Benjamin Karasik

MCHC: Positively 4th Street

Final: Autobiography

Professor Krase

Being Gray

July 17th, 1964

I was aiming towards the Sun to end my life. At twenty-five years old, I accomplished a lot of negatives in my life. Unfortunately, an asteroid slightly smaller than my spaceship collided with me and sent me into Earth’s orbit. I remembered reading about its gravitational pull being very moderate compared to the other planets in this solar system. I am a thief. I’ve always been one, robbing those I love most of their desires, their lifestyles, and of course, their physical possessions. I panicked on my way down, for reasons unbeknownst to me seeing as I was on a trip to die regardless, but my ship’s defense systems kicked in and completely cocooned my entire body in preparation for the crash. I do not remember landing. Luckily, however, my vital signs seemed to be fine, as my monitor showed me in blinking green lights. I landed in a dark alleyway.

I remember hearing loud screams moving around me, small scale explosions, and sirens. The sirens sounded like an individual was wailing, with blue and red lights flashing from the same direction as the sounds. I was initially very disheartened that I was unable to enter the Sun’s atmosphere but I decided to rest until my ship initiated automatic repairs. My monitor blinked the words New York City, New York, United States, Earth. I propped in my my language translator into my ear and learned the English language in seconds. I couldn’t feel any less American, though. I lowered the brightness and sound of my monitor and I perused my surroundings. Sounds and sights entered my body as I admired some of Earth’s architecture. It was very dark and difficult to notice, but I was able to spot some imagery on the walls of the two buildings I landed between. I noticed words on walls that I couldn’t decipher. I heard the wailing sirens and a loud voice. That’s when I encountered Larry. I noticed his dark skin tone. It was new to me, as everyone home was gray. I thought about our culture and beings a lot. I did many people wrong.

Larry was getting confronted by a dog, just like the one’s back home and two other men in blue suits and of lighter complexion. I observed him, his movements, his arms, and legs. He looked a lot like me. There wasn’t much difference. He was alone. He looked at me and his eyes told me to help him. I was frozen, my eyes were fixated on his expression. My eyes shifted to the ones attacking him. They looked just like him too, same movements, same expression. It was a fight between homogenous beings, I thought. Then Larry’s friends, all of the same complexion except one rushed to his aid and scared the two attackers, and their dog off.  That evening Larry and I had a slightly contentious conversation about why I didn’t help him. I wasn’t able to answer his question, but I did mention to him that I wanted to. My body was just frozen. He advocated for color equality, but I didn’t understand what it was. Unfortunately, I had to leave my spaceship in the alleyway as chaos ensued on the streets.

For six days I followed Larry around. He allowed me to stay at his home, the West 135 Apartments. He spoke passionately about his social advocacy, whatever that meant. His voice vibrated off the walls of the small, two-bedroom apartment he shared with his whole family, mother, father, brother, and sister. I couldn’t remember their names in the slightest as I worried about my ship. I wouldn’t understand one bit of what he said, however. “Blacks! Whites! Equality! Justice! We work just like you! What makes us any different?” Who was us I asked myself for those six days. We would explore, march, and yell. Nobody looked like me. Nobody looked at me. I was just there, observing. I did not understand any of it.

August 3rd, 1964

Larry and I were together quite a bit after the riots died down. I felt we became closer physically but never really emotionally. I remained in the airtight cage, this bubble, for two months. His home was cramped. I went to check on my space ship around that time and it finished its automatic repairs and went into zero mode. Zero mode technology allowed the space ship to shrink into exponentially small sizes, similarly to the size of a toy. It allowed us to carry the ships around us and use it anywhere we went. It was in my possession and I was ecstatic to finally be able to fly into the sun. Earth felt interesting, however. Being stuck in such a confined space with individuals who constantly argue with each other or those outside took a toll on me. Larry and his family were confined as well, unable to substantially shift any proactive movement in their favor and I saw how it affected him and his well being.

I went to the rooftops a lot and observed the sunsets, pinks, oranges, purples, yellows emerged in the black and white city I was in. From the old rundown building’s rooftop, I observed motion and lack of motion. People of whiter complexion moving, fluidly, left, right, forward. People of dark complexion, pinned, stuck in urban mud. The gray cement floor held them in place without physically imposing its will. I felt like the cement. Things changed around but I felt nothing. Blind to actual color I did not understand why Larry and all his compatriots were so adamant about this “color” equality. I never asked him about it as he just assumed I knew during his explanations and rants. I disassociated myself from his troubles, his troubles about color, his troubles around work equality and pay (even though he let me stay in his apartment rent free), and his troubles around the living space. None of these were my problems even though I lived right in them; not through them.

I started getting complacent and I did not like that. It gave me an opportunity to leave, without leaving my mark on this part of Larry’s and other peoples’ life in the airtight cage. My lack of “being” in this city allowed me to leave any time I wanted. However, I needed a way out.

September 15th, 1964

I watched a myriad of television shows. They blurred the idea of color by utilizing grayness, but I knew this was due to the lack of color technology. We were all gray back home, literally. The lack of color defined our population. We didn’t have colored walls sprayed with signs from different cultures such as the ones I saw on “La Bodega” on 130th street. Larry’s friend Roger, a man who Larry mentioned was Hispanic, translated the word bodega to mean grocery store. I only went as far as 130th street and it was a barren wasteland with no people but a variety of color.

One day, as I was watching my favorite “gray” show, The Dick Van Dyke show, Larry’s friend, Roger brought in a newspaper about “The World Fair”. The episode focused on Ron’s inability to comprehend his role as a male in society. I empathized with him on that point, as back home, the roles of male and female beings were programmed into us from birth. All gray 17 billion of us had predetermined roles and we wouldn’t do anything about it. I was able to enjoy the show as I lived vicariously through Ron and even his wife, Laura.

The newspaper detailed new technological feats and exhibitions showcased “Perfect American Culture” as the article detailed. It was time for me to explore, by any means necessary, through my own volition. I didn’t tell Larry; it was unfair to him. Nights passed and I kept thinking about how I wouldn’t be able to go to the World Fair in time before it closed. Luckily I overheard two men discussing burning the apartment down inconspicuously for money, one night. I knew this was arson, as that had been my bread and butter back home. Ten minutes after Larry went to work the next day, I turned the gas on, lit a match, and set the apartment ablaze.

October 3rd, 1964

I thought about death a lot as I traversed the streets of Harlem all the way down to Port Authority Bus Terminal. I didn’t admire the colorful street art as I attempted to remain aloof and inconspicuous. I easily wanted to end my own life in the Sun but I didn’t want to kill anybody in the airtight cage. I felt selfish and guilty for quite some time but I decided it was better for Larry and his whole family.  I felt like I liberated Larry. Maybe it wasn’t my place to do so but I felt it was my obligation. He would thank me if he knew. I made a positive contribution and allowed him to displace himself, hopefully to a location of higher living quality that is more desirable.

The whole bus ride was quick. I overheard a few light colored people in front of me chat about how it was their first time at Shea Stadium since they were Yankee fans. I didn’t understand any of that jargon. As I got to the World’s fair I couldn’t help but find myself lost. I didn’t know what I was looking for. There was no purpose. Colorful gems to my left, daunting architecture to my right, hordes of people bustling trying to get to the next destination as quickly as possible was the imagery I remember. It reminded me of ants coming back home after a long day of harvest. They were moving so fast as if they wouldn’t be able to look at all the exhibits in time. I searched for the NASA space exhibit and found that the technology was very antiquated so I moved along just observing as I usually did. I observed in an environment where observing was not frowned upon; it was almost commended. I felt no pressure to do anything. I didn’t have to undermine “color” structures as I did with Larry. Just observing felt fine; it felt gray and gray was fine.

Exhausted from two days of walking and no sleep, I sat down next to a food dispense machine that was colored green, white, and red that was handing out, “Authentic Italian Cannoli”. It was interesting to see the dynamic between the man in the machine that spoke in a different accent than those ordering his cannoli’s. They blended in very nicely as there was an outsider’s dynamic that brought them together: The World’s Fair. I still, felt displaced. It wasn’t my world and it wasn’t fair.

It was October and very cold. The joints hidden beneath my gray skin felt rigid and numb. I sat next to a playground as little Earthlings played in it. They were running to a tune played by a harmonica. I recognized the tune because I heard it while watching the Twilight Zone once. That was when I met Bob D. Now, Bob D. lived in a different area of Manhattan, called Greenwich Village. He explained to me that he was a musician. I did not understand what music was until coming to Earth. I enjoyed a lot of punk rock but The Beatles were enjoyable too. After watching so much television, I was enthralled at the possibility of multiple forms of entertainment. Back home we had very little in terms of lively pleasure and amusement. Being gray has its advantages; you are homogenous with your compatriots and everybody treats others with respect always. Yet, due to the lack of color, there was an absence of originality, of living, of coming together willingly rather than out of purpose.

Bob D. created sound and story as a form of expression. It made me interested in starting to learn about music, however I was similarly dissuaded as he mentioned that his new, electronic music endeavors were falling on deaf ears. We took a very secluded route to the bus station as he told me that the culture in the United States was ever changing; with very extreme peaks and valleys every day for each minute detail. We took a greyhound bus from the Fair to his place. As the bus moved us from the Fair to Manhattan, I looked at the streets move and the color of people shifting to a lighter spectrum. They seemed happy. Males and females happily walked the streets without a single feeling of regret. Bob D. mentioned to me that they were the rich, white Americans who had a say whether they wanted to go to Vietnam or not. They were called draft dodgers and they had very influential parents. He told me that they weren’t necessarily part of the problem, but their ignorance allowed the United States government to target individuals who looked like Larry and send them far away. It made me think of Larry and my actions towards him and his family. I tried to not think of it. Without the streams of happy thoughts in my brain forced me to think of death, my own, Larry’s, Bob D.’s, my own family’s. I was happy I felt something.  When we finally arrived at 161 West 4th street, Bob D. led me through the green, front door. He had art everywhere, I remember. It made me full of emotion and thought. I decided to start painting then and there. Bob D. was kind enough to let me stay at his apartment for one year before going on tour. Once again, I felt as a non-intrusive being. It worked to my advantage but I did not enjoy it.

February 7th, 1965

On a cold morning when snow fell ever so slightly from the sky, I stared at the city with big eyes and an open mind. I felt in the moment; I was in motion. Without having to walk too far, I traveled places. Low buildings, an up and coming school, a place where I could order beverages that made me dizzy, called a bar. Yet, I did not interact with anyone. Bob D. was always out performing for people who listened with admiration. I was alone with my paintings. Gray and colorful paintings that did not mesh, as usual. Gray and alone. Nobody in Greenwich village paid any attention to me either. I overheard conversations about war, counter-culture and arguments. There were always riffs about everything and it drove me insane. People were pro and against everything, color, war, integration, and even art. As I drank at bars in Greenwich village I overheard many people discussing the variety of hardships they were facing. Most were young, culturally colored artists who couldn’t find any work. Every time I tried to enter their conversations, I felt isolated and aloof so I backed out. The longevity of their discussions made me very eager to speak up and my ineptitude in connecting with them drove me to stay silent. They were all so confident about their artistic abilities and how everything around them was inspiring. I was put off by my lack of intrinsic ability to create art and so I inevitably stopped going to bars. My imagination and creativity felt denied. There was always an agenda, even in art and it made me feel that I lacked a certain characteristic or quality to thrive. I was not at all affected by any of these social movements and cultural events either. As always, I was the observer which relieved me. I did not have to be affected by anything, good nor bad.

I read a bevy of literature on the abstract expressionist movement and pop culture artists and aspired to be a social questioner like Bob D. and Andy Warhol, but without proper knowledge and experience of being a doer, I couldn’t come up with anything substantial. All I could do everyday was inhale certain information and then attempt to come up with something substantial only for me to regurgitate similar aspects of famous pieces onto a canvas. I was not able to be original, only an imposter. Furthermore, I couldn’t make any money selling my pieces. The only piece I made money from was of the president from my country. I drew the president from memory and some musician bought it for their album cover through Bob D. But that’s it. Lucky for me, Bob D. was financially supported well and he allowed me to attempt to be as creative as possible. When the month was up however, I had to leave. And I did.

November 8th, 1965

Cold and hungry from being on the street for a month I contemplated ending everything. I had a little money from my one sell but ever since Bob D. left for his tour I had to be on the move every day. Nothing added to my experienced, however. I constantly displaced my self physically but everywhere I went, I felt gray, as gray as the cement I pounded my feet on. Every single day I took out my spaceship from my pocket and stared at it, its miniature stature ever so tiny in the void of my pocket. Its presence was seldom felt and I hardly ever pictured myself inside of it anymore. Even my spaceship became gray. I landed here in 1964, unaffected by the decade earlier. I was in a place of social questioning without understanding why those questions were being asked and to whom they were directed. I felt gray. Painting did me no good. I couldn’t color things that were black and white in New York City. That evening I went to sleep next to the Brooklyn Bridge determined to walk up to the West 135 Apartments the next day.

November 9th, 1965

The lights went out; a blackout had occurred. I saw nothing but I felt no different than I had before. I couldn’t see anything. Not the problems. Not the issues. Not the colors. I didn’t panic, however. I understood that I couldn’t find peace in this city. I needed to be here before, during, and after. Nobody only lived in the now but that is what I attempted to do. Our past affected everything we thought about, did, and would do. I couldn’t become a controversial individual or an artist or a New Yorker by just observing. I had to actually be. I needed to be more than just colorful, color needed to ooze out of me. Gray is the color without colors. An equal distribution of everything culminating nothing. There is neutrality. Nothing is added nor taken away. I pondered while sitting in the darkness in Washington Square Park inside the dry fountain. There was panic all around me. People of all complexions ran left, right, up in jagged routes trying to find some semblance of peace. Some worked together while others used their singularity to help themselves. It was really dark and I barely made out any of the faces of passers by. I saw them looking at me with confused faces, asking themselves why I was in the middle of the park doing nothing, before completely disregarding my presence and moving along. I believed it was hard to locate the gray in such a dark setting. I went to sleep in the darkness with the sound of feet bustling through until there was silence.

December 20th, 1965

I have lived in New York City for one and a half years accomplishing nothing. I learned that I knew absolutely nothing. Maybe that was the ultimate self awareness, through, the understanding that being gray or being colorful are things that naturally occur in life. Nobody has a say in the choosing of the colors or lack thereof. Maybe Earth was too colorful for me. Maybe home was too gray for me. Yet, it is my choice how I conquer what the worlds throw at me. I had just run out of American currency and decided my stay on this planet was over. Where would I go? The sun? The moon? A different planet? Maybe I should go somewhere where I find a perfect balance of gray and color, but I had to find that precise balance within myself first. And so I left like nothing happened, subtracting the gray from a colorful city.