Diary of a Fab Black Woman

Racism 'happens': Inexplicable events haunt GOP primary - Opinion - Al Jazeera English

2012-01-22T06:11:00.001-05:00

I read this amazingly insightful piece on Al Jazeera. As an American living abroad, I have had opportunity to see my country placed in a larger context. It's been an incredibly important experience in my life. This article explains one reason why.

Racism 'happens': Inexplicable events haunt GOP primary - Opinion - Al Jazeera English

Weapon of Mass Cultural Destruction

2010-05-01T05:56:00.017-04:00

Shortly after Hurricane Katrina pummeled parts of New Orleans and the Gulf Coast region, I was part of a panel discussion hosted by the New York City bar association to talk about whether New Orleans Lower Ninth Ward should be redeveloped. Like it was yesterday, I can remember my temperature rising as one of my fellow-panelists suggested that for the sake of restoring the ecology of the area, the Lower Ninth Ward should not be rebuilt. I squarely disagreed with him.

New Orleans is a place of unique American history, and this is not just because of the music or food or the French influence, although these things are indeed remarkable. New Orleans is also historically significant because it was an important port in the Atlantic slave trade, while at the same time free blacks, many of whom were educated and owned property, were permitted to live in society, unrestricted, with whites and enslaved people. Nowhere else in the antebellum South was this sort of co-mingling tolerated. This societal richness provided the setting that facilitated the development of New Orleans' famous lavish culture of food, music, and joie de vivre. This is not just history of the region and not just black history. It is American history. The inadequate levee system that led to the flooding of the Lower Ninth Ward was not just an assault on the people who were immediately impacted, and it was not just an assault on New Orleans. It was an assault on our American history and culture. Many people, particularly my fellow environmentalists, may disagree with me on this point, but I believe the Lower Ninth Ward should be restored and protected with an effective levee system. Rebuilding is the right thing to do in the interest as all of us who have taken proud ownership of New Orleans and its special role in our nation's history.

I feel the similarly about the way the war in Iraq led to the permanent destruction of cultural artifacts in that region. The archeological artifacts found in the ancient Mesopotamia region lying between the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers, partially in Iraq, are a part of world history. Our world cultural resources took another hit this week when the Turkish government approved the controversial Ilisu hydroelectric dam on the upper reaches of Tigris River, inundating the ancient town of Hasankeyf near the Turkish-Iraqi border and destroying more than 200 Muslim and Christian archeological sites, only 20 percent of which have been surveyed. We all should be outraged.

For weeks leading up to the final decision to approve this project, the second largest dam in Turkey, Kurds and human rights activists in Europe staged protests to bring attention to this proposed dam, in no small part due to the fact that Kurdish communities in Turkey would be disproportionately impacted by the flooding. In total, as many as 78,000 people may be displaced.

Adding insult to injury, the Turkish government, which approved the dam in spite of an astounding 20 years of sustained opposition, has committed to building a new town for the displaced residents and a cultural theme park for tourists. The region identified for the new town, near the towns of Batman and Diyarbakir, is a region where there has been a good deal of recent unrest between Kurds and security forces. I can understand the many reasons why people find this alternative unsuitable.

Of course, water politics is a tricky business under the best of circumstances. Just look at southern California where about half of its water comes from the Colorado River, hundreds of miles away. The rights to Colorado River water are, indeed, controversial and worth a lot of money if you think about southern California's notorious droughts and the risks they pose to a highly profitable regional economy. Disputes of water rights can, no doubt, be as volatile as disputes over oil. The Ilisu dam is expected to play a key role in supplying water to the entire Middle East, including parts of Israel.

Even in the hypothetical absence of the issue of unique archeological treasures, should the Kurdish people of Turkey, people without a national identity, be expected to sacrifice their homes on demand? Is it just for Turkey (and for that matter business entities in Britain, Switzerland, and Austria who will be doing the actual construction, financial, and engineering work) to make money off the backs of this Kurdish community? I certainly wouldn't want to see this happen to my hometown.

I am not sure of the answers. Admittedly, it is a complex issue, and as an outsider, an American living in Germany, I'm certainly not the most competent person to come up with the best answers.

I will, however, take this moment to quote my favorite t-shirt. It was sold as a part of a 90's era campaign to retain affirmative action at California's public colleges and universities, a battle that was, sadly, lost long ago. It is quoted from a letter written by the American author James Baldwin to civil rights activist Angela Davis who was in jail at the time. Baldwin wrote with great insight, "If they take you in the morning, they will be coming for us that night."

What did Baldwin mean by this? He meant that if an injustice happens to one person, it can happen to anyone. It is happening to us all. We're in this together.

The Attack of the Icelandic Volcano

2010-04-19T08:05:00.007-04:00

Since I live in Berlin and within the travel zone directly impacted by the ongoing Icelandic volcanic activity, I thought I'd write a brief post from the trenches, so to speak.

Let me begin by saying that the sky in Berlin is a flawless spring blue for the third day in a row. We are too far from Iceland to have any visibility impacts. Likewise, there are no anticipated volcanic odors or respiratory impacts at this distance. Away from the pandemonium that has befallen its airports, life is normal and pleasant here in Berlin. (Icelanders, unfortunately, have a distinctly more calamitous story to tell.)

My sister and her husband, who live in Los Angeles, happen to be stranded in Paris. If money is no issue, Paris is one of the better places to be stranded. True. Nevertheless, the volcanic ash problem coupled with a strike that shut down rail travel in France last week forced some travelers to resort to wildly circuitous and expensive alternatives. A business colleague of my brother-in-law, for example, who was trying to get from Paris back to his home in Israel resorted to the following route: (1) A 361-mile taxicab ride from Paris to Zurich followed by, (2) a 552-mile bus ride from Zurich to Rome followed by, (3) a fairly standard, hopefully unremarkable flight from Rome to Tel Aviv.

I continue to sit next to the radio to hear the ongoing BBC broadcasts concerning the situation, and I sit next to the phone with the vague hope that my sister and her husband will call to say they've been advised to take some ridiculous trajectory to Los Angeles through Berlin, a mere 425 miles in the wrong direction.

Indeed, as the days of uncertainty languish, European travel and commerce becomes further lodged in this unprecedented bizarre state of chaos. For the sake of my sister and her husband, for the sake of the environment and the health of Icelanders, for the sake of the global economy that can really do without another big setback, I hope the crisis abates soon.

My experience with the "public option"

2010-02-05T16:08:00.004-05:00

I am an American who has for the past year been a legal resident of Germany. As a legal resident, I am required to have health insurance in order to receive and maintain my residency visa. My husband and I have the so-called "public option," which here inGermany is often regarded as the best available. As the U.S. Congress and the White House struggle to agree on ways to improve what has been called the worst healthcare system in the industrialized world, I thought I might offer up my experience with private health insurance in the U.S. and the public-private insurance system here in Germany.

I begin with the brief story of an Australian classmate of mine in my German language class who was hospitalized for a week in a German hospital. After a week full of medical services, which included a battery of tests required to diagnose her and determine her course of treatment, she was released. She opened her wallet as she was leaving and asked nervously, "how much?" The hospital representative smiled and said to her, "You must be American." My classmate replied that no, she was in fact Australian. The hospital rep said, "Oh. We get this question all the time from Americans. You don't owe us anything. It was our pleasure to serve you."

My Australian friend had health insurance, and that insurance information was probably collected when she was admitted to the hospital. Her visit was not free, it was paid for entirely by her insurance. Nevertheless, she remarked how nice it was to have her insurance cover her entire visit and how nice it was for her to be able to return to her apartment to complete her recovery without having to worry about a bill coming in the mail.

When we landed here a year ago, in part as a more affordable place to ride out the global financial recession, our health insurance in the U.S. had lapsed. In Germany, it is illegal to not have health insurance. However, we were determined to get the public option because my husband who was born and raised here had it as a child (long before the privatization of healthcare), and my husband's family had advised us that it was the highest quality insurance available in Germany. The hitch was, as I understood it, if we were ever at any point covered by private health insurance, we would not be eligible for the public option. Our American health insurance didn't count against us, since only private insurance is offered in the U.S.

We played it fast and loose with no insurance in Germany for about a month while we negotiated with the public insurance company. There were questions about how my husband had been insured when he lived in the Netherlands and Switzerland. And, of course, there were income questions. The public option is based on a sliding scale of affordability. And if you can't afford it, the government will pay. We had no proof of income at the time, and that factor made things a bit of a challenge.

During this month, I ran out of a medication I take daily. In the U.S., a 30-day supply of this medication would cost $450 without health insurance. I knew from experience when a momentary glitch in my health insurance led me to believe that I would have to shell out that shocking price from my own pocket. Fortunately, the problem was resolved. But knowing the cost in America worried my husband and me that we would have to pay the same in Germany. We managed to get our health insurance coverage by phone, but we hadn't been issued our cards yet. My husband went to the pharmacy with the prescription that a doctor had been kind enough to give me without proof of insurance. The pharmacy apologized and told us we'd have to pay full price without proof of insurance and seek reimbursement from our health insurance. Without asking them the price, my husband came home asking me how much I thought he should take out of the ATM. €450? Really? He trudged back to the pharmacy. Again apologizing, they asked for the full price. "That'll be €25, but you can get that back from the insurance company." We were shocked. The retail price was about the same (notwithstanding the exchange rate between the U.S. dollar and the euro) as our co-pay in America.

When we finally got our insurance cards, we learned the system works like this:

Every calendar quarter, we are required to pay a co-pay of €10 to the first doctor we see. That doctor, in turn, is the doctor who writes our referrals for the that quarter -- no questions asked. We can see any doctor we'd like, and that quarterly €10 is our only co-pay throughout the course of the year.
Our prescriptions are for the most part free. I don't entirely understand the prescription part, but on rare occasions we have to pay, typically under €5.
Our monthly premium for two people is around €250, which employers are required by law to pay. Since my husband and I are freelancers, we pay this on our own. That's €3,000 per year, and it includes basic dental. By contrast, friends of mine in the U.S. who are also self-employed have received a quote of $2,000 per month for two people or $24,000 per year.

Hospitalization is covered entirely. Emergency rooms (which we've already used) are covered. Alternative treatments such as acupuncture and doctor-prescribed massage or physical therapy are covered.

I should also dispel the rumor that public health insurance creates long lines of people waiting hours for treatment. I have seen many doctors in the last year, and I have never had to wait. The system runs very efficiently. The one time I've had to see a doctor without an appointment, the receptionist told me I'd have to wait until the doctor had a break in his schedule. That ended up being about 15 minutes.

Admittedly, I have no experience with private health insurance in Germany. But with the strict limits on who is eligible for the public option, my sense is that the private health insurance market is thriving.

It saddens me to see the debate around healthcare in the U.S. People like my friends I mentioned earlier -- hard-working, educated people who own their own home, pay taxes and who want to pay for health insurance -- should be able to afford health insurance. The U.S. system is miserably broken.

I want to live in a country where I know I can afford to be sick should that happen, without my having to worry about losing a home or having to go without treatment. Unfortunately, right now my own country is failing to provide that basic comfort. Americans should not be forced to look beyond our own borders for reasonably priced healthcare, whether we resort to looking next door to Canada or across the Atlantic to Germany. Healthcare is a problem that can be fixed or at the very least greatly improved. Congress needs to stop the fear-mongering and help us achieve a healthcare system that is a successful model to which other countries aspire rather than seen globally as disaster to be avoided.

Obama and the Dresden Zoo

2009-07-14T08:45:00.011-04:00

The controversy swarming around the Dresden Zoo naming a primate after U.S. President Barack Obama, conjures the memory of a similar uproar earlier this year when the New York Post published a cartoon by Sean Delonas of two police officers shooting a chimpanzee with the caption, “They’ll have to find someone else to write the next stimulus bill.” Like so many others, I interpreted this cartoon as a bigoted suggestion that President Obama is a primate – an animal of less than human intelligence. Huffington Post writer Sam Stein explained the implication concisely in his February 18, 2009 piece -- the cartoon implies “the [Obama] stimulus bill was so bad, monkeys may as well have written it. Others believe it compares the president to a rabid chimp."

The New York Post later issued a statement by editor Col Allan defending the publication of the cartoon as "clear parody of a current news event" that "broadly mocks Washington's efforts to revive the economy.” Out of fairness to the Post, I should also mention that days before the Post published the cartoon, police shot a chimpanzee dead after mauling a woman. The cartoon, Mr. Allan said, was a parody of this event. Ultimately, New York Post owner Rupert Murdoch apologized for the cartoon.

Regardless of the intent of the Dresden Zoo or the New York Post or its cartoonist Sean Delonas, even dancing lightly around the issue of a black man represented as a primate is like walking through a seismic zone loaded with land mines.

There is a long and tattered history around the cultural stereotype of the black man as a primate. At the root of the controversy is the notion that black people are evolutionarily and intellectually inferior to white people. Slave owners of the U.S. south conveniently used the argument that blacks were sub-human animals and apelike as a justification for ownership of black slaves as chattel and justification for of slavery, itself.

Long after the abolition of slavery in America, Charles Carroll used this idea as the central premise for his 1900 book, The Negro Beast.

These theories and sensitivities may seem like relics of a flawed belief system of the long ago past, but they are not. Last year a team of sociologists headed by UCLA social psychologist Phillip Atiba Goff released the shocking results of a series of six studies over five years on subconscious racist belief systems. In sum, through word and image association tests, the researchers found that study subjects were overwhelmingly likely to associate the image of a black man with that of an ape. Goff’s team demonstrated that the cultural stereotype of black men as apes has survived the abolition of slavery and the election of a black U.S. president. (The blog “stuff white people do,” written by a self-described “white guy, trying to find out what that means” published a provocative opinion piece on and summary of the studies.)

The Dresden Zoo may have not known the painful history of blacks being associated with primates –humanlike but not human. Of course, these stereotypes are culture specific and do not always translate the same in a different context. In other words, a German zoo may not understand the offensive connotation that may be drawn readily in the U.S. I am willing to give the Dresden Zoo the benefit of the doubt. In fact, the intent of the zoo is not nearly as important as the subliminal assumptions evoked by naming a primate after a black man. And using these assumptions of black inferiority, intellectual and otherwise, one can easily extrapolate the potential for greater consequences.

I am happy to see that the Dresden Zoo was willing to quickly renamed its baby mandrill; and I acknowledge that naming the mandrill Obama was probably the zoo’s gesture to honor President Obama who recently visited Dresden. Nevertheless, I hope that this series of events at the Dresden Zoo is a sign that we, as a global society, are capable of vanquishing racial stereotypes for good.

The Complexion of Racism in America

2009-07-13T06:36:00.004-04:00

I went for a jog in the park today and came upon some waterfalls where kids were squealing with joy, splashing in the warm summer sun. It reminded me of the palpable excitement I felt as a child about to jump into a pool on a hot day. I’m sure anyone who liked water as a child has a similar memory.

A group of camp kids in Eastern Pennsylvania probably felt that excitement before it was abruptly choked off, and they were ejected from a private swim club. As I understand it, the group of black children from the Creative Steps Day Camp was promptly discharged from the grounds as if they had no right to be there. One child said he overheard a woman, presumably a club member, asking why all the black children were at the club. The child said the woman thought a black child might do something to her own white child. Reportedly, once the black children entered the pool, the white children abruptly exited.

Creative Steps Day Camp had paid something in the neighborhood of $2000 so its campers would have a place to swim one afternoon per week for the course of the summer. The camp’s money was returned in full after the incident.

This incident reminds me of a similar affront directed at the legendary black performer Dorothy Dandridge, who after sticking her toe into a pool at a hotel where she was performing, suffered the humiliation of the management draining the pool to avoid contaminating white swimmers. Dorothy Dandridge died in 1965, 44 years before the children from the Creative Steps Day Camp were expelled from the Valley Swim Club.

For how many more decades will black children in America be taught that they are inferior to white people?

At 47, I carry with me deep scars of racial discrimination and rejection. My first scar etched its way into my consciousness when I was five years old. I was in kindergarten. During cookie time, one of my white classmates began rummaging through a trash can so that she could eat the cookies other children had discarded. Moments after I walked over to her to warn her that those cookies were unsanitary, the teacher intervened. I remember telling my mother the story when she asked me why I had an “unsatisfactory” mark on my report card. I told her I hadn’t eaten the cookies; it was Barbara H, and the teacher blamed the wrong person.

I was in second grade the time I explained to another white classmate how the word “our” is properly pronounced; the pronunciation differed from that of the word “are.” My teacher heard the chatter in the back of the room and confronted us. When my classmate explained the nature of the discussion, the teacher told her in a hushed tone, “colored people speak differently from white people.” I sat silently in my anger, afraid to defend myself to the authority figure that was my grossly mistaken teacher.

I shared these stories over brunch with my husband, and I felt my eyes well with tears. My stomach felt numb, still all these years later.

Just as these childhood experiences in the 60’s and 70’s misshaped my perception of who I am today, and challenged my notions of what I am capable of achieving in life, so do these experiences negatively impact the children of the Creative Steps Day Camp. They are as helpless now as I was then.

For years I was functioning naively under the illusion that the burst of racial and ethnic diversity showered on the U.S. over the last few decades had morphed U.S. society into a place of racial tolerance. Even as I was experiencing racism in school, my classes in my elementary school in Western Pennsylvania taught me how America was a wonderful melting pot of cultures. Through my pain, I was proud of that America.

My pride for America quickly dissipated into disappointment years later when I visited with my sister in north-central Pennsylvania. We were together in a shopping mall when my three-year old niece became captivated by a little blonde girl around her age. My niece fell into what appeared to be a trance. She followed the little girl everywhere, but didn’t dare speak to her. My niece behaved as though she was not worthy of speaking to the girl. Instead, she seemed to silently worship the girl.

I mentioned my niece’s strange behavior to my sister. My sister surmised that the behavior had something to do with another little blonde girl refusing to play with my niece because, she told my three-year old niece, she was not allowed to play with black kids. I wanted to cry. Indignant, I replied, “I went through this when I was a child. This is not supposed to be happening 20 years later.” My niece was not supposed to be the same kid I was, struggling with identity, pain from within uncomfortably disguised outwardly with a smile.

Naturally, I am hoping that what happened at the Valley Swim Club will not leave a similar indelible scar on the psyche of those 65 day camp children. But beyond that, I wonder how those children can be expected to “pull themselves up by their bootstraps,” as we are taught to do as Americans, and contribute positively to our society when these children are taught at a young age that the color of their skin is a negative.

I now live in Germany where society is much more homogenously white than in the U.S. In Germany I am a minority in every sense of the word. Yet, I feel about as secure in my black skin here as I did in America. I am in a foreign country that is infamous for the basest form of racial hatred in modern history, and I don’t speak the language, and I feel as secure as I did in America. It shouldn’t add up, but it does. True, somewhere in my gut, I am always concerned that I will get on a tram and be confronted by a neo-Nazi. But in this country, I know who the villains are. The villains are the radical fringe, by definition; they have nothing in common with normal. In the U.S., on the other hand, the villains can and do pass themselves off as normal, masquerading as our school teachers and other authority figures we are taught respect. The kids from the Creative Steps Day Camp probably believe that the racists who expelled them are normal. And if those kids ever want to get anywhere in life, if they really want to pull themselves up by their boot straps, they’ve got to be accepted by these “normal” people. White people. Upper-class people. Adult people. Authority people.

Obviously, some people can squeak by with their self-worth in tact, against all odds. I am a living example. I was lucky. My niece, now 21, was lucky. Being lucky, however, does not come without deep emotional wounds and big psychotherapy bills. And do we really want to live in a society that requires children to rely on luck? I know we can do better than that.

The International Language of Black Folks

2009-03-25T10:00:00.002-04:00

I grew up in an impoverished, semi-rural town in Western Pennsylvania, an area where there are almost no black families. In fact, my father's family was the first black family to settle in our town, shortly after the dawn of the 20th Century. (Perhaps this was training for living in Berlin now, where I welcome the infrequent sight of another black face.) Today, as it was when I was a child, the population in my home town is about 8,000 people with less than 1 percent of them being black.

While living in Pennsylvania, I spent my early years bubbling with excitement at the sight of another black person, whether in real life or in television. I think many blacks who have lived in white communities know this feeling. It's sort of the feeling I get upon seeing another black person on a ski slope. (I usually jab my husband in the ribs, point and exclaim, "BLACK PEOPLE!")

I was exposed to The Language when I left Pennsylvania to attend college in Los Angeles. Los Angeles has a robust black population. But my university community did not. I attended a white, elitist university that was over-populated by wealthy white kids with expensive cars and big bank accounts. Black students tended to be rich as well or they were athletes or immigrants. I was none of these. Truly out of place, I found one cure to my social isolation was to learn to speak The Language, the silent language of blacks living in the minority among a white majority. Walking across campus, other black students would smile at me. Some would nod. And people who were fluent in this language of proud acknowledgment actually said "hello." There were always the chilly few, however, who refused to speak the language. I'm sure they had their reasons.

Traveling in South America, I found that black South Americans knew this language, even if we didn't share a spoken language. What a wonderful feeling of belonging!

[Side note: When I was older, I locked my hair. I found that within the locked hair community, there was a whole new dialect of acknowledgment (pidgeon? creole?). Like the "high" form of The Language, I quickly embraced the dialect. I miss it now that I've cut off my locks.]

Today I'm even older still, and living in Berlin. After one month here, my spoken German is hardly recognizable as anything more than gibberish with an occasional gutteral "r". That will change, of course. But finding that my beloved language of mutual blackness is alive and strong in Europe emboldened me and gave me a familiar place in Berlin society.

Overall, I have found Berliners to be wholly welcoming of me and my six-foot-tall-natural-hair-black-womanness. (I reserve comment on young fascists that I've seen but not engaged.)

When I walk into a restaurant or cafe, I am someone special. I feel as though my very presence puts an imprimatur of coolness on the establishment as well as on my German-born husband. Admittedly, this is a form of tokenism, but I will not shun being cloaked in a presumption of fashionability and trendiness. (I'll let you in on a secret: I am actually a hopeless nerd -- a black nerd, no less. Second secret: Black nerds have their own special language of recognition. Don't blow the charade fellow black nerds!)

Sum total to date: Here in Berlin, being a celebrity is not something that only lives in my head. Other people have the same misperception of me.

Conclusion: Uncertain. Right now I am enjoying what may simply be the Obama Effect. Europeans like Obama (so far at least) + I resemble Obama in color = Europeans should like me. I think Ronald Reagan called it the "trickle down" effect.

In the end, I am happy to be in Berlin and overjoyed to be able to speak the silent language of blacks from the diaspora.

Plus it's springtime.

To All the Friends I've Loved Before

2009-01-05T12:33:00.002-05:00

I've received an out-pouring of love from friends and family who are sad to hear of my plans to move to Berlin. I am touched.

My plans to move to Berlin are rooted in many places. First, four years in my adopted hometown, Brooklyn, have been some of the happiest and most interesting in my life. I will always regard Brooklyn as my home. Despite all the love I have for Brooklyn, living in New York City has been like running a race. The short, two-block from the subway to my Manhattan office would often sour mood before I arrived at my office. In fact, yesterday walking in Soho left me speechless, lifeless, battered. And all of this frustration led to misdirected tensions. Did I really need to pick an argument with the rude stranger in the subway who was taking up two seats? For the sake of my safety, I probably should have ridden the 20 minutes in silent indignation.

In sum, I need a break. I need to eat stinky cheese and divine chocolates. I need beer and sausages, which I will ask for in my childlike German. I need mouthwatering Turkish and Greek food dished up by servers who are as excited about me sampling their food as I am about eating it.

But I'm also looking forward to living in a place where environmental conservation is imbedded in much of the daily life. In Berlin, dark hallways burst with light only upon motion detected by motion detectors that turned the lights off when all was still, saving energy. The escalators in the subways don't move unless someone stands on them. Recycling is easy and walking and cycling are more popular than the automobile.

Finally, I can't wait to take winter vacations. In the U.S., if I fly for two hours I'm in sunny Florida. Not such a bad fate sweetened by the fact that my sister lives in Florida. But two hours from Berlin is Rome or Spain (I'm guessing), and deeply discounted airfares that make such exotic trips as reasonable as a trip to Florida. Indeed, I am seduced by the thought of flying for two hours and exiting the jetway into a different language, culture, history, and cuisine. I am about to embark on a dreamy adventure I may not want to awaken from.

Of course the Holocaust and World War II live in the daily fabric of Berlin. Walking down a street in a former Jewish neighborhood like Mitte can easily draw unfettered emotion. But somehow, wallowinig in contrititon, Germans are trying to turn this grotesque history painted with genocide, war, and domination into the mirror image -- freedom and tolerance. I love my country of birth, but I feel that some of the labels formerly attached to Germany more rightly belong here in present day. Give me a moment to explain.

I face American racism virtually every day. At times the racism is conspicuous and intentional. Usually it is almost imperceptible. I readily recognize it; but many others are comfortably unaware and do not realize that racism can be silent or latent (also known as "dog whistle racism") and that this sort of racism is every bit as offensive and pernicious to people of color and society as a whole. I have tolerated it all my life, as have many of us of all races. Though racism, anti-semitism, and all the ugly hatred that lives in the U.S. also resides in Germany, I find the European brand of racism to be quite different and something to be explored.

In any event, I am as buoyed by the ascension of Barack Obama to the U.S. presidency as I am saddened by the barrage of racist statements, jokes, and death threats his campaign and election has generated. It chagrins me deeply that many of them have been made by or facilitated by prominent people who are public role models. For example, the website teamsarah.org, sponsored by a group of conservative Republican women, including actress Janine Turner who starred in one of my favorite shows of the 1990's, Northern Exposure, has permitted a string of racist comments about Barack Obama to be posted. Barack Obama will be our president in a few days. Would we show such disrespect to a white president? (I suppose there was a good deal of disrespect shown for President Bush (43) concerning his intellect, but I do not recall any death threats.)

My fellow Americans have shown the cold, hateful underbelly of our society, and I am hurt.

So what about Germany? I'm not sure. But while I am there enjoying my stinky cheese and affordable vacations, I trust that I am leaving my country in good, capable hands under Barack Obama. I leave with the hope that we can hold in our hearts the vision Barack Obama offered in his election-night speech of the country we want our children and grandchildren to enjoy 100 years from now. It is only ours for but a minute. We should save some clean air and natural resources for those to come and build for them an unwavering foundation of respect and tolerance.

Why I Hate American Express

2008-12-20T09:19:00.005-05:00

Of all my credit cards, my American Express card was my favorite. As I child, I fell for those television commercials with Karl Malden who warned us, "don't leave home without it." And who wouldn't want to have the same card that Ellen DeGeneres and M. Knight Shamalayan carry? I was overjoyed a couple of years ago when first received I got the amex that allowed me to earn frequent flyer miles. Although this particular card had a revolving line of credit, I judiciously paid off the card monthly because THAT was the card I chose to have around if I ever ran into trouble. I don't mess with advice from Karl Malden.

A couple of weeks ago, my husband and I traveled to Berlin. Before I left, I contacted my bank to let them know I would be in Germany to ensure that I could access my funds. This may sound like a touch of overkill, but the last time I was in Germany, my bank blocked my ATM card. After several lengthy and expensive calls to New York and a fax my driver's license, I was able to transfer money into my husband's account. For some reason, his ATM card issued from the same bank had no issues. Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice I'm not as clever as I like to think I am, as they say.

When I got to Berlin and tried to use my ATM card the machine ate it, insisting I was not authorized to use it. I made an immediate call to my bank at the rate of 99 cents a minute for roaming in Europe. Now imagine talking to electronic voices and prompts at 99 cents a minute. I did eventually reach a very concerned live person who quickly appreciated the dire nature of the problem and connected me to the head of the fraud department. He was a very, very nice man who confirmed that my account had notes in it that I had called in advance to inform them I would be in Germany. He gave me the direct dial line to his phone and suggested that I take money out on my credit card. He realized this was little to offer, but it was the best he could do at that moment, and he offered to refund any fees immediately and post them to my account.

I don't normally take PIN numbers for my credit cards because as I rule I never use them for cash advances. So I would have to go into a bank and speak with a teller. After going to several banks, I learned that in Germany, there is no such thing as a cash advance on your credit card. Sensible. I think Germany's credit crisis will be a tiny bit softer than ours here in the U.S. But they offered to help me get cash if I had a PIN ...

My next idea was to go online to my amex account. I mean, wouldn't that be the first card I should try? VIP service, helping people in trouble, and so on? That is what they've built their reputation on, of course. When I went online, I learned that I could call them to get a PIN, and even access cash in my bank account through them. Wow, amex was really good, I thought for a second. A second later, I changed my mind with near hysterical incredulity.

Three different customer service representatives regretted to inform me, at the rate of 99 cents per minute, that my card had been unceremoniously cancelled two days before my call. I sunk into a deep depression until I was slightly buoyed by company in my misery. My sister and her husband, who have pristine credit and likewise have a perfect history with amex had their credit limits drastically reduced on their amex cards. Then my friend Noelle informed me that amex had cut the credit of 50 percent of their customers.

Now I understand where amex is coming from. They want to limit their credit risk during this economic crunch. It wasn't personal, it was business. But do they really want to piss off the people who actually pay their bills? Or did I piss them off too many times by not allowing them to incur interest on my revolving line of credit?

Anyway, it's done. We're divorced, American Express and I. It was clean and simple, but definitely with some hard feelings on my part. I guess Karl Malden was not as credible as I thought.

Don't Miss Your Flight

2008-07-30T10:21:00.003-04:00

My husband and I bought airline tickets to California months ago to attend the 50th wedding anniversary party of my beloved older cousin and his wife. They were like parents to me through college, with my having chosen to go to college 3,000 miles away from home. They essentially adopted me. For years, I spent nearly every weekend with them waterskiing, shopping, going to the theatre, doing chores around the house, and watching soaps -- whatever there was to be done. I simply loved them and loved spending time with them.

Ten years ago, I moved to the East Coast, and I haven't seen them since. So when my husband and I received an invitation to the party, we immediately purchased tickets. The timing was perfect, actually, as I had just received a special "companion ticket" on Delta. All we had to do is pay one full fare, and the second ticket was only $99.

Let me abbreviate the story of all the problems I had booking that ticket. When I booked it, a Delta agent told me that I would receive an e-mail within 24 hours confirming my purchase. Day 1, 24 hours: Delta called me to tell me they hadn't ticketed me because they "didn't have" the voucher number of the companion ticket. I gave them the number for the second or third time, and the very polite agent told me I would receive a confirmatory e-mail within 24 hours. Day 2, 48 hours: No confirmatory e-mail. Day 3, 72 hours: I called Delta to inquire as to the status of my ticket. A very nice woman, who I am guessing was somewhere in South Asia, told me my ticket had been cancelled. She attempted to book me at a price that was $300 more than my original booking. I asked to speak with her supervisor, as this mix up was Delta's fault. She kindly informed me that there was no supervisor on duty, and I would have to call back the next day. Day 4, 96 hours: No confirmatory e-mail. I phoned Delta the next morning and was told again that I had no ticket. This time, the ticket has risen by $400 above my original booking, and my original flights were no longer available. Again I asked to speak with a supervisor. After putting me on hold, the agent told me that her supervisor had authorized her to overbook the flight and ticket my husband and me on the original flights at the original price. Day 5, 120 hours: I received my confirmatory e-mail. Even though I still had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach, I only faintly believed that something would still go wrong with the flight.

My husband and I missed our flight. Let's chalk it up to New York City traffic. It wasn't the first (and I'm certain it will not be the last) flight I missed sitting in the back of a cab in hopeless gridlock. This time, I was actually in the passenger's seat of our Volvo, but the circumstances were fundamentally the same.

I called Delta from the car, and they advised me to try to stand by on the next flight. That sounded reasonable and very much like the routine drill when one misses a flight. I was slightly nervous about it, but it was Friday afternoon, and we were not expected at the party in California for 24 hours. Nevertheless, my nervousness was amplified a bit because my relatives had asked me to perform a recommitment ceremony in front of all the guests. I was thrilled, delighted, honored at this request.

When we got to the airport, there was an enormous line of people, who like my husband and I, had problems. The Delta hall was full of frantic, ill-fated passengers bound for Atlanta and Germany and points beyond. We struck up a conversation with a young man behind us who was on his way to Oregon to a family party. Like us, he missed his flight on account of traffic. Delta told him it would cost him $900 to be put on the next flight. We assured him that Delta was mistaken.

During our two-hour ordeal at the Delta ticket counter, we were confronted with Delta's new policy. There is no longer "stand by." In other words, if you miss a flight, you cannot try to grab and empty seat on the next flight free of charge. You must be rebooked, and a seat must actually exist. You can't depend on taking the seat of someone who doesn't show up. You can't even get past security. If they rebook you for a flight on the same day, it will cost you $50 per ticket, or an extra hundred for my husband and me. Unfortunately, there were no coach seats. I pleaded my case. I sobbed. I told them about the recommitment ceremony. At least one agent, Mr. James Hopkins, felt very sorry for us. He did everything he could for us. His kindness helped to blunt the sting of the earlier agent we'd worked with, Ophelia, who laughed in our faces when she told us there were eight first class seats available on the next flight, and she could rebook us at a cost of $2200 -- plus $100 rebooking service charge per ticket.

Mr. Hopkins tried to get us on flights out of other airports and to other airports. He picked up the phone again and again to fight our cause. In the end, the best Delta could offer us was for us to pay $2000 extra to fly on the first flight the next morning. But Mr. Hopkins told us to keep hope alive. He advised us to go home and get on the phone and try to talk Delta into helping us out. My husband did try. Like Mr. Hopkins, he was tenacious but fruitless.

We missed the anniversary party. We missed seeing beloved family and friends gathered in one place to celebrate a beautiful union and years and years of happiness that I was fortunate to be a part of. I cried for days. I cried during the party that I wasn't a part of. I cried after. I made desperate calls to my sister and brother to find out what happened. Any tidbit of information. Was I missed? Did they realize I tried my best?

It still hurts, and I think it will for a very long time.

Addicted to Facebook

2008-05-18T12:12:00.007-04:00

When Hannes first suggested it, I scoffed. Facebook is for teenagers. What was he doing on Facebook so much? Months went by. He was still glued, locked in a trance. Eventually, he picked up my computer, gave me a username and password, and I was in.

I now have 163 "friends" and believe it or not, all but about three people are actually friends. There is Patrick Ochieng, of course. I know a Patrick Ochieng, but evidently not the one who is my Facebook friend. I met the "real" Patrick Ochieng in Kenya. He runs an NGO in Mombasa. I accidentally befriended Patrick Ochieng of Toronto -- half Kenyan and half Ugandan. I know nothing more about him, but when we discovered the mistake (he discovered it rather, wondering with great interest why a whacko from New York would want to be his Facebook friend) we decided to remain friends. Every Kenyan-Ugandan-Canadian should have a New York whacko, like me.

Truthfully, my 163 Facebook friends are not demanding of my time. And Facebook has helped me reconnect with some incredible people, including my high school photography teacher. But who could have predicted that I would be on Facebook for hours waiting for my friends to make a move in my many ongoing scrabulous games? The addiction escalated quickly. I browbeat others who were staunchly opposed to wasting time on social networking sites into joining Facebook. I started scrabble games with them. I feel kind of sad when I see those friends lurking online, waiting for me (or some new Facebook addict I've introduced them to) to take my next scrabulous move.

I took on new Facebook hobbies. There was Dope Wars and Texas Hold 'Em. Now I had never played poker in my life before Facebook (nor had I been a drug dealer for that matter). Poker was too complicated. But there I was in the midst of an adreneline rush, sitting at a poker table with a bunch of strangers and trying my best not to lose the free 500 chips I'd gotten for the day. I still have no idea how to play poker, despite I find myself in the virtual Bellagio Hotel or Mirage at least once per day. Somehow I actually won today, which is I attribute entirely to random luck.

I'm not sure what the lesson is here. Talk to my husband more rather than pestering him to take his next scrabulous move from the next room? Perhaps I should invent my own social networking site so that at least I can become a billionaire with an addiction.

A Few Word About Sean Bell

2008-05-06T21:38:00.002-04:00

The Q train took what felt like forever to arrive this afternoon. Surprisingly, I was able to find a seat. Along with the saxophonist who thinks he’s an alien, I rode home with a man whose voice was too loud. I may be wrong, but I believe people who speak too loudly are self-important and they function under the mistaken belief that everyone within earshot should have the benefit of their wisdom. Occasionally, one comes across a saxophonist alien, and on that rare occasion one may want to listen. But this particular day, the alien was drowned out.

“The last celebrity sighting I had was last week. It was Al Sharpton.” Now I wouldn’t consider Al Sharpton much of a celebrity sighting in New York City, so I was intrigued. “I don’t know what was going on, but there were television cameras set up everywhere.”

The man’s traveling companion spoke, though at a polite volume. “He made a lot of appearances after the Sean Bell verdict. Maybe that was it.”

“I don’t like to comment when I haven’t seen the whole legal proceeding, but it couldn’t have been racist if he was shot by a black cop. And anyway, when you’re dead you’re dead, whether there are 40 bullets or one bullet."

The silence hung in the air. I watched the young black woman who was pretending to be asleep dart glances at him. There was a black or Latino man who was also pretending to sleep. He seemed to smile coyly with his eyes open only enough to watch. I stared ahead while I visibly shook my head in dismissal. I thought about confronting the man but I was too tired to start an argument with a complete stranger. And somehow a confrontation would break the subway code of minding your own business.

“I respect the police. They’ve never done anything to me. I mean, I know I am a privileged white man and everything . . .”

The first words of confrontation almost escaped my mouth. But at that moment he stopped talking. The train lumbered in to Prince Street station, he gave his friend a light kiss on the cheek, she got off the train, and the torture ended.

In the Name of the Father

2008-05-03T13:49:00.001-04:00

So I had a commenter ask whether I'm from Ellwood City, Pennsylvania and whether I grew up in the gold paneled house on Lawrence Avenue. Indeed, I am, and I did!

Mr. Commenter, (I do have my reasons to suspect he's a man, though he didn't disclose his identity) thank you for your kind words about my family, my father, and my brother Larry who still lives in our family homestead.

My father died almost 14 years ago, and I still miss him. As each day passes, I find new common threads between his life and his values and my own. Too bad I wasn't more aware when he was alive, but I think this is not uncommon. We too often take our loved ones for granted and forget to celebrate them during life. My father was a wonderful man, and I constantly seek ways to leave a legacy of his life -- forget my own.

Allow me to tell an abbreviated story that shapes my life.

My father's family moved to Ellwood City from North Carolina in 1909. His mother was pregnant with him. He was the first black person born in Ellwood City and the first black person to graduate from my alma mater, Lincoln High School. (Go Wolverines!) My father's history and the depth of our roots in Ellwood City have always made me proud. And during my lifetime we have always been treated with the utmost respect -- almost as minor local celebrities.

Here's the story:

I never met my Uncle Lin. Before I was born, his wife murdered him. She slashed him in an artery in his thigh. Though he was rushed to the hospital very much alive, he bled to death. The hospital contacted all of the black families in town, and asked them to donate blood. The hospital refused to give "white blood" to a black patient. In those days, in the early 60's, there were probably only five black households in town. Because of the dearth of "black blood" in town, Uncle Lin died.

I don't think my father ever recovered from that loss. He became a very sad man before I was born.

Uncle Lin's murderous wife would walk past our house daily, and I wasn't permitted to speak to her. My parents didn't tell me why. I suppose they felt I was too young to know the horrible truth. One day, against my parents will, I found the courage to speak to her. "Hello." I spoke tentatively. She looked straight ahead and continued her silent stroll past my house. I never tried again.

When my mother felt I was old enough, she told me the story. "But why isn't she in jail?" I asked her. It was then that my mother told me the perhaps the saddest part of the story. The town refused to arrest her and prosecute a black-on-black crime.

When I tell people this story, they're shocked. They can't believe that in a town in the North such a thing would happen. Black blood, white blood, black-on-black crime, no prosecution. It's outrageous but true.

I write about this story as a stone in the masonry I'm building to honor my father's life. This story must be told, and now I'm telling it. I know I will tell it again and again.

Epilogue:

My cousin is now the chief of police in Ellwood City. He wasn't born there, and he didn't grow up there. His great-grandmother was my father's sister. He was born and raised in nearby Pittsburgh, where my Aunt Dorothy eventually settled.

I don't know my cousin very well, but I know that my father would be very proud that a member of our family is the town's first black chief of police. This, too, has been added to the masonry.

Elections in Kenya

2008-01-06T10:39:00.000-05:00

This fall, I had the pleasure of participating in an exchange with environmental lawyers from Kenya and elsewhere in Africa. The program took me to Kenya where I traveled the country meeting villagers facing environmental and land use . . . well, let's face it, catastrophes. And I'm not exaggerating. But the details of that are for another blog post. I made a number of wonderful friends and contacts in Kenya. I met an array of people excited and hopeful about the future of the country and what at the time was an upcoming election. Not only did I speak with lawyers and activists, I spoke with drivers and shop keepers and newstand workers, and they all shared the same glow of hope for a new democratic future.

Below is an e-mail I received yesterday from one of those people. It is his personal account of what happened during the recent election and the conditions of political and social uncertainty that exist there at this moment. I have omitted his name, not knowing whether he might get into trouble for being so candid in his account. At the end of his e-mail, he lists four things people outside of Kenya can do to help.

_____________________________________________

Dear Friends,

We are still in a state of shock at the manner in which incumbent president Kibaki and his culpable electoral commission, full of his hatchet men has stolen the elections in which Raila had clear lead in a move that takes us back two decades in our democratisation process. we voted overwhelmingly for the ODM in an election that had one of the best turn outs in our history, then in full glare of TV cameras the electoral body bagan fiddling with results that came through from constituencies first by announcing parliamentary results without the corresponding presidential results in places that were the president's strongholds. the intention was to then be able to inflate figures in favour of the president once the other results were in. so from a clear lead of over 1 million votes the president suddenly narrowed the gap to 200,000 in under 2 hours from a paltry five or so constituencies. there were protests that the poll body tried to ignore till the tally centre became unruly. tallying was suspended and a committee of representatives appointed to audit the documents and match them to results announced at polling centres. this group sat whole night and found anomalies in 48 constituencies in which the presidential votes were topped up some to the tune of 50,000 votes. some had 115% voter turn out and lots oof similar nonsense.

the commission was urged to make the report public and allow for a retallying demands which they blatantly rejected. after several hours of waiting the chair emerged only to continue announcing the disputed results. hell broke loose and protests ensued following which the state sent into the tallying centre the military to evacuate everybody. the media was sent out except the state broadcaster who were sent to a private room where the chairman of the commission announced resuts in favour of Kibaki.

the opposition addressed a press conference in which an official of the commission whose consience could not allow to participate in the fraud spoke to the media about what was happening with tallies. as soon as the results were announced a hastily convened swearing in ceremony was televised again by the state broadcaster where the incumbent was sworn in on the same sunday night without even the pomp of the national anthem and in the absence of diplomatic community. this is the shame that we saw between december 27 and 30. ten minutes did not elapse after the announcement as the entire country broke into chaos following the anger and anguish, neighbour turned against neighbour and the post election violence has been unprecedented.

the brinkmanship from the state and its handlers has been characteristic, telling anyone who is aggriveed to go to court and saying they won elections and don't care. the flare up wouldnt be so bad if the state did not unleash its security agents to maim and shoot citizens. the death toll is huge and signs of an end to this is far..

we are pitching for international mediation and the possibility of a transitional arrangement for 3 months to allow afresh presidential election. retallying is useless because the commission chairman by his own admission says the electoral documents are being tampered with by state agents to force the fraud. the court direction is useless as well as the chief justice is a kinsman of the president and led the swearing in of a fraudulent process. you can do many things to assist us in this mess

1. the humanitarian crisis is deep, sharp and acute, food, clothes, blankets and medicine across the country

2. getting voices such as ours in the international media to give the international community the right perspective of this crisis far from doctored state reports

3. protests to kenyan embassies there and pressure on the international community not to recognize this illegitimate government

4. join in campaigns launched so far, petitions and so on which i will forward to you asap to press this illegitimate government to step down.

hope this gives you a sense of what is going on.

Is Hip Hop Going the Way of Jazz?

2006-09-23T19:21:00.000-04:00

So back to Europe with this week's entry, and I'll try to be brief.

My friend Ajamu has posed the question, "Is hip hop going the way of jazz?"

Several years ago, maybe 10, I was in Paris. My hair was in locks. And as I wandered through the narrow streets near the Pompidou Center, a group of children began to follow me as if I was a celebrity. They thought I was an American hip hopper. Salt 'n Peppa? (or perhaps Salt or Peppa?) They flattered me.

Years later, I was in Moscow dancing in a club called Pravda or something not-so-clever like that. I recall that rather than having beer on tap, they had vodka on tap. And I could go on and on about my vodka experiences in Russia, but that's not the purpose of this entry. Anyhoo, I remember dancing to a bit of House of Pain. Before I knew it, me and my locked hair, once again found ourselves attracting a crowd. This time, it was a group of twenty-something Russian men who gathered around me in a circle, as if worshiping me, and screaming the lyrics to "Jump Around" at the tops of their lungs. JUMP! JUMP! JUMP! JUMP! Later when I tried to speak to them in English, they knew nary a word.

Last month, while in Hamburg, I was walking through a street fair, by a live stage, when to my great surprise I heard hip hop in German. A few days later, I was walking through a similar street fair in Amsterdam, by a similar live stage when ironically I heard hip hop in Dutch.

It's one thing to visit the suburbs and find white, middle-class suburban kids in listening to hip hop in their Sean John and Fubu. That's one thing. It's another thing altogether to come across avid European fans, who perhaps have never set foot in the birth country of hip hop who do not speak a work of English.

So as I'm discussing this with my friend, he suggests that hip hop is going the way of jazz. Do you remember the 20's and 30's when African Americans became jazz superstars in Europe? Josephine Baker? Or later, my father's cousin, the saxophonist Clyde Barnhardt? (Okay, maybe he wasn't as big as Ms. Baker, but he made his mark). My Aunt Helen's brother-in-law, a beloved member of our extended family, the jazz composer Billy Strayhorn, headlined in Paris in the 50's and 60's. At the time, he was known more widely in France than in the U.S. where he lived in Duke Ellington's shadow as his principle songwriter. Baker, Strayhorn, and Barnhardt received the celebration in Europe that alluded them in the U.S. during their lifetimes.

And speaking of hip hop.

On that stage in Amsterdam there was also a young brother who rapped in English. He seemed as though maybe he was from the suburbs rather than Bed-Stuy or South Central. He seemed more Tiger Woods to me than 50 Cent. But he was a star at that particular moment on a late summer afternoon in Holland.

To all those aspiring rappers who for one reason or another may not splash here where the competition is quite fierce, Amsterdam is a damn nice city.

September 11th in New York

2006-09-10T09:06:00.000-04:00

For the past 10 days or so, September 11th articles have been featured in the local papers and the New York Times. Perhaps you've seen them. Can't say this time of year is festive in New York, though the weather is good. No Macy's parade in the offing. No, excepting Fashion Week, this is the time of year when there is a heavy pall in the air. Tomorrow is September 11th.

I didn't live in New York on September 11, 2001. I lived in Boston. It was a Tuesday, and that meant I was teaching my environmental justice course at Tufts with my friend Julian. Julian and I fashioned ourselves as a bit of Regis and Kathy Lee (it was Kathy Lee back then). Or maybe we were Matt and Katie, because I would never associate either one of us -- neithher Julian nor I -- with the ditzy sidekick to Regis Philbin. Anyway, just before 9 a.m., a student of ours, Kevin, excused himself to use the loo. (I say loo here, as Julian is British.) Kevin was a gifted undergraduate student who enrolled in our graduate school class. We all know how difficult a graduate school class taught by Matt and Katie can be, but Kevin had the courage to take us on. Anyway, he was young, and he looked it. When he returned to the room that morning, the normally shy Kevin interrupted the class to tell us two planes had just flown into the World Trade Center. His boyish face was chalky white. His speech was choppy.

Silence fell over the room. For a moment we were all suspended in disbelief. My eyes rested for a moment on the cheap photograph of the New York City nighttime skyline hanging on the wall. It was purplish, with a reflection of the world trade center glistening in the water. Kevin just had to be mistaken.

I left Julian with the students while I went into the departmental office to check with the administrative staff. Sure enough, the ladies were morose and quite literally in a state of shock. "It's true," they confirmed.

Back in the classroom, a few students were hysterical. One student had a brother who worked at Goldman Sachs. The other had a cousin who was manager of Windows on the World. At the mention of Windows on the World, my mind flashed to the memory of having gin and tonics there with Kate after a successful day of shopping at Century 21.

I gave my mobile phone to one student so she could phone her brother. The lines were jammed. Because the two flights originated in Boston, we were in a communications gridlock. Julian rushed the two crying students to his office to use his landline. Class was cancelled.

In the end, it turned out that the brother who worked at Goldman Saches was on a business trip to London. The cousin who worked at Windows on the World hadn't arrived at work yet.

The rest of what I remember about that day was how all the offices closed down. Everything. I remember rushing home in my car with my radio turned to NPR. The information was minimal and confused. I remember that my sisters contacted me, frantic at the thought that perhaps I was on one of those flights because I traveled the Boston-L.A. route from time-to-time.

It was on that day that I adopted my sweet Louisa, because I had to find something to take me out of my apartment and away from the TV. (The little darling.) Anyway, just like the generation before me knows where they were and what they were doing when they heard JFK had been shot, I remember September 11, 2001 like it was yesterday.

So last week, the New York Times ran an article on the 911 conspiracy theory.
That's the theory, simply put, that 9/11 was an inside job. When I watched the Internet film, "Loose Change," I got a knot in my thoat. I refused to talk about it. But these these theories are so prevalent that the National Institute on Standards and Technology saw fit to publish a seven-page report updating it's 10,000 page report on the World Trade Center crashes.

I didn't lose anyone on 9/11, although, since I lived in Boston, I was one degree separation from two people. John Ogonowski was the pilot. He lived in Dracut, Massachusetts. He bought farmland so that Vietnamese immigrants living in the Lowell area could practice their agrarian lifestyle. I worked with the Lowell Center for Work, Family, and Community at UMASS Lowell, a group that worked very closely with him on his farm project. Flight attendant Madeline Amy Sweeney was the wife of someone who worked in the same state government agency as me.

So what can I say about the conspiracy theories here in cyberspace without raising the ire of Big Brother? It pains me that our country has plummeted so low that we can believe something so sinister about our government. Whether it's true or not, we've lost pretty much all faith in our leaders. It is tragic. I'm horrified that the pain people suffered and continue to suffer year after year could have been engineered as a political strategy. I'm sickened.

After tomorrow, I'm back to writing about donuts and fashion for the next 52 weeks. I promise.

Ich bin ein Berliner

2006-09-03T11:28:00.000-04:00

A Berliner, much to the embarrassment of President John F. Kennedy, is what you might recognize from visiting your local Krispy Kreme as a jelly donut. (Yum!) Obviously, I'm not actually a delicious doughy pastry with sweet jelly inside and powdered sugar on the outside. But I've seen the promised land, and I must say, I can certainly see myself living there. So, I may not be any more ein Berliner than JFK, but I get his point. (Or as they say in German -- ich verstehe was er meint.)

I spent two full weeks drinking beer and homemade schnapps and eating wurst and schnitzel (and, oddly enough, a ton of Greek food). And though I do miss the charm and the history that most Americans will never know -- unless they or their loved ones suffered in the Holocaust or fought in World War II or lived in a Nazi-occupied country during the War -- I'm glad to be back in Brooklyn. But just what do I mean about that history comment? It's difficult to articulate.

When I first met my husband, born and raised in Germany by a German mother and Austrian father, I had all sorts of very clear ideas about what it meant to be someone with German and Austrian ancestry. First, let me dispell a few mistaken notions. Germans, if I may generalize here, do not hate black people. I may be alone here with this naked, wildly mistaken idea, but I was worried that this mostly white country with a history of race-based bigotry might not welcome a person such as myself with dark skin and African features. I was oh-so-wrong.

My in-laws love me, in fact, and the feeling is mutual. I remember my first trip to visit my mother-in-law in Hamburg. As I was flipping through the family photo album, I was surprised to find a yellowed newspaper clipping and photograph of Angela Davis awaiting trial among the photographs of my yellow-haired husband as a boy. On her bookshelves, I found perhaps a dozen German tranlsations of James Baldwin, Eldridge Cleaver, and Alice Walker. While shopping in boutiques and markets, I never felt I had to make the affirmative efforts that I do in my local Gap or bookstore to reassure people that I'm not trying to steal something. No one followed me or watched me shop, no one did a double-take when I walked up to the checkout line in. I wasn't treated like I was unusual (as was the case in Russia, which some day I'll write about in detail). Except once. On Friday night, September 1, we ate dinner in a Greek restaurant in Hamburg. I can't remember the name, but it was delish. Anyway, I walked in with my husband and mother-in-law. The host seated us, and speaking in German he pegged my husband and I (or at least me -- could it be my height?) as being from America. My husband confirmed that we were, and the host gleefully informed us that Greece had just beaten the U.S. in the world basketball championship. "Ich liebe Amerika!" ("I love America!"), he exclaimed, and brought us a free round of ouzo. I'll take my lumps if they come with free ouzo, not a problem.

But it wasn't until I met my husband that I actually considered what life was like for Germans citizens during World War II. Millions of Jews and homosexuals and other innocent people died cruelly at the hand of an insane dictator. (That, in and of itself was horrifying, even if the masses went frightfully along with the program.) And while the Allied Forces fought to bring his evil regime to its knees, cities were bombed. I imagine it was something akin to the experience of the Iraqi people. Sadam Hussein's inhumane acts and his malignant leadership provoked action against his country and people died -- mothers, daughters, grandfathers died when the U.S. dropped bombs. The underlying acts of Hitler and Hussein are not of the same scale, but the nation of Iraq has suffered the incessant dropping of bombs on civilian people. In Germany, children were sent out of the cities and away from their families to live with farm families in the countryside where they were safe from the bombs. Infant children were taken from their mother's breasts. And they survived, not understanding fully why they had been sent away. To this day, families are in pain and even in my husband’s generation the pain is palpable. There is a sadness and a shame I perceive in Germany. Not a shame for the country as we know it today, but a shame for the unspeakable blemish put on it by Nazism. It's an unparalled shame for the tradegy and genocide of the Holocaust.

The cities are scarred, even to this day, with vivid reminders. Half bombed out buildings still stand, people distinguish the cities with descriptions of what was in a particular spot "before the war" and what is there now. Berlin, obviously, is one of those places. I had never heard of "checkpoint charlie" a spot that still stands, now just for history's sake, where the U.S. Army had an installation on one side and the Russian Army had one on the other where people moved between the East and the West. As my husband and I drove from Berlin back through the western region of the country, he pointed out to me where the border of East and West Germany used to be and what it was like passing through it as a child.

Do people who lived in Hawaii have similar memories of Pearl Harbor and Honolulu before and after? Hiroshima? Nagasaki? London? It's just not that way for most Americans. So when I travel to Germany, I learn. Sometimes I grieve. And always, I feel.

I had a friend who once asked me what it felt like to be a part of a race of people who were universally despised around the world. Her question caught me off guard, of course, not knowing whether she meant tall people or intelligent people or lawyers or . . . naw. She couldn't have had the audicity to think, formulate, and pose THAT question could she? She did. And she wasn't drunk. And she wasn't white either, you may be surprised to learn. Clearly, we're no longer friends, but her question harshly presumed that blacks are universally despised around the world. Hmmm.

I think my husband is sometimes concerned about how he will be received when he's abroad, whether here in New York or elsewhere in the world. Ironically, I know exactly how he feels.

From the Annals of Aiport Security: The New Puffer Machine

2006-08-15T22:35:00.001-04:00

I once had an interaction with a puffer machine. You know what those are, right? They are the airport security machines that blow a puff of air on you to search for traces of explosive material. They've got one at Pittsburgh Aiport. It seems to think I'm a fine and decent American.

My mother lives near Pittsburgh. My mother has been ill, and over the past year or so I've made frequent trips to visit her and help her with business and doctors visits.

So in late May, just after Memorial Day, I went home to see my mother. I was taking her to the hospital for some tests, and it was one of the first really warm days of the year. I wore a striking psychadelic colored cotton dress. Not only do I love this dress, but 90 percent of the people who see it, especially strangers, feel compelled to compliment me on it. (I should say right now that I got the dress at a little shop in Brooklyn called Red Lipstick. If you're in the borough, don't miss it.)

Long story short. I had a rental car for the day, and after a lovely day with my mother I headed back to the airport to return the car and make my way home to New York. I drove around desperately looking for a gas station near the airport. Pittsburhg Airport is surrounded by undeveloped land. Western Pennsylvania is truly beautiful -- one of the last few places where you find wide swathes of land yet undiscovered by McMansions. But what that meant for me that day was that there were no gas stations to be found.

After missing my flight, I finally gave up and went onto the airport property to return the car with an empty tank. Rounding the all familiar airport loop, I saw what looked like a gas station right there on the property. Yes, it was a gas station with decent prices. Price is a matter of perspective, though, isn't it? I live in New York City where gas stations are also few and far between, but in stark contrast to this particular gas station, New York gas stations have extraordinarily high prices. (I still take some comfort in knowing that (a) I rarely drive in New York; and (b) our prices are still well below San Francisco Bay Area prices.)

Blah, blah, blah. So I go to the gas station, and start to fill up the tank. I drift off for a moment and soon the tank is overflowing and gasoline is gushing out of the tank and nozzle. It simply refused to automatically shut off. What up?! It kept spilling and spilling. I panicked, but thought maybe the gasoline might stop pumping if I pulled the nozzle out of the car's tank. So I did. And it didn't. The movie "Zoolander" has a brilliant and nearly identical gasoline scene. Let me put it this way. The song "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go" by Wham was screaming in my head. The gasoline was arcing into the air like a . . . a fountain. And as it gushed, I was showered in gasoline. Soon I was standing in an inch-deep puddle of gasoline pleading for another customer to tell someone inside to shut the damn thing off.

Finally, I just crammed the nozzle back into the gas pump so that it could pump back into itself. It stopped. It stopped after charging my credit card about $30 for a quarter tank of gas. (Here is where you must resist the impulse to think this price is reasonable.)

In the end, the dim-witted cashier turned off the pump and refunded me $5. Whoopee. She gave me a paper towel to wipe off the bottom of my shoes so that I didn't soak the interior of the car with gasoline. But it was too late for my cute little dress.

I slogged into the airport, which was at this point totally dead since I'd missed my flight. One USAirways ticket agent helped me find another flight while a second one just hung out watching over her shoulder. The extraneous agent said, "What's that smell?"
I glanced away and said quietly, "That's me."
She said, "No, it smells like . . ."
"Gasoline." I completed her sentence.

I told the two of them my horrible story, as my eyes turned nervously to the screening machines at security. I was hoping the TSA agents wouldn't smell the gasoline. But how could they not? I ducked into the bathroom to try to at least wash the gasoline from my skin and shoes. Afterwards still, I reeked.

With great courage, I marched toward my fate at the security. As I anticipated, the agent stopped me. He grinned from ear-to-ear. Was he cruel or had he lost his marbles? Excitedly, he asked me if I wanted to try the new puffer machine. I spilled my guts to him. I apologetically told him that I couldn't possibly use the new puffer machine because I was covered with gasoline, and the machine would surely detect it.

No! He told me I'd be fine. I should give it a try.

The machine was more like a booth than a conventional screening machine. I had to step into it, stand on two giant green clown feet printed on a mat inside, then a gate closed behind me.

The new puffer machine blew one forceful puff of air on me.

After a few seconds, the gate at the front of the machine opened.

Drenched in gasoline, I stepped out and got on my flight.

The Kara Janx Top

2006-07-29T22:59:00.000-04:00

So I'm walking down the street in Soho with Hannes and Larry and Kathy and Jenny when the woman, a complete stranger, stops me and exclaims, "Ohmygod! Is that a Kara Janx top?"

Here's the backstory. The past few weeks, I have been filled with excitement. Season Three of Project Runway has begun. Although I've been a fan since Season One, I owe the discovery of this wonderfully creative, catty, and inspiring show to my friends Helen and Kate. They nagged me throughout Season One, before I saw the light. "Have you watched?" Every Thursday morning, I had to hear their persistent nagging. No! I don't have time for Project Runway. Anyway, it was a Saturday morning that first season, a winter morning, when I stumbled across a Project Runway marathon. Here's a secret about me. I love watching television on Saturday morning. I mostly love old movies at that hour, sometimes as early as six a.m. But with the advent of the reality TV show, I've been known to linger on Bravo or BBC America on a Saturday morning. So this particular Saturday which fell during that week or two between the selection of the final three and the Fashion Week runway show, I caught all the back episodes of Project Runway. I was addicted instantly.

So now we're in Season Three. Not only did I find religion, but I introduced my sister Darla to Project Runway (she was a natural -- she had a friend who was friend's with Nick from Season Two -- it was inevitable), she got her husband hooked on it, I got my own husband hooked on it, and I fished out friends and co-workers who shared the addiction. The sewing, the designs, the drama, the gay men! What's not to love about his show? But most of all, we love Tim Gunn.

But I digress. I think I'd watched two episodes of Season Three -- the last one I'd seen was the one where my beloved Malan was eliminated. What a lovely person. Sure his dress looked a bit like a log and was too short. But he had heart and vision and determination. He deserved to stay. I was in the reception area in my office when I overheard a couple of my younger co-workers talking about Project Runway. "I love Project Runway," I interruped them. Immediately, we were engaged in a hen session. "I love Malan," one of them said. "Angela sucks, did you hear about Keith and the sketches?" I was complete. There was Amanda, Shakima, Aprill, Meaghan (the new girl whom I'd hardly spoken two words to), and suddenly they were my bestest of friends. It was a Wednesday, I think. I went home gleefully that evening to watch Project Runway. When I came in on Thursday we debriefed.

Now this particular Thursday, Hannes was away on business, and I had plans to keep myself busy by attending an art vernissage at a gallery in Chelsea. All week I'd pondered what I'd wear to this event so that I'd look hip and stylish, just like the women in Sex and the City. I'd planned to wear a cool halter top with jeans and high heels to push me way above my normal six feet stature.

I was poring over e-mails from my new bestest friends when Aprill sends along an invitation to a party for Kara Janx at Girlshop, a hip little boutique in the meatpacking district. It was also that same night and the same time as my vernissage, but who isn't going to try to work in a party with Kara Janx an almost finalist from Season Two and my beloved Malan who'd been cut (criminally so) from show two of Season Three. Keith was also supposed to be there, but most of us could already tell he was an a-hole.

I asked the girls if they were going to the Kara Janx party. Aprill said no. She wasn't dressed appropriately, she said. That day, she wore jeans and a very cute tee, but she felt it wasn't Project Runway enough. Amanda seemed like she could be talked into it, but she similarly felt she was underdressed in her jeans and Old Navy top. I said, "Ladies, you are a blank canvass." They weren't buying it.

I e-mailed my girls Darla and Kate and Helen with news of the party. Kate e-mailed me back right away and told me she knew the woman who owns Girlshop. Outstanding coincidence! Unfortunately, Kate was already committed for the evening, although she was kicking herself, as she too felt the need to work in a Kara Janx party if possible. It wasn't possible for her. So I knew I had to go to the party for all my Project Runway loving friends and family. Somehow, I talked Aprill and Amanda into it. Did they fall for that "blank canvass" line? Probably not. I think what did it for them is that I proposed that we go to the vernissage first and have a glass of wine. After that, they would be loose and wouldn't care what Kara Janx or Malan or anyone else thought of the way they were dressed.

I don't know what I expected. I guess I thought it would be a huge party, and I wouldn't be able to get near the Project Runway celebs. Or perhaps I even thought they wouldn't REALLY be there. Whatever. It was a small, very intimate party. They were there, except for Keith. We weren't feeling him anyway, remember?

I told the girls -- straight to the booze ladies. There were free Midori cocktails. We took whatever they were pouring and casually began looking through the clothing racks. Very, very hip store, that Girlshop. There were several people dressed in variations of Kara Janx signature kimono-style dress. This was the famous dress she'd worn on the runway -- and maybe it was the show where she was eliminated -- and the judge (I'm going to guess it was Michael Kors) said something like, "Why would you send your model down the runway in THAT? What's that dress you're wearing? Did you design it? It's fabulous. You should have put her in that!" From that day forward, the Kara Janx dress was famous. I think it was available on the internet, but at 200 and some dollars, the stretchy casualish dress was a bit too rich for my taste. So where was I? We found the Kara Janx rack. I don't recall even fully reading the invitation, but when I saw the sign above her rack, "Fall 2006," I remembered that the party was a pre-launch of her fall line. These kimono dresses and tops in various stylish color combinations must have been the cornerstone. We moved on.

We sidled up to Malan first. He was talking to a middle-aged woman wearing a tee shirt that said something about Tim Gunn on the front. Malan was graciously saying goodbye to her. As she pushed past us, I noticed her shirt was autographed all over. Geez. It was a crazy fan lady. All of a sudden, my friends and I felt a rush of courage. If Malan was that lovely to this sideshow stalker lady, he would never chase us away. We greeted him. He shook our hands, smiled broadly, and delicately bowed his head to us. He was wearing a beautiful chocolate brown pin-striped blazer, brown pants, and some kick-ass reptilian black shoes with severe, squared toes. Nice. Extraordinarly stylish, but very understated. None of us knew what to say, so I clumsily told him we missed him on the show last night and asked if he would be coming back. What an idiot! I know from Darla's experiences with Nick that they're not allowed to say anything. Nick would again and again tell his friends he couldn't tell them whether he was in the final three. Why did I go down that path with Malan? The conversation ended abruptly, but very politely there. We told him it was very nice to meet him and moved on. I really didn't feel at that point that I was in any shape to approach THE Kara Janx.

But who were these two anyway? Kara and Malan were two totally normal people who happened to be very talented and had appeared on a reality show. Apart from reality show bit, all of my friends are very talented at what they do. It wasn't as though I was meeting . . . Meryl Streep or . . . Mahatma Ghandi. Yet, seeing them gave me pause. I imagine it must be weird for them to be launched into instant celebrity without really asking for it.

Anyway, somehow I found myself at Kara Janx's back. She turned around suddenly, and we were instantly engaged in conversation. I told her I loved her designs, but it was way too hot (we were in the midst of a July heatwave) to try on one of her tops or dresses. She happened to be wearing a black one with magenta trim. The woman next to her, who seemed to be some sort of publicist or somehow in Kara's employ was wearing a beautiful, deep brown top with blueish trim. I told the woman how much I loved the color combination of her top. Both she and Kara encouraged me to just give it a try. Then she said that the tops were exclusive that night and only at Girlshop. How could I not try on this exclusive top, having been asked by the designer?

The next thing I knew, my friends and the employee working the dressing room were talking me into a $196 Kara Janx top. At this point, I had had one glass of wine and two Midori drinks. Two hundred dollars seemed like a good price. I went up to the counter and whipped out my husband's American Express card. It was all so simple.

My friends and I stayed at the party awhile, choking down our Midori drinks and talking excitedly about my top. We agreed I would wear it the next day at work. While we were settling on these plans, Kara Janx pushed through a crowd and pulled my arm. I turned, "I bought one!" She said, "I know!" She seemed as excited as I was. She thanked me, and she gave me her business card. Rather, the publicist woman (or whomever) gave me the card. Bam! And from that moment on, I was officially on cloud nine.

The next morning, Nancy, our receptionist, took my photo as I came through the door. All sorts of people complimented me on my top all day long. Some of them were Project Runway fans, many had never seen Project Runway or knew of its relevance but simply loved the top. People actually came to my office to see it. My boss said, "I heard about the top. I want to see it."

The next evening, a Saturday night, I had dinner in Soho with my husband and a few friends. We were leaving the restaurant and walking down West Broadway when I noticed a man and a woman approaching us in the distance. The woman was wearing a bright pink sort of peasant skirt that had a very peculiar but fantastic empire waist. She was wearing a white top, and maybe it was all actually a dress. All I knew was I'd never seen anything like it. I didn't stare, as I was engrossed in conversation with my companions. But I noticed her. As we were passing, she stopped me and exclaimed, "Is that a Kara Janx top?!" It took me a second to realize she was talking to me and another second to realize what she'd said. "Yes! Yes, this is a Kara Janx top!" Then she asked me where I got it. I told her Kara had had a party a couple of nights ago at Girlshop and that this top was exclusive for Girlshop and only available that night. The woman then told me that Kara Janx was her sister-in-law. She said, "She didn't even tell me she was having this party!" We were both excited about the coincidence. I told her that Kara had personally sold me on this top, otherwise I might have thought it completely too sweltering to even try it on.

The woman in the pink skirt said it looked great. I thanked her. We moved on through the night, going our separate ways.

Closure on Police Brutality

2006-07-07T10:05:00.000-04:00

When I went down this path of reporting a police beating (see "Google Tool" entries), my co-worker who works on police brutality issues tried to prepare me for disappointment. I wasn't prepared.

It was nearly a year ago that I witnessed an unprovoked police beating of a man who was not resisting arrest or even defending himself against the beating. I was standing an arms length from the action. After filing a formal complaint with the civilian review board, I met with the D.A.'s office and later positively identified the officer in a photo lineup (or at least I believe I did). A few weeks ago, the civilian review board kindly informed me that my complaint was unsubstantiated.
I know at least two others I regard as extremely credible who have reported police brutality in New York City only to reach the same deadend months later. One of them is also a lawyer.

With our current state of affairs -- what some might call a police state -- I recommend that when engaged by unruly police officers to do what one would do when meeting up with a grizzly bear. I've heard that if you can see a grizzly bear, it is too close for you to out run. You're supposed to roll in a ball and protect your vital organs. That's more or less what I saw the beating victim do, and he survived it, at least physically.

I have no idea what happened to him. The assistant D.A. refused to give me any information on his case, and she has not returned my calls since we met. My guess would be that the charges against him were dropped. My coming forward put the trumped up charges against the beating victim in doubt, with the D.A. knowing that I would likely be called as a witness for the defense to dispute the testimony of the police officers.

The defense attorneys know how to reach me. I'll report back if I hear from them.

Transit Strike!

2005-12-20T16:26:00.000-05:00

I suppose a key role bloggers play is recording what's happening in the world as it happens. The thing happening in my world today is my back pain . . . brought on by the transit strike.

First, let me start by asking what's wrong with New Yorkers? In every newspaper I pick up, people are complaining about the transit strike. Agreed. It's frustrating. But what's with blaming the workers?

I ride the subway every day. From what I can see, being a transit worker ain't no walk in the park.

Granted, mornings on the subway are very nice, for me at least. I take the B or Q train to Manhattan. The ride is stunning. The B and Q trains cross the Manhattan bridge. If I ride facing the south, my view is the Brooklyn Bridge. There is something calming about the image of the Brooklyn Bridge first thing in the morning. Shafts of sunlight bounce off the East River and shower the Brooklyn Bridge. Often, I'll see a tugboat pushing or pulling a barge towards the Brooklyn Bridge, making a nice white wake. The tugs make their way south towards the Statue of Liberty, who from afar beckons them on. The subway is romantic for five minutes or so every day.

Evenings are not so good. By then, the rats are awake. Standing on the platform at 34th street, a co-worker and I saw about 10 rats within the five minutes we waited for the train. No kidding. Two rats per minute. Two new rats that we hadn't seen before. (Trust me. They don't all look alike.) Once, at the station nearest to my house, I saw a rat on the platform pushing past riders trying to get home from a hard day at work.

Transit workers work among those rats. The station managers, the cleaners, the motormen. They co-exist in a world of rats in the bowels of New York City every day. My five minutes underground with the rats pale in comparison to their eight or more hours. Another day, I exited the C train at Clinton-Washington in Brooklyn. I took the stairs to the street like a zombie, not really minding my step. That's when I noticed, right in front of me, a large pile of human excrement. Someone had to clean that up. That someone was a transit worker.

It's unfair on so many levels to ask transit workers to sacrifice their pensions at 55 for pensions at 62, as the transit authority is demanding, so that people like me can take a trip into Manhattan that is business as usual today or tomorrow or the next day. If I worked daily in the dark of a station or tunnel among rats, urine, and the occasional human mega-crap, I'd be demanding alot more than to retire at 55.

And I haven't even mentioned the train operators who live in fear of the day when someone will decide to commit suicide or homicide by jumping or pushing someone in front of their subway train. It's next to impossible to stop 2000 tons of steel on a dime, particularly on tracks that are over a century old. So the protocol (and as I understand it, this happens several times a week), is for the operator to crawl under the train with a flashlight to inspect the mangled corpse du jour. Can you imagine operating a train that has killed a person and then having to immediately crawl under the train and look at what you've done? Transit workers don't have any emergency or trauma training of the sort that a police officer or firefighter might get. They are your average person in a fairly non-heroic job.

Give the workers a break already!

So this morning I had a doctor's appointment on the Upper West Side. I would have cancelled, except for all the excruciating pain I'm in. I have some sort of foot ailment brought on by the repetitive stress of jogging. This foot problem has thrown my back out -- a double whammy. My doctor suggested I take the Long Island Railroad. I would take it outbound to Jamaica, Queens and from there inbound to Penn Station. Then I would have to take a cab, assuming I could find one, uptown. Well, when my doctor suggested this, I envisioned lines at the train station with the potential to last hours. After reading the Times online a few minutes ago, I now know that these lines were real. Many trains from Long Island passed by people at Jamaica station because they were packed. I chose to ride my bike.

Let's review. Bad foot. Bad back caused by bad foot. Bicycle. Twenty-two degrees outside.

It was a nightmare from the very start. Brooklyn streets were choked with stalled traffic. The bike lanes were full of idling cars, turning cars, and double-parked trucks. Traffic creeped towards Flatbush Avenue, the feeder to the Manhattan Bridge, one of the three bridges from Brooklyn into Manhattan. I did my best to snake my way between cars and pedestrians, who were out in unprecendented numbers, all marching towards the East River. Cops were everywhere. It was sheer chaos. Sweet Jesus!

I'm guessing that most of us on bikes had never ridden into Manhattan and had no idea what we were doing. So I, like the rest of them, followed other cyclists. When I finally made it to the bridge, I hoisted my bike over my shoulder,like dozens of other cyclists ahead of me, and climbed the stairs to the bridge walkway. That's when a pedestrian told me the police were ticketing people on bicycles for riding on the pedestrian side. I carried my bike back down the stairs and rode over to the proper side. Funny, but the pedestrians who were walking on the cycling side were not getting tickets. There were no cops in sight on that side. And cyclists found themselves having to ride serpentine to ride around the pedestrians and dodge the oncoming cyclists heading into Brooklyn.

When I hit Manhattan soil, I was totally lost. I went up Grand Street. That seemed to work until I hit the East River at the foot of the Williamsburg Bridge. Hmmm. I rode through a giant public housing complex off Delancy, trying to backtrack to Canal. A man walking with two small children cheered me on. "Go on girl! Do what you gotta do!" I chuckled to myself. Somewhere around that time, in the public housing complex near Delancy, I felt my back throbbing. Cold air, potholes, and hard cycling are evidently not good for the back.

Traffic in Manhattan was actually better than normal. People from Manhattan rarely give a thought to the outer boroughs where the transit strike created a battle zone for commuters. Manhattan, protected at all cost, was a dream. People were walking dogs, sipping coffee, Christmas shopping! Through Soho, I had the streets to myself. I breezed through Washington Square Park, graising the arch as I rode up 5th Avenue the wrong way and then over to Union Square. The temparature had risen to 26 degrees fahrenheit, without factoring the windchill felt from a bicycle.

From Union Square, I rode up Broadway the wrong way because the bike lane there had cones in it to distinguish it from car lanes. Unfortunately, delivery trucks and taxi cabs stopping abruptly to pick up and drop off fares thought that this bike lane had been reserved for them. I was quite literally on Mr. Toad's wild ride.

When a freakin' minivan drove into the bike lane and stopped short right in front of me, THEN flipped into reverse in my direction, I couldn't help but follow my impulses. (I'm a small town girl with a big city mouth.) The open, leather lined palm of my Eddie Bauer fleece glove purposely and with great gusto hit the minivan making a loud thud. The driver got in my face. I got in his, then kept riding. North I rode, into Central Park, which for five minutes was my refuge. I dipped out at 72nd Street, my docor's office.

Doctor's office: blah, blah, blah. No, he couldn't figure out what was wrong. Yes, I needed an MRI. And when did I want to finish up that hammer toe surgery? April. Yes, April. I relaxed. I drank coffee to warm myself up. The visit was inconclusive, but I hardly minded since it gave me a chance to exist once again in soothing warmth.

Running out of excuses not to leave, I toughed it up and got back on my bike to make the long trek home. I chose Broadway again. Word of advice. Don't ride a bicycle through Times Square. Very unpleasant experience. The ride again seemed to take forever. My back let out a silent scream. An angry pedestrian flipped off a motorist who felt a need to lay on his horn. People lined up for discount tickets to The Color Purple. Back in Soho, women clad in fur coats and over-sized sunglasses clutched their Chanel shopping bags. They popped in and out of my lane for the chance to negotiate with cab drivers going in their direction.
I chugged over the bridge in granny gear this time, no longer feeling the rush of adreneline from riding under such unusual circumstances. The rails in the center of the bridge, normally screeching with long, steel subway cars, remained silent.

I made it home in one piece, albeit in more pain than when I left my house five hours earlier, but having gained a new perspective on my city.

I want the strike to end. I want the MTA to give the workers what they want.

I moved to New York in 2004, one year after the blackout that crippled the northeast and three years after 911. For the past 18 months, there has been hardly a struggle in New York, at least nothing much out of the ordinary.

How do I feel after my taste of New York City in crisis? Eh. It's just another day in this great city.

What's in a Name?

2005-12-16T12:45:00.000-05:00

As a child, I always felt my name, Veronica, was too old for me. My family called me by my nickname, Roni, which in my mind was no better. There was a boy who lived down the street named Ronnie Carr. Regardless of the spelling, Roni was a boy's name to me. But my parent's misjudgment went beyond my first name. For some bizarre reason, they thought it was a good idea to give me the middle name, Sue. Let me take a step back.

I am the youngest of seven children. (Five of us were accidents. Oops.) Before I came along, my parents had a three boys and three girls -- how nice. If they had to have a seventh, they would have liked another boy. So with great hope, they chose the name David Joel for their unborn seventh bundle of joy. When I popped out, another girl, they were completely unprepared. So my oldest sister who was 19 years oldat the time named me Veronica Sue. I should add that she also dropped me on my head sixth months later.

My parents were both born in Pennsylvania, well above the Mason-Dixon line. But in black American families like mine who moved north from southern roots, some southern vestiges remain. The nickname "Roni Sue" was one of those vestiges. My parents were kind enough to refrain from calling me by that awful name, as to call me that would amount to child abuse. But I had relatives. Lots of them. My cousin Gerry was my first cousin, but only a few years younger than my mother. She always, always called me Roni Sue. Sometimes she'd make a rhyme. "Roni Sue, how are you?" It was excrutiating to say the least.

As I grew older, I grew into the name Veronica. I learned to love it, in fact. And now that I'm reaching middle age (I'll never admit to having actually reached it), I am coming out of the closet about this Roni Sue thing. By the time I'm 80, I think I'll love being called Roni Sue. At the moment, however, it's sort of a joke name only suitable for blogs and e-mail.

I actually had more profound things to say today (of course) and ended up on this tangent. So I'll go with it.

Last night was my office holiday party. We went to Mary Ann's on the Upper West Side, Broadway and 91st. I don't remember much about the food . . . ahem. But the margaritas were excellent. Mary Ann's is definitely worth a try. We had the obligatory gift exchange, and this is what got me thinking about my name, Roni Sue. I made the mistake of disclosing this little factoid about me to a co-worker with a sense of humor. This certain co-worker was emcee for the gift exchange, so when he pulled my name, he called out for all the world to hear, "Roni Sue! This next gift is for you!" Fortunately, I was drunk so I had a good laugh. But anyway. I digress yet again. I want to talk about this gift exchange phenomenon.

What the flip is up with gift exchanges? Every damn year I hear horror stories about gift exchanges. Personally, I don't care for them at all. I always end up with some crappy gift that I have to throw away or if ridiculous enough, place on my "What Were They Thinking" shelf. Typically, there is an absurd $10 spending limit which guarantees that I'll receive something totally useless. These gift exchanges remind me of some not-so-happy parts of my childhood. Being the youngest of seven, and being the daughter of a low-wage earning father in a single-income family, Christmas was never as jolly as I hoped. My older brothers and sisters always got new toys or clothes. My parents would gift wrap hand-me-down toys and clothes and put them under the tree for me. These office gift exchanges remind me of the disappointments of my childhood Christmases.

Right. Disappointment. Note to self. Find therapist.

My office actually put fun twist on the gift exchange this year, making it more than bearable for me. We drew names and buy a toy or book we think that person would have liked as a child. We opened them at the holiday party last night. Now, we donating the gifts to charity. I'm not sure anyone other than a little girl at the next table who couldn't take her eyes off us (or, rather, our gifts) really cared about the contents of the brightly wrapped packages. The fun was in the buying and in the ripping open. I drew the name of a man who is a community organizer and cares a good deal about equality and fairness in society. (I work at a civil rights law firm. No surprise there.) I bought him my favorite Dr. Suess book, The Sneeches. It's about a society of . . . sneeches, some with stars on their bellies and some with plain bellies. The star-bellied sneeches don't want to associate with the the plain-bellied sneeches, whom they perceive to be a lesser species. You get the picture, right? I received what looked like a little black (African American) troll dressed in couture. It was supposed to be a compliment, I think. Some child who might otherwise get a wrapped hand-me-down will love it. Nice!

My friend Helen, unfortunately, was subjected to the worst sort of gift exchange. The Yankee Swap. I swear, this symbolizes the worst traits of our capitalistic society. Basically, someone gets an oven mit, and someone gets a video iPod. Two years ago when my husband was living in Basel, Switzerland, he was part of a Yankee Swap. He bought Michael Moore's "Dude Where's My Country," a gift he would have really liked to have himself. He went home with a 20-pound bag of rice. True story. To this day, he is emotionally pained when he cooks rice.

The way Yankee Swap works is you buy and wrap a gift for someone whose identity is unknown to you. You bring it to the party, and at the party you take a number. The first person takes any gift from the pile. The person who draws number two can take from the pile or *steal* the first person's gift. And so on and so on. Once your gift is stolen, you can take another gift from the pile or steal from someone else. And so on, and so on. A Yankee Swap ALWAYS results in someone getting screwed and someone getting over.

Now my friend Helen is nobody's fool. Plus, she had just watched the American version of the TV show The Office where the oven mit/video iPod example originated. (I prefer the UK version of the show, but the American version has grown on me.) In Helen's office, there were 16 numbers. Helen drew 15. She was actually able to calculate in her head what would have to happen in order for her to go home with what was tantamount to the video iPod. And she did. And, of course, for all yin there is yang. The oven mit person was very upset, disappointed, and hurt by the person who took the gift they wanted.

Here's hoping that if you get the oven mit, it's the gift you really want. And most importantly, let's not forget the people who don't even get an oven mit. Give generously to your favorite charity.

At the end of my office party, we gave a gift to the little girl at the next table. We also gave one to her little brother. The rest of the toys and books will put smiles on the faces of three dozen children in Haiti.

Grace and Ellwood City

2005-11-21T02:50:00.000-05:00

Western Pennsylvania was full of mysteries and wonders for me as a child. My hometown was peppered with woods and creeks. They were a natural theme park for a little girl or boy. On my way home from West End Elementary School, I would detour with my friends to the little patch of woods between Crescent and Border Avenues to play tag. We would lose ourselves in fantasy weaving through.

At the end of my street was the flawless image of a beautiful grassy knoll. I loved it from afar. It was perfect enough to be a landscape painting, and I could not take my eyes off of it. The knoll was actually across a large creek and laid on the mirror side of the valley. Although it was also in my town (on the road to Wampum, the nearby township), my mother always responded the same when I asked her to take me there. It was too far away.

Just below the painting, one block from my house was a playground. I remember a monkey bars and lots of kids of all ages swinging and screaming from them. The playground was covered with a dust that got in our shoes. Our mothers yelled at us. But we loved to play on the large mountains of the brown kitty-litter like material that made the dust. There were tons of little bits that sparkled like jewelry. Finally, I was a little rich girl, or so I pretended as I stuck my hand in the brown material and the shiny specks trickled off my hand. Did the mountains occur there naturally? I wondered. Did they spring up from the ground like the giant Rockies? I assumed.

In reality, those mountains belonged to the factory on whose grounds the playground had been provided. This company graciously made playground was available to us at all hours, even though it sat inside the company fence. The gates were never closed. My brothers remember ballfields and spending most of their waking hours down there playing football and softball and whiffle ball, all seasons of the year. Behind the kitty-litter piles were railroad tracks. The bad boys would walk down to the tracks to smoke cigarettes. I never ventured too far beyond the playground. Although I liked the piles, anywhere beyond them gave me the creeps.

My neighborhood was a working class neighborhood of proud, hardworking Italians and Germans and Catholics who had many, many children. We were the only black family in the immediate vicinity. And we weren't Catholic. But we did have seven children. One day every summer, all the children from all over my West End neighborhood met under that the pastoral painting for the playground picnic. There were games and food and crafts. It was the best day of the year.

Sadly for me, my beloved playground closed when I was seven. It was moved to a less convenient location. The new location across the road and up the hill had no landscape painting as a backdrop. It had no giant piles of brown and shiny material for us to play in. A whole new set of families were the lucky ones who got to live next to the playground. And my old playground and the old factory that hosted it became a sad, lonley place. A ghost town.

I hadn't thought about the playground at the bottom of my street in decades, until yesterday, that is. My brother, who lives in our family home on 13th Street, told me he'd received a letter from the government. It was about the playground.

Years ago, I lived in Denver. I was a lawyer for the Environmental Protection Agency. That was where I first heard of Libby, Montana. Libby was the location of a vermiculite mine owned by a company called W.R. Grace. The vermiculite rock extracted from there, as it turns out, was laced with naturally-occuring asbestos. Libby miners, their wives, and their children have been dropping like flies over the last several years from illnesses stemming from asbestos exposure. Totally coincidentally, I saw two segments on NightLine about it two nights in a row a few weeks ago. The miners ingested the tiny fibers while they mined the vermiculite. They unknowingly brought the lethal fibers home on their clothing. Their wives washed that clothing commingled with the family wash. Everyone died.

Asbestos-related illnesses include asbestosis, lung cancer, and mesothelioma, any of which may take up to 50 years to develop. (I read this on a mesothelioma web site.) Cigarette smoking increases the chances of developing one of these illnesses, because it impairs the lungs ability to expel foreign objects, such as asbestos fibers. (Or so I'm told.)

My brother had misplaced the letter he'd received from the government. But he remembered that the content was about the product the factory manufactured. Zonolite. I know enough about W.R. Grace to know that Zonolite was one of their trademark products. It was some sort of home insulation. I asked my brother, "Do you remember the name of the company?" He said no. I said, "Was it W.R. Grace?" YES! Yes, he said. My heart sank into my brand new embroidered French cowboy boots from Jubilee on West 8th.

W.R. Grace processed vermiculite from the Libby mine at 200 facilities across the nation, turning it into Zonolite. Of those 200 facilities, 28 processed a whopping 80 percent of the Libby vermiculite. The factory at the end of my street with my beloved playground beneath the beautiful landscape across the creek was one of those 28.

After getting the incomplete news from my brother, I drove from Western Pennsylvania to New York, straight to my wireless connection. Cruising through asbestos and superfund web sites, I found myself on the site of the Agency for Toxic Substances and Disease Registry -- ATSDR. This agency is a part of the Centers for Disease Control. It was created to study the health of communities near superfund sites (for those of you who don't know American environmental law, these are the worst, most contaminated properties in the country). So. ATSDR's web site had a link for Libby, Montana. I clicked. My heart racing. I sped through the text that explained an investigation into the places that received the Libby vermiculite. The beats grew faster. Click. New Orleans, East Hampton, Massachusetts, . . . Ellwood City, Pennsylvania.

That Sunday night, I sat stiffly and silently in a state of catatonia for what felt like hours. It was all too surreal and painfully ironic. I had devoted my career to helping communities deal with health and environmental issues resulting from the disproportionate distribution of polluting sources in low income and people of color communities. All of a sudden, I was suited to be my own client. One day and one letter from the government uprooted my world as I'd known it and turned it on its head.

I spent most of the next day phoning my siblings to let them know they'd been exposed to asbestos and telling them to go to the doctor. I e-mailed them the ATSDR fact sheet for Ellwood City. It said that anyone who lived within a few blocks of the factory may have been exposed to asbestos when fibers were released during the processing. We lived one block away. It said that children who played in the piles of vermiculite may have been exposed to asbestos. It said to stop smoking, see a doctor, and tell her/him we'd been exposed to asbesots. Give her/him a copy of the fact sheet.

No where did it mention the playground. Did they not know? I called ATSDR to speak environmental professional to environmental professional. I was the second person to tell them about the playground. They had mailed out their fact sheet to residents in my town within a half mile or so of the factory. One person managed to read it to the end and make a phone call when they saw no mention of the playground. Just one person. I wonder if any of my other former neighbors read it. What about the Vitullos? They lived right next to the fenceline. Had they read it?

The ATSDR scientists asked me lots of questions about how the material looked. If it was darker, it was likely "waste rock." Waste rock was what was leftover after the vermiculite was processed. It had been difficult for the scientists to piece together what happened at the facility because it closed 30 years ago. But it seemed logical that the material we played in was the waste rock, since it had no value. People were free to take it and use it to line their driveways. It lined the ballfields at the playground. ATSDR thinks the piles are buried on site.

Processing the vermiculite concentrated the asbestos in that waste rock.

Tomorrow I visit the doctor.

The Google Tool for Crime Fighting, Part II.

2005-11-12T10:47:00.000-05:00

I'm always a bit embarrassed when someone tells me they've googled me. I used to come across that in the dating world. My husband googled me way back when. And then there were the online dating guys. Yes. I am a veteran of the online dating world. I was unsuccessful, but in hindsight I highly recommend it. Sometimes it works. Anyway, it is always a bit frightening when someone tells me they've googled me. It's not that there are indiscreet Paris Hilton-esque photos of me online. It's just that I feel a tinge . . . exposed.

So there I am in the district attorney's office. Just as I am drinking in my surroundings, the aromatherapy candle, the misplaced bathroom sink (please review Part I), Ms. Assistant District Attorney puts me at ease by telling me that she's already googled me. All she needs is my date of birth. Date of birth? Huh? But let's get back to this google thing. She told me she'd googled me, and obviously I'm a credible witness. Really? The web page my husband built for me is pretty convincing, I guess.

Ms. A.D.A. then asks me to begin my story in narrative. I can recite the story by rote without variation, and I do. I describe how close I was to the police and the person I call the victim (they call him the defendant). She asks me with which hand the officer laid the first punch to his face. I tell her I'm not sure, but it was most likely the right hand. "Why?" she asks. Duh lady. From where I was standing, if he'd used his left hand his back would have been towards me at some point. His back was never turned towards me during the incident. My Jessica Fletcher reasoning was impeccable -- indeed, all those Murder She Wrote episodes paid off big. I think this is when Ms. A.D.A. mentioned to me that the officer broke his hand.

The two officers had actually come to her office days after the arrest to give them their version of the story firsthand. She told me they were completely convincing. Do they give cops acting classes in the academy, or is the ability to lie innate?

Anyway, when I got to the part of the story where they were handcuffing my Lost Boy and the shorter officer had his foot on the guy's neck, Ms. A.D.A. interrupted me. "Let me just say to you that there are some police techniques that you may find strange but are completely consistent with police procedure." Ok. I said, "You asked for my story. I'm just telling you what I saw." She shot back, "I know. But I'm just saying that this may have been police procedure." Ok. I said, "You asked for my story. I'm just telling you what I saw." And let me just say right here that I'm glad I never became a D.A. I thought I wanted to back when I was in law school. I interviewed with the Alameda County D.A.'s office in Oakland. They didn't want me. Praise the lord. Ms. A.D.A. needed to have the last word in this exchange. I let her have it while allowing my mind to drift off to thoughts of the infamous L.A. choke hold. It was police procedure. It cracked the necks of countless suspects before it was outlawed in the 90's.

After I finished my story, she went to get her supervisor. He was a typical career prosecutor. He was tall, thin, handsome. His silver hair contradicted his boyish appearance. His clothes were neat in style, almost collegiate or preppy, although slightly rumpled. He wore a blue striped button down shirt, khaki pants. You get the picture. He slumped into a chair next to me and says, "Hello professor." Let me explain here that I have taught graduate school for the past 10 years. It was all there on google. I happen to teach now at the law school from which this comely fellow graduated 30 years ago. He told me his son just graduated from there this year. Did I know professor so-and-so? Nice ice breaker. I could see right through they guy, but for some reason the charm worked. Like magic.

He tried to trick me into making mistakes. Had I ever witnessed violence before? As if I was a chronic witness or a committed crusader against the police. "I'm a small town girl Mr. Supervisor Man. I have never seen live violence."

What did I tell the 911 operator? I told them two cops were beating up a man on 32nd Street. "But you just told us that only one cop was doing the beating. Which was it?"

I replied, "Ms. A.D.A. told me she ordered my 911 tape, so you'll know soon enough exactly what I said to them. There was just one cop beating my Lost Boy. The other watched."

I left that office feeling a bit shaken. I still knew exactly what happened that day of the beating in excrutiating detail. But I felt like they had come close to besting me. It was sort of like coming out of a job interview and not knowing for sure that you'd won them over, even though you normally interview like a pro. One reassuring thing was that the supervisor concluded the chat by telling me that they had criminally prosecuted cops in the past. If I should run into any of the other witnesses, please give them Ms. A.D.A.'s card and urge them to call her.

The next day at work, Lt. Internal Affairs paid me a visit. This time, it was a scheduled visit. He came with a partner. They were dressed in suits, just as I imagined they would be. I didn't notice the quality of their suits, but if these guys were true to their TV/film stereotypes the quality was bad. I did notice lots of garish, bright gold jewelry. Klunky gold rings with diamonds. Maybe a chain. Yeah -- the good stuff.

We sat in the conference room in my office. The three of us crowded around one end of the over-sized table that had been donated, no doubt, by one of the big law firms that support our work. The poorly lit conference room heightened my anxiety about doing this photo array. The I.A. cops informed me that they had brought 12 photos. The police officers I identified by name may or may not be in those photos. Let's pause here. I identified the officers by name. Why then did I need to do the photo array? Well. What Lt. I.A. and his friend told me was that I had been inconsistent in my story. The I.A. friend (to whom I had never spoken before this very moment) told me that I'd told Lt. I.A. at one point that the short cop did the beating, then I told him another time that the tall one had done the beating. I'll give these I.A. guys the benefit of the doubt. Maybe THEY confused what I said. But I as never confused. I clarified myself. I told them I would do the photo array. But for the record, I have always been clear that the short one was the ass-whooping f***. (Excuse my German.)

I should also mention here that the I.A. men brought a tape recorder. They asked me if they could record the dialogue. I said yes, of course. But every last bit of this protocol was intimidating. And I'm not one to be easily intimidated. I'm the person who a couple of days ago confronted a guy on the subway for taking up too much room. "Did you know it's illegal to take two seats on the subway?" The guy's arm was jammed into my ribs, but I slid myself so snuggly between this french-fry eating loser and the next guy, that the guy on the other side of me got up. I stubbornly refused to budge, even though there was now an empty seat next to me. I let the guy, who was the size of a linebacker, keep his elbow in my side. He gave me a good dose of stinkeye and said with the most venom he could muster without outright smacking me upside the head, "I can't help taking up two seats. Now can you back up off me?"

Normally, I don't pick fights with people in the subway. You just don't know what kind of crazy you're dealing with, and half the people on the subway take up two seats. The subways just aren't built for the girth of the larger New York subway rider. But I was having a bad PMS day, and I didn't feel like standing.

Where was I? Right. Intimidation. Tape recorder, two guys with bad jewelry, poor lighting, 12 photos. They had me read and sign a piece of paper that said that the appearnance of the guys in the photos may have changed. They may or may not now have facial hair. They may have lost or gained weight, meaning that I could not rely on the photos to bear any actual current likeness to the people they depicted. Nice. They pulled out the first set of six photos. They were photocopies of tiny police ID badges. They were grainy, out of focus. I studied the photos nervously. I was supposed to initial below the photo I thought was The One. I easily eliminated four of the six photos, but I wasn't sure about two. I asked to see the second set. Like the first set, the guys all looked more or less the same. White, full faces, jarhead haircuts. In this set, they did throw in a guy who could have been Latino, just to shake things up a bit. I didn't recognize anyone on that sheet. Back to the first sheet. I refused to sign, but I told them aloud for the tape recorder that photos number five and six looked familiar. In fact, I believed that number six was the beater. The room was hushed. They began to pack up the photos, without disturbing the quiet.

The police never tell you if you've successfuly identified anyone in a lineup -- whether it's a live lineup or a photo lineup. They asked me if I'd talked to the D.A. I told them that in fact I'd met with them the day before. "What did they say?" Not much, I told them. They kept their cards pretty close to their vest. I told them they were trying to figure out whether to charge the victim (the defendant) with felony assault on a police officer or a misdemeanor -- disturbing the peace I guess. (I'm not sure how he disturbed the peace, but this may have been something that happened inside the subway, before I ever saw them.)

I left the room briefly to retrieve a copy of the account I had written down right after the events occured. They asked me if I'd written anything down. I told them the truth, that yes I had. I don't know if it is common for eye witnesses to crimes to write down their account while it's fresh in their minds, as I had. Or did the police suspect I'd done this because I'm a lawyer? Who knows. When I came back with the account, they asked me again. "What did the D.A. say?" I told them this time, "They said they'd criminally prosecuted police in the past." Tee hee.

I mischievously punctuated that statement with silence, big silence, before adding, "But they'd like me to find another witness. They gave me their business cards to hand out in case I recognize and run into any of them." The two I.A. guys audibly exhaled. I almost expected them to slap each other on the back in congratulations.

"Oh yeah," one of them said. "They'd want a corroborating witness."

I don't know what they'd want. But I do know that things have been quiet since that day. Later that same day, I spoke to the supervisor who works in the office of the guy that represented the Lost Boy during the arraingement. I called him with the information that Ms. Chocolate (my office neighbor) had found. I spoke with him twice. Finally, the defense knew that there was a witness. No one has contacted me since. The Brady material sits in a pile of papers in my office, unopened. I can only assume the charges against my Lost Boy were dropped, otherwise the defense would have wanted to meet with me.

I feel somewhat irresponsible in that I haven't contacted the D.A. to find out for sure. I'm almost afraid to reopen this chapter in my life. Since the quiet, I've had time to focus fully on my own life, my work, my family. My Lost Boy no longer keeps me awake at night. But this ordeal has given me an understanding of why witnesses don't come forward. It takes alot of time, which could be real problem for people who don't have flexible work lives. For example, it would be a huge sacrifice for an hourly worker to invest the time to be a witness. Also, process is by nature fraught with intimidation and people trying to punch holes in your story. The hole-punching is not necessarily malicious. I understand that it wasn't so much about me as it was about assessing my certainty and credibililty. But it feels like a thankless attack, when you're just trying to do the right thing. Someone who was less confident and perhaps wasn't a lawyer might crack under the pressure.

Each time I use the subway station at 32nd and 6th Avenue, two times most days of the week, I recoil a bit. Every time I see a Port Authority police officer, I keep my head down while trying to steal a studied look at the faces. Yesterday, there were four Port Authority police cars parked at the corner, and about six officers were in close proximity. I ducked hurriedly into the subway.

The Google Tool for Crime Fighting, Part I.

2005-11-06T09:51:00.000-05:00

I'm not a big fan of police shows on TV. There was a time once when I was mildly devoted to "Homicide" reruns. And I used to like the first half hour of "Law & Order" back when there was only one. And, my husband can tell you about my more recent addiction to "Murder She Wrote." It comes on the Biography Channel four times a day. (In my defense, I only liked Mrs. Fletcher when she was solving murders in Cabot Cove. Her ill-thought move to New York City lost me.) It was tough to give up people like George Clooney, Courtney Cox, Kim Catrell, and Megan Mullally in the 80's with shoulder pads as big as their hair (George's affliction was the mullet cut rather than the size). The people rising to fame were as captivating as those descending. But how many times can you bear to watch Chad Everett, Buddy Hackett, and that Latino guy from "Barney Miller" hamming it up in desperation? My friend Kate has a name for this feeling of utter embarrassment for other people. It's called "vantrum." You heard it here first folks.

Anway, with the help of abject feelings of vantrum, I managed to kick the MSW habit like a champ.

Seeing the Lost Boy being pummeled was nothing like TV. I had never seen violence up close and personal, and I hope to never see it again. I was surprised that I didn't hear the punches or see sweat or blood flying in slow motion. It's just bare knuckles brutal without the special effects.

I thought about the Lost Boy all the time. Sometimes he kept me awake at night. I was ashamed for the police and for my country. This Lost Boy was a hero to me. No matter what he'd done when he arrived in NewYork, whether he was a Nobel Prize winner or a bona fide criminal, he was a hero.

I have the same feelings about people who lived through the American institution of slavery. They were survivors. They survived the horror of the Middle Passage, survived being stripped of their language, religion, and families. The survived the indignity with utmost dignity.

I am a direct beneficiary of the survival of the enslaved African people of the Americas. Among my many feelings about slavery, the strongest is gratitude for those enslaved. I am alive because they suffered. Illogical as it may seem, somehow I have a similar feeling of gratitude toward modern-day survivors of African atrocities. I don't think I could survive as this Lost Boy has. His courage to survive the Sudanese civil war is unfathomable and before my eyes enshrouded him in the calm he exhibited at the hands of two of New York's finest.

So a day or two after I lodged my formal complaint with the Port Authority police, I received a phone call from Internal Affairs. I gave him my story. He asked questions. What hand did the officer use to punch the Lost Boy? Uh, the right hand? I hadn't really paid close attention to that particular detail, being overwhelmed as I was with the fact of the beating. Which cop was shorter and which was taller? Easy. Cop number one was shorter than cop number two. You just never know what details will come in handy. But I pretty much had them down. Lt. I.A. asked if I would be willing to be a witness in a criminal proceeding. Of course I would. He asked if I could identify the cops in photo lineup. I was pretty sure I could. Lt. I.A. told me he'd be in touch. Fan-tastic.

I am an environmental lawyer, completely sheltered from the fast-paced and dynamic world of criminal defense. Fortunately, I have a colleague who is a former police brutality lawyer -- for the record, she defended the victims, not the police. So my colleague took me under the comfort of her wing. She worked tirelessly trying to find out the identity of the Lost Boy's defense lawyer. She inquired among legal aid lawyers who may have done arraignments on the date my Lost Boy would have been arraigned. She talked to private criminal defense lawyers. She explored every avenue, yet with no answers.

The day after I spoke with Lt. I.A., I got a call from an assistant district attorney in Manhattan. Lt. I.A. had given her my name. She told me she was about to indict my Lost Boy on charges of felony assault on a police officer. Pregnant pause. She told me she was about to indict my Lost Boy on charges of felony assault on a police officer. I calmly explained to her that she had it wrong. The officer had beaten the suspect. She told me she was only a fourth year ADA., would I be willing to meet in person with her and her supervisor? Suddenly, she had to take another call. I exhaled.

My phone rang again. I didn't answer. It was Lt. I.A. calling to set up an appointment for a photo array. He left a message.

My colleague jumped into action again, trying desperately to find the defense lawyer. I should be talking to the defense with this exculpatory evidence, not the DA. And just what were the police trying to prove with a photo array? I had given them the names of cop number one and cop number two. What more did they need?

I managed to avoid the DA and Lt. I.A. for a day. I did have a paying job I had to do. During that one day, Lt. I.A. dropped by my office. I happened to be out. I felt like I was being stalked.

Still not knowing the identity of the defense lawyer, I took a call from a kindly criminal defense lawyer who wanted to give me some advice. I greedily gobbled it up. He told me to cooperate as best I could with the police and the DA. He asked me if the Lost Boy was still in jail. Still in jail? I hadn't considered that. What if my avoidance was prolonging his incarceration? Do the photo array, he said. Meet with the DA. They would be looking for holes in my story, but so what? I needed to get this guy out of jail.

The lawyer told me to do one important thing when I met with the DA. He told me to prepare an affidavit explaining what I'd seen. In a cover letter, identify it as "Brady material" so that the DA would have to share it with the defense. I had no idea who Brady was or what it meant to supply Brady material. Google had no idea either. But I went with it.

As I was dutifully preparing two original copies of the affidavit -- one for the DA and one for the defense -- the woman with the office next door to me asked what I was doing. I'm fond of her. She keeps chocolate in her office. I told her the Brady story. A disability rights lawyer, she had no idea who Brady was either. But she had one contact in the criminal defense world and offered to use it to try to get to the Lost Boy's defense lawyer. I was grateful for her offer, but as I asked her to use the contact I didn't have much hope. She was as alien as I was to the criminal defense world. It was a hail mary.

I rushed off to the DA's office, Brady material in hand, without an answer yet from the my friend with the chocolate's contact. I hopped into a cab that struggled doggedly through the notorious Manhattan traffic to get downtown to the sprawling concrete complex of government office buildings. Through security I went with my plain brown envelope full of precious Brady material. Up the elevator to the shabby little office that smelled of a Glade aromatherapy candle and burning matches. There was a bathroom sink in the young ADA's office. Hmmm. Next to the sink sat a young woman with reddish hair. The ADA introduced herself and asked if the young woman who was some sort of administrative assistant could sit in on the meeting. She wanted to go to law school. "Of course," I replied. Moments later, I wondered if that was so smart. I hate to seem paranoid, but perhaps the motive here was to use her as a witness to impeach my testimony. Ack!

Anyway, the ADA asked me to tell my story. Oh yeah. My Lost Boy was, indeed, still in jail. But he hadn't been indicted yet. My meeting was supposed to inform the DA's decision on whether to seek an indictment for felony assault on a police officer or a misdemeanor -- probably disorderly conduct. (Do I tell you here or later that cop number one broke his hand on the Lost Boy's face?) As I was settling into my account, my mobile phone rang. It was sort of embarrassing. The ring is a song, "A Nameless Girl." Kate talked me into that song. I've always wanted to change it, but then I figured I wouldn't recognize my own ring. I did change it once to "I Think I Love You" by the Partridge Family. Somehow, that song made me feel vantrum for myself.

I quickly checked the caller ID and noticed it was my office calling. I answered. The disembodied voice simply said, "I know who the defense lawyer is." It was my good friend who keeps me outfitted in M&Ms, the peanut butter variety. I thanked her and went back to my story, discretely folding my Brady material up and stuffing it into my bag. Now I could go directly to the defense with my story.

But first, I had to finish up with the DA.

The Lost Boys

2005-10-20T17:09:00.000-04:00

Have you heard of the Lost Boys of Sudan? It's surprising how many people haven't. They are legendary. During the 1990's, thousands of boys and girls were orphaned as a result of the civil war. They walked for more than a year, first to Ethiopia then to Kenya, to find a safe haven. Of the estimated 10,000 who made the trek, thousands died. Some were eaten by wild animals, some starved, others died from illness having ingested bad water and such. At ages as tender as 8 years old spanning up to 18, you would have thought many had died of broken hearts. Imagine such tragedy and danger being the centerpiece of your childhood, your future completely uncertain.

After making it finally to Kenya, the Red Cross and others stepped in. As many as 4,000 Lost Boys ended up in the U.S. When I lived in Boston (as recently as 2004), I saw them everywhere. If you walked into the Whole Foods there, nearly all the baggers were these extraordinarily tall, extraordinarily skinny, extraordinarily dark-skinned young men from Sudan. They always flashed broad smiles at me. Beneath the smiles, I could see the pain as easily as I could see the relief. I tried to communicate my pride and my welcome to them through my smile or my eyes. Perhaps my mothering instinct, perhaps just a full and open heart, something made me want to be extra kind and extra helpful to them. Even now, my eyes are full with tears at this quick memory.

After the Lost Boys arrived here, they were placed in apartments and sent to schools. They wore shoes for the first time in their lives. They had to learn how to live in the frigid weather of New England and the northeast. They were grouped together with the older ones living with younger ones so that they didn't need to be placed in foster care or be adopted. No one told them how to open a box of cereal. They didn't fit in with the other school children, but they tried their best to look and act like the others. I suppose by now some of them are in their late 20's, but still tall, pained, and at the same time relieved, and in some cases the older ones are still looking after the dwindling number of minors.

Now that I'm in New York, I still see Lost Boys. They get lost in the shuffle here, as we all do. But they're here. I saw one a few weeks ago.

It was a Friday morning. I was exiting the subway in Manhattan around 9:15 a.m., rush hour. With my iPod headphones blaring in my ears, I slowly made my way with the crowd as if we were a herd of cattle. Straight ahead of me, I saw two police officers and a young man they were holding ominously. I wasn't sure if theywere making an arrest, so I didn't want to get in the way. At the same time, I was curious. The police and the man they were escorting turned to walk up the final set of stairs to the busy midtown street. As it turned out, I was right behind them. The crowd continued to move like a herd, so I was just one step behind the two cops and the man. We moved very slowly. I noticed that the cops were holding the man's wrists firmly to his sides, but they had not handcuffed him. Dressed in saggy denim shorts, a khaki shirt (opened), and a khaki hat with a blue bill that cheerfully read "New York," he was a Lost Boy.

When the cops made it to the street, they released the young man then turned towards me to descend back into the subway. The stairway was narrow, so I tried to make room for them to single file back into the abyss. I looked squarely into their young, white faces, scrubbed clean and tidy. Their short haircuts made them look official and enthusiastic. All of a sudden, one of the cops bolted for the street. Had something happened? Had someone said something to him? I didn't know because of Poncho Sanchez and his version of Watermelon Man in my ears. But what I saw with my eyes changed my life.

Cop number one ran over to the Lost Boy and punched him in the face. The Lost Boy was wide open. He didn't hide his face, he didn't punch back. Cop number one then grabbed the Lost Boy by the arms and kneed him in the chest. His aim may have been a bit off, because the Lost Boy was well over six feet tall and cop number one was well under. But being trained as a cop no doubt helped him to hit his target, albeit clumsily. Cop number one then began to pummel the Lost Boy in the stomach and abdomen with rapid punches in succession. The oddest thing was that the Lost Boy never ran or defended himself or even covered his vulnerable spots. It was almost as if he had some sort of survivor instinct that compelled him to tough it out until the ordeal ended. A survival instinct.

I couldn't believe my eyes. I'd been in New York only a year. But you never, never expect to see police brutality on a busy Manhattan street corner. There must have been a dozen witnesses who stood there watching the sorry display within one or two feet at most. Then there were all of the cars and trucks and buses creeping up 6th Avenue in the morning traffic. I ripped the headphones out of my ears and called 911. The police. I just wanted the beating to stop, and I didn't dare throw myself into the fray. I'm brave. Not stupid.

"911. How may I help you?"
"I'm standing at the northeast corner of 32nd and 6th where the police are beating up a man."

Thus began my odyssey as a witness of police brutality.

While talking to the operator, cop number one continued to use the Lost Boy as a punching bag. The cop's anger was palpable and deep as the ocean. His radio flew off his belt, presumably with one of the punches. Another bystander picked it up and gave it to me, "Here, maybe you can call for help with this." The radio was smooth and gray. I fumbled with it a bit, but I couldn't find any buttons on it. I suppose you've got to be a cop to operate one. I stuck with my call to 911.

Everything was happening very fast, but I was mostly composed and thinking. I needed badge numbers to identify the cops. I got closer to the action. By this time, cop number two had joined the ruckus. He stood over the scene for a moment, thinking about how to be helpful I suppose. I may have glanced over at him at one point earlier in the action. He, like me, seemed to be waiting for the beating to end. Like my fellow civilian bystanders, I waited in horror. I can't say that cop number two was horrified, but he was patient. Finally, the Lost Boy had toppled to the ground. Cop number two took his wrist to handcuff it. Cop number one put his foot on the Lost Boy's back, very close to his neck. He was practically standing on it, but then he was a little fella. I never saw badge numbers, but during the cuffing, I did see names. Names!

I gave the names to the police dispatcher to whom I'd been passed along by the 911 operator.

The cops moved past me to take the Lost Boy back into the subway. I noticed their red armpatches said, "Port Authority Police." Cop number one took the radio from me and thanked me. I don't recall that I was able to utter a word to him. I believe I was mute for a moment, then I identified the officers as Port Authority police to the dispatcher. She took my name, address, and phone number. Then she gave me a log number, "5529318." Thank you.

I was shaken the entire day, and hardly able to work. Fortunately, I work for a civil rights law firm. My boss was supportive. I told her my story. I told my story to my co-worker who used to work as a prison organizer. I told the story again and again. I wrote down what I'd seen, and I e-mailed the story to friends in order to get a time stamp on it. I might need this if I have to testify in some sort of legal proceeding.

I made a formal complaint to the Port Authority Police. I told them the story. I gave them my log number. They thanked me for coming forward. I think they were genuine and a bit horrified.

The next week, I got a call from Internal Affairs.