Sunday, January 20, 2008
Friday, March 02, 2007
To Kill a Village
Cardinal Egan has killed a village. It really does boil down to that.
I am recent transplant to New York, and I have struggled, like many others before me, to find a place for myself amidst the noise and the rush of this place. And, like many others before me, I've slowly uncovered the secret of living and surviving in New York: finding my own village within the city. The same market on the corner that supplies my breakfast and my newspaper. The same coffee shop that provides me sanctuary from the cold or the stress. And a group of friends and neighbors to lean on.
Part of my carefully constructed village disappeared on Wednesday. A small, shabby, time capsule of a church called Our Lady of Vilnius in Lower Manhattan was shuttered for good by Cardinal Egan. In one morning, the Archdioces of New York lured out Our Lady's priest and then quickly changed the locks before he returned. For the Cardinal, it was just cleaning up loose ends, however messy the process may have been. For the villagers of Our Lady, it is the end of a community.
A press release issued by the Archdioces makes much of the fact that this community was tiny, with small attendence at weekly masses, and no marriages or baptisms having been performed at the church for years. What it did not say, and what the Cardinal worked hard to keep quiet, was that the church village, however small, was alive, thriving, and -- most importantly -- growing. It was home not only to the Lithuanian-Americans who built the church over 100 years ago and who continue to arrive in this city as new immigrants, seeking their own community, but also to Portuguese-Americans, the Knights of Columbus, and any other New Yorker in the neighborhood looking for their own place to rest from the city.
We've lost all of that now. Because badly needed repairs to the main church were not permitted, we gathered for years in the church basement, transforming the space every Sunday for mass with fresh flowers. During the week, the basement became a concert hall for jazz musicians, classical pianists, children's Christmas pageants, poetry readings. When low-wage laborers newly arrived from Lithuania offered to help repair the damage to the main church roof, the initiative was quickly stifled by the Archdioces. So we stayed in the basement, surrounded by a museum of decades of life in the city: faded photographs of Knights of Columbus banquets from the 1940s, weddings from the 1960s, portraits and snapshots of several Popes, hanging right alongside several pictures of Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra. Stepping into Our Lady of Vilnius church was like entering a time machine, catching a glimpse of a city's past that is being shuttered church by church, house by house.
In our darkest moments, we fear that Our Lady is being sacrificed to the gods of real estate. That sometime in the not too distant future, when attention has drifted to another corner of the city, the church will be quietly condemned and bulldozed, making way for another spectacular building promising residents "luxury in the heart of the city." Luxury maybe, but heart? The heart has been closed, and the locks changed.
Perhaps the future is not as bleak. We won't know for some time. For now, only one thing is clear: the village which once thrived in Lower Manhattan, right at the mouth of the Holland Tunnel, is doing what all people do when they lose their homes to "acts of God" (or acts of Cardinals): grieving, saving what they can, and seeking new shelter elsewhere. We will find it, I have no doubt. We are New Yorkers, after all.
I am recent transplant to New York, and I have struggled, like many others before me, to find a place for myself amidst the noise and the rush of this place. And, like many others before me, I've slowly uncovered the secret of living and surviving in New York: finding my own village within the city. The same market on the corner that supplies my breakfast and my newspaper. The same coffee shop that provides me sanctuary from the cold or the stress. And a group of friends and neighbors to lean on.
Part of my carefully constructed village disappeared on Wednesday. A small, shabby, time capsule of a church called Our Lady of Vilnius in Lower Manhattan was shuttered for good by Cardinal Egan. In one morning, the Archdioces of New York lured out Our Lady's priest and then quickly changed the locks before he returned. For the Cardinal, it was just cleaning up loose ends, however messy the process may have been. For the villagers of Our Lady, it is the end of a community.
A press release issued by the Archdioces makes much of the fact that this community was tiny, with small attendence at weekly masses, and no marriages or baptisms having been performed at the church for years. What it did not say, and what the Cardinal worked hard to keep quiet, was that the church village, however small, was alive, thriving, and -- most importantly -- growing. It was home not only to the Lithuanian-Americans who built the church over 100 years ago and who continue to arrive in this city as new immigrants, seeking their own community, but also to Portuguese-Americans, the Knights of Columbus, and any other New Yorker in the neighborhood looking for their own place to rest from the city.
We've lost all of that now. Because badly needed repairs to the main church were not permitted, we gathered for years in the church basement, transforming the space every Sunday for mass with fresh flowers. During the week, the basement became a concert hall for jazz musicians, classical pianists, children's Christmas pageants, poetry readings. When low-wage laborers newly arrived from Lithuania offered to help repair the damage to the main church roof, the initiative was quickly stifled by the Archdioces. So we stayed in the basement, surrounded by a museum of decades of life in the city: faded photographs of Knights of Columbus banquets from the 1940s, weddings from the 1960s, portraits and snapshots of several Popes, hanging right alongside several pictures of Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra. Stepping into Our Lady of Vilnius church was like entering a time machine, catching a glimpse of a city's past that is being shuttered church by church, house by house.
In our darkest moments, we fear that Our Lady is being sacrificed to the gods of real estate. That sometime in the not too distant future, when attention has drifted to another corner of the city, the church will be quietly condemned and bulldozed, making way for another spectacular building promising residents "luxury in the heart of the city." Luxury maybe, but heart? The heart has been closed, and the locks changed.
Perhaps the future is not as bleak. We won't know for some time. For now, only one thing is clear: the village which once thrived in Lower Manhattan, right at the mouth of the Holland Tunnel, is doing what all people do when they lose their homes to "acts of God" (or acts of Cardinals): grieving, saving what they can, and seeking new shelter elsewhere. We will find it, I have no doubt. We are New Yorkers, after all.
Friday, November 03, 2006
World, Meet the Haggards...
For the past few days I've intended to write more about Ted Haggard - particularly after I read some excerpts from his "confessional letter" read to his congregation a day or two ago. Whatever feelings of sympathy I may have had developing in some small corner of my body dissipated instantly after reading about this latest Haggard-ism. Now I just sigh and feel a deep sadness.
One line in his letter really struck me. Haggard tells his followers: "There is a part of my life that is so repulsive and dark that I've been warring against it all of my adult life."
Repulsive.
Dark.
It's a long way down you still have to go, Ted Haggard.
However you choose to see it -- for the faithful, it's a lesson from God, for others, it's just a big, simple, smack on the head -- the preacher from Colorado had a chance to face his true self in the mirror, and he blinked. He turned away. From the "repulsive" image he saw in the glass. And when he turned away, he sought refuge in the closed minds of those who still trust him, the thousands of followers in Colorado and elsewhere - he told them: I am hideous. Pity me. I am repulsive. Throw a burlap bag over my head, but do not leave me behind.
Ted Haggard still wants to be part of the show, but it looks like he'll be content being an exhibit in the freak show, a lesson to be displayed to every Evangelical who wants to show their children: see, my child, this is what "darkness" looks like -- beware!
See, Ted is not only continuing to fool himself, he is not only choosing to continue the "war" against himself -- that would be just sad and pitiful. What makes it outrageous and criminal is that he is allowing his flock to avoid their own gaze as well. He is giving them the freak show they need so that they can look on in horror and then walk away, souls cleansed, filled with relief that at least they are pure and clean. Isn't that what the side shows in circuses of old were for? "But for the grace of God, there go I...."
Ted had (still has?) a chance to send a different message. And that is why my initial joy over this whole scandal is now turning to bitterness and anger. Because this man of the cloth is spitting in the face of the opportunity he has been handed. And he's helping a whole lot of people remain in the repulsive darkness with him. That is what is pissing me off.
And, like it or not, Colorado, America, Evangelicals -- Ted Haggard is ensuring that more and more men (and women) remain in the closet, and - in the worst cases - act out their frustrated sexual urgings on the innocent and the unsuspecting.
I used to not want to see as well. In fact, for many years, it was quite easy to deny what was right in front of me. I'll spare any reader here the "coming to God" section of coming out (the relief, the unburdening, the long exhale) -- but one nice by-product of finally admitting to oneself one's true self, is that you see so much more. You notice things that you blocked out before.
And one of the things I noticed was the huge number of others still languishing in the closet. In an instant, you see the anguished faces and darting eyes of the countless numbers of other Ted Haggards out there. And make no mistake, America, they are OUT there. Thousands of them.
They are at the YMCA. Accomplished, successful executives by day. In the gym, they are watching you, in the showers they are watching you. Then they go home to the wife.
They are on the subway, in the bus, at Starbucks, at Barnes & Noble. They make quick eye contact - searching for a response, then dart away, ashamed of their own attempt to find another, quickly retreating down the escalator to the magazine rack to... read up on the latest men's fitness trend?
They are priests, they are CEOs, they are actors, they are boy scout leaders, they are leading American evangelicals... And they all seem to have families and children that, they think, do not have a clue. And they may not have a clue. Or maybe they do, but they, like Ted Haggard, choose to avoid the mirror too.
An entire "ecosystem" of mutually reinforced denial. But they are there, America. And if you truly saw, truly noticed... well, surprise is not a strong enough word. I was blown away.
And they get to stay out there, almost unnoticed, because we all help. Why does Ted Haggard still wage a war against himself? Because he, like many of us, still believes that what he carries inside is an enemy.
Repulsive.
Dark.
The next time you're in a Barnes & Noble, watch for them. They are there. Lost, full of self-loathing, repulsed. And, today, as a lot of America votes to "protect marriage" against them -- they will be pushed back into the darkness for another day.
Thanks, Ted.
One line in his letter really struck me. Haggard tells his followers: "There is a part of my life that is so repulsive and dark that I've been warring against it all of my adult life."
Repulsive.
Dark.
It's a long way down you still have to go, Ted Haggard.
However you choose to see it -- for the faithful, it's a lesson from God, for others, it's just a big, simple, smack on the head -- the preacher from Colorado had a chance to face his true self in the mirror, and he blinked. He turned away. From the "repulsive" image he saw in the glass. And when he turned away, he sought refuge in the closed minds of those who still trust him, the thousands of followers in Colorado and elsewhere - he told them: I am hideous. Pity me. I am repulsive. Throw a burlap bag over my head, but do not leave me behind.
Ted Haggard still wants to be part of the show, but it looks like he'll be content being an exhibit in the freak show, a lesson to be displayed to every Evangelical who wants to show their children: see, my child, this is what "darkness" looks like -- beware!
See, Ted is not only continuing to fool himself, he is not only choosing to continue the "war" against himself -- that would be just sad and pitiful. What makes it outrageous and criminal is that he is allowing his flock to avoid their own gaze as well. He is giving them the freak show they need so that they can look on in horror and then walk away, souls cleansed, filled with relief that at least they are pure and clean. Isn't that what the side shows in circuses of old were for? "But for the grace of God, there go I...."
Ted had (still has?) a chance to send a different message. And that is why my initial joy over this whole scandal is now turning to bitterness and anger. Because this man of the cloth is spitting in the face of the opportunity he has been handed. And he's helping a whole lot of people remain in the repulsive darkness with him. That is what is pissing me off.
And, like it or not, Colorado, America, Evangelicals -- Ted Haggard is ensuring that more and more men (and women) remain in the closet, and - in the worst cases - act out their frustrated sexual urgings on the innocent and the unsuspecting.
I used to not want to see as well. In fact, for many years, it was quite easy to deny what was right in front of me. I'll spare any reader here the "coming to God" section of coming out (the relief, the unburdening, the long exhale) -- but one nice by-product of finally admitting to oneself one's true self, is that you see so much more. You notice things that you blocked out before.
And one of the things I noticed was the huge number of others still languishing in the closet. In an instant, you see the anguished faces and darting eyes of the countless numbers of other Ted Haggards out there. And make no mistake, America, they are OUT there. Thousands of them.
They are at the YMCA. Accomplished, successful executives by day. In the gym, they are watching you, in the showers they are watching you. Then they go home to the wife.
They are on the subway, in the bus, at Starbucks, at Barnes & Noble. They make quick eye contact - searching for a response, then dart away, ashamed of their own attempt to find another, quickly retreating down the escalator to the magazine rack to... read up on the latest men's fitness trend?
They are priests, they are CEOs, they are actors, they are boy scout leaders, they are leading American evangelicals... And they all seem to have families and children that, they think, do not have a clue. And they may not have a clue. Or maybe they do, but they, like Ted Haggard, choose to avoid the mirror too.
An entire "ecosystem" of mutually reinforced denial. But they are there, America. And if you truly saw, truly noticed... well, surprise is not a strong enough word. I was blown away.
And they get to stay out there, almost unnoticed, because we all help. Why does Ted Haggard still wage a war against himself? Because he, like many of us, still believes that what he carries inside is an enemy.
Repulsive.
Dark.
The next time you're in a Barnes & Noble, watch for them. They are there. Lost, full of self-loathing, repulsed. And, today, as a lot of America votes to "protect marriage" against them -- they will be pushed back into the darkness for another day.
Thanks, Ted.
Thank You Neil
"If she doesn't shut up, I'm going to smack the sh*t out of her..."I think that's how a line in a Neil Labute short story begins. And right now, it's what's going through my mind as a caricature of an Upper West Sider sits behind me at Starbucks and continues ... to.... talk...
and... spew... nonesense
about...
... renovations.
No. About scheduling renovations.
About how busy she is and how could she possibly change the previously agreed-upon date and how come the designer doesn't seem to understand the importance of a schedule and what if the delay means she can't get the same color that she ordered and why aren't my friends being more supportive right now when I really need them.......
Thank God for iPods. Somebody in the New York Times wrote (again) last week how technology is forcing apart. I think it's saving lives. If it weren't for the sweet sound of Nana Caymmi (Brazilian crooner, lovely) in my ears right now, I would seriously contemplate renovating that hag behind me.
Aggression. Another blogging byproduct. Fun.
Where was this post going? I thought about writing about my fellow Starbuckians today, but I really just want to go out and smoke. Next time.
Exile: One who lives away from one's native country, whether because of expulsion or voluntary absence.
It's true.
Blogging is dangerously close to a compulsion. There is this deranged sense of hope that your commentary, once released into the world, will make all the difference.
But I'm not really a blogger -- one of those people who write about every little thing in their daily lives, wanting to "share" with whoever stumbles along their little corner of the Net through their travels...
Not yet. I'm not one of those.
But... ok.. so here's the cool thing about blogging. It's not just that you can post about virtually anything (there is, apparently, a sly sort of a "we-don't-call-it-that-but-it-really-is-censorship" system on Blogger.com), you can seemingly support all of your rantings by including links and citations to anything else you find on the web.
Like the fact that "writing from exile" (my original idea for a Blog name) is a very, very popular theme. Even Caribbeans, apparently, have exile (Caribbean Literature: Writing From Exile), and you're quickly reminded that Paris was and still is a very nice and popular place to be in exile (Alex Ross: The Rest is Noise)....
I wonder if my parents would have appreciated the romanticism that is attached to writing from exile. Displaced Person camps in American-occupied Germany might have been preferable to Soviet exile in Siberia, but somehow I don't think the barracks there were very conducive to memoirs.
That's it. I have no idea where to go with the end of this post. Learn by blogging.
Blogging is dangerously close to a compulsion. There is this deranged sense of hope that your commentary, once released into the world, will make all the difference.
But I'm not really a blogger -- one of those people who write about every little thing in their daily lives, wanting to "share" with whoever stumbles along their little corner of the Net through their travels...
Not yet. I'm not one of those.
But... ok.. so here's the cool thing about blogging. It's not just that you can post about virtually anything (there is, apparently, a sly sort of a "we-don't-call-it-that-but-it-really-is-censorship" system on Blogger.com), you can seemingly support all of your rantings by including links and citations to anything else you find on the web.
Like the fact that "writing from exile" (my original idea for a Blog name) is a very, very popular theme. Even Caribbeans, apparently, have exile (Caribbean Literature: Writing From Exile), and you're quickly reminded that Paris was and still is a very nice and popular place to be in exile (Alex Ross: The Rest is Noise)....
I wonder if my parents would have appreciated the romanticism that is attached to writing from exile. Displaced Person camps in American-occupied Germany might have been preferable to Soviet exile in Siberia, but somehow I don't think the barracks there were very conducive to memoirs.
That's it. I have no idea where to go with the end of this post. Learn by blogging.
Haggard? I Bet He Is!
What finally pushed me to throw in one more set of opinions into the blogosphere was a news item I read early this morning, as I was drinking my first coffee and trying to slowly awake and prepare for yet another audition.
"Accused of Gay Liaison, Head of Evangelical Group Resigns"
Another one bites the dust.
Another powerful closeted gay man with ambitions to make life miserable for his "bretheren" who lead more open lives fails in his struggle to control his own zipper. What was it about this article that really made my morning? I should feel guilty, I think, for feeling so much glee at reading about the plight of this man - but I refuse to shortchange my rush. I should feel some compassion for the man's family and his children, for his church, for those who followed him and believed his homophobic rantings. I should also presume him innocent - these are, after all, accusations based on the testimony of one male prostitute, right?
A friend just emailed me to tell me this news makes her sad. Shoot me - I'm loving it.
I can't resist. I'm loving it. Because I know it's got to be true. Because I've met such men - closeted, aggressively "straight", afraid of the slightest insinuation of their potentially more "liberal" sexual nature... Hell, I was one of those men. So I know it's far too possible that this story about this man in Colorado is true. And I wonder how many more of them there are like him.
Like that mayor in Spokane, who campaigned against gay marriage in Washington State, and who later was discovered IM'ing young male teens on AOL, soliciting "private meetings." Or the ex-governor of New Jersey, who supported undermining gay-friendly legislation in his home state while he secretly met with his long-time male lover. Or the Congressional staffers in Washington, DC, who dance it up at gay clubs on the weekends and then return to work on Monday to help their Republican bosses campaign for a Constitutional amendment to ban gay marriage.
People in power who speak (and who knows what else) through both sides of their mouths. I know, I know... history is full of such men (and women). But these guys hit a personal nerve. And I am overjoyed when they are dragged out into the light, kicking and screaming. Because I hope.
I hope that, with each new revelation of hypocrisy, the number of average Americans who see the ranting, aggressive, homophobic "agenda" for what it really is - a message of hatred, for self or your neighbor - will increase.
I hope that more and more hypocrits in power come tumbling down from their self-righteous thrones and learn - yes, the hard way - some humility and grace and tolerance.
And I hope that that poor slob in Colorado finally ends his war with himself and, maybe, just one day, might help another closeted sufferer realize that the world won't end the day he (or she) accepts who he is. I'm sure I'll feel some remorse or compassion for the wife and kids tomorrow. But for the moment, I'm hoping that the honorable minister's lesson is a BIG one... huge.
(And a thank you to a new comrade up-in-arms about the sinister minister for lending me a headline for this posting.)
"Accused of Gay Liaison, Head of Evangelical Group Resigns"
Another one bites the dust.
Another powerful closeted gay man with ambitions to make life miserable for his "bretheren" who lead more open lives fails in his struggle to control his own zipper. What was it about this article that really made my morning? I should feel guilty, I think, for feeling so much glee at reading about the plight of this man - but I refuse to shortchange my rush. I should feel some compassion for the man's family and his children, for his church, for those who followed him and believed his homophobic rantings. I should also presume him innocent - these are, after all, accusations based on the testimony of one male prostitute, right?
A friend just emailed me to tell me this news makes her sad. Shoot me - I'm loving it.
I can't resist. I'm loving it. Because I know it's got to be true. Because I've met such men - closeted, aggressively "straight", afraid of the slightest insinuation of their potentially more "liberal" sexual nature... Hell, I was one of those men. So I know it's far too possible that this story about this man in Colorado is true. And I wonder how many more of them there are like him.
Like that mayor in Spokane, who campaigned against gay marriage in Washington State, and who later was discovered IM'ing young male teens on AOL, soliciting "private meetings." Or the ex-governor of New Jersey, who supported undermining gay-friendly legislation in his home state while he secretly met with his long-time male lover. Or the Congressional staffers in Washington, DC, who dance it up at gay clubs on the weekends and then return to work on Monday to help their Republican bosses campaign for a Constitutional amendment to ban gay marriage.
People in power who speak (and who knows what else) through both sides of their mouths. I know, I know... history is full of such men (and women). But these guys hit a personal nerve. And I am overjoyed when they are dragged out into the light, kicking and screaming. Because I hope.
I hope that, with each new revelation of hypocrisy, the number of average Americans who see the ranting, aggressive, homophobic "agenda" for what it really is - a message of hatred, for self or your neighbor - will increase.
I hope that more and more hypocrits in power come tumbling down from their self-righteous thrones and learn - yes, the hard way - some humility and grace and tolerance.
And I hope that that poor slob in Colorado finally ends his war with himself and, maybe, just one day, might help another closeted sufferer realize that the world won't end the day he (or she) accepts who he is. I'm sure I'll feel some remorse or compassion for the wife and kids tomorrow. But for the moment, I'm hoping that the honorable minister's lesson is a BIG one... huge.
(And a thank you to a new comrade up-in-arms about the sinister minister for lending me a headline for this posting.)
How I Learned To Blog
I think I'm understanding why exiled populations always produce such a paper trail of their thoughts, musings, commentaries...
You have a lot of time in exile. A lot.
Runs in my family.
Grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles -- exiled from a small Central European republic. Nothing quite as dramatic for me. I'm exiled from my one-bedroom 600-ish square foot apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan because it doubles as a workplace for my partner. By day the place is our home.. come the afternoon, and many an evening, it transforms into "an oasis in the middle of Manhattan", as one visitor called it.
Anyhow, this forces me onto the streets of our neighborhood. And when I'm not trying to use that time for productive things, like finding work, auditioning, grocery shopping - I have time to sit in a Starbucks (if there's a free table - people in NY spend a LOT of time in Starbucks...), or Barnes & Noble, or somewhere else in the universe of free or almost-free public "living rooms" in this city. And that's where I think.. a lot... about writing a blog, among other things.
I doubt if Solzhenitsyn had it this good - a maple streusel muffin, a hot cup of tea, a refuge from the cold outside (though a crowded sanctuary, to be sure, what with the constant parade of refugees lining up to get their lattes while they dodge the powercables strewn about the floor).
But here we go. First attempt. I feel a real pressure to be profound. Probably won't happen. I hear blogging can become obsessive - but I probably will obsess too much about what I'm writing, not how often or who reads it. Read on - next entry.
You have a lot of time in exile. A lot.
Runs in my family.
Grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles -- exiled from a small Central European republic. Nothing quite as dramatic for me. I'm exiled from my one-bedroom 600-ish square foot apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan because it doubles as a workplace for my partner. By day the place is our home.. come the afternoon, and many an evening, it transforms into "an oasis in the middle of Manhattan", as one visitor called it.
Anyhow, this forces me onto the streets of our neighborhood. And when I'm not trying to use that time for productive things, like finding work, auditioning, grocery shopping - I have time to sit in a Starbucks (if there's a free table - people in NY spend a LOT of time in Starbucks...), or Barnes & Noble, or somewhere else in the universe of free or almost-free public "living rooms" in this city. And that's where I think.. a lot... about writing a blog, among other things.
I doubt if Solzhenitsyn had it this good - a maple streusel muffin, a hot cup of tea, a refuge from the cold outside (though a crowded sanctuary, to be sure, what with the constant parade of refugees lining up to get their lattes while they dodge the powercables strewn about the floor).
But here we go. First attempt. I feel a real pressure to be profound. Probably won't happen. I hear blogging can become obsessive - but I probably will obsess too much about what I'm writing, not how often or who reads it. Read on - next entry.
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