RUDIMENTS, pt. 554
('look back in anger?')
I could say this this country
has gone to the dogs, but I
wouldn't want to denigrate
my dog, and the place she
inhabits is far too good for
the likes of what I'm saying.
All my life it's been a sliding
scale of loss and decay, the
things we've given away;
and I believe it starts with
Hollywood. And you know
the rest. Fitzberg.
-
I was able to see a lot of
this as I settled in to NYC.
In 1967, weird as it may
now seem, in a day and
time when this is not
any longer heard, the
big problem in New York
was Puerto Ricans. They
seemed everywhere; they
embodied the idea of people
living in slums, nasty, rotten,
slick and dumpy. And the
wise-ass Puerto-Rican punk
was a type. Chino pants.
Diminutive stature, pumping
himself up as if to be what
he could not be except by a
punky aspiration. The Puerto
Rican babe became another
small and simple sexual
stereotype. And then it all
disappeared. I don't know
what happened. One day
there just was no longer a
'Spic' scene, as the rash
colloquialism had it - the
busboys, cooks, sweepers,
and countermen had all
changed over to something
else. It's very cool how that
turnover occurs, and I began
wondering, or watching for,
how many other times it
happened, or some like scene.
Like any other beleaguered
ethnic group, Puerto Ricans
were basically treated badly.
What was known as San Juan
Hill, their own particular
housing area, was razed for
Lincoln Center, in the early
'60s. They were seen as as
expendable and useless, an
unrefined culture, and the
culture crowd - an American
version of the John Lennon's
'Just rattle your jewelry' crowd -
needed the precious space 'they'
were wasting, for their operas
and plays and ballet and
recitals. They were gone and
little heard from again; Rita
Moreno, take that. My friend
Juanita Elefante went through
all of this with her own family,
of which, in fact, only half
was Puerto Rican. I recall the
other half as Filipino.
-
Funny world, how we end
things up. Blacks and Negroes
there always were. They had
Harlem and jazz and zoot suits
and flash, at least, to run along
with their poverty - but the
same abject disdain was
prevalent. I got there in
time to see a lot of it still
running; the curtain hadn't
yet fallen on that stuff. Has
it yet? Probably not; it's just
covered better.
-
I think Silence should have a
capital 'S' - at all times and
in every usage. The Silence
of ignoring injustice, or of
turning away from a slight.
We live with a million things
around us always, people
getting taken advantage of,
cheated, ignored, or faulted.
One time I was in the middle
of Grand Central Station with
a guy from California. It was
about 1972; this guy was
generally nice enough about
everything, with a lot of the
then-prevalent California fervor
about hands-off, let others be,
and all that. That was quite
'Californian' compared to
anything then here. I made
the point to him that 'this,
being New York,' it could
possibly present to him,
during the course of his
visit, many things he wasn't
used to, and that he should
just remain cool. No sooner
were the words out of my my
mouth when some black guy
sidles up to us, a bit aggressively,
yes, but, after all, it was
1972, and starts his harangue
for money, aid, assistance.
Oh, boy! My friend then
immediately cracks! Some
very personal sense of space
had, for him, been invaded, and
he goes right back at the guy, in
his face, loudly, 'Get away from
me! I don't want to talk to you, I
don't want to hear you! You
come one step nearer and you'll
be sorry...' Holy Graham Crackers,
Batman, pipe down! You'll start
a freaking race-riot right here!
I spoke up, getting between them,
moving the beggar-guy off, and
dragging my Cali-Burger friend
off in another direction.
-
Nothing bad came of this except
for my own surprise at the lethal
quality of the otherwise laid-back
Joe I thought I had with me. What
was he reacting to? I tried to figure
it out - Race? Color? Attitude?
Approach? The 'asking' for money?
In New York City, and in those
years, and in such public space
as these, things like that were
on at all times - you basically
gave the schmuck a quarter or
reacted not at all. The ignorance
of ignoring others, balanced
always by the realization that
you cannot, simply cannot, be
everyone's savior and/or everyone's
free banker. You just shrug, and
move on. The streets were filled
with the dead, and the idea was
to not become one of same.
-
I had no idea what had gotten
into my friend - (same guy who
blew his brains out 30 years later) -
but I should have sensed something
was amiss. It's a touchy world,
(dog eat dog, to overuse that
canine metaphor aspect again?),
and people are always getting
hurt, abused, or shunted aside.
Walk gently through that night,
my friends, and with nary
a hesitant step.
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