Never Mind the Bikes, Let's Have Subways to Staten Island!

By Raanan Geberer
From Brooklyn Daily Eagle

A few weeks ago, my wife and I went to a concert at Historic Richmondtown in Staten Island. I thought this would be a simple matter: take the subway from our home in Chelsea to South Ferry, take the ferry, then take a bus. The last time, I had rented a car and gone via the Gowanus Expressway and the Verrazano Bridge, but this time I thought I could do it more cheaply.
My flaw, however, was to think that the ferries came about once every 10 minutes. When we got to the ferry terminal, we found, to my chagrin, that the ferries came only once every half hour, at least on the weekend. Moreover, one had just departed. When we got to the ferry terminal in Fort George, there was no time for a bus. We ended up taking a cab to Historic Richmondtown, for $25. So much for saving money.
When Staten Island joined Greater New York, it was expected that a rapid transit connection to the island would be built. Since Brooklyn is much closer to Staten Island than Manhattan is, it was expected that the connection would be through Brooklyn. Indeed, in the early 1920s, the BMT (Brooklyn-Manhattan Transit, one of the ancestors of today’s city-owned subway system) began digging a tunnel from Bay Ridge to Staten Island, where it was expected to hook up with the Staten Island Railway (now also a part of the city’s transit system).
However, then-Mayor Mike Hylan stopped the BMT in its tracks, to use a poor pun, by refusing to provide funding. The mayor was a former BMT motorman who was fired during a strike, and he hated the BMT ever since. Mayor Hylan also stalled the 14th Street-Canarsie Line (today’s L train), and it wasn’t finished until 1928, when Hylan was out of office.
Later during the 1920s, the Port Authority of New York was formed. One of its first projects was supposed to have been a freight railroad tunnel under the Narrows. This tunnel would possibly have had tracks for rapid transit as well. For whatever reason, the Port Authority sat on the proposal, and it was eventually forgotten.
During the building of the Verrazano Bridge in the early 1960s, there were some people who wanted space for a subway connection, but builder Robert Moses ignored them. In fairness, most of the bridges of that era, such as the Throggs Neck Bridge and the Tappan Zee Bridge, were also built with no provision for public transportation. In the 1950s and ‘60s, rail transit was thought of as being so “yesterday.”
In today’s budget crunch, there seems very little opportunity for any type of rail connection between Bay Ridge and Staten Island. The bridge is already there, and there is no provision for subway or light rail, so it would have to be through a new underwater tunnel. But things do change. Bay Ridge and Staten Island do share a lot in common – both are family-oriented, both are somewhat conservative. In all probability, at least a third of the people living in Staten Island either once lived in Brooklyn, have parents or grandparents who lived in Brooklyn, and/or have close relatives who still live in Brooklyn.
Yes, a bike lane on the Verrazano would be nice. But it would benefit a limited number of people. Rapid transit across the Narrows? Bring it on!

Why Does Bloomberg Stress the Soda Ban Above Everything Else

 

Originally printed in Brooklyn Daily Eagle

New York City certainly seems to have its share of problems.
Take homelessness. According to the Coalition for the Homeless, in February 2013, there were an all-time record 50,100 homeless people, including 12,000 families with children. And that’s only the number of people who were sleeping in the city’s homeless-shelter system, as opposed to the many “street homeless” whom we see every day.
We also have unemployment. Nationwide, the percentage of people who are unemployed is a little over 7 percent. In New York, it’s a little over 9 percent. While the financial industries are booming, for years, the Bronx and Brooklyn were the counties with the highest unemployment rates in New York State. Brooklyn has now gotten better, but the Bronx is still suffering.
Now, we get to crime. Street crime, happily, has been decreasing for 20 years, and we are nowhere near the bad old days of the 1980s and ’90s. But now, some crimes are beginning to increase again. According to the Wall Street Journal, what’s behind these figures is a wave of cell-phone thefts.
Mass transit is another problem. After 40 years in which the Lexington Avenue Subway on the East Side of Manhattan was severely overcrowded, the MTA, about 10 years ago, finally started to build the Second Avenue Subway—or at least one segment of it. But its “completed” date keeps being pushed into the future—now, it’s 2016. By contrast, it took four years between the time ground was broken for the original IRT subway in 1900 and its opening in 1904.
Then, we have the problem of continuing police-community unrest. As we can see in today’s issue of this paper, more than 40 people were arrested in Flatbush on Wednesday night when protests over a police shooting of a 16-year-old boy got ugly. The shooting of Kimani Gray follows other well-publicized incidents of the past, such as the Abner Louima incident and the shooting of Amadou Diallo.
And let’s not forget education. The percentage of public-school students who graduate high school in four years is now about 60 percent. While I personally don’t think it’s a terrible thing if someone graduates high school in five years, 60 percent is a little low, despite the fact that these numbers have risen steadily. Also, class size is increasing. You don’t hear talk about 20 or 25 student per class anymore—in some schools, that number is back up to 40.
With all of these problems, what does Mayor Bloomberg choose to focus on? He chooses to focus on soda (or “sugary drinks”). And he’s so obsessive about his large-size soda ban that he intends to appeal it all the way to the higher courts.
With all these problems in the city, how can Mayor Bloomberg give center-stage priority to banning large-size sugary drinks? True, it’s unhealthy to drink a 20-ounce bottle of soda. And no one disagrees that too much sugar leads to diabetes and other problems.
But the fact that Bloomberg spends so much effort on issues like the large-size soda ban, more and more bike lanes, banning smoking in public parks and the like seems to indicate that to him, the city’s image is what counts. And the city’s image for whom?
I suspect that what really matters for Bloomberg is the city’s image for wealthy tourists. That’s just a thought—but it seems to make sense.

Pelham Parkway—an Old Friend Fades Away

 

My first encounter with the Pelham Parkway neighborhood took place in my mid-teens, around 1970, when my grandparents moved to a building at Lydig and Wallace. Most of the Jews in the Bronx  were moving to Co-op City or the suburbs, but Pelham Parkway was very likely the last of the old-fashioned Jewish immigrant neighborhoods in the borough.

By that time, most of the residents were seniors, but you still had a good number of families and a few young single people. Jewish refugees from what was still the Soviet Union were also moving in.

The area was characterized by huge 1920s apartment houses with courtyards and a few private houses here and there. The main shopping streets, White Plains Road and Lydig Avenue, had many old-fashioned stores that warmed the heart of my parents and others in the older generation – a bakery where one could buy black-and-white cookies and hamentaschen, the Zion Kosher Delicatessen; and a dairy restaurant that served blintzes and noodles-and-cheese. White Plains Road had a small musical instrument store, a big plus for aspiring young rock musicians like me, and a tiny mom-and-pop health food store that had nothing in common with the chains that later dominated the industry.

Pelham Parkway itself was the area’s main attraction, a green ribbon through the neighborhood. The parkway was anchored by the subway station, two gigantic synagogues, and Bronx House, a big community center with a swimming pool. In the summer, you saw hundreds of seniors on the benches. 

Grandpa died in ’76, Grandma in ’77. I thought of moving into their apartment after she passed away, but at the time, I was working only part-time and couldn’t afford the rent. And in my early 20s, I knew nothing about leases, rent increases, or the fact that you couldn’t just move into a relative’s apartment as if you owned the place.

After that, however, I still found myself in the area a few times a year. My visits increased after 1980, when I met Mike Tannenbaum, a young guy my age who was an electronic-music freak, a stereo and computer whiz, and a brilliant science-fiction writer. He lived on Barnes Avenue with a roommate who soon moved out.

Mike told me that one of the other tenants, a woman in her 90s, was one of the building’s original tenants from 1927. “At that time, there wasn’t much but trees and grass around here,” he said. “She decided to move here because her other choice, the Concourse, was only for rich people!” We had a good laugh, since the Concourse had become very rundown by the ’80s.

Because Mike lived in the North Bronx, he was somewhat isolated from his peers. In his apartment, however, he was king. He had two computers when most people didn’t even have one, two VCRs, a huge fish tank, and thousands of dollars worth of stereo equipment. When a would-be-girlfriend rejected him, he consoled himself by saying, “She doesn’t know a damn thing about stereo!”

Throughout the 1980s and early ’90s, I kept visiting the Pelham Parkway area from time to time. The neighborhood was like an old friend that didn’t change much, even though it was becoming a little rundown around the edges. I had fights with friends (including Mike, who became enraged when I bought a stereo without asking for his advice), problems on the job, and breakups with girlfriends. But Pelham Parkway was still Pelham Parkway.

After I got married in ’94, I took fewer walks around the city. A few years later, my wife suggested we take a trip to the Bronx Zoo. After walking around the zoo and having a great time, we came out on the White Plains Road side. I eagerly took her on a walk, but to my shock, Pelham Parkway was no longer Pelham Parkway.

On Lydig Avenue, Olinsky’s supermarket and Carvel were gone. Several Albanian social clubs, food stores, real estate offices and coffee shops had moved in. While I have nothing against Albanians, it made me sad to realize that people like myself, the grandson of Russian-Jewish immigrants, were now a small minority.

Walking over to White Plains Road, I found it dominated by big 99-cent stores with displays spilling onto the sidewalk and generic chain stores. The diner on the north side of the parkway had become a Dunkin’ Donuts, and the Six Brothers diner where Grandpa used to take the family was gone. The tiny health-food store had disappeared, and although there was a GNC on the street, it wasn’t the same.

We eventually found a small coffee shop with wooden tables and a limited menu. Most of the customers were shabbily-dressed older people who had been sitting there for hours, talking to each other and watching the overhead TV set. You could tell this was the highlight of their day. We vowed that the next time we went to the zoo, we would leave on the side nearer to Arthur Avenue, which had many good Italian restaurants.

Today, I have a more balanced view of Pelham Parkway. The neighborhood as it once existed failed to hold most of its children and grandchildren – possibly because it was so far from Manhattan. Mike Tannenbaum had confidently predicted that the parkway itself would make the neighborhood “hip” in the same way Prospect Park spurred gentrification in Park Slope. He was wrong.

Today’s Pelham Parkway, rather than being the province of one ethnic group, as it was in the old days, is extremely diverse. You see Albanians, Russian Jews, Pakistanis, Latinos, Arabs and even one or two Hasidim. Many, if not most, are immigrants, just as most of the people who originally moved into the neighborhood in the 1920s were immigrants. The people are busy living their lives, having their dreams. They’re making their own memories, which will be as important to them as my memories of smoking grass with Mike Tannenbaum, while listening to The Who, Yes or Kraftwerk, are to me.

It’s no longer my Pelham Parkway, but it’s still Pelham Parkway. And the next time we go to the zoo – I’m sorry, but we’ll still opt for those Arthur Avenue Italian restaurants!

No, not everyone has to like sportts

From Brooklyn Daily Eagle

Not everyone has to like sports.

I recently read an article on Wikipedia about “childhood gender nonconformity” as a possible correlation with homosexuality, among other things. Childhood gender nonconformity is described as a phenomenon in which “pre-pubescent children do not conform to expected gender-related sociological or psychological patterns.”
I would assume that for boys, one of the greatest “expected gender-related sociological or psychological patterns” has to do with sports. Well, I am not gay, nor have I ever been gay. However, as a child, not only was I terrible in sports, I didn’t even like sports!
There were times when my father and brother (or once, my Hebrew school class) took me to Yankee Stadium, and I found myself bored after one or two innings. Sure, I tried to fake it, flipping baseball cards with the other kids and pretending to listen when they talked about baseball players, but I’m sure I didn’t fool anybody.
The fact my actual interests at that age – trains and cars – were also so-called “masculine” interests didn’t win me any friends. Neither did those physical activities I did do well in – for example, gymnastics. Eventually I won a bronze medal in gymnastics, but that didn’t impress anyone compared to someone who, for example, was able to pitch a winning game.
What I needed was to connect with other kids who were into trains and cars. The internet would have helped me in that, but the internet, at that time, was years away.
Now, I’m able to watch an entire baseball game, and I can even enjoy it. I can enjoy watching basketball, although for shorter periods of time, say, 15 minutes or so. As for football, it leaves me cold – the type of people who play football are presumably the same big, tough, aggressive guys who I had nothing in common with then, and probably have nothing in common with now.
But still, I cringe when fathers load their 6-year-old boys up with football jerseys, hockey sticks, baseball bats, whatever, and just expect that they’ll really be into sports.
Just once, I’d like to see just one of those kids say, when their father asks them to go to a game, say, “No thanks, Dad, I’d rather play with my model trains, and look at my picture book of classic cars!”

Don't become a Solarian

By Raanan Geberer
Originally published in Brooklyn Daily Eagle, November 2012

Back in the 1980s, I used to write back-cover and inside-front-cover blurbs for science fiction and fantasy books. And of course, I had to read the books, or at least the first half of them, so that I would know what I was writing about.
One of the books I had to write these notes for was Isaac Asimov’s “Foundation and Earth.” It concerned a race of people known as the Solarians, who came from Earth to settle the planet Solaria. Over the centuries, the Solarians became more and more isolated from each other.
By the time the explorers who were the heroes of the book landed on Solaria, the inhabitants lived on isolated estates, served by hundreds of robots, and had very little contact with each other. Indeed, they developed a powerful aversion to being in the same room with another human, and met each other only for very special purposes.
They did everything — trade with each other, carry on friendships, learn new subjects — by holographic projections (the Internet barely existed, except for a handful of hobbyists, when the book was published).
There was one problem: the birth rate kept declining, for obvious reasons. Eventually, the rulers of Solaria solved that problem by eliminating natural reproduction altogether and reproducing by human cloning.
We haven’t gotten to that point yet, but much of the book has come true. We trade with each other over the Internet, take courses over the Internet, communicate with friends over the Internet, and increasingly get our entertainment from the Internet.
Not so long ago, the local bookstore, the local record store, the local video store were not only places to buy books, CDs and so forth — they were places to hang out, meet friends, discuss new releases. Now, the human element has been cut out.
As far as work is concerned, some people already work completely in front of their terminals, and have no contact with their “co-workers” or supervisors except in cyberspace. More such “workplaces” are sure to follow.
There’s nothing wrong with the Internet. It's made communication between people in different parts of the country much easier. It's made it possible to subscribe to magazines without filling out annoying forms and sealing envelopes, it’s made it easier for people with unusual interests who may feel isolated in their immediate surroundings to seek out others with the same interests.
You can send photos to friends with the click of a mouse without having to first wait for the drugstore to develop those photos, and you can find out about train delays without having to wait a half-hour on the phone.
But remember — the Internet was created to serve people, not the other around.
It originally had a very specific purpose — to link educational institutions so that research and information could be exchanged quickly. It was never supposed to do everything. If people rely too much on the Internet, what happens in the event of a catastrophe, when it goes down. Can people even survive without it?
There’s nothing wrong with keeping your friends’ and relatives’ contact information on the Internet, but if that’s the only place it exists, with no paper backup, you may be asking for trouble. When the Internet first came along, people did preserve backups — for example, they kept their typewriters in a closet — but as time went on, they ceased to feel the need for them.
Also in back the 1980s, I remember a news story about a man who resolved not to leave his house for a year. He was successful in some ways — he ordered food in, bought clothes by phone — but eventually had to go outside to go to the post office and buy stamps, go to the IRS office to pay taxes, and more.
The Internet has made a Solarian-type existence much more feasible. Someone who doesn’t want to leave his house for a year can easily do so, with the only trips necessary being those to take the garbage out or to go to the mailbox.
The Internet has been a great boon to mankind. But once in awhile, turn your smartphone and your computer off. Take long walks in the woods. Read a book. Listen to music. Go to the beach. Get together with someone you haven’t seen in awhile. Go to a museum. Go to an amusement park. Go to a store and browse around.
Above all — don’t become a Solarian!

Twinkies: After the supply ends?

By Raanan Geberer

Originally in Brooklyn Daily Eagle

One day, at work, I was busy typing away, when one of my co-workers whispered in my ear, “At lunch, you might to see someone on the fifth floor of your building. He has the real s----. I told him about you.”
I couldn’t wait that long. I had to have it NOW! I excused myself, went upstairs and knocked on the door, sweating and breathing heavily.
“Are you Ron?” asked a shady little man in a big hat and a long coat.
“Yes.”
‘Come in,” he said. “We’ve got to be really careful. The cops were here yesterday. We got the stuff you need.”
“Is it the REAL stuff? From Canada, or Mexico?”
“No,” he said, “Our shipments got messed up. But my man down in Florida made it, according to the original recipe. He used to be a meth dealer, but now he finds doing this more profitable.”
The man ushered me into his backroom. There, on the table, were about 100 of the golden-colored cakes, stacked on top of each other. Several nondescript middle-aged women, most of whom appeared to be immigrants, were packing them into glassine envelopes.
I paid the man $100, and ate two or three of them as fast as I could. The man looked at me with amusement. He knew he had me. But this wasn’t enough—there was something else I needed.
“Thanks for the Twinkies,” I said, “but I can’t take that much of a rush. I need some Snowballs to bring me down. Do you have any?”
Without a word, he ushered me into another room. I began to grab a Snowball, when he grabbed my arm.
“Just one, m-------r!” he said, pulling out a knife. “We’re running out of them. These are expensive, you know!”
I gave him another hundred dollars. Biting into the Snowball’s marshmallow exterior, I felt a supreme joy—a joy the average person will never know.
I read yesterday that another company is buying the rights to Twinkies, Snowballs, and Hostess orange-colored cupcakes. Soon, I’ll be just another American. But until then, I’ll be an addict, a creature of night, another slave to the sugary goo that has ruined so many people’s lives.

November 19, 2012 - 3:39pm

When the Therapist Lost Her Mind

By Raanan Geberer
Originally published in "Mr. Beller's Neighborhood"

My wife Sarah and I had been seeing our therapist, Brenda, for years - both separately and as a couple. When I met Sarah, she was already seeing Brenda, who was then in training to be a psychiatric social worker after a long career as a high school social worker and Spanish teacher.
After we started having some problems, my wife insisted that we go to see her for couples counseling. Brenda had never been trained in couples counseling, and what she did couldn’t be called by that term– for example, she didn’t give us assignments. But we both found the sessions helpful. Later, I began seeing her on my own, as well.
Brenda was in her sixties, tall and slightly overweight. Her office, part of a suite that she shared with several other health-related professionals, was full of reproductions of paintings on the wall, psychology books, photos from her many travels to Europe, and copies of magazines like the New Yorker and the Atlantic. It was obvious that she was a “high culture” fanatic.
Sarah loved talking to Brenda after and before sessions, but there was one sticking point – Sarah had a strong orientation toward spirituality and religion, and when Sarah brought up her belief in God during therapy sessions, Brenda tried to dismiss it as being immature. It just wasn’t part of her world – she couldn’t understand it.
Sarah aside, Brenda helped me quite a bit by making me see certain people whom I had obsessively thought about in a new light. For example, there was one guy I knew in my 20s whom, at the time, I had thought to be terribly exciting. He had been a chronic shoplifter, a constant adulterer, an enthusiastic drug user, and didn’t care who knew it. When I bumped into him again, he told me that he had become a born-again Christian and was studying to be an actuary. I lamented the fact to Brenda.
“Don’t you realize that you were so frustrated that you were living vicariously through him?” she answered. “You saw his life as more exciting than yours. But you don’t need him now.” Brenda also was supportive of me and Sarah as a couple, and always encouraged us to eat out after our joint sessions.
It was only after seeing Brenda for about five years that we discovered, quite by accident, that Brenda lived in Stuyvesant Town, just like we did. Indeed, when we joined a nearby community garden, we found out that Brenda was a member of the garden too. When I saw her there I merely said hello and that was that – Brenda insisted that socializing with clients would be unprofessional.
One day, she didn’t show up for a therapy session without any warning. She apologized and told me to come next week. During the next few months, she missed two or three more appointments. One day, when I showed up at the usual time, 6 p.m., Brenda, who had apparently been sleeping on the couch, awoke with a start.
"Oh, Rob. It’s you! I can’t believe you’re here at this time!"
"What?"
"Don’t you know it’s 6 in the morning? Look outside! It was still dark until a few minutes ago! I must have slept here all night!"
It took me about ten minutes of arguing to convince her that it wasn’t 6 in the morning, and then we had our session as usual. But the experience left me quite unnerved.
After one or two more missed appointments, my wife convinced Brenda that she should see us in her apartment, since she lived so close to us. This, Sarah reasoned, would cut down on the problem. But it just created new problems.
Once, after I entered Brenda’s apartment, which was dominated by a grand piano and piles of sheet music, she greeted me with, "Oh, Rob! So nice of you to have a visit! I didn’t expect you! I’ll get you some cheese, and some fruit—look, we can order some sushi from the store! Is Sarah coming, too?" I had to explain to her that this wasn’t a social visit, but a therapy session.
Within a month or so, Brenda became so disorganized – or so we thought – that she canceled every appointment either of us tried to make. When Sarah confronted her, Brenda merely said, “Something’s going on here, but after it’s over, we can make more appointments.”

Both of us started looking for a new therapist. But just to make sure, Sarah called Brenda again. “Oh, I, I can’t talk now,” Brenda replied, her voice ascending higher than usual. “My relatives are coming! My relatives are coming! I’m so worried!” You could hear her breathing heavily.
We found a new therapist, but a few months later decided to call Brenda just to see what was going on. Her phone number was disconnected. I walked over to her building and found that her name had been removed from the lobby.
That summer, I was planting some tomatoes in the community garden when I saw Dominick, the overweight, good-natured accountant who had been head of the garden committee forever.
“Do you know Brenda Cantor?” I asked. He answered in the affirmative.
“What happened to her?”
“She lost her mind!” he exclaimed as he stooped over to pull out a weed.
“Did she have Alzheimer’s?” That’s what Sarah and I had suspected.
“Oh, she definitely had Alzheimer’s,” Dominick answered. “Her relatives came, took her away to somewhere near Philly, then closed out the apartment. It’s all gone!”
“Do you know anything else?” I added, picking one of the cherries from the cherry tree.
“Naah,” he said, waving his hand. “I just know that she lost her marbles. I realized something was wrong when she started to call me every other day , saying, `I lost my garden key!’ It’s sad—very sad.”
He probably didn’t even know Brenda was a therapist, I reflected. When I got home, I told Sarah what he’d said. She was sad and even cried a little, but at least now we knew what happened to her.
Still, once in awhile, when we find ourselves in the old neighborhood where Brenda used to have her office, we peep into the hallway.
There, you can still see the name over the bell:
“Brenda Cantor, CSW, therapist.”