forcing christmas

I run into a kid walking down the street. Literally run into him; I’m looking down at my phone, he is just starting at his feet slowly walking along. His four front teeth do not have any other beside them, and stick out a little bit over his lower lip when he smiles. He doesn’t smile much though, not until I made a dumb joke about him being cold with not much more than a long sleeve t-shirt on. He is fairly talkative though, as he looks up at me with these hazel dough eyes. After each sentence his right hand sweeping his bangs further over to the right because whenever he begins to talk they slowly drift down to cover his face. He almost looks like a caricature from a Nickelodeon show, like main character from The Fairly Odd Parents.


He seems about the same age as my brother, ten or twelve or so, and I am wondering what ever could make him look so gloomy. At that age six days before Christmas I was nothing but smiles, running around and running just about everywhere, unable to sleep with anticipation. Anticipation for what I’m not exactly sure, because Christmas was never too much of ado in my home. But I remained relentlessly excited for those few hours that frosty morning.

I asked this kid if he was lost, if he needed help or if he wanted me to call his parents. I basically just barraged this little boy with considerate questions, because it was peculiar that he was walking all alone on the side of the road and looking rather down.
“What’s going on buddy? Are you sad?”
“no.”
“really?”
“yea.”
Perhaps in the city this conversation with a stranger would be odd for a child to have, but around here it is not so strange at all. So I keep him standing on the side of the road for minute, pushing him to tell me what is wrong.

“It is almost Christmas, aren’t you excited? ... Your parents must live around here, do you guys have a tree up yet?”
“I’m excited, I dunno.”

“What’s your favorite part about Christmas buddy? This season has to cheer you up!”
This was going to be my blog topic of the week, cheesy, yes, but oh I am sucker for the holidays this season (typically I am not so enthused). But I feel this silly holiday spirit taking over me and am indulging myself in attempts to cheer this little guy up.

“Well my favorite part was Christmas pancakes. My dad cooked it, and he never does that.”
“So there you go- there is something to look forward to.”

“My dad is not here, he traveling or something, and he has not lived in our house for months, he moved out a while ago…”
As he says this no tears run down his face, no real change in facial expression at all. He just keeps looking up at me, brushing away his hair every thirty seconds and blinking/squinting from the glare of the sun.

"its good though, because they used to fight all the time, and I would record it on my phone... i don't think my mom is very happy."
He states this just like he states any old life fact, i can imagine he telling me that ice cream cone melted with the exact same tone. The stoic face of this kid is creepily impressive. At least the sun has given him a more confused expression, rather than the almost expressionless face I was looking down at before. But still, this is not the conversation I was hoping for. I'm almost intimidated especially because before this moment I had that 'talking to a kid' voice going strong, and now I realize his maturity level probably deserves to be spoken to as a peer.

“Buddy I’m sorry. Surely you’re dad will come home soon, and you’ll figure it out.” I have no idea what to say.

“No, it doesn’t matter. My mom says she’s signing papers after Christmas, and she never wants to see him again.”

“Oh my gosh, are you talking to anybody about this? Are you all right?”

“Yeah I have a counselor. Thanks though. I’m going to keep on walking home now…”

“Bye kido, merry Christmas.”

And he waves good-bye still looking right up at me, and then begins walking forward. This kid must not be ten; he just looked so, because his conversation ability was much better than the average ten year old. But I could not help but write about this little encounter. I find that sometimes in the spirit of such togetherness, many of us are faking; because often it is farce and so many of us feel actually feel more isolated, but have no other option other than to trudge along.

He was coming back home after visiting his parents and I was headed to visit mine. We met each other at the mid-point, some two thousand feet above ground traveling over the midpoint of America. I hadn’t reached the mid point of my lie and he had not long past it. These people I seem to have nothing in common with, I always end up having the most. The home I’m traveling back to is something different than the home he’s traveling to. The home that I have he no longer has anymore.

Both of his parents live in assisted housing. His father lives in the very assisted nursing home part, and his mother on the independent apartment style living, but both require lots of attention. His father is suffering from dementia. He cannot tell you what he did two minutes ago, nor twenty years ago, but he can describe to you in perfect detail the first time he bought his son an ice cream cone. He can recalls to his son the first time his father raised his voiced, and the first time his mother told him that she loved him too. The man I’m sitting next to has a gentle demeanor, it is almost nervous because he pauses frequently and second guesses what he has just said, but it is so confident and reassuring that after five minutes of talking with him, you realize the nerves are no more than honest contemplation. I’m contemplating what to do with my life and this man is contemplating what he has done with his. Seeing your parents in the state that his are in, he explains to me, practically forces you to become reflective. His father’s loss of memory has thrown him for quite the loop, not that it is especially surprising, but the scenes that his father does remember fascinate him.
His father was a hard-hitting economist. Who worked closely with the government most of his life, and therefore kept most of his work consuming him and a secret to his family. The man sitting next to me, at the time just a boy, rebelled against his father’s conservative ways all his life, with the intention that someday he would pay attention to him. Of course this dynamic is also not uncommon, and rarely successful.
His mother frequently tells his father, “oh your memory is just so terrible these days.” And the father responds, “yeah but my forgetter sure is in great shape.”

We dwell on this idea. That potentially an active forgetter is a positive. The son, the man I am sitting next to, explains to me how much closer he and his father have becomes since he starting forgetting. He notices that this father does not remember passionately discussing the economy, but passionately doing nothing at all. Spending time with his wife and kids, which he rarely did, remains in his mind as a daily occurrence. The man sitting next to me perceives his father’s exclusive slipping memory as some sort of sign. And he looks at me so assured, with no hesitation in his usually stuttered voice at all: what you remember are the personal connections. Those moments that add up to nothing at all.

It's a Small World

“These were taken before you were born.” I hear a voice speak up from behind me. I think he probably saw my head turn slightly over my shoulder as I passed by, and said this hoping to keep my interest for just a moment longer so that I would slow my walking pace to a pause. It worked. So well that I stopped my beeline for the hot apple cider booth, for almost half an hour.

I love these booths; with their holiday lights strung neatly around each edge connecting one to the other, and their various knick-knacks that I typically find useless but at this moment find charming, the necklaces sold by the woman who made them and the gingerbread cookies sold by the friendliest Asian couple at the hot apple cider booth. There is something about this somewhat theatrical holiday fair that I absolutely adore. When I wander around the half moon shape every day I allow myself to get a little lost, in not just the booths, but the holiday cheer that sometimes disappears.


He is wearing a black fleece north face zipped all the way up to the top, and is shifting his weight from side to side, but considering the worn blue baseball hat on his head, harms hung loosely by his side and tanned face looking quite alive – it was hard to tell if he was hot or cold. But quickly stops my pondering, by interjecting: “This heater back here has me all confused- you too though, right? You think I’m freezing just stand back here, but I’m actually quite warm. The confusing part for me is that my ankles are on fire, but neck is cold.”

His face has a few brown spots that come with age, his crows feet are prominent and he has a few white hairs peeking out from the edges of his hat that match the color of his eyebrows perfectly; each feature conveys his age is well past fifty. He likes to point this fact out as well, by continually repeating the “before you were born” line and doing the math of how much more than three times my age he is my senior.
His name is John. Born and raised in New York City with no intentions of ever leaving. The table between us has piles of t-shirts propped up on display. Lining the walls of his temporary store are canvas and prints. His booth has a different feel than most of them around here; it is calmer and darker- but not in an unwelcoming way. Everything for sale is of gray tone and has a legitimate, not faux-vintage look.

“I took these myself long before you were born.” Again with the age joke. They are all photographs he took in the 70’s and 80’s. They are primarily images of inside the subway system. Various works of graffiti. Trash lined along the tracks. A girl with cornrows blowing her bubble gum. A mom holding her daughter’s collar, while pointing her finger at her son facing the other way. An old man sitting up against the tiled wall with a blanket, playing guitar. Three adolescent boys sitting on the bench in a row, the middle on spinning a basketball on top of his finger and the other two smiling down at the train’s floor. A toddler standing on his mother’s knees, wearing and ‘I heart NY’ onesie. He points at the teenager with the basketball.

This guy- right here, Daniel Bishop. Did I ever tell you I met this guy years later? His friend cam by this very booth a few years back. He recognized his friend in the picture and so we started talking. Turns out this guy still lives in Brooklyn and I told his friend I’d love to meet him- I mean considering I’m selling art with a picture of his face. So a few weeks later we met right here at Union Square and talked for while. Great kid- gave him a bunch of shirts.
Hold onto everything you have – wait twenty some years and some one your age will want them again. See who’s that guy- Gubli- Guliano- you know, the mayor or something - well he, he knew this. So I told him to clean this place up, and he did.

Holiday Time

It seems to me as if everyone is always wishing they had more time. Its as if the speed of time is changes with the weather; now that the weather is changing and growing colder I hear more people gasping that it is almost December.

Michael just opened a boutique nearby. He has a body reminiscent of mine at the age of thirteen (but with no prepubescent boobs of course), and wears his hair casually combed to the side with a bit of gel to hold it in place. He also wears a gray cashmere sweater with a brown vest on top over fitted dark blue jeans. His belt and shoes match ideally, in that I was not trying to match but these just happen to fall together so well look. I’m wearing that outfit that you leave the house in under the impression that you must not even wander into stores so precisely put together.
After about three minutes of the average ‘stranger’s discussing the weather’ conversation, Michael begins with the, ‘oh my I can’t believe we are almost at Thanksgiving and the Holiday season is here’ remark. I have always assumed that the lazy people in the world must be more surprised with the passage of time, since they are not doing anything and time just somehow passes them. But Michael is far from lazy, as he just moments ago informed me this is the opening day of his shop and he began preparing for today not more than eight months ago. So I ask him what exactly he wishes he had more time for, and why has this holiday season sprung upon so suddenly; for it appears to me as if he had foreseen this day months ago.

1. Spend more time with family
2. Travel
3. Gain some weight
4. Make more business (even after further inquiry I still did not fully understand this one)
5. Study

Michael and I probably do not have anything in common, other than we walk down 2nd avenue each week more time that we’d like to admit. We get stuck in our own little bubbles I suppose. But the last ‘what to do with more time’ item on his list spoke to me more than I had expected. He says he admires the notion of studying; he recalls that there is nothing better than sitting in a library, surrounded by books, with books laid out in front of him and the whole day ahead of him with allotted time to sit and study. This takes time, he tells me, and that is how we learn, with a clear mind and plenty of time.

Intrigued by this little conversation, I walked right into the shop next door and right away asked the woman working there five things she would do with more time. I actually would not even consider this girl a woman; she’s just my age. I couldn’t tell you what she was wearing, but what I did notice is that she had a hair cut just like mine and was playing Tetris on the computer screen in plain view for me to see as I walked in the door. She immediately laughed in response to my question, then sighed and looked towards to ceiling for an answer. She replies: Paint. Visit my family in Long Island - no actually there is definitely a reason I don’t have enough time for that. And travel - but really that is an issue of money not time, and if I had the money I would undoubtedly make the time for travel.
And then looking back at me she laughs again and says: what is it with people these days, aren’t you glad I only have on item on my list? Because if I truly had five, wouldn’t you feel bad for me? What a terrible life to be living wishing you always had more time for these things you want to be doing. What kind of life would that be? I spend my time doing what I do.

an ear to listen

I’m just standing on the side of the street, just standing and occasionally tapping my feet together and stepping from side to side to keep warm. It is a brisk sunny morning, on of the first it truly feels like winter is coming and therefore it is not very comfortable to sit still, so most people walking by are just hurrying along.
She is a good two heads shorter than me, wearing a white knit had with her hair ends curling out of the sides, all perfectly rounded like my grandma’s, so I immediately guess that she still uses those foam hair curlers. Her light pink sweat pants fit high-rise and tight, and are also high-waters, but she doesn’t seem to mind since she has grey wool socks covering her would-be-bare-ankles that are popping out of her stained white Reeboks.
“He’s a flirt, ain’t he, that one?” she points to the man working the Halal stand about a hundred yards up the block, whose currently giving an attractive brunette a friendly hug. “Some kind of Muslim.” I just laugh, but don’t reply with any words or even any indication to encourage her to continue. But she does… “you know him?” I do, I’m standing here, still on this street corner, in what now feels like the freezing cold since I’ve been here from the past hour. I’m standing here and observing him for a film class, and as a result of my project, we have spent a decent amount of time together over the past few weeks, but I prefer not to allude to this. “Not really,” I respond with a smile, “you?”

Sometimes I find that it is more interesting to have people approach me, to speak to me without being provoked. This way I have little control over the topic of conversation. Perhaps it seems as if I am being rude at this moment, however, I assure you, I am only not being my overly receptive self. “Yeah, he has been here for quite some time,” the lady responds, “you know, they all do this, the immigrants that it is. It used to be the Greeks, with those gyro’s, and now it is all of this Middle Eastern food.” She has now proved the point that I have been thinking about and entirely sparked my interest; so I give up attempting to be reserved, which is quite challenging for me, and we begin chatting.
She has been living in Astoria for over thirty years and recalls the changes she has seen over the years with reference to the ethnic groups that have resided in the neighborhood. She tells me about her sister who lives in Tallahassee, while making a grimace and a puking sound, could you even imagine, she gasps. Everyone must be just the same, who would ever move there, we ponder together. We have it so good here, we do not even know what it is like, she continues, and we see so much of the world just by walking out the front door. She tells me she works from home, and sometimes when she has not been out all day, or is out of touch with the world, she goes down the street from some fresh pasta or her new found favorite, Thai food. She claims that sometimes she does not even feel inclined to watch the international news because it typically only offers such a negative perception of people who live on the other side of the world; a view opposed to the one she has created from her first hand experience with those who have immigrated from these countries.

You know who really has it tough right now? she looks up at me, eager, as if she is about to clue me into a little now fact, The Yemites. They even know too, it is as if they have a guilty conscious for things they did not even do. They run a shop down the street, a little deli and some other Yemites own another one just a few blocks away. The down a bit further closed up, and so yesterday I asked the guys at the one I frequent, “you know what happened at that other deli?” and they respond with the knee jerk reaction, “no- what’d they do!?” See how it is for them, they’re always on their toes, like some one is constantly breathing down their neck, waiting for them to make a wrong turn. And since sometimes they do, they’re always expecting to hear that as the news.
“Now my sister can’t even believe I shop at a place owned by these people, she’d be scared. She believes what they tell her on the TV, and I try explaining to her that it is not like that in the City.” And after some silence, since I am not really sure what to say, she turns her head away from me, then looks back and shrugs her shoulders, “well, thank god we don’t live in Tallahassee.”

“Do you even know what this day is for?” Well… I respond, stutter a bit and begin to explain that actually I am not entirely sure, but think that its roots come from All Hallow’s Eve and has something to do with celebrating the dead. Later I find this answer to be almost entirely false, but my information error did make for interesting conversation…

Now celebrating the dead? What is that all about? You know, the Hindus do this too. I am Muslim, we mourn death and have funerals, like Christians. But Hindus, they drag their deceased out into public view, and chant and dance around the body, the ceremony can last for days. They may wear colors and few tears are shed, he describes to me. I ask him if this is bothers the Muslims, the Hindu’s contrary practices. He immediately says no, and then, as if he noticed the doubt expressed on my face, he retorts, okay, okay, yes of course it used to be, and now in the North it is not at all. But in my town, only until recently has this religious tension subsided. He comes from the south of India, where he explains to me that people are a little slower and perhaps less educated, but primarily less active and modern-minded. He laughs, relating it to me, by drawing a comparison between there and the southern states. I ask him if the intolerance in the South is an issue in education, as this typically is my go-to when identifying social issues. No he replies confidently, most of India is uneducated and they have been living harmoniously for years before we were. The problem is that they do not do anything. They are unproductive, they do not work; they sit around all day and think. You see, he continues, the people in north are more industrialized and modern, they live more like we do here. They are busy, they wake up and go to work and work all day, so they have no time to concern themselves with why the Hindu’s think it is appropriate to celebrate death. Think about it, he says, while raising his voice a bit and becoming more involved in his own thought process… people in New York City are open-minded and accept different religions and races. Why? He sits up a bit and checks out my face in the rear-view mirror, I am return his glare bright eyed and wondering, and shake my head from side to side, signaling to him that I am still unsure. Because we are so busy! He exclaims. He laughs to himself again, and then settles down… there is brief moment of silence here. I am silent in the backseat, now staring out the window, contemplating this last thought. To me, it honestly came as quiet the surprise. I believe education is the beginning to understanding and further, as a philosophy major, I am under the impression that the lack of real thinking is what is wrong with the world. And here is this taxi driver, providing me with empirical evidence that too much thinking is what’s to blame.
The mind is the devil’s workshop. It will play tricks on you. If you sit around and think all day, you are not doing anything, and you will begin to question why you have so many problems in your life. And then if you did not act on your problems and get productive, you will arrive at nonsensical conclusions and blame other people. This is his thought process… I suppose this is plausible, but regardless, I’m still going to have to think on it for a while. The mind is the devil’s workshop; remember that, he repeats to me.

In the pocket of his blue jeans

I vividly remember my grandfather’s wallet, because tucked inside was a long clear insert with pictures of my grandmother, aunts, uncles and cousins, which folded out like an accordion each time the wallet was opened. He had photograph of his mother in there too, all old and yellowed; and a photo of my grandmother, where in it he still swears she’s the most beautiful women he ever knew. My father has some pictures of us kids in his wallet, they’re tucked alongside credit cards; and other than that I can’t recall the last time I was talking to someone about the ones they love and they pulled out a tangible four by two paper card.

Angelica the Mexican girl downstairs, who I am always chatting to, just loves the idea that I have a blog. She’s all curious about my results, and after pulling out her iphone that has a saved total of two hundred and fifty family pictures, still believes it is just not the same as a real photograph. She says, “they’re lost.” The photographs are lost once they are transferred to her iphone is what she is referring to; I find this interesting,since she is so technology prone, but question why. We decide that if you can’t hold it, then it is not really real.

The Bangladesh man working next door assures me that he knows just how his wife and kids look, as he sees them every night, so there just is no purpose in having their photographs lying around. Much less in his wallet- just the idea of this seems to throw him off guard. And his extended family lives so far away, he keeps his memories at bay, and so again, there isn’t much point in having their photographs lying around. Maybe, he humors me, if more people asked them what his family looks like, then he’d reconsider his memorabilia-free ways.

A Korean man, in his mid forties who has been living in New York City long enough to lose his accent, has two photographs in his wallet. Both of them of his mother, where she is looking especially beautiful, but he promises this is how she looked every day. In the photographs his mom looks no older than my age, but he is not sure of the details; the only thing he is sure of that they have been whatever wallet he has carried since he was my age. The photographs have curled yellowed edges and one has small rip sneaking up from the bottom, but I can tell he has treated them kindly over time. The other man working aside him is twenty four, born and raised in New York , and just laughed when I asked him for a picture in his wallet. He replied with, “You mean phone?” and then motioned to the Korean man, “but of course he does.” The young man explains that the picture on his phone of his mom (yes, both of these men immediately pull out photos of their mom) holds the same importance as a real photograph. I can tell the Korean man disagrees, but he won’t articulate why. I suppose I implore him to tell me exactly why it is that, to me his photographs mean so much more; but he evades making any inferences. I ask: is it a generational thing? A technology thing? A cultural thing? Why is it special that you keep these two treasured photographs in the back of your wallet, everyday in your pocket, this simple thing that is just is not so common anymore? “It is a human thing,” he tells me.