Which waterfront are you talking about?

On Sunday, Sara Gordon and I went on a hike, walking along the river from Mass Ave to LaSalle Park, and on to the Marina, where we spent some time with the fish. Then we wandered through some weird condo communities--although that is probably not the right word for what they are--singing Woody Guthrie, and into downtown where we walked through a fence, cut under the overpass, and headed north and west, to home.

There's been a lot of fuss about the waterfront lately. Some people want this thing, some people want the other thing. Bass Pro wants in and that's its own kettle of fish. The word revitalization gets thrown around a lot (gets thrown around on Grant St. too). I'm not saying there isn't room for improvement. There are a few gravely spots that could be greener, and I'd never say no to a few more trees--but revitalization? Revitalization? Come on! There were easily five hundred people at the waterfront around 6 pm on Sunday. Easily 500, but probably more. Laughing, shouting, playing, running, walking, playing tag, grilling. Doing people-at-the-waterfront activities. It's a river. We live on a drained swamp. Of course people are going to go there.

We do need to protect what is already ours from Bass Pro and from any further condo-ization. We need to hold what is rightfully ours away from any of the greedies upstairs. But we do not need to revitalize. We already are. And this argument reaches right into the core of urban planning itself. Do we need to protect what is ours from that corrupt mascot, money? Yes. Beyond that, nothing needs to be done. People will put what they need where they need it, and they invest where they are. Academics, posturers, politicians: take a walk (not a drive) around the west side. There are countless churches, temples, and other sanctuaries...in houses. The west side says, "Everything can go in a house!" Nobody is going to build their church or garden across town. They are going to get together and put it where they live. I have walked on rainy nights, and heard, from the yellow glow of houses, voices rising up in languages I don't know, and tambourines, and guitars, and instruments I don't know--voices that laugh and sing and sway the night, and people like me stop in the street to listen. They're thanking god--in whatever version of that story--and I'm thanking them. A little help is good, but usually there is too much meddling.

It's an odd process--the one by which a simple thing is made complicated. The river is the calmest, loveliest place of the city. It is my medicine. I go to the river to remember what I am doing, and to forget (I make sure to go there at least once a week). But the waterfront is already segregated. Along the path Sara and I took, it was like this: quiet, private (hidden boat docks), then public (kids jumping into the water), then private again (gated 'communities' without gates), mostly quiet--a murmur of AC units and ceiling fans. Then noisy: there was a condo party going on. At the Marina it is public and private. How? Shanghai Reds versus picnic tables.

When I was trekking through Belfast this past March, I kept finding myself walking along a mesh fence. At points it was as tall as a short building. It is an old fence that remains, but it is  anything but symbolic for the people who still live, and cry, and somehow manage to sing and play behind it. There were playgrounds behind it, on the other side of where I was walking, and the shouts of the children were not ordinary shouts; they were cries of war. As they should be: what does it do to anyone's mind--child or adult--to live behind a fence? For any human or animal to be put in a cage creates daily pain, and that stuff gets inside bodies. The message is: You cannot go where I am; stay. The trauma of that lives in our muscles, in our cells. Take Belfast, take Palestine, take domestic abuse. There is claustrophobia first, then terrorism--terrorism directed outward or inward. In Belfast, I was amazed at how difficult it was to find an entrance/exit to the fence. I walked along it for at least a half an hour, but maybe longer, before I found a place to slip through--and that was all it was--not a gate, just a place to slip through.

I thought of this as we passed through Buffalo's hidden monastery of wealth. There was no fence or physical barrier keeping us from entering or exiting, yet we were walking straight into a secret. A tar path led us straight from LaSalle Park into an enclave of suburbia in downtown Buffalo. But there were signs that read Private. A cop car drove by us, slowly. That's a loaded image in Buffalo. A cop car. Who sees one, and doesn't get a tick inside? Who even lives here, we asked each other? Are these summer-in-the-city condos? Who are these strange people, and what is inside their bodies? (The answer is a sort of ultimate kind of fear). And then, although their wall, their fence, their keep the outside-outside partition was semi-fluid and self-imposed, I felt so sorry for them. How horrible for anyone to be so stuck. And how sad it must be to live on the edge of a beautiful river, and be afraid to share it.

These were my Sunday reflections in a nutshell. I'll say this: if you always pass through your city in a car, you don't see it. Not all the way. It's not all your fault. It's actually impossible because you are going so fast, and you are inside walls, and you have other important things to concentrate on (like not hitting that jerk)! A bike ride is good, and sometimes a walk is even better, but either way, go visit your city. Take a vacation day and gift yourself a cultural education.

While "Rude boy" blared above, from an air conditioned apartment in the sky, this is what Sara and I sang, as we walked away:

"As I was walkin'--I saw a sign there
And that sign said, 'No tresspassin'
But on the other side, it didn't say nothin'
Now that side was made for you and me!"

The Capitalist and Me (2010)

For Anais Nin and Mary Sarsfield

I slept with a capitalist,

but only physically.

And it was good.

It was the best I ever had.

I let a capitalist in,

but only physically,

and afterward

I went out into the street

with not an ounce of

shame or

hate--
I went out his door with--

!
Yes

Tell you what
my name is

Scherezade

Call me

Esther if you must

change my name.

Don't you know
What it means

?Anyway

What I took 
What I gave What I took from him
is bigger 

BIGGER than you=

We are discussing

What Ilya conquered in bed

What Geryon conquered in death
What Mother Teresa created in her life time

Period
Baby

Full moon
Yes
We cannot fail to mention
Molly Bloom,
of course
there is more to it than
Yes--
Molly didn't stop loving
when you spilled over the edge
of the page.

Hey brother

Cut me some slack and
call me Jezebel
if you want.

But oh I feel good.

Oh I'm the best I ever

had

Yes.

What we are given

We live in a culture in which, above all else, confrontation and unpleasantness are to be avoided, things are to be smooth as Knob Creek, but this comes at a price. Twice in the past two weeks, I've been called a "bitch" (among other, nastier words) by strangers, and it was because things were not as smooth as Knob Creek, and I said so. I simply don't accept the mantra of all encompassing pleasantness. We don't always have to take what we're given. If we're not hungry, for example, we don't have to take food.  And we definitely do not have to take other people's shit. 

When Bush was sitting in the oval throne room, we were, generally, collectively, paralyzed with fear--the much discussed, media-imposed fear. There's a lot to unpack about that. Firstly, what 'media imposed' means. Who, or what, thing or organism is the media? How does it exist and who sustains it--corporations and the government, or me and the people I know? Is it a monster or an anthill? And is 'it' really responsible for our fear? How does such an broad, undefinable entity impose anything on us at all?  How is it that during Bush's presidency we became conscious of the media's role in our inability to live fully, and were still affected by it? And how is it that we seem to have forgotten the role it plays now?

My questions barely scratch the surface of what went on. Those eight years were rife with trauma: two wars begun illegally (are not all wars outside the law?), an economic draft, minds and bodies irreparably damaged, funds taken from children, who, as we all know, were all left behind, in order to stock the arsenal. And, so that those children, uneducated, might later stock the arsenal too. There are all the gaping wounds behind the Patriot Act: house arrests, wire-taps, and the wrongfully accused. There was Hurricane Katrina, the drama of which turned out to be more about racism and lack of humanity than it was about the hurricane. There was the invention of the "partial birth abortion." Behind all of these appellations, of course, are cavernous worlds of stories. And tied up in those stories is a lot of pain, which we all carried around (and still do), and I think, guilt as well.  In 2004, Bush was re-elected, and many Americans cried. In 2004, Victor Yanukovych was elected, and many Ukranians took to the streets.

And now Obama is in office. We are a happier, more lighthearted country, but let me ask you why. Is it because our education system is being repaired? Is it because we are no longer at war? Is it because we have more civil liberties or because  women in need have greater access to the healthcare they need?  Or, is it because instead of using words like "terrorists," and phrases like "with us or against us," Obama uses words like "hope," "unity," and  "perserverence"? He gives us ego boosts, and tells us regularly how strong and good we are. He emanates pleasantness, and so, he has our compliance. We like him, and that is why he is trouble.

Are we really better off now? Has Obama really undone the damage of the Bush administration? It may not be possible to undo, but has he stopped the madness? Are we not still at war? If you've had enough of my questions, here are some facts: the 2010 federal budget includes 663.7 billion for the Department of Defense (a 4% increase since Bush's last budget), and another 42.7 billion dollars for the Department of Homeland Security (also an increase since Bush), while the lowly little Department of Education receives a lowly little 46.7 billion dollars.  The Department of Energy, by the way, receives 26.3 billion, a small dive from 2009's projected 33.9.  (The figures here do not include $$ from the Recovery Act--and by the way, why does the Department of Defense need recovery money--for bombs?) 

The numbers tell us something that might hurt a little: Obama's numbers are more conservative than Bush's. Ouch, ouch, and ouch.  We may be sleeping better now, but at whose expense? The answer is ours. The answer is that Obama is not the answer. I repeat, Obama is not the answer. You are.

In the shadows of our presidents, we oscillate between fear and exuberance, self-loathing and nationalism. Try, paisans, to have pride, but not nationalism. To be energetic and critical all at once. Most of all, be joyful. Do not believe in what you are told, but in what you discover, in what you find in your day, in your heart, in the dirt, between your brow, and then--this is a hard one--cut loose and trust yourself. It is so important to cut loose of fear, but it is also important to have independence from ego-boosts and good-vibe crutches. We are not hungry, but we are reaching for the cookie jar. We do not need him, but we wait, on the edge of our seats, to hear Obama's next words--they are boosts of hope, but they are empty calories. 

I'm lucky to have friends who do a lot of good. Some of them are community organizers. And the question has been going around: was Obama really a community organizer, and did he change when he went into politics, or was his people's man identity a media construction? Well, I asked FactCheck.org, and here was their timely response: 

Q. Was Obama really a community organizer?

A. Yes, that was his job title when he was hired out of college.

I felt nothing when I read this. It confirms nothing. He was a community organizer and he changed, or he was playing hookey with a resume builder. The fact is, it doesn't matter. Why waste time brooding over lost love?

Problems don't go away because you look at them. Don't take what you take because it is what you are given. Take what you need, what you deserve. Trust yourself. Self-affirm. Act. And if you don't know where to start, start with a garden.