Labor Day 2001 a reflection:
New York City was a strange place to be this past Labor Day. Ten days later New York would never be the same. The occasion, the annual Caribbean Heritage Day in Brooklyn. Getting off the subway was more like a coaster ride through a million barrios, than a benign trip up two or so stories. The multitudes were so thick that everyone, it seems, had the same plan, “just don’t let go of me.” It seemed as if every person in the crowd was attached to a string of five others, at least one in the group donning some national flag, another with the same look of bewilderment that must have ridden across my rostro. A foreigner, I most likely wore the most bewildered look of all, as sweaty bodies pushed past, albeit just faster than worms in a fresh cup of bait. Police stood in every corner directing traffic, the staccato accent borne of clogged sinuses that has made dew yawkers famous beat out steady rhythms of “exit only” until the pulsing beats on the street level washed everything in sight with their spirit and optimism.
A breath of fresh air—well almost. Finally outside of the hanging must of the subway station, the street air was just barely enjoyable, for the crowd did not become any less thick once on the street—only more expansive. The smoky air, clouded by many barbecue pits, and ganja spliffs, bore a dash of Hollywood’s touch as the sun shone brightly through, giving the entire landscape a magical feel. And the people, the bodies bouncing, chanting, dancing past—just slightly faster than they did below in the subway station—a sight that would be most thoroughly enjoyed by standing, breathing in the smoky air deeply and exhaling the infectious beats and movements that filled every inch of the cityscape. Unfortunately, the crowd’s pulse was too unrelenting to stand still for a second, let alone breathing deeply to reflect, or to snap a photo. This was a time to be living in the moment—any photo that might have been snapped was the product of aiming the camera, and letting one of the crowd’s many surges press the shutter release. It is in moments like these, in places like this that humanity’s power is undeniable and wonderful and frightening. Perhaps it is so wonderful because it is so frightening—the police presence appeared to have not a second to take any of this joy in, and it is, I suppose, the job of the police to remain rational in situations like these. Some of my most interesting photographs depict this specifically, the austere dullness of the police officers and the indomitable vivacity of the citizens.
“In front of Life"
Finally able to perch in a less-hectic location, the photo that I snapped across the street from an aptly named bodega expresses the atmosphere in emulsion. As I stood in front of Life with two friends awaiting a third to return with our 40s, the paradox that is New York reached out and spoke to me. Coincidence is common, but the insanity of the city only makes it appear less sane than it actually is. The rational explanation that would have made sense of the fact that one of my college roommates walked directly across the street from where I stood, escaped me in the moments that I rushed across it. He was headed to the same barbecue that I was headed to, so it only made sense. Sometimes, though, when you’re young, and in an unfamiliar place, wild with the undulations of hundreds of thousands of Carribeans, logic is the last tool that the mind makes use of, it is also the least romantic.
Squeezing, once again, through the subway station—Flatbush Ave. was impossible to cross given the sheer multitude of bodies—is something I remember more in smells, slivers, and snippets than in any tangible form. Wrung through the dregs once again, rising to the Carribbean beat was old hat to me. Squeezing past a few more cops, too many beautiful women, and a drag queen dressed in a white angel-themed leotard, with matching tutu, butterfly wings, and wand, I finally walked down the street in Bed-Stuy, the home turf of many of my favorite rappers. “Smoke, smoke, smoke, smoke, smoke,” a rasta who leaned against the façade of a bodega, would say to any who passed. He was the third such character I had run into on this one block since squeezing out of the cop-littered subway station. Though not in the market for his herbal offerings, I managed to speak to him for a moment. The gold tooth in the back of his mouth shined as brightly as his self-effacing warmth when he told me, “no pictures, mon.” “Give thanks,” I would reply in my mind months later—at the time I managed something far less interesting and culturally coded.
Snake Man faced me as I turned. Already with camera in hand, I asked if I could snap his photo, as the weed-dealing rasta looked on. He agreed. The warm expression on his face in the picture belies the mild look of exasperation he gave me immediately before I snapped it. I had nearly misfired twice, and knew that this was one photo that I would kick myself about for years if I did not get. I finally adjusted the aperture correctly, focused, and fired. Give thanks. I’m guessing that his warm expression was more an expression of the occasion than of my fumbling attempts at shooting the picture. Maybe it was the snake. I often wonder if the snake was real—it didn’t seem to move at all; a friend, who also saw the snake, claims that it was real. I also wonder if the weed-selling rasta was for real; images of the unlucky kid from high school nabbed by the police flicker in my mind whenever someone I don’t know tries to sell me drugs.
The BBQ was a qualified success—I’ll explain. I got the opportunity to talk tech with a bunch of friends—everyone I know is a filmmaker now. I had meaningful conversations with a couple of others, and forgettable conversations with many more. I blame the sudden migraine that I caught for this, as I usually manage much better human interactions, but the extreme situation I found myself in did not lend itself to as much enjoyable schmoozing as I would have preferred. Facing the prospect of a four-hour return drive to dc, alone, and the unrelenting headache, the magnitude of which I had only twice experienced, I had to leave earlier than anticipated to catch a nap. What I remember most vividly of the occasion is the unexpected presence of a couple of high-school friends littered in-between the old college crowd, and the beautiful light that bathed the rooftop and apartment, which was most artfully articulated indoors in a picture of SC, and the raw, inexplicable pain that I experienced until I crashed on a couch in Manhattan.
Perhaps it was the impending doom of the workweek that brought on the headache, or maybe my wires just got tripped from the sensory overload.
[Washington, DC 2001]
