Ashlee Ralph is sixteen and a Junior at LaGuardia High School near Lincoln Center. It used to be called High School for the Performing Arts and is the school featured in Fame and one of my favorite coming of age films, Last Dance
Ashlee’s parents, Angie and James, are two of my favorite people. Despite their name they’re very Italiancentric, and. Angie’s mom is my mom-replacement of choice; Nanny or Sweet Marie, calls Lucia her youngest daughter as she’s known Lucia since Lucia was four, and they lived in the same apartment complex in de Bronx.
Can’t talk about them without mentioning Katie who was born on my birthday almost 20 and a half years ago; and is Lucia’s Goddaughter. Katie will be the center of her own post soon, because she rules! Some people think literally. Katie’s so much like me it would be scary if we weren’t so great.
Ashlee has three pieces in LaGuardia’s biannual art show; but did she come to her own show? No, she was hanging with her homie friends who look as if they belong in any hood; yet somehow finding studying maths and sciences that I can’t even apply names to, fun.
Lucia and I arrived late to the show. We didn’t know the exact street and thought, somewhat stupidly, that a cab driver would. We were taken for a ride despite our protests, felt utterly un-New York, and did learn the true meaning of the expression, “taken for a ride.”
As Angie’s one of nine kids, it took me awhile to learn about everybody, but Frank, her brother-in-law has always stood out. He’s Ashlee’s Godfather, and came to the exhibit.
Angie met us at the entrance to LaGuardia, after we greeted each other, she said:
“There’s a painting of a body falling from a building. Frank thinks it’s about the Towers.”
Frank, a now retired k-9 cop who was stationed at The Trade Center. He wasn’t scheduled to begin work for hours and had just dropped his wife off at work when he saw smoke from the distance. Before the dispatcher called him, before he heard anything on the radio, he knew, put his light on and sped to the city.
Frank’s and his dog worked endlessly looking first for survivors, then….
We looked at Ashlee’s pieces; one was of a painting that was so bold and unique I can’t begin to describe it, but I loved it. Two more were studies of people. Lucia and I could tell without being told which were Ashlee’s. Her people seem to fly off the page; they have so much life to them.
Then we saw the picture Angie had been talking about: Two towers and one person who was falling arms down, aiming at the unseen concrete. Yes it sure was a 9/11 painting. The students at La Guardia; at Little Luce, my goth goddess’s high school nearby, at all the high schools in New York,they’re going to be studied and talked about their entire lives as they do live in the shadow of no towers, to use Art Spiegelman’s book name.
They were just old enough to understand; and young enough to be tormented. Kids are resilent; they picked up and went on as we all did. But they were cheated of an innonce we Americans claim to be our birthright. I remember how discombulated I was at ten to fifteen; I can’t pretend to understand the extra layer that was added to their hormonal hell.
James and Frank were waiting for us downstairs. Lucia and I talked about the cab ride to the school, and Frank and I began talking about cab rides from hell. Frank said that there are about 20 places every cab driver should know.
Once when I lived on the East Side, I asked a cab driver to take me to the Empire State Building; the cab was on Fifth Avenue which goes downtown. The cab driver pretended not to hear me as he took a street going east so that we would go to Madison Avenue which goes the wrong way.
Actually he said that it was his first day and he spoke no English. But he said that in perfect English. When I told that to Frank, his eyes looked even sadder and older than they had looked a minute before:
“Yep, one of the 20 places.”
Shit, I thought, how could I be so unfeeling? How could I forget even for a second what he had lived through?
“Right, eighteen others still standing.”
I don’t know how to describe the look we gave each other; it’s a look that New Yorkers have perfected in the past four years. One that combines melancholy, sadness, wistfullness and solidarity. Nobody talks about 9/11, the day, often. It’s in our blood, along with the smoke that did travel uptown to my apartment.
9/11 was something that happened; at times it feels unreal as if we had all been characters in a made for TV movie; other times it’s forgotten because life really does go on. But there are times, and Saturday night was one of them when it becomes fresh all over again.
Frank believes that the painting was unhealthy; that too much expressing or too much talking is going to keep the 9/11 kids from getting over it. I dont know Frank well, but I have known him much of my life. He was always a joyful person with smiling eyes; his eyes turn down now, even his smile seemed sad. Looking at the painting must have hurt him something fierce.
Then we talked about the live models the kids drew from, and a story that Nanny had told us the night before at Lucia’s birthday party. She used to work nights, and would take the subway home at eleven. One night a tall muscular Black man had come on the subway dressed only in a shirt. Everybody pretended not to look, but one woman screamed out:
“I thought his wee-wee would be white.”
That’s New York: From 9/11 to wee-wee’s in one second flat. Damn I love this city. Love it, yet dream of the day I can walk away. Doesn’t make sense; nothing does anymore.
“
The art was incredible, Gallery worthy for sure.
Amazing how art can stimulate such powerful feelings so universally. A language all it’s own.
I understand why Frank would feel that way, but in our society where so much is forgotten so quickly, I think it’s good for us to have moving memorials, even though the possibility that the artist is unhealthily obsessing or traumatized is disturbing.
That reminds me of a story involving my young cousin.
Her family had taken her to visit the north of England – and (unbelievably) the young girl had never seen any black people.
They were sat in a pub, and a black guy walked in – the little girl shouts “MUMMY! THAT MAN’S BLACK!”…
Luckily, the guy cracked a beaming smile at her 🙂
awe… pia that was great. That’s all I have to say.
You know, this post made me realize something. Your posts are often themselves a written form of abstract expression. You have a unique way of expressing yourself, much like a great artist.
Beautiful and very poetic post. It felt like pieces of an intricate patchwork that all came together at the end and I could see a much larger, intricate picture, too complicated to even attempt to explain.. yet you somehow did…
I think, when it come to what Frank said about expression, that it depends what side of a story or an event we are on. His side is too intense and surreal for any to understand or imagine…. what he must have seen… ad the other sense to the mix and… oof!
hm. I’ve never set a trend in my life (well, except that everybody I paddle with bought an Optio Pentax WP within months after I started having more fun with mine…) but it seems like we need to add something to the rotfl/lol/imho/fwiw canon. Something like –
rbalfw (reading but at loss for words) – or pbwf – present but words fail (pbs would work too, present but silent) or just “***” – indicating I’m here, loved the post, but not coming up with anything brilliant to say.
Long story short…
***
I see that my description of your site summed up as “poetic prose” was right. It’s what you don’t say which is as powerful as that which you do. The fact that some things barely make sense just add interest for the reader, who tasks himself to put pieces together and extracts a sort of chain of consciousness.
I’ve been to NYC for two very brief (less than 24 hour) periods. I loved and hated the city at the same time.
I tried to write a bit of a poetic post once, didn’t try again.
-Fruey