been over for a few hours by this point. My cousin said her students (who are mostly West Indian) talk about this parade for the entire year, and I can see why! The only remnants the next day were scattered chicken bones and empty water bottles.

Maybe another year I'll have the guts to go to j'ouvert, which is the first parade of the day. It starts at 3 am, and ends around sunrise. One of the staples of j'ouvert is splattering powders, paint, and mud on each other, which I didn't realize until I saw some of the participants in the second parade who had dyed hand-prints all over their bodies.

What nationality are you, anyway?

In the United States there is more space where nobody is than where anybody is. That is what makes America what it is.
--Gertrude Stein

I have recently been workin' retail part-time, at a big box bookstore whose name starts with a B--I'll let you all deduce it from there. I keep telling myself that it'll fund an opera ticket, someday, which helps. Cashiering is tedious (with a bit of excitement when a customer yells at you), but it also can be kind of funny, and my co-workers are a nice bunch. And I've gotten asked multiple times by them,

"What nationality are you, anyway?"

It's a common ice-breaker in these parts, where there are so many recent immigrants. But it's stumping me. My first instinct is to say "American," but what does that even mean? It's like how my English flatmates were very dubious that I wasn't secretly Canadian. "But, I thought you wanted universal healthcare?" they'd say. "You don't talk like a Valley Girl! Where is your gun?" Perceptions of Americans...is that what makes us who we are? Is that why my knee-jerk reaction is to mistrust everyone from Texas?

To illustrate my dilemma, here are some conversations I had a few days ago with some co-workers (while we were waiting to be yelled at by customers, no doubt).

Co-worker 1: Hey, what nationality are you?
Me: Oh, mostly Swedish with some Dutch and English in there somewhere.
C-w 1: I totally thought you were Croatian.
Me: Really?? (note: I have never been thought of as being from somewhere remotely close to the Mediteranean. My ancestors probably put on sunscreen at the mere thought of Croatia. Perhaps my tan is better than I thought...) I'm not, but I've heard it's beautiful.
C-w 1: Me too. How long have you lived here?
Me: In the city? About 2 months.
C-w 1: Wow, your English is REALLY good.

and

Co-worker 2: (after going through the what-nationality-are-you thing, and how-long-have-you-lived-in-Brooklyn thing) You've lived a lot of places!
Me: Well, not really...just a few places in New York. (18 years in Jtown, 4 years in Gtown, 3 months in England, 3 months here, a fair number of East Coast-ish states visited..is that a lot? It's never seemed so to me.)
C-w 2: Well, I moved to Brooklyn from Bangladesh when I was 2, and I've never left.
Me: Never left? At all?
C-w 2: I guess I went to the Bronx once, and Manhattan a few times. And Connecticut, but I was asleep the whole time.

At the same time that this struck me as so strange, it also kind of makes sense. Why WOULD you leave, when every culture and good and service that you could possibly want is here? It could be argued that they've seen more and done more staying in Brooklyn than I ever have. So could someone just identify as "New Yorker"? My family has been in this country long enough that I don't have intimate connections with the Mother Country, but I still feel a strong allegiance, and the culture is part of who I am. Should I even feel that allegiance when I speak more Spanish than Swedish? What happens when/if those "old" traditions are erased, subsumed, Americanized? How, and why, do you identify yourself when you're closely tied to two countries? What makes us American? What nationality are you, anyway?

Just some general unanswerable questions for a Wednesday night.

Quiet Please: A Night at the US Open

Tennis is one of the very few sports that I actually understand well (I played doubles on my high school team) although I admit that I don't really follow the pros now, other than major tournaments. We got tickets for the first night of play back in July, and have been really excited for it since. You don't know until 3 days before who you're actually going to see, but we lucked out with our two matches: Venus Williams vs Vera Dushevina, and Andy Roddick vs Bjorn Phau. We were also in Row U of the top tier (5 rows from the top!) which helps explain the ant-sized players in my pictures. However, for $22 apiece we got 6 hours of entertainment, including:

--Marines with flags at the Opening Night festivities.
--Speeches and awards by Mayor Bloomberg, Andre Agassi, Mia Hamm, David Robinson, and Doug Flutie.
--The O'Jays singing "Love Train" (apparently they want to nickname the 7 subway the Love Train, since that is the one which goes to Flushing Meadows, so we kept giggling at 2 am on the ride home about it.)
--Venus and Vera going to tie-break TWICE and then ending the third set 6-3 (Venus wins, despite a medical time-out.) The second match didn't start until after 11.
--Roddick and Phau both falling on separate occassions. I mean, that's not a good thing, but it does make for some excitement. Their match was lots of fun to watch--Roddick's serves are crazy (132 mph!!), but Phau is FAST. They finished in two sets, but a lot of the games went to deuce, so it wasn't a definite shutout.
--the chance, post-midnight, to sneak up a few tiers since so many people had left by then. We had a really good view for Roddick and Phau's second set. Our original view was actually pretty good, and it gets so quiet that you can hear everything anyway. And we were at an angle so that we could see clearly whether shots were in or out.

(row U, after the crowd had cleared out)
And here are some things to remember for your own jaunts to the US Open:
--DO NOT bring a bag or purse. We had the foresight to go bag-less, and it's a jolly good thing we did, because the bag line to be screened for security was insane. And the other non-bag line had no wait at all.
--They sell earpiece radios, which you can use to listen to commentators while in the stands. DO NOT get them, because I have a feeling they are probably pricier than they should be, and why would you want to listen to the announcers when you're seeing it live? Moreover, you will look like a tool.
--DO bring a blanket, or sweatshirt. It gets cold at the top, especially when it's that late at night. Also, this part of Queens is so close to JFK that planes fly overheard very low, and there are wind currents. The seats further down don't have this problem.
--DO go to the qualifying rounds the week before, if only for the reason that it is free. There are 18 courts with small bleachers at each, and you're free to walk around between all the courts and watch any matches you want. Granted, these are the players that are going to get kicked out in the first round, but they are still REALLY good. I was working the day my cousin went and we were going to go again, and then it was raining...next year??

1 Good Thing Overheard in Museums Lately

I wanted to counterbalance a previous post entitled 5 Annoying Things Overheard in Museums Lately, by including one non-annoying and quite good thing that I overheard a few weeks ago. It involved this painting, Keith's Union Square (c. 1903-1906) by Everett Shinn.

(thanks to Brooklyn Museum online for the image!)
I don't know anything about Everett Shinn, but I do like this painting. A lot. It's kind of over in a corner of the Brooklyn Museum's American Art wing (their American Art collection is wonderfully arranged and deserves its own post), and the painting is fairly small (20 5/16 x 24 1/4 in. says their website) and almost nondescript. However...I love the colors, especially the greens and blues in the background, and the slash of yellow light on the stage floor. When you look at it, it really seems like the figure is moving and twisting, with her dress billowing around her. Atmospheric, in poncey art history-speak.

At any rate, I was looking at the painting next to it and an older woman (probably mid-50's) came and stood next to me and was looking at Keith's Union Square. She gasped. I turned with a glare ready to give the back of her head (passive-aggression, it's how I roll) but instead of saying anything annoying she moved closer to the painting. "Oh, it looks alive" she whispered. "Beautiful." And she moved her hand a little bit like she was painting the yellow slash. I had to restrain myself from giving her a hug.

School Daze

I am not enrolled in school for the first time in 17 years, which is causing a Big Ben sized identity crisis. To help remedy this I went and helped my cousin set up her classroom yesterday. She is a teacher at an alternative high school in Canarsie, Brooklyn, which is geared toward students who are either too old for the amount of credits they have, or have been removed from a traditional school because of disciplinary issues. (Her job has the possibility of both being really rewarding and really depressing.)

My high school was not modern, or particularly clean, and I saw my fair share of fights (my friends from college were shocked that we had security guards, and three vice-principals), but I have never seen a school like this. For example, the students can't use the lockers because there is a chance they'll set fire to them--and there are charred lockers to prove it. My cousin's classroom is large and has an entire wall of windows, but it also had a mouse, and we're guessing the whole school probably has asbestos. It's pretty different than the rarefied liberal arts vibe I've been used to for the past few years.

What my high school did have was some really wonderful teachers, and from what I know of my cousin, and the Canarsie high school, these students have the chance to learn a lot. And I got to put the ol' art history degree to work when I set up the section of pictures from places around the US (and a few from Europe) that my cousin will use for History Mystery questions.

(Don't you love the borders? I do! The ladies in the main office are awesome, and found us some antique map borders, which are super cool too.) We're trying to think of a good American history related quotation for above the pictures--suggestions welcome.