I’ve concluded that Thursday is my favorite day of the week. I had a conversation with someone last night who felt similarly, and who in fact “beat” me to that disclosure. Our thinking as to why was similar. 

I am a realist decidedly, and happy enough in the “present”; yet, there is a big part of me that is forward-looking and happy about what the future might (or even seems to) hold. Figuratively, Thursdays are the “optimistic unknown”, the wrapping on the gift of the next few days. 

More literally, I like that Thursday precedes Friday, the gateway (gate-day?) to the weekend. The expectations for Thursday  evenings tend to be low, thus making them more fun. Art openings are on Thursdays, as well as happy hours (the ones I attend and tend to enjoy).

I know a number of people who are specifically having a bad day today and a rough time in general. I hope to (and that they also can) continue looking forward and feeling positive about the trajectory of life, and life itself. 

The attribution of poor mental health to mass shootings is a thing of socioeconomic and racial convenience. When people discuss shootings in some cities and neighborhoods it is framed in terms of drugs, gangs, poverty, and incorrigible attitudes. Other times, it’s not really the guy’s fault – it’s due to his faulty wiring. And that’s irrespective of how much planning he did, and what he posted and said before and during the assault. When a guy shoots a cop, nobody excuses it by suggesting that he had a mental issue. Not even a whisper. Ever. 

There are plenty of gangbangers with mental issues (deserving of at least some compassion, but even more meaningful, help); and plenty of people with mental issues who aren’t even thinking of shooting anybody. And sometimes.. people who kill other people.. are just bad people.. Almost all the time, in fact. 

None of this even begins to address the issue of an inept, complacent, and even complicit Congress. Blood on your lazy, do-nothing-hands. Cowards all. Sacrificing other peoples’ children at every turn. 

 
There are plenty of gangbangers with mental issues (deserving of at least some compassion, but even more meaningful, help); and plenty of people with mental issues who aren’t even thinking of shooting anybody. And sometimes.. people who kill other people.. are just bad people.. Almost all the time, in fact. 
And that doesn’t even begin to address the issue of an inept, complacent, and even complicit Congress. Blood on your lazy, do-nothing-hands. Cowards all. Sacrificing other peoples’ kids at every turn. 

This is an article from today’s Wall Street Journal. I found this to be especially interesting given that I was a part of my university’s debate team and can relate to the prep and the nerves, the rules and rewards of debate. 

“NAPANOCH, N.Y.—On one side of the stage at a maximum-security prison here sat three men incarcerated for violent crimes.

On the other were three undergraduates from Harvard College.

After an hour of fast-moving debate on Friday, the judges rendered their verdict.

The inmates won.

The audience burst into applause. That included about 75 of the prisoners’ fellow students at the Bard Prison Initiative, which offers a rigorous college experience to men at Eastern New York Correctional Facility, in the Catskills.

The debaters on both sides aimed to highlight the academic power of a program, part of Bard College in Annandale-on-Hudson, N.Y., that seeks to give a second chance to inmates hoping to build a better life.

Ironically, the inmates had to promote an argument with which they fiercely disagreed. Resolved: “Public schools in the United States should have the ability to deny enrollment to undocumented students.”

Carlos Polanco, a 31-year-old from Queens in prison for manslaughter, said after the debate that he would never want to bar a child from school and he felt forever grateful he could pursue a Bard diploma. “We have been graced with opportunity,” he said. “They make us believe in ourselves.”

Judge Mary Nugent, leading a veteran panel, said the Bard team made a strong case that the schools attended by many undocumented children were failing so badly that students were simply being warehoused. The team proposed that if “dropout factories” with overcrowded classrooms and insufficient funding could deny these children admission, then nonprofits and wealthier schools would step in and teach them better.

Ms. Nugent said the Harvard College Debating Union didn’t respond to parts of that argument, though both sides did an excellent job.

The Harvard team members said they were impressed by the prisoners’ preparation and unexpected line of argument. “They caught us off guard,” said Anais Carell, a 20-year-old junior from Chicago.

The prison team had its first debate in spring 2014, beating the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, N.Y. Then, it won against a nationally ranked team from the University of Vermont, and in April lost a rematch against West Point.

Preparing has its challenges. Inmates can’t use the Internet for research. The prison administration must approve requests for books and articles, which can take weeks.

In the morning before the debate, team members talked of nerves and their hope that competing against Harvard—even if they lost—would inspire other inmates to pursue educations.

“If we win, it’s going to make a lot of people question what goes on in here,” said Alex Hall, a 31-year-old from Manhattan convicted of manslaughter. “We might not be as naturally rhetorically gifted, but we work really hard.”

Ms. Nugent said it might seem tempting to favor the prisoners’ team, but the three judges have to justify their votes to each other based on specific rules and standards.

“We’re all human,” she said. “I don’t think we can ever judge devoid of context or where we are, but the idea they would win out of sympathy is playing into pretty misguided ideas about inmates. Their academic ability is impressive.”

The Bard Prison Initiative, begun in 2001, aims to give liberal-arts educations to talented, motivated inmates. Program officials say about 10 inmates apply for every spot, through written essays and interviews.

There is no tuition. The initiative’s roughly $2.5 million annual budget comes from private donors and includes money it spends helping other programs follow its model in nine other states.

Last year Gov. Andrew Cuomo, a Democrat, proposed state grants for college classes for inmates, saying that helping them become productive taxpayers would save money long-term. He dropped the plan after attacks from Republican politicians who argued that many law-abiding families struggled to afford college and shouldn’t have pay for convicted criminals to get degrees

The Bard program’s leaders say that out of more than 300 alumni who earned degrees while in custody, less than 2% returned to prison within three years, the standard time frame for measuring recidivism.

In New York state as a whole, by contrast, about 40% of ex-offenders end up back in prison, mostly because of to parole violations, according to the New York Department of Corrections and Community Supervision.”

I’m currently in the Bahamas enjoying some peace, quiet, food, and (allegedly) drinks. There’s a hurricane wandering around in the southern islands wreaking havoc. 

I hope that I get to go swimming in the choppy waters before I leave. Swimming in rough waters AFTER a hurricane is one of the most exhilarating experiences I’ve ever had. And the day is normally beautiful and clear given that the system takes clouds and other bad weather with it when it goes. Cleaning up after a hurricane almost always happens on the most beautiful of days. 

The bad news is that I’ll be heading back to NYC probably in time for the lousy weather. BUT, (update) I’ve now moved to within a ten minute walk from work which is helpful on many counts. I also haven’t been on the subway since last Sunday and don’t know when I will be again for sure. That by itself is like a vacation. 

This week will bring an end to a chapter that’s been drawing to a close these last few months. There have been some bitter sweet goodbyes. Some simply bitter. Some simply sweet. 

Among them was the end to my first job in New York, in favor of another that’s way more my speed, my style, and where I feel truly challenged. I still feel valued, but it’s totally different due to the more high profile nature  of the team and role and the higher stakes. 

I am moving out of my first apartment in New York into my first one in the city this upcoming weekend. It’s the end of a first, yet the beginning (I’m allowed to double dip this time;). I’m excited to be in the mix socially and in terms of energy, and could hardly be more centrally located at all – one would be hard pressed to find anywhere in the city where one could as quickly get to anywhere else in the city. It’s also a ten minute walk to work for me which is even better than I could have ever reasonably imagined. 

How I got the apartment is actually a testament to bravery, risk taking, aggression, blah, blah, blah.. all that stuff. I’ll just let you be the judge – here’s what happened: Two Friday’s (roughly ten days) ago, I flipped open an apartment hunting app on my phone and saw an apartment that seemed to good to be true. The price was great. The location was great. The pics looked great. The open house was for Saturday September 12. I decided to walk by the place when I went out for lunch just to get a feel for whether it was worth coming back down for it the next day. 

The door to the building was open, but there was just a staircase and no one to talk to. I was uncomfortable just walking in, so I turned to leave. Then I decided not to. I walked inside. Just in the door, before the stairs was a plaque with the name and contact of the building management company. I called it, but “Barbara” wasn’t at her desk. It was lunchtime, but she may have been busy otherwise. I decided to walk up the stairs. At the top was a door with the respective apartment buzzers. I also saw taped to the door the name and number of the building manager. I called and he picked up. I told him why I was there and explained that I understood if it wasn’t in his purview, but I asked if I could see the apartment anyway. He told me that he was actually in the apartment at that very moment with the real estate agent responsible for showing it. They buzzed me in. 

That same afternoon, within two hours I had submitted the application with the exception of the reference letter and proof of employment – though the bank statements clearly showed routine income from my employer. I went back the next day to the open house and saw people streaming in and out, all highly interested. I stood watch and listened as the agent answered questions encouraging several of the others to apply. I reserve judgement on that for several reasons, but naturally I wasn’t thrilled. It added to the suspense. I knew that I was the first applicant, but whether they would honor that and whether I’d be the best candidate in their eyes was another matter. NYC apartment hunting is super competitive. 

Long story short, I went in and signed last Thursday. I negotiated a sanding and refinishing of the hardwood flooring, a coat of fresh paint had already been put on, and I locked in the rate for two years versus the one that was offered initially, and as is standard. I’m furniture shopping these days and even looking at rugs. Yup. Rugs. And I’m enjoying it. How about that?

I’m launching a new chapter. I’m paying homage to the old and to the people who held me down (read: picked me up) when things were bumpier, and slower, and seemingly less certain. You know who you are and I appreciate you.. 

I just got off the train where at one of the final stops a “mother” got on with a stroller and a seven year old. I know that the girl was seven because it came up as a part of the mother’s rant.

The girl wet herself on the train, and if you’ve ever witnessed a spill on the train, there is hardly anything more of a taunt than a liquid ebbing and flowing with the starts and stops of the train and changes of pace, right in front of the culprit. It is a reminder that will simply not go away. I understand the mother’s embarrassment. And the child’s.

Yet, cursing at the kid wasn’t helpful and I am not sure at which point precisely the child started to wail – when she realized that she had wet herself and lost control, or if the mother had followed through on one of her many loud and menacing f-bomb laden threats to hit the child about the face. After the third threat (accompanied by the wail) and before I realized that urine was see-sawing centimeters from my orange (salmon?) converse, I turned around to discover the actors in this tragedy. I was incensed. On the train were roughly 80 people whose attentions were mostly captured by the ruckus. 

I clearly and firmly told the mother to stop yelling at the child and said that children should be given the flexibility to make mistakes. This was not precisely my word choice, as I don’t precisely recall my choice of words. My firmness and annoyance though were unmistakable. I wanted to suggest that this is one major reason that girls of 14 or 15 come home pregnant because they are out “there” looking for love that should be found at home. I refrained. She suggested (loudly) that I mind my own business. I told her that she made it my business when she made me listen to her abuse her ward. 
She shut up, and so did I, but I kind of wish she hadn’t because I had a lot more to say, and I really felt like belting it. I really wanted to press her into thinking about any mistakes she’s made since being seven – I’d have pointed more explicitly to the mistake she was making right then. I permitted my response to stay balanced and pithy, but a diatribe was definitely ready to come spilling forth, ebbing and flowing all over whomever was close enough to be sprayed with it. And this isn’t the first time I’ve interjected on behalf of children in similar situations. It’s heartbreaking and bothersome each time. 

I always hope that I am not making things worse for the children, but my conscience won’t permit silence and my voice will hopefully remind parents to love and parent and not victimize the people they’re intended to protect. I’m grateful for my parents. 

No one on the train spoke up in defense of the child, but one woman gave me a thumbs up after the fact and another came up to me one stop later to thank me for “doing what I had to do”, but where was their voice when the innocent was being hurt? Why sneak me a flash of your wrinkled thumb, and whispered voice?

I don’t want your thumbs or you congratulations. I already know that what I’m doing is the right thing. Everyone knows it. So, do it too. Take a stand, don’t be afraid, don’t be ashamed. Some have said to me “be careful with that”, and I say “I’ll accept any consequences for doing the right thing and for doing what I believe”. I’m not special. This is only a reminder. Use your voices. Let your good hearts sing. I am not afraid. 

Free dark babies 

From young vagina prisons,

Into a dark world,

An old system.

Newly conceived jails await,

Young and old. 

Forever pregnant. 

I, like many other people, have been to very nice (and exceedingly/unjustifiably? expensive) restaurants where they “bestowed” upon me the smallest portions imagineable, almost baby sized. I recall on one occasion being presented with ice cream that looked like a hollowed out scoop taken by teaspoon. The spoon actually provides reminded me of something small enough to be used in a surgery. The implication: savor this. 

Years ago when I was in Las Vegas, before moving to NYC and experiencing the “Guggenheim proper”, I visited the museum’s stepchild there. The first two rooms were filled with stuff I disliked. I couldn’t wait to see the rest of it. As moved through the second room, I saw daylight and upon asking the security guards if this “was it?!” It was suggested that I retrace my steps really spend time with the paintings. Condescending assumptions notwithstanding, the implication was: savor this. 

I savor ideas. I savor words. The worst time to savor words is when I have a ton to read for work. That would be to scarf down the crumb-encrusted crumbs, or to sprint through the museum, even if we dislike the pieces. It’s also not a good time to blog per se, but words inspire and the gift of inspiration should never be (fully) ignored (and certainly not often). I’ve been doing both too frequently..

Today I spent another great day escorting my thoughts around the museum – this time the MoMA. Being alone with art and my thoughts is an enjoyable experience and one done too infrequently for my taste. 

The best exhibit by far in my opinion was about Jacob Lawrence, “One Way Ticket”. Besides the art, music and history, ten poets were asked to share their thoughts and feelings after being inspired by the pieces. Links to two of my favorites are included below:

Rita Dove – “Say Grace”

Tyehimba Jess – “Another Man Done”

Series Overview