Fear

On this eve of a new year, with a declining economy and people living in fear of losing their jobs, fear of not being able to provide for their families, fear of white people, fear of black people, fear of losing everything one has strived for, fear of the future, it's a good time to listen to a talk on the counter-productivity of fear from Buddhist monk, Ajahn Brahm.

Today's Local News: Conflict, Detente, and Good Omens for 2009

Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door. - Emma Lazarus

There's no news like Good News and today I received plenty:

1. I finally got my Notice of Naturalization Oath Ceremony. Hurray! As of mid-January, I will be an American Citizen. That is, as long as I don't join the Communist party, practice polygamy, work as a prostitute, profit from illegal gambling, traffick in drugs or become a habitual drunkard before then. Yes, these are actual terms I must sign off on before receiving my citizenship papers. And as I have no plans on doing any of those things now or ever, I should be fine.

2. My fellow Bed-Stuy blogger and sworn enemy (on her part, not mine) has agreed to my suggestion to meet me for tea or coffee in the New Year to talk over our differences in a civilized and hopefully friendly manner. I don't expect we'll become best friends, but it does give me great hope. I do believe that straightforward, human interaction (as opposed to computer interaction) and open communication, with the willingness to listen and really hear what the other has to say without taking it personally can lead to the end of all wars. Call me naive. Call me Pollyanna. Call me deluded. But I'm looking forward to our coffee date. And trying to finish my copy of Nonviolent Communication before then.

3. The art school I model for just called with a whole bunch of shifts for January through March which means we won't have to be selling off our valuables, dumpstering all our food, and biking in the winter weather to school. Not that those things would be the worst things to do.

At the same time I have had two unexpected and unsettling conflicts in the past two days that left me shaken, and angry at myself for not remaining calm or doing something to avoid those conflicts from happening.

First, on the J train home from the library yesterday, I was standing by the door with sleeping child in stroller, hoping that a seat would open up. There were several empty seats, but I wanted a little more room so that I wouldn't have to leave my stroller sticking out into the aisle blocking everyone's path. So when two seats opened up, I gratefully sat down and got out my book. At the next stop, a bespeckled pasty faced middle-aged white man with beige hair, in beige corduroys, beige shirt, and a beige jacket, eyed the four inches of space next to me and squeezed in.

He placed his big bag on the floor in between his legs which pushed his squishy legs against mine and resumed reading an article on presidential cigarette addiction in his vertically folded New York Times. Only I was in the way. Me and my stroller. And the older black lady in the fur coat on his other side. Although there were other free seats, one even directly across from us, he huffed and puffed loudly and gave us both dirty looks until she moved away. I, however, refused to give him that satisfaction and continued to read my book and stay where I was. For the next five stops he huffed and puffed louder and louder, while I kept telling myself I had every right to sit there, and to stay calm and ignore him. At my stop, which also happened to be his, I got up and tried to manoeuvre my stroller towards the door. As this slowed him from racing to the door before me he just lost it and rolled his eyes heavenwards yelling, "Oh my God!!!" That's when I also lost it. "Do you have a problem?" I asked. "YES!" he replied, almost looking relieved that I'd finally noticed just how irritated he was. "You sat your fat ass next to me, Mister!" I yelled at his retreating back as he ran down the stairs. When I got home and vented to Big Joe, he told me I could have moved away like the black lady did. Then the conflict would have been avoided. I just hadn't wanted him to get his way. I was stubborn. And look what it cost me. My peace of mind.

Then today at the laundromat which I'd expected to be quiet and calm as it usually is around noon on a Tuesday, it was a madhouse. Either everyone finally got around to doing their laundry after the holidays or everyone has been laid off as their Christmas bonus, and decided to hang out and watch free movies at the laundromat instead of crying in despair at home. At any rate, I had to distribute my dirty clothes in three different washing machines in different corners of the laundromat. And when I finally returned to the first one I'd loaded and began inserting my quarters, the nearly toothless rotund black woman with an orange afro at the adjacent machine began freaking out. "Wait! Wait! Stop her! She yelled at her boyfriend. "That's our clothes!"
I looked at her in disbelief. "What are you talking about? That's my machine!"
"No it's not! Those are my clothes!" And she yanked open the door of the machine and pulled out a black sweater I didn't recognize.
"See?" She said triumphantly. "This is mine." Then she pulled out Big Joe's green Transportation Alternatives t-shirt and said, "And this is mine."
I grabbed Big Joe's shirt out of her hands. "No, that's my husband's!"
Nonplussed, she then pulled out Little Joe's turtleneck. "Well this is mine!"
"NO! That's my son's! This is my laundry! You put your clothes into my machine!"
At which point she began pulling out all the laundry out of the machine. "These are my clothes!"
"Yes these are yours," I agreed, pulling out a black glove and scarf, "but the rest is mine!"
"Well it was just a simple mistake," she said quietly, elbowing her boyfriend and giving him a look like, get a load of that crazy lady. And returned to loading her clothes in the adjacent machine.

If these two incidents hadn't happened over two days I'd say it was a full moon. But I guess I just have to take responsibility for them myself instead of blaming them on planetary influences. As Big Joe pointed out, most wars are over territory or property. Mine, mine, mine. There's a reason that monks who give up all earthly possessions are happy. I should have let her take our faded, patched and worn out clothes. It wouldn't have been much of a loss. And that stupid subway seat, now that really wasn't worth fighting over. Now where was I...ah yes, Chapter Two: Communication That Blocks Compassion. I know, I'm slow, but I'll get it eventually.

Today's Local News: Bad Peanut, Bad Bad Mommy

I nearly killed my child with my carelessness today.

Little Joe has a peanut allergy. Although he no longer had an allergic reaction (he used to break out with severe eczema all over his face and torso) to all the other foods he'd been allergic to since he was born (soy, dairy, chocolate, wheat, pears, eggs, and a bunch of other stuff I can't recall), I'd decided to wait to give him peanuts until he was three years old. According to certain parenting books, supposedly if you wait this long your child can avoid having a reaction to peanuts. You're not supposed to eat peanuts while you're pregnant either for this same reason, but I did anyway.

So there we were two summers ago, having a picnic, just Little Joe and me in DUMBO on that patch of grass between the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges. As his third birthday was only a few weeks away, I impulsively decided to give him his first taste of peanuts. In fact I gave him three. I figured the worst that would happen is he'd get a little rash on his face. Little Joe ate them all up, enjoyed them even. Then we packed up and headed home on the train.

First he got irritable and fussy on the F train, but I figured he just needed a nap. Then on the J train he stopped breathing. Fortunately I had a homeopathic remedy for allergic reactions to bee stings with me and popped one in his mouth. Thankfully, he started breathing again but was still upset. Once we got off at our station he projectile vomited all over himself and the stroller. I cleaned him up and hurried home where he broke out in hives and threw up again all over the couch. Then he was catatonic, just staring out into space unable to speak or move until he fell asleep a couple of hours later. The next day we got him an Epipen and a medic alert bracelet. Since then these two items have gone everywhere he goes while we monitored rigorously every single bite that went into his mouth.

Fast forward to this evening. There we are at Big Joe's work Christmas party and there's a modest spread of brie, grapes, carrots, sugar snap peas, tomatoes and onion dip, hummus, a variety of crackers, cheddar goldfish, corn chips, and oatmeal, chocolate chip, and gingerbread cookies. I glance over this buffet, don't see any peanuts but then for some stupid reason don't ask what exactly is in those homemade cookies. But the stupidest thing of all is I let our son graze at this table, letting him eat anything his heart desires. What the hell, I think, concerned more about his sugar intake than anything else, it's a party, why not ease up on his diet for once. Live a little. Even though Big Joe and I were just talking about Little Joe's peanut allergy not five minutes before with some other parents at the party. Even though his teacher at his preschool that day would not let Little Joe have the gingerbread men that the other children are eating because she wasn't sure there weren't any peanuts in them.

I should have known better. I'm the one who saw him stop breathing on the train. I'm the one who cleaned up his peanut vomit twice. I'm the one who saw the itchy red welts pop up all over his torso. I'm the one who discovered just in time, that there were peanuts in the 'cheese crackers' that the flight attendants were giving out free with the beverages on the flight to visit Big Joe's parents. I should have known better. I was careless. I'm the one, who, this evening, didn't look at any labels, didn't ask any questions, let our son eat anything he touched, and then when Big Joe and I parted ways, gave Big Joe our son's backpack to take home so I wouldn't have to carry it. Our son's backpack with the Epipen and the homeopathic remedy. Because of my laziness and my carelessness, our son had an allergic reaction to the peanuts in something he ate tonight. And I was on the train going over the Manhattan bridge without either of the things that could save his life.

Fortunately he didn't ingest very much peanut matter and the reaction was just an upset tummy, severe gagging, mild tongue swelling and a faint rash. Thank God. He's sleeping now. While I sit here and beat myself up over my idiocy.

Today in my recovery meeting the subject was compassion. Including compassion and forgiveness for oneself. But I'm afraid that tonight I haven't got any.
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After a 24 hour partial electrical outtage, power returned to our part of the hood this evening, the boiler kicked back on and our house is beginning to warm up again.

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As I desperately need to focus on job hunting and I've had just about all the blogger bashing over the hated 'G' word I can take for the moment (not to mention wanting to lavish my son with attention and love over the Winter break, especially after nearly offing him), I'm taking an indeterminate break from blogging. Meaning, blog if I want to, won't if I don't. No definite dailies until further notice.

To those who've shown love and support to me, and even to those who've shown the opposite, have a wonderful holiday and new year. May you be happy, may you be peaceful, may you be free from suffering.

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Brooklyn weather: Friggin' cold.

Jesus and Mary Shrines

Jesus holding lamb on tree stump.

Mary with alligator and shopping cart.

Gentrification: The Elephant in the Room

From British graffiti artist Banksy's 2006 show, "Barely Legal."

Interestingly, although this installation with a live elephant painted to blend in with the wallpaper in a mock room was intended to highlight political hypocrisy and how world poverty is ignored; the controversy by animal rights activists over the painting of the elephant's skin seemed to overshadow the greater issues of the show.

From the Merriam-Webster dictionary online:

gen·tri·fi·ca·tion

Pronunciation: \ˌjen-trə-fə-ˈkā-shən\

Function: noun

Date: 1964

: the process of renewal and rebuilding accompanying the influx of middle-class or affluent people into deteriorating areas that often displaces poorer residents

From Stuff White People Like, this post currently has 987 mostly angry comments:

#73 Gentrification
February 22, 2008 by clander

In general, white people love situations where they can’t lose. While this does account for the majority of their situations, perhaps the safest bet a white person can make is to buy a house in an up-and-coming neighborhood.

White people like to live in these neighborhoods because they get credibility and respect from other white people for living in a more “authentic” neighborhood where they are exposed to “true culture” every day. So whenever their friends mention their home in the suburbs or richer urban area, these people can say “oh, it’s so boring out there, so fake. In our neighborhood, things are just more real.” This superiority is important as white people jockey for position in their circle of friends.

They are like a modern day Lewis and Clark, except instead of searching for the ocean, they are searching for old properties to renovate.

In a few years, if more white people start moving in, these initial trailblazers will sell their property for triple what they paid and move into an ultramodern home.

Credibility or money, they can’t lose!

When one of these white people tell you where they live, you should say “whoa, it’s pretty rough down there. I don’t think I could live there.” This will make them feel even better about their credibility and status as neighborhood pioneers.

Gentrification is a topic people have strong opinions about. And yet it's the elephant in the room because when you are the gentrifier in a neighbourhood that doesn't welcome you, the last thing you want to do is advertise it. But I have. And it is not without consequences. And the crazy thing is that had I not started this blog, judging by the response of our neighbours on our block to our presence here, I would have felt quite welcome, even appreciated. But by the same token, this blog has also allowed me to explore, enjoy, and get to know our neighbourhood in a way that I never would have otherwise.

I received more physical threats this week for being an Asian newcomer with a white partner living in Bed-Stuy and documenting our experience here with words and photographs. Having known of a few white people in Bed-Stuy who've been physically attacked simply for the colour of their skin, although this week's hater said she was 'just kidding,' I cannot help but take these threats quite seriously. Although I haven't decided whether to take this matter to the police, I've done what others suggested and documented the threats. I've also been counseled not to blog about this, as a I have a child, and my post might anger them further. Also that I should just ignore them and they'll go away. But will they? Because gentrification is going to continue and I don't imagine people being any happier about it. Besides someone in the room needs to talk about the enormous animal breathing down our necks, trumpeting loudly and making huge turds on the living room carpet.

It's not so long ago in America's history that black people were lynched, made to sit at the back of the bus, use separate entrances and bathrooms, and were not allowed to vote. Today, although people of all colours have elected a black man to be the president of the United States, it seems that instead of decreasing, racial tensions are on the rise. I cannot comprehend how people who've been persecuted for having black skin would do the same to those with white, yellow or any other colour skin. And feel justified in doing so. Unless like the idea of original sin, all white people now and future generations must pay for the sins of their ancestors. Or for the past and present sins of the KKK. Bigotry, homophobia, wars over religion, I don't understand the reason for any of it. Big Joe and I have done our very best to not only get to know our neighbours but to improve our neighbourhood for the good of everyone who lives here, black, white, Asian, Latino, long time residents or newcomers. And yet some people hate us so much, that a fellow neighbourhood blogger and other anonymous emailers threaten to mug my family, throw eggs at our house, and incite people to 'scare them (us) to the Upper West Side.'

I understand rage. I've been plenty angry myself. And I don't deny that there are affluent gentrifiers who come into poorer neighbourhoods, take and take and take and give nothing back. But Gandhi's statement, 'an eye for an eye and the whole world goes blind,' couldn't be more true. Six generations ago, my ancestors took a boat from China and landed in Indonesia. There, they intermarried with Indonesians and had children. However, many Indonesians did not want the Chinese in their country. And riots against the Chinese resulted in the sixties (and happened again as recently as 1996-98 where there were mass rapes of Chinese women) My parents fled this violence in 1966 and after a brief stint in Germany, tried to come to the U.S. Only as they had no money, the U.S. didn't want them either. Canada, however, had recently revised their racist immigration policy, and let them in. I could hate and rally against all of them, in defense of 'my people,' but what would that serve? What does hate bring but more hate?

It seems ironic that having grown up in an all white suburb and having felt like an outsider, feeling ugly for not being blond and blue-eyed, being picked on, made fun of, been spat on, and had rocks thrown at me for being Asian, that I would end up living here. In a mostly black neighbourhood. Being once again, the outsider. To be looked upon with disgust, hatred and anger because I'm not black. To be worried about the welfare of my family and friends in this neighbourhood because of the colour of their skin.

I moved to New York because I felt accepted here. As an artist. As someone who didn't fit into the all American norm. As a geek and a freak. Here I didn't feel quite so different. So weird. I believe that Bed-Stuy is a microcosm of New York City, with all its quirks, energy, personalities, violence and love, beauty and ugliness. And yet I don't feel accepted in Bed-Stuy. But I most certainly don't want to live on the mostly white Upper West Side or Park Slope for that matter, and could not afford to if I did. And let me reiterate once more, I don't. I love New York for its diversity, its mix of cultures and ethnicities, including my own (which I also blog about, but unfortunately do not have the time to post on as regularly as I do on this one.) I would be interested in living in Manhattan's Chinatown, but I can't afford that either. Besides Chinese people look at me, not knowing Mandarin or Cantonese or hardly any more about their culture than I do about black culture, as much as an 'other' as some black people in Bed-Stuy do. Being a mutt, I don't feel like I belong in any homogeneous neighbourhood of any race.

When Big Joe first started looking for an affordable house to buy five years ago, he searched all over Brooklyn. Brokers and real estate agents laughed at him when he told them his price range. We almost ended up in Bushwick, there was a house there he was considering but it needed too much work and was not immediately livable. Then I would have been 'Bushwick Banana' and I've a feeling that the racial tensions over blogging about that neighbourhood may have been considerably less. But who knows. Here we are in Bed-Stuy and here we are to stay. For better or for worse. Hopefully for the better. We own property here. We are raising our child here. We've invested in Bed-Stuy and we want it to be a safer, cleaner, greener place to live, but we'd also like to be a welcome addition to its vibrant community. Whether or not this is possible, remains to be seen.

At any rate, I think that the other adage, 'the best revenge is to be happy,' is the answer to both my and my non-fans' complaints. So in the meantime, I'll just work on my own rage and resentment issues, and strive for inner peace and contentment and leave other peoples' issues alone.

Money, Money, Money

Big Joe and I have been stressing so much about money, or rather, lack of money these days, that we're losing sleep and fighting. And sometimes losing sleep because we're fighting. But then I saw this sign (the dead flora in the front of it only adds to its appeal) and everything changed. I started receiving more Publisher's Clearinghouse checks in the mail, I won a dollar on my two dollar scratch and win card, and some other third thing as SpongeBob would say. Now we're living large. Bringing Little Joe to preschool in a cab instead of the train. Getting season tickets at the opera. Flying first class to Berlin for Christmas holidays. But seriously, this evening's list to Santa looks something like this:

1. Warm shoes that don't leak and have a decent grip on ice that look good and will last longer than a year with daily wear.
2. Several pairs of non-scratchy wool socks.
3. A gallon of Grade B maple syrup.
4. Something new and attractive to wear so that getting dressed in the morning isn't a matter of just pulling on whatever's warmest and avoiding the mirror on the way out.
5. A job I don't hate.
6. A creative job I love that fits in the hours that my son is in preschool.
7. More sleep.
8. Peace of mind.

Or maybe just number eight. Number eight would be great. Well, that and the job wouldn't hurt either. Three and four are just luxury items, totally unnecessary. The maple syrup is something we used to buy regularly until we really had to start counting our pennies. Just the shoes. The socks. The job. Sleep. And peace.

"Parent Friendly" Holiday Benefit

One of the fancy rooms at Deity Lounge

I received an email today for yet another holiday benefit. But I find this one particularly interesting in that it's parent-friendly (during the late afternoon and kids are welcome) and that it takes place in such a swank looking bar that it seems as though kids would be anything but welcome. But most importantly it raises money for homeless mothers and their children at a transitional shelter in Bed-Stuy. As a mother myself, I'm rather partial to this one. Here's the info:

Please join us this Saturday (dec 20) 4 to 8PM at Deity (368 Atlantic Ave) for a family Holiday Party :)..... There will be dancing, face painting, and fun for the kids (and a cash bar for the parents and adults :)... Please help spread the word to family and friends. My friend Jr. Bourne will be deejaying reggae, hip hop, r&b and classics and we'll be taking donations for the *Rose M. Kennedy Shelter, to provide homeless mothers and their children with some light and love this holiday season. I know there's about a million holiday parties going on in the next week, but ours is one of the few you can bring your kids and family to :) and still go out later and party some more...

here's the facebook invitation links (feel free to add guests :)
http://www.facebook.com/home. php#/event.php?eid= 39750612943&ref=mf

*The Rose F. Kennedy Family Center in Bedford Stuyvesant is our transitional residence for homeless, pregnant and parenting young women and their children. This is a 24 hour year long facility. Since its opening, the Center has served hundreds of women and children. Most residents struggle with a multitude of obstacles as they strive for self-sufficiency, independence and dignity. Program participants come from low socio-economic status, most do not have a high school diploma and many struggle with basic literacy skills. Many also report long histories of physical abuse, domestic violence, addiction and depression.

Mystery Bag

Do Not Remove

Hmm. Plain paper bag shopping bag with handles sitting on top of regular paper bag in otherwise empty front yard with a simple command. What could this mean? What could possibly be in such a mysterious package? Christmas gifts? Rat poison? Explosives? And what should one do if one should see a bag labeled in this way on the subway? Say something? Or just follow the instructions? I mean the words are written in decorative silver marker, how dangerous could it be?

Urban Wildlife - 2 - Creepy Crawly

Around the tail end of summer Little Joe, his best friend Daisy, Daisy's mom and I were walking back from a playdate at a playground in Bushwick and passed a mattress on the sidewalk with the sign: WARNING! BED BUGS! Daisy's mom and I leaped about 10 feet sideways into the street, and I felt itchy for several nights afterward. Although it was in Bushwick, it was a short walk from our houses. Much too close for comfort. Unlike the rest of New York, Bed-Stuy has luckily managed to avoid the bedbug epidemic. Only recently we found the above flyers papering every single post over several blocks on the southern end of our hood. Either this means those nasty creepy crawlies have finally invaded or the problem is totally under control.

I don't know which exterminator I'd choose however. The top one is bilingual in Spanish and English has some nifty little illustrations (I especially like the cozy snoring bug in bed on the left), will do your apartment for only $100 and has 'The Cure.' While the one below has a catchy name with discounts for senior citizens and a more personal vibe. However, I thought that once you had bedbugs you had them forever. Oh boy, just thinking about it has me scratching all over again...

Holiday Shopping Benefit

Another neighbourhood fundraiser and an opportunity to do your Christmas shopping and help out a local charity at the same time:

Brooklyn Indie Market Partners with St. John's Bread and Life for a
Holiday Shopping Benefit -- Weekend of December 20th and 21st

*Brooklyn Indie Market, a collective of fashion and product designers based in Brooklyn, will donate 15- 20% of its proceeds from sales (which will be doubled by a matching grant from Independence Community Foundation) during the weekend of December 20th and 21st, 11-7pm. ** St. John's Bread and Life is Brooklyn's largest emergency food provider. Members of the market gather to sell items each weekend at Smith and Union Streets in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn.

The shopping event will be part of Bread and Life's "Give Where You Live Campaign," which seeks to involve the local Brooklyn community in charitable programs. The organization provides meals to more than 1,500 people each day both at its location on Lexington Avenue in Bedford Stuyvesant and via its Mobile Soup Kitchen which makes deliveries throughout Brooklyn and Queens. In addition to sales at the market, local designers, artists and merchants have donated prizes to be raffled off during the December 20/21 weekend, including designer clothing and accessories, art, dinners and bottles of wine. Donations will help Bread and Life reduce poverty and hunger, which affects one in five of every New Yorker.

*Brooklyn Indie Market is a collective of fashion and product designers. Emerging Designers converge weekends under the red and white striped tent on Smith & Union Street, offering the public a first glimpse of the many new names in fashion and product design. Visit Brooklyn Indie Market at www.brooklynindiemarket.com.

**St. John's Bread and Life is the largest provider of emergency food services in this area. Besides serving more than 1,500 meals daily, Bread and Life also provides an array of social services, including nutrition counseling, housing referral services, medical support, education, support groups and a legal clinic. You can learn more about St. John's unique Digital Food Pantry and other innovations by visiting Bread & Life online at www.breadandlife.org or calling a real person at 718-574-0058, ext 145 to speak with Dorothy Kellogg.

Purple Passion

My aunt is so in love with the colour purple that she painted and decorated her entire apartment in this colour. Clearly, these people share her purple passion.

Drive For the Stuy

Even though we're tightening our belts and counting our pennies in this economic downturn, we can still spare food or a gently used coat for those who are hungry and cold, and some of us can donate even more. In the spirit of giving, come to "Drive For the Stuy," bring 3 cans of food or a coat and enjoy some great music:

Arise Collective presents "Drive for the Stuy," a fundraiser event in partnership with the Bed Stuy Campaign Against Hunger to be held on December 19th at the St. Phillips Episcopal Church in Bed Stuy, Brooklyn. "Drive for the Stuy" is a food and clothing drive event that will feature an evening of live hip-hop, dancing, spoken word, live grafitti, and a silent auction.

Hosted by Toni Blackman: United States Hip Hop Ambassador

Lineup includes:

DJ Chela
DJ Scandeles
DJ Ace of Spades
Von Pea (from Tanya Morgan
Che Grand
Spec Boogie
Elucid
Hasan Salaam
IconTheMicKing
Calvin Booker (from the FELA! Broadway musical)
Bless Roxwell
Blacastan Misnomer (s)
ATLas Rosetta Stoned

Closing ceremony with Gerry Chisolm
Live Grafitti by MERES (5POINTZ)
Food Courtesy of Malcom X Pizza

All proceeds go to Bed Stuy Campaign Against Hunger

Date: Friday, December 19, 2008
Time: 7:00pm - 11:30pm
Location: St. Phillips Episcopal Church Street: 334 MacDonough St. on the Decatur side
Cost: FREE with 3 cans of food or coat donation, $7 without

Please contact nora@audibletreats.com for more information.

The Brits Are Coming...

No actually, they've arrived! Will this gentrification hell never end?

A Message for All Seasons

PEACE

For the young lady who calls me her 'nemesis,' I offer the Loving Kindness Meditation (there are many ways ways to express this. The following is from a meditation by Stephen Levine:

May you be free of suffering.

May you be happy.

May you love and be loved.

May you find the healing that you seek.

May you find peace.

Urban Gravestones - 19

RIP MARIO
Location: Lewis Ave + Macon

12/23/06 IN LOVING MEMORY OF MR. WILLIE GREEN
YOU WILL TRULY BE MISSED BUT NOT FORGOTTEN
Location: Tompkins Ave. (between Lafayette and Van Buren)

The Best Fucking President

I'm afraid I wasn't even aware of who Bed-Stuy's congress person was until I had to study for the citizenship test. I'm still not all that familiar with Edolphus "Ed" Towns except for his name, which he clearly would like to link in our minds with our president elect. Aside from this I especially like the old Unity Democratic Club sign to the right of the banner.

It seems that not only is the election of Barack Obama historically significant because of his race, but he seemed to touch people of all ethnicities to their very core, they've taken him into their homes and their hearts. As Miss Heather noted, I hope he doesn't disappoint us. But with the economic downturn and the mess Bush left us in Iraq, he's got quite a lot to deal with - and despite some of the near religious fervour that sprung up around him, he is human.

When I first saw these t-shirts adorning this person's windows, I thought, hmm, who's got delusions of grandeur? But it seems that aside from this gentleman in North Carolina who's looking for anyone who "likes to party," "I Am Barack Obama" was (or is?) "grassroots campaign designed to promote REAL change by raising money for Senator Barack Obama's presidential campaign and to provide aid to Kenya, African in response to its current humanitarian crisis."

While waiting two hours in a social services agency waiting room this week, I observed the following exchange, after watching something that was playing on CNN on the overhead t.v., between two men in their forties who were also impatiently waiting. At first I thought they were arguing because of the arm waving and vehemence and volume at which they were speaking, but it turned out they were actually in agreement:

Light-skinned Puerto Rican man: Obama is going to be the best fucking president we ever had!

Black man w/goatee: But where's the money?

P.R. man: He is! He's going to make a name for himself. You'll see!

Black man: But where's the money?

P.R. man: Bush stole five trillion dollars from the people! He took the money to rebuild Iraq.

Black man: I work for NJ transit, look what I gotta do now! Get food stamps!

P.R. man: Bush robbed us man!

Black man: Without a gun!

Size Matters

Richard got C Cups Bra's

I just love this graffiti because it's so specific. Not Richard got boobs but "c cups."

Along with hundreds, maybe thousands of recently unemployed New Yorkers, I've been poring over the jobs on Craigslist. This graffiti reminds me of an ad I discovered today, that I'm afraid neither Richard nor I are qualified for:

Seeking freelance fit model meeting the following criteria to work on an ongoing basis for a startup ladies’ shirt manufacturer:

Bust: DD or DDD (maximum of 6” difference between apex and band)
Pant size: 10
Height: 5’4” to 5’6”

Kindly email your measurements and rate for consideration. Experience preferred, but in the absence of experience, please be able to clearly articulate your observations regarding fit.

So this start up company's only making shirts for women with enormous boobs. Interesting. Especially the last part, experience not required, just be able to describe your enormous boobs clearly. C'mon. What's this ad for really?

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas...

This house doesn't need any Christmas decorations, it even has snowflake ironwork.

In the four years I've lived in Bed-Stuy, these are the first real trees I've seen for sale in our hood. I don't know if it's just because I've been looking in the wrong parts of Bed-Stuy (we usually end up buying our tree in Manhattan and carrying it home on the subway), or if this is a sign of gentrification. This small selection of non-plastic trees can be found at Macon Hardware Store, on the northwest corner of Macon and Marcus Garvey Boulevard.

Nothing says Christmas quite like Snoopy and Mickey Mouse.

I was surprised to discover this holly tree. I thought holly only grew on bushes, low to the ground, not sprouting from a skinny trunk like a big puffy yet prickly afro.

A closer view.

This snowman looks like he's being held up at gunpoint.

Seeing as many of us, the Bed-Stuy Banana family included, are having tough times financially, Christmas may be causing more stress than usual. In our family, the money's going towards Little Joe's presents and the Christmas tree, while Big Joe and I will just enjoy the non-alcoholic spirit of the season. Also there's a great list of diy gifts in this past weekend's Guardian newspaper that I'm planning on trying if I can only find the time...

Black is Beautiful

Wikipedia has a comprehensive entry on the phrase, "Black is beautiful." And with the recent election, this statement from the 1960's is fresh and new again. So much so, that Proctor and Gamble are making money off of it with this year's ad campaign. Meanwhile, at the Brooklyn Museum, is the Black List Project, an exhibit of portraits by photographer Timothy Greenfield-Sanders, "a documentary project that explores being Black in America," (on until March 29, 2009.)

Message of the Day - It's Nice...

IT'S NICE... TO BE NICE
Try it Sometime!
(and while you're at it...)
LOWER YOUR MUSIC AND CURB YOUR DOG

Murals: From Octopus to Headless Handyman

Boy's Room

This discarded door was lying in someone's front yard. Looks like the 'boy's room' isn't a safe place to be. Someone has some anger issues. Hey wait, that's me with the anger issues. Fortunately I'm dealing with them now, how I wish I hadn't been in denial and had dealt with them 15 years ago. Ah well, as they say, better late than later.

Speaking of boys, it's been interesting and difficult watching my son learn to socialize on the school playground after being isolated with adults the first four years of his life. He's growing a thicker skin which is a good thing. Only he's painfully sensitive (no surprise, considering his parents' over-sensitivity) and he's the runt of his class. The other day I watched as four of his classmates, a whole head taller than him, ganged up and took turns pushing him on the ground, running away and laughing. He wasn't hurt, fortunately the playground is covered in that weird squishy rubber coating. But watching him be degraded like that made my insides turn. I wanted so badly to run over and yell at those other boys, but I restrained myself. I didn't think it would help, that it might make them pick on him even more. Besides he needs to learn to deal with this thing on his own. Also, he didn't seem too bothered by it all, so what was the point of me making a big deal out of it? I just didn't expect this kind of thing to happen at this age. I thought maybe later, when he's eight or nine. I naively thought preschoolers are pretty loving to one another except if they have to share toys. Yeah, right.

And then, afterwards, I didn't know what to tell him. Push back? An eye for an eye? Ignore them? Certainly not 'turn the other cheek'? What's the answer? And then all my childhood memories of being, not picked on so much, but isolated and ignored. I didn't want to throw my feelings into the mix. And my parents always calling me a crybaby. Which is something I can't believe that I sometimes say to Little Joe, "Stop crying, there's nothing to cry about." Denying the validity of his feelings. That's just wrong, especially when that was something I'd hated having done to me. This parenting thing is so tricky. The good thing is, as Big Joe pointed out, is it makes us feel more sympathetic to our own parents and the mistakes they made.

*12/7/08 After doing some internet research, it turns out I probably should have calmly intervened or at least brought it up with him afterwards and discussed what to do instead of waiting for him to say something to me . Here's some good links on what to do if you child is being bullied, on Education.com and Parentingbookmark.com.

Car Culture - 6

This all women SUV club was visiting Bed-Stuy from neighbouring Brownsville. These car owners have a strong community and have been written about in the Village Voice.

Traffic cone advertising.

Not ever being much of a car buff, my car knowledge is limited to recognition by colour. In a large parking lot I can only ever find the vehicle I arrived in by memorizing the license plate. Usually, my measure of whether a car is worth photographing is the approving nods from Big Joe. He seemed less than interested in this one, but I still like it.

Although the sign says 24 hour active driveway, considering the condition of the path it looks like the most action it gets is if there's a fault line beneath it.

Love this three wheeler.

And a classic Cadillac for all the car loving men in my life.

Autumn Colours

Basic Instincts

Bad Girls Club on Oxygen

So I was walking with my son down the subway stairs at Bowery in Manhattan the other day when he stopped cold, staring at this poster in wide-eyed wonder. "Those are beautiful ladies!" he sighed. "I wish they were my family." Now I think this meant that if they were family he'd get to see them everyday. Funny though, whenever I see this poster I think 'skanky hos.' But I suppose to the typical testosterone filled male, and to my son, although only four, who might be one of them, they are 'beautiful ladies.' Is it the childbearing hips and big boobs for breastfeeding? Or perhaps it's the sparkly necklaces and shiny satin dresses. Little Joe has a thing for sequins and pink. Once again, my kid made my day.

Muslim Neighbours

I can't read this but it looks like a memorial.

Local elections.

A lesser known mosque.

On eating halal from IFANCA:

All foods are considered halal except the following, which are haram:

• Swine/pork and its by-products
• Animals improperly slaughtered or dead before slaughtering
• Animals killed in the name of anyone other than ALLAH (God)
• Alcohol and intoxicants
• Carnivorous animals, birds of prey and land animals without external ears
• Blood and blood by-products
• Foods contaminated with any of the above products

Foods containing ingredients such as gelatin, enzymes, emulsifiers, etc. are questionable (mashbooh) because the origin of these ingredients is not known.

Regarding the mosque on the corner of Fulton and Bedford, from Saudi Aramco World:

When Wahhaj (founder of Masjid at-Taqwa) first scouted out the Bedford Avenue location, the neighborhood had not a single Muslim-owned shop. Now, there is a local “Muslim economy,” with clothing, food and book stores as well as vendors who sell prayer rugs, incense and oils, skullcaps and videos and DVD’s of Muslim teachings on makeshift display tables outside the mosque. After services, clusters of congregants gather under the awning of the Halal Restaurant, whose sign reads “No More Junk, Eat Healthy.”

“There are more Muslims here than ever before, especially Africans and Bangladeshis,” Wahhaj explains. Nearly all the mosque’s early congregants were African–American, he says, but today, African–Americans, white Americans and Hispanic Americans total just 40 percent of the congregation: The majority are immigrants from Afghanistan, Egypt, Bangladesh, Sudan, Palestine, Pakistan, Guinea, Senegal, Somalia and other places.

More on Imam Siraj Wahhaj and the Masjid at-Taqwa, from the book American Islam: The Struggle for the Soul of a Religion by Paul Barrett:

There may be no better place to take the measure of African-American Islam today than at Masjid At-Taqwa in Brooklyn, N.Y. Formerly a clothing store, then a junkies' shooting gallery, Taqwa sits at the busy intersection of Fulton Street and Bedford Avenue. In the mid-nineteenth century, free blacks had helped settle the area, now known as Bedford-Stuyvesant. In the 1930s, a new subway line from Manhattan encouraged African-Americans to move to the neighborhood from a crowded and deteriorating Harlem. As the number of blacks in Bedford-Stuyvesant tripled over the next three decades, most whites fled for the suburbs. Housing projects and crime went up; businesses disappeared. Today some blocks are starting to gentrify, but much of the area remains bleak....

The crowd fell silent as Wahhaj reached the minbar, a small wooden platform with a carved roof. He picked up the microphone and solemnly offered prayers in Arabic and English. When he had finished, he paused, looked down for a moment, and then smiled confidently. He began his homily: As a result of embracing Islam, he declared, "I'm a better husband, a better father, a better son to my parents." He extolled the religion's power to reform individuals and entire communities. He acknowledged the 'long line of brothers who came out of prison' having converted behind bars. Twenty-five years earlier, drugs and crime poisoned the blocks around the mosque, he said. Then Muslims chased away the dealers and their clientele. Islam became the dominant presence on the corner of Fulton and Bedford. Five times a day, the call to prayer, chanted in Arabic and amplified through loudspeakers, competes with the traffic noise. Vendors sell Islamic audiotapes from rickety folding tables on the sidewalk. Previously neglected buildings have been repaired, legitimate businesses have returned. "When Islam came, it became a better area," Wahhaj exulted. "I want this area to be an oasis in the midst of a desert."

And from a 1989 article in the NY Times:

''Eighty-five to 90 percent of our converts are black,'' said Dawud Assad, president of the Council of Masajid (plural of mosque in Arabic) of the United States, whose business card is printed in green and white, the colors of the prophet Mohammed: white to symbolize purity, and green, paradise.

The Islam that American blacks are embracing is a far cry from the nationalistic and often violent Black Muslim faith espoused by Elijah Muhammad and Malcolm X in the 1960's. Rejecting the separatism of that era, blacks today are joining a mainstream faith that they say gives them discipline and a sense of history in a time of turmoil. Nurtured on the pluralistic values of the United States, their leaders say that they are unthreatened by ''The Satanic Verses,'' the book by Salman Rushdie, and reject the call to seek revenge against him.

''That's madness, that's not Islam,'' said Imam Siraj Wahhaj, the head of Masjid At-Taqwa, a mosque at the corner of Bedford Avenue and Fulton Street in Bedford-Stuyvesant. The Islamic way to counter a ''bad book,'' as Imam Wahhaj characterized Mr. Rushdie's work, ''is to compete with it, write a good book about Islam.''

''The way of Islam is peace and tolerance,'' he added.

And to the question, "What I want to know is: Why haven't these American Muslims you write about denounced terrorism?" author Paul Barrett replies in Salon.com:

More than five years after the attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, many Americans still want to know why they haven't heard Muslims in the U.S. issue louder, clearer condemnations of terrorism. Muslim Americans who attend my readings often counter, sometimes with great emotion, that they have repeatedly denounced terrorism but that non-Muslims don't listen.

But this disconnect may not stem entirely from a failure to listen. It may also have to do with the way American Muslims have condemned terrorism. Specifically, until recently, Muslim leaders often added caveats to their condemnations that robbed them of real force.

From an article in the NY Daily News, "Experts say the majority of the 2 million-plus African-American Muslims today follow Sunni teachings - the Nation of Islam is thought to have fewer than 50,000 members."

Black Muslims on one end of our hood, Hasidic Jews on the other, a history of racial strife, and now a declining economy, throw some white hipster, punk, and yuppie gentrifiers into the mix, is it any wonder there's conflict in Bed-Stuy?