Upon Walking Across the Brooklyn Bridge

We walk the Brooklyn Bridge, because it’s there. Because my son who’s in town, had never been. Because it’s July 4th, and how cool would it be to do that on this day. I mean, it’s an American icon. But act quickly. Because if this notion got any cornier… I’d have to shuck it. 

Hart Crane in in his lyrical poem “To Brooklyn Bridge,” had no such reticence in implying that the bridge was something far beyond, a connection between Manhattan and Brooklyn. Right from the opening stanza: 

How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest
The seagull’s wings shall dip and pivot him,
Shedding white rings of tumult, building high
Over the chained bay waters Liberty—

Yes, Crane “sells” the Brooklyn Bridge. Though not in the way it once was “sold” by a man named George Parker (1870-1936). 

He was a con artist extraordinaire, who was repeatedly successful in making unwary immigrants think, that through a transaction with him, they now controlled access to the bridge.  No joke. Some actually tried to set up toll booths, which police stepped in to quash (“For You, Half Price”, The New York Times, 2005). From which popped up into the pop culture the phrase “…and if you believe that, I have a bridge to sell you.” 

While gazing out at the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island earlier, immigration can’t help but be uppermost on one’s mind. For the obvious reasons. And for one man’s particular reason, it was the port of entry for my illiterate grandparents from Calabria. 

But one would not expect to make any associations with immigration and the Brooklyn Bridge. Unless you knew that story of the hoodwinked immigrants. Unless you knew the more heroic story of German-born immigrant, John Roebling, who following his arrival here, would one day come to design the Brooklyn Bridge in 1867. Upon his death two years later, the project was taken over by his son, patriotically named, Washington. 

In all my crossings of the Brooklyn Bridge, including by bike on a roundtrip to work from Brooklyn Heights to mid-town Manhattan— one summer eons ago— I had never seen the bridge bustling and bursting with humanity. Nor at those other times even farther back, when we, a cluster of swaggering teenagers would sometimes go up there to sneak a smoke; a frowning adult passing by here or there. 

What I’m about to note is of course anecdotal—there’s no data to support any of the ensuing observation and assumptions—but seemingly, half of the people inching across the bridge, on this most celebratory day of American pride, are of a “different” background than mine. Different here being defined in terms of language spoken, variations in skin color and cultural dress—most obvious in the case of traditional Muslim women.   

Most of these walkers are part of a family group. Containing no doubt, many second and third generations. Strollers abound. And here’s what jumps out at me and gives me pause:  given what is now transpiring within our country, where our hearts have seemingly turned to ICE, these “different” people on this bridge are so fully and joyfully engaged in embracing the American spirit! Yet, these are not the people the “Make America Great” caps have in mind. Sad.

These people at this American icon, of aesthetic and engineering marvel, seemingly every fifty feet or so, have their cameras and iPhones clicking; faces in selfies beaming before a backdrop of cables framing, that beautiful expanse of New York Harbor— if I might wax poetic. The length of the bridge being almost 6,000 feet… you can do the math.

Of course, the immigration issue is one of complexity. Of course, there are laws that need to be followed. Still, do illegal “aliens,” quid pro quo, give us license to react inhumanely? 

I wonder if Christ would have ever been admitted to this country? Homeless out of work carpenter, with apparently some sort of cult following?  “Judea is not sending us their best people, that I can tell you.”

Of course, there are the proper screenings that need to take place. That has always been the case. Even for my aforementioned grandparents, who arrived here well over a hundred years ago. Whose surname was misspelled at customs. No doubt by an impatient official who couldn’t make out what these peasants were mumbling in their foreign tongues. So in effect, a name was taken from them… but not a child. 

Really, all I wanted to do was walk with my son across the bridge. Because it was right there. And he had never been. And maybe this, in lieu of a father and son at a picnic playing catch; a rite of passage we both long ago passed.  And I wonder what ever became of my old glove anyway? 

When we got to the Brooklyn side, we went for a beer. And with a view of the harbor before us, and way in the distance our starting point, we noted how far we had come.

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Quote of the Month

“The best quote in my book is from Mussolini, who said ‘if you pluck
the chicken one feather at a time, nobody will notice.’ We have just
plucked a lot of feathers here, and I think that its very important for
us to make clear that Trump has overplucked…”

—Madeline Albright
Former Secretary of State

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Bocce Ball Court 

At Houston and First as a season churns,
the sky is awash with perception of blue. 

A flock of pigeons overhead
punctuates this slight-of-hand of science, 

and backlit by a monarchial sun 
the optics are striking—

it’s a great day for bocce ball
on this, the summer solstice. 

Solstizio! Galileo
peering through his telescope

might have exclaimed while under house arrest
for daring to slap the hand of God;

He who “doesn’t play dice 
with the universe,” but rather, 

as the Medieval magistero 
might as well have decreed:

Dio giochi bocce ball!
Starting with rolling the pallino

to the center of the universe, 
around which all action to come will evolve; 

with il sole arriving
spinning along the way

coming to rest as close by as possible—
grande palla al piccolo palla:

the object of the game. 
To which ancient men still bend in belief.

Upon which the droppings of pigeons, 
now defiles all deification

on the order of the court.
Meh, the game continues.

—Ron Vazzano

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That’s the Last Straw! (Almost)

The pun was there for the taking when Starbucks announced last month, that they will eliminate all plastic straws and replace them with “adult sippy cup” lids. And the world as we know it, without doubt, will never be the same. 

If that sounds sarcastic, that’s because it is. I have a real like-hate relationship with Starbucks. That they have come to be so immersed within our social and cultural fabric is something that I find… well, annoying.

Every move they make— large or small— either causes some sort of controversy, or on the flip side, earns plaudits for corporate sensitivity. Granted, they have always been a community minded operation (all arrests of black-guys-waiting-for-a-friend, aside). “Community” is a good thing, in their Facebook meets Brick-and-mortar sort of way. But there’s a certain pretentiousness underlying it all. And it even starts with the license they take in their very use of words.  Which they obviously think is pretty nifty. And we parrot them.  

In place of what we once clearly understood to be small, they have redefined as “tall”. As if we are talking about penis size or something, and they don’t want to offend. (Or are they bragging?). Medium… is now grande. Which means large or great in Italian. And large… is now venti. Also, an Italian word meaning twenty. Translating to 20 ounces, in Starbuckspeak. A bit inconsistent, no? If you are going to borrow from the Italian, shouldn’t the “tall,” which is eight ounces, be otto? (“Otto?” “Otto?” “Here’s your otto”).

Then all those people using Starbucks as a home office, is something I find particularly irksome when I can’t find a seat. And I won’t mention again, the two African-American men who were arrested in Starbucks for “waiting while being black.” But at least they had a seat. 

On a less serious note, there are of course, those absurd variations on a theme. Which I once addressed in a poem…

…above the din of permutations
                  and combinations
of repeated concoctions
built on shallow syrups and false foams
by baristas in Rocket J. Squirrel voices:
“A vente non-fat half-decaf latte
with one pump of sugar free
cinnamon dulce
extra foam…”

“You want cinnamon dulce? You can’t handle cinnamon dulce!”

Now with this pro-action on plastic straws—no one has forced them to do it—they will eliminate more than 1 billion of them globally per year, most of which end up in landfills and the ocean. I applaud that. Though they are just now becoming aware of this problem? Given that they have been multiplying like rabbits— 28,000 stores worldwide at last count—for the last twenty-five years?

Aren’t plastic straws recyclable, you might ask if you are a concerned citizen? (Or a Snowflake). Plastic straws are recyclable. But given their size and light weight, apparantly they are often mechanically sorted out during the recycling process and end up in landfills and waterways. Which reminded me of a question I once posed in another poem, “Mourning Coffee:”

Has anyone actually ever witnessed 
something in the process of getting recycled? 
                                          We take it on faith
 
that the tan coffee filter 
through which I’m about to let water flow
has been here before. 
A journey in Hinduism 
that keeps coming back in one form or another 
‘til it gets it right? 

Despite my literary apprehensions, I feel assured that “sippy cups” will be fully recyclable. Would Starbucks lie? So, hail Sippy Cups as you go off on your journey to the bin and back.

But I would hope that they will have “Christmasy” adornments on them when the time comes. You remember the ruckus raised three years ago when Starbucks went to a plain red cup during the holiday season. (Speaking of recycling…DECEMBER, 2015 MUSE-LETTER, Their Cup Runneth Under).

“One particularly troubled Evangelical soul… took to the internet saying that ‘Starbucks wanted to take Christ and Christmas off their brand-new cups. That’s why they’re plain red.’ And two-thirds of the initial flood of responders agreed. Trump even suggesting a Starbucks boycott.”

I guess this is what they saw that Christmas.

Starbucks capitulated the following year, overcompensating for their previous sin, with big ads in high profile places. And all was right again with the world.

But fear not, there will be no need for any apology to any naysayers this time. All will not be lost for, “Some drinks will continue to have straws, including Frappuccinos, but those straws will be made with either compostable plastic or paper.” 

Paper straws! What a concept! Where have I seen that before?

And at a mere $4.95 a pair,  from a “retro” online site, I can hold them in hand once more.

As with all corporations, words are never immediately turned into deeds. Seattle and Vancouver will serve as early test markets, and it is not until 2020, that all Starbucks stores will have eliminated plastic straws. Yet, if it took Ringling Bros three years to eliminate elephants from the circus, I guess two years for straws is rapid by comparison. Assuming any comparison between elephants and straws is ever valid. 

Really, they can do whatever they want with straws as far as I’m concerned. Just as long as they never eliminate that logo. It was the inspiration for—you guessed it— still another  poem, I wrote several years ago, “Ode to a Starbucks Girl.” It begins…

And as aside, I wonder what the Evangelicals had to say about the original logo in 1979. It bore a distinct resemblance to a depiction of a 7th century Italian Melusine, which not only suggested an eroticism, but with the pulling of tails apart, dove right in. Or is my mind in the ocean?

I would have thought that that would have been the last straw for them, before Starbucks had hardly begun. 

But in the final analysis, I guess you have to hand it to Starbucks. Their heart is in the right place. Or around a venti-and-a-tall thousand places, to be exact.

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The Story of O

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Meanwhile, Back on the Farm…a Summer Reading

To paraphrase that opening line to a classic song: Summer time, and the reading is easy. 

Or so it should be, as per its leisurely reputation. And I had been leisurely avoiding it. But what better way to stick one’s literary toe back in the water, than with a classic that once was required reading. And so that notion, coupled with a bizarre week on the political front overseas, in which friends were now adversaries and adversaries were now friends, led me back to Animal Farm. 

I hadn’t read it since high school. And I walked over to Barnes & Noble— a chain whose links are breaking apart— to pick up a copy. And there was exactly one copy on the shelf.  I knew there had been a surge in all dystopian novels, particularly 1984, (JUNE, 2017 MUSE-LETTER  “1984: A Rereading”), since the last presidential election. Further fueled by the Conway’s introduction of “alternative facts.” But that was long long ago, as defined by the way we now measure time. So that couldn’t be an explanation for its scarcity. Or is it that Animal Farm is no longer “required reading;” no longer considered in that pantheon of the greatest works of fiction ever written? If so, then yes, why have it take up valuable shelf space? Or why even have brick and mortar bookstores anymore for that matter? A thesis for another day. 

Trying to determine whether a book is still required reading, or is still on “Best Ever” lists, is an imprecise task to say the least.  It will vary by schools, curriculums, geography, agendas, literary critics and list makers.  As an alternative, I narrowed my online search to my old alma mater, Brooklyn Tech High School, to see what they were up to. Was Animal Farm still required there, as it was when I attended? Back in the coldest days of the Cold War.

BTHS was always a rather stringent institution of learning, and a visit to their website didn’t disappoint on that count. Of course they posted a summer reading assignment. And expectations were spelled out in no uncertain terms to their student body: 

“Briefly explain why you chose the book and then offer a well-developed response to what you read…. The important thing is that it demonstrates the thinking that you did as a result of the reading. Whatever you do, do not summarize the book!

And lest there be any ambiguity here, spelled out in capital letters: EVERYONE IS EXPECTED TO COMPLETE THE SUMMER READING ASSIGNMENT. Due Friday, September 14, 2018.

My stomach churned. And for a moment I was fourteen years old again and feeling the pressure.

Scanning down their reading suggestion lists by grade, I note the absence of Animal Farm. Of the 33 books listed, I only recognize eight. They range from that old chestnut “Age of Innocence” by Edith Wharton, to a mystery/thriller “11/22/63” by Stephen King, published six years ago.  Though they do open it up to further options by referencing The Guardian’s 100 Greatest Novels of All Time (https://www.theguardian.com/books/2003).

Almost sixty years after I last read Animal Farm, I still remember its basic plot. A group of animals rebel against the humans who run the farm they live on, and run it themselves with hopes of being equal and free. However—spoiler alert— the new rule led by the pigs, turns into a cruel tyranny of its own.  As summarized in the last sentence in the book: 

“The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.”

But I had not remembered that Orwell’s book was so directly inspired by the rise of the Soviet Union under a murderous Stalin, in the years following the 1917 Russian Revolution.  And if you are of a certain age, you can’t help but recall the cold-war slogan “Better dead than Red!” And now with the rise of a murderous Putin and his desire to return to the goal of Russian dominance, the irony can hardly be lost.

Aside from the broader and obvious themes of the book, there are some very specific lines that echo a lot of what Orwell’s other Classic 1984 had addressed. Such as changes in mantras and beliefs that are abruptly rewritten, establishing a new order. Some stated even in all caps.

        ALL ANIMALS ARE EQUAL

To which is added… 

          BUT SOME ANIMALS ARE MORE EQUAL THAN OTHERS

And then this…   “Four legs (read: “us”) good, two legs (read: “them”) bad!” 

Which becomes…”Four legs good, two legs better!” 

Finally, most chilling for me, is the scene wherein the beloved old horse Boxer is taken away in a van marked Horse Slaughterer. Yet, his sorrowful animal friends who witnessing what is so obviously happening, are told the explanation is really very simple. The van had previously been the property of a slaughter house, and had been bought by the veterinary surgeon, who had not yet painted the old name out. That a wrong assumption had been made by those who witnessed the scene.

Would you believe that? I wouldn’t.

Or to quote Chico Marx from Duck Soup: “Who are you going to believe, me or your own eyes.” Except as Animal Farm reminds us, it might be we who are in the soup. And it ain’t funny.

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Gig

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fini