A Sign of the Times
Mounted adjacent to the restroom door at the Jefferson Market Library in Greenwich Village, is this sign.
It seems overzealous and performative."Look at us. Not required to, but we are taking a stance at this public facility. Isn't that admirable?" And therefore, it comes off as insincere. Which is why “wokeness” is so ridiculed. Though I’d say as well, that overzealous and performative, would also describe those who cry woke as often as that little boy cried wolf. Yet, I concede that here the woke police might be justified in making an arrest. Where to begin.
You had me at “...used by any person.” ANY PERSON. No need to say more. Until robotics have acquired a need to use the facility, ANY = ALL human beings. Which would include every conceivable gender.
And as to “gender identity or expression”? What exactly does that mean? How you express your "genderhood," is irrelevant to the business at hand. No one is going to ask for any proof. “I don’t care how you express what you think you are, let me see a notarized letter that includes an opinion from a medical professional, before I let you in there.”
The sign goes through all these pains in its manifesto, to trumpet an open mindedness on the issue of gender, but it's undermined by the shortsightedness in the graphic illustration, on other societal norms.
We see a mother and father holding the hands of their child as a way to depict a Family Restroom. Surely you’re not implying that in 2023, that is the definition of family?
Have you not heard of Pete Buttigieg and his husband Chasten and their children? Or Anderson Cooper and his? Rosie O’Donnell and her former wives not only have a bunch of kids, but she’s even a grandmother! (And to think nobody liked her on The View).
No, I’m sorry. If I were Rosie/Pete/Anderson, this graphic would be like a slap in the face. I’d go over and use a McDonalds restroom before I’d step foot in this one. And let’s not forget all those single parents out there. Some even struggling to make ends meet.
And what about interracial marriages and other such unions? More combinations and permutations than that of gender. They’re pretty frequent now. They seem to show up in every TV commercial these days, smiling like crazy, for life could not be any better regardless of what is being hawked in their behalf. Even laxatives. Yet all the “people” in this restroom’s sign are obviously white. Even that infirmed one there in the chair. But I will give it credit for the braille on its surface, which is not visible at first sight.
But if you’re going to go woke, then go for broke. Here is the sign I offer, free of charge.
Featuring...
muse-letter \’myüz-‘le-tər noun
1: a personal message, inspired by a muse of one's own creation, addressed to a person or organization, in the course of which, the sender becomes absorbed in thought, especially turning something over in the mind meditatively and often inconclusively.
2: a letter from a poet, or one who envisions oneself as such, in which he or she “muses” on that which is perceived to be news, or newsworthy, usually in some ironic or absurd way.
pre November 2018
Parts of the site under reconstruction
Metropolitan Diary
So entitled, it has been a feature in the Metropolitan section of The Sunday New York Times since 1976. It usually consists of five vignettes (of no more than 300 words), submitted by readers who have had a somewhat offbeat New York moment they wish to share. Which even those living elsewhere might have experienced. Nothing earthshattering. But simply about making a human connection, often through chance encounter, that at times can make one's day. And it does so in ways that are funny, sad, absurd, nostalgic, quirky and at times, even poignant. And in the process, illustrating that New York isn't as daunting a place to live as many perceive it to be.
The Diary editor, purposefully stays away from that which deals with politics, religion and the worst of New York. There are innumerable forums and outlets which address such subject matter. Often vehemently. And often with gross exaggeration.
I’ve seen the Diary experience best captured, by way of some specific references.
The Diary receives 80-100 submissions a week from which only four or five are selected. I was fortunate in my first submission to be one of those few. It appeared two weeks ago.
“It has been a place for New Yorkers, past and present, to share odd fleeting moments at Bloomingdale's, at the deli around the corner, in the elevator or at the movies.
Since its debut, overheard conversations have shifted from the backseat of Checker cabs to Crown Vics, from pay-phone booths to cellphones and from the IRT to the JMZ. Still, punch lines delivered by surly waiters, witty train conductors, lively bus drivers, erudite window washers and adult children facing off with an overbearing parent continue to surprise us.”
The Fledgling
Quote of the Month
A Return to High School Sixty Years After
Who goes to high school reunions and homecomings? There are no stats on this though they do seem to be on the wane. Facebook and other social media render them unnecessary, as a means to simply reconnect.
I’d never gone to one; high school or college. Then broke that string in 2017 on the 50th year of my graduation from Manhattan College. It turned out to be fun. But why wouldn’t it? I had a positive experience in my four years there. High school, however, was a different story.
I had some rather unkind things to say about my high school alma mater Brooklyn Tech, in a piece I wrote on reunions those six years ago. (July 2017 On Class Reunions: Musings & Memories & A Fiftieth.).
Beginning with...
... it was the prison-like aura of the building itself, housing 6,000 inmates. Not to mention the post-war industrial curriculum, that left me in a quandary (and often in a foundry). I was out of my element, and not cut out to be an engineer.
Yet, I hung in there for four years, almost to spite the Principal. A man who no doubt had arrived from his previous post at Dachau, and welcomed us with these warm words at orientation in an auditorium the size of Delaware: "Look to the left of you. Look to the right of you. One of you three will not graduate." Thank you for that uplifting introduction. You bastard.
So to have made it through this intense, challenging institution, is a badge of honor I’ve worn proudly. And I did always love the logo. (The logo?). A clue right there that I was in the wrong school. Why I didn’t go to one more in tune with my interests and alleged artistic bent, is a long story.
Sixty years later, both the logo and the stature of Tech remain unchanged. U.S. News & World Report in 2022, ranked it 46th out of the 24,000 public high schools in the U.S. (Two-thousandths of one percent if you do the math). Though the makeup of the student body today, having long since having gone co-ed, is now a model of race and ethnic diversity. Unlike the exclusivity of us white geeky guys back in the day. At 6,000 students, it is as it was then, the largest high school in the country.
Reunions are usually about connecting with former classmates. While I’d never established a friendship with anyone that went beyond the 3 o’clock bell, now when invited to this special commemorative event six decades later, I was all in.
Though this special celebratory year actually began the previous June, with a familiar face congratulating Tech's 100th Anniversary class,
But I would come, not to reune with people, but to reune with a building. To walk those halls now, absent the agita I often had in going from one class to another, for subjects and workshops that were beyond my grasp and skillset. The array is still daunting. From Physics to Machine Shop on through to Descriptive Geometry (I still don’t know what that is).
That was then; this is now. Upon entrance, I, along with graduates spanning these past sixty years were cheered as conquering heroes. Members of the current student body aligned the walls to greet us as we made our way to the registration tables. A goosebumps moment.
Soon we’d be led to that cavernous auditorium amidst more cheering, and as the oldest graduates, we were seated in the front rows. A reward in deference, I suppose, to our still being alive.
A program of presentations unfolded to tell us how great a school this has been and still is. And it was delightfully interspersed with entertainment. With scenes from a Broadway musical and synchronized rhythmic dancing by “Step Teams,” I wondered if I was at Brooklyn Tech or Julliard. Where was any of this in my day? It concluded with the singing of the Alma Mater.
A quick lunch (cafeteria food then...cafeteria food now), and it was time to roam those halls. When one returns as an adult to a space out of adolescence, it can be striking. Might it have all just seemed larger then? Especially, as I was small for my age at that time to begin with. (Another source of anxiety). No, at 77, it seemed even larger. Though I didn’t need a golf cart to get around (thankfully I'm nowhere near that stage), it was quite a trek working the perimeter of each floor.
There were open classrooms and workshops along the way, where students discussed projects they were working on, that didn’t exist back when. The ecology lab for example. And now within this behemoth of a building—one that King Kong could have chosen to take Fay Wray up— I could appreciate the aesthetics that I had never really taken in before. Which actually began when we stepped foot in the door.
Beyond the touches of elegance, and despite renovations over the years, most of the original oak doors to classrooms remained. The school history ingrained in the very wood. Some embossed in a golden font still visible, indicating the subject being taught within. One in particular brought back memories of courses I did excel in. A door I couldn't wait to step through back then.
Six hours in all... mission accomplished!
Some of us then retreated to a nearby pub. Having brought my yearbook along—despite my claim that the goal was not people-oriented— I even got a few signatures from fellow students I was meeting for the first time. Which is in keeping with one of my precepts: If you’re going to go back in time, bring back some evidence from the trip. As I suspect many have their own versions of a “Brooklyn Tech” chapter in their lives, it is a trip I would recommend taking.
finito
muse-letter \’myüz-‘le-tər noun
1: a personal message, inspired by a muse of one's own creation, addressed to a person or organization, in the course of which, the sender becomes absorbed in thought, especially turning something over in the mind meditatively and often inconclusively.
2: a letter from a poet, or one who envisions oneself as such, in which he or she “muses” on that which is perceived to be news, or newsworthy, usually in some ironic or absurd way.
pre November 2018
Parts of the site under reconstruction
"
"