POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Begin to Begin

In the new normal, September 11th is the new Labor Day. By that I mean that the autumn season doesn’t really begin until we have mourned our losses from 9/11.

Falling on a Sunday, this year’s anniversary did feel like a national day of remembrance. Even though it looked like a typical fall Sunday and people did typical Sunday things – it wasn’t really a typical day at all.  At Ground Zero, at houses of worship, homes, firehouses, cemeteries, gardens, and
streets throughout the city, people commemorated the loss of the
nearly 3000 people who died on September 11. Bells tolled at the exact times the
planes hit, as well as the times the south and north towers fell.

This year, I didn’t take part in any 9/11 memorial activities. In the past I have gone to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden to meditate on the grass or to Old First Church to sit and listen to the church bells ring. Last year I attended a dinner at Al Di La given by a friend whose husband died on that day. She wanted to thank all her friends for their support and love.

Yesterday, I was aware of it being September 11th from the moment I woke up. Listening to the names being read at Ground Zero was a stark reminder of that Tuesday’s tragedy. And this year the siblings read the names, which brought its own stirring poignancy.

I don’t think the beginning of September will ever mean anything other than 9/11 and the dispair we felt on that day. And September 12th will always bring relief because on that day in 2001 we slowly began to put back the pieces. Through our tears, our panic, and our bewilderment,  we began the protracted healing process that continues to this day.

9/11 will always be the day we took the hit. But on the day after, we begin to begin again and celebrate the goodness that persists despite the evil we have seen.

Continue reading POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Begin to Begin

THE NAMES

2cbw7452Like that day four years ago, I woke up this morning and went directly to the kitchen and switched on the radio.

The Names. The siblings of those who perished are reading the names. They are reading the names and saying so much more.

A woman just read the name of her twin sister. Her twin. As a twin, this makes me cry. The  voices are beautiful. Some read clearly with no obvious grief in their voices. Others can barely get the names out. Slowly, haltingly, with emotion in their voices, many break down when they get to the their siblings name. Some mispronounce a name. They apologize or say "Excuse me" and I cringe for the family of that person – listening in the stands at Ground Zero or at home watching the TV.

Each reader ends with the name of his/or her sibling. Some add words like: "See you, bro." "We can see your smile and hear your laughter." "I would give up tomorrow for one more yesterday with you." "We love you and we miss you. " "Shake it easy, Sal." "Your spirit is in me each and every day."  I know you always look over me." "We will see you in heaven." "We know you are watching over us."  "We miss you and your contagious chuckle." "My son kisses your picture every day." "I see your face every day in the mirror." We cannot wait to be with you again."

I know from my work with the FDNY that the siblings were deeply grateful to be asked to read the names of their brothers and sisters. Many feel that their grief went  unacknowledged.  Few recognized the unrelenting grief that a sibling feels. One sibling told me: "I still have pain everyday. People look at me and say, ‘Still?’" I just heard this woman read her brother’s name. And she added: "This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you."

It is 9:45 and they are at the end of the D’s: Duarte. Duda. Duffy. Dukas. Because of my work with the FDNY, I recognize many names and I cherish the names I have typed out on my keyboard, the names of those whose family members I have talked to on the phone, the names of those whose life stories I have researched and written.

I am waiting for the names of those I know who died that day, whose wives I see at PS 321, at Starbucks, at the nail salon, and on the streets of Seventh Avenue. I observe them, monitor their moods, their haircuts, watch their children grow, wonder how they are doing, and know that I can barely fathom what they have been through

Last year on the night of September 11th, I saw the wife of a man who died that day, creating a beautiful mosaic outside of her brownstone. It was midnight and the Tribute of Lights was visible in the sky above her.   

The F’s are being read now. Fredo, Flannery, Fagin…I am waiting to hear David Fontana’s name…I just heard it. It went by so quickly. Too quickly. I don’t want to get beyond the F’s.  I want to hear his name again.

The third moment of silence begins to mark when the south tower fell. A bell rings three times. On the radio, the sound of wind, the noisy sound of silence: "Hello Darkness my old friend, I come to talk with you again…"

And then back to the simple incantation of the names. So powerful, so beautiful, so moving. And the heartfelt words added by the siblings. Simple sentiments of grief. 

There are so many ways to say the same thing: I miss you. I love you. Nothing is the same without you.

As one brother just said, "Thanks for the memory, kiddo."

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_The 11th Again

2cbw7448The last couple of nights the Tribute in Lights has been my reminder that the fourth  anniversary is upon us.

Those bright white twin lights shooting up in the night sky: a reminder to remember what we never can forget.

The last couple of days, the sky has been as bright blue as it was on that Tuesday.
And here it is four  years later and our lives are the same and not the same.

That morning, as always, I ws listening to WNYC on the radio. Brian Leherer reported that a small plane had crashed into the south tower of the World Trade Center. I, along with many others, imagined a Cessna or something. Not a jet or a terrorist attack.

Strange to say, I didn’t think much of it. But then it happened again. Another plane — "What is going on with Air Traffic Control?" I thought to myself. "We’re being attacked," someone said.

Attacked? A feeling of utter dread ran through me – that thing I’d always feared was happening. Where were my children? My daughter, only 5 years old, was in the kitchen. My son was at school…

I wasn’t thinking straight. I couldn’t fathom what was going on. What was happening to all those people in the building, on the plane. Were they going to be okay?

Listening to the radio, I put nail polish on my daughter’s toes. Anything to maintain a sense of normalcy. Anything to keep her from knowing that I was afraid, that there was something very scary going on.

Unthinkable. I heard a siren in the distance and thought of my friend, Firefighter Dave Fontana, who was probably on his way downtown. Squad One would be among the first to be called in the event of an emergency like this. Somehow I knew that though I knew nothing at all.

I ran to PS 321. Many parents were there, hovering in the lobby, talking to the principal who was figuring out what to do…Some parents were pulling their children out of classrooms. I decided to keep my son there. He was safe, afterall. Unless something else happens. That’s what we were afraid of. Something else might happen and what would it be. Still, at school he was safe from the television set. Safe from the panic of his parents, of the grown ups in our apartment building.

I ran over to my friend Marian’s  apartment. She knew though she didn’t know for sure that her husband Dave was gone. She knew it in her heart. It was tragic to see. I told her that of course he’d be coming back. Of course he would. He always did. But she knew. Strangely, she knew. I left her smoking a cigarette in her garden.

Running back to the school, I did a quick accounting of everyone I knew. My father, omigod, he and my stepmother are in their Brooklyn Heights apartment with its view of New York Harbor and the World Trade Center…

My mother was with my sister who was in Manhattan having her first insemmination. She must get pregnant, I thought. On this day when so many people are dying, she will create a new life. Of course she will. On this sad, sad day, a new life will begin.

It didn’t work out that way. The procedure didn’t work and she didn’t get pregnant that day. She had many more medical prodedures – insemmination, in Vitro, ovum donation. She did finally get pregnant but miscarried soon after; her fallopian tube was removed due to an ectopic pregnancy.

This evening my sister and I sat in the back garden of The Chocolate Bar, drinking white wine, and watching one-year-old Sonya fall asleep in her stroller. Adopted from Perm, Russia nearly three weeks ago, she is a treasure.

Sonya wasn’t alive four years ago, untainted is she from the memory of the 11th. She may have been put up for adoption at birth, but now she is beloved beyond compare. Wanted. Cherished. Adored.

Walking home I saw the Tribute of Lights above the storefronts on Seventh Avenue. A reminder to remember that which we never can forget. 3000 mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, sisters, brothers, husbands, wives, girlfriends, boyfriends and friends.

Gone but not forgotten.

This year we go about our lives, even the day before the day, It’s almost like  we’re back to norma; — I ride the subway without fear, don’t jump everytime I hear a helicopter fly above, have stopped worrying about bridges and tunnels.

But I am not the same. And never can we be. I’m really not back to normal at all.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_BOOK PARTY

2cbw7496I was in the kind of Fifth Avenue apartment last night that I imagine Jackie Onassis lived in. In fact, it may have actually been the building she lived in. It was the kind of place Woody Allen used to call home back when he was with Mia – with the most splendid view of Central Park and Central Park West I have ever seen. At twilight, it was like a framed picture in the living room. Except real.

I knew I was in the right place when I saw a Secret Service man in the lobby. The guy looked like a nut job talking into the collar of his jacket. Senator Hillary Clinton was expected and he seemed to be on high-alert.

They had one of the last of the old man-operated elevator cars. Like the one in the  apartment building I grew up in on Riverside Drive, the elevator was wood paneled with a copper gate. Unlike the one on Riverside Drive, it had a bench in the back to sit on. Most of these old elevators have been replaced by automatic elevators. However, I believe that those old Otis elevators were the best elevators ever made – they ran for years and years without breaking down. At least ours never did. Once they got the new automatic one – Out of Service was a regular occurrence.

When the elevator neared the 8th floor, we could hear the buzz of a lively party. Senator Hillary hadn’t arrived yet, but the guest of honor, Marian Fontana, author of the just published "A WIDOW’S WALK: A MEMOIR OF 9/11",  was standing at the door looking ravishing in a black blouse and a sparkly purple skirt.

What a book party! Waiters passed around really interesting hor d’oeuvres including small crispy shells with goat cheese topped with raspberry and kiwi. I asked if it was whipped cream because it looked so desserty but he said: "No, it’s Chevre cheese." 

There was white wine and non-fizzy bottled water in the elegant dining room. Throughout the apartment there were museum-quality paintings – but there were so many people I could barely pay attention to the art.

Senator Hillary has a very calm, dignified aura, excellent posture and beautiful hair and skin. Standing by the picture window, she made a short, heartfelt speech in honor of Marian and her book – extemporaneously with an easy cadence.

Calling it an incredible love story, Senator Hillary said that she thinks Marian’s book is an important book about loss and recovery – a subject all the more pertinent now in the aftermath of Katrina. She also said that it was a book about two great American families. "Dave and Marian met in college, fell in love, and they took their families along with them for the ride."

She could almost have been talking about herself and Bill.

Marian and Senator Hillary have known one another since the State of the Union address in 2002.  Marian says that, like many of the activist 9/11 survivors who were "adopted" by politicians, she was adopted by Senator Hillary and Rudy Giuliani.

They’ve spent a good deal of time together lobbying on behalf of the survivors and the firefighters. Marian, in her short speech, called Senator Hillary one of the very, very, very few politicians who are trustworthy. "We need her and she needs our support," Marian said.

Marian was in tears as she thanked Dave’s family for being there. "May I say something Marian?" Her mother-in-law, Toni Fontana, said quietly from the crowd. "I just want to thank you for loving Dave so much."

Not a dry eye in the house after that one. Marian continued to thank her hosts, her publisher, Simon and Schuster, and the other  fire widows "without whom I would never have survived a single day."  Then with the instincts of the performer that she is, Marian added, "and I have come up with an ass stamp that I am going to use when signing my books."

Many in the room laughed through their tears at this point. The crowd was a bewildering mix of wealthy Fifth Avenue friends of the hosts, the Simon and Schuster crowd, fire widows, Park Slope and Staten Island friends and family.  Leslie Crocker Snyder, the woman who is running for District Attorney in Manhattan against Robert Morgenthaul, breezed through the room, introducing herself and shaking everyone’s hand.

You can learn a lot from the rich. If you want a party to end at 8 p.m., you disappear the wine: at 7:45, there was only non-bubbly water left at the bar. The last of the delicious hor d’oeuvres got passed around and the waiters grabbed up all the wine glasses, napkins and platters of crudite.

"I guess we should be going," some of the Park Slope friends were saying. The hostess, Beth Dannhauser, a  lovely woman who does "touch therapy" with critically ill patients at Cabrini  Hospital, stood by the door with her more business-like husband, and thanked everyone – really sincerely – for coming.

We hailed a cab in front of the building and joined Marian, friends and family at Fetch, a low-key restaurant on Third Avenue, where we took up much of the place. A lively group of revelers happy to celebrate their friend.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_FiRsT DaY oF sCHoOL

The new high school freshmen seemed to have survived their first day of school. My son’s friends have scattered to public high schools all over the city: LaGuardia, Brooklyn Tech, Murrow, Beacon, Bard. Last night there was a flurry of Instant Messaging; friends reconnecting after of day of change.

Some found their new schools completely boring. One friend, a somewhat flamboyant girl with a flair for the dramatic and a penchant for punky/goth clothes, is now attending a high school in the suburbs  She instant messaged my son: "The kids are pretty preppy here. If I’m going to have any friends I am going to have to be preppy."

She’s a survivor. Or a chameleon. Skills that are useful in high school, I suppose.

They’re all just processing what they’re going through and communicating with their peers about it via computer.

My son was mezzo mezzo about his new school, a small, private prep school. The jury is still out, as it were. We’re hoping today makes a better impression on the young man.

In contrast, my daughter’s first day of third grade went exceedingly well. She ironed her khakis and polo shirt the night before and had her pink backpack packed and ready. Her teachers are great and there are a handful of old friends in her class. She’s even sitting next to her good friend, Emma. Last night, she set up her special homework desk and got right to work on her homework.

Park Slope was abuzz with all the energy that the first day of school brings. Anxiety, terror, excitement, anticipation, and hope.

At 3 p.m. there was a line outside of Mojo of parents and kids waiting to buy ice cream. We went to Save on Fifth, which was also crowded with parents buying supplies for public school classrooms: paper towels, Fisko scissors, Kleenex, markers, Ticonderorga #2 Pencils, Post-Its, etc.  Buying supplies for the school is a ritual of the first day of public school like a new outfit, backpack and lunchbox.

We all slept well last night and the alarm went off too early. At least it felt like that. Coffee. Toast. The radio. We’re getting back into the swing of things whether we’re ready to or not.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Playground Anthropology

I find myself spending time in the Third Street Playground again. It’s been years since either of my children were regulars there. But now that Ducky, my niece,  is here, it looks like we’ll be regulars again.

When we first moved to Park Slope in 1991 after my son was born, the playground was under renovation. It took a year, but it was finally transformed from one of those old style New York city playgrounds – prison gray metal equipment – into a child-safe and colorful one.

Once the construction was complete, my son spent many playful hours there. I was working in the city then so much of our playground time was on the weekends. Weekdays he was with our babysitter, who  loved to push him on the swings and watch him play in the sand.

I became a "stay-at-home-mom" when my daughter was born in 1997 and I was able to spend ungodly amounts of time at the playground. By the time she was 1, my daughter was completely fearless and loved to run out of my sight and climb on everything. She rarely hurt herself but gave me a good scare lots of times.

I would meet "mommy friends" at the playground and together we’d push our little toddlers on the swings or watch them run in and out of the sprinkler. Conversations started  easily at the sandbox with questions like "How old is your baby?" and "Where does she go to pre-school?"

My "mommy friends" and I would sit on the benches as our children napped. We’d eat their  Zweibacks and pretzel sticks while discussing attachment parenting (pro or con, discuss) and unhelpful husbands.

The playground is really the town square of Park Slope baby life; a great place to observe local child-rearing customs. An anthropologist could have a field day there listening to the language of discipline and love: "Use your words!" or "You’ve had enough sugar today."

The natives are obsessed with what their children are eating. They slather them with SPF 15 and insist on sun hats. Breastfeeding is de rigeur. Peeing in the sprinkler drains is strictly verboten.

Sleep-deprived parents trail active children from one end of the playground to the other with Zip-lock bags full of carrots or whole grain cheerios. Caribbean nannies sit together a small distance from the stay-at-home-moms who sit a small distance from the working moms, home for the day.  There’s a sprinkling of stay-at-home dads, older parents, and even grandparents running about.

Benches in the shady areas are the most desirable place to sit  – except for the shady spot near the smelly diaper-filled garbage. That spot is the last to be filled for obvious reasons.

Times have changed since 1991 and 1997, there are now many more spiffy strollers and helpful new baby products that weren’t around when my kids were younger. Pirate Booty wasn’t even invented yet and the idea of spending $800 dollars on a stroller was insane.

Yes, times have changed: Even McClaren strollers now come equipped with coffee cup holders and special weights so that the stroller doesn’t tip over when the baby gets out.

But the kids: the kids are the same. Not much has changed in that department. Adorable as ever, they cry and get into tussles over toys. Nap. Cruise about with small baby strollers. Slide down slides and swing vigorously on tire swings. There’s even the occasional kid who runs right into the swinging tire swing. Ouch.

I expect that Ducky will have a great time at the Third Street Playground as will I with her.  It’s where she might take her first steps and will surely give her mother a scare when she runs out of sight. Already she loves to swing and swing and swing, her smile illuminating the playground, brighter than the sun.

 

 

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_HIGH SCHOOL ORIENTATION

2cbw7414_1My son goes off to high school orientation today. Full dress is required: White shirt, tie, black chinos and suede lace-up shoes.

His new school has a dress code and we spent the weekend buying appropriate clothes at Old Navy and at Lands’ End on-line. This is a first for us. This is a kid whose idea of dressing up is wearng his Black Sabbath T-shirt.

He seems up for a change: New school. New clothes. New kids. Most of his friends are going to new schools this week. The air in Park Slope is thick with flux, fear, and anticipation.

I just told my son that he has to tuck his shirt in. "It’s required," I say. He grimaces and leaves it untucked for the moment.

"I feel Amish," he says, a thought that seems to cheers him up. I suggest we get him a black hat from Lancaster, PA. "Or maybe one of those hats that Hasidic Jews wear. Yeah,"  he adds.

My son is trying to figure out subtle (or not so subtle) ways to subvert the dress code. Now he’s looking through the bag of ties we bought at a stoop sale in Sag Harbor. There’s  a bright purple and orange plaid, a royal blue one with seagulls, an Armani tie, and a mod design with a Native American theme.

He decides against the funky stoop sale ties in favor of one that belonged to his paternal grandfather.

"I think I’ll take Dad’s advice and dress normal for the first week so they’ll think I’m normal," he says staring into the mirror and brushing his hair.

Good advice.

My husband is tying our son’s tie, a silver tie with thin black diagonal lines. A milestone moment. Formal lessons will come later. For now, they are a picture of father/son bonding. 

"Got your belt on?" my husband asks. My son reaches into the Old Navy bag for his new black leather belt. His new black chinos from Old Navy are made of a special liqud repellent chino. "That means I can pour stuff on them if I want to," he says.

Now he’s lacing up his new shoes. They are black suede bucks from Bass (say that three times fast).  A fried egg cooks on the stove. He is too nervous to eat though he does take a few bites of rye toast.

I am the mother of a high school student.

Weird.

WAYS TO HELP KATRINA VICTIMS

The following is an e-mail I received this morning from Catherine at Community Bookstore, who is organizing a local campaign to help victims of Hurricane Katrina.

Hi Everyone —

Okay, I think we’re ready . . . .

1.  SHIPPING:

Tomorrow morning, asap, I’m going to open a UPS
account specifically for sending stuff down South.

UPS comes to the store everyday, anyhow, so this will
ensure that stuff gets out as quickly as possible.

If you’d like to contribute to shipping, you can makes
checks payable to "United Parcel Service" directly,
drop ’em at the store, and I’ll send them in to cover
*that* account.

(Obviously, when we’re done with this, we can decide
what to do with any money that’s leftover, should that
happen.)

2.  WHERE IT’S GOING:

An amazing woman named Susan White has spent the
weekend on the phone and has identified 4 places, all
of which have:

-taken in evacuees
-have NOT been contacted by major organizations yet
-are desperate for supplies
-and been spoken to directly by Susan, checking
exactly what they need as of *today*

They are:

The Baton Rouge River Center
275 South River Road
Baton Rouge, LA 70802
tel:  225-389-3030

The Women’s Center
222 Veteran’s Blvd.
Suite C
Denham Springs, LA 70726
tel:  225. 665-0214

Marksville City Hall
Attn: Hurricane Relief Coordinator
Myron Gagnard
427 North Washington St.
Marksville, LA 71351
tel:  318. 253. 9500
(this place is distributing to other places, too)

The St. Vincent de Paul Society for Katrina Evacuees
Ozanam Outlet
610 Memory Lane
Houston, TX 77037

If you would like to send donations (see below, for
what to send where) directly, yourself, please do.
I’d encourage you to check with the store daily,
though, to make sure you’re sending what they need
most.  I’ve put their phone numbers, so you *could*
call, but if 900 of us start calling daily, we’ll
probably drive them nuts.

3.  DONATIONS (What They Need):

If you want to bring donations to the store, we’re
happy to sort, package, and send them out.

Here’s what each place needs:

Baton Rouge River Center
-currently has over 6500 evacuees living there so we
might want to focus on them first.–

They need:

Towels
Socks
Slippers
Water
Diapers
Baby Bottles
Pacifiers
Non-perishable food
Sheets
Pillows
Sleeping Bags

The Women’s Center needs:
Formula
Baby Food
Toddler Food
Diapers
Wipes
Juice
Maternity Clothes
Ensure
Depends
Pedialyte
Small boxes of Goldfish crackers
New Underwear
New Socks
Sheets
Blankets
New Pillows
Towels
Q-tips
Paper Towels
Toilet Paper
Hygiene Products
!No Grown up clothes!
!No Toys!

Marksville needs:

Baby Items of all Kinds
Hand Sensitizer
Pillows and Blankets
Baby and Children’s Tee-shirts
Over the counter pain relievers
Coloring books/crayons/board games/children’s books

Okay.  That’s it for now.
If you’d like to help sort, box, etc., please feel
free to just drop by . . . when we get to a point
where we have enough to need that kind of help, I’ll
send out a general email, then you can rush on down.
If you have other ideas for things to do (one woman
had a great idea about a fundraising dinner), I’d also
encourage you to stop by.  I’m getting dozens of
emails already, and can’t really promise to answer
them in a timely way. I’m happy to help connect people who are
interested in working on the same sorts of projects
(like the fundraiser).

More soon!

Love,
Catherine

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Same Time Last Year

4181832_stdLast year at this time, the Republicans were in town and mid-town Manhattan was a locked off security zone.

We came back early from our vacation in California because we didn’t want to miss what promised to be a spirited, anti-Bush week in New York City. My husband wanted to take pictures of Republicans and New Yorkers all over the city.

We took the Red Eye home on Sunday night and missed the big, historic demonstration that spread peacefully throughout the city. We saw dozens of rainbow flags hanging heroically from Slope windows as we drove back to Third Street.

The New York media reported that anti-Bush protests were fairly light after the demonstration. But I didn’t think so. If you were in the middle of Union Square, or St. Marks Church, or on the Unemployment Line that threaded uptown from Tribecal to as near Madison Square Garden as people could go, it felt like a ground swell, a real movement.

It was a surreal week, a really special New York week. Maybe one of the best ever. It reminded me of New York in the sixties: the anti-war Be-Ins in Central Park, the moratorium marches on Broadway, near Columbia University, in Sheep’s Meadow. I was only a kid but I will never forget it.

In fact, when I was 11, Peter, Paul, and Mary asked me and my best friend to join them on stage during a protest at the UN. While they sang "Where Have All the Flowers Gone" we struggled to hold up our "War is Not Healthy for Children and Other Living Things." sign.

What I liked best about last year was the creative energy: the marathon poetry reading at St. Marks Church, the Millionaires for Bush masquerade balls, the Johnny Cash protest 4161641_stdat Sothebys where people wore black shirts, black pants and held guitars. There was art, music, theater: all in the name of no more Bush.

The night of Bush’s convention speech, there was an unannounced event at Union Square.  My husband and I got there early to take in the atmosphere (and to take pictures).  An artist has created a solemn display of hundreds of army boots. On each boot there was the name of a soldier killed in Iraq.

My husband went up to Madison Square Garden to take pictures of what was going on. I was nervous because there was talk of violence between police and protesters. I kept calling (and annoying) him on the cell phone.

Cell phones are handy at a demonstration. Mine enabled me to meet the friends I needed to meet at Union Square. "Where are you standing," I asked. "Over by the guy with the sign that says…"

4222274_stdAt some point, part of the crowd started running toward Madison Square Garden. I opted out of that one. The group I was with retreated to the Heartland Brewery (how ironic) for some beer on that steamy August night. Someone in our group tried to get the bartender change the TVs from MTV to the convention (we’d heard that some protesters had actually gotten inside the garden). But they didn’t change the channel. Most of the people at the bar seemed oblivious to the convention and what was going on outside.

Now, a year later, it is impossible to be oblivious to what’s going on. There’s a quagmire in Iraq.  Bush is president for another three years and the floodwaters in New Orleans are still roof high.

More than any of last year’s protests or election speeches, this tragic event in the Gulf Coast illustrates what’s wrong with our country. It exposes the poverty and racism that lurk just below the surface. Financial policies that deprive working people of what they need also meant a $71 million cut in a project that might have protected the 17th Street Levee.

A president whose main focus has been homeland security, finally cancelled his summer vacation days after the hurricaine. What a disgrace. Clearly, local and federal agencies had given little thought to worse case scenarios. 

4171716_stdI guess they’ve been so busy  denying civil rights in the name of homeland security, that they haven’t had much time to figure out what to do if….

SEND SUPPLIES TO MARKSVILLE, LA

Catherine Bohne, owner of the Slope’s Community Bookstore, has tracked down a church in Marksville, LA that is receiving supplies to help the people in New Orleans and surrounding areas. Here is a group-email I received from her this morning.

Hi Everyone —

I called one of the churches that is taking in refugees. They need lots of supplies. You can gather together a bag of supplies (see list below).

Go to the Post Office and get a Priority box – flat fee (choice of two shapes), the cost of postage is $7.70 no matter what you put in the box (weight doesn’t matter). Fill the box and mail to the address below. I will contact more sites and post them soon.

They desperately need:
– tolietries (anything you use to start your day)
toothpaste,
deodorant,
shampoos,  sunscreen, liquid soaps  (small bottles
esp good)
  -anti-inflammatories (over the counter medicines)
including
ibuprofen,
aspirin,aleve
– baby wipes, feminine hygiene products,
– imagine what you would need and send it.

Send to:
Marksville Baptist Church
PO Box 442
Marksville, LA
71351
Write Hurricane Relief on outside

The most important things seem to be:

1.  Finding places which will take actual
contributions.  (As usual, the big guys (like the Red Cross, just want money.)

Some of you have suggested checking out the following:
www.hurricanehousing.org
www.charitynavigator.org

If anyone has time to track down anything, it would be
a great help, and I’m happy to forward it.

2.  Being in contact with them, and finding out what
(and how much) they actually need.  I can do this, if
we come up with leads and phone numbers are provided?

3.  I’ll work on figuring out the best way to send.
Depending on if we get a lot of stuff, we might need
help packing and sorting, but let’s see first what we
come up with.

I’ll be in touch, and thank you all for your kindness.

Love,
Catherine Bohne, (e-mail her at: cat_bohne@yahoo.com)

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_GUILTY PLEASURES

2cbw6999I almost feel guilty for the joy in my life right now. My niece, Sonya Ducky, is an unlimited source of pleasure and love.

And the people in New Orleans are enduring the worst natural disaster in our history.

I marvel at the way she changes by the day. One-year-old Sonya is fast acclimating herself to her new life in a Brooklyn apartment. She settles into my sister’s nurturing arms with happiness. She squeals when my brother-in-law holds her in the air and makes funny voices. Meeting her grandmother yesterday, she was wide-eyed and responsive when she sang her new name.

And the misery in New Orleans is too much to bear.

I am discovering resources of energy and playfulness I had forgotten about. I giggle and goo with my little niece. Patty Cake, Peek-a-boo, ‘The Wheels on the Bus": it all comes back like a lost language.

The simple pleasures ofl life are completely out of reach in New Orleans. A morning cup of coffee. The laughter of young children. A quiet Sunday at summer’s end.

My sister’s calm and loving maternal instincts are in full force. The way she trills: Sonya, Sonya, Sonya. Every day this baby is bathed in love and attention (not to mention a plethora of bubblebaths). She is thriving in the stimulation of one family’s joy.

And the people of New Orleans are enduring the worst natural disaster in our history. For Sonya and all our children, the government owes it to New Orleans to make sure that something like this never happens again.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_WHAT’S NEW

In my continuing quest to discover what’s new on Seventh Avenue since my trip to California, here’s more.

–The Mojo Cafe is being sold. The new owner, whose been behind the counter now for more than a month (I thought he was a new manager of something), owns a cheesecake company. The shop should stay the same for the most part, but it will not be a Carvel franchise anymore. They will still serve soft ice cream, cones, shakes, etc. It just won’t be Carvel brand. It remains to be seen what other changes are afoot. It is possible that he will change the name. My biggest concern is about the staff. I happen to be very fond of most of the staff and I am hoping there won’t be any changes in that department.

I spoke with Michael, who has owned the shop for six years. He says that he’s had enough of the grind of owning a ice cream shop/cafe. It’s a 24/7 job (especially because he lives in the neighborhood). Michael is ready to move on and is considering a few options, including a corporate job with health and other benefits. OTBKB will keep you posted on all the latest Mojo news.

–In other cafe news, The Chocolate Bar, located on Seventh Avenue between 3rd and 4th Streets, is a WINNER and they’ve got ALL the Slope bases covered.

First off, it’s a beautiful looking shop. Tasteful, elegant, moderne, lovely. It’s decidedly NOT tattered Boho style a la Tea Lounge, or comfy faux living room a la Starbucks. No, no, no. It was designed with a capital D. And it may even have the best garden in the Slope.

The Chocolate Bar serves all kinds of coffee and chocolate drinks, as well as, chocolate truffles, cookies, homemade marshmallows, gloppy deslicious Magnolia Bakery-style cakes, and tarts. In the evening, they lower the lights and VOILA, The Chocolate Bar becomes a wine bar (with a drop dead by-the-glass wine list). Not only that, they sell special Brooklyn-made truffles that are "designed" to go with wine.

How cool is that?

And perhaps the biggest news. The place has WiFi AND an absolutely splendid backroom with tables and comfortable chairs, ideal for use as a cafe/office spot.

–Blue Apron’s south slope shop is NOW OPEN. It is located on Seventh Avenue between 13th and 14th Streets, conveniently close to some of the Slope’s best wine shops. I haven’t been there yet, but it promises to be the best cheese shop in Brooklyn, if not all of New York

–Community Bookstore had a power glitch, which caused them to lose their computer inventory list. Owner Catherine Bohne says it was a "blessing in disguise", because the inventory had never been properly done anyway. So she and her staffers are in the process of doing a massive inventory of everything in the shop. 

They have also kept up some of the decorations from July’s Harry Potter party. The backroom, which is now the children’s book department, has a lovely yellow/orange canopy on the ceiling.

That’s it for now, but more to be added. See the continuation for more of What’s New on Seventh Avenue.

Continue reading POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_WHAT’S NEW

NOTES FROM INSIDE NEW ORLEANS

by Jordan Flaherty

I just left New Orleans a couple hours ago.  I traveled from the apartment
I was staying in by boat to a helicopter to a refugee camp.  If anyone
wants to examine the attitude of federal and state officials towards the
victims of hurricane Katrina, I advise you to visit one of the refugee camps.

In the refugee camp I just left, on the I-10 freeway near Causeway,
thousands of people (at least 90% black and poor) stood and squatted in mud
and trash behind metal barricades, under an unforgiving sun, with heavily
armed soldiers standing guard over them.  When a bus would come through, it
would stop at a random spot, state police would open a gap in one of the
barricades, and people would rush for the bus, with no information given
about where the bus was going. Once inside (we were told) evacuees would be
told where the bus was taking them – Baton Rouge, Houston, Arkansas,
Dallas, or other locations.  I was told that if you boarded a bus bound for
Arkansas (for example), even people with family and a place to stay in
Baton Rouge would not be allowed to get out of the bus as it passed through
Baton Rouge.  You had no choice but to go to the shelter in Arkansas.  If
you had people willing to come to New Orleans to pick you up, they could
not come within 17 miles of the camp.

I traveled throughout the camp and spoke to Red Cross workers, Salvation
Army workers, National Guard, and state police, and although they were
friendly, no one could give me any details on when buses would arrive, how
many, where they would go to, or any other information.  I spoke to the
several teams of journalists nearby, and asked if any of them had been able
to get any information from any federal or state officials on any of these
questions, and all of them, from Australian tv to local Fox affiliates
complained of an unorganized, non-communicative, mess.  One cameraman told
me "as someone who’s been here in this camp for two days, the only
information I can give you is this: get out by nightfall.  You don’t want
to be here at night."

There was also no visible attempt by any of those running the camp to set
up any sort of transparent and consistent system, for instance a line to
get on buses, a way to register contact information or find family members,
special needs services for children and infirm, phone services, treatment
for possible disease exposure, nor even a single trash can.

To understand this tragedy, its important to look at New Orleans itself.

For those who have not lived in New Orleans, you have missed a incredible,
glorious, vital, city.  A place with a culture and energy unlike anywhere
else in the world.  A 70% African-American city where resistance to white
supremecy has supported a generous, subversive and unique culture of vivid
beauty.  From jazz, blues and hiphop, to secondlines, Mardi Gras Indians,
Parades, Beads, Jazz Funerals, and red beans and rice on Monday nights, New
Orleans is a place of art and music and dance and sexuality and liberation
unlike anywhere else in the world.

It is a city of kindness and hospitality, where walking down the block can
take two hours because you stop and talk to someone on every porch, and
where a community pulls together when someone is in need.  It is a city of
extended families and social networks filling the gaps left by city, state
and federal goverments that have abdicated their responsibilty for the
public welfare.  It is a city where someone you walk past on the street not
only asks how you are, they wait for an answer.

It is also a city of exploitation and segregation and fear.  The city of
New Orleans has a population of just over 500,000 and was expecting 300
murders this year, most of them centered on just a few, overwhelmingly
black, neighborhoods.  Police have been quoted as saying that they don’t
need to search out the perpetrators, because usually a few days after a
shooting, the attacker is shot in revenge.

There is an atmosphere of intense hostility and distrust between much of
Black New Orleans and the N.O. Police Department.  In recent months,
officers have been accused of everything from drug running to corruption to
theft.  In seperate incidents, two New Orleans police officers were
recently charged with rape (while in uniform), and there have been several
high profile police killings of unarmed youth, including the murder of
Jenard Thomas, which has inspired ongoing weekly protests for several months.

The city has a 40% illiteracy rate, and over 50% of black ninth graders
will not graduate in four years.  Louisiana spends on average $4,724 per
child’s education and ranks 48th in the country for lowest teacher
salaries. The equivalent of more than two classrooms of young people drop
out of Louisiana schools every day and about 50,000 students are absent
from school on any given day.  Far too many young black men from New
Orleans end up enslaved in Angola Prison, a former slave plantation where
inmates still do manual farm labor, and over 90% of inmates eventually die
in the prison.  It is a city where industry has left, and most remaining
jobs are are low-paying, transient, insecure jobs in the service economy.

Race has always been the undercurrent of Louisiana politics.  This disaster
is one that was constructed out of racism, neglect and incompetence.
Hurricane Katrina was the inevitable spark igniting the gasoline of cruelty
and corruption.  From the neighborhoods left most at risk, to the treatment
of the refugees to the the media portayal of the victims, this disaster is
shaped by race.

Louisiana politics is famously corrupt, but with the tragedies of this week
our political leaders have defined a new level of incompetence.  As
hurricane Katrina approached, our Governor urged us to "Pray the hurricane
down" to a level two.  Trapped in a building two days after the hurricane,
we tuned our battery-operated radio into local radio and tv stations,
hoping for vital news, and were told that our governor had called for a day
of prayer.  As rumors and panic began to rule, they was no source of solid
dependable information.  Tuesday night, politicians and reporters said the
water level would rise another 12 feet – instead it stabilized.  Rumors
spread like wildfire, and the politicians and media only made it worse.

While the rich escaped New Orleans, those with nowhere to go and no way to
get there were left behind.  Adding salt to the wound, the local and
national media have spent the last week demonizing those left behind.  As
someone that loves New Orleans and the people in it, this is the part of
this tragedy that hurts me the most, and it hurts me deeply.

No sane person should classify someone who takes food from indefinitely
closed stores in a desperate, starving city as a "looter," but thats just
what the media did over and over again.  Sherrifs and politicians talked of
having troops protect stores instead of perform rescue operations.

Images of New Orleans’ hurricane-ravaged population were transformed into
black, out-of-control, criminals.  As if taking a stereo from a store that
will clearly be insured against loss is a greater crime than the
governmental neglect and incompetence that did billions of dollars of
damage and destroyed a city.  This media focus is a tactic, just as the
eighties focus on "welfare queens" and "super-predators" obscured the
simultaneous and much larger crimes of the Savings and Loan scams and mass
layoffs, the hyper-exploited people of New Orleans are being used as a
scapegoat to cover up much larger crimes.

City, state and national politicians are the real criminals here.  Since at
least the mid-1800s, its been widely known the danger faced by flooding to
New Orleans.  The flood of 1927, which, like this week’s events, was more
about politics and racism than any kind of natural disaster, illustrated
exactly the danger faced.  Yet government officials have consistently
refused to spend the money to protect this poor, overwhelmingly black,
city.  While FEMA and others warned of the urgent impending danger to New
Orleans and put forward proposals for funding to reinforce and protect the
city, the Bush administration, in every year since 2001, has cut or refused
to fund New Orleans flood control, and ignored scientists warnings of
increased hurricanes as a result of global warming.  And, as the dangers
rose with the floodlines, the lack of coordinated response dramatized
vividly the callous disregard of our elected leaders.

The aftermath from the 1927 flood helped shape the elections of both a US
President and a Governor, and ushered in the southern populist politics of
Huey Long.

In the coming months, billions of dollars will likely flood into New
Orleans.  This money can either be spent to usher in a "New Deal" for the
city, with public investment, creation of stable union jobs, new schools,
cultural programs and housing restoration, or the city can be "rebuilt and
revitalized" to a shell of its former self, with newer hotels, more
casinos, and with chain stores and theme parks replacing the former
neighborhoods, cultural centers and corner jazz clubs.

Long before Katrina, New Orleans was hit by a hurricane of poverty, racism,
disinvestment, de-industrialization and corruption.  Simply the damage from
this pre-Katrina hurricane will take billions to repair.

Now that the money is flowing in, and the world’s eyes are focused on
Katrina, its vital that progressive-minded people take this opportunity to
fight for a rebuilding with justice.  New Orleans is a special place, and
we need to fight for its rebirth.

———————————————–
Jordan Flaherty is an editor of Left Turn Magazine (www.leftturn.org).

THE STRANDED WEEP AND WAIT FOR A RESCUE

New Orleans — This was a city once, of playgrounds, basketball courts, neighborhoods, restaurants, roads and people.

Today it is an enormous, rancid lake of death and destruction. Car roofs stick out of water as deep as 30 feet. Dark rainbows of spilled fuel shine on the putrid surface. The body of a gray-haired man in a maroon shirt floats face-down.

In Orleans Parish on Thursday, some of the city’s most destitute residents waited for rescuers in boats to pluck them off an overpass that once was the intersection of Airline Highway and Pontchartrain Boulevard and take them to safety.

There was Augusta Hagans, whose daughter Ashley, 21, was crying because she thought she would not be able to bring along her dog, Zoe. Hagans’ son Robert, 10, was weeping because he was terrified.

"He is just a very emotional child," Hagans, 43, who is unemployed, said as she hugged Robert on the rain-slicked overpass littered with shopping carts, piles of discarded wet clothes, coolers, stuffed animals and diapers. Then she started weeping herself.

Carlos Fajardo, 42, also wept — in anger.

"I’m leaving all my s — behind: my dog, my house, my everything!" he yelled, thrusting his fists in the air. "You know what? Today is my birthday! What a f — ing birthday I’m having!"

Others told of despair and death and how hours turned into days and no one came to help.

"We were at a women’s crisis center, and the National Guard flew over several times," said Natasha Jones, 29, her eyes wide with shock. "We lit candles, put out a white flag on the roof, and they left us!"

Jones said she swam two miles to reach the overpass — past floating tree trunks and jagged pieces of fallen signs and a dead body pushed by the current against a wall of a building.

"He had his hands like he was praying," she said. "I’m born and raised here, but I don’t want to live here anymore."

 

Continue reading THE STRANDED WEEP AND WAIT FOR A RESCUE

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_RETURNING

Coming back from vacation, I always enjoy that first walk down Seventh Avenue:  Who will I run into?  Is anything different? Have housing prices gone up again? Whose back from vacation?

It feels like we’ve been gone for ages. Ages. Twenty days away from Brooklyn and it’s all brand new. Again.

Another table was added to the  "summer cafe" in our front stoop. My downstair’s neighbor found an attractive tile table at the PS 321 Flea Market. Now we have two tables. All we need now is a couple of Cinzano umbrellas and we’ll be in business.

So what else is new?

Key Food created an outdoor flower market on the side of their building on Carroll Street. It used to be an eyesore with dumpsters and worse. I didn’t get a close look at the flowers, but there is a red awning. Maybe they think there’s a buck or two in it now that the Korean Market on the north side of Garfield closed.

So what else is new?

Seventh Avenue Books, which is now fully moved into it sister store, Seventh Avenue Kids, between 3rd and 2nd Streets, got a new awning that says SEVENTH AVENUE BOOKS. There’s also new lettering on the front window.

So what else is new?

The Chocolate Cafe, on Seventh Avenue between 3rd and 4th Street is now open. Hopefully its chocolate delights will firmly replace all memory of Funky Monkey.

So what else is new?

And this is a big one. Brooklyn Industries is going IN where Uprising used to be on Seventh Avenue near 9th Street. (I have my son to thank for that BIG TIP).

So what else is new?

Fratelli ice cream and fried ravioli finally went out of business. I knew it was coming, it was just a matter of when. Maggie Moo seems to be hanging in there. Somehow.

So what else is new?

There’s sccaffolding surrounding the former John Jay High School building (now home to the Schools for Law, Journalism and Research).

So what else is new?

There seem to be even more teenagers hanging out on Seventh and in Pinos. GIrls in low cut jeans and bellybutton piercings. Boys with long hair looking very grunge.

So what else is new?

Loom has lots of fall clothing in their front window. Lolli, the kids shop that replaced Fidgits, seems to be really hitting its stride and Community Books is having a 40% off sale, says a sign on the window.

So what else is new?

Hanging out at Connecticutt Muffin with my sister and her daughter Ducky. Now that’s something completely different. Definitely the best new thing of all.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_WE MISSED OUR FLIGHT

It never happened to us before. I had it in my head that we were taking the Red Eye from Oakland the way we always do. It leaves around 10:00 p.m. and gets us into Brooklyn by 7 in the morning.

But this time, my husband booked the flight and forgot that we were going at 3:30 p.m. As we  were getting ready to go to the airport for the 10:00 p.m. flight, my husband checked the computer for our "e-tickets" and…

…"Omigod, we missed our flight," he screamed. After he finished blaming me for the mistake: "Why did you act so sure about it being the red eye?" he yelIed, I called Jet Blue and told them what happened. "A missed flight is a forfeited ticket, you know," the woman on the phone said. "But I’ll see what I can do."

She put me on hold and while I waited (listening to Joni Mitchell on the hold-music: They paved paradise and put up a parking lot With a pink hotel...) I felt a kind of desperation. I was so eager to get back to Brooklyn to see my newly adopted niece, Ducky. I have never wanted to go home so badly.

The woman on the phone said that the  Red Eye that we thought we had tickets for was sold out. "I want to go home," I weeped holding the receiver away from my mouth. Then she said that there were seats on the Red Eye from San Jose. I got hopeful for a second. But there was a catch: it would cost $200 extra per ticket, which seemed a bit steep More panic. "I want to go home. It felt like the worldwide conspiracy to prevent me from seeing my niece.

Finally, for a small fee, the woman from Jet Blue was able to get us on the 8:50 a.m. on Wednesday morning. I was like Dorothy talking to the Wizard of Oz. I would’ve taken a hot air balloon all the way to Park Slope if I could.

Everything went perfectly after that. We actually found a great sushi place in a Tracy mall. We watched "Some Like it Hot" and went to bed. It was a windfall of extra time on the farm for my husband, which he actually appreciated. And there was an unbelievably star-filled sky.

We got to the airport at 7:30 a.m. without a hitch. Our seats were excellent:  row 2 (just like first class except Jet Blue doesn’t have first class).  Every seat on a Jet Blue plane has a television with something like 30 channels. I watched reports about Hurricane Katrina all day; I couldn’t turn it off. Here  I was so happy to be returning home and hundreds of thousands of people can’t go home…

So tragic, so unfair, so sad. Watching people rowing boats across their city is positively surreal.

Once home, we brought our suitcases upstairs, showered and ran to see Ducky, what we’d all been waiting for.

Elation. Joy. Fun. Love.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_DIFFICULT GOOD-BYES

Guess who’s coming home?

Yes, today is our last day on the farm. The last couple of days have been a weird kind of limbo. Betwixt and between, we’re not really here and we’re not in Brooklyn either.

The kids are so ready to come home. Twenty days away from Brooklyn is a lot. And they’re dying to see their friends.

The waning days of our summer vacation mean picking up all the clothes, toys, books, and other family detritus that has migrated to all parts of this big house.

It means taking care of the errands we promised we’d do while we were out here but never got around to.

It means finishing up the left-overs in the fridge and taking our last walks around the farm, saying good-bye to the goat, the vegetable garden, the walnut orchards, the barns, the cats, and the Giverney-esque garden created by my mother-in-law.

This year is especially sad because the farm is being sold to a local real estate developer, who  plans to build a McMansion on the far side of the farm with a grand staircase a la "Gone with the Wind," where he will live with his four brothers and their families.

It is, truly, the end of an era. 

My husband’s grandparents moved to this farm in 1928 from Los Angeles.
They raised 5 children here and ran an award winning Guernsey cattle dairy. There were also sugar beets, alfalfa, tomatoes, and other crops through the years.

My husband grew up on the farm in a small house intended as a guest house that grew in size as the years went on. His father planted the walnut orchards the year he was born. When his father died in the 1980’s, his mother (who grew up on the farm) decided to take over the farm. She’d never paid much attention to farming when her husband was alive, as she was busy raising the kids, and creating beautiful and inventive ceramic art. But after his death, she learned everything she needed to know about walnut farming and farmed the orchard for 20 years by herself with the help of a small staff.

Now in her seventies, she has just retired from farming and is busier than ever with her art-making, gardening, studying at the local community college, and swimming. A self-taught architect, she is also designing a new entrance way and a pool house for her home.

Most of her siblings have died, but their heirs feel strongly that it is time to sell the farm. She has made her peace with it and will still retain her beautiful home and the surrounding acreage.

I know my husband is deeply upset about the sale of the farm because he’s been very quiet and he sighs a lot ( a sign that he is full of worry or pain). Yesterday I asked what he was feeling and he said: "Overwhelmed. Y’know that sense of place thing."

These are like code words between us. This place means more to him than just about anything. He is rooted here like a big old oak tree. Losing the farm is like losing a limb. This farm IS who he is: creative, resourceful, reverent to the past, deeply connected to the place he is from.

I am very touched by his appreciation for the world his grandparents and parents created here: the houses and farm buildings his grandmother designed, his grandfather’s farm equipment, the John Deere tractors, and pick-up trucks. He loves the landscape – the orderly rows of trees in the orchards, the yellow Sierra foothills in the disance, the big, blue sky.  I know the next few months won’t be easy as the sale becomes a reality.

His sense of place in the world depends on this farm and it’s hard to say what will happen when it no longer belongs to his family.

I expect my husband to sigh a lot in the next few months. He’ll probably be pretty quiet as he mulls over this enormous change in his life. I’m hoping he’ll take the time to express his feelings to me. For one thing, I like to be clued in, but I also think it helps to let it out so it doesn’t burn you up inside.

Serving Park Slope and Beyond