Revisiting New York and...

This is an etching I bought by Philippe Lejeune because it reminded me of the view I saw as a child.

Lejeune told me this is the 1940s photograph by Andreas Feininger that inspired him. 
Turns out the photo IS the view I saw from our apartment building.

The fog sits heavily atop the New York skyline — so thick it smudges out the crisp linear edges of the skyscrapers outlining the sky.  And now the rain is coming down heavily.  I didn’t expect it.  It’s not a horrible rain but it is steady and does put a damper on things as I haven’t thought to bring any raingear.  The bus I'm on is stuck in traffic, inching along the crowded side streets.  A police car with siren and flashing lights comes up alongside our crawling bus and tries to squeeze through the tight line of cars — every vehicle's fighting for a foot or two of progress.

Since my last visit things have changed: now the sidewalk hot-dog stands have LED advertising displays and falafel is dispensed from miniaturized Airstream lookalikes with shiny aluminum exteriors and a snug little stand-up cabin space for the guy inside the cart shelling out warm pita pockets filled with crispy falafel balls all dressed in shredded lettuce, parsley, and tahini sauce.

My mother always said, “Stand on any street corner in Manhattan and within fifteen minutes you will see every fashion trend that ever was walk by.” Our bus has been stopped at a light for fifty seconds and I have seen four skirt-lengths — mid-calf, below the knee, above the knee, and thigh-high — walk by. Mother was right.

The book that spawned the
actual museum in Istanbul.

The young woman sitting next to me is speaking in a foreign language on her cell phone.  Sticking out of her bag was a rolled-up poster with only one word visible — “INNOCENCE” — and I knew she must have been to The Museum of Innocence and that it was likely she was Turkish.  When she confirmed what I suspected, I said I was second-generation Armenian and she asked from where?

“Diyarbakir — though the Armenians won’t say that's Turkey.”

“Turkey doesn’t consider it Turkish either,” she agreed and added quietly, “Kurdish.”  Yes, I nod in acknowledgement — the Kurds — another group persecuted by the Turks (though certainly not by this nice young graduate student studying anthropology at SUNY-Binghamton).

How is it that on this bus of 54 passengers I am next to the one person who is Turkish?  Is it a test?  Is it testing my lack of forgiveness?  I am found wanting.

The bus is making its way along Boulevard East (after the assassination, renamed Kennedy Boulevard) and I pass Liberty Place and 849 Gladdon Hall where I spent the first 4 ½ years of my life.  We are getting close to the small park on the cliffs facing the west side of Manhattan where Aaron Burr fought a tragic duel with Alexander Hamilton and killed him.

Hamilton Park in Weehawken
http://www.youdontknowjersey.com

I am shocked to look down the steep drop of 47^th St in West New York where way down on the Hudson River’s edge are substantial apartment complexes of two-tone brick and gabled roofs. It is a stunning view and Manhattan seems a stone’s throw away.  As a child I saw that view and imagined the Empire State Building was my next door neighbor.  We pass building after building — The Camelot, The Shakespeare, The Carla Nicole — here and there are some brick single-family homes interspersed among the high rises.

At home our mail is delivered by car to each block with the postal workers getting out to hand-deliver the mail house-to-house.  Here up north the mail carriers are wheeling their mail carts door-to-door to each apartment building with its many individual mailboxes and signs outside that say No Loitering Allowed. 

It isn’t just the mail delivery or the imposing skyscrapers that make life here different, it’s the sounds all around you.  In the short time since arriving, just on this bus I’ve heard French, German, Spanish, Yiddish, Arabic, and — what sounds to be Romanian or Czech (turns out it was Portuguese).  Everywhere are people who are speaking a variety of languages and bringing with them the sensibilities of their culture — it is far from homogeneous!  It IS the mosaic of life in the US.  I never saw it as a melting pot because that would mean a merging, a disintegration and loss of identity but a mosaic — everyone retains their identity and distinctly represents a different cultural position, even while wearing oversized, prominently branded Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses.  The bus is driving down Broad Avenue, Maple Avenue, Elm Avenue — all very American-sounding but the store signs for the drycleaners, grocery, and dance studio are subtitled in Korean, Chinese, or Vietnamese.

I like this array of cultures, I appreciate the diversity on display. I love NOT knowing what I’ll come across next.

Being Armenian

April 24 is the day that commemorates the genocide of the Armenians.  And despite what anyone says, the history in our family is that my grandmother came to this country in 1911 when she was eleven. My grandfather (not yet her husband and quite abit older than she) was already in this country having escaped from Diyabekir, his hometown in Turkey, after witnessing the massacre of his father and the abduction of his mother and sister and that predates the "official" start date of 1915.

I hope you will read one or all of these posts about the Armenian aspects of my life...

   
From One Stove To the Next

                                           

                                             Losing My Religion

                                                                    

                                                                                   Rolling My Way Back Home

A Blind Date with The Stones

It was an odd situation.  I was headed out on a blind date arranged by my ex-boyfriend Jack.  

Though Jack and I were no longer dating, we'd remained friends and I trusted that Jack had my best interests at heart.  Still, a blind date?


"He's a really nice guy and he's Armenian!" was his pitch, so I said the guy could call me and when he did, he was so, so excited to tell me he had tickets to see the Rolling Stones at the recently renovated Madison Square Garden in New York. 

Being a Beatles girl, I wasn't so enthused.  Plus, it was on Thanksgiving, he'd have to pick me up from my Aunt Maddy & Uncle Johnny's house, and — it was a blind date.




"So this guy, this blind date, he's taking me to see The Rolling Stones," I complained to my friends as I slammed my locker door the next morning at school.  

              "WHAT?"

                              "The Stones?  Are you kidding me?"

                   

                            "GEEZ, you're COMPLAINING?  A blind date that's taking you to the Stones?!"

"I don't like the Rolling Stones," I continued to complain, "and it's on Thanksgiving night.  This guy is gonna have to pick me up from my Aunt's house and I'm gonna have to meet him with about 30 relatives looking on — isn't that AWFUL?" I complained hoping for sympathy.




"You better stop whining," cautioned one of my friends looking at me as if I were a complete lunatic — "YOU are getting to see THE ROLLING STONES!  Are you CRAZY?  You are SO LUCKY!"




Though I still felt cranky, I guessed I could bear it.

After a gargantuan Thanksgiving meal, I was upstairs getting ready for the big date with help from my sister and my cousin Linda.  Before he even rang the doorbell, I already felt sorry for Bob.  As far as the family was concerned, he was walking in the door with two strikes against him:

     1.  What kind of an Armenian was he?  His family name had been shortened so that it didn't have the signature "ian" at the end of it that signaled it was Armenian ("ian" means "son of"...son of the butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker).

     2.  It was Thanksgiving.  What was he doing leaving HIS family?  What kind of an Armenian was he?  

I tried to hurry along but was having trouble with my hair. Downstairs I could faintly hear this poor guy being grilled: Where was he from? What did his father do?  What was he studying in college?  Then I heard my uncle ask if he'd ever gotten a traffic ticket. I figured next he'd be asking if he ever used drugs, so I thought I better break up the interrogation.

As I came down the stairs, immediately I thought — strike three.   Bob had long hair, cut in a Beatles-bob shag with very long bangs.  Oh boy, he didn't stand a chance in this crowd.  Still, he was nice looking, in an Armenian-way, but he was squirming uncomfortably.   Every male relative in the room was staring in wait for Bob's answers to the endless stream of questions my cousin Bobby continued shooting at him.  Seeing the sweat beading down my date's face, I took pity and hustled us out of there and into the safe haven of his car.    

Madison Square Garden had unveiled its new look just a year before...the tiered brightly color-coded-by-level seating could accommodate close to 20,000 people.  We were on the side of the first tier...not bad seats compared to the rows and rows and rows above us.  It was a massive place.  As we took our seats, I was surprised that everyone around us was smoking.  Soon I realized it wasn't all tobacco.

The first act was someone I'd never heard of, Terry Reid, but he got the night off to a good start.  Next up, BB King.  Yes, BB KIng was a warm-up act for the Stones and to put it mildly, he was incredible — seated on his chair pulled close to the front of the stage with his cheek on his guitar he sang his blues and got people clapping and tapping their feet.  I was really starting to feel the music.

Then BB exited stage left and filling the stage with their pulsating "hard-driving, funked-up hybrid of soul and rock" came Ike and Tina Turner.  I kid you not.  As they skyrocketed into their set, the audience of thousands were jumpin', dancing and rockin' with a joy that soon escalated into a frenzy.  And just when you couldn't imagine it could get any better, out from somewhere in the seats down on the floor runs someone to join Tina Turner on stage and — ladies and gentlemen get ready — it is none other than in the flesh — Janis Joplin! 

Handed a mike, Janis and Tina burst into "Combination of the Two" (♪"Who-o-o-a, whoa, whoa, whoa-yeah! Whoa-yeah! WHOA-yeah!"♪) which brought everyone to their feet.  I hadn't smoked nor had Bob, but there was so much smoke all around us, you couldn't help but inhale the fumes.  I realized I was experiencing what people called a "contact high."  After the high energy rendition of that song, Janis and Tina slid into "Piece of My Heart," a heart-breaking ballad of pain (♪"Didn't I make you feel like you were the only man - yeah!  An' didn't I give you nearly everything that a woman possibly can ? I want you to come on, come on, come on, come on and take it, take another little piece a' my heart now baby..."♪) that every female in the audience identified with.  THEY were unreal — the date was unreal — and we hadn't even gotten to the Stones!

This is the generic poster from their 1969 tour, the bottom would be filled in with venue details.  
Somewhere buried in my attic is the program from the November 27 concert I attended on my blind date.

When the Stones finally came on stage, everyone in the arena was on their feet.  Madison Square Garden was a writhing mass of humanity.  To be honest, I don't remember much about what they sang or even how they sounded.  What I do remember is Mick Jagger shirtless, strutting around the stage like a preening peacock who was being showered by screaming adoring girls (lots of girls) throwing their bras on stage — literally.   As a pretty naive 11th-grader who hid in the corner of the locker room to change clothes when it was time for gym, this act of sheer abandon, coupled with the communal consumption of dope, were startling to me.

Bob Brooke may not have lasted long in my dating life, but the impact of that date sure did.  From that exhilarating, mind-blowing-first-rock-concert-ever, came a passion for live music and — from that night on — a singular focus on saving every penny I worked for to buy tickets to Fillmore East and other music venues in Manhattan for the rest of my high school days. I would see, among others, Jethro Tull (3 times!), John Mayall, Ten Years After, BB King, The Doors, and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young.

So here's a shout-out to "Telephone-Jack" (as my uncles used to call him because our communication was largely via pay phones) for introducing me to my ticket to a slam-bang unbelievable night that rocked me into rock music — and was the rock concert of an era.