The Berry Tree

The graceful berry tree of 6th Avenue

One of the biggest misconceptions about Northern life is that our landscape "dies" in the winter. This simply not true. Trees lie fallow, like the fields, awaiting their springtime rebirth. Would that we could be so lucky to experience something like that!

Evergreens and firs give us much needed signs of life and color during the long cold dark months. Have you ever seen a holly bush covered in snow with its' red berries capped over with a little hat of snow? It is the essence of Christmas.

Bright orange and red in the afternoon sun

I can already hear ads on the radio hawking expensive "escape" vacations to beach locales because of rainy days and earlier night falls. Ugh, already?! But why? Why live somewhere one detests, spending money on pricey get-aways so that one can endure their surroundings? It seems a bit insane to me and a rather backwards way of enjoying life.

There's nothing cleaner or sweeter to me than air right after a snow, bringing back memories of sledding in the park and hot chocolate. Rather than seeing our landscape as "dead", perhaps those among us who dread snow and cold can learn to look for signs of life during what seems like the most trying times, appreciating the bright cheery red of berry that stands out in beautiful contrast to a pristine white snowfall while out for a walk. Trust me, it's much less crowded in the park during inclement weather. See you there.

Street Art: Euphoria

Livingston Street - Brooklyn, New York.

Funding Time!

We've reached that point again, dear readers, for fundraising. This one is only 10 days long so give, give, give, and let's keep it going. http://igg.me/p/284842?a=5844.

I know it's PBS bad, but this what a shoestring start-up is all about. Give it!

Love Thy Neighbor

 

It's no secret that I get singled out for harassment, whether it's at school, work, or the home, and just as typically, it's a woman. In my last apartment building, the woman on the first floor hated New York. They had been relocated from Philly by her husband's law firm, and she walked around with the bombed out air of someone who had been through a Blitzkrieg, which was weird for gorgeous and affluent brownstone Brooklyn. They lived half a block from one of the most beautiful parks in the world, Prospect Park. But she was pretty in an average way and she had the demeanor of privilege about her, so I knew she'd be trouble in the end.


And so it was. Her bad attitude extended to their dog "Boo", a big surly sheepdog, a total oxymoron for the breed. Soon after I arrived with my Mal "Ted", a couple from Georgia was relocated by the husband's law firm, too. They lived above me. They were young and nice. I often heard loud footsteps during the day, and soon I found out why. She worked as a adoption agent from home, and we became friendly when she knocked on my door one afternoon for a cup of proverbial sugar. They loved my dog and his temperament, but confided in me that the dog downstairs was an "asshole". And so it was.

Before long, the neighbor downstairs called me to say my footsteps were too loud on the staircase. Then she called me to ask if I could pick up Ted's chain when we came back from a walk. Of course it was fine that her and her children woke the building up every morning between 6-7 am with their boisterous sounds, which didn't bother me at all. Privileged. Because she hated where she was, which was odd enough given that they had a beautiful garden apartment in one of the most desired locations in the world, she started lashing out.

If it wasn't "noise" from others, it was garbage pick up. Then the apartment conditions stressed her out. She called us looking to build a coalition of complaints. Did I have a leaky faucet? Did I have this or that or that, trying to suss out unequal attention or injustice that wasn't there. I paid a premium for that apartment and its' location, as did the other tenants lawyers, and we were the first generation to live in this private home, so it was fairly pristine from any sort of live in damages.

But, since I couldn't afford a place that had originally been budgeted for two salaries, it was soon time to move. Before I left, the family downstairs was moving back to Philly and the harassed woman I knew finally had a sense of calm about her. Wow. Two whole states she had to move on a lawyer's salary. She later told me that her Great Dane that came into their marriage had to be put down because it was not trust worthy with their first newborn. Perhaps that was the reason for her depression, but at the time it looked like the usual rich housewife ennui and angst.

The first time I saw my next Park Slope apartment, I took it on the spot. It was very old and run down and it needed a lot of repairs, but it had great bone structure. I could turn this out, and the price was better than my previous apartment. Since Ted and I were on our own (well, I'm always pretty much on my own), we had to curb expenses and this 4th floor walk up would have to do. But something wasn't right. There was a still tense quiet in the hallways that I usually felt in nursing homes, with old people behind lace curtains watching me and my dog walk up and down the stairs. It didn't feel like healthy people lived there. I would find out why.

It was aggressive from the start. A woman on the ground floor immediately stepped right up to my face and wanted to know the amount I paid for my rent and why I could "have" a dog. Uh oh. I know this. She turned out to be gay and simply forward, later inviting me to surf with her, and her and her friends soon moved out. Another woman also asked me about my rent and the dog in a way that insinuated my looks "got" me the apartment, by pointedly looking me up and down. I told them how the building manager lived on my old block and knew my former landlord, but that didn't mollify their anger. It never does.

That was nothing compared to what would happen next. As soon as the people downstairs saw me, they tensed up. No "hellos" or greetings of any kind. Huh. Must be Europeans or stressed out newcomers to the city. But the woman seriously worried me, and of course I was right about her, as I always am. She had the bugged out eyes of a either drug addict or someone who was a candidate for a nervous breakdown. There was something very wrong with her and she knew I knew it, because I was aghast at their bad manners every time I saw them in the hallway.

Rather than confront me directly, they waited.  Soon enough, I would come home from a 10-12 hour day to walk my dog, letters started appearing taped to my door. Here we go. "I can hear every word you say", was one creepy line. OK, so now I'm responsible for the buildings 115 year old wood floors. Great. It was again with me and the dog in the hallway, fur on the staircase that the super had to sweep up, or me not waking up fast enough for her. They were building it up quick. Fuck. I needed this place to get back on my feet.

Being the person I am, I bought the people downstairs a noise reducer machine that made ambient sound. Uh uh. It didn't "work" for her. Another note. I should just return it. Huh. Do they know what being a neighbor means? Apparently not. I bought another area rug for the bedroom to help absorb sound. Nope. More notes. The woman was backed by her big Lurch of a husband who stood behind her glaring at me silently and sometimes (even creepier) he had a smile around his mouth as he looked at me. I'm sure that was my fault, too, along with breathing. He was her only source of power, hence this petty passive-aggressive shit.

They were also sensitive complainer types. They routinely harassed the young couple who did building chores like garbage duty and clean up, calling them at 10 in the evening to change a light bulb. Ah. That was it. They hated New York, they didn't belong here, and we were all going to pay the price for their anger. I've been through this before.

It escalated and the notes grew nastier. The manager did nothing, nor did the other tenants. As I've documented before, this drove me to such lengths that I began sleeping in my clothes so I could wake up quicker to prevent coming home from a long day to another letter, or waking up before I was awake myself to tend to him, lest they dare be disturbed. I broke my leg because I was half asleep when I was walking Ted and not paying close attention to him, a fact that I immediately called her up and told her about when I got back to my apartment after walking back from the ER on crutches (my first time). I did it because I heard her whispering behind her door like a coward as I crawled up to the 4th floor, without any neighborly assistance what so ever.

After I had to completely alter my life because of that accident, the woman began appearing in the hallway with a baby. Adoption? They looked fairly old for parents. She never even looked pregnant to me, not that I paid much notice to her or her husband. Maybe their drama was the result of some expensive and complicated IVF process, common to affluent older white people. They constantly had expensive packages mailed to them and they had pick up laundry service, so I knew they could afford another home. Who knows? But I noticed her demeanor was now servile and mincing at the mailboxes, when she used to defiantly ignore me by her husband's side. Aha. Now she was vulnerable, just her and the baby. 

Lucky for her. I would have gotten into it with her, such was the rare amount of anger she instilled in me. Her and her husband remain some of the cruelest, nastiest, selfish, and most self-centered people I've ever met, and that includes the batty neighbor next door who leaves a bathroom light on all night that shines directly into my bedroom. Was the baby loud? She asked me one time when we were in the foyer together. Did I hear them? Yes I did occasionally hear her, I said, but it would never occur to me to complain about a baby crying because they can't help it. Just like dogs.

A Walk in the Park: Autumn 2012

I wanted to say "goodbye" to fall with one of my favorite past times, a walk in Prospect Park. Here are some of the highlights from that time. Enjoy.

Sidewalk Leaves

 

I love walking through leaves, smelling their scent and listening to the rustling sound. Go on! Try it! Savor this afternoon. Winter may come tomorrow, but the light and the crisp autumn air is perfect today.  What are you waiting for?

Green on the Cheap $

Living well shouldn't be the sole domain of the wealthiest among us. Most of the cheap goods offered to the American public are filled with ingredients that are not fit for consumption, like partially hydrogenated soybean oil, a insoluble fat that does not break down: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trans_fat. The same is true for the products we use to clean our home and those we use as part of our daily hygiene. I check labels for the items I buy, and I noticed a direct correlation between the cheapest products on the shelf (or on sale) and the amount of low cost but toxic items used to create them. 

I was at the grocery store register checking out items while the young cashier talked to the bagger about her arm. I noticed a big bandage and asked her what happened. She said she got a bad chemical burn from a popular oven cleaner, the kind that causes you to breathe in harmful fumes, too. We had a brief chat about healthy, green products vs. ones that work well and their price points. It's not an easy problem to solve, but we have to give it a good go.

What's a "green" girl on a budget to do? Search and do research! First on my list was a balm for my lips that's necessary during the winter months of dry heat and cold air. But, I wanted something better than petrolatum products. I know drillers discovered the viscous substance lining the pipes that pumped the rigs as a by-product of the friction from it. Are we supposed to use that on our bodies and lips, though? I'm not sure, and as someone who uses a humidifier to combat hard-to-treat hand eczema too, I had to find a solution I could afford.

I found this lip balm at a drug store chain for the bargain price of $1.67 that has a mere six ingredients listed, all natural. No mineral oil or petroleum. Score! It's been working well so far: http://www.blistex.com/products/simple-and-sensitive. Since the no-foam organic conditioning cleanser I use for my hair comes with a hefty price tag of about $16.00 for a small plastic bottle, I needed another solution for that and fast. Low and behold, an internet search turned up the simplest and cheapest solution yet. The humble baking soda, a kitchen staple that's about $1.00 a box. I mix it in with some water and it works just fine. You'll have to adjust the amount of spoonfuls you use based on how oily or dry your hair is, but it's been working thus far: http://www.wikihow.com/Wash-Your-Hair-Without-Shampoo.

Next up are the pricey and largely ineffective anti-perspirants. I have a high core temperature and a high metabolic rate that's boosted continually by my level of activities, so I need something that works and doing without just won't do. Most of the ones I've tried create an even worse smell when I bathe the next day, also staining my shirts and leaving marks on clothing. Blech. An internet search turned up an easy blend of corn starch and baking soda that I mixed in a little jar and keep in my bathroom. I've been using it for days with no irritation to my skin, no mess on my clothes, and no weird skunky smell that I usually get from commercial products. Consider me a convert. I dip a cotton ball into the powdery mix and pat my underarms with it. Problem solved: http://frugalliving.about.com/od/beautyhealthcare/qt/Deodorant.htm.

Now onto moisturizers, also costly and also highly ineffective against my eczema. Why not go natural for that, too? And I did. I poured some good old olive oil into a teacup that sits on a small table, and there's my moisturizer. After a few a days of that and running the humidifier, the eczema on my hands mostly cleared up, though there are still some dry patches. I've been using it all over as an emollient that's been fine so far, though my skin remains somewhat itchy, which it would anyway. I'm just glad I don't have to absorb chemicals into my skin anymore. I am convinced that all these combines toxins we use daily without thought build up in our systems to cause cancer. http://www.livestrong.com/article/283887-pure-olive-oil-as-a-body-moisturizer/.

So. These are the healthy tricks on the cheap I've found so far, but I have a lot more road to cover. I also want to tackle home cleaning. I hate commercial cleaning stuff that causes me to choke when I use it in the bathroom. You know, on the tub that I then bathe in. That can't be good. I've got a mix for hydrogen peroxide and baking soda that I plan to use after my next trip to the store. I'm also looking into the cleaning properties of white vinegar, which can also be used as a hair rinse. I'll let you know how it goes. Stay safe out there this week, and stay informed. Remember, knowledge is power.

Brooklyn Skies

By the bus stop, on 5th and 9th

By the library, on 6th and 9th

Street Art: Toxic Gator

The Toxic Gator takes to the streets

From the depths of the New York City sewer system comes forth  
The Toxic Gator! And some other urban myths. Stay tuned...

Giving Thanks

Russet building and autumn, 2012

 Today I am thankful for community. What are you grateful for?

Have a Happy Thanksgiving.

Around the Way: Fall Colors

Afternoon at the Park Slope Public Library

Potted Japanese Maple

May you enjoy the beauty of this day, 

no matter where you are.

Community Gardens

Community garden on 5th Avenue

Urban centers for living are oft depicted in popular culture as towering babels of doom and gloom. Those of us who remember New York of the 1970s would agree—streets with bombed out wrecks of cars burned and pillaged, entire neighborhoods decimated by crack and crime, lost wastelands from a seemingly post-apocalyptic horror.

But times do change, and we can learn from mistakes of the past. Cities now have mixed residential laws that prevent entire blocks from becoming a ghetto during a fiscal crisis. Public buildings, businesses, and private homes occupy the same street, creating an economic diversity that's necessary to the health of any town.

One of the biggest trends right now is urban farming. Ever had a neighbor who had more tomatoes to give away than they could consume? You would see the benefit that gardening would have on a population: the cost benefits alone make any investor thrill. The investment in seeds and a plot of land versus food output is almost impossible to capture in a spreadsheet, it so outstrips any typical outlaying of cash. The need for food stamps would almost dissipate.

We already have beautiful community garden areas. Why not devote a corner to food production? Every week of the growing season (and in the Mid-Atlantic states it's a lonnnng season), gardens would give away a portion of its' growth by block assignment, much like the recent gas rationing in place after Hurricane Sandy. European countries already have their population on a car system for petrol rationing. In Germany, some blocks drive Monday through Wednesday, some have car use from Thursday to Saturday, and the entire community gets Sundays off. Gas consumption goes down, carbon emissions are reduced, the whole population reaps the health benefits of cleaner air and biking to work on their non-driving days. Trains are outfitted with bike racks for commuting to and from the station. Problem solved.

For food production, block assignments would work the same way as gas rationing. Blocks 1-3: pick up the gardens' tomatoes, if that's what's available. Blocks 4-7: OK, probably more tomatoes, but you see where I'm going with this. Each block would have its' week assigned for picking up whatever produce was available from the garden that week until food production ended. Our current system of "Haves" versus "Have Nots" is an artificial construction anyway that needs to be dismantled. There is sun, wind, air, soil, water, and seeds, and these belong to everyone. As we grow as a society, then so we shall grow together.  What ideas for growth do you have?

Around the Way: Gaslight Lamps

The gaslight lamps of historic Brooklyn.

If you've never seen gaslight lamps flickering cheerily 
in the purple dusk of a waning day, I can't tell you how beautiful a sight it is, because it's something you have to see for yourself. 
My town has them in abundance, and with time they became a symbol of hearth and home to me. 

After the brutally bratty boardroom battles in The Matrix of Manhattan, I can't tell you what a relief it is to walk through the warmth of our streets homeward-bound. I can actually feel my muscles loosen as I relax on my walk home from the subway. 

Who wouldn't want to come home to something as wonderful as this? What do you see every day that reminds you of home? Because those are the very things you'll miss when you're away.

Vendors and Clients, Illuminated.

Ever wonder what it's like for someone like me in a business negotiation? Why, just this week a site wanted free photography AND writing from me in exchange for a link to my blog. You know, "advertising." Seems like a fair trade, right? No? You are not alone. 

Even weirder, we're supposed to pretend there's nothing odd going on, that the crazy person we just tried to reason with isn't totally bat shit. These wackos actually think you will lie to their face and agree, by pretending they did nothing wrong. "You're right! My work has no real value. That's why you want it. For free." 

Welcome to the surreal world that artists, designers, and tradespeople have to navigate every single day. Every damn day. A freak show.

Around the Way: Town Houses and Trees

Around the Way: Kindness Counts

Keeping our pets healthy

Part of what makes a community great is its’ ability 
to withstand crisis and pressure. A tight-knit town immediately pulls together in a show of support whenever it's members undergo rough times, just like a healthy family does. New York has an amazing ability to withstand an enormous amount of adversity, as an old American city and a world leader. 

Keeping our trees healthy

We are not a solely a tourist destination or a Disney ride at Vegas—we have a representative from every nation, continent and country on the planet living within our environs as diplomats, doctors, and workers. We know what it takes to get by, so we do what it takes to pick ourselves up and get back on our feet to get the job done, because the world looks to us to do just that. And we do it better than ever. Stars don’t get days off, so get out there and shine today!

Around the Way: Bite the Big Apple

I've had this conversation so many times, I felt like some recent photos that I took in my neighborhood should illustrate this entry, and I should finally write this down for all to see: I use Mac computers because they are the predominant desktop publishing operating system for artists and designers. I am not endorsed by Apple in any way, shape, or form, nor I do not have stock in them or their ancillary companies. And guess what? My artist, designer, writer, and creative neighbors use the same tools too, which makes us an Apple town. Huh. I wonder why that is? Let me tell you why.

When I was in college in 1992, I took a photojournalism class. The professor showed us a beta version of Photoshop (the top rated photography software) on a small, beige Mac computer that had three palette tools: a selector, a paint bucket, and a brush tool. He taught us how to select an area of a black and white photograph and color it red (OOO! AAAH! Never seen that before!), as he explained to us that Adobe had partnered with Apple systems to design software specifically created for artists and designers. Upon the end of his trial with the software (by both himself and in his students), he would fill out a survey with feedback and send it back to Adobe Systems, where they would then develop the next generation of tools for us to use in the future, based on this research.

Great big mystery revealed. After I got my first job in publishing, I was told that in order to work in an art or design department, I would have to learn and master what was then the desktop "Trilogy": QuarkXPress, Photoshop, and Illustrator, because those are the tools we use to make your books and magazines. No one asked me to take a survey as a production assistant, or which computers I would like to use based on my personal self-interest. And once again, the reasons were professional: the pre-press facilities, typesetters, printers and production people who ran the printing presses had converted to Mac computers and desktop publishing because THEY WERE (and still are) THE PEOPLE WHO GAVE ADOBE THE FEEDBACK THEY NEEDED TO MAKE THESE TOOLS IN CONJUNCTION WITH THE MAC OPERATING SYSTEM. As a result, these types of desktop software operate best on an Apple OS, and this was done deliberately by design to form a powerful synergy based on real-life working conditions.

That is why when you use a masking tool in Photoshop, it turns to red—because before computers, hand done mechanicals used a material called "Rubylith"*, a red plastic that refracts UV light in the film process to create a "mask" over the art that you did not want color to print on. The very tools and terms you use every day come from the printing and publishing industries, even if you are not aware of the history. Now that you are informed, there's no excuse or reason for your ignorance, hostility, or anger. Right?
*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rubylith

Wrong. I was recently attacked on a design-based message board by someone who accused Mac users of being superficially trendy people who are swayed by advertising, which was specifically disproved in my previous three or four comments and backed up by other board commenters. There's always one person who either 1) can't use the hardware or software or 2) thinks Apple, Mac, and Adobe form a big conspiracy against them personally and 3) they have a paranoid ax to grind about it. We were responding to a student who wanted to know why professionals used one operating system over the other and we gave her a string of great, rational, information-filled answers, with examples, price points and historical facts, just like the the ones I presented here, but there's always one kook in the group who feels left out and starts lashing out for attention. And ladies, ain't it always a woman in meetings lookin' to tear your shit down?

I'm an old hand at these types of situations, having been in many a surreal meeting at risk of my job with a bunch of people who do not do the work and do not understand it because they can't do it. Hence the rabid, panicky fear response to technologies. So with this beeyotch on some online message board, I was like "bring it". There are creative jobs that evolved with PC-based systems on low-end hardware like Dell or HP's which use 3-D rendering software like AutoCad in professions like engineering and architecture. But, we had already covered that. 

No, no. This isn't actually about computers, and I know that. It's because someone who looks like me can use them at an expert level, and I can also teach you how to use them. You see, I'm not a graphic design "nerd" stereotype. I don't have a mousy passive-aggressive demeanor and arty, black framed glasses. I don't do just design, I do art, production, writing, consulting, business and occasional IT chores if need be because I have to hustle to make it. And that is very threatening to a certain wanna-be geek crowd, because I am not a "wanna-be" in any way, shape, or form.

Now, in an office setting, I pride myself on a certain pulled-together respectability and cool demeanor, but out here in the wild, there ain't no such rules. I went back and forth with this chatter once, and she flipped on me. So when this chick decided to go there and disrespect me, I did what any self-respecting 'round-the-way New York girl would do: I told her to shut the fuck up and if she couldn't do that, I could rip off her arm and beat her over the head with it. Oh, was that wrong of me to do? Then, I blocked her comments. Sure enough, about a half an hour later, a typical looking lanky-haired, black square-glassed design "moderator" of the group told me she didn't like that "type" of language (hey lady, go fuck yourself) and I wrote back to her that I don't like being attacked for no good reason. I mean if my information was so bad, remove me as a contributor to your board. Right? Crickets. Nothing happened.

So. Here's the deal for anyone in the so-called design crowd who thinks they can take their snippy pot shots and hide, like you've been doing since school. Uh uh. In this town, if you can't win an argument by reason and you get pissed off about it, that's your fucking problem. Do the research and come prepared, like we working class kids do. Ain't nuthin' handed to you here. You have to earn it. Because in The Big Apple, we are not your average "design" clichés of the simpering backstabber or the secret little game player like they portray on reality  t.v. shows and in movies. Some of us bite that damn apple as hard as we bark, because I grew up eating apples bitch. Go out there and get yours today in the urban jungle, homey. This is our habitat, and don't you forget it. Growwwl.

Around the Way: Houses

Park Slope is blessed with a literate, educated and creative community who gives back all the time, in so many ways. I was researching a piece on "eccentric" houses for another site that views our town as tourist fare, when it struck me that I don't consider our homes odd or weird at all. 

The homes I see are simply more signs of the fun, rich, vibrant life our neighbors bring to this area, which makes it such a great place to live. If we wanted the dull sameness of cul-de-sacs and suburbs, we'd be living there, right? Instead of seeing our city through the eyes of an outsider, I see signs of life everywhere I look, and that makes me proud to call Brooklyn my home. 
 


As you walk around your hometown today, what do you see in your neighborhood that makes you smile when you see it? That great feeling you get means you're home :)
 It's Tuesday yo!

 

Halloween Past

Walking around last week, I noticed a range of pumpkins still standing sentry by my neighbor's doors. Some were untouched by recent events, others were waterlogged and soggy from the full soaking of stormy weather, some bore the caved-in, toothless look of an aged man without his dentures, others were violently impaled upon the spikes of wrought-iron fences in silent warning to passers by about the temperaments of those who lived beyond the gates, and still others kept patient guard on their stoops against horrors unknown as a parade of passers walk by.

I was touched by these symbols that remained after the wreckage of a holiday we had. Here they were, no longer the harbingers of doom and gloom that typically come with of Hallows Eve, but hopeful reminders of the bounty of an autumn harvest, changed from worn and forlorn to hopeful and peaceful by the simple passage of time and season. It's a reminder about those among us who may not be called to action, but rather have the harder job of waiting and standing guard until needed. Valor comes in many forms. Happy Veteran's Day.

Around the Way: Autumn

Crisis? Pizza!

This is undeniably a food town, so when a crisis hits, we have a lot of foodstuffs to choose from. There's food drives, food banks, drop offs at schools and churches, charitable organizations handing out supplies from the back of vans and trucks...we can mobilize a ton of resources to this area, if need be.

And when the going gets tough, the tough get pizza. From childhood, whenever a life event occurred the necessitated a change in the schedule, pizza delivery was the standard go-to food for the New York housewife. Busy day? Pizza. No-meat Fridays in a non-fish friendly family (you Catholic kids!)? Pizza! Too tired to cook? Too hot to use an oven? You see where this is going.

Happily for us, we have paisano's galore in this town to make our favorite food for us, right here in the city that made pizza famous. I was out on assignment taking pictures, and I couldn't help but notice that this week's blue paper recycling containers were filled mostly with the items that are the sign of our hometown hero, the pizza pie box.

I love you guys. Way to weather the storm!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_York-style_pizza

The 86th District

For every election, I vote at the school around the corner from me. They have the same nice lady volunteers and my name is always spelled wrong on the voter card mailed to me with my district number and polling location. C'est la vie. My vote counts anyway. I waited until 9:05 a.m., craftily hoping that my affluent neighborhood of office workers would be away from the polls during the day, leaving them rather empty. 

No go. I felt deflated to see a line run down the school steps onto the sidewalk because I know that means an hour or more of waiting. OK, so that was the let down but the good news was that our Obama-supporting neighborhood turned it out in earnest. That's great! Having made my mental adjustments, I settled into the line to wait. The woman ahead of me was a mess. A poll worker (all of whom volunteer their services for free) checked her district information and she was in the wrong place, which he confirmed for her after we had talked about voting in general. Buh-bye. One less person in line. 

The next lady in front of me was dressed, uh, rather enthusiastically for voting (read: so NOT a New Yorker) as she struggled with her designer coffee (it kills the appetite, de rigeur for the skinny fashionista set) to get her American flag sweater-clad doggie into a a bag, which was fascinating for a snow dog person like myself. I guessed that it was a Puggle, a trendy small dog in NYC, and I was told it was a Jack Russell. Oh. He shivered as uncomfortably as his Euro owner seemed with this whole Democratic process thing. Her hipster BF in skinny jeans showed up, confirming for me their Gowanus status, also standard for any self-respecting arty wanna-be hipster. Wrong line, wrong district. So they were gone. Awesome.

Now I was left with the regular people of my district as we inched along the stairs to inside the school. A blood bank showed up to set up in the auditorium. The working class guy in front of me was dressed in standard construction guy garb: flannel shirt over t-shirt and army jacket. He grew bored very quickly and periodically chatted in Arabic in amazement to his friends on his cell phone. A sharp bird of an older women nervously chatted up people on line in her jaunty red beret, punctuating her time reading "The New Yorker" and complaining to anyone who would listen. I danced in line, stretched my limbs, shadow boxed a bit and looked around. One mom made the mistake of allowing her young son to bring his scooter, which he would roll on back and forth as she held it in her hand with a baby strapped to her in a sling, and occasionally faked falling by rolling on the ground in laughter at his joke. I thought it was funny, too. That's how I felt on the inside. Rock on, bro.

Into hour two, the pack started separating into camps: people with the will power to endure and those who lose their shit. It became a microcosm that forms the basis for every survivalist reality show on t.v. People who can, and people who can't. As we neared a small set of steps that lead to closed doors that were the entrance to the classrooms, a small cadre of people in front of me bonded over their impatience and showed their group displeasure by sulkily sitting on the steps and pouting. 

A group of African-American construction guys (in light jackets and Timberland boots) passed the time eating chips and drinking evil-looking purple and orange colored sodas. Shit. When that junk food hits their system and their brains, it will alter their behavior. I've seen ghetto teenage moms feed this same stuff to their toddlers for years, so I know it's an ingrained, learned cultural habit. One of their group, a very heavy man, complained about numbness in his thighs as he huffed and puffed to sit on the steps behind me. "Yeah. Keep eatin' homeboy" I muttered to myself. This was not looking good. I leaned on the staris' bannister with my arms behind my back, waiting for the crowd to shift.

I thought the school guards were standing behind the closed red doors at the top of the stairs to direct voter traffic towards the exit, but I would find out one of them was a grandmother who merely wanted to pass off her granddaughter back to her daughter's care. Her partner came out of the red doors with a crying toddler dressed adorably in a dinosaur hoodie. Both of them walked back and forth to the front of the school and outside, passing each other before they found each other to relate the details of the hand off and then they were gone. And that was school security. 

The smaller districts of 87 and 76 that also voted at the school went in quickly and soon the line became just the 86th. A woman who looked like a school teacher with the requisite out of date pleather backpack shouted at people to get against the wall. I leaned forward a bit in concern in response to the hush and movement of the crowd who followed her directive. She was not a poll worker. Uh oh. People are blindly following orders. The shift was coming soon.

A small frazzled haired woman from the 76th had the first outburst in the hallway when a poll worker came out looking for people in her district to let them through for voting. She just started yelling about waiting in line, and as she escalated the poll worker tried in vain to lighten the mood, in snappy hood style "Watchoo think is goin' on in there?! A fashion shoot?! They're working!" which made the crowd laugh, but the little hobbit was beyond consolation as she popped off at the mouth ineffectually to burn off some stress. Kook. 

"OK. OK!" the poll volunteer yelled "No more questions!" because the lady was too far gone for conversation. The small group of worry warts who formed the line in front of me had inched towards the doors from the gymnasium that voters exited from after voting. Oh good! Progress. Now they can see inside and the goal of this line for themselves. The lady in the red hat had gone to the front of the line to "see what was going on" something I noticed the rich white men of my neighborhood doing, such is the impatience that privilege gives to peoples' temperaments. We are all equal on this day, except for the handicapped and infirm. Welcome to America. 

She had come back with a weird comment to her little group "I don't know what the mystery is!" Not good. Uncertainty breeds discontent. I said lowly, looking up at the ceiling "The mystery is an auditorium that's equipped for the day for voting." Many times poll workers said we were waiting here in line because jamming the gym would be a fire hazard, which is true. I myself did not sit on the stairs because one does not block stairs and other exits in case of fire. I learned that in grade school when we had a visit from the local fire department. But a perfect storm was already in progress. 

Angry voters who had waited for hours before work were unnerved beyond reason. As the doors swung open, some of them took the time to vent their anger to the crowd by yelling complaints. I let one or two go, because I knew that some people lack the mental landscape to tolerate even the most minor of stresses. The red hat lady and her group nervously pelted questions to exiting voters, further whipping them up. But one white man in an orange hat went too far—he became the tipping point. He started addressing the crowded line in a loud voice about calling the election board to complain and that was all an angry young man in line behind me needed. He jumped up and down, yelling, too. "Yeah YEAH! Riot! Let's riot!" FUCK. 

After the guy in the neon hat left in a huff, pushing his way past people to the doors and stairs leading outside, some people whipped out their phones but I didn't like the hyped up way the young man behind me was nervously fidgeting. This was the type of bad energy that causes crowds to stampede at concerts. A policeman had gone to the front of the line inside a small doorway leading to the gymnasium for crowd control and that was it. No other authority figures were present. 

I took a deep breath to address the young man and the crowd stopped fidgeting for a minute in frustration. "I know it's frustrating to wait in a long line, but I have waited in lines to vote that were longer than this. I'm older than you," I said this to him to establish my experience level and authority. I put my hand toward him in supplication. "You voted in the last election for Obama, right?" He nodded in chastisement, suddenly embarrassed and looking at his feet. A much larger man stepped in front of him, tensely nodding his head in agreement taking small steps towards me. Ah, so what. "By voting for Obama, we are making history. A two hour wait is a small price to pay to change history. How many other things can you do in two hours that will change the course of history?" 

With that, I released the tension of air that had been ballooning. With one last comment, I put up my hands apart next to my head. "Perspective. Keep your perspective." And with my gentle, even, strong yet kind and firm tone, I changed it around. By now, the crowd recognized me. Good. "That's Marie Doucette" they whispered to each other. The older black man turned to his young friend "She's 'Team Renzo Gracie'....trained under Pete Lawson... " That's right. Oh good! 'Cause if this shit gets ugly, I will choke a bitch out. I have street cred in their community because I've learned under the instruction of African-American fighters and they respect that, as do I. It ain't easy comin' up in this world. Lord knows we have to fight for each step we take. 

The lady in the red hat became more flighty and skittish but by now I stood right outside the exit doors to the gymnasium, as I held my position in line to create a space for exiting voters to leave easily and without angst. I turned my attention back to waiting in line, but not before drew my hand across my throat in a kill gesture and murmured "I am not havin' it. I am fundamentally NOT having it." If I had to be the grown up and adult, no problem. I've raised a lot of people, homeboy, so muthafuckin'deal and then I practiced a few rear naked choke arm positions in readiness. Tap out or pass out. 

I read the exasperated expressions of a small group of 3-4 people leaving the gym. I said to the first one, "Do you want to high-five?" and he did, as did every other person who came after him as I did my turn in line by the exiting doors. I looked each of them in the eye as they came of the swinging gym doors "Congratulations." I said to one lady, "Nice job" I reassured another. It's what we do after each training session at dojos. We set up a line to shake the hand of sensei, nearest student going first, and each student who comes after stands in line to high-five the next fighter. It worked and the crowd now happily expressed themselves. 

Red hat lady, sensing that I would not let things (or her) get out of control, started in with people in line who had Dunkin' Donuts and coffee. "Hey. Toss them here!" then opened her mouth like a starving child. She would be the first one eaten in my tribe. They gave her a few donut holes and she gave one to a young scared looking black girl who formed the nervous group ahead of me in the line. She turned to me and said "I need sugar!" like a nervous junkie. I looked steadily at her and said "No you don't. You won't starve. I'll take care of you."

Waking up to today's election results, I know that I did. 
Well done, people.