ABOUT LOVE, XENOPHOBIA, NYC, and even BASEBALL
Sat, 09/15/2001 - 05:38 — Dean Landsman
ABOUT LOVE, XENOPHOBIA, NYC, and even BASEBALL
The
Saturday New York Times is packed with interesting, urgent articles
about the predominant news story of the moment. The clean up, the
attempts to restore order and as much of what was formerly known as
normalcy, the searches, the pain of loss and the refusal of so many to
abandon that last shred of hope for survival of their loved ones.
For
many, sad to say, there will never be closure. The victims closest to
where the planes hit will never be found. There are no remains; the
high-heat searing flames of burning jet fuel leaves only ash within the
toppled rubble. No burial can provide the survivors with a sense of
physical, tangible ritual, as there is nothing to inter.
Among the most striking aspects of the reportage by the local NY TV stations is the unabashed presentation of the LOVE that
exists (or existed) among so many. Siblings, parents, children,
cousins, spouses, in-laws, can be seen carrying and/or posting
pictures. "Have you seen this person," they read, with pictures and phone numbers to contact.
In
a city where anguish, stress, hustle-bustle and a pace that frightens
many out-of-towners is the norm, these sorrowful times have brought
about a focus on the abundance of love these New Yorkers have for each other.
It
is everyone. White collar, blue collar, rich, poor, the priveledged,
the struggling. Loved ones are missing, most likely dead. All the New
Yorkers share the loss of people they loved.
LOVE is the ultimate message so many sent via cell phones in
their fearful and final moments. Passengers on the hijacked planes made
calls to say a goodbye and to express their love. Spouses,
parents, siblings, all recount receiving, or in other cases hearing as
voice mail, an urgent call from those on the planes, in the stairwells,
or on the floors of the Twin Towers and the Pentagon. This massive
expression of LOVE, this fervent need to say I LOVE YOU one more time, possibly one final time, is a constantly repeated occurence.
Newscasters
are visibly moved by the stories of not only the bravery and heroic
efforts of those in the rescue effort, but also of the tens of
thousands who are going from hospital to hospital, and to the official
missing persons center at the Lexington Avenue Armory, in hope locating
and in search of news about their loved ones.
Glued as one can be to the coverage, sometimes it becomes too much. The torrents of tears are beyond imagination.
The
Mayor is in his finest hour. This is a man in his final term and a man
undergoing cancer treatments, a man going through a painfully difficult
and horribly public divorce. Why is Rudy Giuliani so effective, so
capable, so much the right man for the task at this time of crisis? The
answer is simple: Rudy loves New York.
It is love
that gives him the strength. The job of being mayor is somewhat akin to
being the guardian of the city. The city has a leader in this mayor who
cares deeply about the people, all the people. There are many who can
find fault with much of how he has governed. That's politics.
In
this moment it is the biggest crisis, possibly ever, facing the city.
He's been the right man for the job. He's mustered support and been
forthright. It is not a time to put spin on issues. Rudy has maintained
an even keel, been truthful and offered a steady stream of briefings
and information.
No other mayor of the city that I can recall could have handled this crisis as deftly and with such aplomb as Giuliani. His love for New Yorkers and the city has never been more apparent.
There are people from out of New York who have a negative view of New
York City, and who hold all sorts of opinions on what's wrong about the
town. This is true amongst many who have never even been close to the city, much less visited it or had any experience of the town.
I
went off to college in Indiana in the Fall of 1969. Many of the
Hoosiers I'd encounter would lecture me on the ills of New York. I
quite vividly recall one fellow telling me how he'd been forced
to go on a school trip to the city. He had to suffer through Broadway
plays and museums, which offended him because of all the nudity that
was everywhere. His Christian soul was miffed at New York for spreading and promoting SIN, he told me. Yes, you've figured it out: he saw Hair on Broadway, and there were paintings of nudes in the museums.
This
was a particularly silly fellow, in my, er, humble (?) opinion. Of
course, he perceived me as one of theose "pushy New Yorkers, and a Jew,
at that," he explained to me. Yes, kindly he explained why he disliked
me. He wanted to convert me to his religion so I could change my ways
and be saved.
He told me that after he'd walked through Times
Square he felt an overwhelming need to get back to the hotel, just to
wash his hair. He needed to get that New York essence off his skin, his
hair, his total person! He expressed this to me with a deluge of
contempt.
While he was actually an overly expressive zealot, a
repressed and self-righteous buffoon, he was not alone in his feelings.
He lacked the tact and sensitivity to keep all this to himself, yet his
take on New York and New Yorkers ("...a haven for sinners! Satan's home
base!") was shared, to a lesser, maybe a saner (?) degree, by many of
his Hoosier counterparts.
The online Merriam-Webster's Dictionary offers up this definition of xenophobia.
Today's New York Times carries a story
about an Indiana town's new perceptions of New York in the aftermath of
the terror attack. In an amazing twist of fate, this is the very town
that fellow was from.
Just in case the Times has put a "pay for our fishwrapper" block on that story,you can find it here.
There's
more good stuff to be found in the Saturday Times. The Times, by the
way, has done an excellent job of reporting on the crisis. This week's
Op-Ed pieces by William Safire, Thomas L. Freidman, and Anthony Lewis
(check out his essay today!) have been nothing short of excellent, informative, and thought-provoking.
There's
a story in the Sports Section that tugged at my heart. No, not the
rescheduling of the Yankee game (we had tickets for Wednesday night, we
were going to see Clemens get his 20th win), nor the interesting
stories about how the nation is not ready to be diverted nor amused by
professional sports.
This story is about tried-and-true New
Yorker John Franco, Met's relief pitcher. Franco's dad was a NYC
Sanitation Man, and Franco wears an orange Dept. of Sanitation t-shirt
under his uniform at each game. This is in tribute to his father.
The
Sanitation Dept. workforce is a credit to the city. In what might seem
a thankless job, subject to all those taunts and jokes, this army of
workers manage to maintain a clean city, a snow-free city, an
uninfected city. It is no small feat, and they do a great job.
Franco's father, a lifelong Dept. of Sanitation man, was part of the heart and soul of New York.
John
Franco enjoys a special popularity as a favorite son. A kid from the
city made good -- a part of some memorable Met teams, a real New Yorker
living the dream of many: to play pro ball in the city. Franco is the
right man for the part, too. He's active in charity work, always there
when summoned, and the kind of guy who gives an autograph. An all
around good egg.
This son of the city is the subject of an article that truly sums up the New York spirit. If the link doesn't get you to it, here's a text copy version of the article. This is one of those "capture the spirit" articles one rarely sees in the Times anymore.
The local Wal-Mart in nearby Airmont had a
sign up at about 2:45 this afternoon: "We're out of flags, but more are
coming later today." There's no bottled water to be found in the store,
either. Most likely it wsa all sent to the volunteer and rescue effort
at Ground Zero.
Driving from where I live to a town about 15
miles away in NJ, on the way to a brunch, I was struck by the number of
flags everywhere.
A car-repair joint on the NY-NJ border has a flag the size of a Ryder moving van on the corner.
The
two local convenience stores on the main street in my village have
larger-than-life flags in their windows. One is run by Indians, the
other by Pakistanis. But there's no doubt where their loyalties lie:
their lives are here. Their businesses are here.
I know one of the shop owners pretty well. His entire family is here. No question where his heart is, nor his sympathies.
Flags are atop car antennae, in store windows, on porches, just about everywhere.
A local printer ran off copies of a sign that seems to be in the window of every store in the village. GOD BLESS AMERICA, it reads, THESE COLORS DON'T RUN.
ABOUT LOVE, XENOPHOBIA, NYC, and even BASEBALL
The
Saturday New York Times is packed with interesting, urgent articles
about the predominant news story of the moment. The clean up, the
attempts to restore order and as much of what was formerly known as
normalcy, the searches, the pain of loss and the refusal of so many to
abandon that last shred of hope for survival of their loved ones.
For
many, sad to say, there will never be closure. The victims closest to
where the planes hit will never be found. There are no remains; the
high-heat searing flames of burning jet fuel leaves only ash within the
toppled rubble. No burial can provide the survivors with a sense of
physical, tangible ritual, as there is nothing to inter.
Among the most striking aspects of the reportage by the local NY TV stations is the unabashed presentation of the LOVE that
exists (or existed) among so many. Siblings, parents, children,
cousins, spouses, in-laws, can be seen carrying and/or posting
pictures. "Have you seen this person," they read, with pictures and phone numbers to contact.
In
a city where anguish, stress, hustle-bustle and a pace that frightens
many out-of-towners is the norm, these sorrowful times have brought
about a focus on the abundance of love these New Yorkers have for each other.
It
is everyone. White collar, blue collar, rich, poor, the priveledged,
the struggling. Loved ones are missing, most likely dead. All the New
Yorkers share the loss of people they loved.
LOVE is the ultimate message so many sent via cell phones in
their fearful and final moments. Passengers on the hijacked planes made
calls to say a goodbye and to express their love. Spouses,
parents, siblings, all recount receiving, or in other cases hearing as
voice mail, an urgent call from those on the planes, in the stairwells,
or on the floors of the Twin Towers and the Pentagon. This massive
expression of LOVE, this fervent need to say I LOVE YOU one more time, possibly one final time, is a constantly repeated occurence.
Newscasters
are visibly moved by the stories of not only the bravery and heroic
efforts of those in the rescue effort, but also of the tens of
thousands who are going from hospital to hospital, and to the official
missing persons center at the Lexington Avenue Armory, in hope locating
and in search of news about their loved ones.
Glued as one can be to the coverage, sometimes it becomes too much. The torrents of tears are beyond imagination.
The
Mayor is in his finest hour. This is a man in his final term and a man
undergoing cancer treatments, a man going through a painfully difficult
and horribly public divorce. Why is Rudy Giuliani so effective, so
capable, so much the right man for the task at this time of crisis? The
answer is simple: Rudy loves New York.
It is love
that gives him the strength. The job of being mayor is somewhat akin to
being the guardian of the city. The city has a leader in this mayor who
cares deeply about the people, all the people. There are many who can
find fault with much of how he has governed. That's politics.
In
this moment it is the biggest crisis, possibly ever, facing the city.
He's been the right man for the job. He's mustered support and been
forthright. It is not a time to put spin on issues. Rudy has maintained
an even keel, been truthful and offered a steady stream of briefings
and information.
No other mayor of the city that I can recall could have handled this crisis as deftly and with such aplomb as Giuliani. His love for New Yorkers and the city has never been more apparent.
There are people from out of New York who have a negative view of New
York City, and who hold all sorts of opinions on what's wrong about the
town. This is true amongst many who have never even been close to the city, much less visited it or had any experience of the town.
I
went off to college in Indiana in the Fall of 1969. Many of the
Hoosiers I'd encounter would lecture me on the ills of New York. I
quite vividly recall one fellow telling me how he'd been forced
to go on a school trip to the city. He had to suffer through Broadway
plays and museums, which offended him because of all the nudity that
was everywhere. His Christian soul was miffed at New York for spreading and promoting SIN, he told me. Yes, you've figured it out: he saw Hair on Broadway, and there were paintings of nudes in the museums.
This
was a particularly silly fellow, in my, er, humble (?) opinion. Of
course, he perceived me as one of theose "pushy New Yorkers, and a Jew,
at that," he explained to me. Yes, kindly he explained why he disliked
me. He wanted to convert me to his religion so I could change my ways
and be saved.
He told me that after he'd walked through Times
Square he felt an overwhelming need to get back to the hotel, just to
wash his hair. He needed to get that New York essence off his skin, his
hair, his total person! He expressed this to me with a deluge of
contempt.
While he was actually an overly expressive zealot, a
repressed and self-righteous buffoon, he was not alone in his feelings.
He lacked the tact and sensitivity to keep all this to himself, yet his
take on New York and New Yorkers ("...a haven for sinners! Satan's home
base!") was shared, to a lesser, maybe a saner (?) degree, by many of
his Hoosier counterparts.
The online Merriam-Webster's Dictionary offers up this definition of xenophobia.
Today's New York Times carries a story
about an Indiana town's new perceptions of New York in the aftermath of
the terror attack. In an amazing twist of fate, this is the very town
that fellow was from.
Just in case the Times has put a "pay for our fishwrapper" block on that story,you can find it here.
There's
more good stuff to be found in the Saturday Times. The Times, by the
way, has done an excellent job of reporting on the crisis. This week's
Op-Ed pieces by William Safire, Thomas L. Freidman, and Anthony Lewis
(check out his essay today!) have been nothing short of excellent, informative, and thought-provoking.
There's
a story in the Sports Section that tugged at my heart. No, not the
rescheduling of the Yankee game (we had tickets for Wednesday night, we
were going to see Clemens get his 20th win), nor the interesting
stories about how the nation is not ready to be diverted nor amused by
professional sports.
This story is about tried-and-true New
Yorker John Franco, Met's relief pitcher. Franco's dad was a NYC
Sanitation Man, and Franco wears an orange Dept. of Sanitation t-shirt
under his uniform at each game. This is in tribute to his father.
The
Sanitation Dept. workforce is a credit to the city. In what might seem
a thankless job, subject to all those taunts and jokes, this army of
workers manage to maintain a clean city, a snow-free city, an
uninfected city. It is no small feat, and they do a great job.
Franco's father, a lifelong Dept. of Sanitation man, was part of the heart and soul of New York.
John
Franco enjoys a special popularity as a favorite son. A kid from the
city made good -- a part of some memorable Met teams, a real New Yorker
living the dream of many: to play pro ball in the city. Franco is the
right man for the part, too. He's active in charity work, always there
when summoned, and the kind of guy who gives an autograph. An all
around good egg.
This son of the city is the subject of an article that truly sums up the New York spirit. If the link doesn't get you to it, here's a text copy version of the article. This is one of those "capture the spirit" articles one rarely sees in the Times anymore.
