Rick Mathews
Y generation college student
Posts by Rick Mathews
Bird Poop and Harlem
0Sometime yesterday. Probably around 9 am.
Who is this extremely happy tour guide? Is she actually… passionate about this? Oh my goodness, she actually loves what she’s doing. This is weird. I was expecting a malnourished Dominican man with a patchy beard in an over-worn, stained sweatshirt to lead me around for two hours telling me about the significance of the buildings I would never have noticed and the road signs that I would never have read and the change in the landscape I would never have thought of. But instead we have been thrown into a page of a Wes Anderson movie script. What are those shoes and coat doing on the same body anyway? I was digressing. I tried to pay attention to her but the bustling Friday morning crowd on 135th and Lenox held too many distractions.
Suddenly I felt something on my shoulder. Did something just? HOLY. The audacity of pigeons these days.
An unimaginably brainless, probably blank faced, insolent, unmannered, uncivilized, uneducated pigeon had hit its target dead OFF. My shoulder was decorated with a line of green and white poop, lying there in all its glory, boasting its feats of accuracy. I saw wings flapping away and I wished for a bow and arrow and accuracy that beat the one the bird’s butt had just practiced. But I didn’t have a bow, or a quiver of arrows. I had my drawstring bag and a lonely dollar that was now going to be spent on a self-consolatory doughnut and the extra wet napkins that the street vendor was kind enough to give me. But the stain disgraced my shoulder until I saw a desolate Popeye’s (an unusual sight for the place) and as I rushed in and encountered an Indian accent behind the counter, I ushered myself into the bathroom to change while the class stared at my supposed insolence in abandoning the tour in order to get fried chicken. As if I would have betrayed the doughnut I had eaten earlier and introduce it to the company of fried chicken, what a preposterous notion.
The tour was fascinating in some ways, especially when I realized there were million dollar properties right behind the hellhole I thought I resided in. That this place used to be the Czech republic of the early and mid twentieth century, just my luck to develop the ability to even think by the time it had ended. The thought of visiting the Harlem YMCA as I came to New York for the first time in my wool trousers and blazer with a crisp cotton shirt, lugging baggage out of the subway on 135th and Lenox was a page out of a novel written in the back of my mind. The two-story penthouse at the top of the Theresa hotel left a myriad of stories to be concocted and the dinners to be had with world dignitaries left me in a delirium as we crossed the street to the Apollo theatre where the crowd was giving standing ovations to the Jackson five as I bustled my way through the crowd.
But all of this was only a figment of my imagination. Harlem had passed its heyday and it was now a cog in the capitalist machine of advertisements and cheap stores that yelled and screeched their sales pitches through the avenues and streets of Harlem. The ongoing and obvious gentrification of the place was a sign of ‘better’ things to come but better for who, we would only know in the aftermath. It was a chapter in the life of this ever breathing, living city that millions commuted to and resided in. But only a handful had any idea of what was happening as their walked in their bubbles to their office buildings and walked right back to their homes and television shows to keep their minds entertained in short bursts and spurts like a car in disrepair.
Suddenly I turned around to see the tour guide had vanished. Who was she, did anyone catch her name? And on that note of suspicion, my tour of Harlem had come to an abrupt end.
Oasis
0The subway held no wonders for me and the Dunkin’ Donuts breakfast had started the day off on the wrong foot. I mean hash-brown. The wrong hash-brown. Perhaps if I had devoured deviled eggs at the tea room…
The bustle of the the city had vanished. There was no clear pollution in the air, there were crisp breaths in and out of my lungs as I saw middle aged couples jog down their routine paths. How do I know it was a routine path? I had absolutely no discernible idea, it was the place itself, their run looked practiced, worn over. The run had become part of their relationship and for my curious pair of eyes, they were ingrained into a landscape painting of Fort Tryon Park’s slanting path.
Retracing my steps I found myself in a European landscape. An early birth had separated Hudson Heights from its midtown neighborhood brethren and made it the quiet one in the family. And I for one had found my favorite in the family. A welcoming vibe ushered me through its winding walkways and uneven terrain. The family trait of a grid structure was diminished in Hudson Heights and this metropolis as I knew from innumerable movie introductions turned around to reveal an unseen facet… and it was beautiful.
Nestled cozily within the semi-ultra-urban neighborhood lay Dyckman House, peacefully resting as visitors walked by, peering in but unable to quite disturb an old established silence. A blanket of history kept the silence intact as the woman ushered us through it’s hallways and proudly pointed towards the remnants of a life style that led the world centuries earlier. It was beautiful for what it was and the fire crackled a warmth as I imagined a well deserved evening’s rest in the armchair. The weather was in perfect sync to keep things at a cool slow pace, nothing to jump and surprise the bejabbers out of us. The walk was a trip into the past while consistently reminded of the present and the people of New York revealed yet another side to them. And it was beautiful.
New York, Happiness and A Better Life
0The pursuit of opportunities (you thought I was about to say happiness ha), a better style and higher standard of living and yes, the pursuit of a happiness (Yes, I said it) has been the driving force of migration of people throughout the world for a long time. I would draw it back to previous millennia; however, that would most assuredly be extremely boring and frankly irrelevant. Why look at stuff that happened centuries before when Dr. Salvo has spent most of his life studying population trends and has kindly shared with us specific data on such migration events going on in our own back-yard? Whew, that was a run-on.
While I won’t draw a line back to the history of this phenomenon, I will draw a line directly to a major source of this phenomenon – please do note that this is not the only major source, it is simply one among others. It’s called capitalism and it’s what creates this high concentration of jobs, resources and other various opportunities in New York City. It’s this really awesome/ not-so-awesome system where a lot of people can be sufficiently satisfied with minimum dissatisfaction and up till now, it’s definitely working. At least compared to other systems of fascism, communism and other economic/ governing systems, it’s doing awesome. New York is a prime example of a geographical region that showcases exactly how people can thrive under this system and therefore it has become a satellite of the system drawing more and more opportunities (jobs) and resources towards it. And in hot pursuit comes everyone else. Whether from Alabama or Australia, as stated prior, people just want a better life and therefore it is no surprise that Dr. Salvo has predicted a change of 9.5% added to the current existing and growing population by 2040. It is no surprise that most people not proficient in English are in economically deprived areas of the boroughs while 60% or higher people with a bachelor’s degree to their name can be found in highly gentrified and thriving areas of the boroughs (Slide 28, 29 and 31 respectively).
Also New York is kinda awesome compared to other places in the world. Take it from an immigrant.