The Verdict

The NYPD officers who murdered Sean Bell were found not guilty of all charges today.

For those who’ve not been following this story, plain clothes NYPD cops were undercover investigating a prostitution ring at a strip club in November of 2006. It just so happened that Sean Bell and his friends were out at the club for Sean’s bachelor party. Boys. Strippers. Booze. The cops, inexplicably, proceeded to shoot 50 bullets into Mr. Bell’s body. The cause? Black. Rowdy. He must be violent, right?

There are those who say that Mr. Bell’s death is not an issue of race. Two of the cops who riddled this man’s body with bullets were “of color” (God, I hate that phrase—what does it even mean, anyhow?!). But the fact is this: the police system is dominated by white men. The officers, while not blameless, are working within a racist system. There promotion, survival, and job security depends on them acting just like the good ole boys. While I can’t pretend that I know the motivations of men who needlessly fire 50 bullets into another man’s body, I cannot pretend that this verdict, this act of violence, is not racially motivated. This violence—this sick and symptomatic violence—would never happen to a pack of white boys out on the town.

I can’t stop thinking of Sean Bell’s fiancé. Hearing today’s verdict must have made her feel as if her groom died all over again.

Click here for the NY Times article.

Click here for the Village Voice article.

Little known fact: You can get up to 30 days in jail for calling an officer a pig. Meanwhile, they can shoot 50 bullets into your body to no consequence.

Head Above Water

I woke last Sunday, yawned and said, “lets go to the ocean.”

An hour later—-without plans, expectations, or a particular destination in mind—-my husband and I were in a rented compact with an East Coast guide book.

Before turning the key in the ignition, we quickly flicked through the guide book, a childhood chant on our tongues: “Where, oh where, oh where will we go? Where will we go? Nobody knows!”

The book settled on page 70: Westport, Connecticut. A seafood pub address was listed. We plugged it into the GPS system and were on our way.

Flying down the interstate, the city clung to the landscape for a surprisingly long time. The outskirts were particularly grim, yielding acres of industrial waste, fields of high-rise public housing projects. But soon the natural world took hold again. Yellow stalks of marsh grasses extended upwards towards a rabbit-gray sky. Springtime buds dotted the gnarled twists of ancient branches. In an hour’s time, we were in Westport. Birdcalls and the gurgle of the Saugatuck River were the loudest sounds around.

We strolled the town, side-by-side, un-rushed, natural, talking. We did not have to compete for breathing space, nor shout above the roar of the city. No one asked us for our spare change nor shit their pants in front of us. No one was arrested. The dodgiest rodents around were squirrels.

We lunched at the Riverside Tavern, where we dined on sea creatures and grilled sandwiches of fancy cheese. Manhattan has a way of making everything else seem cheap.

We walked along the shore of the Long Island Sound, the soles of our feet rejoicing under the squish of unpaved earth. I put my palm in the cold water and held handfuls of slimy seaweed just for the feel. I took pictures and stole shells. It felt good to see the sky again.

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We’ve been working a lot lately. Like most young people we’ve met who live in NYC, Shaun and I both hustle second jobs (the ones we do after our regular office 9-5 gigs) just to stay afloat—-book selling (me) and freelancing (Shaun). This, in addition to the creative projects we’re involved in. We finish work close to midnight each night, eyes tired and twitching, often with a long subway commute home still in front of us. I miss my own husband. I miss my bed. New York is aging us, introducing a bitter world-wariness that’s difficult to keep at bay. This city is not a sustainable place. And escapes like this one are necessary to keep the shreds of ourselves we love the most alive.

Uphill Battle

There is an extraordinarily steep hill in my neighborhood that I trek at least twice a day. The hill is 185th Street, west of St. Nicholas Avenue. At the bottom of the hill, burrowing deep into the guts of Washington Heights, is an A-train entrance, my transport of choice to work and downtown in general. My favorite grocery store, Key Foods, is also nearby.

Like many residents, I can often be found lumbering up the hill at 185th clutching grocery bags bloated with heavies—-a gallon of milk, a sack of cat litter, a six pack. Circulation compromised under the strain of plastic bags, my fingers ache, pudgy and purple. From the stiff crook of my elbow, precariously draped plastic sheaths of dry cleaning threaten to slip. My work bag thumps against my hip with each step. My thighs ache. My shoes slip.

I once told my mom that having a good day in Manhattan feels like you’ve conquered something huge; I very well may have been thinking of this hill when I said it. While I enjoy hiking in the mountains and my morning run has me racing daily up the slopes of Ft. Tyron park, there is something daunting about climbing a peak while burdened with the stuff of every day living. The task seems unwieldy and burdensome. However, each time I arrive breathless at the summit, I am rewarded for my efforts with a surge of gratitude and relief. In a city where a person is required to jump through a million impossible hoops every day, this hill is usually the day’s last obstacle keeping me from the warm snug of home. And I feel a small coin of happiness each time I overcome it.