252. WORKING
CLASS HERO
CLASS HERO
(part 1)
There's a spot on the old
railroad-west-side that's
now a postal-truck building
or something. A long time
ago it was a railway depot:
'The Hudson Rail Depot'.
That was when the interior
tracks used to run right there,
above-ground, in the 1860's.
The whole world was different
then, and new things at that
time were things that propelled
people, moved people along.
Of course, they didn't have a
clue what was going to be
coming right at them, soon
enough. No different than
us, today now, with the
Internet and computer
world we've unleashed.
No matter. The building
there now - really crummy,
maybe from the 1940's, just
some truck loading docks, a
few ramps, and signs for
special parking, loading,
unloading, no idling of
engines, all that. There's
usually any number of
blacks or Hispanic guys
hulking around, with a
combined IQ of about 112.
Union guys, probably
getting a hundred bucks
an hour; loading, unloading,
pushing carts, moving
things, then, of course,
every 14th minute getting
a break, when they all come
out to smoke and look
around. It used to be all
used up and junk land,
around here, but now
every inch is worth about
a million bucks, and all this
old, fallow land is under
big-time construction,
constantly. Every time I
take a photo in this area,
any one of those shrouded
and unfinished buildings
seen comes right out of here.
There's a bunch, and New
York sure is changing.
Anyway, these bozos come
out like some extras from a
Pinter play - standing
around, minding only
their own vacancy,
squinting and wondering,
and they don't ever even
notice the Abraham Lincoln
plaque on the wall, which
to me is like revered ground.
Always has been. In the 1960's
(yes, a perfect, one hundred
year gap there; always right),
I'd get off the train from the
old Penn Station and deliberately
walk down this way to begin
my walk back downtown to the
Studio School by passing this.
It was the spiritual beginning
of each trip downtown. In
my mind, anyway, I made
it so. That plaque states
something to the effect that
President Lincoln was here
on his way to his inauguration
and then, as dead President,
Lincoln, but a few years
later, his funeral train passed
through this station a well,
on the way to Illinois'.....
not exact, but something
like that. The point was
that he was here, alive,
using a train, to make
a date, and then he was
here again only a short
while later, as his funeral
train trolled his dead body
along to wherever. That was
powerful stuff, dead, deep,
dark times. Not even the
Kennedy assassination and
all that TV pomp and stuff,
could match this - these
were dark times, back then,
and railroad times, people
weren't in sassy and stupidly
glib communication with
each other and everyone else,
things had meaning, messages
took time, people passed
slowly. In contrast, I hated
all that monstrous 1967 stuff.
Paltry and pathetic; we couldn't
even spell mercy, let alone
understand it. Brains were
filled with ads for hand lotion
and dish detergent. This older
world, to me, was dense
and alive, in a different
chemical element, some
essence in some other matter
and space. I wanted to be
there. I hated this 1967
world, and as I walked
through it I sensed I could
walk through Time itself.
I could commune with
layers of ages as I wandered.
I've never really kept a
'home' port for my thoughts
- just rather a 'go-where-random
it all may lead'. That was my
joy of living - the picking
and assorting of what I'd
stumble over. The man selling
cigars and cigarettes in that
crappy little stand, he might
have said he was stuck, he
was trapped, there each day,
making dish-pan pennies
for all his time. Those union
guys, getting their big bucks
for cigarettes and candy, they
may have never had a clue
about their own presences,
instead seeing life as a
drudge and a draining -
of time and effort and
money. I never shared
that aura they walked
through. I had a halo,
and I knew that. I just
hoped it wouldn't interfere
or get in the way. This
was back when some
rails still ran - over
there, extreme west side.
There were still a few
slow supply freights
slugging around, pulling
carts of steel or bags of
food and grain. Bakers
and builders, all the same.
They all needed their
supplies. I had mine
in dreams of time.
-
I'd walk the streets,
even though that area
of the westside, as I
walked downtown,
turned dumpy quickly.
There were long rows
of project-type houses,
once I got down to Chelsea.
As nice as Chelsea itself
was, these 1930's or
post-Depression projects
were real crud, to me
anyway. I guess if they
meant housing for others,
a sort of deliverance, that
meant a lot. But for me,
they just represented
depression, small 'd'. I'd
been born in the same
sort of place. A cheap
commercial brick, facade,
no design ethos; courtyards
and post-box rows and
playgrounds with benches.
Plazas and a government
office or two - Dept of
Housing, all that 'Relief'
stuff, my Grandmother
to call it. She was always
talking about people,
friends and neighbors,
who had to go on 'Relief'.
Like it was the end of the
world or some horrible
fate. Maybe it was, 80
years ago. I don't know.
Things were different :
they'd still let you struggle
in shacks and shanties.
Now, like here, they just
tear it all down and stack
those people up, 20, 25 stories
in the sky, in dumb-looking,
ringed, red-brick towers.
Often with schools at the
bottom - so, you figure,
a poor kid, in fact, is made
to never have to leave
his or her 'poor' area. To
learn about others, to
mingle, to see. That was
way too bad, I thought.
Why wasn't it just called
segregation too? I had to
walk past them - still do
sometimes; they're all still
there, done over at least three
times that I can remember
- new tiles and bricks, new
walking areas, even new
names - after Socialist
heroes and leftist heroines.
David Dubinsky Center,
stuff like that. Everything's
named after someone.
You can probably look
Dubinsky up, right now
I do forget what he did
to get his own name on
a tower. Like he was
President Trump or
something! Socialist
hero is something to
be. John Lennon said
'Working Class Hero'
but, whatever. To me,
a socialist hero is a
gigantic sandwich
that everyone
can eat from.
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