Apples, Fall and Reflection

Yom Kippur has always been one of my favorite Jewish holidays. (Jeff, my partner, is Jewish).  Before we had children (BC, I call it), I always went with Jeff and his mother to sit for all day Yom Kippur services. Yom Kippur is a time for reflection and atonement; this somber feeling fits the changing of the seasons perfectly.

I love fall, but it’s bittersweet.  The air is crisp and makes all my skin molecules come alive, the apples are so crisp that they ring in my ears and so sweet that they make my teeth hurt. That’s the sweet part of fall, the Rosh Hashana of it, if you will. Jews have it right – it does feel like a new year. Summer is gone but the air is full of possibilities and the skies are so blue that you can see all the way to Staten Island.  So they eat apples and honey, what could be more perfect on a breathtaking fall day?

But winter is also on the way, and so here is the bitter. Summer is gone, the leaves are glorious but on the tip of death. The apples are the last of our fruit until many moons from now. And so the “days of awe” of Yom Kippur feels right. It is the perfect time to stop and contemplate before the silence and coldness of winter is upon us.

Another thing that I love about Yom Kippur is the prayer where you ask for atonement for the times that you saw injustice and did nothing to stop it. Failing to stand up to injustice –  I feel like I need forgiveness for that failure all the time, just for continuing to live in these times. I KNOW in my bones that our current economic system that values profits over people is wrong. I SEE cities like Baltimore and Detroit where entire populations of people (children!) have been discarded and left to die.  I have EXPERIENCED loved ones face diminishing odds of survival because they don’t have health insurance.

So I appreciate that the there is a day is carved out to sit and think about it all and a time to ask for forgiveness. Mostly I have to learn to forgive myself. I don’t stand up all the time. Sometimes I let things slide because I am tired and trying to get home or the problem seems too overwhelming to change. Really, in order to raise children and continue living, I just have to choose to not fight it all – all the time. I guess we all get used to sitting down. But I hope for the day that we all decide to sit down together. That was part of the attraction of the Occupy movement. People could just sit down. And STOP participating, even for an hour.

Here’s to another year, and I hope for a year where I stand up to injustice just a little bit more and I invite you to join me.  I also hope for a year where I forgive myself and others for all our shortcomings and spend a little less time counting them all up. Change happens slow and fast and sometimes all at once or sometimes pauses for a moment, but it does happen.

September 11 and why we don’t use the word “terrorist” in our home

On September 11, 2001, I got out of the subway at 14th st and 6th avenue, just as the first plane hit the tower. As I walked up the subway stairs onto the street, New Yorkers were standing in the intersections, on the sidewalks, and doing something we never do – looking up, pointing up. The sky was crystal clear and smoke was rising from the gash where the first plane had crashed through. I didn’t even know there was a plane, I called my husband on the corner payphone, “looks like someone bombed the World Trade Center again.” 

I was supposed to be at the WTC that day, all day. Nope, I am not a world financier or one of the 1000’s of retail and service workers that worked there. I am a union organizer and we were organizing drugstore workers. One of my biggest stores was in there. Our team had made a plan to spend all day in the WTC store, talking to workers about how labor is  stronger when we work collectively together against capital. But first, a staff meeting, that’s why I was at the corner of 14th and 6th. One of our team had agreed to get there early and cover the 3rd shift/1st shift transfer at 8am. SHE was there that morning. Our cousins were there too, 2 blocks away, where they lived. After I got to the office, I spoke to them, they were OK, but then they disappeared after the towers fell and we didn’t know where they were until many many surreal hours. (turns out they were evacuated to an island in the NY harbor by the coast guard). My co-worker, made it back, safely too.

Much of that day I experienced like the rest of the world – watching it on TV – too afraid to go out, what would be next? Union Square? For me, the unusual part of my story was after September 11. The press all wrote about the reopening of wall street as the heros of the capitalist world, entering the caverns of doom to ensure that we can continue consuming and producing. But no one wrote about the other workers who returned, the drugstore chain we were organizing had at least 10 stores, in the now militarized zone below canal street. And these minimum wage workers were all told to return to work, their pay docked for all the days the stores had closed. My teammates and I still had to go talk to and organize them, we had a union election coming and we had spent months on this.

At the military check point, we presented a letter on union stationary that said we needed to enter as worker representatives, and they let us in. We entered a week later, the world was covered in ash, the smoke was still rising from ground zero. The minimum wage drugstore workers were there too, mostly immigrants, mostly people of color, the stores were covered in ash too, and they were assigned to sweeping the toxic, unknown substances into garbage bags. They had no protection, nor did I for that matter. We all used paper masks that the drugstore sold, or sometimes bandannas to try and protect our lungs. In between store visits, my co-worker and I took refuge in Starbucks, yep that was opened too, it was the only place you could go and not smell the eye searing, acrid burning from ground zero that had settled over all of downtown like the grey ash that filled every telephone booth, every store. In the Starbucks, it was just us, wall street types, workers, and rescue workers. The next week, the streets had been bleached.

The other day my kids heard the word terrorist and they asked me what’s a terrorist. And I realized that we had never used that word in our home. And I stepped back and asked myself why. Terrorism and the word terrorist is coined by the victor, the colonizer the one with the upper hand. What exactly does it mean? I think most people would say that a terrorist is a person who uses deadly violence against unarmed civilian towards a political end. So how does the violence inflicted by a “terrorist” differ from drone strikes that kill civilians in Afghanistan?  Would we agree then the KKK, an organization responsible for the lynching of 1000’s of Black Americans in the South  is a terrorist organization? Or how about the NYPD that has also killed 100’s of unarmed Black and Latino Americans, or if not killed, then subjected them to humiliating state violence in the guise of unwarranted stops and frisks.  The coordinated attacks on Muslims and Sikhs in this country, is this not terrorism? Or is a terrible, single, unconnected act of violence by one solitary, deranged person, as this press would paint it? It seems that in our current vocabulary, there is state sanctioned violence,there are seemingly random acts of violence (usually perpetrated by a lone white man with military type weaponry) and there is terrorism, which is usually defined as perpetrated by Muslims, environmentalists, anarchists, communists, Occupiers. I remember as a child learning about the US government putting Japanese Americans into concentration camps during wwii, as threats to national security. As a young, Asian-American I was appalled, I would never have allowed that, I thought. And now I see how it happens, how we allow it to happen, and how the label of terrorist and terrorism has been one of the bricks on that dangerous path.

During those weeks that passed the graveyard of WTC site, I used to feel truly bereft, thinking about all the souls who couldn’t be buried and were left alone all those nights. Then I went to a Jewish Sukkot ceremony. Sukkot is essentially a harvest celebration. You are supposed to eat all your dinners outside, in a structure that would allow you to still see the stars and the sky. That night under the Sukkot shelter, as I listened to the Rabbi, I realized that all those poor souls whose lives had been so violently cut short, were not all alone, but cradled in the arms of our mother and the night stars shone down on them and the earth held them close.  And I felt at peace with that realization. 

September 11 and why we don’t use the word “terrorist” in our home

On September 11, 2001, I got out of the subway at 14th st and 6th avenue, just as the first plane hit the tower. As I walked up the subway stairs onto the street, New Yorkers were standing in the intersections, on the sidewalks, and doing something we never do – looking up, pointing up. The sky was crystal clear and smoke was rising from the gash where the first plane had crashed through. I didn’t even know there was a plane, I called my husband on the corner payphone, “looks like someone bombed the World Trade Center again.” 

I was supposed to be at the WTC that day, all day. Nope, I am not a world financier or one of the 1000’s of retail and service workers that worked there. I am a union organizer and we were organizing drugstore workers. One of my biggest stores was in there. Our team had made a plan to spend all day in the WTC store, talking to workers about how labor is  stronger when we work collectively together against capital. But first, a staff meeting, that’s why I was at the corner of 14th and 6th. One of our team had agreed to get there early and cover the 3rd shift/1st shift transfer at 8am. SHE was there that morning. Our cousins were there too, 2 blocks away, where they lived. After I got to the office, I spoke to them, they were OK, but then they disappeared after the towers fell and we didn’t know where they were until many many surreal hours. (turns out they were evacuated to an island in the NY harbor by the coast guard). My co-worker, made it back, safely too.

Much of that day I experienced like the rest of the world – watching it on TV – too afraid to go out, what would be next? Union Square? For me, the unusual part of my story was after September 11. The press all wrote about the reopening of wall street as the heros of the capitalist world, entering the caverns of doom to ensure that we can continue consuming and producing. But no one wrote about the other workers who returned, the drugstore chain we were organizing had at least 10 stores, in the now militarized zone below canal street. And these minimum wage workers were all told to return to work, their pay docked for all the days the stores had closed. My teammates and I still had to go talk to and organize them, we had a union election coming and we had spent months on this.

At the military check point, we presented a letter on union stationary that said we needed to enter as worker representatives, and they let us in. We entered a week later, the world was covered in ash, the smoke was still rising from ground zero. The minimum wage drugstore workers were there too, mostly immigrants, mostly people of color, the stores were covered in ash too, and they were assigned to sweeping the toxic, unknown substances into garbage bags. They had no protection, nor did I for that matter. We all used paper masks that the drugstore sold, or sometimes bandannas to try and protect our lungs. In between store visits, my co-worker and I took refuge in Starbucks, yep that was opened too, it was the only place you could go and not smell the eye searing, acrid burning from ground zero that had settled over all of downtown like the grey ash that filled every telephone booth, every store. In the Starbucks, it was just us, wall street types, workers, and rescue workers. The next week, the streets had been bleached.

The other day my kids heard the word terrorist and they asked me what’s a terrorist. And I realized that we had never used that word in our home. And I stepped back and asked myself why. Terrorism and the word terrorist is coined by the victor, the colonizer the one with the upper hand. What exactly does it mean? I think most people would say that a terrorist is a person who uses deadly violence against unarmed civilian towards a political end. So how does the violence inflicted by a “terrorist” differ from drone strikes that kill civilians in Afghanistan?  Would we agree then the KKK, an organization responsible for the lynching of 1000’s of Black Americans in the South  is a terrorist organization? Or how about the NYPD that has also killed 100’s of unarmed Black and Latino Americans, or if not killed, then subjected them to humiliating state violence in the guise of unwarranted stops and frisks.  The coordinated attacks on Muslims and Sikhs in this country, is this not terrorism? Or is a terrible, single, unconnected act of violence by one solitary, deranged person, as this press would paint it? It seems that in our current vocabulary, there is state sanctioned violence,there are seemingly random acts of violence (usually perpetrated by a lone white man with military type weaponry) and there is terrorism, which is usually defined as perpetrated by Muslims, environmentalists, anarchists, communists, Occupiers. I remember as a child learning about the US government putting Japanese Americans into concentration camps during wwii, as threats to national security. As a young, Asian-American I was appalled, I would never have allowed that, I thought. And now I see how it happens, how we allow it to happen, and how the label of terrorist and terrorism has been one of the bricks on that dangerous path.

During those weeks that passed the graveyard of WTC site, I used to feel truly bereft, thinking about all the souls who couldn’t be buried and were left alone all those nights. Then I went to a Jewish Sukkot ceremony. Sukkot is essentially a harvest celebration. You are supposed to eat all your dinners outside, in a structure that would allow you to still see the stars and the sky. That night under the Sukkot shelter, as I listened to the Rabbi, I realized that all those poor souls whose lives had been so violently cut short, were not all alone, but cradled in the arms of our mother and the night stars shone down on them and the earth held them close.  And I felt at peace with that realization. 

Moon of the Vanishing Parking or End of Summer

I have an Uncle that every month sends out a monthly newsletter about his life on his farm near Asheville, North Carolina. The titles are usually based on some kind of natural turning of the seasons like – Moon of the Returning Geese. And Yes, he and my Aunt are hippies in most glorious, honest, authentic tradition possible. Every month, I read and treasure his exotic tidbits about the natural world – their life so far removed from my asphalt-filled streets of Brooklyn.  But as summer nears, I started wondering – what are our “natural” signs of the shifting seasons?

In Brooklyn, the first sign of the arrival of summer, is the smell of dog urine wafting from every corner. The heat of summer is the perfect catalyst to really bring out the smell of the 1000’s of dogs that are forced to live in 500 square foot apartments in the city.

We don’t have cicadas chirping in the darkness, but we do have the rhythmic hitting of the hardball echoing from the handball court just across the street. The guys play all night long and the girls hang out next to them in a timeless ritual of flirting on endless summer nights. We are also just across the public elementary school where our kids are now entering 2^nd grade. Summer means silence at recess time – we no longer here the raucous screams of children on a recess respite from chairs, desks and high stakes testing.  Summer means silence at another recess time – 4am, since the hipsters, students, and others have left the city, there are less drunks on the streets loudly looking for their lost cars.

This brings me to best part of summer – the mass exodus of some of the most annoying segments of the population. Yes, like migrating birds, there are an entire species of humans that leave NYC for the summer and nest in places like the Hamptons, Martha’s Vineyard, Fire Island, Italy, Los Angeles, and places unknown.  As proof, I offer the well established fact, that it is nearly impossible to schedule any non-emergency surgery or a therapy appointment in the month of August in the City.

Suddenly, the City becomes liveable  – there are seats on the subway, even your favorite restaurant has plenty of seats (unless closed for the summer, which some do, embracing the emptiness by fleeing) and suddenly there is parking! More parking than you know what to do with, you want to drive everywhere, just for the pleasure of finding the perfect parking spot.  The City feels almost empty, and the sidewalks invite a leisurely stroll of a pace.

(Dear out of town guests, please note that this summer reprieve doesn’t apply to any tourist spots. These areas stay crowded for the whole summer and are almost entirely empty of actual New Yorkers, except the workers.)

Our neighborhood of Williamsburg is one of the most rapidly gentrifying neighborhoods in New York City. Recent stats show it becoming one of the Whitest and most segregated. Summer means that that the neighborhood returns to its original shades and tones, mostly Brown, Latino, Hassidic and Polish, with a few struggling artists and freelancers sprinkled in.

As summer draws to close, you can hear the hum and murmur of the city begin to change. Signs include: a gaggle of NYU students, complete with ID’s on purple lanyards, touring our neighborhood; the overflow at the Beer Garden down the street; the oyster eating contest with a marching band accompaniment down the street. Soon the streets will be crowded with a younger, Whiter, hipper crowd and the roosters crowing at 4am for last call. The lines at the restaurants will snake around the corner, and the Parking! The parking will vanish – so here we are at Moon of the Vanishing Parking.

In our small barangay, we will be making noises associated with back to school. But I will save that for the next blog post.