Williamsburg Bridge: An existence in time and space, and the circumstances of our city as a whole.

Brooklyn --> Manhattan.

There's a game I like to play in my thoughts whenever I encounter something I appreciate, and well also, something I don't appreciate. It consists of questions like the following: Who decides that this is _______? Possible fill-ins for the blank are: acceptable, beautiful, ugly, intellectually stimulating, common sense, not common sense...you get the idea.

The last time I played this game, I was walking over the Williamsburg Bridge, heading into Brooklyn. A group of three just ahead of me was discussing how much of a shame it is that people "vandalize" the bridge with their sad excuses for art and "gang graffiti". I looked at them and thought how much of a shame it was that in all their existent physical glory, they seemed so one dimensional..

The touristy thing to do. .

Sad excuses for art. Well, who decides what art is? Dead white people who we've never met and are just familiar over-referenced names people break out for the effect of seeming cultured? People who walk around and fill my ears with metaphorical bullshit of the simplest things because the way I already perceive things just isn't poetic enough, artsy enough, risky enough? Who decided that the bridge had ever been vandalized? I smiled at this question in my head because I knew that just an hour ago, I had walked across the bridge into Manhattan and had made numerous stops to take pictures and admire the "sad excuses for art" along the way.

I thought of these gang relations they spoke of that not all graffiti artists are a part of, and vandalism of private property that is hateful, disrespectful, and just rude, and I thought of how much the art on the bridge seemed nothing of that sort. Without these pieces of art, no one would stop, no one would look. The bridge would be a simple means to an end--a method of crossing the East River without having to swim through it or get yourself a boat. I envisioned the bridge without art--the bridge would be boring--naked--a tasteless lifeless structure of monotony most busy during rush hours as people droop along the way, head bent forward, shoulders slouched, another segment of a daily monotonous routine.

Art on the ground.

Is that what this group of people preferred? Did they even think about what the bridge would be if it wasn't so "vandalized"? Did they even look at the sad excuses for art beyond the judgmental conclusions they had immediately drawn? I can stand people not agreeing with me about what art is--I obviously don't agree with many others on the topic either. What I can't stand is the judgments, the references to gang violence, low-class culture, low-life hoodlums, or "those kinds of people"--as this trio put it. From what I could tell, the art on the bridge said nothing about any one individual's culture capital or economic status. Rather, it said a lot about their existence in time and space and the circumstances of our city as a whole.

So, did these people see what was there? Voices? Expressions? Messages? Inspirations? Cries? Tributes? Memories? Why weren't they looking? Would they have made the same judgments had they really payed attention? Why did they decide this was not _____art_____? Or maybe more importantly, who did they let decide for them that this was not _____art_____?   

Manhattan --> Brooklyn.

What people like us are capable of.

I went to a Teach For America panel last week to speak to its newest corps members about my experience in the public schools of New York. I found one panel question very interesting, simply for the fact that I rarely think about it.

Fatlind and I, June 2011.

One soon-to-be teacher asked the panel of three students--"What inspires you?" I answered first and realized that my response was automatic--"Well, my brother inspires me. He's 12 years old and he's amazing." I thought about this question long after the panel had ended and I was back in Brooklyn, taking in the Manhattan skyline from the balcony as I ate leftovers for dinner.
I realized that my statement was absolutely true--my brother does inspire me. His existence makes me want to be better, makes me expect the best and nothing less of myself, makes me want to show him exactly what people like us are capable of. But there's more that inspires me.

Gray skies with a tad bit of friendship.

I’m inspired by city lights and the calmness of night. I’m inspired by darkness and its inevitable leading into light. I’m inspired by broken down structures along the streets of Williamsburg and I know one day, they’ll dance in the sky with the other side of the East River. I’m inspired by yard sales and second hand stores and the potential for even objects to own history.





I'm inspired by the people in my life who have chosen to be a part of me. I'm inspired by educators, and much more so, educators who have changed my life and continue writing emails, who know what I'm doing, who tell me what they're doing, who plan to attend my graduation in place of those who have chosen not to be a part of me.

Add caption

I'm especially inspired by educators in New York City--those who are constantly bombarded with statistics about our schools that took a history of inequality to create and will take years and millions (of the right people) to undo, and still--they stand in front of a classroom every day and do what students need them to do most--believe and pay attention.
I'm inspired by the many that I know who work in the service of education. The people who do the behind the scenes work and spend hours trying to avoid a blow out, only to have one happen in the final hour of the day. I’m inspired by the bravery of a few people I am working with this summer—in the face of inappropriate attitudes, 9-midnight days, a system too large to function without some dysfunctionality.

Equally so, I’m inspired by my own generation. Millennials stand up—we are less stuppid and destracted then our alders think. I’m inspired by the people in my generation who I look at and think—hm, that’s a great quality to have. The people who will be the brave ones in the face of 9-midnight days that still yield upsetting phone calls from the same people that know not about the 9-midnight days. I’m inspired by my friends. I’m inspired by my bestfriends. I’m inspired by my Posse. And if you’ve just read to the bottom of my thoughts, chances are—I’m inspired by you.