The History of the High Line

Originally published in Chelsea News/Our Town/West Side Spirit

The High Line is certainly the most popular attraction in west Chelsea today, attracting 5 million visitors annually. Most local residents know that the High Line itself was originally a freight railroad. But its history goes back well before the elevated structure was even constructed. Where tourists now walk, cowboys once rode on horseback.
In the 1840s, the Hudson River Railroad, the ancestor of today’s MetroNorth Hudson Line, built a street-level railroad with tracks on 10th and 11th avenues. After the line was merged into the New York Central in 1869, most passenger trains were re-routed into Grand Central. A local train known as the “Dolly Varden” provided passenger service to the West Side until around 1930, but in the main, the route became a freight line.
But even in horse-and-carriage days, operating a street-level railroad was dangerous. In 1852, a law was passed stating that a mounted “cowboy” had to ride in front of the trains to alert pedestrians and vehicles. That still wasn’t enough. According to the rail fan website www.kinglyheirs.com, in 1908, the city’s Bureau of Municipal Research reported that since 1852, the trains had killed 436 people. Both 10th and 11th avenues became known as “Death Avenue.”
Protests were mounted, plans were made, but it wasn’t until 1929 that the city agreed to build the High Line to replace the street-level freight tracks below 34th Street (the northern portion of the former freight line is now used by Amtrak trains heading to Albany and Buffalo). A brochure from 1934, celebrating the New York Central’s opening of the High Line, describes the original terminal on Spring Street, which had eight tracks and 14 elevators, and gives the names of the freight customers (such as Nabisco, whose building is now the Chelsea Market).
Perhaps the most innovative feature of the High Line was the fact that it went right through many of the buildings that it served, off-loading goods inside these openings. One of these openings can still be seen at the former Bell Laboratories building between Bank and Bethune streets, now the Westbeth residential complex. Some street-level rail traffic persisted for years, possibly to serve customers that the High Line couldn’t access. The last street train ran in 1941, according to the New York Times, and that trip’s “cowboy,” George Hayden, wore a 10-gallon hat to celebrate.
 The High Line prospered for many years, serving the Meatpacking and Printing districts. But beginning in the 1950s, truck traffic began to eat into its volume. The freight terminal and the line south of Bank Street in Greenwich Village were abandoned in the 1960s. When the line was taken over by Conrail, which was created by the government to run bankrupt freight lines, the writing was on the wall. The last train, which carried three cars of frozen turkeys, ran in 1982.
In 1984, rail fan Peter Obltetz, described by the Times as an “eccentric neighborhood visionary,” bought the line for $10, but after owners of businesses underneath the structure, who favored demolition, mobilized against him, the federal government reversed the sale. In 1991, the Times reported, another section of the line, between Bank and Gansevoort streets, was sold for real estate development. Meanwhile, the line continued to deteriorate, attracting vandals, prostitutes and arsonists.
In 1999, two Chelsea residents, Joshua David and Robert Hammond, had the idea of making the unused structure into an elevated park and formed Friends of the High Line. Around 2001, this writer attended a debate at a local political club between the Friends, who displayed their plans for the park, and the Chelsea Property Owners Group, who complained of debris falling from the line and a lack of drainage that meant that “when it rained, it poured.”
Then-Mayor Rudy Giuliani, like the property owners, wanted the line demolished, but the Friends had the advantage of celebrity. A 2004 fundraiser covered by the Times was headlined by Kevin Bacon, Kyra Sedgwick and Edward Albee, among others. In 2005, the Bloomberg administration assumed control of the former rail line, and ground was broken in 2006. The High Line Park opened in sections, in 2009, 2011 and 2014.
Today, on the High Line, visitors can experience t’ai chi, walking tours, meditation, comedy, music, gardening and even boxing. But there’s two things they won’t see. The first is a freight locomotive—and the second is a cowboy.

Whatever Happened to Student Power?

From Tikkun Magazine

What will the high school of the future be like? Different. It will surely be freer; students will be more independent. High school students of today haven’t reached any peak of possible maturity. The students of tomorrow will be more mature than we are. Just as administrations have already become more liberal about dress codes, so tomorrow they will become more liberal about studies. And `formal education’ will become less formal.

These words from the anthology “Our Time Is Now,” circa 1970, edited by John Birmingham, call attention to a part of history that is all but forgotten: the student power movement in American high schools in the late 1960s and early 1970s. The stereotype is that all the action as far as demonstrations were concerned took place in the universities, and that if it did spread to high schools, those younger students were copying their elders. Another stereotype is that students were mainly protesting the “big” issues, like civil rights and the war in Vietnam.

Maybe that’s how the protest era started, but once it did, students, especially high school students, were also seeking reform of their schools, demanding a bigger voice for students in how these schools were run. In my own high school, circa 1969 or 1970, a group of radical students issued a list of “10 demands.” The only two I remember – the right to go out for lunch and the right to have soda machines in the schools – seem laughable today.

But these demands, and others like them across the country, were part of a movement that was called “student power.” This movement is barely remembered today and has very little counterpart in today’s high schools.

The 1960s was an age of protest, and many young people began to look at themselves as a vanguard of change. Inevitably, kids began to make connections between the hierarchical nature of American society and that of their high schools. Faculty and administrators usually had the right to overrule student governments and censor student newspapers, unilaterally impose behavior and dress codes on the students and, in some cases, inspect students’ lockers without permission. As a student at the Bronx High School of Science during that era, even during a “free” period, I couldn’t go from the study hall to the library without showing my program card.

An essay by Mike Fox, then a student at John Bowne High in Flushing, N.Y., that was first printed in an underground newspaper and then anthologized in “Our Time Is Now,” compared life in the school to his experiences working on a farm during the summer. “The farmer doesn’t give a damn about his cows,” Fox wrote.

“The only time farmer X—- (presumably the school principal) cases about us is when it involves out production. We produce marks and grades instead of milk. We are also bred for further production outside of Bowne. When a farmer notices that a cow isn’t producing well enough, he calls her out and sells her to the slaughter house. In the same way, we are called out after Bowne, into college, or remain with the herd or into the army to be slaughtered.”

As we’ve mentioned, many of these mini-revolts were at least partially instigated by things that we might consider trivial today, but at the time were considered important parts of young people’s identity. In Young Activists: American High School Students in the Age of Protest by Gale Graham, Graham mentions how some school districts forbade long hair and facial hair not only for male students, but also for male teachers. She quotes Geoff Burkman, who was a student at a Cincinnati high school in the late ’60s, as saying, “We pushed things as far to the limits as we could …. For instance, if the code said no sideburns below the bottom of the ear,
then we all made sure we grew our sideburns right down to that line.” Pants for girls were
another battleground. Graham recounts how female students at Sheepshead Bay High School in Brooklyn organized, risked being sent home, and called for days when they all wore pants to school.

In time, the rebellious mood spread even to schools where students weren’t really political. Jean Schaffer, who taught in Boston and New York City schools for thirty years, in the late ’60s was teaching at East Boston High School, which served a conservative, working-class neighborhood. Toward the end of the year, the freshmen, sophomores and juniors were required to stay in their home-room classes for several days so they wouldn’t interfere with the seniors’ rehearsals for graduation. One student, says Schaffer, started to loudly object, and the others joined in. Schaffer encouraged them to write down their dissatisfactions. They soon turned their writings into an underground newspaper, with Schaffer as advisor, which they distributed off-campus because of school rules.

As Graham points out, many of the gains students made during this era were the result of lawsuits and court decisions, often involving the American Civil Liberties Union and its state affiliates. The ACLU backed the Tinker vs. Des Moines case, in which students successfully sought the right to wear black armbands to mourn the dead in Vietnam, and the Goss vs. Lopez case, in which students in Cleveland who were punished with suspensions won the right to due process. In 1968, the organization issued a Guide to Student Rights for young people.

What happened to student power? Just like the overall protest movement, it may have been a victim of Kent State, the recession of the 1970s, the increasing competition to get into colleges, the higher cost of college education and resultant student debt, the conservatism of the Reagan era or all of the above. Many of the situations that the high school rebels of the ’60s objected to, like cops in the school and dress codes, are still in place.

Frank M., who taught high school studies in Suffolk County, N.Y., from 1999 to 2013, says that
at his school, there was little censorship of the student newspaper. Students had a voice when
issues like dress codes or electives were being discussed, but the school board had the last word. Told about the “60s students” demands that current issues be discussed in the classroom, he said, “They are discussed in some classes, but overall, there are other outlets for that, like the Model U.N. Club.” Overall, he said, students who view themselves as a revolutionary force or part of a vanguard are “very few and far between.”

Julia Judge, who graduated from Onteora High School in Woodstock, N.Y., in 2011, recalls, “From what I understand, everything publicly organized at my school had to be approved by a higher up, either a teacher or a principal or someone otherwise employed by the school.” She does remember a student petition for a “senior lounge” in the basement of the school, but that was shot down by the administration. “A lot of the small changes that occurred over the years, dress code included, seemed to be more because of pressure from parents than students.”

Jean Schaffer, who moved from Boston to New York City in the ’70s and taught there, remember that in the ’90s, many students in her school became very active in a “Stop the Violence” club, but the impetus for the club came from the principal, not the students themselves.

Will a new student power movement emerge? In today’s increasingly competitive world, students often look on high school as a mere way station to college and career. In these circumstances, it doesn’t seem likely. Still, the student power movement touched untold thousands of lives and, in this way, made a lasting contribution to society.

–

Why Are the Republicans Ignoring Bernie Sanders?

Originally published in "Tikkun" online blog

Why are the Republicans seemingly ignoring Vermont Sen. Bernie Sanders and his campaign for the Democratic nomination for president?

As an admitted socialist who believes in universal health care, requiring companies to provide maternity leave, sick leave and vacation time; taxing financial transactions, breaking up big banks and expanding Social Security benefits, Sanders seems like the perfect target for the almost-completely-right wing Republican Party.

Despite all that, Republicans don’t seem particularly interested in taking the bait.It seems logical that given the upsurge in Sanders’ support, the Republicans would view him as a serious threat and act accordingly. In August, Sanders drew a record-breaking 27,000 people in Los Angeles and 28,000 people in Portland, Oregon — the largest turnout for any 2016 presidential candidate up to that time. A Politco poll in July of New Hampshire Democratic voters showed 47 percent favoring Hillary Clinton, but Sanders gaining on her with 34 percent.

During the Fox News-sponsored GOP candidates’ debates in early August, which featured 17 candidates, I didn’t notice any mention of Sanders at all. It was all Hillary, Hillary, Hillary as the anti-Republican- as the candidate to beat.

If you search for Hillary Clinton on the Republican National Committee site, 577 entries show up. You’ll also find 579 entries for Joe Biden. If you search for Bernie Sanders, you’ll find a mere 10. Some of these mention him only in passing and two repeat criticisms he’s made of Hillary.

Only one, “The 5 Flavors of Bernie Sanders,” by Raffi Williams, gives us the type of attack we’d expect from the Republican Party. Playing on the fact that Sanders and the ice cream entrepreneurs Ben and Jerry both hail from Vermont, Williams, accompanied by drawings of ice cream cones, names these flavors: “Taxes and Cream, “Socialist Swirl” (with a “Taste of Europe”), ” “Nutty Professor,” “Taxpayer Dough” and “Bureaucratic Bonanza.”

Searching the web for statements from state Republican parties, we don’t find much either. When Sanders visited Wisconsin, the local GOP there put up a billboard that didn’t really address Bernie specifically, but just characterized Hillary Clinton and her as “Left and Lefter—Yesterday’s Candidates, Extreme Policies.” Hillary and Bernie’s heads were superimposed on the bodies of the two actors from “Dumb and Dumber.”

The most obvious answer about why the Republicans are virtually ignoring Bernie Sanders is that Hillary is still leading in the polls, and they expect her to be the nominee (and if not her, then Joe Biden). But there may be other answers. I asked the question to two people, one a Republican activist and professor from Brooklyn, the other a respected political consultant, also from New York, who has advised countless political campaigns.

Bob Capano, a former aide to then-Congressman Vito Fossella, political science instructor at the City University of New York, and former Republican City Council candidate, agreed with the conventional wisdom: “Republicans just don’t believe Bernie Sanders will be the Democratic nominee. If Hillary Clinton continues to falter, another Democrat with the real ability to win the general election will jump in the Democratic primary. Specifically, Vice President Joe Biden.” Capano characterized Sanders as a socialist who would only appeal to the “far left” of the Democratic Party. He does seem to be on the mark about Biden, although, as a left-liberal Democrat, I would disagree with most of Capano's interpretation.

George Arzt, president of George Arzt Communications- a public relations firm that has represented a number of high-profile Democrats in their campaigns for office- has an interesting interpretation. “It’s difficult for the Republicans to `run against’ Bernie Sanders,” he says, “since Bernie Sanders is mainly in the race to run against Hillary Clinton. For the Republicans, it’s better to run against Hillary Clinton, especially for fundraising purposes—and they’re looking for money right now.”

In other words, nothing gets the Republican base more agitated and willing to donate than the mention of Hillary, one of their main targets for many years.

There’s a lot of truth to Arzt’s statement, but I believe there’s more to it than that. The Vermont Republican Party may have hit a nerve in its statement in response to Sanders’ entry into the race:

“For many years here in Vermont — the entire time Senator Sanders has been in public life — costs have been rising far faster than incomes.  The gap between the rich and the poor has been expanding faster here than in most places.  The working class has been getting smaller.  And we lose a higher percentage of young, talented residents every year to the appeal of hope and opportunity elsewhere than any other state in the Nation.”

Wait a minute- the “gap between the rich and the poor”? The “working class”? These are phrases that are straight out of Bernie’s playbook. In fact, they were not part of most DEMOCRATIC PARTY candidates’ rhetoric until two or three years ago. It sounds like the Vermont Republicans, in this very atypical statement for the GOP, are trying to “head Bernie off at the pass.”

It seems that as long as GOP leaders attack Hillary, they’re on familiar ground. The issues they associate with her, namely gay marriage, abortion, and Benghazi, are familiar to everyone and can be used to whip up support among their base. Bernie, however, concentrates on economic issues. The Republicans know that’s where they’re most vulnerable.

If, even when responding to some of Sanders’ positions on income inequality, they bring up these issues, Republicans might upset their donors, most of whom favor the unsustainable status quo. In my opinion, that’s one very important reason that the Republican Party can’t afford to focus too much attention on Bernie Sanders, no matter how popular he becomes.

On the Road Again

By Raanan Geberer

It was an ordinary day at the office of the Section 8 Leased Housing Bronx Team No. 2 at the New York Housing Authority’s Central Office. Today was one of the two days a week Rob Bergman went out on apartment inspections. First he’d have to wait for his partner, Manuel Enriquez. He opened his copy of the Daily News and started reading. More on the Iran hostage crisis, another demonstration against Mayor Koch, speculation about who President-elect Reagan would appoint to his cabinet—nothing new.

“Hey, Rob,” said Mike Gerson, a pudgy, balding fellow management assistant from Queens Team No. 1. “You know this one, babe? `My own true love..’” he began singing a horribly out-of-tune version of the Duprees’ 1962 hit. Since he’d learned that Rob was into oldies, Mike kept quizzing Rob with his renditions of ‘50s and early ‘60s songs.

“Hey, you wanna go to the next Ralph Nader show at the Garden?” “Maybe,” Rob answered. “I’ll let you know.” Mike was the problem child of the Section 8 office. While all the assistants were expected to do eight reports a day, Mike could barely manage three. At age 40, Mike still lived with his parents, and his only real interests were oldies, betting on sports and betting at the racetrack. He was now on probation—Rob hoped he made it.

Behind Rob, Rick, the unit’s token hippie, was taking to Lou, who had walked over from the Manhattan unit. “This summer, I’m going to be going back to The Farm for a few weeks. I try to get there every year.”

“A farm?”

“No, THE Farm. It’s a giant commune in Tennessee, man. You live on the land. It’s nice to get back to the land, man…..” And across from Rick, Jolene, a middle-aged black  woman, was talking to someone on the phone about her latest cruise-ship vacation.

From across the room, Rob saw Mr. O’Leary, the team manager, walk in his direction. “Ah, Rob!” he said. “The man who can do everything! Annual reports, apartment inspections, transfer requests, move-ins, move-outs, you name them, he can do them. Listen, Rob, can I ask you for a favor?”

“Sure! What?”

“I know it’s not your day to do interviews, but one of the housing assistants at Bronx Team No 1 isn’t here, and there’s this tenant waiting. I’ll give you her folder. I heard from Manuel—he’ll be a little late—so there’ll be plenty of time, provided it’s a short interview. Here’s the folder.”

Rob sighed. “OK!” After a few seconds, a buxom, heavy-set woman in her late 20s or early 30s wearing a white blouse and dark skirt came to his desk and sat down. Rob looked at the folder. Irina? Hmm. A Russian. The notes in the folder told him that she was a substitute teacher but also a masseuse.

The conversation went fairly quickly. She felt her studio apartment was too cramped, and she wanted a voucher for a two-bedroom apartment, where she could use the other room as an office. The case was fairly cut-and-dried: Since she was only one person, she was only entitled to a studio or one-bedroom.

“You sure?” she said. “If you give me a transfer, I can give you a special massage.”

Rob got the point, but shook his head and said no. As she left, he reflected that this would be a great story to tell the guys at home.

Mr. O’Leary approached Rob’s desk. “Manuel’s here. He’s waiting for you in the garage. Better go downstairs so you can get a jump on those apartment inspections.

” * *

Rob and Manuel were speeding up the Sheridan Expressway with Manuel at the wheel. Manuel was a short, stocky Puerto Rican guy who wore an Army jacket. At 34, he was six years older than Rob. The two of them had seven inspections today. The Section 8 program’s inspections, Rob reflected, were the easiest ones known to mankind.  The assistants didn’t have to inspect the condition of the apartments or anything—they just had to verify that the apartment had the same number of rooms as the record stated and that the person whose name was on the lease was still living there. There was another funny thing about Section 8, Rob reflected. You would think that as a government subsidy program, the main people it helped would be the very poor, but instead, the clients included a lot of immigrants, retirees, single parents who had jobs, people who worked part-time….

“So, I was telling you about my son?” Manuel asked, interrupting Rob’s thoughts. “I was changing his diaper, and he pissed in my face! Yeah, I knew it would happen sooner or later. I got christened!” Manuel smiled.

“You get angry?” Rob asked.

“Naah,” said Manuel, “He don’t know what he’s doing!” Rob was sometimes jealous of Manuel because he had a wife and a family. ”Hey—what’s the first address.”

“The one on Webster Avenue near 181^st—Mrs. Sanchez.”

“Oh, no! Not again!”

They had been to Mrs. Sanchez’s place two or three times before, and she was never home. Her apartment, in a decrepit two-family wooden house, had two buzzers jerry-rigged next to the outside door. They always rang the one closest to the door—the other one was just too high up to be functional.

Manuel got onto Webster Avenue and proceeded up through the South Bronx. “Hey,” he asked Rob. “You ever wanna be a cop?”

“No. Why?”

“Well, in the eyes of a lot of the people around here, you are one! We got the official car with the New York City license plates—as far as they’re concerned, we’re cops…Hey, I see a space near 180^th Street, coming up. That’s as close as we’re gonna get.” They got out of the car and walked up to the house.

“Mrs. Sanchez isn’t home again!”

“Okay, we’re going to have to tell Mr. O’Leary. Who’s next?”

“Mrs. Fierro. Fordham Road. Right near Fordham University, across from Arthur Avenue.”

“Cool.”

Mrs. Fierro lived on the third floor of a five-story walkup. She had long, flowing black hair and Native American-type features. As soon as she saw Manuel, she started talking to him in Spanish. They had a brief conversation, then Rob and Manuel looked at the apartment to make sure it had the right number of rooms. Rob gave her the annual inspection form, she signed it and we headed back to the car.

“You know what?” Manuel asked as he started up the car. “She’s Ecuadorian. I can tell by the way she looks and the way she speaks Spanish.”

“OK! So?”

“So a lot of Ecuadorians don’t like Latins! The minute she saw who I was and that I had, you know, a fairly high position in the Housing Authority, she started to make with that Spanish, to get me on her good side. But I know….”

Rob didn’t know what to say. As far as he knew, Ecuadorians WERE Latins. But why get involved in something he didn’t know about? They headed under the tunnel, then past the zoo, heading for the Pelham Parkway area, where the next inspection was scheduled.

The first stop was an apartment occupied by an elderly Russian-Jewish couple, recent immigrants. Their income was SSI and a subsidy from an immigrant-aid group. Rob talked to them in the rudimentary Yiddish he learned in college. They both got a kick out of the fact that they had a Jewish, Yiddish-speaking management assistant. “In Russia,” the man said, “you no see any Jewish person in any important job, government job!” This inspection, too, went basically without incident.

“Wanna eat lunch?” Harold asked after they left.

“Sure,” Rob said. This was his territory—his grandparents used to live around here. He directed Harold to a pizza place on Lydig Avenue. Rob had an eggplant parmesan; Harold had a Philadelphia cheesesteak sandwich. In the background, the radio played WABC.

“You know,” Harold said in between bites, “I remember when pizza first started coming out of the Italian neighborhoods and spreading all over the city, maybe about 1962. Sitting in a pizzeria and eating a slice while listening to the jukebox play the Four Seasons, something like, `Walk Like a Man,’ that was something else! That was the mood!”

Rob just nodded his head. As an oldies and doo-wop fan. he regretted that he was too young to really remember the pre-Beatles era in depth. He remembered a song here, a song there, but those six years in age between him and Harold really made a difference.

After about a half hour, Rob and Harold got on the road again. The first stop was an older Italian-American woman who lived in a two-family house near Allerton Avenue. The whole time they were in her apartment, Rob kept staring at an elaborate, small doll, depicting a very young child, inside a plastic bubble. Finally, he just had to ask.

“What’s that doll you have there?”

The woman shuddered, as if he had committed a terrible faux pas. “That’s the baby Jesus!” she exclaimed.

“Man, I should have told you,” Harold said, laughing, as they got into the car. “We celebrate the big holidays, but I stopped believing in the church when I was with the motorcycle gang, and we asked the priest to bless our colors. He did it, no questions asked. Later, I got to thinking. We were doing a lot of bad shit, and maybe the priest should have asked us what we were doing and tried to straighten us out. But no, he just blessed our colors….”

“Wait a minute,” Rob interjected. “I knew you were in a gang, but not a motorcycle gang. Were they the same?”

“No. The first gang was back in high school – it was a neighborhood thing. The motorcycle gang, that was after I got home from the ‘Nam. A few guys I knew got me into it. I thought it was just a motorcycle club, but by the time I realized it was a gang, I had gotten deep into it already. The only way I could get out of it was that I started taking classes at City College. Once they knew I was back in school, they left me alone…”

Next stop was Deborah Horowitz. Rob remembered her from last year. Deborah was a single woman in her twenties who lived in a studio apartment and was on psychiatric disability. She was attractive, had a pleasant smile and acted friendly, although she seemed somewhat spaced out. The last time he’d visited her apartment, they had a brief conversation, and Rob was sure she liked him.

Rob felt a commonality with Deborah--she, like him, she was an introvert and an underdog. The fact that she was Jewish was another plus. Until recently, Rob had few friends. He was rarely invited to parties, he had trouble finding a roommate in college and he had fairly bad luck with young women. Deborah, as he saw it, was the ultimate underdog. He wanted to start a relationship with her and guide her to happiness.

When they got to the apartment, he found his scheme foiled. Her mother was there, sitting at the kitchen table. Had Deborah sensed that Rob had tried to get too familiar with her during the last inspection and called her mother in for protection? Probably. Rob and Harold looked around, gave Deborah the papers to sign and left.

“You know,” Manuel said as they rode the elevator down, “I saw you looking at her. I think she would be a nice girl for you.” Rob, who had never told Manuel about his infatuation with her, said nothing. He felt hurt.

The next three inspections, and the last of the day, were in the predominantly black area north of Gun Hill Road. They were all within walking distance of each other, so Rob and Manuel could park the car and take care of them all in one shot.

First up was Saundra Washington, a middle-aged woman who lived in an elaborately furnished apartment in a co-op. Her write-up said she had three kids, but they were all in school today. “You know, I work for the Housing Authority, too,” she said.

“Is that right?” Manuel asked.

“Yes, I work over at Baychester Houses. I started as a teller and I worked my way up to supervisor. You see everything here? Working for Housing helped me buy all of it. I could never have dreamed of it when I was growing up in Harlem. I’m so happy I work for the Authority!”

“Congratulations,” I said. She signed the papers and we wished her good luck.

As they walked to the next place, five blocks away, Rob asked Manuel, “What are you doing tonight?”

“I’m gonna have dinner with my family, then go to the karate dojo to work out,” Manuel said proudly.

“I’m taking a t’ai chi class over at Lehman College,” Rob offered meekly. He assumed that a tough guy like Manuel would look askance at t’ai chi, which took a more gentle approach to self-defense than karate. He was wrong.

“Hey! I’m really glad for you, man. I’m impressed.” Manuel said. “I hope you become a martial artist. I really do!”

The next visit was to an old guy, around 85 years old. Rob remembered reading his folder in the office—he was a retired railroad employee. The apartment was sparely furnished. The guy, Mr. Wilson, answered “Yes, sir” and “No, sir” to all their questions.

When it came time to leave, Mr. Wilson insisted on not only giving them their coats, but helping them put them on by holding their coats over their shoulders. Rob felt embarrassed. The guy probably had been taught to act subservient to whites on the job way back when, over and over until it became part of his personality. Rob resented being put in the role that Mr. Wilson was forcing him into, but Manuel just took it in his stride.

The last inspection, in the same building, was Jim Barnes, a tall, bearded guy who reminded Rob a little of Marvin Gaye. As Rob and Manuel stepped into his apartment, both were overwhelmed. On every wall were whimsical, colorful abstract paintings, punctuated here and there by black-and-white photos of street scenes. Although he tried not to, Rob couldn’t stop looking at a photo of a two half-naked, provocatively posed male dancers. Jazz was playing in the background—Rob was able to identify it as Sonny Rollins.

“Come, sit down,” said Mr. Barnes. “Hey, I’m glad to see you’re admiring my work. When I actually worked at a job, I did architectural drafting. Then, I had the bad luck to go to ’Nam.”

“Hey, I was in the ‘Nam too!” Manuel exclaimed. “Where were you?”

“Mostly in Saigon, but I was all over. I was in the Air Force—an aircraft mechanic. I worked on Huey helicopters, Boeings, Douglasses, Grummans….”

“Yeah, I was just regular Army. A grunt here,” Manuel answered.

“Anyway, I got injured, I really didn’t have the stamina to work full-time anymore. I’ve been using my time to take classes at the Art Students League. I had a few exhibitions—the Bronx Council on the Arts, the Studio Museum in Harlem. Doctor says my rehabilitation is going real good and I can go back to work next year. Then, you guys won’t see me no more.”

Rob and Manuel took a perfunctory look around the apartment, then gave Mr. Barnes that paper to sign. Mr. Barnes looked at them.

“Are you real guys?”

Rob and Manuel looked at each other. “Real guys?”

“Real guys. Do you do herb, drink wine?”

“Oh!” Manuel smiled. “He does herb,” he said, pointing to Rob. “I drink.”

“Well, OK. Just a minute.” Mr. Barnes disappeared into the kitchen, then returned with a glass of red wine in one hand, a hash pipe in the other. He handed the glass to Manuel and the pipe to Rob.

“Thanks very much,” said Manuel. “I’ll drink the solution, and he’ll do the pollution!” Everybody laughed. Manuel finished the glass. Rob took a few deep puffs, then left it alone.

On the way back to the car, Rob commented, “Now, that was interesting! By the way, did you catch the photos of those two male dancers?”

“Absolutely! In fact, when he said, are you two real guys, I thought he meant gay guys. But, to each his own, I say.”

As they got to the car, Manuel asked whether Rob whether he’d do the drive back. Rob agreed. After Rob had been driving west for a while, Manuel asked, “How far are we from the parkway?”

“We’ll be there in two or three minutes. There’s the sign for it over there.”

“You can see that far? It doesn’t look clear to me at all.”

After they came closer to the sign, Manuel acknowledged, “Hey, you were right! You know, we could have used someone with your eyesight in the gang. We could call you `Eagle Eyes!’” Rob smiled.

Once Rob had turned onto the parkway, Manuel turned on the radio. He fiddled with the dial until he found Christopher Cross’ “Sailing.” He started to sing along with it: “           Sailing, takes me away, wo wo wo wo….’  Hey, Rob, I love this song. It’s so peaceful, so mellow.”

Rob couldn’t believe that Manuel liked this song, which he considered to be overly slow and sentimental. He thought that a macho guy like Manuel would like either heavy funk like Parliament-Funkadelic or the Ohio Players, or loud, driving rock like the Stones or Deep Purple. Clearly, Manuel was a complicated guy. Rob remembered Manuel telling him that when he was a kid, he had been a model student and an altar boy. But after his parents moved to a new neighborhood, they had to take him out of Catholic school because of a technicality and put him into a public school. The other kids picked mercilessly on Manuel, who soon realized he had to get tough in a hurry. Maybe, Rob theorized, Manuel’s softer side went underground, but came out in his music.

After Rob and Manuel got back to the Housing Authority building, parked the car and went up to the office, Mr. O’ Leary told them they had a guest—Mrs. Sanchez! The one whom they had visited several times, but was seemingly never home.

“Why you no come to see me?” she asked. “I stay home three, four times, but you no come.”

“We rang the bell,” Rob answered. “The bottom bell. It looked like the right one.”

“Bottom bell no work,” Mrs. Sanchez said. “You gotta ring the top bell.”

Rob, Manuel and Mr. O’Leary all had the same idea simultaneously. “Um, Mrs. Sanchez,” Mr. O’Leary asked, “would you mind coming with us to the conference room?” Mr. O’Leary picked up a form, and the four of them walked down the hall and into an unused room with a round table and chairs.

“Now Mrs. Sanchez,” he said, “why don’t you look this form over and sign it? And if anyone asks, tell them that Mr. Bergman and Mr. Enriquez came to your apartment.” She signed the form as Rob and Manuel smiled.

As they left the conference room to go into the hallway, Mrs. Sanchez turned to the three of them.

“Happy Thanksgee’vee, everybody!” 

125th Street--the West Side's unique elevated station

NOTE--This was one of two transit history columns I wrote as an "audition" for an Upper West Side weekly. The publisher originally wanted me to write two a month. When she changed their tune and said she couldn't pay me for them, I told her I wasn't interested--RG

By Raanan Geberer

Once, elevated lines traversed Manhattan. We had four of them: the 9^th Avenue El, the 6^th Avenue El, the 3^rd Avenue El and the 2^nd Avenue El. One could look out the window (or, if you were daring, from one of the wooden elevated cars’ open platforms) and see City Hall, the Financial District, the Empire State Building, the great department stores and more. And as the trains rattled through the old tenement districts, you could actually see through people’s windows.

The last of the Manhattan els, the 3^rd Avenue El, was torn down in 1955, although a portion in the Bronx lasted until 1973. Transit riders today, unfortunately, don’t have the experience of seeing Manhattan from a moving train – well, almost. There are several elevated stations in Manahttan today – three at the northern tip of Manhattan, and the 125^th Street station on the Number 1 line.

Tourists are often surprised that the 1 train comes out of the tunnel for one stop at 125th, and even longtime city dwellers who are used to it sometimes wonder why this is so. It turns out that the train doesn’t climb to the surface at all. It stays totally on a level grade, says Charles Seaton, a spokesman for MTA New York City Transit.

What changes is the topography. At 125^th, we are in the middle of the Manhattan Valley, a natural depression running east to west across Manhattan. For the line to stay underground, the transit planners of the early 1900s would have had to put it in a deep tunnel with steep approaches and descents at either end. Building an elevated viaduct allowed the line to stay at grade.

And what a viaduct! Its centerpiece is an arch that the Landmarks Preservation Commission (LPC) has called “a testament to the skills of the engineers and contractors who built New York’s first subway between 1900 and 1904" and “the most imposing and visually impressive above-ground engineering structure of the IRT subway system.” The station itself sits right above the arch.

The arch was built both for aesthetic reasons and to avoid obstructing traffic at the busy intersection of 125^th and Broadway, according to information provided by the LPC’s Elisabeth de Bourbon. And while the construction of the underground sections of the subway took place out of the public’s sight, the building of the viaduct drew large crowds of spectators. In 1981, the LPC declared the viaduct a New York City landmark, and in 1983 it was placed on the National Register of Historic Places.

Today, says Seaton, the station serves the northern part of Columbia University, the New York City Housing Authority’s Grant Houses, the 125^th Street shopping district, Grant’s Tomb and more. It is in walking distance of both the revived Cotton Club, named after the 1920s and ‘30s-era Harlem nightclub that helped launch the careers of Duke Ellington and Cab Calloway; and the Old Broadway Synagogue, the last remaining European-Jewish synagogue in Harlem.

Because it is in such a busy location, it is also fairly heavily used. In 2012, according to the MTA, it had 2,560,513 riders and was the 181^st most-heavily used station in the transit system, out of 468 stops.

Today, when you’re riding on the Number 1 train and look out the window just north or south of the 125^th Street station, you’ll see a varied streetscape – once-elegant old apartment houses, the projects, the shopping district, garages, warehouses and more.

These vistas may change in the future, in this ever-changing city. But to riders on the Number 1 line, the train’s “coming up for air” (even though it stays at grade level) will continue to be a welcome relief.

A Requiem for Sheepshead Bay’s El Greco Diner

Sheepshead Bay elicits a warm feeling for me. It was one of the first areas of Brooklyn I ever got to know, thanks to an early girlfriend and several co-workers at the New York City Housing Authority. In those days, the highlights were Lundy’s, Pips Comedy Club (where my stand-up routine bombed, but a young Andrew Dice Clay, on the same bill, got tremendous applause), Joe’s Clam Bar and Captain Walter’s.

Today, as the Eagle’s Lore Croghan wrote recently, the highlights along Emmons Avenue include the Cherry Hill Gourmet Market, the Turkish restaurant Liman, Randazzo’s Clam Bar (which was also there in the old days), the Opera Cafe and more. And, of course, on the other side of Emmons Avenue is the bay itself, with its fishing boats.

Throughout the years, one mainstay on Emmons Avenue, much less exotic than many of the locales named above, has been the El Greco Diner. When someone walks from the subway to the bay, the El Greco is one of the first things they encounter.  But not for long! As Sheepshead Bites, Gothamist and a host of other media outlets have reported, the owners plan to close the diner by the end of this week, reportedly to make way for a “new residential tower with ground-level commercial space.”

Many of the aforementioned restaurants are geared to both locals and visitors, but the El Greco, it seems to me, was mainly for locals. I can’t see anyone making a trip to go there. It’s not that different from other Brooklyn diners, including the Park Plaza in Brooklyn Heights, the Purity Diner in Park Slope, the Green Pavilion in Bensonhurst, the excellent Three-Star Diner on Avenue U and more.

The menu at the El Greco reveals a lot of variety but few surprises – mainly the usual burgers, omelets, pancakes, sandwiches, pasta, dinner specials and so on. Online reviews of the food there are mixed—Yelp gave it an average of only two stars and Google reviews gave it an average of three stars.

But classic New York City diners aren’t meant for fine dining. They’re meant as a place to go for breakfast, on the way to the bay, after a date, after a softball game, for a late-night snack or to meet old friends and family members. They offer solid, hearty food. And if a diner has a back room or large tables, chances are you’ll find all kinds of groups meeting there, from political discussion groups to poetry readings to board-game fanatics. Just check meetup.com.

It’s not just the El Greco that’s closing. In the past few years, diners have been closing all over the New York area. In Brooklyn, these have included the Kings Plaza Diner, the Americana Diner in Dyker Heights and, unfortunately, one of my favorites, the Celeste Diner in Concord Village.

Diners have traditionally occupied a “middle ground.” They attract people who aren’t accustomed to upscale restaurants or can’t afford them on a regular basis, but who demand something better than fast food.

For all of these reasons, I’m lamenting the closing of the El Greco Diner. Time to raise your glass of Diet Coke, say a toast and wait for the last turkey burger or spinach omelet with French fries to arrive.

More F Trains Could Alleviate Express Problem

By Raanan Geberer

Special to Brooklyn Daily Eagle

Every few years, it seems, a call goes out to restore rush-hour express service on the F train. The last time this happened, the campaign died down after the G train, which shares part of its route with the F, was extended to Church Avenue. Some advocates saw this as a case of, “Well, if we didn’t get one of the improvements along the F-line corridor that we wanted, at least we got the other.”

Now, the campaign for express service has risen again, supported by Brooklyn Borough President Eric Adams, a dozen Brooklyn elected officials and the Transport Workers Union. “The F train should stand for fast service, not failed opportunity,” said Adams. “We need to reduce crowding on these platforms, which are causing significant safety concerns, and we need to alleviate the burden riders are facing with one of the city’s longest commutes.”

For many years, F-train express service was a fact of life. The late Dennis Holt, who wrote the “Brooklyn Broadside” column for the Brooklyn Daily Eagle, remembered standing near the stairway connecting the upper (local) level to the lower (express) level of the Bergen Street station during the 1970s, prepared to run down the stairs if the Manhattan-bound express got there first. This express was discontinued later in the decade, although a co-worker told me that it continued unofficially for a number of years.

When I first heard about the campaign to reinstate F train express service, I supported it unconditionally. After all, what’s as exciting as a fast express train speeding down the middle track, passing local stations one after another?  Then I got an email from an MTA representative who made me see the other side in part. The letter read, “Approximately two-thirds of F riders in Brooklyn are on the northern segment of the Culver Line, between Church Avenue and Bergen Street, and two of the busiest stations on the line — Bergen Street and Carroll Street — are local stops.”

The most telling part of this statement is “Bergen Street AND Carroll Street.” In the old days, Bergen Street was an express stop. But since then, another MTA representative once explained at a meeting, the Bergen Street express platform has been used to store heavy HVAC equipment that can’t be moved easily.

If Carroll Street was local and Bergen Street was express, Carroll Gardens and Cobble Hill residents might learn to live with it. But if both heavily-used stops are bypassed by local trains, that’s a problem. Yes, there’s the G train, but rush-hour commuters generally want to go to Manhattan, and the G train, except for two or three stops in Queens, is “all Brooklyn, all the time.”

One solution might be to run some rush-hour trains that run express in southern Brooklyn — skipping local stops between Kings Highway and Church Avenue — while making all of the busy stops north of Church Avenue. This might not make southern Brooklyn residents’ commute as fast as they would like, but it would be faster than it is now.

The best solution, in my opinion, is to put more trains on the F line, which serves several rapidly growing areas of Brooklyn. This would allow for express service while ensuring that people living near local stops won’t have to wait long for their rides. More trains were put onto the L train — now it’s the F train’s turn. The residents of Park Slope, Red Hook, Carroll Gardens and Cobble Hill, not to mention southern Brooklyn, deserve nothing less.

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