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The Heart of a Community "You're from New York?" is the puzzled
reply I usually get when asked where I I used to protest: "I do too wear black…well sometimes." It doesn’t puzzle me anymore, because the fact of the matter is that I grew up in Long Island City, and that has made all of the difference in the world. I love Manhattan with its winking lights and fast past-paced excitement. But, how blessed I was to spend my growing-up summers on a LIC stoop—blowing homemade lemon-scented bubbles with a plastic wand and watching them reach up into that twinkling skyline at dusk. To be able to spend my formative years in the heart of a community that surrounded me with great values and lasting friendships was really a gift. Away out in the "country" of Connecticut, I now live a much more stressful life—dynamic job, too much travelling, and not enough time to blow bubbles. When I do make time to ruminate, I shake out the memories of my childhood, and they fly like dust specks in the air—a little old but still full of the sun’s reflection.
I could spend a good afternoon walking back and forth along
the pipes on the small bridge that used to span the old railroad tracks, before they were
filled in with a park. Inevitable some adult would walk The modern development of the area has been very
controversial, as we all know. But what is it that makes this select group of people
from New York City (as we technically are) protest on expansion? As Kenny Greenberg
pointed out to the Times, it is the loss of the skyline that hurts. It is a fear of
losing something so precious—the heart and soul of a community. The thing that
makes me proudly stand up and tell everyone I am from New York. * Original photos courtesy of "Uncle Lou." |
grew up. It
used to be so frustrating, when no one believed me. "You don't wear
black." "You don't talk fast." "You're too nice." 
I remember things like the corner butcher on Vernon-Jackson with his
floor full of piles of sawdust you could push around with your foot, while mom ordered
chop meat for dinner. Or the druggist, the quintessential country doctor, who would
bandage up a scraped knee or banged elbow and give you a piece of candy when he was done. 
along or hang a pink curlered head out of a window
to tell me that I could get hurt that way.