In the golden days of beat NYC culture, THE village referred to Greenwich village – the site where the hipsters hung out. Now, with current rent prices in that neighborhood it is no surprise that only a different breed of hipster can afford to live there. Today when I think of THE village, I think of the village on the opposite side of the island. I think not of Washington Square Park – now made totally square by NYU, but of Tompkins. I think of the constant exchange of crusties on the corner of St. Marks, sitting there with their dogs, muddy hiking bags and sharpied cardboard signs. I am privileged by upbringing – raised to ignore the mainstream with its fashions, caprices and demands. Fancying myself as a 60s person stuck in the tweens of the second millennium (call me pretentious, but, in my defense, it seems that each generation is a reaction to their parents’ and a return to their grandparents’), I ignore the sensibilities that our savage degenerate capitalism appeals to. The marginalia – be it even unconstructive, hypocritical or ugly – is the caste I’ve learned to identify with, and though the East Village is full of upper-middle class ritz, it still has a place in its heart for the homeless and the slackers. I identify with the East Village because it’s the stoop that the kids who play hooky all sit on.
Simon Plutser
