http://www.nypost.com/seven/02152009/news/regionalnews/cop_plan__go_on_offense_155296.htm
I don't expect much from the New York Post, so picking on anything that comes out of the rag is probably a bit unfair. However, the article linked above does report on something that is concerning, to say the least. A report that police are going to go on the "offensive" should raise some eyebrows, and lead to some questions. What are they attacking? What is the threat that we, the innocent, law-abiding public are facing?
Oh, yes. Of course. "Quality-of-life." In other words, the systematic removal of people whose appearance offends our sensibilities of right and wrong. It means the eradication, in the face of economic uncertainty, of any signs that our consumer utopia might be starting to crumble.
Now, I'm not saying that "petty crime" is necessarily ok. What bothers me, however, is that homelessness is basically being placed on the same level as prostitution. Notice the neat little trick in the article? The media does it all the time - talks about crime and homelessness in the same breath, implying that there is an obvious correlation between the two. Do this enough times, and the law-abiding public soon begins to equate homelessness with criminality - see how that works?
And then, you get the police involved, and you get the paranoia of "if there's a homeless person on your block, that's a threat."
At the very least, I am somewhat surprised that the comments section of the article shows more support for the homeless than I would have expected from readers of the Post. Perhaps people are starting to realize that we're all on the same sinking ship, and all responsible for each other. However, that doesn't change the scary tone of the police representatives. We could be in for an interesting summer.
Showing posts with label city life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label city life. Show all posts
Monday, February 16, 2009
Friday, October 3, 2008
Hoodie Season
The chill in the air has suddenly arrived in New York City. Summer has said goodbye with a quickness - we're looking at lows in the 40's by this weekend. Which pretty well explains why most of our friends have skipped town.
So does that mean we close up shop for the winter? No way. You see, not everyone leaves for the winter. Some don't have a choice. There are many reasons why; but yes, people do sleep outside in New York in the winter. And we'll be here, outside with them, doing whatever we can to help them out, because we're too hard-headed and stupid to think of anything else!!
For The Porch, this means that hoodie season has officially arrived. While socks are still precious and the item we will continue to carry at all times, hoodies come to the forefront this time of year. Now here in NYC, hoodies alone are not sufficient to get through the dead of winter, but right now they do the job. Luckily, they are pretty cheap to come by at the discount stores and we should be able to stock up without breaking the bank. Ahh, the joys of not having to pay rent, because we don't have a building!!!
Distribution on the street can get tricky, because once word gets out that you are handing out free hoodies, it can turn into a mob scene and you end up picked clean before you even know what happened. So we'll be working on a strategy to make sure that the hoodies go to those who truly need them.
This time of year is, for me, somewhat refreshing. It usually involves a lot of hard work without a lot of visible rewards, but it ends up paying dividends in ways that I can't explain. As my wonderful friend Ken Loyd says, the little birds see what you are doing when you "pay your dues" all winter long, and they tell everyone about it when spring comes. So here's to the little birds. Oh, and of course, if you feel inclined to support what we're doing, now would be a great time, since we have a lot of hoodies to buy. Enjoy your Fall, wherever you are (well, not wherever. If you're in the Southern Hemisphere, enjoy your spring).
Monday, February 25, 2008
Happy Birthday
Saturday marked the day that 141 NYC forged ahead and put our feet into motion. All this time I’ve been comparing our move to NYC to labor pains, and the birth being our arrival to NYC, but last Saturday marks the official birthday of 141 NYC. I’ve walked around 14th Street and Union Square over a dozen times before to prepare for the day, but Saturday was like no other. The past 8 months of living in the unknown have been filled with uncertainty and constant waiting. I have spent many restless nights, waking in cold sweats, and crying out to God, “What have you done with my heart?” I’ve missed my friends and family. I’ve pined for the warm sand and perfect longboard waves of San Diego, home. I’ve yearned for those wet and misty streets of Portland, my heart. I’ve loved and lost lives to those streets. My blood, sweat and tears have dripped alongside my friends, into its very core, giving life to the roots that have intertwined us.
In 8 months I’ve struggled to have a heart for NY. The streets of Manhattan are rougher and usually have dog shit or bubblegum to welcome your brand new sneakers. Mixtures of strong perfumes, rotting mountains of garbage lining each block, Halal food carts, and the pungent odor of piss are a part of everyday life. Although Portland can have these qualities, it’s funny how the mind distorts our memory when we miss something so much. For a while all I could remember were the 70 degree days and sidewalks that glitter. I couldn’t get past those summer nights when we’d all sit around and either Keith, Sam, Dorje, Vern, and/or Jamie would serenade us with their guitars.
As soon as my feet touched the sidewalk last Saturday and I looked up into that building-lined gray sky, I sensed a familiarity. Light snow fell on me and I found my feet doing that back and forth cold dance that Ken Loyd has mastered so well. It was all coming back to me. My backpack was heavy and my stomach was knotted. I prayed for the spirit to guide us, then pushed off into the chaos. We made many friends and passed out many socks. We laid hands on a very ill older man and prayed over his fragile, dying body. He clutched onto my Dad’s hands and wouldn’t let go. His eyes were the same eyes I had seen a thousand times before, gentle and wise. At the end of the day we even found a $20 bill which covered our costs for the day (thanks to our friends Jeronimo and Rebecca for their donation)
Every second I’d lived up until that moment was preparation for what was to be born that day. All of the waiting and days spent in the dark had to happen. The streets may look, feel, and smell different, but I saw Christ in every eye that I looked into. The very eyes that brought me back to Him when I fell away. So in a way 141 NYC wasn’t born, but rather begotten. It took 3 years and 8 long months to get here, but we’re here and we’re lighting the way. All has been confirmed and my heart has been restored. The roots are still intertwined with family and friends in San Diego, and our Brothers and Sisters in Portland. But now they go deeper and spread further, as far as the East is from the West. Happy Birthday 141 NYC!
-Kelly
In 8 months I’ve struggled to have a heart for NY. The streets of Manhattan are rougher and usually have dog shit or bubblegum to welcome your brand new sneakers. Mixtures of strong perfumes, rotting mountains of garbage lining each block, Halal food carts, and the pungent odor of piss are a part of everyday life. Although Portland can have these qualities, it’s funny how the mind distorts our memory when we miss something so much. For a while all I could remember were the 70 degree days and sidewalks that glitter. I couldn’t get past those summer nights when we’d all sit around and either Keith, Sam, Dorje, Vern, and/or Jamie would serenade us with their guitars.
As soon as my feet touched the sidewalk last Saturday and I looked up into that building-lined gray sky, I sensed a familiarity. Light snow fell on me and I found my feet doing that back and forth cold dance that Ken Loyd has mastered so well. It was all coming back to me. My backpack was heavy and my stomach was knotted. I prayed for the spirit to guide us, then pushed off into the chaos. We made many friends and passed out many socks. We laid hands on a very ill older man and prayed over his fragile, dying body. He clutched onto my Dad’s hands and wouldn’t let go. His eyes were the same eyes I had seen a thousand times before, gentle and wise. At the end of the day we even found a $20 bill which covered our costs for the day (thanks to our friends Jeronimo and Rebecca for their donation)
Every second I’d lived up until that moment was preparation for what was to be born that day. All of the waiting and days spent in the dark had to happen. The streets may look, feel, and smell different, but I saw Christ in every eye that I looked into. The very eyes that brought me back to Him when I fell away. So in a way 141 NYC wasn’t born, but rather begotten. It took 3 years and 8 long months to get here, but we’re here and we’re lighting the way. All has been confirmed and my heart has been restored. The roots are still intertwined with family and friends in San Diego, and our Brothers and Sisters in Portland. But now they go deeper and spread further, as far as the East is from the West. Happy Birthday 141 NYC!
-Kelly
Monday, October 1, 2007
The city of lonely hearts
The question still remains for us about ministry. Why New York? Obviously we have been called here, as we work through our struggles and emerge scathed yet victorious. The tests of our faith have been significant and continue to come on a nearly daily basis. Yet I cannot seem to shake the very vague and very real sense of mission, a mission to the city as a whole and not only an isolated demographic or people group.
I was on one of those tour boats the other day with my parents. We were cruising slowly along the East River, admiring the golden towers of downtown and the graceful aches of the bridges on a glorious fall afternoon. Behind me, I heard someone comment, "The city of lonely hearts." Such a true statement; a place so massive and opulent that it doesn't need people. The noise of progress, of money, fame, or any of a variety of forces drowns out the voice of the individual. New York appears to be the city of the victorious, the heroes who get tickertape parades down the canyons of Broadway. But in reality New York is the city of the underdogs. It is the city of those who try and fail, who hide in the shadows, who maintain mere existence from the table-scraps of the empire. They are everywhere, and they are not only dressed in rags or pushing shopping carts. They are also wearing business suits and scrurrying out of the Broad Street station. They are dressed in their best for a Friday night gallery opening on 24th Street. They are selling you lottery tickets and a Budweiser tallboy with a warm grin at the corner bodega. They will tell you their story if you give them the slightest moment, and the cramped N train car at rush hour is seething with stories that are never told. So perhaps we have been called just to be the people that will stop and listen.
I was on one of those tour boats the other day with my parents. We were cruising slowly along the East River, admiring the golden towers of downtown and the graceful aches of the bridges on a glorious fall afternoon. Behind me, I heard someone comment, "The city of lonely hearts." Such a true statement; a place so massive and opulent that it doesn't need people. The noise of progress, of money, fame, or any of a variety of forces drowns out the voice of the individual. New York appears to be the city of the victorious, the heroes who get tickertape parades down the canyons of Broadway. But in reality New York is the city of the underdogs. It is the city of those who try and fail, who hide in the shadows, who maintain mere existence from the table-scraps of the empire. They are everywhere, and they are not only dressed in rags or pushing shopping carts. They are also wearing business suits and scrurrying out of the Broad Street station. They are dressed in their best for a Friday night gallery opening on 24th Street. They are selling you lottery tickets and a Budweiser tallboy with a warm grin at the corner bodega. They will tell you their story if you give them the slightest moment, and the cramped N train car at rush hour is seething with stories that are never told. So perhaps we have been called just to be the people that will stop and listen.
Monday, August 6, 2007
The Heights
181st Street in Washington Heights ( just 3 subway stops away from our neighborhood) is a flowing sea of humanity on a steamy Saturday afternoon. Kelly, Luke and I have set out in search of bargains and some cheap entertainment. We emerge from the subway station at 181st and Fort Washington into the bright summer sun. Walking east, we pass through the quiet, somewhat genteel section west of Broadway (the “gentrified” side of Washington Heights), past organic fruit stands, upscale clothing shops, and a packed Starbucks. Crossing Broadway, we enter into the true heart of the neighborhood on the east side.
The pulse of life beats loud on the Dominican side of the nabe. Mothers drag children through the crowd as sidewalk salesmen negotiate prices of jewelry and watches in animated Spanish. Groups of young men strut past, chatting on cell phones. Cars zoom past as the air fills with booming merengue and reggaeton blasting from tricked-out SUV’s. The smell of empanadas and roast chicken mingles with exhaust and subway fumes. Hordes of kids surround a coco helado cart, begging Mama for some cold, sugary relief from the midday heat.
We walk past blocks of boutiques and bodegas as passers-by nod hello and smile. One shoe store after another advertises their low prices with blaring banners. Kelly stops to peruse the designer knock-off sunglasses at a small stand. “Check it out, five dollars,” smiles the vendor, his hand motioning across his merchandise. She picks out a pair and hands the man a five, and he carefully cuts the tags off with his pocket knife.
Our destination is the Goodwill Thrift Store on 181st and St. Nick’s. Inside, among the crowds of people and deafening beats of cheery Spanish pop tunes, we search for hidden treasures. On the musty racks hang the cast-offs of New York’s more fortunate, recycled here for the benefit of this vibrant neighborhood. In the basement, while Luke digs through piles of toys, I help an old woman with grandmotherly eyes find the right size shoes for her husband. In the process, I find a brand-new pair of Converse Chuck Taylors in my size for only eight dollars.
We return to the street after making our purchases and start to head back west to the A train. After one block, we arrive at a small crowd outside a liquor store. A clever old hustler has set up a street casino on top of an overturned cardboard box – the classic shell game played with three tiny soda-bottle caps. The hustler entices people walking by to try their luck, clutching a handful of dollars. His hands move like lightning, shuffling the caps around and fooling his marks out of their cash. As more people gather, he lets a few win to entice more of them in. We stop to watch a few rounds, then continue up the block.
Suddenly, two uniformed cops push by us quickly in intercept mode. They approach the makeshift casino with shouts in Spanish, but the hustler has already kicked aside his box and disappeared into the crowd. The cops shout questions at those hanging around, but they merely shrug their shoulders and move on. The gap in the human river that was created by the game has sealed up, and the flow continues on uninterrupted. The cops give up on their lost cause and disappear around the corner. Kelly and I exchange grins, our mission for the day fulfilled as usual on the living streets of Upper Manhattan.
The pulse of life beats loud on the Dominican side of the nabe. Mothers drag children through the crowd as sidewalk salesmen negotiate prices of jewelry and watches in animated Spanish. Groups of young men strut past, chatting on cell phones. Cars zoom past as the air fills with booming merengue and reggaeton blasting from tricked-out SUV’s. The smell of empanadas and roast chicken mingles with exhaust and subway fumes. Hordes of kids surround a coco helado cart, begging Mama for some cold, sugary relief from the midday heat.
We walk past blocks of boutiques and bodegas as passers-by nod hello and smile. One shoe store after another advertises their low prices with blaring banners. Kelly stops to peruse the designer knock-off sunglasses at a small stand. “Check it out, five dollars,” smiles the vendor, his hand motioning across his merchandise. She picks out a pair and hands the man a five, and he carefully cuts the tags off with his pocket knife.
Our destination is the Goodwill Thrift Store on 181st and St. Nick’s. Inside, among the crowds of people and deafening beats of cheery Spanish pop tunes, we search for hidden treasures. On the musty racks hang the cast-offs of New York’s more fortunate, recycled here for the benefit of this vibrant neighborhood. In the basement, while Luke digs through piles of toys, I help an old woman with grandmotherly eyes find the right size shoes for her husband. In the process, I find a brand-new pair of Converse Chuck Taylors in my size for only eight dollars.
We return to the street after making our purchases and start to head back west to the A train. After one block, we arrive at a small crowd outside a liquor store. A clever old hustler has set up a street casino on top of an overturned cardboard box – the classic shell game played with three tiny soda-bottle caps. The hustler entices people walking by to try their luck, clutching a handful of dollars. His hands move like lightning, shuffling the caps around and fooling his marks out of their cash. As more people gather, he lets a few win to entice more of them in. We stop to watch a few rounds, then continue up the block.
Suddenly, two uniformed cops push by us quickly in intercept mode. They approach the makeshift casino with shouts in Spanish, but the hustler has already kicked aside his box and disappeared into the crowd. The cops shout questions at those hanging around, but they merely shrug their shoulders and move on. The gap in the human river that was created by the game has sealed up, and the flow continues on uninterrupted. The cops give up on their lost cause and disappear around the corner. Kelly and I exchange grins, our mission for the day fulfilled as usual on the living streets of Upper Manhattan.
Monday, July 16, 2007
The MoMA and the rose
I visited the Museum of Modern Art and was surprised by my reaction. I walked into the massive building with its five levels. I decided to start at the top and work my way down. By the time I reached the fifth floor my eyes were already tearing up. It was like when I first walked into a church and felt God for the first time.
The first piece I saw was a Picasso called Girl Before A Mirror. The next thing I knew, I had tears running down my cheeks. After that it was one emotion to the next. I reached the fourth level and saw my beloved Starry Night by Van Gogh. It came to life with each defined stroke. Lines appeared that I had never seen before on the prints. With every sparkle of the city lights, there was a house unlit and cold. As the stars exploded into the sky, so did his heart onto his bleeding canvas. I dried my face and moved along.
Every painting told me its story and each sculpture which said “Do not touch” extended its arms to be embraced. Next I found the Warhol section and found myself laughing and comforted by his eccentric sense of humor. Through the five levels I found peace in the sorrow and strength from the struggle. I was able to connect my tears to the many people in my life who are battling depression, drug addiction, anxiety, lust, poverty, exhaustion, love, war, longing and loneliness. I thought of the prisons and the projects and the many stories that I’ve heard on the streets of Portland. I felt the oppression of women and the physical pain that we share as I saw the portrait of Frida Kalho hanging on the wall with all of her hair cut off and lying to her side.
In the midst of all these emotions, my mind brought to me a memory which will forever be engraved. It was the image of Ken Loyd, my pastor, teacher and friend, stopping to touch a thorn on a rose bush. Brian, Ken and I were walking to the Crow Bar for our last “meeting” and in mid-sentence he stopped and said, “How beautiful!” I looked over and saw roses and thought, “Yep, another Portland rose,” but he was touching the thorns. They were massive and sharply pointing in every direction. Ken is someone who always finds beauty in the thorn before even noticing the rose. It’s the thorn that allows us to feel.
As for my experience at the museum and in my 27 years, allowing such pain into my life refines me along with the people around me. We carry each others’ burdens and allow tears and makeup to stain our shirts. We must look into the eyes of our homeless and hug a prostitute and ask for nothing in return. We need to be here for our soldiers when they return, and no longer be afraid of talking about death and the people we’ve loved who have passed on. We must find laughter in the drought. Let’s sing and dance when no one else is. Let our joy be contagious, but remember there’s no joy without pain. We cannot shut our eyes because it hurts to look. There is no rose without its thorn.
-Kelly
The first piece I saw was a Picasso called Girl Before A Mirror. The next thing I knew, I had tears running down my cheeks. After that it was one emotion to the next. I reached the fourth level and saw my beloved Starry Night by Van Gogh. It came to life with each defined stroke. Lines appeared that I had never seen before on the prints. With every sparkle of the city lights, there was a house unlit and cold. As the stars exploded into the sky, so did his heart onto his bleeding canvas. I dried my face and moved along.
Every painting told me its story and each sculpture which said “Do not touch” extended its arms to be embraced. Next I found the Warhol section and found myself laughing and comforted by his eccentric sense of humor. Through the five levels I found peace in the sorrow and strength from the struggle. I was able to connect my tears to the many people in my life who are battling depression, drug addiction, anxiety, lust, poverty, exhaustion, love, war, longing and loneliness. I thought of the prisons and the projects and the many stories that I’ve heard on the streets of Portland. I felt the oppression of women and the physical pain that we share as I saw the portrait of Frida Kalho hanging on the wall with all of her hair cut off and lying to her side.
In the midst of all these emotions, my mind brought to me a memory which will forever be engraved. It was the image of Ken Loyd, my pastor, teacher and friend, stopping to touch a thorn on a rose bush. Brian, Ken and I were walking to the Crow Bar for our last “meeting” and in mid-sentence he stopped and said, “How beautiful!” I looked over and saw roses and thought, “Yep, another Portland rose,” but he was touching the thorns. They were massive and sharply pointing in every direction. Ken is someone who always finds beauty in the thorn before even noticing the rose. It’s the thorn that allows us to feel.
As for my experience at the museum and in my 27 years, allowing such pain into my life refines me along with the people around me. We carry each others’ burdens and allow tears and makeup to stain our shirts. We must look into the eyes of our homeless and hug a prostitute and ask for nothing in return. We need to be here for our soldiers when they return, and no longer be afraid of talking about death and the people we’ve loved who have passed on. We must find laughter in the drought. Let’s sing and dance when no one else is. Let our joy be contagious, but remember there’s no joy without pain. We cannot shut our eyes because it hurts to look. There is no rose without its thorn.
-Kelly
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