Category — ATraube

A nice alternative to no-parking laws.

After a long, exhausting week, I decided to treat myself to a manicure. I was nearly falling asleep in the chair as Julie, the Korean woman at Benny’s Salon, painted my nails. We did some innocent chitchatting and we each tried to make small talk. It was smooth sailing, so I decided to mention that I have a Korean friend in college.  Julie’s eyes immediately lit up; she was practically glowing.  I was struck by the pride she felt for her heritage, her native language, and the intrinsic culture inherent in the two. Julie spent the next few minutes telling me all about the origins and the deeper meanings many Korean names. I doubt she was just doing that because she loves the sound of her own voice. I think I was just the first person to allow her to open up and share something personal.

As a customer, I felt much more comfortable once we had established some sort of interpersonal connection. Julie was not just the manicurist; she was a wholesome person with a passion for her background. Soon after our little chat came Julie’s offer to fix my nails if I ever I needed. She was careful to add, “for honesty—not for business.” I guess being nice comes with an added bonus.

Was that Richard Price who just walked through the door? The middle-aged, moppy-haired, yellow-socked guy? I anticipated a grander entrance for such a well-acclaimed author and screenwriter, but Price’s casual attire begged otherwise. Unfortunate for me, I did not recognize him when he first showed up on Tuesday evening. His frumpy shirt, yellow socks, and no-brand briefcase, were so unassuming; I couldn’t imagine it was he. It took me three seconds to realize it was the author himself who had just slipped through my fingers. By then it was too late. I missed my chance to be the first to welcome him.

Price’s heavy “New Yawk” jargon accessorizes his informal getup. An ex-pat of Lower East Side who never truly left, Price recreated the neighborhood for us with sentimental talk of his own “Bubbe” and witty anecdotes of the resident loony tunes. I spotted a twinkle in his eye as he outlined the transformations of the LES, as a haven for Fujianese immigrants, a hub of Jewish life, and now a magnet for today’s hip yuppies. Price puts the LES on display, using a timeline of events to outline the renovation he has witnessed and the ever-changing dynamics of the neighborhood.

Price wowed the crowd with his synthesis of pride and humility, all the while camouflaging himself into his predominantly New York audience. (Also, I’m just a wee bit jealous of his natural theatrical flair.)

http://www.operatoday.com/content/2009/04/rigoletto_at_th.php

As Verdi draws the curtain, the audience cheers silently. All await the start of his famous Rigoletto.

To say that the libretto of this famed opera involves a “struggle for balance between beauty and evil” is to underestimate the complex series of plot that drives the storyline of Rigoletto. Rigoletto is the overdramatized version of the Duke’s jester, who strikes his inner chords in an effort to achieve harmony. Though, sorry for the audience, his rants and raves of his love for his daughter and hatred for everyone else are more similar to operatic cacophony than anything else.

The jester’s Act II aria (solo vocal melody, usually with orchestra) is so laden with emotion, it is nearly incredulous. At the heart of this aria is his declaration of “e il sol dell’anima,” a hyperbolic expression of his love toward his daughter Gilda. Call me a prude, but I found odd the relationship between Rigoletto and Gilda. It was more than just a bit disturbing. Though the widowed jester has just claim to his beloved daughter, his obsessive love seems to be his way of filling a deeper void for romantic love.

But the cast still deserves due recognition for this well-schemed, theatrical performance. Powerful voices enrapture the audience throughout, and monophonic texture toward the end (before the murder plot unfolds) is well received as a place of repose for theatergoers.

BRAVO! on the performance as a whole, negative bravo on Rigoletto’s purple prose.

Tavor in hand, ready. Left, Roni.

The sight of soldiers in pizza shops and the feeling of M16s brushing against my clothes were everyday occurrences during my year in Israel. Granted, it took some time to readjust to New York City life. Now, still, when I see a police officer, I notice (and smirk just a bit) at the small size of his gun. When I see the gun, I am reminded of the very unique experience I shared with a friend during my year abroad, shooting in a range. I have two memorabilia from that experience, one stronger than the other: a photograph—a precise candid shot of me at just the right angle—and a target sheet with more than one bull’s eye.

I remember our minivan rumbling down the dusty, dirt road smack in middle of the West Bank desert. This shooting range, located in Israel’s West Bank, is not just any shooting range. It felt like a real battlefield. In fact, as our instructor Roni taught us, it is an actual anti-terrorism base where the Israeli Defense Forces train soldiers for the army. Not an indoors entertainment complex, where you shoot behind protective glass. This was serious business.

Roni, the guy in charge, was a member of IDF, no Joe Shmoe with a job at an entertainment industry. The first gun I handled was the Israeli Tavor, the new gun replacing the standard M16 in IDF. On Roni’s “Up!” (or, in his Israeli accent, “Ahp!”), I pulled back and aimed for the target sheet, never mind the painful recoil of the rifle. We also experimented with handguns, a significantly harder skill to master. I must say, I did pre-tty well for a girl my age and size.

The coolest thing of all—and the most Israeli thing of all—was when Michael, our chaperon, a regular citizen (who happens to be on the security team in his neighborhood) took out his own M16 sniper. (Yes, he owns the gun and keeps it in his car sometimes.) Michael frequents this range so often that he created his own addition to the shooting game: aiming at bright blue balloons instead of the standard target sheets. To his surprise and mine, I popped both balloons on my first two tries! Michael was so impressed; he nicknamed me “sharpshooter” the rest of the day.

New-Yorker born-and-bred, artillery as a commonplace of public life was at first shocking to me: the NYPD seemed tame compared to the super-tough Israeli soldiers. I definitely got a glimpse into life on the wild side, foreign to native New Yorkers.

I mention that I’m interning at Bellevue, and most people will shoot back “insane asylum.” That response, coupled with the shocking number of homeless scattered about the area, and cane-bearers, struggling to walk a meager straight line, led me to investigate.

After a couple days on the job, I was more than just curious about the people of Bellevue Hospital Center. I asked someone innocently why there were so many poor people specifically near Bellevue. Her response was along the lines of “Bellevue is a public facility hospital. They accept Medicaid, and administer free health care to the poor.”

Ahhha!, that explains that!

But I was not satisfied. I still wanted to know why so many people think Bellevue is one giant psych ward. Frustrated by the general populace’s ignorance, I investigated the matter further, probing the Internet for more information.

My findings taught me that Bellevue, now an affiliate of NYU Medical Center, actually began as almshouse for the poor in the early 1800s, and opened America’s first maternity ward in 1799.

Most people know about Bellevue’s psychiatric facilities because it is one of the oldest and therefore, most distinguished, in the country. Many famous people were treated there as patients. And, of course, its pysch ward has been made all the more famous by the film, “The Miracle on 49th St.” The building, which once served as the hospital’s psychiatric facility, now serves as a homeless intake center and a men’s homeless shelter.

Every day, I amble through Bellevue Park South opposite the hospital building. I notice the same homeless men every day playing Poker on the park benches. I notice their baggage and the scraps of junk they call possessions. They seem content with their own insular culture, whatever it may be. As I approach the hospital each day, I cringe. Every time. I cringe when I see impoverished people with crooked gaits struggling with the simple task of walking from point A to point B. I feel fortunate to be young and able-bodied, and I feel privileged to own a pair of working legs.

It doesn’t get easier to go to Bellevue, to witness the pain of those who populate the area. Actually, I think it gets harder.

Hmmm...

This past June, I went on an overnight “tiyul,” as a trip is known in modern Hebrew, to commence a year-long study abroad program. One of the highlights of the trip was a very unique water trail in the Galilee region of northern Israel.

Gushes of water rushed along a floor of slippery, sharp rocks that seemed to pierce through the inch-thick soles of my Crocs. A line of eighty girls trekked through the water trail, shrieking every few minutes, as they submerged deeper into the frigid waters. The windy path was lined with low-hanging branches, forcing us to choose under-or-over limbo. Every few steps, we had to stop and figure out how to continue forward. With each measured step, we had to try to feel with our soles for a secure foothold to tread on. The murky, opaque waters did not allow us to predict a sudden twelve-inch drop.

Luckily, each of us was always following directly behind someone, so at least we could alert each other if that was the case.

I’m not one for philosophy midday, but as I was hiking through the trail, I realized that this walk was very similar to life. You know the general direction, but choosing the exact path is difficult because you can’t always see what’s happening under your feet. A person ahead of you stumbles and falls, so you know to be careful at that spot, or simply avoid it altogether. Sometimes the waters are deep; sometimes you can miss a step and twist your ankle. Sometimes, you may want to stop to rest, but you’re afraid to lose momentum.

And if you do stop for a rest, you have to get up and keep going. There is no other way out; you have to reach the end…

I understood that though I may never know exactly what lies ahead of me, taking careful, measured steps could make all the difference in my future. The water trail made sense to me.

“Because you’re hungry.”

Hungry may not be the adjective that pops up when asked to describe a young entrepreneur, but it is right on the mark for Howard Greenberg. Oxford Dictionary apparently considers hungry an attribute (“attrib.] causing hunger.” (Oxford Dictionary) A newbie in the field of photography in the early 70s, Greenberg—ironic as it may sound—fed his gigantic appetite with ravenous hunger. And lucky for him, he wasn’t the only one to interpret his hunger pangs as unmitigated enthusiasm. Greenberg’s first employer hired him for just that reason.

It doesn’t take an Einstein to recognize the need for hunger as a driving force to success. But the way in which Greenberg highlighted that need sure scores him high in the intelligence ranks, albeit street smart savvy if nothing else. The now-famous “art gallery tycoon” Howard Greenberg very poignantly relayed the story of his own success, starting with his very humble beginnings in NYC’s Soho artist colony. He described his first 150 square foot art gallery, the long hours he put in, and hard, authentic work he invested—but as he spoke, he kept reverting to the same key word: enthusiasm. By enthusiasm he didn’t mean any plain old eagerness or greed for money. Because every young kid starting out wants to make a buck. By enthusiasm he meant hunger. And by hunger he meant having an appetite for your work.

Howard Greenberg is one man who tells the story of how he set up shop young and determined, but he is just one of many who have succeeded because they have willed themselves to chase their dreams. Good luck!

Last week, I agreed to teach my friend, a proud country bumpkin, how to take the subway. I wasn’t exactly sure what there was to teach…

Several moments into the ride, I hear “… on the street for six months… HIV positive … Bellevue has turned me away because I do not qualify for free medical care.  A dime, a nickel, even a penny…” No one stirs.  Just another homeless woman asking for a handout, I think. I admit, the homeless used to make me uneasy, but I’ve become too desensitized to care about the Lord killing me if I don’t spare a few pennies for some psychiatric woman. I’ve become so immune to these train announcements; I don’t even listen to the sob stories.

“Oh my gosh! Can we please get off right now?!” My initial reaction to my friend’s nervous exclamation was just laughs. Pu-leez, she’s not going to bother you! This happens all the time… But I felt I needed to quiet her fears, especially the one about HIV positive. I made a quick decision to switch cars before all hell broke loose.

What struck me is the contrast between my—is it nonchalance?—versus my friend’s immediate hysteria. I wondered if it we could both use an extra dose of sensitivity, or if my blasé attitude and her hysterics were just features of our personalities. Better yet, I wondered if I had just taught myself the most important lesson of all, to open my heart a bit wider to the disheartened.

9:30am Thursday, I trudge up the steps toward my destination: the wooden planks of the B train platform.  I arrive, and my fellow travel mates salute me, silently.  They acknowledge me in various forms: the elevator stare, the nod, even a short movement of the lips that could pass as a shy smile.  I interpret their body language as acceptance. The Travelers—working men, college students, and some odds and ends—have accepted me to join their anxious waiting and occasional peeking for the train. I notice a girl who appears my age, toting a school bag. I mind my own business; she minds hers. I resist the urge to introduce myself, to exchange minimal information. Instead, the deafening sound of the approaching train interrupts my thoughts and I make a beeline for the open doors.

We share a bench, me and the Unnamed Girl. A couple stops later, neither of us have said a word. I take out my travel-size siddur[1], and begin to pray.  From the corner of my eye, I see the Unnamed Girl do the same. Our shared Jewish culture has created a silent bond in the subway car, but it remains silent. The unnamed Girl leaves the train, only her memory in the now-empty seat.

Moments later, a middle age African American woman bounces on board and fills that void. Her cheery “Hello, good morning!” startles me, but I quickly recover from my NYC-subway-rider-syndrome and surprise myself with an equally cheery greeting…

[1] Prayer book