Children’s Free Play and Participation in the City: A Speculative Autobiography Concerning the World it just might Create (Children: Global Posthumanist Perspectives and Materialist Theories) [1st ed. 2022] 9789811902994, 9789811903007, 9811902992

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Children: Global Posthumanist Perspectives and Materialist Theories Series Editors: Karen Malone · Marek Tesar · Sonja Arndt

Raymond Lorenzo

Children’s Free Play and Participation in the City A Speculative Autobiography Concerning the World it just might Create

Children: Global Posthumanist Perspectives and Materialist Theories Series Editors Karen Malone, Swinburne University of Technology, Hawthorn, VIC, Australia Marek Tesar, The University of Auckland, Auckland, New Zealand Sonja Arndt, The University of Waikato, Hamilton, New Zealand Editorial Board Gail Boldt, Pennsylvania State University, University Park, USA Iris Duhn, Monash University, Clayton, VIC, Australia Hillevi Lenz-Taguchi, Stockholm University, Stockholm, Sweden Linda Knight, RMIT University, Mill Park, VIC, Australia Walter Kohan, Rio de Janeiro State University, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil Peter Kraftl, University of Birmingham, Birmingham, UK Casey Meyers, Kent State University, Kent, OH, USA Pauliina Rautio, University of Oulu, Oulu, Finland Tracy Skelton, National University of Singapore, Singapore, Singapore

This book series presents original and cutting edge knowledge for a growing field of scholarship about children. Its focus is on the interface of children being in the everyday spaces and places of contemporary childhoods, and how different theoretical approaches influence ways of knowing the future lives of children. The authors explore and analyse children’s lived embodied everyday experiences and encounters with tangible objects and materials such as artefacts, toys, homes, landscapes, animals, food, and the broader intangible materiality of representational objects, such as popular culture, air, weather, bodies, relations, identities and sexualities. Monographs and edited collections in this series are attentive to the mundane everyday relationships, in-between ‘what is’ and ‘what could be’, with matters and materials. The series is unique because it challenges traditional western-centric views of children and childhood by drawing on a range of perspectives including Indigenous, Pacifica, Asian and those from the Global South. The book series is also unique as it provides a shift from developmental, social constructivists, structuralist approaches to understanding and theorising about childhood. These dominant paradigms will be challenged through a variety of post-positivist/postqualitative/posthumanist theories of being children and childhood.

More information about this series at https://link.springer.com/bookseries/15731

Raymond Lorenzo

Children’s Free Play and Participation in the City A Speculative Autobiography Concerning the World it just might Create

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Raymond Lorenzo Perugia, Italy

ISSN 2523-3408 ISSN 2523-3416 (electronic) Children: Global Posthumanist Perspectives and Materialist Theories ISBN 978-981-19-0299-4 ISBN 978-981-19-0300-7 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-0300-7 © Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2022 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are reserved by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Springer imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. The registered company address is: 152 Beach Road, #21-01/04 Gateway East, Singapore 189721, Singapore

In loving memory and gratitude, this book is dedicated to my dear friend, Mark Francis. Mark was an esteemed Landscape Architect, Professor Emeritus and Faculty Director at UC Davis who dedicated his life to creating beautiful, convivial public places for and with communities. Our friendship and collaboration began at Harvard GSD in a dark, basement editing room while we worked for three days and nights on a participatory-video we had made with a group of East Cambridge teenagers entitled “No Place to Be.” From that point on, our relationship and our career-passions, so clearly depicted by the video’s title and subjects, never let up even though our lives took us thousands of miles away from each other. No words can express how much Mark’s work, supportive acts and generous spirit have meant to me. Several years into the writing of this book, we first spoke of it at the fjord-hugging garden of paradise he had designed and built for himself and his wonderful wife, Kirsten, for retirement. As always, he was extremely supportive of my

idea and overly certain of my ability to “do a great job.” At the same time, he was working on his latest editorial project (there were so, so many he completed!!) entitled “The Childhood of Imprisonment: Restoring Childhood in America.” He planned it to be his first popular, non-academic book. He told me he had been greatly inspired by the free nature play and autonomy which was so easily observable in his Stavanger surroundings. Shortly afterwards, he abandoned the project because a popular book on exactly the same theme had been published and become a success. Knowing his work and certain that his words would have been important for children’s lives, I regretted his having made this decision, but I clearly understood that a person of Mark’s character couldn’t have done any differently. During his last years, we occasionally spoke long distance of my writing progress, and he continued to offer useful suggestions and never failed to fuel my will to persevere. A few months before his death, when my book’s publication had been assured, I sent Mark its first full draft, but he no longer possessed the energy to read it. He would never learn that in my dream world of 2043 he was alive and still enjoying short hikes with his wife in a beautiful Scandinavian landscape. Then again, maybe he does know he is in my dreams.

Series Editor’s Preface

At the time I was doing my doctoral studies in the early 1990s, Ray along with a cast of key inspiring academics including Louise Chawla, Roger Hart, Mark Francis, Colin Ward, Selim Iltus and Robin Moore was exploring deeply for the first time ever children’s lives in cities. He with the others brought rich, deep stories on how children could actively participate and contribute as citizens of cities. They shared children’s desires to change the worlds they lived in. The stories these books drew on brought color, newness and vitality to a burgeoning multidisciplinary field of children’s environments. During my time as a postdoctoral fellow in the mid-nineties on the large UNESCO project coordinated by Louise Chawla Growing up in Cities, I met Ray for the first time. He inspired me with exciting examples of methods and tools “story-telling” and “childhood memory activities” that encouraged listening to children so they could teach us things we didn’t know, didn’t feel. He argued that reminiscing on our own childhoods was never enough and was only a partial story, and the rest came from the children we would meet on the streets, those who walked into our research projects gifting us their life stories, their imagination and their determination. When I think of being with Ray, we are on a hotel roof top in Tirana, Albania, it is 2015 we are working on a UNICEF Child Friendly Cities project together. Sipping red wine in jam jars and reminiscing about our day in the streets of the capital. We spent many days searching for coffee, watching old men play chess, documenting children’s play, movements and participation in city life. When sharing our life stories, which inevitably happened after a few reds, I was always fascinated to follow his joy for transferring adventure, free play, art and nature through the lives of children into the design of urban parks and playgrounds. He opened laboratories for thinking, drawing and designing with children in cities around the world, and his laughter, wit, passion and childlike awe were always contagious. Dancing, singing being in the world, being present. When Ray told me he was writing this book some years later, I was truly fascinated at what could emerge—how he could he manifest and mold a lifetime of wonder, curiosity, passion and true activism into an autobiographical, speculative

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fiction. There is no doubt his spirit of adventure drives the story. As does Ray’s commitment to the view children “are the essential, missing ingredient in any effort to save our world”. As a work of speculative fiction overlayed within an academic life, this book takes you on a journey to consider what has and what could be. Too speculate is to form a theory or conjecture without any firm evidence. The challenge and goal of speculative fiction are to bring new knowledges and theories to our thinking while not rehearsing ideas we already know. We can do this by findings ways for imagining new events, new relations and new worlds, which could hold some truths and connections to everyday real life all the while providing the spaces to breathe and broaden possibilities. It is a curious practice, “to think with an enlarged mentality means that one trains one’s imagination to go visiting” (Hannah Arendt cited Haraway 2016). St Pierre describes post-qualitative authors as being “concerned not with what is but what is not yet, to come” (St Pierre 2021, 163). It is within a post-qualitative paradigm unfolding, writers exchange and experiment in the not yet. Story and theory here are partial possibilities for knowing, to come, with and beyond the world. What happens in the folds is what is important. Folds hide things. Some parts we can see and some we can’t—we need to speculate to imagine what might be. In Chap. 1 and every second chapter from that point, we are seduced into the world of urban spaces and particularly streets as lively vibrant stages where a theater of speculative child-lives unfolds. Streets as the terrain of social encounters and political protest, sites of domination and resistance, places of pleasure and anxiety. Streets holding spaces where difference can be celebrated, the spectacle the performance, the carnival. As sites for entertainment, where children make their own amusement, playing cricket, marbles and other games, dust settling on feet and in fingers, while adults play cards, chess and talk across fences. And there is also always the mundane, the loitering with friends, sitting and observing, reading, hanging and washing. Streets and urban spaces constantly being remade as the space where the ‘other’ as child, as dog, as tree and as concrete is offered the opportunity to express their own world making. These chapters of the child being and becoming on the streets give us insights into the pain and privilege of a life dedicated to advocating for children, listening and sharing a city through the eyes of a child. We are drawn into the story of growing up in the streets of Brooklyn, is it him, Ray his child self-growing, reflecting on how he searched the pavement for those jewels of a life becoming. We note there are multiple actors, the human-environment encounter brings liveliness, dynamism to this unravelling worlding. The curator’s analysis at the end of each chapter provides moments for clarity, the revealing of potential narratives, and lines of difference to follow are drawn for the reader. Though as to how they can connect with these unfolding characters, this is the work we must do as the reader, unknotting the entanglements of two decades. Tucked in-between the chapter folds of child-street-world becoming, we find the next chapter and every alternative one from this point forward we are drawn into a speculative future, a fictional ode to a childhood left behind with old age creeping

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like moss on cracks in the buildings. The curator speaks of her aging father over a decade starting in 2033. The steps and the streets give way to sweat, politics, passion and planning. Children imagining futures, creating futures and saving the world. Throughout the stories of child and adult, we come to know people as actors and places residing in bodies, lands and the imagination. David Abram in his sensorial writing on bodies becoming with places entices us, like Ray, to consider humans and nonhuman entities as themselves a place. Abram writes so eloquently: Our body is altered and transformed as it moves through different lands. If this is so, it is because the body is itself a kind of place—not a solid object but terrain through which things pass, and in which they sometimes settle and sediment (Abram 2010, p. 230).

When you read this book, you will find your body shifting and returning to many places. As you are walking along a narrow backstreet, you stumble along an imaginary street theater, the audience are scrambling on to makeshift wooden chairs, the actors are preparing to take to the stage, and overhead storm clouds are rumbling. The world is in crisis, your feet are wet, and the orchestra keeps playing. And you wonder how did we end up here? And can we depend on the special imaginary of children to design a different future? And this is where I will leave you and where this fascinating book by Ray Lorenzo un/folds… Hawthorn, Australia

Prof. Karen Malone Book Series Editor Children: Global Posthumanist Perspectives and Materialist Theories

References Abram, D. (2010). Becoming Animal. UK: Taylor and Francis Publishing Group. Haraway, D. (2016). Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. St Pierre, E. (2021). Why post qualitative inquiry. Qualitative Inquiry, 27(2), 163–166.

Acknowledgments

To Luciana—my wife, friend and love of life—for putting up with my disorganization, long hours writing and crazy stories and for all she’s taught me about children and pedagogy. To Viviana and Davide, my architect children, who have come to share my passion (and to possess their own fine competencies and knowledge) concerning place and participation. And, of course, to their wonderful children (my ‘nipotin*), whose spirit and energies help to keep the child within me alive, and who, I pray, will live a future which resembles the one I’ve imagined in this book—of course, without its apocalyptic precedent. To my immigrant ancestors and my large extended family whose love and teachings formed my character and spirit and, certainly, ignited the spark which led me to return to live in the land of my origins. To my first real friends on 71st Street in Brooklyn who shared the many childhood experiences, adventures and mishaps which inhabit these pages … and which, probably, taught me more than any book or school. I want to acknowledge the dear Maestri-friends who inspired me over the years. In particular, I am indebted to Florence Ladd, Simon Nicholson, Carlo Pagliarini and Marcello Piccardo. I also want to thank the dear friend-colleagues with whom I’ve shared many long hours and days of enriching conversation and work in favor of children and participation: Roger Hart, Selim Iltus, Jeff Bishop, Martin Koeppl, Annalisa Rossi-Cairo and all my friends at ABCittà. Finally, I acknowledge and mourn my dear friend, Mark Francis, who left this world during the book’s final phases and to whom it can only be dedicated. The reader will come to know, in varying degrees, most of the above within the pages of this publication. Ultimately, it is only fitting that I thank my dear friend and colleague, Karen Malone the series editor, for believing in this ‘crazy project’ and for creating the opportunity for its being published. As you will read in the following pages, I (and Vinnie) never thought that the project would find a publisher “… certainly, not a prestigious academic one.”

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Introduction

Even for me, the author, this is an difficult book to explain. Essentially, it comprises two distinct while interrelated storylines: the first is a partially fictionalized autobiography centered on the value of free play in children and in my own personal and professional development; the second is a post-apocalypse, speculative autobiography stretching on into an imagined utopian future. The fact that the text has been published by Springer, a scientific-academic Editor, necessitated its being ‘upgraded’ with the insertion of brief analytical comments at the end of each chapter and extensive bibliographic references to the themes (and authors) treated throughout the two stories. What I had imagined, upon finishing its first rough draft, as a ‘popular novel’ or even a ‘film script’ had become something totally different. Since the text changed forms several times during its creation, I think it useful here to offer the readers an idea as to why I originally began writing it, and just how the progressive socio-political (de)evolution of world events (in the last decade) affected my spirit and intentions and, eventually, transformed the book into what it now is. I began writing a first portion of what would become the book twenty-five years ago. At that time, I was very active in the worldwide movement for Child Friendly Cities. Over the years, I had made use of “story telling” and “participatory childhood-memory exercises” in training workshops and seminars to evoke deep emotions in participants and to facilitate their understanding of the importance of children’s free play and active participation in everyday environments. The method worked very well, but it became quickly evident that such vital experiences were becoming increasingly rare in contemporary society. Convinced that the richness and quality of my own childhood adventures had strongly influenced my personal and professional approaches and ethics, I began to jot down select episodes from my early life which I would often utilize in seminars to provoke critical thinking regarding free play, place-making, collaboration, peer-learning, etc., in various stages of childhood. I had no intention of publishing this collection of stories, since many authors had already published (auto)biographies praising the ‘joys of growing up in Brooklyn’ in the early and mid-twentieth century. There being no need for more of the same—nostalgic, romantic Brooklyn-born writers were already a multitude—I put the collection aside and forgot about it. xiii

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Introduction

Around 2010, a swing to the right in Italian politics resulted in a reduction in public interest and funding for projects regarding the rights, well-being and participation of children. What is more, the prevailing free-market ‘culture’ of individualism, consumerism and urban speculation was seriously undermining our previously successful efforts in making cities more livable for children. Nearing retirement, I reduced my professional (often, pro-bono) activities to small-scale, local participatory place-making initiatives with communities and children. To all effects, I had returned to my ‘roots’—to the origins of my first fields of action and study. I then began to reflect on my earliest ‘research’ experiences, re-reading and drawing upon those mentors, maestri and schools-of-thought which had most influenced my work: the early schools of human-environment studies and futurology, utopian and communitarian-anarchist thinkers and de-schoolers and de-institutionalizers. These were, above all, radical advocates of children’s special capacities. I was re-living a sort of “re-edition of 1968” … and my thoughts, naturally, turned to the profound effects which the events and encounters of those tumultuous years had had on my own professional choices. Sadly, over the years, many of my mentors and colleagues had passed away. So, in order to overturn the dictum that “the good die young” or, an Italian might say, “l’erba cattiva non muore mai,”1 I initiated a ‘crazy project’ to resurrect my lost allies and friends through writing their voices and spirit into the future. The first tiny seeds of a new editorial idea were sown. Then, in 2016, with the election of Trump, my faltering optimism took a deep downslide. Not only the US of A, but the entire world appeared to be in a steady downward spiral. Politicians and the establishment media utilized the real (and imaginary) threats of terrorism—and of ‘different others’—to propagate fear. Meanwhile, new and old international tensions and conflicts were pushing the world ever so closer to ‘a nuclear option.’ With increasing regularity, our environment was violently demonstrating its anger for centuries of mistreatment by human institutions and powers. While scientists and a vast majority of concerned citizens, at long last, recognized the Climate Crisis as real, many politicians and their profit-motivated supporters persisted in denying reality and continued business-as-usual with the occasional green washing. The massive, worldwide movements of resistance to so many of society’s wrongs were heartening but, I feared, not enough. I, like so many others, began to see a black hole on the horizon. Fueled by what Alvin Toffler called a “Future Shock,” my writing strategy took a change once again. It was now evident that a greater Spirit of Hope needed to be injected into my narrative. At that point, I (re)turned to the utopian spark which had characterized my earliest works. These were the projects in which Simon Nicholson and I had promoted and facilitated children’s participation in imagining and creating Futures. We did this, in all truth, because we firmly believed that children— who, by their nature, desire and strive “to be somewhere else,” “to see something

“The crabgrass never dies”.

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Introduction

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different” and “to make something better”2—could help adults create more livable cities and a safer tomorrow. At that point, I decided that my narrative should, above all, let the children speak and make the adult-world listen to them. Through the use of the extensive visual and audio documentation from our various “Futures Projects,” I felt it necessary to share the essential wisdoms of the ‘simple’ ideas and projects which children had generously offered us over the decades. I wanted to demonstrate that they—the children—are the essential, missing ingredient in any effort to save our world. This is admittedly an enormous and crazy agenda, but I sincerely hope that this book may, in some small way, make a difference. I like to imagine that the children’s marvelous words and projects—which represent, for me, the most important elements of the book—can serve to inspire young professionals, academics and parents whose responsibilities impact directly the quality of children’s lives and might influence their efforts and approaches—in the ways they did mine. If this miracle were to occur, as Ernst Bloch had written: “… then something will come (sic) into being in the world that shines into everyone’s childhood and where no one has yet been—home.”3

2

Bloch, Ernst (1986) The Principle of Hope. Translated by Neville Plaice, Stephen Plaice and Paul Knight. Cambridge, Massachusetts: The MIT Press. 3 Bloch in Jack Zipes, Breaking the Magic Spell: Radical Theories of Folk and Fairy Tales (London: Heinemann, 1979), p. 129.

Introductory Note from the Future by the (Fictional) Curator

I assumed an exciting and emotional job in organizing, editing and annotating the two distinct manuscripts by my late father, Vinnie Telesca, which comprise the book you are holding in your hands. For personal and professional factors, which are too numerous to list here, this was not a simple task. I fear that navigating its pages and parts, and deciphering the multiple strands and layers of meaning which the author implied may be an equally trying challenge for you, the reader. So, on the publisher’s suggestion, I have included a reasoned abstract of each chapter under its opening photo, and a “Curator’s Analysis” with bibliographical references at each conclusion to facilitate the book’s use in academic, or other co-learning, settings. I want the reader to understand that my father never expected either of these distinct manuscripts to be published and, certainly, not together and in the present format.4 He long doubted the possibility of my finding any publisher—and, especially, an academic one—interested in disseminating his writings. At a late stage in his life, he had lost all faith in what he usually referred to as “(m)Academia,” and he was certain that his free and faulty writing style and his “non-scientific approach to research” would never receive its approval. Nevertheless, he patiently supported my decade-long “pipe dream” (Nb. these are his exact words) of delivering his thoughts to any audience beyond his young friends in the Housing Coop. Shortly before his passing, when we had received a positive response from the Company which would eventually publish the work, Papà took my hand and thanked me for my efforts in achieving what he considered an ‘impossibly crazy endeavor.’ On my part, the process of reorganizing and honing his thoughts into a publishable composite form will always remain, above all, a labor of love. On the subject of love … after my father’s death, the publisher agreed to my writing a short opening chapter which we entitled “Epilogue as Prologue.” It is the only part of the ‘story’ which was not written by the author. My intention, here, was At best, my father imagined this work becoming an unknown “post-Utopian novel read, perhaps, by teenagers, disillusioned city-planning students, progressive parents and decrepit, old radical professionals like myself.” On his more optimistic days, he mused that “maybe, it just might make a better movie or television series (were they to still exist)”.

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Introductory Note from the Future by the (Fictional) Curator

to intimately introduce his persona within the context and atmosphere of the stories which follow. I did this in the spirit of the love and respect which my father always demonstrated for his neighborhood, family and friends, work and for all children. This short account is based on a particular day in 2045—one of the last I had the pleasure of spending with him. In conclusion, I think I can say that this publication is probably unlike any other you will have read. I sincerely hope that the readers—academic and none—will experience in its pages some inkling of the pleasure and wonder which my father always experienced in his professional endeavors. “Never stop playing!” he would exclaim and often add in closing, “… and keep the child inside you alive, forever.” Faithful to his part of that bargain, he continued to seek out (and, as you will discover, to sprinkle throughout this publication) what Ernst Bloch5 once called “wonder-arousing questions.” These essential queries are commonly raised by children. Later in life, unfortunately, they become much less frequent … but when they do appear, they are all the more instructive and worthwhile. I am certain that Papà would have been very pleased were this book to succeed in re-attuning the readers’ ears to the nearly silent, “wonder-arousing” questions in the ordinary everyday which surrounds them. Nyack-on-Hudson, USA May 2046

5

Bloch, Ernst. A Philosophy of the Future.

Bibbiana Telesca-Grandi Coordinator Eco-Resilience Action Research Hub

Epilogue as Prologue (May 2046)

In an unpublished script which my father had jokingly entitled “Leaving Brooklyn? Fuggedabboudit!” he wrote: “We, Brooklynites, are deeply embedded in very local places and folklore. Most times, our own stories are informed and inspired by uncountable tales, told and retold by people we have known or have ‘heard about’. Our tales are, almost always, stretched to the limits of myth or historical absolutism. We also have a tendency to revisit and reinvent our (hi)stories to get a better hold on the Past, and to think about the Future. We do this, I hold, to imagine another Future which hopefully will bear better places and times - just like my neighborhood, just around the mid-point of the 20th Century.” xix

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Epilogue as Prologue (May 2046)

It has been nearly 13 years since the old man had returned home. Turned ninety-six in April and near the end of his days, he is enjoying the view and the small voices from the courtyard and the street, on his small balcony on the fifth floor. In the last months, this has been his only pastime … perhaps, his sole purpose in life. A first ray of sunlight cuts through the early morning mist and warms his knotty browned hands, at rest on the honeysuckle entwined, night-blue balustrade. This contrast of colors calls to mind another place and another time. In a distant corner of his mind, he hears familiar music and sees a tiny room, a wall of night-lit tenement windows and a wrinkled, brown notebook. Just as quickly as the image comes, it is gone. He instinctively reaches for the hand of his daughter for reassurance and stability. He gazes up, and his glance is drawn—as it always is—between the buildings and out towards the sparkling blue-green, liquid horizon. He squints his tired eyes to make out the glistening filigree of the wall of fog nets along that boardwalk which he knows so well. He wonders how much water will have been collected at the end of the day. He hopes, fervently, that today’s harvest will be plentiful since the nets are an important irrigation source for the Children’s Peace Grove which his little friends from the housing coop planted, it must be now, eight or nine years ago. Slowly and with difficulty, he sits down at a small red table and takes a sip of the coffee which his young friend and neighbor, Lele, prepares for him every day now. The old man is surprised and heartened to find the delicious espresso still warm. “What a pleasure this continues to be,” he says aloud with ‘gusto.’ The warm morning sun feels good. It soothes his mood and strengthens his will to persevere, and this is fine. Because, today his intention is to finally fulfill his promise to his daughter. Today, he will scroll through the many pages of the large and difficult editorial project she has been working on, day and night, over the last four years. When he is done, he is more than certain that he will give her his approval to send it off to the publisher. He already knows that she, as always, will have done an excellent job. It amazes him that his carissima figlia (oh, he loves her!) had continued to hold onto an enduring, double illusion that goes way back … at least a decade before ‘The End.’ Firstly, she has always thought that his self-declared “simple and confusing” thoughts could serve to further advance their field. Whatever that field might be, nowadays. And secondly, she continues to believe that there is still someone out there, other than herself, who would actually want to read what he often refers to as the “verbose meanderings of an old romantic, senile man.” Well, it turned out that she was correct … the Publisher now awaits the definitive draft. He still can’t fully fathom how she had managed to combine his two crazily disjointed manuscripts and to include so many old, faded life-illustrations into one book, but he has never lost his faith in her ability to do so. He knows she still has a lot to do. This regards especially the Publisher’s requirement that she include an ample appendix with all the necessary, relevant scientific and cultural references which underpin the book’s contents. This is something that he would never have

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been willing, or able, to do. In any case, he is sure the final product will be a grand pleasure to touch, see and—he hopes—read. His sole regret is that, surely, he will no longer be around to do so. He recalls that he had originally begun nurturing the ‘diary’ portion of the manuscript, essentially, to keep the rusty cogs in his old, demoralized head rolling and to hold onto his life (and its stories). But as time passed, in all truth, he had continued to struggle to keep up that arduous practice—with every ounce of energy he could muster—exclusively to leave a loving testimonial of his thoughts on “Post 2022” Brooklyn for his daughter, his son and their marvelous children and grandchildren. Now, thanks to the hard-headed perseverance of Bibbiana, others will be able to read his words and (he prays it not be necessary) to take heed of his warning should our situation ever change for the worse. It’s been over a year since he last opened his computer, ever since the terrible day he awoke to find that he no longer possessed the love of life, the will power and the stamina to continue his writing. Now that his days are relentlessly drawing to a close, he understands that the last reasonable—and, he hopes, feasible—act remaining him is to skim over the entire text, as best he can, and just send the whole thing off to his daughter. Then, he will finally shut down his old wreck of a computer for the last time … and rest. He’ll place one last, unlit cigarette between his lips, close his eyes and drift off into a long, deep sleep. Maybe, he’ll go home once again. Maybe, once upon a time. Maybe, twice upon a place.

Contents

Part I

A New Home … Awakening

Little Child: Microcosms in Expansion … Asking “Why?” . Moving Day (May 4, 1952) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Going Up the Country (July 1, 1953) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hey, Little Magellan, You Can Go Home Again (May 15, 1954) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.4 Gazing Down on the Street, an Evening Reverie (July 3, 1955) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Curator’s Analysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References and Suggestions for Further Reading . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Child: Free Play, Friendship and Learning . . . . . . . . . . . . . When the Snow Falls (March 18, 1956) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A Cruel God on the Block (October, 1957–September, 1958) . The Power of ‘If’ (May 18, 1958) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ants in the USA versus Russia Space Race (June 21–July 2, 1958) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Curator’s Analysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References and Suggestions for Further Reading . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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1 The 1.1 1.2 1.3

2 The Old Man: Getting Grounded … and Remembering ‘Why’ 2.1 Back to Brooklyn (April 30, 2033) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.2 Should I Stay or Should I Go? (May 6, 2033) . . . . . . . . . . . 2.3 An Ecology of Imagination (May 17, 2033) . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.4 An Endless, Empty Sunday Afternoon (May 23, 2033) . . . . . 2.5 A Creature of the Streets (June 15, 2033) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Curator’s Analysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References and Suggestions for Further Reading . . . . . . . . . . . . . Part II 3 The 3.1 3.2 3.3 3.4

A New Street … Exploring and Bonding

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xxiv

Contents

4 The 4.1 4.2 4.3

Old Man: Getting Around and Recuperating Commitment . Snapshots and Thoughts on the Streets of Napoli (July 2033) . Snow and the ‘Theory of Loose Parts’ (March 16, 2034) . . . . Power and Bureaucracy Versus Children’s Rights to Play (April–May, 2034) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.4 Play and Danger in the Kazak Dust (June 20, 2034) . . . . . . . . 4.5 A Light Show Over the Looming Towers (July 5, 2034) . . . . Curator’s Analysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References and Suggestions for Further Reading . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Part III

... 95 ... 96 . . . 105 . . . . .

. . . . .

109 121 131 133 135

A New Community: Encountering, Reflecting and Taking Part

5 The Boy: Growing Up and Out into the ‘World Beyond the Hood’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.1 Expanding One’s Horizons and Building Bridges to the World (1960–1964) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.2 It’s a Small World? (July 16, 1964) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.3 New Music Under the City and in the Air Above (April 30, 1966) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Curator’s Analysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References and Suggestions for Further Reading . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 The Old Man: Interweaving the Past, Present and Future 6.1 Intercultural Conversations (July 14–15, 2034) . . . . . . . 6.2 Coney Island and a Hotdog-Induced Subway Reverie (September 6, 2034) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6.3 I Never Liked Those Two Towers. Did You? (Sept. 11, 2035) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Curator’s Analysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References and Suggestions for Further Reading . . . . . . . . . Part IV

. . . . .

. . 139 . . 140 . . 150 . . 167 . . 186 . . 188

. . . . . . . . 189 . . . . . . . . 190 . . . . . . . . 209 . . . . . . . . 224 . . . . . . . . 231 . . . . . . . . 232

A New World: Investigating, Visioning, Engaging and Creating

7 The Young Man: Walking Through the Shadows . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7.1 Walking (with my Head) in the Clouds (December 1–2, 1969) (Investigating Professional and Scientific ‘Objectivity’) . . . . . . . 7.2 On the Road West and Back to the Northern Lights (June, 1970) (a Fractured Nation: Engagement and a New Ecology) . . . . . . . 7.3 Days of Rage, Research and Resurrection (April–May, 1971) (A Fractured Nation: Engagement and a New Awareness) . . . . Curator’s Analysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References and Suggestions for Further Reading . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . 237 . . 238 . . 269 . . 324 . . 350 . . 351

Contents

8 The Old Man: Reaching for the Light . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8.1 On Aging and the Power of Children’s Imagination (May 1, 2036) (Children Imagining Futures) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8.2 A New Waterfront and City: Children, Nature and Our Futures (May 20, 2037) (Children Creating Futures) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8.3 Children’s Free Play Can Save Our World (March—May, 2043) (The Mystery Resolved, a Belief Confirmed) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Curator’s Analysis and Conclusions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References and Suggestions for Further Reading . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

xxv

. . 353 . . 354 . . 372 . . 398 . . 429 . . 432

Brief Conclusive Notes from the ‘Real’ Author . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 435

Part I

A New Home … Awakening

Chapter 1

The Little Child: Microcosms in Expansion … Asking “Why?”

“Hold childhood in reverence, and do not be in any hurry to judge it for good or ill...Give nature time to work before you take over her business”. —Jean-Jacques Rousseau. “Children have real understanding only of that which they invent themselves.” —Jean Piaget.

© Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2022 R. Lorenzo, Children’s Free Play and Participation in the City, Children: Global Posthumanist Perspectives and Materialist Theories, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-0300-7_1

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1 The Little Child: Microcosms in Expansion … Asking “Why?”

Moving Day (May 4, 1952)

A young child inhabits two complimentary and interrelated worlds. The first, for convenience, we will call the child’s ‘real world.’ It is composed of two parts: their home (or domestic) environment which comprises intimate relationships with family members and close friends, and with the spaces, objects and other living beings which contain or inhabit the child’s everyday experiences; and the nearby, outdoor (or public) environment of the neighborhood where (in the best of cases) the child first encounters, and learns to manage, that which is ‘unknown’ or ‘foreign.’ Over time, ideally, this second realm will evolve to contain familiar and cared-for places with people and things/beings the child knows. A second “unreal” world exists in the child’s imagination. It is populated by personages and beings, places and powers which can originate in the mind of the child and/or are, more often than not, sparked and fueled by the stories of others. Our story’s protagonist is shown above with his aunt on the private-public threshold of his family’s first home. They are waiting to begin the journey to the Vinnie’s new home and neighborhood. His ‘real world’ caretakers and his imaginative powers assist him in assimilating the ‘move’ and, ideally, they work to attenuate the, often, traumatic effects of relocation from a well-known home and community to a new, unknown place.

1.1 Moving Day (May 4, 1952)

5

“Impossible?! What do you mean by ‘impossible’?” A loud question mark pushed its way through the shadowy wrappings of a shattered afternoon nap. Marco rubbed his sleep-smudged eyes, dragged himself towards a sliver of light leaking through the fissure of the bedroom door and tried to make out the answer to his father’s ear-splitting query. An unfamiliar, gentle voice responded. Its soothing, syncopated musical lilt caressed his ears and mesmerized him. “All your appurtenances just won’t fit into our rig, Chief. I’m sorry, Mr. Telesca, but the chinaware and the other delicate doo-dahs will have to find another vector. I don’t want to compromise the task at hand. That’s our problem – that’s what’s impossible - in a nutshell, Sir. I’m sorry but a deal is a deal … between gentlemen.” In the living room, the mover-man shook Domenico Telesca’s hand. Marco was now fully awake. In a flash, he recalled what day it was. Today was his last day in the small, dumbbell apartment which had been home to him for his entire life—all five years of it. Today was moving day. He picked up a little pink ball and began to bounce it off the beige wall. He thought to himself, “Tonight, I’m going to sleep in my own, big room … in a real house.” Yes, their new home would be—at long last—a real house just like the houses he had seen in his picture books. It had two floors, three bedrooms, a basement, a backyard with a flowering peach tree and a front porch with a high stoop. It was located on a tree-lined street of similar, pretty row-houses. The new home was in another neighborhood, only ten blocks away, but in his young mind it might as well have been on the other side of the ocean. He understood that it would take a pretty long walk to reach his cousins, aunts and uncles, and friends from the old apartment-block. By his measure, it was far away from all those who had populated his and his younger brother’s everyday-life up until this pivotal day. “Hey Vinnie, get up! It’s moving day!” Instinctively, little Vinnie extended his skinny arm beneath the warm pillow. He searched for the old, faded-red matchbox truck which he and Marco had unearthed, months before, in the backyard of their soon-to-be home. They had found it along with other buried treasures from a long-gone era, from another world. They had also recovered a green bubbled-glass medicine vial and a rusty key, too big to fit in Vinnie’s hand. Most special, and most scary of all, was a length of thick chain which they imagined had once shackled the ankle of an “indentured servant”— whatever that was—back in the “old days” when the battered gray, wooden farmhouse on the corner had been the only building for miles around. At least that’s what Uncle Rocco, famous for his tall tales, had told his favorite nephews. Their uncle had recounted that story on the portentous day that the brothers— together with daddy, mommy, Rocco and his wife, Emma—had visited the still-in-construction, red brick house for the first time. It was the same day that their parents had made the decision to purchase the place and move their family out of the old neighborhood. Tonight, that place would be their home. Vinnie was excited and, at the same time, anxious and sad. “Hey, Vinnie! Did you hear what that man said? He said there’s not enough room in his truck for some of our stuff. I sure hope your toys will fit, but I don’t think they will.” Marco teased Vinnie, the way he always did.

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1 The Little Child: Microcosms in Expansion … Asking “Why?”

“My toys!! And the goldfish bowl? Huh, but what about Omar Khayam? Will we have to leave OK and his big bowl behind with Aunt Emma? I don’t want to do that!” “Nah, I’m only kidding. Don’t worry about OK. Mommy said we’ll take him over in Uncle Bruno’s car. And cousin Butch has already brought all of our toys over to the new house. He said that he always takes care of the most important stuff. He said he might forget the chairs or kitchen table, but never the Lincoln Logs, the Erector Set and, most important of all, the magic electric box with all those lights, and buttons, and switches which Uncle Rocco made for you and me. Don’t worry, Vinnie, everything’s going to be all right.” In fact, everything—all their important stuff—had been already stored away in their basement playroom, in the new house. Reassured that his toys and beloved goldfish were safe, Vinnie wasn’t even listening to Marco anymore. He was pulling on his short pants while peeking under his side of the bed. He was looking for “Monk,” his little elf-friend. That tiny imp had sworn he would be ready at 4 o’clock. But now he wasn’t anywhere to be seen! The trickster was never there when he said he would be, and then he’d always pop up somewhere else when Vinnie least expected him! “Monk’s probably already over at the new house. Maybe, he’s up in that big peach tree or down in the basement, snooping through our boxes of stuff. I bet he’s hiding my toys.” “You just can’t trust Monk,” Vinnie thought as he skittered into the last-day confusion of the living room. “McCarthy! That guy’s a bastard!” Aunt Emma’s voice boomed from the kitchen. “I saw his fat, sweaty mug on the TV last night. He was accusing everybody, and their uncles, of being a Communist … Better dead than red??!! Ma che capisc’ quell’1? Not one of us girls down in the garment district would have even listened to that bum, 20 years ago. We would have spat in his fat, greasy face! Puttuu!” Uncle Bruno grimaced. “Emma, now you just take it easy. I was only saying that the Commies, I think, are a real threat. Yeah, I know them Russians helped us with the Nazis in Europe, but now things have changed. And Senator McCarthy, I mean he’s a Senator, and he’s on some pretty important committees. So, he must know what he’s talking about. If he says there are Reds in the Army, we gotta believe him. And we gotta get rid of them! They could get access to our secrets, to our armories and to who knows what else. We don’t want any of that stuff leaking out. I bet Dom agrees with me.” Don’t you, Dom?” He added. The boys’ father raised his eyes towards the ceiling, shrugged and then glanced towards his wife. The mover-man intervened with a spirited, and soothing, voice: “Excuse me, sir. I was talking about the same question with ‘Signora’ Emma here – oh, I sure love that Italian lingo. Up in our neck of the woods, in East New 1

“What does that guy know?” (Translation from Italian).

1.1 Moving Day (May 4, 1952)

7

York, we are also getting really nervous. I told her that just last week the Feds paid a visit to our Union Hall, and they put heavy heat on my buddy, Ralph. He’s a real solid, honest fellow. He never fails to talk up, and stand up for our rights as workers … and as human beings.” Vinnie crouched, unobserved and out of sight, behind the lonely, canvas-covered form which had been the family couch. Along with four cardboard cartons and Omar Khayam’s bowl, these were the only personal items left in the empty apartment. Vinnie felt lost in the vacuum of the familiar place, yet he couldn’t take his eyes off the tall, thin black man who held the floor. His ears were riveted by the melody and rhythm of the tall man’s words, and by the smooth and mellow music of his speech. And the man was so, so black. It appeared as if he were made out of coal. Just like the black coal down in the dark boiler room. Vinnie knew a few other Negroes. There was Mr. Johnny, the apartment super, and his two children, Marcus and Melissa, who lived in the basement apartment by the boiler room. They were Negroes, but they were nowhere near as black as this man. Their skin was a light chocolate color and even Vinnie himself, in the summer months at least, was as dark as, or even darker than, Melissa. But this fellow was black as night, black as the coal that Mr. Johnny shoveled into the boiler. Skin color must be a problem for Melissa and her family, and Vinnie understood it, because it was a problem for him, too. Marco, and some other kids, would often tease him. Once his brother had said: ‘You’re so dark, you know you don’t look Italian to me. I have to tell you, Daddy said you come from Korea. He told me that cousin Teddy Boy found you there during the war, and he took you home when his stay was up, and then mommy and daddy adopted you.” For a time, Vinnie believed that story. But when his mother had heard of Marco’s terrible teasing, she told her oldest son that his story was cruel and untrue and had set things straight. Sometimes, Vinnie worried anyway about his origins. He was thinking how, at night when the nightlight was turned off, Monk had whispered softly in his ear: “Don’t take it so hard, pal, Marco’s just pulling your leg. You just get tan a lot in the summer. Lots of us do. Marco’s jealous, that’s all, because you’re mommy’s little pet.” Once again, the mover-man’s special voice drew the little boy’s wandering mind back into the hollow room. “Hate to interrupt our fine conversation here, but it’s getting late. We got to put this last big piece on the truck and get rolling. Hey Tom, give me a hand with the couch.” “It’s been a pleasure talking with you, Mam, and with all you fine folks. We’ll meet up at the new house, Mr. Telesca, let’s say in about a half hour. Is somebody there, already, to let us in?” Aunty Emma replied: “Yes, my son-in-law should be there by now. He brought the children’s toys over in his Buick. You know he’s a trucker, like you. He’ll give you a hand. What was it … Mr. Nigel, right?”. “That’s correct, Mam. Well, if you and your teamster son-in-law ever get up to East New York, please drop by our Union Hall. You’ll be our guests for some good,

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1 The Little Child: Microcosms in Expansion … Asking “Why?”

strong coffee and delicious island-style corn bread. Good luck in your new home, Mr. and Mrs. Telesca and you little ones, too.” Vinnie’s presence had been revealed when Nigel and Tom lifted the couch away from the wall and, with that, Mr. Nigel gently placed his large, strong hand on Vinnie’s head and with the other he guided his end of the couch out the doorway. As he walked towards the door, the man spoke softly, in a comforting voice, “Don’t worry little fellow, you’re not moving so far away. It’s just down the street. It’s not another world like the one I experienced when my family moved up north from the islands. Jamaica, my birthplace, was a tropical paradise. You couldn’t find a building that was over two stories high and it had bone-white beaches with palm trees everywhere. New York City really dealt a cold blow to my young heart, but I got over it quickly because I met a lot of loving, helpful people, you know. They got me through it. You’ll be fine. And remember always, my son, that happiness is not in another place, but in this place. It is not for another hour, but for this hour.”2 Vinnie relaxed, and for the first time that day, he felt at peace. The two sisters went to the window and watched the two black men load the couch into the van and then followed the small truck as it pulled away down 63rd Street into the setting sun. The bright red letters on the small, dark brown truck’s side panel shown in the harsh afternoon light: Freedom Couriers “We Move the People”

“Nice name.” The boys’ mother murmured, and Aunt Emma nodded her head in agreement. Uncle Bruno grimaced breathlessly and carefully lifted the well-packed porcelain. With a jerk of his head, he signaled to Dom to grab another smaller carton and follow him down to his automobile. After three trips down and up the stairs, their uncle’s night-blue Dodge was filled to the brim. While the men had been lugging the last boxes to the car, Marco and Vinnie, with a little help from their mother, got washed and dressed and were ready to make their final exit from the only home they had ever known. Vinnie felt a strange, empty sensation deep down in his stomach, something he had never felt before. He glanced around the barren living room as his mother gently took his and his brother’s upstretched hands and led them towards the door. Aunt Emma walked behind them with the goldfish bowl safely nestled in her strong arms. Wait a minute, mommy. I wanna look some more and … and I wanna remember the smells, too. Vinnie walked slowly from room to room, sniffing the air as he went along. In the kitchen, he squeezed under the sink and savored the damp, bitter aroma; near an open window he drew in the scratchy odor of coal-dust; in the front-hall closet, he paused 2

Whitman, Walt (1959) Leaves of Grass. The Viking Press, New York.

1.1 Moving Day (May 4, 1952)

9

and hesitated because the familiar smell of lavender—which he loved so much—was now almost gone. As his mother locked the front door and they stood together in the hall way, Vinnie crunched up his nose and declared in his little-boy, solemn voice, “I never liked this smell, Mommy. Cabbage, yuck!” “Shush.” She whispered. “We don’t want Mrs. O’Reilly hearing you.” Down on the street, Dom sat up front in the car nervously tapping his feet with a bulky carton on his lap, and Bruno stood calmly by the open door on the driver’s side, nursing his cigarette. “You girls take your time, now. It’s such a beautiful day for a slow walk down 11th avenue. And maybe the kids would like to stop at Al’s Candy Store on the corner, for some ice cream before you take off. I bet it’s hard for you little guys to leave the block. You’ll need some consolation, and I think a little sweet stuff should do the trick. Why don’t you get yourselves an egg cream or some nickel nips, or anything you might want. It’s on me … here’s a quarter.” “Thanks, Uncle Bruno!!” The boys chided in unison. “Stop it, Bruno. You’re always spoiling my boys. But I guess you’re right, it is a special day for them.” “Ah, Dom, it won’t hurt ‘em. I’ll bet there are some nice candy shops down in your new neighborhood, too. Don’t worry kids, in Brooklyn you’re never very far from a corner sweet-shop or an egg cream. The problem’s gonna’ be the cold cuts, Dom. Where you gonna’ get the soprassata3?!! There are too many Micks down in that neck of the woods. And all they eat is baloney and corned beef.” The boys’ aunt came to the rescue and blocked Bruno before he could go any further. Don’t worry, boys! I saw lots of nice grocery stores and vegetable shops down near your new house. What’s more, there’s a hilly park a couple of blocks away, and the Fortway Movie Theater is even nearer than it is to here. You’ll see. it’s gonna be real fun on your new block, and you’ll both make some new friends. And besides you’re not so far from here, you know. We’ll see each other, for sure, as often as we do now. Well, let’s get going. We don’t want Butch to have to wait too long. Vinnie had been savoring and, at the same time, fearing the idea of making the long walk to his new home. He had been thinking about this moment ever since he’d made the trip that first time, over a month ago. Now, his new adventure was about to begin. ****************************************** The journey to his new home didn’t turn out to be the grand adventure Vinnie had expected it to be. For one thing, he immediately discovered that he wouldn’t be walking since the lack of space for the cartons in Uncle Bruno’s car had altered the logistics of the family’s trip.

3

A type of Southern Italian dry pork sausage.

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1 The Little Child: Microcosms in Expansion … Asking “Why?”

“Get in the carriage, honey. You have an important job to do, now. You have to hold on very tight to the goldfish bowl. We have to carry OK down to our new house. You be careful, please.” “Nah, mommy … I’m too big now. I don’t fit in this carriage anymore. I can walk there, like I did the last time.” Unfortunately, it was no use arguing. Vinnie ended up in the juggernaut stroller with the glass bowl jammed between his skinny, bare legs. Marco teased him, but their mother saw to it that he didn’t get too far with that either. When they reached the corner, the sun was beaming down 11th avenue, and Vinnie squinted his eyes to shield the harsh rays reflecting off the surface of the bowl he held steadily between his legs. He felt out-of-place in the narrow crevice of his out-grown carriage. As the group walked on, the boy’s imagination took hold. He soared up into the sky, and he began to think about Eagle Eye, the mythical Indian chief of radio fame, with his special powers of super vision. Like a great bald eagle gliding over the Great Plains, the brave warrior could see things that were invisible to the other members of his tribe. He knew his territory well, and he could ‘see’ its future because he had the power to raise his spirit above the earth’s surface and beyond the obvious and—high in the clouds—he was able to capture a holistic vision of all that was and all that could be for himself and for his people. “Maybe I can do that, too” Vinnie pondered while his mom and aunt continued chattering about the everyday ‘eye–talian’ produce on view in Mastelloni’s shop window on the corner. They argued about what would or wouldn’t be available in the stores in their new neighborhood, just eight blocks down the avenue. “Mastelloni has the best provolone and Italian cold cuts around. No doubt about it!”. Emma insisted. Her husband, Uncle Rocco, in his best Sunday outfit—fedora hat and cigar in a hand—crossed 11th Avenue from his eternal corner, his open-air club house outside Al’s Candy Store. He left his street buddies huddled around the Motorola loud speaker which was spewing a running commentary of the final innings of the New York Giant’s game out into the street, at full-volume … for all to hear. “How’s the game going, honey?”. “We’re gonnà win it, for sure. That new guy, Willie Mays, he’s as black as a starless night - not that I don’t love him - just hit another home run. Like the people say, he’s the real ‘Say Hey Kid’! It’s 4 to 2, and it’s the last inning. The Cubs ain’t got a chance. I put five bucks on the game … so let’s hope so, anyways. What are you gals up to? Shouldn’t you and Lil be getting over to the new place? Butch, Dom, Bruno and the movers should be there waiting there by now. I’ll be over in time for supper. And, don’t worry, I won’t forget to get the paper plates, and I’ll bring the beers and some soda pop for the kids.” “Always thinking about your “panza4”, huh? In fact, we were just talking about all the good stuff Mastelloni’s sells. It’s a shame he’s closed on Sunday afternoon. Anyway, I’m sure that some square-head, Agnostic deli will be open in Lil’s new

4

“Stomach” (from Neapolitan).

1.1 Moving Day (May 4, 1952)

11

neighborhood. We’ll stop on the way down. But I’m sorry Babe, I don’t think I’ll find any soprassata.5” “Yeah, and they ain’t got no hot and sweet pickled peppers either. Throw them over some pork chops and it’s – like I always say – better than going out with girls.” Rocco retorted with a wink. “There he goes again, Emma! You’re just going to have to settle for ham, Swiss cheese and some pickles, Rocco. So put your Italian glutton’s soul to ease. Tomorrow’s always another day.” The boys’ mom laughed. Marco jumped into the conversation. Hey, Uncle Rocco, we got a quarter. Uncle Bruno gave it to us. Could you get us something good from Al’s candy shop, huh? Please, a Zi’.6” “Sure. Whaddayuh want? A couple of ice cream cones wouldn’t be so bad, huh?” “Yeah. Get strawberry for me and chocolate chip for Vinnie. And, maybe, could you get us some Nickel Nips for the trip. ‘Cause we’re gonna get thirsty, it’s a really far way to go.” “Sure … crossing the great Gobi Desert can really dry up a little kid’s lips. But come on now, Marco, Nickel Nips!? That colored sweet water in a slimy wax bottle ain’t no good for you. It’ll make you sick! You can have some water when you get home. I tell you what, I’ll throw in two Hershey bars for the ride. Waddayuh say?” OK. Thanks, Unc’.” “Hey Vinnie! I didn’t hear any ‘Thank You’ from you. What are you day-dreaming about?” His mother poked him. In fact, Vinnie was far away. He was day-dreaming, and his dream continued— with chocolate chip ice cream dripping down his sleeve—as the happy group made their way slowly across the ‘Gobi Desert,’ all the way down to 71st Street. In his child-mind, Vinnie was flying high above the commercial street, just like Eagle Eye. He could make out the line-map of 11th Avenue and, at the same time, he was able to see all the details at street level. He knew most of the shops, all the way up to 66th street, well. He made believe he could read the signs that he knew by heart, having heard his mother’s running narration on every grocery trip they’d made together, day-in and day-out. There was Mastelloni’s Salumeria, and Al’s Candy Shop, and Wonderland Toys, and Silver Star Fresh Pasta, and Sal’s Fruits and Vegetables. But beyond 66th Street, it was a very different story. Here, Vinnie entered into an unknown territory. That ‘neck of the woods,’ as uncle Rocco would say, would be his neighborhood—his ‘home turf’—for the next 15 years. When the family caravan finally turned onto 71st Street, his new block, the little fellow’s sleepy eyes were drawn upward towards the leafy crown of a towering horse-chestnut tree which flanked the corner. His eyes wandered among its intricate, vein-like branches outlined by the setting sun. He tried to follow the enormous limbs as they curved, twisted and tapered upward. But, try as he did, his glance would always get lost in the large green leaves that impeded the view. He tried over

5 6

Lucanian dried sausage. “Uncle” (from Neapolitan).

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1 The Little Child: Microcosms in Expansion … Asking “Why?”

and over again—and he had the time to do so since the group had stopped under the tree to catch their breath—but, at each attempt, his eye’s map got lost in the tangle. He didn’t mind it because, somehow, this mental exercise had served to calm him down. He had been anxious and a little scared before, but now—as he continued to gaze up in wonder—he recalled that he, too, had Eagle Eye’s super-power which permitted him to see the Future. This thought lifted his spirits, and he heard the echo of Mr. Nigel’s voice. He heard the words the gentle man had uttered when Vinnie waved to him outside his lost home. “I met a lot of good people in my new neighborhood, you know. They got me through it. You’ll be fine, son …” Little Vinnie prayed that Mr. Nigel had been right. Yet, in his child’s heart, he probably felt that his life would never be the same. A step had been taken … a moment passed. For Vinnie, this represented an end and also a new beginning.

Outside the brothers’ new home (1952)

Inside the brothers’ old home (1950)

1.2 Going Up the Country (July 1, 1953)

1.2

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Going Up the Country (July 1, 1953)

Young children are especially fascinated with all that is alive. Interaction with the inter-connected Natural World (and with the variety of life which dwells therein) is fundamental to healthy development in children. Such occasions can and do, to a lesser extent, occur in the Urban Environment. Still, it is the direct experience of the countryside, of natural settings and of wilderness which provides the most diversified and abundant range of opportunities for learning and adventure. In today’s cities, for the most part, such occasions have gravely diminished. Our story’s young protagonist is initially enamored of the countryside where his family spends its summers, during his early years. Yet over time, as bonds to his neighborhood become stronger, he grows to prefer his block and the city. Every summer, before vacation-time is over, Vinnie already wants to go home again.

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The Telesca family’s first year in their new home has now transpired. Vinnie had spent the best part of his days getting to know the inside and the immediate surroundings of his home. The playroom, in the unfinished basement, now safeguarded the brothers’ playthings and their new-found treasures. On so many autumn or snowy winter days, they had passed the time there, together, playing in the reassuring warmth of the nearby boiler room. They had created special, secret places where they organized the growing collections of mysterious specimens they had excavated in the backyard or plucked off bushes and shrubs in the small garden their father worked so hard to maintain. The innumerable cigar boxes of stones, seashells and birds’ nests and the glass bottles with living spiders and tadpoles were still to come. Outside, the front stoop of the small house had become Vinnie’s observatory. He watched the world go by and, day by day, he grew to recognize the intriguing characters which animated his street. He knew the milk man, the bread man, the diaper man, the mail man and the vegetable man with his wooden cart and his sweat-shined, big black horse. He knew the grumpy woman who followed the cart’s trail of horse droppings recovering steaming brown mounds in her battered tin pail. Vinnie especially liked the ice cream man, with his beckoning bells. Around his cart, Vinnie had met the bigger kids on the block. The intricate ball games of those children captured Vinnie’s attention, and during the last two weeks, one of the older boys, Aksel, had begun teaching him the basics of box ball in the driveway next to his stoop. At the back of his home, was a small garden with its peach tree, its dirt and scruffy grass-covered central area and the mysterious wall of sweet-scented honeysuckle which screened its far-end had opened up microscopic worlds and mini-vistas, until then unknown to Vinnie. The intoxicating fragrance of its flowering, tangled vines had immediately drawn Vinnie closer, and he became intrigued by the spider webs which lined the plant. Since he discovered these, he had been attempting to draw their intricate patterns, as perfectly as he could, in his basement play space or in his bedroom. In the years to follow, he would begin to save and study these drawings. Now that Marco had started First Grade, Vinnie was obliged to pass long days in solitude or in the company of the older members of his family, when they were around. It might be an occasional visit from an older cousin or from his uncle Rocco. But mostly, he was alone with his mother who would occasionally use his and Marco’s basement for washing clothes or preparing meals for the occasional larger family gatherings which were too complicated to organize in the small kitchen upstairs. On the occasions when his mother prepared his father’s favorite dish, baccala,7 Vinnie would avoid his basement playroom for as long as the horrible stink of the soaking dried codfish persisted. Now, the summer had finally come around, and his extended family was making the long drive to Upstate New York where they would spend the month of July, as they had done for the last two years. “Are we almost there, Butch?” Vinnie asked, standing on his tippy toes in the back seat of his cousin’s car.

7

Salted, dried codfish.

1.2 Going Up the Country (July 1, 1953)

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“Yeah, Cuz. Saugerties is the next town. We should be there in about 15 minutes. You hungry?” “He’s always hungry, Butch. But you shouldn’t spoil him as much as you do. We already stopped for hotdogs only an hour ago.” Vinnie’s mother reprimanded. “Why can’t I? I’m hungry.” Vinnie whined. “Arrh, Aunty Lil, don’t be so tough. Franks are good for him, and they’ll put hair on his chest.” Butch joked. The happy, cramped-up group settled back for the last stretch of their journey. There were seven people jammed into Butch’s metalized-burgundy, 1949 Buick Road Master. Up front with Butch were his bride-to-be, Rosa, and her mother, Vinnie’s Aunt Emma. In the wide back seat were Vinnie and Marco, their mother and Rosa’s younger sister, Antonietta. Vinnie was already feeling sad since he knew that his cousin Butch would drop them all off, go do some grocery shopping for the week and then drive right back to Brooklyn. His cousin, together with the boys’ father and his brother Rocco, would come up only on the weekends. During the week, the men had to work down in the city. The two brothers had come to love their summers in that small, rented bungalow in Saugerties. Every morning, they would roam freely on the low, sparsely treed hill right behind the house or help Aunt Emma in the vegetable garden near the kitchen door. The front yard of the house, which was a short distance from a heavily trafficked State Road, was off limits without adult supervision, but the boys didn’t mind that rule. There was so much more for them to see and do in the woods and fields in the back. There, they collected flexible Y-shaped branches for slingshots, caught grasshoppers and observed—with wonder—the many ladybugs on the verdant leaves and the flight of the multi-colored dragonflies. Sometimes, they even had the fortune to see a rabbit or a fox. They had been lucky two times last summer. On both occasions, it had been very early in the morning when the dew was still on the tall grass. And the tomatoes, oh the tomatoes, how Vinnie loved them. He first discovered the marvelous taste of that home-grown fruit in his grandfather’s backyard “orto.8” He especially loved the intense, acrid odor of their stems which persisted on his tiny hands. Now he had come to understand that such plants grew elsewhere, like in the little garden next to their upstate bungalow. They took afternoon walks with Aunty Emma and her daughters to the public swimming pool just down the road. Last year had been a time of important events at the pool. Marco had learned to swim, and Vinnie had been stung by a wasp. Aunt Emma had shown the little boy the magical powers of mud. She had smeared his painful bite with the cool, dark clay and when it had dried, his pain was gone … like magic. After dinner, a few nights a week, the whole family would walk down the road to a little roadside attraction. It was no match for Coney Island, but nevertheless the tiny place—with its small Merry-Go-Round, ice cream and cotton candy stand and knock-the-bottles-over game—enlivened the family’s evenings. It was a running joke in the family that the adults would furtively refer to the place as the ‘MGR.’ As 8

Vegetable garden, translation from Italian.

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1 The Little Child: Microcosms in Expansion … Asking “Why?”

if Vinnie and Marco couldn’t figure out what those three letters meant. They might be little kids, but they weren’t dumb. They thought. The summer adventure which Vinnie loved most was the bi-weekly journeys they would make to the nearby town of Saugerties. They went there to shop at the Farmer’s Market and to walk along its old-time Main Street. For Vinnie, the place conjured up images of the Far West and cowboys. A raised wooden sidewalk flanked the peeling, faded pastel-colored, wooden facades of the shops. There was an ‘Emporium’ full of large wooden barrels and burlap sacks containing rice, grains, coffee beans and even nails. The ‘Soda Pop’ that they would drink to quench their thirst had names which were unheard of in Brooklyn—Sarsaparilla, True-Ade and Moxie. Those sounds seemed, to Vinnie, to call out to him from a long-gone era. Occasionally, a horse-drawn flatbed wagon would pass on its way to the Market, and it wasn’t rare to see a small herd of cows meandering down the Main Street. Usually, the two women would take the children to Saugerties and back by foot, but one day they had hitched a ride back to their bungalow on a tractor-drawn open cart. There were live chickens in the wire-faced boxes between the two boys. By the time they arrived back, Vinnie and his brother had given a name to each of the prisoners. When they walked, it was a long trek of nearly three miles, but they enjoyed the beautiful surrounding landscape. They passed fields of wildflowers and rolling farmland with old homesteads and big red barns. Near a fork in the road, there was a little cascade whose waters flowed downstream into a small vibrant pond. The stream continued to flank the road for several hundred feet, and sometimes, the group would walk off the road along the creek to the pond so the little boys could watch the brightly colored dragonflies fly among the fuzzy reeds. Sometimes, they collected tadpoles from the mucky waters and shallow puddles at the pond’s edge. During these first years, the countryside was a wonderland of adventure for the boys. It was such a magical place that Vinnie often cried when it came time to return home at the end of the month. One year later, however, he stopped crying. By that time, he had made so many new friends on his block that the place had become his “universe.” From that point on, Vinnie would complain when vacation time arrived, and weeks before his family’s month-long vacation would over, he was already longing to return home … to his street and his friends in Brooklyn.

1.3 Hey, Little Magellan, You Can Go Home Again (May 15, 1954)

1.3

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Hey, Little Magellan, You Can Go Home Again (May 15, 1954)

In the arch of one afternoon, our five-year-old protagonist travels (in his imagination) to, and experiences, the far-away domestic and natural settings of his ancestors. Three months later, he makes a real voyage around his block, on his new tricycle. The story-telling of his mother transmitted her father’s intimate knowledge of Southern Italian Folklore and Architecture to her son, facilitating his imagination and cognition. His twelve-year-old cousin’s intuitive teaching skills as a map-maker, conflict mediator and planner help Vinnie to overcome his fear of getting lost and to acquire the abilities necessary to manipulate his gift and to spatially orient himself in a first journey around his block-world.

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1 The Little Child: Microcosms in Expansion … Asking “Why?”

Vinnie awoke early today, anxious and excited. He knew that this was the big day. His favorite cousin, Rita, had promised to come by after lunch and teach him how to ride his new red tricycle. All morning, he couldn’t sit still. He couldn’t stop hopping from room to room. As the hours passed ever so slowly, he had tried watching TV. On Saturday morning, there were his favorite shows: Howdy Doody, Rin Tin Tin and Winky Dink. Today, a normally pleasant pastime was futile. All his TV heroes couldn’t keep his mind from wandering off to his afternoon appointment. At lunchtime, he bickered nervously with Marco over the smallest of things— like who would get to drink from the purple aluminum cup or which side of the plate the fork should go. They had fought several, painful foot-fights under the kitchen table. His mother hadn’t gone unaware of this. “Vinnie, you really have ants in your pants today. Calm down and don’t worry, Rita will be here in an hour. But for now, I have a little something here which I’m sure will cool your ‘bollenti spiriti’. Take a look!” The boys’ mother placed a brown paper bag on the table. From the oily stains seeping through the package and the pungent aroma which reached their nostrils, the boys easily recognized the culinary treasure which awaited them. The woman had gone to visit her father that very morning, to bring him his monthly ‘allowance.’ And he had sent, as he always does, four sticks of his home-made dried sweet and hot sausage for the youngest two of his more than thirty grandchildren. “Si, soppressata per i miei bambini!”. She exclaimed. With that marvelous surprise, at least for the moment, Vinnie forgot his longed-for appointment. He and Marco heartily chewed on thick slices of the tasty sausage between heaping spoons of pasta fazool. Their mother, as she often would do, sat down and told them yet another story she had heard that morning from her father. “Tata was particularly lively today. For a man of 82, he sure can move about. He went up and down the stairs to the basement, touching and selecting the sausages, checking his wine and the ‘sotto oli’. He would forget something, and he’d go back down. I stuck nearby, all the time, to make sure he was alright. The third or fourth time we went down, he stopped in mid-stairs, sniffed around for a minute, and said: ‘Liliana, sai, chisst’ place, chisst’ smell, me remember mia cantina in Miglionico.’ He was smiling. “He went on to describe the objects and the odors that brought him back to his childhood home. But – he said - that the ‘posto’ was different, ‘assaje’.” She paused. “Why? What did he mean, Mommy? What did Tata say then?” Vinnie asked. “I understood immediately that he wanted to tell me another story, so we went back up to the kitchen. I served him his minestra and he started to talk. You should have seen his, you know, his normally cloudy, watery eyes. Well, today they were sparkling! He had the expression of a happy child.” Her voice choked in her throat. “He described how the old basement in his home town had been. He told me how he would have to go out of the house, go around back, and then take some

1.3 Hey, Little Magellan, You Can Go Home Again (May 15, 1954)

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steep stone stairs down under the house to get to the dark family cantina. He said he had to light an oil lamp in order to see his way. He said that the steps and the vaulted chamber had been carved directly out of the rocky cliff, the town sat on, by his ancestors many centuries earlier.” “I thought he would, then, describe the inside of the cantina or talk about something down there, but he didn’t. His mind wandered, and he was suddenly - in his mind, at least - back up the stairs and outside the house, around the back. Once again, you should have seen him. He spread his arms wide and indicated with just the slightest movement of his face. His face was glowing, and he smiled like I rarely see him do these days. He exclaimed ‘a vista, Lilliana, it’s a’ so beautiful, no?”. “He then went on to describe what he was ‘seeing’. He described the deep yellow-tinged, soft rolling hills. I think he was talking about wheat fields. He pointed further away and then spoke of the jagged, sharp peaks he saw in the distance. He said one of those reminded him of his little ‘Monachicchio’ because it had a sort of ‘u cuppulicchii’ on the very top. “What’s that Mommy?” Vinnie asked. “Don’t you remember? Your grandfather told you a story about the ‘Monachicchio’, one time. Well, where Tata was born, people believed that the spirit of any child who had died before being baptized would often return to their houses in the form of a ‘Monachicchio’. It was a kind ‘spirit’ with a sweet face and a red pointed hat. That’s the ‘u cuppulicchii’ Tata mentioned. Now, these little spirits would play lots of tricks on people: hide things, tickle them behind the ear, pull the bedcovers off – nothing bad - just little irritating tricks.” Vinnie thought to himself ‘Hey, that’s just like my little friend, Monk. It’s been a while that he hasn’t come around.’ “Anyway, when he mentioned that ‘spiritello’, he got up from the table and slowly went back down to the basement. I followed him and when we arrived there, he started grumbling and moving the bottles of preserves he had prepared this season nervously about on the shelves. He said he couldn’t find the lampascion’ – you know those little bitter onions that you both don’t like. They weren’t where they were supposed to be. He was really upset.” “Why? What happened Mommy, where were they?” Vinnie asked. “Tata was convinced that his ‘Monachicchio’ had come all the way to Brooklyn and was once again playing tricks on him. I’m beginning to worry about my father … his mind is beginning to play games with him.” She frowned briefly, then perked up and smiled: “I hope you boys will manage someday to visit the homes of our ancestors. Your Dad and I will probably never make it back over there. But you should go. You could learn a lot about yourselves by going back there.” When the doorbell rang, the two boys were so immersed in their mother’s fascinating tale that they hadn’t taken notice. “Well, there’s your cousin. Hurry up and finish your pasta fazool, Vinnie.” The boys’ mother said and began clearing the table. Marco raised a hand and said: “Mommy, wait. Why don’t you let Rita in and give her some soppressata.”

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1 The Little Child: Microcosms in Expansion … Asking “Why?”

“What a generous little fellow you are! But remember, she can eat it every day. She lives with Tata … after all. Run and get your jacket on now, Vinnie. You don’t want to keep your cousin waiting.” Her words were superfluous. Vinnie had already run off, and his first lesson was about to begin. “Hey kid! What cha’ got there? Can I try it out?” A voice cried out as Vinnie maneuvered his shiny red tricycle up the driveway and onto the sidewalk. His 12-year-old cousin spun around quickly and retorted: “Shut up fatso! It’s none of your business.” And that was that. The feared Kowalski brothers slipped back into the shadows of their covered porch and just shut up. So began Vinnie’s first lesson, field testing his brand-new tricycle with his pre-teen coach. The beautiful little vehicle had been an unexpected gift from his favorite cousin, Butch, on Vinnie’s fifth birthday. That ‘regalo’ had been strongly opposed by Vinnie’s father. But, as usual, Butch had won out in the end. “Come on Vinnie, it’s easy. You just gotta’ sit on the bike and put your feet down here on the peddles … like this!” Hunched over the handlebars, and with her knees squeezed up under her chin, Rita took off down the street and disappeared around the corner. She was gone for about ten minutes, and during that time Vinnie stood there alone, dreading the terrible repercussions from Tommy Kowalski or—still worse—from his tough, older brother Wally. He imagined the gruesome details of their ‘vendetta’ for having been shucked off by a girl … but it never came. When Rita finally showed up, whisking full-speed down into his driveway, Vinnie didn’t even see her arrive. He was still lost in his mind-eye’s bully horror show but, most of all, he had been looking in the wrong direction.

1.3 Hey, Little Magellan, You Can Go Home Again (May 15, 1954)

21

“Hey Rit’, how’d you do that? Why did you come from ‘up the block’ and not from ‘down the block’? I didn’t see you ride past me. I don’t get it.” “What are you a dummy or something’? Don’t you even know what a block is, huh? You know, like people say, ‘around the block’. A block is like a circle. But it’s not round. It’s square, kind of.” Vinnie was stupefied and couldn’t understand what Rita was talking about until she took a piece of colored chalk out of her pocket and began drawing a figure on the sidewalk. His first geography lesson had begun. Unfortunately, today it was going to be ‘theory before practice.’ “Look here, dumbo. Imagine you’re flying over the block. This is where we are, and this is your house. This little X is you, and that big X is me. This here is your street … see over here that’s those Polish bums’ house … and further down here is Lil’ Joe’s house and the garden where you play sometimes, right? So, we go up the block, all the way to the corner, and then we turn at the corner onto 11th Avenue. Then up a way to 72nd Street, and then you turn again and go down the block. You go all the way to this corner here, then you turn and you’re home again.” And so went his first lesson, mostly in map making. But Vinnie didn’t mind that he never even got on his tricycle again that day. He was fascinated by the idea that he could, as Rita had said, ‘fly over the block’—just like Eagle Eye. He only touched his tricycle, again, when he rode it down the driveway—with a little guidance—into the basement. It occurred when the afternoon light was dwindling, when his mother called down to the children to say that dinner was ready. Four months passed, and the summer was almost over. By that time, Vinnie had become quite skilled at maneuvering his tricycle up and down the sidewalk in front of his house. Rita had helped him learn more, a few times, but it was Tommy Kowalski—who, in the meantime, had become his ‘best buddy’—who was most to be thanked. He had taken him through all the ropes. He had helped him master techniques and had gotten him through innumerable scratched knees and bruised elbows. Most of the time, his cuts and bruises had been cared for by Tommy’s mother, while his ‘BB’ would speed off down the block on Vinnie’s red devil. In the end, Tommy had gotten his way. He had ‘tried out’ the tricycle, lots of times. But that didn’t matter, because by that time the two boys were best of friends. Over the course of his lifetime, Vinnie would often recall two important moments from that summer. The first occurred the day he caught a glimpse of the backside of his house from 72nd Street, from “around the block.” It startled him to realize that something he thought he knew entirely could be seen from a totally different perspective. The second was the momentous day when Tommy had cheered him on as he came hurtling down the final leg of his first complete circumnavigation. On that hot, humid day in early August, the five-year-old boy had finally made it all the way around the block. This time, he had done it all on his own. Like a miniature Ferdinand Magellan, Vinnie had circled his ‘world,’ and he had learned that lesson. Yes, “you can come home again.”

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1 The Little Child: Microcosms in Expansion … Asking “Why?”

Gazing Down on the Street, an Evening Reverie (July 3, 1955)

My father once told me that (years earlier), he had begun to think that, maybe, it really didn’t make much sense at all to talk—or write—about the marvelous ways one played as a child. He said that creative thinkers—especially artists, like Simon Nicholson—had helped him to appreciate that Play is Not Yesterday. Play is essentially of The Moment. It is always Now. Nevertheless, he and most of his Brooklyn-born friends continued to reminisce about their childhood play experiences in the street. Unfortunately, while they were ‘reminiscing’ children’s opportunities for free play and their safe access to city spaces diminished dramatically over the course of time. He always struggled to do something about that.

1.4 Gazing Down on the Street, an Evening Reverie (July 3, 1955)

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In the third week of June, Vinnie had come down with a serious case of Mononucleosis. He would be bedridden for most of the following three months, and that meant he would miss all the summer fun on his block. His spirits were as low as they had ever been before. He had started elementary school in January of the same year and had been looking forward to the end of school when he would have loads of free time to spend outside with his friends. In his sickroom, at that moment, he dearly missed them. He longed to go out onto the street below his bedroom window. During the first month of his illness, he was very weak, and the family doctor had advised his mother to allow him to leave his bed only to go to the bathroom. When he did, it must be for no more than five minutes. On July 3, just before dinnertime, Vinnie was tucked warmly in bed. He was floating in a nether-world between sleep and wakefulness. His fever-induced dream was accompanied and governed by a regular thumping sound. In the dream, the little boy and his friend, Tommy, were bouncing a handball off the wall of the sloping, narrow driveway outside his home. At one point, the little pink ball had disappeared in mid-flight, and they were terrified. They knew that the old, fat witch who lived next door had cast an evil spell (“a fattura”) which had dissolved their Spaldeen ball into thin air. What was more, they feared that the dangerous woman would soon materialize before them and make them disappear. With that thought, Vinnie awoke, and he was trembling and sweating profusely. As the nightmare slowly dissipated, Vinnie came to realize that he was in his warm bed, in the little room where he had been imprisoned for almost three weeks. He slowly regained his bearings. To calm himself, he began to recite the names of the games that the kids on his street managed to play with just one little pink, rubber high-bounce ball: “Stoop ball, box ball, hand ball, poison ball, four bases, hit-the-line, and monkey-in-the-middle.” Then, he thought how with only the addition of a discarded wooden broomstick the king of Brooklyn-street games, stickball, could be played. Vinnie couldn’t wait until the next spring when his mother had promised she would finally allow him to play stickball, right in the middle of the street. Oh, how he yearned for that freedom to play in the street, not just on the sidewalk. While his young mind struggled to calculate the exact number of days separating him from that awaited moment, he once again heard the reassuring, familiar noise: thump, thump, thump, thump. “I wonder who’s playing what, down in the street.” He thought to himself. Groggily, he dragged himself out of bed and went over to the window. He pulled up the blinds, positioned his elbows on the sill and rested his chin in the warm cup of his hands. With weary eyes and a sad heart, he began to take in—and become a part of—the ballet of the street which was unfolding below his bedroom window. The thumping sound revealed itself to be the real-time soundtrack of Peggy and her boyfriend’s game of box ball on the sidewalk across the street from Vinnie’s home while … Three little girls sitting on Peggy’s stoop snicker at the romantic scene, and from an upstairs window a snoopy grandmother’s big round face, cushioned on fat forearms, brazenly polices the young couple’s courtship ritual;

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1 The Little Child: Microcosms in Expansion … Asking “Why?”

Four yelping young cyclers race down the middle of the street, and the plastic playing cards inserted in their bicycle spokes rhythmically mark their passage; The crack of a broomstick bat and the loud cheers of the older kids, further down the block, signal that a home run had probably been hit by someone in an early-evening, match-up game of stickball; The two tiny, red-haired O’Reilly brothers lend a hand to their father, intent in his efforts to fix a flat tire on his car; A mysterious young couple strolls by, arm-in-arm, and the curious eyes of more than a few people, including Peggy’s grandmother, follow them from the comfort of stoops and window outposts; The music of jingling bells announces the arrival of the ice cream man, and the four snickering girls rush inside, Vinnie knows, to ask their mothers if they can have a cold, sweet treat before dinner; The fat old witch, Signora Teresa, in her baggy gray house-dress and worn-out mismatched slippers, stoops to scoop up mounds of warm manure generously left behind by Babe, Joe the vegetable man’s horse; In light green chalk, three boys—Tommy, Wally and Aksel—skillfully etch the repetitive geometry of the outline of a “Skelly” game-board on the street’s black asphalt; In bright white chalk, two young girls and a baby boy attempt to draw the jagged, rectilinear outline of a “Hop Scotch” diagram on the hard, gray cement sidewalk; Perfectly polished black, brown and dark green sedans pass slowly by, each honking loudly every time to warn the drafts-children, cyclers, skaters and the ballplayers to get out of their way; An elderly couple passes by bickering and walking more quickly than usual— since they’re probably late—on their way to the Fortway Theater’s six o’clock feature film.

Curator’s Analysis

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The street ballet of everyday-ordinary continues to unfold, when suddenly … An ear-splitting explosion rings out, and all the street’s eyes turn towards Tenth Avenue. Then, a woman shrieks. The unexpected detonation and the ear-splitting scream startle Vinnie, and he awakes from his window-sill reverie. “Sorry honey, did my yell scare you? What are you doing? You know you shouldn’t be out of bed.” His mother says, as she walks into his bedroom and places a steaming tray of food on the night stand. “Sorry, Mamma. Yeah, that noise and your scream really scared me a lot. What was it?” “It was probably a cherry bomb or something like that. It was so loud. Those older children should know better. But I’m sure that tomorrow it’s going to be even worse. Tomorrow’s the 4th of July, don’t you remember?” “No, I forgot. Uh, Mommy, what’s in the dish?” “Ravioli. Just as you wanted, my little chief. The doctor said you should be eating more, so I made your favorite dish.” She kissed his warm forehead and uncovered the plate. From the street below, the Bungalow Bar Ice Cream jingle continues to permeate the quiet room. Dreamily humming along, Vinnie slides back into bed and pulls up the sheets to his chin. “Can I have some ice cream after I eat these ravioli, please, Mommy?” “Si, Signore. Your wish is my command, Capuzziello.9”

Curator’s Analysis In the earliest phase of the protagonist’s life, it is already evident that he is fortunate in being able to count on a stable and loving network of caretakers which extends beyond his nuclear family. In the first episode, the potentially traumatic effects of relocation (certainly, greater in later childhood stages) have been avoided through the support of these actors, as well as by the proximity and spatial-social continuity of the two neighborhoods. These first four chapters comprise a period of three years, representing the main character’s third to sixth years of life. This period is often referred to as “middle childhood” which is widely recognized as an important developmental phase in which many aspects of an individual’s future self are formed. In the arch of ‘only’ thirty-six months, the story’s minute exposition of Vinnie’s actions, words, emotions, relationships and observations effectively introduces almost the entirety of the publication’s central, guiding sub-themes. These include: the concentric expansion, over time, of place knowledge and identity and of spatial awareness and autonomy;

9

Little boss, translation from Neapolitan.

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1 The Little Child: Microcosms in Expansion … Asking “Why?”

a child’s natural tendency to observe and to interact and play with the living and inanimate components of the surrounding environment to enjoy and learn; the reinforcing interplay of cognitive and intuitive thinking (in this phase, first subjective impressions and asking “why?”); the important role of close relationships especially with peers in the development of enduring social connections; and the inestimable value of intergenerational and peer-based story-telling (and listening) in the development of a child’s imagination, cultural identity and (ultimately) future thinking. The reader is advised to keep in mind that this text is not an objective, research-based treatise but is rather a partially idealized narrative (Nb. composed of a “quasi-autobiography” and an “imaginary future diary”) which carries a message and warning concerning the important value of children’s free play and participation in the city—both to the children themselves and to society as a whole. In the successive chapters, as our story unfolds, the innumerable factors impeding children’s needs and rights to play freely and to experience the public realm will be exposed and considered. A great deal of true research concerning these socio-economical, environmental, cultural and educational influences (also as relating to the sub-themes mentioned above) has been carried out by others. In the “Curator’s Analysis” sections, a small selection of such references has been included. It is hoped that the reader—and the teachers who are guiding the readers —will be stimulated by the story-line to carry out further structured bibliographical searches of their own interest. One final element emerges in this first section which should be mentioned. While a single child, Vinnie, is the protagonist of our story, there is another important actor which is present throughout the book. This human-environmental actor is the Street. In the brief, yet dense, “Evening Reverie” narrative which concludes this section, my father introduces in detail the richness of human actions and environmental features which made up the streetscape below his window. Inspired by Whitman, and especially borrowing from Jane Jacobs, he uses the term ballet of the street which refers to the intricate interplay of people’s actions and intentions which for Jacobs (and for the author) work to create a “marvelous order for maintaining the safety of the streets and the freedom of the city”—both so essential to children and to others.

References and Suggestions for Further Reading Bell, S. (2006). Scale in children’s experience with the environment. In: C. Spencer, M. Blades (Eds.), Children and their environments: Learning, using and designing spaces. Cambridge University Press. Blades, M., Lingwood, J., Farran, E., Courbois, Y., & Matthews, D. (2015). The development of wayfinding abilities in children: Learning routes with and without landmarks. Journal of Environmental Psychology, 41, 74–80.

References and Suggestions for Further Reading

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Bradley, R. H., Corwyn, R. F., Burchinal, M., McAdoo, H. P., & Garcial Coll, C. (2001). The home environments of children in the United States Part II: Relations with behavioral development through age thirteen. Child Development, 72(6), 1868–1886. Coulton, C., Theodos, B., & Turner, M. A. (2009). Family mobility and neighborhood change: New evidence and implications for community initiatives. The Urban Institute. Dargan, A., & Zeitlin, S. (1990). City play. Fried, M. (1966). Grieving for a lost home: The psychological costs of relocation, pp. 359–379. In: J. Q. Wilson (Eds.), Urban renewal: The record and the controversy. MIT Press. Froebel, F. (2004). The education of man. University Press of the Pacific. “It is not alone the desire to try and use (their) power that prompts children at this age to seek adventure high and low, far and wide. It is particularly the peculiarity and need of (their) innermost lives, the desire to control the diversity of things, to see individual things in their connection with a whole, especially to bring near what is remote, to comprehend the outer world in its extent, its diversity, its integrity. It is the desire to expand her or his (sic) scope, step by step …” Goodey, B. (1989). Environmental perception: The relationship with age. Progress in Human Geography, 13(1), 99–106. Hart, R. (1978). Children’s experience of place: A developmental study. Irvington Publishers (now distributed by Halstead/Wiley Press). Jacobs, J. (1961). The death and life of great American cities. Vintage Books. Louv, R. (2008). Last child in the woods: Saving our children from nature-deficit disorder. Atlantic Books Ltd. Nabhan, G. P., & Trimble, S. (1994). The geography of childhood: Why children need wild places. Beacon Press. Parr, A. (1967). The child in the city: Urbanity and the urban scene. In: Landscape. Springer Piaget, J. (1962). Play, dreams, and imagination in children. Norton. Pyle, R. (2002). Eden in a vacant lot: Special places, species and kids in community of life. In: P. H. Kahn, & S. R. Kellert, (Eds.), Children and nature: Psychological, sociocultural and evolutionary investigations. MIT Press. Reiser, J., Garing, A., & Young, M. (1994). Imagery, action and young children’s spatial orientation: It’s not being there that counts, it’s what one has in mind. Child Development, 65, 1262–1278. Ward, C. (1978). The child in the city. Pantheon Books. Whitman, W. (1959). Leaves of grass. The Viking Press.

Web Info The Blog “Children in Domestic Space” (http://blogs.evergreen.edu/crystalj/project-description/) could be useful instrument for deepening one’s understanding of this important issue. In addition to promoting and protecting Children’s Rights and Well-being, UNICEF is an important source of critical comparative data on Children’s Development in all the World’s Regions. The link (https://data.unicef.org/topic/early-childhood-development/home-environment/) offers an overview of the vast disparities between rich and poor nations regarding the provision of some important domestic needs (stimulation of early learning/play, responsive care and supervision, access to literature, etc.) For more information on the “Monachicchio” as appearing other regional Italian folk tales, see: https://www.italyheritage.com/traditions/folklore/mazzamuriello.htm

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© Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2022 R. Lorenzo, Children’s Free Play and Participation in the City, Children: Global Posthumanist Perspectives and Materialist Theories, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-0300-7_2

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Back to Brooklyn (April 30, 2033)

From an exhibition of the Children’s Future Project at City University of New York (1983)

In conversation, my father often spoke of the many children he worked with who had feared and “even predicted” the “End” of our world. In the late 1970s, many thousands of children had been offered the opportunity to express their views on the future in the international Children Imagining Community Futures Project (Open University, UK, 1977-79) which Simon Nicholson and the author created and coordinated for nearly a decade. In the visual panel above, one can read the ominous, revealing questions which two 10-year-olds, Chloe and Daphne, had raised in Oxford. They had written: “Will Water Attack our World?” and “Will the Earth be Sucked Down a Black Hole?” In this chapter, we find the author once again living in Brooklyn where he is experiencing —along with the many ‘survivors’—the effects of what children had envisioned fifty years earlier. One child from Stockholm, Maria, had even identified—correctly, I would say—the culprits who had brought on “the End”: “Big Men, with Tiny Heads.” I cannot begin to list the innumerable times my father exclaimed: “Why don’t adults ever listen to the children?!”

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The incessant, rhythmic thumping of a bouncing ball draws me out from a nether-world of sleep. I recall that there were children in my dream, but I can’t manage to remember much anything else. What was I doing? Where was I? I wonder. Fully awake now, I find myself feeling uncommonly happy and, surprisingly, relaxed. Once again, I hear a thump—a familiar thumping sound. Now, it is joined by the joyful voices of children somewhere in the distance. I ask myself “where am I?” My crusty eyes gradually adapt to the light, and I can make out that I am in a bed, in a dimly lit room. I roll over slowly and sit up on the edge of the mattress, hesitating to place my swollen feet down. I recall that it’s been hard, recently, getting out of bed and putting my painful, knobby feet onto the cold floor. But now, when I finally manage to muster up the courage to do so, I am surprised to discover that the pain doesn’t bother me much at all. Maybe, the dream has lessened my aches and pains? I feel good, but I still can’t remember much of anything. Where am I, and how did I get here? I rise and go over to the window. I brush aside the curtain and look out. It’s a beautiful day with a clear, blue sky. That’s a novelty, or so I seem to remember. My painful eyes are drawn to a narrow sliver of intense cobalt-hued space between two tall buildings, and I see a dark green sea at their base. Down below, in a passageway between the buildings, there’s a group of five children and a dog, walking away. One of the kids is wearing jeans and dribbling a basketball—so that was the thumping noise I had heard. The other four, who appear to be younger than the first, are all wearing bathing suits and sneakers, and one is carrying a colorfully striped beach ball. ‘Are they crazy?’, I think to myself, ‘I’m freezing my ass off up here, and those children are going swimming?’ Those kids sure have got chutzpah’!1 The familiar sound of that word—chutzpah—brings the scattered pieces back into place, and it all comes back to me. In a flash, I remember where I am. I’m back home in my beloved Brooklyn. This revelation opens a door in my mind, and I think how strange it is that through a series of world-shattering events (the details of which I can barely remember) we’ve ended up living—and will most probably both die—in a fifth-floor apartment of a large housing complex in Brooklyn’s Brighton Beach. What’s weirder, I recall that this place is located only a few miles from the neighborhood I had grown up in. Strange, how you can travel the world, wide and far, and then—just like magic—the circle game of your life takes you back to where it all began. I can’t stop thinking … and something comes to me. I suddenly remember that the craziest part of it all is that we’re now living in a high-rise complex which bears the name of the man whose stupidity and ferocious politics dragged the world down to its present state. Who could have ever imagined it? Shit me! My wife and I are have ended up living in the (ex)Trump Village Estates out in Brighton Beach. It is in semi-ruins, and its numerous apartments are occupied by squatters like us, in a makeshift-collaborative effort of co-living. I seem to recall that when this whole mess started—back before the ‘End’—we were still living in Perugia, in a Region that was referred to as the ‘Green Heart’ of Italy.

1

Supreme self-confidence, nerve, gall (from Yiddish).

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“Hmmm, Green Heart. What a nice name.” I repeat the name out loud, and it sounds good. I feel a little better. While my old brain is feebly unraveling itself, I hear a familiar voice call out to me. “Ueh, dormiglione2! I’ve put the coffee on. Do you want some?” I slowly drag myself into the small kitchen, and I sit up close to the wood stove to warm my feet. Then my Vale says, “It’s such a beautiful day. Have you looked out the window? I took a walk down to the shop and it must be 65° out there, and it’s only 10.30. Oh, I’ve brought you a surprise. The shop finally had your beloved bialys.” “Grazie mille, Amore.3 But, can I ask you something? Don’t get mad, now. A while ago, I was standing at the bedroom window trying really hard to remember the circumstances that brought us here. You know what I mean, the terrible war and all the chaos that followed. How, exactly, did it all get started? I really feel I need to remember, and not just in the vague terms which I already seem to know. I want to comprehend all the details. I’ve been thinking that it might be helpful if I try to write down everything I manage to remember. And I could learn a lot out from other sources, like from you, but not only you. Writing it all down might just help get my old brain back into shape. Do you understand?” “Your ‘old’ brain?! Even when you were a youngster your memory was never so great. But yes, all kidding aside, I think that might be a good idea. You’ve always needed some kind of ‘project’ to keep you from just sitting around playing your guitar and smoking … and eating too much.” “Those three things don’t seem to me to represent such a bad life-style, Bella.4” “Sta’ buon’5! But you know, I think this just might be your lucky day. At the store, I picked up the Community Bulletin and, believe it or not, there was a special insert in it which could be a good start. Take a look at it, Caro.” Val passed me the paper and placed the steaming expresso pot in front of me. I flipped through the pages, and I couldn’t help but feel that, yes, this just might be some kind of a sign. Today—talk about luck—happens to be April 30 which is the eve of the 11th anniversary of that fatal Mayday. The Community Committee evidently thought it important that people remember the details of the past in order to get a better hold on the present and to acquire the knowledge and inspiration necessary to imagine and to, hopefully, build a better future. I sat back with my coffee, and a buttered ‘beloved bialy,’ and I started to read the newsletter.

“Hey, Sleepy head” (Translation from Italian). “Thanks a lot, Love” (Translation from Italian). 4 “Beautiful one” (Translation from Italian). 5 “Be good!” (Translation from Neapolitan). 2 3

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The Path Down to the ‘End’ I read that the ‘End’ had begun on May 1, 2022, when a short, stubby finger pushed a red button. Unfortunately, that was to be the first of several pudgy fingers which—in tacit agreement—would bring our world straight down. I’m sure those digits of doom had been itching to do it for six years or, more probably, ever since the A-bomb was invented. The article opened with a recount of the year 2015. It was a glorious time when millions of people in America, like myself living in Italy at the time, truly believed that a more just and sustainable Future was in the making. At that time, a 74-year-old Senator, a self-declared Socialist, appeared to have the possibility of becoming the next President of the USA. Support for the charismatic, crazy-haired old Jewish man grew beyond all our wildest dreams. For the first time in history, a Presidential Campaign was being financed by hundreds of thousands of small contributions from committed citizens, not by the vested-elite, status quo interests. Without a tinge of rhetoric, Bernie Sanders was often apt to declare that: “We, not me, will make Change happen!” He howled this slogan in a gruff Brooklyn accent, and many millions of people gathered around his battle cry. They lived by the principles and shared the proposals for action which that man advanced. When dear old Bernie, in a moving campaign video filmed in various public spaces around my beloved Brooklyn, told the story of how he had learned the fundamentals of participatory democracy while playing freely, as a child, in the streets and schoolyards of the Borough, my heart had taken flight. At that moment, I had thought to myself, “Could our common dream, could my life’s dream, truly become a reality?”. Unfortunately, the establishment of the Democratic Party appeared to fear its progressive wing as much as, or more than, the dangerous policies and personality of Donald Trump. Months later, when Sanders was betrayed and literally manipulated (by his own Party) out of the primaries, our dreams died. Then on the night of November 8, 2016, the Democratic Party’s “identity politics pipe dream” was shattered. Instead, the worst possible nightmare for a majority of Americans became a reality. Donald Trump was elected the 45th President of the USA. Our stomachs fell through the floor, and our hope shriveled up and vanished. It has been said that there is light after darkness, and people struggled to retain the belief that a ‘Light,’ somehow, could and would return. But when a Light did come, six years later, it was of a devastating intensity which no one had been expecting or hoping for. During Trump’s tenure, North America—and the World—had been experiencing a series of unprecedented natural calamities which were held by many to be harbingers of an approaching apocalypse. In a single year, three enormous (so-called) ‘once in a lifetime’ hurricanes had, again, devastated Texas, Florida and Puerto Rico. Extreme drought and dry winds had carpeted the West Coast for years causing massive forest fires and numerous deaths throughout five states. Mexico had been shaken by not one but two 8.1 scale earthquakes, and equally powerful earthquakes had followed in Iran and Costa Rica. A five-thousand-mile belt of continuous rain and storm clouds—what people were calling the “Dark River in the Sky”—stretched from China to the USA. These were environmental cataclysms, at a global scale. Fear for the Future and society’s reactions—organized resistance—were growing at an exponential rate. Trump canceled the USA’s adherence to

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the Paris Climate Agreement and trampled all existing US legislation concerning the environment, while a courageous young Swedish girl ignited an important international youth movement for Climate Justice. If the Climate Chaos wasn’t enough, in the winter of 2020 the devastating COVID-19 pandemic had erupted in China and spread rapidly throughout the world. In two years, many millions would die—primarily in the USA and Europe. Social relationships unraveled and hatred spread, as government control and repression multiplied and the world’s economies plummeted. As is always the case, the poor and marginalized suffered the brunt of the enduring crises. In the midst of this, the 2020 Democratic Party primary campaign insanely followed the identical game plan of 2016 and, once again, stacked the cards against our progressive candidate who had the far greatest support of the working classes and young people during such a crisis. Instead, the DCC selected an elderly, moderate candidate who brazenly promised that he would “Not Change Anything” other than removing Trump from office. In November, he was almost right. Biden’s votes had exceeded Trump’s, but the madman refused to concede. He twitted “fake election” and demanded a recount in many states. The Trump-packed State Courts, surprisingly, rejected his undocumented claims, but his massive cult-following did not desist. There followed, in January, an insurrectionist siege on the Capitol building in which many perished. Numerous similar actions followed throughout the nation. The country fell into a “black hole” with no “official” President in office in the months that followed. The USA had toppled down from its global pedestal. In the eyes of the world, we had become a Banana Republic in need of UN intervention. The ‘non-governance’ of the crazy interregnum POTUS continued to wreak havoc at an exponential rate. Alt Right violence grew, human rights crumbled, Climate Chaos worsened, people’s health and well-being plummeted while Wall Street flourished and angered resistance grew. To all effects, an undeclared civil war was being fought in the USA. Out of the blue, on an extremely hot night in August 2021, the all-but-forgotten Supreme Leader of North Korea materialized once again and issued a startling threat to the world. His declaration came in response to a second Trump-instigated mandate for stronger sanctions on that country. The ominous words of Kim Jung-un capsized the General Council of the UN and sparked Donald Trump’s thinking (a little), and his tweeting (a lot). From Pyongyang, Kim had declared, “North Korea has no need for ‘a Japan’ in its territorial waters.” And then he concluded with, “The US will soon wake up to truly understand the meaning of the words ‘darkness and ashes’.” Almost immediately, from a golf course in Florida, ‘the Donald’ retweeted: “We got our Special Forces – a lot of them out there, more than 1500 or more – on the ground in South Korea. We’re ready to fly out by night and knock off Kim and Company. If bad China doesn’t step up and do its part, the USA will do it, bigly. I can’t be beaten!” He tagged his tweet with: #KimsHeadontheChoppingBlock and went back to playing golf. In the months that followed, Trump basically did nothing, and China watched quietly from the sidelines while Kim persisted with more than words. He ordered the launch of seven ballistic missile tests which overflew S. Korea, Japan and Guam. One intercontinental missile

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even fell into the waters near Sitka, Alaska. Trump seized on this situation which represented an opportunity to fuel his supporters and to distract the resistance-opposition from the state of matters, and he launched a ‘surprise’ commando attack on Kim’s secret compound. It occurred on Thanksgiving Day, 2021 when, the idiot Trump actually believed, Kim and Company would be enjoying a traditional turkey dinner. The attack failed miserably, and Kim escaped unscathed. Only a handful of his generals and staff were killed. Most of the US special Ranger Team was captured alive. In the weeks that followed, the soldiers were mocked in public squares and were threatened with execution if President Trump refused to “kneel down before the Supreme Leader and beg forgiveness for his crimes against the Korean people.” Of course, he didn’t do so, and the forty commandos were brought before a firing squad on Christmas day. Exactly one week later, the USA launched massive, conventional warfare strikes on North Korea from its bases in Guam and Japan. In the following four months, over 200,000 North and South Korean civilians had died in the devastating “United States led coalition”6 missile attacks. Pyongyang was nearly leveled and Seoul suffered extensive damage to its infrastructure and productive base. Military casualties on the North Korean side were enormous while the USA had not yet put troops on the ground above the 59th parallel. There were American deaths in South Korea and Guam, but Trump had stated “only 3000 of our soldiers have died.” In the meantime, covert teams of commando forces scoured North Korea, but were unable to discover the hiding place of Kim and family, his strategic staff and praetorians. The USA and the world were baffled by the invisibility and silence of the Dictator and by the virtual disappearance of his feared nuclear arsenal. In the USA, the fragile ‘status quo’ had been further turned on its ass, and the civil uprising had grown in intensity. Active resistance to Trump’s interregnum war policy and persona had multiplied in response to his first declarations and, exponentially, after the attacks in January. Many millions of people demonstrated in the streets against the war and Trump’s illegitimate presidency. His storm troopers took to the streets to defend their ‘leader maximum’ and to blow off steam. Numerous deaths—for the most part, these were progressives and people of color—occurred in the winter of 2022 in open street battles and planned sniper attacks. The response of the political establishments and public security forces varied between states and along the political spectrum. National unity was splintered, as some State and Municipal Police Forces and National Guard units actively took sides in the skirmishes. Several states—notably Oregon, Washington, California, West Virginia and New York—took unprecedented legislative steps demanding increased autonomy in fiscal and immigration policy, and even National Security. This included their repudiation of the War Act. Donald Trump attempted to “call out all the troops” by first tweeting, and then officially ordering, a military occupation of those State Capitals involved in what he denominated “a

Neither the UN nor NATO officially adhered to “Trump’s War”. The US garnered the support of South Korea, Australia, UK (minus Scotland), India, Saudi Arabia, Japan and Italy.

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communist, or more probably, a big Islamic-BLM conspiracy.” The Chiefs of State, occupied with the organization of a full-scale war in the Pacific regions, refused to follow Trump’s ‘criminal command’ to massacre American citizens. In this muddled context, on May 1, 2022, Kim Jung-un made a surprise reappearance on computer and TV screens around the world from a still unknown hiding place. A close-up image of his pudgy, little index finger on a red button appeared while his dire words “America! Here comes your Darkness and Ashes” echoed. At that very moment, six intercontinental missiles with nuclear warheads were launched. Within fifteen minutes, two had been destroyed over the Pacific Ocean by interceptor rockets from US bases in the region. One missile hit Seoul and three warheads struck objectives in US territory—in Guam, Hawaii and Alaska. The death-count in only one hour was over 400,000.

Surprisingly, Kim’s launch site would eventually be localized in Siberia’s Samkatcha peninsula. The Russian Federation, led by Trump’s good buddy Putin, was now revealed as America’s true enemy. Two hours after the attack, the Dictator’s base of operations was nuked and totally destroyed, as was most of North Korea. That country was officially, and materially, out of the conflict. But the war was far from over. A nuclear holocaust would continue for nearly six months.

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I recalled that before wide-scale retaliations had begun, Italy—where I was living at the time—had been shaken by two terrorist attacks. It had been in early May, and the cities of Milan and Turin were the targets. North Korean operatives had managed to detonate two dirty bombs to “sting the Italian traitors” as Kim had vindictively anticipated in his May Day message. According to the authorities, the immediate death toll was “contained”—the victims were “only about 15,000”—but the devastating effects of dispersed radiation were still to come. In the days that followed, the combined NATO-USA response was rapid and massive, as was Russia’s ‘defensive’ reaction. In a few weeks, nearly half of Russia’s population had perished and most of its productive infrastructure had been eliminated. Up to that time, most Russian firepower had been, surprisingly, directed towards the Southern American States. From Baja California to Florida, and only as far north as Tennessee, there had been numerous missile strikes. The devastation was indescribable, and the ‘non-Government’ in Washington (or, more honestly, in Florida) was in shambles. People would never learn how or why (was it an error or a choice?) the Northern States had been spared direct attacks. On the world stage, Eastern Europe and the Pacific had been the most heavily nuked areas. In these two regions, the loss of human lives and the environmental and economic devastation were inestimable. Those countries essentially lost the will and capacity to resist or exist. Then, on July 4th in 2023 - oh, the irony of History! - all missiles ceased to fly. During the preceding months, China had essentially remained on the sidelines of the conflict. That nation was purportedly mediating a ‘possible solution’ with what little remained of the United Nations. Then, on Independence Day, China took action to demonstrate its ‘impartiality’ and to mark its strategic positioning as the New World Leader. Massive nuclear missile attacks were launched on the oil fields of the Middle East, on the major cities in the Indian sub-Continent and Southeast Asia and, surprisingly, on one of its own cities, Harbin. As a result of what China called her “enlightened demonstrative acts of justice”, an International Peace Treaty was signed in September which, among other measures, imposed a total ban on all further utilization and production of nuclear armaments. As expected, conventional warfare continued throughout the surviving world for several years. In the Treaty, it was agreed that all nations, including China, would destroy their remaining nuclear arsenals and, in addition, all the world’s nuclear power plants would be dismantled. In exchange for these “magnanimous and enlightened steps by the Great China”, its government pledged to ‘cooperate’ with the African States and what remained of Asia to “guarantee a just and sustainable development” in those Regions. What remained of Europe, Canada, Oceania, South America and the USA would be “left on their own to govern and rebuild their nations in whichever way they deem best”—that is, as long as their decisions and actions did not infringe on what China called its ‘New World Order.’ The ‘End’ had arrived and along with it, as Chinese poets had written, there were the first signs of a “New Dawn.” The question remained as to whether that Dawn would bring ‘New Light’ or further ‘Darkness.’

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My heart is sickened as I read, for a second time, these dense pages of History. Daylight is diminishing, and my eyes, and soul, hurt so badly. I rise from my desk and go out onto the small balcony to have a much-needed cigarette. My attention is drawn to the voices below. I watch for a few minutes while four adults move back and forth from a horse-drawn cart to the building stairwell with their luggage, small pieces of furniture and some over-stuffed boxes. Two small children nervously observe them from two chairs next to an old wooden table. At one point, they run over to offer their help with some loose toys. One of the women, probably their mother, gently passes them two stuffed animals and kisses them on their foreheads, one by one. I’m beginning to feel chilled, so I snuff out my cigarette and leave the balcony. Back inside, a delicious aroma tells me that dinner is almost ready. Today it was Vale’s turn to cook. I wash my hands and splash cold water on my face. In the small mirror … I see a weary, familiar old man. Trembling, I hear myself ask … “Why?”

Self-Help Housing Rosario Argentina (2030)

Coop Social Housing Brighton Beach (2033)

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Ever so slowly, the author is reacquiring some recollection of the terrible events which had preceded his return to Brooklyn. His thoughts are fixated on his family’s desperate moving about. He reflects on their exodus from Europe to America. Naturally, the stories he had heard on his grandfather’s knees of the diaspora of the Southern Italian masses in the nineteenth century return to him and his mind travels, for reassurance, to the elements he had loved most about those tales. My father’s life-long passion for vernacular architecture and handicrafts was born from the stories of his grandfather and from observing the little man’s marvelous skills as a woodworker, gardener and preparer-preserver of delicious, traditional Lucanian foodstuffs. As a young child, the author had already harbored hazy, fragmented images of the houses, towns and landscapes of his ancestors. Years later, when he would finally come to visit those places, and when he had walked their streets, the pieces of the family mosaic all fell back into place.

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During the last week, I have often found myself pondering over the tumultuous events of the last decade. Ever so slowly, I’m beginning to reacquire a somewhat clearer recollection of those terrible years before and after “the End.” Now, I recall how those first months of terror and suffering had gradually morphed into chaos and disorder, only to slowly become normalized (at least for my family, and for other fortunate survivors) into an extenuating, continuous snoop about in search of yet another safe place in which to try to live one’s life. While Italy had not suffered any direct nuclear strikes, it had been victim of several ‘dirty bomb’ attacks which had caused a considerable number of victims in the targeted cities. The Italian Government informed its citizens that the radiation “probably wouldn’t spread below the Po River.” At least, that’s what they told us. True or false, the country’s social order and economy had fallen into shambles due to an unresolvable health crisis and a permanently damaged productive infrastructure. Social unrest grew in leaps and bounds. Somehow, we managed to stick it out in Perugia for almost two years, until my wife and I decided to move, together with our daughter’s family, to a ‘safer’ Nation. We had heard that Portugal was secure, and it was a logical choice for us since our son and his family were living there at the time. It was a miracle, really, that they had managed to settle there and thrive. Marco, with his wife and three children, had been in Lisbon on vacation when their home town, Cologne, had been bombed. They stayed on there—as they had no other choice—and struggled successfully to recreate an adequate life for themselves on the coast of Portugal. International travel was very difficult when we finally made our move. There was no air travel, and train service in most of Europe was either down or greatly reduced. The five of us set out in an over-loaded, old VW van. It was a struggle to find fuel along the way, and it took us over four months to reach the coastal town of Faro. After four years of permanence there, we sailed to the Cape Verde Islands, and from there, we traveled to Argentina. In Rosario, Bibbiana and her husband got involved in the local reconstruction efforts, and they decided to remain there with their daughter. Three years later, Vale and I made our move back to NY. Only yesterday, I realized that we had, to all effects, retraced the last two legs of my paternal grandfather’s diaspora from Lucania, over 100 years earlier. History repeats itself … it seems. The memories of our difficult years on the road (and on the sea) started me thinking of how—once upon a time—I was almost always on the road. It was back in the mid-1980s, I think, and my professional activities would often take me from town to town throughout Italy. At the time, I had begun to feel like Willy Loman of ‘Death of the Salesman’ fame. Like Willy, I was traveling continually and ‘selling my wares,’ I guess you could say. I sensed that my nomadic lifestyle was making me grow ever more distant from my family, from my community and from myself. Undoubtedly, I loved my wares (i.e., promoting and organizing children’s participation in city design), and I believed in what I was doing, but at times I found myself questioning the value of it all. I was literally eroded by doubt. After all, if I couldn’t ‘market’ my skills and knowledge nearer to my home or in my own community … what was the use of doing it, anyway? ****************

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Should I Stay or Should I Go? (May 6, 2033)

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Yesterday, I happened to read a lead story in the community bulletin which Vale had picked up at the courtyard gazebo. It reported that a boat containing 400 Moroccans had been sequestered by the Chinese Navy off the coast of Chile. Oddly enough, that notice called to mind the hilariously prophetic words of Woody Allen. In the late 1970s, he wrote: “Some eminent Futurologists foresee that by the year 1999 kidnapping and sequestering will be the most frequent forms of social interaction in our world.”7 ‘Yup,’ I thought to myself, ‘but good old Woody got the year totally wrong.’ These days, I sometimes try to make myself laugh … so as not to cry. In any case, I would say that those Moroccans were lucky. At least they had been escorted—alive—back to dry land. The same article had reported that, in the last six months, over fifty thousand ‘boat people’—desperate fugitives in flight from an African continent, in flames—had been torpedoed and dispersed in Mediterranean. I am certain there are many more souls which no one even bothered to count. Nobody seems to care about them anymore, except perhaps a few journalists and the courageous Sicilians who continue to rescue and assist ship-wrecked refugees. I wonder how many of the ancestors of the Mediterranean—fleeing wars, famine and tyranny—had disappeared, or perished onboard ship, in similar circumstances in the ‘big pond’ between those Old-World Countries and the ex-USA? It is an untold story, just like the (hi)story of the Sabaudian massacres and pillaging after the so-called Unification of Italy which had driven my grandfathers’ countrymen to be branded as Brigands, and to flee their home in Basilicata. My maternal grandfather would sometimes tell me stories about those terrible times, and they would make my young heart shiver. This stream of thought oiled a rusty screw in my head, and I recalled a period in the last decade of the twentieth century when I had been gathering documentary materials for the production of a teachers’ manual on Vernacular Architecture and local community action in Southern Italy. I had been photographing, sketching and taking notes on such built-wonders as the Sassi of Matera, the Trulli of Alberobello and, in general, observing the magnificently multiform, traditional ‘non expert,’ architecture of Southern Italy. My thoughts spiraled further back to my very first visit to that Region. It had been twenty years earlier, shortly after I had first ‘escaped’ America, following college. I had gone there with the intention of exploring and understanding my family’s origins. At the time, I understood that almost all of my genetic makeup had been mixed and had evolved, over thousands of years, in a small area of only 500 square kilometers which encompasses pieces of the Provinces of Potenza and Matera. I wanted to see and feel those places.

7

Allen, Woody (1980) Side Effects. Random House, NY.

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The Old Man: Getting Grounded … and Remembering ‘Why’

As I sit here now, I can see—with the clarity of a documentary film—a near-abandoned station and its sun-bleached signpost which reads ‘Rapone – Ruvo’ as I step off the empty, decrepit train. Once again, I feel a strange sensation that I was, somehow, a part of that landscape. Back then, I remember thinking that I had felt those dry parching winds on my face before, and that I had previously inhaled the conflicting aromas of the sweet local flora and decaying waste products. I ‘knew’ that, in one of my previous lives (in some parallel life-frame), I had once before scanned my young eyes over those vast yellow, rolling planes and plunged my vision into the craggy hollows. That odd sensation had been accompanying me, during the previous three weeks, in vastly different natural and man-made settings. The odd thing was that all of those places had absolutely nothing in common with the rectilinear flat streetscapes and the uniformly ordered houses of my own childhood. Or, at least it seemed to me at first glance. Today, in my mind’s eye, I am once again walking a curved road, and I can see the town of San Fele—the birthplace of my paternal grandparents—towering above me on dark rocky outcroppings, draped in green shrubbery. Back then, that landscape had seemed to reach out and embrace me, like its prodigal child. Below my feet, I feel the slippery, moss-covered stone steps leading to the Belvedere which draw me up to an even more awe-inspiring view of a range of ancient mountain crags pre-stamped in some ancestral chamber of my mind. “Did someone-I-know once play hide and seek in these niches formed by the intersecting stairways and the narrowly arched entryways to the old stone dwellings? … could that individual have been me?” I asked myself … already knowing the answer.

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Should I Stay or Should I Go? (May 6, 2033)

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I can see, again, the sun-and-wind-hardened faces of slow moving, black-caped figures on the town’s steep staircases and in its shadowed lanes. They had all appeared so familiar to me. In their midst, I had recognized my uncle Rocco’s sparkling, friendly eyes. I thought I caught a glimpse of my uncle Enzo’s red hair and freckles, and of my father’s wide nose and tightly kinked, almost African hair, in the old men passing by me. It seemed as if my entire paternal family had been resurrected and magically transported there from Brooklyn. They had been artfully disguised in the Region’s traditional garments and positioned in strategic places throughout the old village, just for my viewing. I recalled how it had happened that, as I stood contemplating the spectacular, never-ending undulated line between the crimson sky and the sharp mountain peaks in the distance, and I was thinking that, perhaps, the roots of my childhood fixation for the long views at twilight from Sunset Park’s hill had originated there, my reflections had been interrupted by the gentle tapping of a hand on my shoulder. That touch was accompanied by a voice which formed a question mark in a familiar dialect I never could quite understand. I turned my glance, and it was met by the childishly gentle and interrogating, Jack Lemmon-like eyes of my uncle Franco (my dad’s younger brother) implanted in the large, round face of Giovanni, the parish bell keeper and—I would later learn—its ‘village idiot.’ With the help of a local teenager who spoke a little English, Giovanni managed to understand my story and my questions. He had also recognized my family name. He and the boy then accompanied me to Don Mario in his sacristy where the town’s Baptism Records were safekept. The old priest told me he needed to first “control my family’s roots.” As luck would have it, Don Mario spoke a little broken English. Surprisingly, he had spent a three-year practicum at the Regina Pacis Church in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. That was the very same church in which I had been baptized. Serendipity. “I think this is it!” Don Mario had exclaimed. “Look here. Here’s a certain ‘Pasquale Telesca’, born in 1886. What was your grandfather’s profession, son? He was a carpenter? Yes? Sì, then this is your town. Giova’, take the young man to Antonio Telesca’s home. He’ll put him up.” It always feels good to come back home, wherever that home might be.

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The Old Man: Getting Grounded … and Remembering ‘Why’

An Ecology of Imagination (May 17, 2033)

Does a genius of childhood truly exist? Is it a common biological trait of all humans, across cultures? One scholar, Edith Cobb, held this to be true, and she postulated that its fulfillment through a child’s deep immersion in nature represented an essential stepping-stone towards creativity and compassion in adult life. She had called this phenomenon … the Ecology of Imagination. Might its fulfillment be an essential element in Making our World a Better Place? My father held this to be true.

2.3

An Ecology of Imagination (May 17, 2033)

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Today, I spent the best part of the morning alternately gazing out the window and leafing through some of the few books I had managed to bring along during the travels which have brought us to where we are now. These precious texts are like good, old friends. They have never left my side, wherever I have lived … throughout my long life. While this part of the world had been spared vast devastation, it is obvious that it didn’t come out unscathed. Still, the view from my dwelling makes me feel hope. Below our window, colorfully-dressed children of all ages scurry to-and-fro beneath the broad green leaves and exploding white blossoms of the old horse chestnut tree which towers above the courtyard. I am pleased—no, I have to say I am absolutely relieved—that such wonders still continue to exist here and beyond our complex. In fact, I recently read that Nature is resurging throughout our Region and, they say, beyond it. This resilience is playing a big part in a return to some sort of normalcy. Nature is regenerating itself much more quickly and effectively than we humans are managing to do. I know that this sequence, this order-of-things, has always been the case. During my long life, I have read many books which described the fundamental principles of Natural Resilience, and I know them empirically as well, having observed the phenomena with my own eyes on many occasions. For example, how can I ever forget the last time I visited the slopes of Mount Vesuvius. It was only five months after a raging brush fire—one of many during the Decades of Drought —had destroyed thousands of acres of one of the world’s richest and most diversified biological reserves? I had been amazed by the resiliency and speed with which its deep-brown, super-rich soil was once again giving birth to innumerable green saplings. Those slopes, I knew, had supported natural and human life for many millennia. I also knew that the same place had been devastated more than a few times by natural forces or by man, always to return stronger than before. On that day, I recall my having conversed with a surprisingly acculturated farmer who spoke to me of Giordano Bruno. He told me that this important historical figure had spent his sixteenth-century childhood exploring those very fields and forests. Yes, that ‘crazy monk,’ as the farmer had called him, who had questioned his epoch’s prevailing beliefs concerning man, God, nature and the solar system (and had been roasted alive for daring to do so) had walked and played, as a child, in that very place. The mention of Bruno’s name then, and again today, turned my thoughts to a particular text which had (in)formed my passion for a free and curious childhood and its relationship with the natural and human-made environment. That book, The Ecology of Imagination by Edith Cobb, affirms that a young child’s autonomous interaction with nature is a fundamental factor in her or his future development. That remarkable woman wrote of, what she had called the ecological relationship between a child and nature which she held to be inherent to all such encounters. To enrich and sustain her thesis, she had gathered and interpreted numerous biographies of geniuses—both men and women—in all fields of endeavor and in various historical periods. Giordano Bruno was one of these figures and he, like all the others, had often referred to precise moments in his early childhood when he had immersed himself in nature and had intuitively understood its special, or ‘magical,’ powers. Furthermore, Bruno asserted that, as an adult, he would often return to those same memories (which were for the most part sensorial) in moments of creative thought and invention. The Ecology of Imagination—one of the few ‘friends’ which are still on my desk— speaks powerfully of the manner in which a child’s sense of wonder—and surprise and joy

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—is aroused by those mysteries of nature which hold the promise of ‘more to come’ or, perhaps more appropriately stated, of ‘more to do.’ Cobb referred to this phenomenon as the child’s ‘perceptual participation in the known and the unknown.’ She went on to suggest that it is, precisely, the variety and diversity of the natural world which nurtures a child’s capacity for creativity and appreciation of beauty. This process, she wrote, serves to build one’s identity. I bought her thesis when I had first read it, and I still do today. Feeling tired, I took a break from my reveries and went towards the balcony to have a smoke. As I approached the door, the joyous voices of the children, the birdsongs and the sounds of the springtime city stopped me cold in my steps. I walked back to my desk, and I picked up another old friend which has accompanied me throughout my life travels. That text was, not surprisingly, Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass which I, and I’m sure Professor Cobb, had read many times. I know she would have been pleased with my selection. Surrounded by the morning sunlight and the music of the city, I continued to read on until lunch time. While I read, as is my habit, I highlighted a few significant, moving passages which I intended to add, later on (i.e., now), to this journal. There was a child went forth every day, And the first object he look’d upon, that object he became, And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day, Or for many years or stretching cycles of years … The field-sprouts of Fourth-month and Fifth-month became part of him, Winter-grain sprouts and those of the light-yellow corn, and the esculent roots of the garden, And the apple-trees cover’d with blossoms and the fruit afterward …8 In his ode to a free childhood, my dear friend Walt—a true urbanite—had stretched Cobb’s thesis beyond her interest in exclusively natural settings, as fundamental as he surely held those to be. He wrote, rather, of that which he loved and understood like no other poet-writer. He wrote of the richness of city-life and of the intricacies of a child’s everyday experiences. He sang the praise of the American City and of the New Nation he had so loved and hoped for. He heralded a (new) Nation which, today, no longer exists. And, which perhaps, never really did. And the friendly boys that pass’d, and the quarrelsome boys, And the tidy and fresh-cheek’d girls, and the barefoot negro boy and girl, And all the changes of city and country wherever he went … The streets themselves and the facades of houses, and the goods in the windows, Vehicles, teams, the heavy-plank’d wharves, the huge crossing at the ferries … He wrote of his New York, and he sang joyfully of my/his Brooklyn. I am lucky to be here now. I am happy to be home.

8

Whitman, Walt (2006) There was a Child went Forth in Leaves of Grass. Simon & Schuster, NY. (first published 1855).

2.4

2.4

An Endless, Empty Sunday Afternoon (May 23, 2033)

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An Endless, Empty Sunday Afternoon (May 23, 2033)

“A Wall around Mount Vesuvius to Block the Lava” by Ciro Esposito, age 8 years (1978)

The author chose the above drawing by eight-year-old Ciro to illustrate this chapter. I recall his having joked about the young Neapolitan’s having probably been influenced by the ‘popular science fad of the meaning of colors.’ He had then preceded to rattle off a few “fishwife theories” which assigned various interpretations to the color yellow—such as caution, sickness, jealousy, loss of focus, failure and crying babies. In any case, the tonality of this Vesuvius drawing perfectly encapsulates the ominous fear which my father had always felt whenever he saw “yellow-brown cityscapes.” For him, such color presaged an “End” in much the same way that empty streets had connotated for him an endless barren, Sunday afternoon. That emptiest time of the week symbolized the demise of childhood and the end of Free Play. ‘It’s impossible to shake off these memories and that recurring feeling of déjà vu!’ My father’s phrase echoes in my head.

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It has now been four straight days that the early-evening sky has been stained yellow: a menacingly drab tint of yellow-brown. This disturbing hue never fails to conjure up memories of those rare meteorological moments, during my first years in Naples, when an ochre-colored sky with its motionless brown clouds would blur the usually distinct profile of Mount Vesuvius, and distort my vision of the harbor with its ships, cranes and derelict warehouses. That sort of light would give the panorama a totally different meaning. Such a vision has always represented to me a presage of some terrible event like an earthquake or the eruption of the sleeping volcano. To me, it has always connoted the conclusion of something—like a friendship or a love affair, or a city or the World itself. In other words, it presages an ‘End.’ If I close my eyes, I can almost hear unnatural silence, so rare in Naples, which always accompanies that color and adds suspense or, better yet, a sense of suspension to the view. Such a panorama, with such silence, has also always conjured up—and continues to do so today, after more than 60 years—a fever-induced dream from my youth. It was a complex and disturbing dream. Maybe I’ll manage to get to it later on in this diary which I’m keeping. That dream-image returns to me, alive and vivid, each time I gaze upon a yellow-brown vista. These oneiric, yellow-brown cityscapes have come to represent an “equation” to me, just as it had in that same dream. It is a formula which never ceases to obsess me. Yellow-brown sky + unnatural silence + empty streets = “The End”

Last night, I had a different dream. It is a recurring dream which has been visiting me regularly, ever since our return to Brooklyn. I’ll attempt to capture it here below, as best I can. In this dream, I find myself on an empty, rundown commercial street. The sky above is of a yellowish hue, but it is not so ominous, not quite so “yellow-brown.” I am troubled, but I’m not terrified. While it is an unpleasant sensation, oddly, I still feel in some way that I almost belong there. I can’t identify the place, but I am sure that I have walked this street before. And, I am certain, it has been a lot more than just ‘once.’ In my sogno,9 there is no one around. Not a single soul walks the litter-filled, empty sidewalks. Almost all the shops are closed for the day, or permanently in some cases to judge from the boarded-up windows and the broken window panes. A rare, occasional automobile passes by, but in total silence. One dimly lit storefront has its front door ajar and, as I pass it, a nauseatingly sweet aroma reaches out to me. I recognize that blend of aromas: burnt sugar, cinnamon, dark chocolate and warm blood. The pungent odor makes me dizzy, and I pick up my pace gasping to bring fresh air into my lungs. The taste of that aroma lingers on the back of my tongue and this, too, brings a memory. I know I’ve been in these places before. I’m sure that I have stepped into that dark little shop … once upon a time. But when was it, and where exactly am I? While I can’t quite place the street, I am certain of the time and the day the week. I know it’s a Sunday afternoon.

9

“Dream” (Translation from Italian).

2.4

An Endless, Empty Sunday Afternoon (May 23, 2033)

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“Why?”, I think to myself, “is it always a Sunday afternoon?” Always an unending, infinitely empty Sunday afternoon? I have always held Sunday afternoons to be the emptiest time of the week for city streets. That lapse of time, on that day, inevitably opens up a black hole which absorbs free children. The kids have been sucked right up and are nowhere to be seen. Just yesterday, I remembered that I had once written—a long time ago—that the marked absence of children from the streetscapes of cities renders, at least for me, every single day a long, empty Sunday afternoon. There are no scruffy little rascals about, no joyful singing and no playful, ear-splitting war-cries. In the Italian cities, which I knew best at the time of my writing, the greater part of the young ones out-on-display were always buttoned up in the latest designer wear, well-scrubbed and inevitably held tightly by hand. They might as well have been on a leash, like some beloved show dog or prize-winning Persian cat. While the children had been sleeping and while society was distracted by ‘more important things,’ those same animals had occupied the informal spaces and places—the streets and the parks and grassy playing fields—which the young ones had one time mastered. Over the years, these domestic animals had crap-colonized the streets and sidewalks upon which children’s colored chalks and crayons had once marked their territory and carried their urban love poems for posterity. But, now, this is no more. Back in my dream, as I turn to enter a darkened stairwell to regain my breath, I catch a glimpse of movement from the corner of my eye. It is a fleeting image of a jolly group of children and women slowly strolling, observing and appreciating the storefronts. I am just able to make out a dark-haired, and wide-eyed, silent child crammed in a large rickety stroller. He is holding a round, glass fish bowl between his skinny legs. “O.K.” rings clearly in my ears, and I awake. One more time.

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The Old Man: Getting Grounded … and Remembering ‘Why’

A Creature of the Streets (June 15, 2033)

My father often told me that, when he was a child, the street was his home, community, school and playground. For him and his friends, it was a sacred place. More than anywhere, it was where they wanted to be. In adulthood, he came to realize that children were rapidly losing their Right to the Play Freely on the Street. He decided to do everything possible, professionally and personally, to help children to Reconquer the Public Realm. He would go on to work with others to help children to reacquire the play autonomy and happiness he had possessed, as a child. He quickly found out that it wouldn’t be an easy task.

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A Creature of the Streets (June 15, 2033)

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About a week ago, with the welcome arrival of warmer weather which attenuated my joint-pains and improved the flexibility of my knees and ankles, I decided to finally make the five-story descent to the courtyard. I wanted to see the kids-at-play up close, and I hoped to finally get the opportunity to talk to some of them. Unfortunately, I didn’t make it all the way down. My legs, and my breathing, gave out on the second-floor. When I stopped, I was pleased to discover that the friendly people in our building had placed comfortable chairs and flowering plants on each landing, so I just sat down to rest among the greenery. I began looking out the window, and I found I could finally make out the faces of my until-then-distant, little friends. When I finally thought I felt strong enough to attempt the climb back up to my apartment, a little curly-haired boy came rushing down the staircase. He had dark penetrating eyes, and his tanned legs and arms were sinewy-strong. I could tell from his form that he played outside a lot. He reminded me of the kids I knew back when. He reminded me of the child that I had once been. The little fellow skidded to a sharp stop, threw me a quick, friendly look and exclaimed: “Buongiorno Signo’, I know who you are. You live on the 5th floor, right below our apartment.” “Well, hello my little guaglio10’. And how exactly is it that you know me? And, by the way, come ti chiami?11” “Oh, my mamma knows your wife, Signora Valeria. She comes to our house at least twice this week.” “Ah ha! So that’s why she’s been staying out much longer, these days. But, hey, you still haven’t told me your name.” “Oh, scusami,12 my name is Lele. I’m seven years old.” “Well, Lele, nice to meet you. My name is Vinnie, and I thought you were much older - at least eight.” I winked. “Oh, I know your name already. Signora Valeria told me.” “Hmm, and what else did she tell you about me. I hope nothing bad.” “Oh, no. She just told me that you used to work with children in Italy, and that you love watching us play down in the courtyard. But I already knew that. I had seen you up in the window and out on the balcony. You know you shouldn’t smoke so much. It’s really bad for you.” “Did my wife tell you to say that, too? Nah, I’m only kidding. But, yes, I do like to watch you children playing in the courtyard. It looks like you have a lot of fun down there. You know, Lele, today I was trying to make my way down to the ground floor to get a chance to talk with the kids, a bit. But these damn old legs of mine just gave out.” “Well, here I am. So, we can talk now. Right here!” He smiled and sat down next to me. “Grazie. First off, I have a question. Do you ever play in other places? Other than in the court yard, I mean.” “Of course, Signo’ Vinnie. We play in the street and in the other courtyards, sometimes. And when my big brother, Eyob, is with me, my mamma lets me go all the way down to the

“Kid” or better in this context, “rascal” (from Neapolitan). “What’s your name?” (from Italian). 12 “Excuse me” (from Italian). 10 11

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beach. I’m not allowed to swim when mamma or papa’ aren’t around. But maybe next year they’ll let me, if I’m a good swimmer.” “Well, I’m happy to hear you play in the street and get around the neighborhood, my little friend.’ My friendship with Lele began on that day. Generally, we meet on the landing, but he has even dropped in to visit us after dinner three times already. When he comes over, we sit out on the balcony, and he describes the games below. My conversations with Lelè got me thinking, once again, about what had been my principal occupation or, I might say, my ‘mission’ before my retirement and before the chaos came and swept us around from place to place during the last ten years. Back before ‘the End,’ my life’s work had been to promote and defend the rights to play of free, autonomous children in cities. My colleagues and I had labored to help create more ‘Child Friendly Cities’ through initiating and facilitating children’s participation in design and in community actions in order to make this ‘dream’ more a reality. Over the years, our battle had its ups and downs. I have to admit that in the last years before ‘The End’ there had been mostly downs. At one point, I just gave up. But now, I feel differently. My little friend’s stories of his street adventures, accompanied by the sparkle of his dark eyes when he enthusiastically narrates them, have made me begin to feel more optimistic. Recently, I’m starting to believe that once again the situation can be changed for the better. Yesterday, I decided to look through the few documents I managed to bring here in my bags, just to see how much remained—if anything—of the notes, articles or books I had written on the subject of “children’s free play.” At the bottom of an unopened suitcase, marked ‘Summer Clothes,’ I found a draft of a short piece I had written—I think it was published sometime around 2012. Its title was, fittingly, “Go Play in the Street.” The first paragraphs reminded me of Lele and his friends down in the courtyard, and the words gave my blood a flash of warmth. As I read on, I was pleased to note that I really do feel more optimistic, now. Certainly, I’m much more hopeful now than I was when I had written that chapter. Anyway, it started off like this: “Having grown up in Brooklyn in the’50’s and early 60’s, I am truly a creature of its streets. I can’t clearly remember my very first years of life but I have a few photographs which document my brother and myself being pushed about in carriages by our older cousins, or just barely walking and playing along the wide sidewalk in front of our first apartment home. What I can recall most vividly are the days and years spent – from the age of three – playing with friends or just ‘watching the world go around’ on the steps of our new, row-house home. The sidewalk extending along my street was my primary outdoor playing and learning field until that memorable day when I managed to make a solo voyage on my red tricycle around the block. I imagine that I must have felt like Ferdinando Magellan had while he was circumventing the globe for the first time and discovering that, with a courage and persistence: ‘You can come home again.’ I was five years old at the time. From that day on, my horizons began to widen. Just a few years later – after having received my mother’s trusting admonition that “you can cross the street but be very, very careful for the cars” – my childhood world began to expand to gradually encompass the entire neighborhood. Unaccompanied visits to friends’ homes and backyards, errands for my

Curator’s Analysis

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mother to fascinating local shops, innumerable ball games in the street (yes, in the street) or just hanging out on the block with my ‘gang’ became my most-loved everyday activities. On Sundays, it would often happen that after yet another long and elaborate family dinner, when the adults were looking forward to a nap, and we children were just looking bored, my uncle always had the magic formula. He’d say to us kids: “Why don’t you all just go and play in the street.” He really knew what he was talking about. Today, anyone who said this would be considered crazy and, certainly, accused of ‘not acting in the best interests of children.”13 I guess I have always been crazy. But from what I’ve seen so far (down in our courtyard at least), and from what Lele and his family have told me about what the children do around the neighborhood, I’m pretty certain that I’m not the only nut-job in our neighborhood, these days. It appears that, nowadays in Brooklyn, there are a whole lot of ‘crazies’ like me around—people who cherish children and are willing to defend their right to play. This, for me, is a first bit of good news.

Curator’s Analysis Following the spoken words and, even more so, the writings of a traumatized elderly person is not easy. When my father wrote these first diary entries, he was an 84-year-old man who had recently suffered the trauma of an apocalyptic World War and the resulting experience of having survived as a refugee, among many others, for a long and tumultuous decade. When he and my mother were finally back safe in familiar Brooklyn, he found his memory and his spatial cognition gravely altered. In the first chapter, the author reveals that he had consciously begun writing his journal for its therapeutic value. In fact, he later told me that he was certain that this regular practice had helped him to “relearn almost everything over again … from scratch.” By observing his surroundings and asking ‘why?’, he slowly recovers and reconstructs important pieces of his past. Over time and with the help of his diary project, he increasingly became grounded. The reader should read and interpret the following chapters with this evolution in mind. Admittedly, the author’s initial style of writing is confused and disjointed. The overly lengthy description of the events leading up to ‘the End’ is just that, yet writing it (in just that way) had served to provide the author himself with a clearer picture of what had happened —and, more importantly, ‘why’ it happened. Certainly, most present-day readers would not need such a detailed reminder. In the four brief successive chapters, even though the writer is still unable to leave his home alone (he had said to me, ‘just like a young child’), his curiosity and interests opened windows onto the greater world outside. These interests— free play and the voices of children, the intrinsic powers of nature and of collaborative action —are introduced, and they set the stage for a successive exposition and development as several of the publication’s central themes. While important details of the surrounding

13

Lorenzo, R. (2014) Go Play in the Street in AA.VV., Children’s Right to Play: History, Theory, and Practical Experiences (translation of the title from Italian). Fefè Editore, Roma.

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present-day social and environmental contexts are slowly being revealed, the author also uncovers pieces of his family’s cultural and spatial-landscape origins which serve to introduce additional references to his formation and his professional activities. In this section, a few of the many books, mentors and stories which have influenced the author and which underpin the book’s principal messages are also presented. Below, I am including a few bibliographical references which can be of aid to the reader in a first exploration of the theoretical and operative foundations of the arguments introduced in this chapter. These areas will be further developed, and added to, in the successive chapters.

References and Suggestions for Further Reading Chawla, L. (1986). The ecology of environmental memory. “Children’s Environmental Quarterly, 3(4), 34–42. Cobb, E. (1977). The ecology of imagination in childhood. Columbia University Press. Gaster, S. (1991). Urban children’s access to their neighborhood: Changes over three generations. Environment and Behavior, 23(1), 70–85. Postman, N. (1994). The disappearance of childhood. Dell Books. Rivkin, M. S. (1995). The great outdoors: restoring children’s right to play outside. National Association for the Education of Children. White, R. (2004). Young children’s relationship with nature: Its importance to children’s development & the earth’s future. White Hutchinson Leisure & Learning Group.

On Vernacular Architecture Alexander, C. (1979). The timeless way of building. Oxford University Press. Rudofsky, B. (1965). Architecture without architects: A short introduction to non-pedigree architecture. Museum of Modern Art – Doubleday & Company. Taylor, J. S. (1982). Commonsense architecture. W.W. Norton & Company.

Addendum In my father’s decidedly disorganized archives, I found many old books which treat the issue of children in the urban environment from varying perspectives. Most of these publications were in Italian (see following chapters). The first text listed below is the source of the citation in Chapter 5. The second is a teaching manual on the design and planning of suitable urban spaces with and for children (Nb. At the time, my father often used a nom di plume). Lorenzo, R. (2014). Go Play in the Street in AA.VV., Children’s Right to Play: History, Theory, and Practical Experiences (translation of the title from Italian). Fefè Editore, Roma. Lorenzo, R. (2000). I Live in this City, too. A Manual of Child-Friendly Urban Design. (translation of title from Italian). Edizioni Guerra. Perugia, Italy.

Part II

A New Street … Exploring and Bonding

Chapter 3

The Child: Free Play, Friendship and Learning

© Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2022 R. Lorenzo, Children’s Free Play and Participation in the City, Children: Global Posthumanist Perspectives and Materialist Theories, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-0300-7_3

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When the Snow Falls (March 18, 1956)

Extreme meteorological events can dramatically affect places and human lives. The advent and recognition of Climate Chaos, fifty-plus years ago, finally taught society just how much devastation and suffering can result from unsustainable and unjust environmental policies, economic systems and everyday lifestyles. At the time of this story (1956), this “law of nature” was still almost universally ignored. From the tales of his uncle, our young protagonist learns of the local damage and loss-of-life which blizzards had caused in the past. Vinnie, also, begins to intuit that “heavy snowstorms (and hurricanes) can make children the Lords of the City,” as a Dutch Architect once wrote. The boy recalls a wind storm which transformed his backyard into a natural adventure playground, and he reflects on the negative and positive impacts of snowstorms and hurricanes on the environment and on children’s lives.

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Today, Vinnie awoke before his mother called him. With his eyes still closed, he was cognizant of a strange, new sensation. When he opened them, he had to squint to support the sunlight in the room which was much brighter than usual. The familiar sounds of the morning were, also, oddly different. He heard no passing cars, and the voices and sounds from the street were soft and muted. It was kind of like when he had his earmuffs on or had cotton in his ears. He made the connections, and he realized that it had snowed during the night—just as he had hoped it would when he had fallen asleep. He jumped from his bed and ran to the window. He pulled back the drapes and yelled: “Marco, Marco! It’s snowing tons! Come and see.” “I know. I know. I have a window in my room, too, silly.” His brother responded and rushed into Vinnie’s room. The two boys looked down onto the whitened street. It had snowed beyond their every imagination. Their neighbor Signora Teresa, wrapped in a thick gray shawl, was angrily shoveling the snow in her driveway while casting her evil eye on the invisible owner of the parked car which was blocking her progress. “It’s really deep. It must be at least two feet. I know that school will be closed today!” Marco exclaimed. Still in their pajamas, the boys ran straight downstairs for breakfast. It was earlier than usual and, since the boys were certain there would be no school today, they had seen no need to get washed or dressed. The mellow sound of the floor-standing wooden radio in the living room filled the entire first floor, and their mother was in the kitchen cooking breakfast and singing along, as she always did, when they entered. “Oh yes, I’m the Great …” she crooned in her sweet voice. “Hey Mommy! There’s no school today, right?” they both yelled. “Dio mio! You scared me! You’re up already?” “Is there? Is there school today, Ma?” Vinnie persisted. “No, nient’ scola oggi.1 The radio said that all the city schools are closed. There sure will be a lot of happy children, outside today … Especially, i mi’ bambini.” She smiled. The boys smiled, too. Then they yipped and yelled, scooting back and forth between the kitchen and dining room. “Your poor Daddy … he had to go to work. The radio said some of the subways are still running.” About an hour later, dressed-up warmly and with their rubber boots on, the boys went out the basement door and trudged through the deep snow up to the sidewalk. The air was cold, dry and luminous. “So, what are you gonna’ do, Marco?” Vinnie asked. “Weren’t you listening, dummy? I told Mommy when we were eating breakfast. I’m going down to Richard’s house to play Monopoly. What are you going to do?”

1

“No, there’s no school today” (from Neapolitan).

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“I’m gonna call Tommy, and see if he can come out. I wanna play in the snow.” “See you later. I’ll be back at lunchtime, but you’ll probably be back earlier than me. It’s really cold.” Marco walked down the block along the deep path which had be shoveled on the sidewalk. “It ain’t so cold.” Vinnie replied, already shivering. While Vinnie was slipping and sliding up the sidewalk to his friend’s house, he spotted a big kid he knew—his name was Aksel—shoveling the sidewalk in front of Peggy’s house, on the other side of the street. Today, one of his mother’s standing rules had been lifted. She had said: “Today, you can cross the street by yourself since there shouldn’t be any cars on the street.” But she had added that Vinnie had to be extra careful, “because there might be snowplows passing by” and “if the snow starts melting, then there might be a car or two, going by slowly.” He started to cross over. He made his way carefully around a high snow mound along the curb and, after having stopped to look left, he fought to keep his footing on the icy, snowpack on the street’s asphalt surface. Aksel saw Vinnie approaching, interrupted his work and slung the long shovel onto his shoulder. ‘Hi, Vinnie. Ain’t it great that we got no school today?”. “Yeah, I’m so happy. But what are you doing, huh? You don’t live here. Why aren’t you shoveling your own sidewalk, up the block?” Vinnie was confused. “I already did that, Vin. Now, I’m making some extra money shoveling out other people’s houses. They’ll give me a buck or more for my work. Then, when I’ve made enough, me and my brother are gonna go and get us some burgers and fries on 66th Street. I can’t wait.” “Where is he? I don’t see him around.” “He’s working the top of the block, up the street.” A snowplow slowly pushed its way by. The two boys turned to watch it pass and took in the snowy streetscape. Standing in entranced silence, they absorbed the scene around them. Despite the very low temperature, the street and sidewalks were full of people. For the most part, they were boisterous ecstatic children. Four little kids, huddled together behind a high mound of snow, were throwing their broomstick spears into the large white chunks below them, screaming “This buffalo is mine!” Vinnie knew they were reenacting the very same TV movie he had watched the night before with Marco and his mother. Further up the block, a few houses down from Peggy’s, much-feared ‘Jimmy the Gimp’ and his gang were pelting a passing group of teenage girls with well-aimed snowballs. They scattered, laughing and gesticulating wildly, and Vinnie and Aksel snickered. Two children were digging out a snow-fort in their front-stoop garden right next to an excellently executed snowman with a carrot nose and a fedora hat. The children’s father stood on the stoop, admiring his work of art. Down on the corner of 10th Avenue, some big kids were playing “King of the Mountain” on an enormous hill of snow which the snowplows had deposited there. It was over eight feet high.

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Children flocked the car-free roadway. Some were pulling each other on sleds, and others were running and sliding on big sheets of cardboard or on ‘borrowed’ garbage can lids. Across the street, behind the big old farmhouse on the corner, a group of older kids, probably teenagers, were leaping down from the high-peaked garage roof into a soft, deep mound of snow. Their legs, and sometimes entire bodies, sank so far down into the drifts that they had a hard time dragging themselves out. Vinnie was fascinated by their bravery, but frightened for their safety. He recalled that Jimmy ‘the gimp’ had acquired his terrible nickname as the result of an accident two years earlier. It had occurred while he was executing the same dangerous stunt. He broke his left leg in several places, and it had never healed well. He was damaged for life. “I’m gonna try that, this afternoon … after the burgers.” Aksel bragged. While Vinnie was imagining how great it would feel to be a ‘big kid,’ a stinging blow to his back broke his chain of thought. A snow ball had struck him on the shoulder. It hurt a little, and he felt the icy snow slipping down the back of his neck. He turned, and he saw that it was his friend, Tommy, who had thrown the snowball at him. “Hey Vinnie! Why didn’t you ring my bell? I’ve been waiting inside, with my coat on, too.” “Ok, Aksel, I gotta go now. See you around.” “See you later, alligator” Aksel said. “What?”. “Don’t you know that hit song? It’s been on the radio for weeks now. When I say ‘see you later, alligator’ you’re supposed to say ‘in a while, crocodile.” “I’ll remember that.” Vinnie replied as he ran off to begin his first of many fun-filled days in the snow. A few hours later, while he was taking off his wet clothes and snow-packed boots in the basement, Vinnie was surprised and happy to hear the voice of his favorite uncle, Rocco, upstairs in the kitchen. The boy yelled: “Hi Unc’! Whatcha doing here? Ain’t you ‘sposed to be at work today?” “Nope. No work for us, today. We got a Union, not like your poor Dad.” Vinnie ran up the stairs, calling out as he entered the kitchen “What’s a ‘Union’, Unc’?”. “Well, will you look at this kid, Lil? His cheeks are as red as your sister’s ‘socialist’ heart. Now, he wants a lesson on union organizing, too. I think he’s been hanging around too long with my Emma. Well, guagliò, ask your Godmother about unions, the next time you see her. For now, just give a Zi’2 a kiss, huh?” After a tight hug against Rocco’s cigar-smoke infused, blue flannel work-shirt and a peck on the cheek, Vinnie walked over to his mother who was bent over the stove. “Hi Mommy. Whatcha makin’ for lunch? I’m hungry. Me and Tommy did so much stuff this morning I got a big appetito, yuh know?”

2

Affectionate way of saying ‘uncle’ (from Neapolitan).

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“Yeah, so what else is new? And I’ll bet your eyes are bigger than your stomach, as usual. But before I tell you what we’re eating, don’t you have something for me, too?” “Oh yeah, sorry.” He gave his mother a long kiss on her cheek. “Anyway, it’s scarol’ soup with little meatballs. I got the impression you wanted that, last night.” “Mmmm.” Vinnie buzzed happily, and he took his place at the table. During lunch, the boy’s uncle told stories about the old days. This ritual was what Vinnie loved most about the man. This, and the fact that Uncle Rocco worked with his hands. He maintained and repaired elevator machinery and, with those skills, he was always called on to repair anything that wouldn’t work in Vinnie’s home. The boy enjoyed watching him labor, passing him his tools and occasionally learning some of the simpler secrets of ‘how things work.’ And while he fixed things, his uncle always made jokes. He swore when the occasion called for it and —when Vinnie prodded him he would tell his wonderful, winding tales. That day, the stories had to do with the big snowstorms back in his childhood in New York, and one was about a time long ago, in the ‘old country,’ when Vinnie’s Tata3 was a young boy. “You know, Vinnie. They said on the radio that this blizzard is going to be a really big one. It might snow for three or four days, if the forecast is correct.” “Gee, I sure hope so! It would be great to not go to school for the whole week. Robbie and I could keep doing all the great stuff we did this morning, and maybe, we can shovel some stoops and sidewalks and make some money. And then, next year, we can jump off our porch into the drifts in the garden.” “Whoa, boy! What’s that? You wanna break your leg like that poor kid across the street? That kind of horseplay is not to be done, ever! You got me?” “Vinnie, that same rule goes for me, too. Understand, Signorino?” His mother added. “Ok. But you know, Mommy, Aksel said he’s gonna jump off the garage behind the old farmhouse.” “Well, he is two years older than you are, but he still shouldn’t do that anyway. It’s not his house, and all those kids should stop bothering the poor old woman who lives alone in that big rundown mansion. Poor thing.” “I hear she’s a witch or worse. She’s lived there since before the Civil War, they say.” Uncle Rocco added. “Don’t scare the boy, Rocco.” “I’m just kidding, Lil.” He winked his left eye at Vinnie and nodded his head, two times up and down. Vinnie thought to himself, “I bet it’s true that she is a witch, or something terrible like that.”

‘Tata’ means ‘father’ in the family’s Lucanian dialect. The grandchildren, erroneously, called their grandfather ‘Tata’ because their parents, lovingly, address their father in that manner. 3

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The boy’s uncle lit his cigar, sipped his coffee and said, “Quant’ è buon’ ‘sto espresso.4’ ‘Unc, was there a lot of snow – like this - when you were a little kid?”. “You kiddin’? This ain’t nuthin’! You should’ve seen the Blizzard of ’22. Yeah, that was a real big one. I was older than you are now. Lemme see, I must have been around 14 then. I was working in Downtown Brooklyn at the time. The trains were shut down for days, and we had to walk all the way to work. It was miles and miles.” “Rocco, wasn’t that the blizzard they called the ‘Knickerbocker Storm’? Vinnie’s mother interjected. “Yeah, it’s called that because of the tragedy that happened in Washington, D.C. Ninety-eight people died when the roof of a movie theatre – the Knickerbocker – collapsed on them. The roof couldn’t take the weight of all the wet snow. Madonna, these blizzards can be killers at times. People have gotten frozen when the electrical grid’s gone out. In some big snow storms in the 30’s, food – which was already short – got scarcer and harder to find, and some little ones died of hunger. And then there was that big fire up in the Bronx …” Vinnie hung onto his uncle’s every word. “Rocco, please, the boy.” She shook her finger in her brother-in-law’s direction. “Oh, sorry again, Lil. Anyways, what was that old saying you’re Poppa would always utter whenever he heard that a blizzard or a hurricane was on its way?” “He’d say ’Li trireci parole pe’ faaddarrassa’ lu male temp’.5 I remember he told us it referred to an old superstition from Miglionico. It was kind of like a litany of thirteen magical words - he never revealed them to us – which the villagers believed could ward off bad weather. He would laugh about it, but I think he really believed it, too.” “Yeah, well ‘thirteen’ is bad luck. So, I guess it makes some sense.” Uncle Rocco blew a big puff of cigar smoke in his nephew’s direction, and the boy ran for air into the dining area of the adjacent, open family room. In the dining room, Vinnie stood up on a chair and gazed out onto the backyard through the door-window. The snow was coming down heavily, once again. It had already piled up to mid-height of his father’s rose bushes, and the steps down to the basement from the concrete platform were invisible. To Vinnie, the steps looked like small, contoured hills. As always, whenever he looked at the yard, Vinnie grieved for the big peach tree that used to be there. He remembered the first time he had seen it. It was on the day his parents had taken him and Marco to see the new house they planned to purchase. Vinnie and his brother had immediately fallen in love with that tree. He recalled the time he had first transfixed its bright, pink flowers and the intricate vein-like network of its branches against the deep blue background from below, lying on his back in the grass. He could almost taste the delicious fruits the tree produced during the two summers before it came down. When it was still there, Vinnie was too young to climb it, but he had always imagined the day when he would finally be able to scale it alone and grab a sweet peach right from its limbs. 4 5

“How good this expresso coffee is.” (from Italian). “The thirteen words to ward off bad weather” (from Lucanian dialect).

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In 1954, when Hurricane Edna knocked it down, Vinnie had cried himself to sleep. Then, when the hurricane passed, and two big men came to cut the fallen tree into pieces to carry it away, his grief had magically vanished for one glorious afternoon. That day, he and Marco had balanced themselves on the fallen tree trunk and used the severed limbs to build a small fort. They made a roof with the gnarly, leafy branches and their fort became a clubhouse. The brothers, and their friends, enjoyed that backyard adventure playground for two full days before the men returned with a truck to cart the pieces of their fallen friend away. At the time, Vinnie didn’t know that, in the years to follow, there would be other hurricanes. He couldn’t imagine that every time a storm would pass through— especially when the schools remained closed—Vinnie and his friends on the block would take to the streets. He, probably, couldn’t dream that mile-high piles of leaves and branches would fill the sidewalks and roadways, or that there would be lots of other fallen trees to play on. He certainly didn’t know that, in the fall of 1958, one of the tallest trees on the block would topple over and crush two automobiles. That stately tree had always been a hindrance to the block’s stickball games. Its collapse would open up a 200-feet-long playing field—what the kids in Brooklyn called a ‘two sewer ball field.’ After its collapse, the kids of 71st Street would play in the gigantic tree town that blocked the roadway for nearly a week. That event went down in the block’s history. A photograph of that partially (some fathers helped) kid-built mega structure would remain on Vinnie’s bedroom wall until he turned sixteen—until the day he carefully placed the photo in a box of sacred artifacts and mementos from his childhood. As Vinnie continued to gaze out the window, he couldn’t help thinking that snowstorms and hurricanes were really strange, powerful things. Like his uncle had said, they sometimes caused terrible damage and could kill people. They could bring great suffering to many people. But for children like himself, those storms served to transform the city into a magical place which only was theirs for the taking. The destructive power of blizzards and hurricanes also provided an abundance of diversified, natural materials to play with, to make things and to build shelters. Those great storms created a different place in which there were no cars, and they set a different time in which there was no school. Enraptured by these thoughts, Vinnie spoke out loud to himself: “I wish Tata would teach me some other ‘thirteen magic words’ which wouldn’t keep away ‘lu male temp’ but which would keep all the people safe from the storm’s harm.” “Hey Vinnie, you talkin’ to yourself? I heard you mention Tata, and that reminds me of your grandpa’s “Werewolf in the Snowstorm” story. “U lupu manaru nella neve.” It was back in the old country. You wanna hear it?” “Rocco! Again?! You really want to scare my son to death, today. Don’t you?” Vinnie sat down at the kitchen table across from his smiling uncle, picked up the cup of hot chocolate his mother had prepared and said, with the sense of conviction which only a seven-year-old child could possess: Please, Mommy, I wanna hear Zio Rocco’s story … and I hope it’s real scary.

3.2 A Cruel God on the Block (October, 1957–September, 1958)

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A Cruel God on the Block (October, 1957–September, 1958)

71st Street in Brooklyn In this chapter—in the span of only one year—Vinnie and his friends experience the sudden, tragic deaths of three young friends from their block. The supportive bonds with their friends and family, along with the children’s natural propensity to play even in the face of tragedy, assist them in assimilating and accepting these terrible events. Two of the deaths occurred while their peers were playing. It is generally recognized that autonomous free play can expose children to risk and, at times, to real danger. The author had always held that the dilemma facing the adult-world was how to best remove the dangers of serious accidents while maintaining elements of adventure and risk which are fundamental factors in children’s development. Usually, adult institutions fail to do so. For example, one common adult solution to traffic-related accidents regarding the young has often been, simply, to remove the children from the streets. My father once compared such a limited approach to “throwing the baby away with the dirty bath water.”

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During Vinnie’s third year of elementary school, his block was struck by a series of tragic events involving young children. These tragedies brought the boy and his friends to struggle with all the capacities of their young hearts to try to understand —and to some way accept—how their God could have been so cruel. In 1957, people around the world were celebrating the recent discovery of a vaccine which would finally bring an end to the innumerable personal and family tragedies reeked by the poliomyelitis virus. Vinnie and his schoolmates had been inoculated with the wonder drug when he was in the 2nd grade. He remembered himself trembling with fear on line outside the school nurse’s office, as he waited for the painful injection. All the schoolchildren had been reassured by their parents, and by the nuns, that “it was for their own good, and worth the pain.” Vinnie had believed them. At its peak, in the late 1940s and early 1950s, the terrible disease had paralyzed or killed over half-a-million people worldwide every year. In the USA, the epidemic of 1952 had been the worst in the Nation’s history. There had been nearly 60,000 cases reported that year and, of these, 3,145 had died while 21,269 were left with mild to disabling paralyses. While the polio infection had a lower probability of causing fatalities in children, this was nevertheless the age group which was most likely to contract the disease. By 1950, the peak-age-incidence of paralytic poliomyelitis had shifted up from infants to children aged 5–9 years. This was the age group of Vinnie and his friends. Vinnie knew one of the innocent victims. In the first grade, his classmate Brian McCarthy had contracted the disease. Brian was a sweet chubby, freckle-faced boy who did very well at school. He lived on Vinnie’s block but, since the day he became confined to a wheel chair, he was unable to take part in the block’s street games. To keep in contact, Vinnie would often visit the boy in his home—or on his stoop—and the two had become close friends. In good weather, Vinnie would slowly walk the five blocks to school with Brian in his wheelchair, accompanied by the boy’s young mother. “Good morning, Sister Assunta.” The entire third-grade class stood and glumly greeted their teacher. The grim, black-cloaked old woman sat at an immense, dark-wood desk below a portrait of the Madonna and an extremely disturbing photo of Pope Pius XII. She addressed the class. “Children, I am sorry but I have very sad news for you.” “Maybe she’s gonna tell us that we have to come to school on Saturday.” Tony LoPresti, the class clown, leaned forward and whispered softly in Vinnie’s left ear. “Silence, Anthony! This is a very serious matter. You surely all know that your friend and classmate, Brian, has been in the hospital for four weeks now, in an iron lung.” Vinnie relived the horror which those two words—‘iron lung’—had instilled in him the first time he had heard them from his mother. He recalled his first visit to Brian in the hospital, and how the Irish boy was still able to kibitz about his ‘lying down space ship.’ Vinnie admired Brian and his mom for their resiliency in the face of such a tragedy. He doubted he could behave the same way, and he now sensed

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that he wouldn’t be able to support the terrible words which he knew Sister Assunta was about to utter. “Well, children, last night dear Brian passed away. We will, now, all bow our heads and say a prayer for the beloved child’s soul and for his bereaved family.” Two days later, Vinnie and his entire class visited the funeral home where the boy’s wake was being held. On the way back to school, one of his classmates—her name was Rosa—said to Vinnie that she thought Brian, laid out in his coffin, ‘looked happier than he ever did in class.’ Vinnie was enraged. “Shut up! You don’t know him! He was the happiest guy I know. He was always fun, and he made me happy, too.” After the funeral, a few days later, Vinnie and some of the kids from the block who were closest to Brian were at King’s Tavern with their families remembering the boy and consoling his mother and father. Sitting on the curb outside the neighborhood’s favorite drinking hole, the boys tried to get through the loss of their friend, each in his own personal way. Little Joey cried, and Vito hugged him. Tommy and Big Joe told funny stories, an almost effective stratagem for exorcising their pain. Vinnie, for the most part, just sat there and grimly listened to Aksel as he explained. “They say that we’re gonna beat this polio thing soon, and my dad believes them. You know, I do too. But it’s really sad that Brian couldn’t get that vaccine in time. I never thought he was going to die. Alright, he was in a wheel chair but he looked pretty good – and he sure could joke – up until a couple of weeks ago.” All the boys nodded and smiled sadly. “Shit. I really hope Brian will the last of our friends, of all the kids on our block, who will die so young.” Tragically, Aksel’s heart-felt wish wouldn’t be granted. Only seven months later, in May of 1958, the people on the block and Vinnie, in particular, would be mourning yet another very young friend. In mid-March, with the arrival of uncommonly warm weather, the boys once again resumed their most-beloved, daily pastime—stickball. During the second game of the season, Vinnie noticed a young woman he didn’t recognize sitting on the lower steps of a stoop with a red-haired, baby girl by her side. Since Tommy lived in the house right next door to that stoop, he asked him if he knew who she was. “Her name is Arlene, she moved into old Mr. Bruno’s basement apartment a few weeks ago. She’s really young, and she ain’t got a husband. So, my mom – you know how she is – has been talking to her and helping her out however she can. I don’t remember her daughter’s name.” Every day, when the weather permitted, the boys would play stickball. Arlene and her daughter had become their games’ habitual spectators. One warm afternoon, a foul ball was slammed by Kristen who was the only girl on the block who played stickball with the boys and was, also, one of the best hitters. The hard-hit flyer careened in their direction, and Arlene casually jumped up and caught the high ball with one hand. She relayed the Spaldeen quickly back to Vinnie, who was playing the position nearest to her. That position might be called ‘second base’ or ‘inner outfield’ but, in reality, it was just a man-hole cover in the middle of the street.

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“Thanks, Lady. You’re really good. And you throw like a pro, too.” His bare hand stung painfully. After the game, as Vinnie walked towards his home, he passed right in front of the Bruno house. He couldn’t help but notice the rundown, neglected state of the old man’s garden. While he was wondering why that garden was the only uncared-for one on the block, his attention was caught by a young child’s laughter filtering from the shadows of the covered porch. He looked and saw a radiant, green-eyed little girl sitting between her mother’s legs holding an open book in her hands. He smiled in their direction. “That was a good game, Sonny, your team won.” “Oh, hello Mam, yeah I guess we were lucky. You really like stickball, don’t you?” He asked. “Yes, my wee Maggie here and I really like to watch you boys play ball. Is that what it’s called? Stickball? I guess it’s a fitting moniker. You do use a broomstick as the bat, after all.” “Umm, excuse me mam, I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Vinnie. I live down the block. It’s one of those new houses near the corner. But you really don’t know what stickball is?” He noticed that the little girl had glanced up from her book and was staring at him. “Pleased to meet you, Vinnie. My name is Arlene. And yes, I don’t know your ‘stickball’. We don’t play it where I come from, out in Western Pennsylvania. I have to say that I was pretty good at softball, though. I was a starter on second base at my High School. I even made the Regional Varsity All-Star team.” “Wow, I play second base, too. Except, I’m in the Little League, and … umm … I’m not a starter.” He bounced his Spaldeen nervously, and he shifted his weight from foot to foot while he spoke. “Well, will you look at my little Maggie?! She just can’t take her eyes off of you.” Arlene said, smiling. “Hi, Maggie. Mam, can I come up and see the book she’s reading?” Maggie jumped down from her mother’s embrace and extended the open book towards the boy. Vinnie knew the book. It had been his absolute favorite when he was a little kid. His mother had read it to him from when he was almost three, and he’d learned the basics of reading with that very book. “Curious George! I love that book. Do you like it too, Maggie?” “Yes, yes. Georgie, the monkey. His friend and the yellow hat.” She said, pointing excitedly to Vinnie’s head. Only then, did Vinnie recall that he was wearing a bright yellow baseball cap. He smiled and chuckled. “Oh, I get it. But Maggie, my hat isn’t a safari hat. Yeah, but it is yellow, though.” He sat down next to Maggie and read her the whole book—twice—that day. That was to be the first of many pleasant, post-stickball hours spent with the sweet, two-year-old girl and her mother—reading, playing, talking and laughing together. Vinnie became very attached to Maggie. He had always wanted a little sister, and Arlene had even admitted once that she thought “… little Maggie might have a crush on you.”

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These brief, happy moments crashed down and ended cold, one terrible morning in early May. “Vinnie come here.” His mother hugged him tightly and uttered, with grief in her voice, “Santa Madonna, I don’t know how to tell you but … your little friend, Maggie, died suddenly last night. Why, why, why, oh God!? Why do I have to tell my son such a terrible thing?” Vinnie, trembling and crying, listened to his mother’s tender synthesis of the terrible tragedy. Later that afternoon at Tommy’s house, he overheard more details while their mothers grieved together over a cup of coffee. The little boy and his buddy were destroyed inside by what they learned. Arlene had found her daughter’s lifeless body at 8 o’clock the night before. While her mother was washing the dishes, Maggie had slipped into the woman’s bedroom. She had found a plastic bag from the dry-cleaners behind a chair in the corner. Playing innocently with this fascinating material, she had suffocated herself. A moment’s distraction with a recently introduced, unregulated consumer commodity had triggered a catastrophe. This accident was just one of many identical tragedies which had struck numerous American families in the same period. In 1959, California would be the first state to introduce legislation which obliged manufactures to post a highly visible warning statement on plastic dry-cleaner bags. New York would follow suit, one year later. Official regulations had come too late for Maggie and Arlene. And they had come too late for Vinnie.

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The summer began as would be imagined in the wake of the devastating events of the preceding school year. Still, the freedom and free-time offered by the school-break served some to dissipate the children’s sorrows, as it often does. Vinnie and his friends, led-on and guided by their now-acknowledged leader, Aksel, began to explore new and interesting places beyond their block. They experienced new adventures which took their minds off the sadness which pervaded their community. Vinnie found solace in the company of his friends. Then, once again in September, the wrath of the block’s cruel God struck down like a lightning bolt on the unexpecting children. And this time, it hit them hardest and where it hurt most—in one of the friends’ families and out in the street. A few days after school had commenced, Vito’s youngest cousin Gerry had been killed by an automobile. He was playing box ball on the sidewalk in front of his home, when a bad bounce had careened the ball out into the street. Without looking, the five-year-old boy rushed out from between two parked vehicles and was struck by a passing car. The motorist had been going faster than was generally the custom on such a heavily played street. The stunned, dumb-struck driver was harassed, jeered and man-handled by a crowd of neighbors until the ambulance and the police arrived. That night, after the two brothers had gone to bed, Vinnie’s parents and his aunt and uncle were talking heatedly about the accident and about eventual measures that should be taken. Towards the end of the evening, tempers were flaring. Vinnie’s father, tapping his foot and smoking heavily, spoke up. “Lillian, I don’t think Vinnie should be allowed to play in the street anymore! It isn’t a place to play, it just isn’t safe! We have two nice parks in our neighborhood where our sons can go to play.” Dom’s brother, Rocco, snuffed out his cigar and intervened. “I don’t agree with you, Dom. Kids in New York have always played on the street. Maybe you don’t remember – you were never one to play, anyway – but I do. I can remember how back in the early ‘20’s automobiles started to become more popular in the city. Kids, and one of my close friends too, were dropping like flies. Those damn drivers didn’t respect any rules or limits. They drove like nuts. There were so few stop signs, and the cops and politicians just didn’t give a shit about the kids. They thought that the cars meant progress, and that the children in the street were hindering that progress. The newspaper headlines screamed ‘Take the kids off the street’ and some people, in response, started organizing marches and protests to turn attention to the quality of the lives of their children.” “Yeah, I remember one of the older members of my Union talking about her having taken part in the ‘Women’s March against White Deaths’ in that same period. There were over 50,000 people protesting on the streets and in the squares, she told me.” Aunt Emma interjected.

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“Right, honey, that demonstration started all of those reforms. As a result, the Municipality built parks and playgrounds, and they started blocking off some streets in Manhattan, on a regular basis. They used to call them ‘play-streets’.” “That’s true, Rocco. My supervisor told me that a street near our Settlement House in the East Village was closed three or four days a week in the late 20’s. When I worked there, the city had already stopped that program. They said it cost too much, and that the children should be kept off the streets because the streets, they affirmed, were breeding grounds for crime and delinquency. Can you imagine that BS?” Vinnie’s mom added. “Yeah, that’s pure bullshit. Where do all those teenage gangs hang out these days? Where do they have their gang wars? It ain’t out on the streets, that’s for sure. Just last week a Puerto Rican gang stabbed and killed a kid from another gang down in a playground in Hell’s Kitchen. In a playground, get it? Not on a street!” Rocco insisted. “You’re all getting off the subject. Which is, Vinnie and Marco just shouldn’t play in the street anymore.” Domenic bellowed and banged his fist on the table. “I don’t agree, Honey. Look. That guy who killed Gerry was an out-of-towner, right? He didn’t expect to see any kids in the street. That’s why he was going so fast. But most people around here know there are kids playing in our street. I, for sure, don’t want our boys, or any children, to get run over or killed. But I agree with Rocco that the streets should be places to play. We can watch over them from our windows that way. The boys just have to learn to be much, much more careful. And maybe we can organize things and get a play street permit for our block, or put a warning sign up to let drivers know there are kids in the street. We should try. Anyway, I will never forbid my Vinnie to play in the street.” “I agree with Lil.” Emma said. “I do, too. Sorry, you lose, Dom.” Rocco lit up his cigar, frowned with his eyes turned towards the ceiling and exclaimed: “I can’t wait to see little Vinnie’s eyes when I say: Hey, why don’t you all just go back and play in the street!”

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The Power of ‘If’ (May 18, 1958)

My father was never satisfied with finding only one solution to any problem. He never saw only one answer to a question. When I was young that aspect of his character was often disorienting to me. It never failed to get on my mother’s nerves, too. As I grew older, and especially when we had begun to work together, I came to see this trait as a positive and essential ‘aptitude’ in our work in participatory planning and design. There will always be alternatives which can be created, he’d say adding the admonition that we should always raise questions and seek new answers from others. My father, generally, declined to decide anything without having raised a type of question he called “What Ifs?”. When I first read this chapter, I came to realize that his Uncle Rocco had been the ‘Zen Master’ behind this ‘madness.’

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“If I were you … I wouldn’t start from here.” On the sidewalk in front of the Silver Star Pasta store on 11th Avenue, Vinnie and Vito couldn’t suppress their laughter. They sputtered and coughed, holding their hands to their mouths. Tears of hilarity rolled down their ruddy cheeks. They hid, flustered, behind Vinnie’s Uncle Rocco who had just given directions in his typically surreal and hilarious manner to two bewildered young Mormon proselytizers who were searching for 69th Street and 12th Avenue. After five minutes of pure vaudeville schtick, the two befuddled hicks finally walked away, up 11th Avenue. The two boys turned towards the cigar-smoking, Sunday-dressed Zen Master and awaited an explanation of what had just transpired. Vinnie knew exactly what to expect, but Vito was curious and confused. “You know, boys, this is the first time in my life that someone has ever asked me for directions on 11th Avenue. Those two honkies probably just got off a stagecoach from Salt Lake City. They’re probably accustomed to finding their way around in the painted desert. You both know what I mean - turn left at the third cactus, go straight down into the gulley and then watch out for rattle snakes.” “You’re right, Zio, how could anybody be so stupid as to ask - on 66th Street! ‘where’s 69th Street’? Can’t they even count? This neighborhood is just one big, regular grid of streets and avenues, and the numbers just go up or down. It’s as easy as pie to find your way around here.” “Ok, so they’re dumb. And maybe they just got off the boat, or stagecoach or whatever. But what exactly did your answer mean, Mister Laurenzi? How could they not start from where they were? I don’t get it.” Vito exclaimed. “That’s the point, guagliò.6 You’re not supposed to get it right away. Those words serve to get you thinking in a totally different way. Now, if you really come to think about it, if you want to get somewhere isn’t is always better to start from a place where you’d have a better chance of reaching your destination, or your goal? I bet you don’t start off by courting the prettiest girl in your class, do you?” Uncle Rocco winked, took a puff on his cigar and continued. “And, capisc’ a me,7 those two guys just didn’t get it at all! They didn’t even laugh once during the whole time I was kibitzing them. They worry me, assaje.8 I hope those two yokels never find 69th Street and 12th Avenue for the sake of whoever, or whatever it was, they were looking for.” “But, Signò Telesca, do you always give that kind of crazy answer to people who ask you for directions? What do they usually say? How do people respond?” Vito asked. “Yeah, I’ve done it at times in Manhattan, especially downtown, where the streets are irregular and crooked. People who aren’t familiar with the area, like tourists, can easily get lost. I try to help them find their way and have myself a good laugh at the same time. You know what I’m talking about, Vinnie, you remember

“Young man” or “Kid” (Translation from Neapolitan). “Understand me” or “Get it” (from Neapolitan). 8 “A lot” (Translation from Neapolitan). 6 7

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those streets near Wall Street and Battery Park. I think it happened down there once when you were with me.” “Yup, I remember when we go down to Radio Row, Zio. The first time we went there, I felt lost and you bought me a big, colorful pictorial map of the area, with all the old street names. I still have it hanging over my bed.” “And do you still have the Hammond World Atlas I gave you for your seventh birthday?” “I sure do, and I still use it. That’s why I’m so good in my Geography class.” Vinnie bragged. “Well, if you think the street layouts around Wall Street are confusing, take a good look at some of the city maps that are in that Atlas. Not the cities in the USA, look at those big foreign towns.” The boy’s uncle replied. “Oh, I do that a lot, Zio. I love looking at the city maps. Like Istanbul, in Turkey, is incredible. The map of one part of that city looks like the lichens you can see on some trees in McKinley Park. It must be really hard to find your way around in those mazes. Some other city maps remind me of my spider web drawings, and the map of Venice looks like two hands that are forming a handshake. They’re all so amazing.” For the next half hour, Vinnie and his uncle went on, and on, about maps and map-making. They talked and joked about finding their way around the city and about all of the strategies each had devised to aid in orienting himself. His uncle, with his usual ‘crazy wisdom,’ was a literal treasure chest of information and, as always, he never failed to present challenges which fed the boy’s desire to learn and to explore new ideas and, more so, new worlds. Vinnie couldn’t help but think how much he could learn on a Sunday morning while simply shopping for his mother on old, familiar 11th Avenue. During the conversation, Vito had stood on the sidelines and just listened. But when the boys finally said goodbye to Uncle Rocco and were walking home with the raviolis for dinner, he tried again to swing the discussion back to what he still couldn’t understand—the mystery of ‘If.’ “Vinnie, your Uncle Rocco is a funny guy, and he’s really smart, too. But when I heard him say ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t start from here’ - I couldn’t believe it. I thought to myself how would I respond to that question, what does he really mean? How can you not start from where you are, in the first place?” “I thought he had given you a good answer. You know, he said it’s better to start from the place from which you’re most likely to get where you want to go, or what you want to do. Like with girls, that was a good example for you.” “Yeah, maybe, Vinnie. But if you’re asking directions, you’re in one place and you wanna get to someplace else, right? So, it just doesn’t make sense. What are you supposed to do? Go someplace else and start from there?” “That’s the point, Vit’. And that’s his way of kibbitzing, his way of doing things. You should try to understand him. I guess I grew up with him and have gotten used to it. When he makes one of his weird comments, it always makes me stop and think it all over, once again. You know, my uncle and I might be talking about something, and then – like magic - I see it all differently. It’s like everything, somehow, changes all of a sudden. And you know, Vito, I think the big element

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here is the word ‘if’. It gives you kind of a choice or opens up, like, another possibility.” “What the hell are you talking about, now?” His friend was even more perplexed. “Think about it. ‘If I were you’ or ‘if you were me’ … things would change, but how would they be different?” “Well for one thing, if I were you I’d be a flying asshole or pretty close to it. You think too much, Vinnie.” “Some friend you are, but maybe you’re right. I never can stop thinking. One thought just leads to another, and another and another. And the third thought usually doesn’t have anything to do with the first one. Like now, I’ve started thinking about that picture-framed poem we have at home at the top of the stairs. You’ve seen it, I’m sure. It’s a poem by Rudyard Kipling and its title is …” Vinnie hesitated. “If.” Vito interjected. “I ain’t stupid, buddy boy!” “I know that, Vit’. But have you ever read it? My Mom sometimes stops me on the stairs and reads a line out loud. She said my dad bought it in a little shop in London during the war. It was before Marco and I were born, but I guess he was already hoping to have a son someday. You know they tried for a long time, and then Marco came along. They were both over 40.” “Yeah, I know your mom and dad are a lot older than mine.” “Well, that poem gives a whole list of things you might do, or should do, in your life. Like, if you do this or if you don’t do that, then ‘you’ll be a man’. That’s what I was thinking, that’s what I meant, when I said before that the word ‘if’ opens up a possibility or a choice. You get me?” “Yeah, kind of, but I still think you think too much.” Vito replied. “Hmmm, yeah, maybe you’re right. In fact, I’ve always had a really hard time with two verses of the poem, that go like this”: “… If you can dream—and not make dreams your master; If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim …” (1). “Yup, that’s your problem in a nutshell.” Vito smiled. That night, Vinnie had a hard time falling asleep. He rolled around in his bed, over and over again, but sleep just wouldn’t come. The words from his conversation with Vito rolled like waves upon themselves and eventually dragged the boy’s thoughts elsewhere, back into the mysterious realm of ‘If.’ In his drowsy mind, random pieces of the Kipling poem made way to choices and questions, past and present, which he recited in a soporific circular mantra. “If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting. If I turn left instead of right … If I study all the maps of the world in my Atlas … If Maggie’s mom hadn’t gone to the drycleaners that day … If the scientists had invented a vaccine for polio a couple of years earlier … If my gang works hard together on our plan … If I were you …

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If you were me … If I were you … If … If … If.” Vinnie fell asleep and dreamed that he was awake in his bed, trying to fall asleep. To help himself, he had invented a method, better than counting sheep, which consisted of repeating phrases which began with the word ‘if.’ He was having fun, and it was working. His eyelids were getting heavy, but when he got to the phrase ‘If I were you’ he heard a low, deep voice respond from inside his closet. “I wouldn’t start from here.” The voice said. The door to the closet slowly opened, and a little man stepped out and walked towards Vinnie’s bed. The man was bald-headed and dressed in a long black overcoat. There was a strange man in his bedroom but, oddly enough, Vinnie didn’t feel the least bit threatened. The man’s friendly smile and kind eyes, for some reason, calmed and reassured him. He knew, for sure, that the odd man was a friend. The strangest thing about the little man was the fact that he had no neck. Not in the sense that his head rested directly on his shoulders as it does on some unfortunate people—like Mike the junkman. Instead, his head was actually levitated in thin air about six inches above his shoulders. Vinnie could clearly see the posters and pennants on his wall through the space between the man’s chin and shoulders, but still he wasn’t frightened at all. It all seemed perfectly natural. “That’s a nice game you’ve invented, Vinnie. Can I play along?” The man smiled a question mark. The boy invited the little man to play, and they went on and on for what seemed like hours. Vinnie would shout out a conditional phrase and the dream-fellow would complete it. Sometimes, the man’s response was what Vinnie would have expected or hoped would happen. For example, “If I study all the maps of the world in my Atlas,” said Vinnie. “You’ll visit all those countries one day.” The man replied. Other times, his responses were in strange languages Vinnie couldn’t understand and sometimes his response disturbed or angered Vinnie like, for example, when the boy said: “If the scientists had invented a vaccine for polio a couple of years earlier,” “Your little friend Brian, I’m sorry, would have died in any case.” The smiling man replied. Other times, the little man said things that Vinnie couldn’t exactly understand but which started him thinking. “If my gang works hard together on our plan,” Vinnie shouted. “You will create even better plans and actions in the years to come.” The little man whispered with a smile. At one point, Vinnie told the man he was feeling very sleepy, and that perhaps the little fellow should go back into the closet. He agreed, but he said he wanted to tell Vinnie something he should and would always remember.

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The little man turned his face towards the bedroom window, pointed outside and said: “You know what the letters “I” and “F” really mean? They stand for Imagining Futures. Don’t forget it and goodnight, my dear little friend.” He turned on his heels and walked back towards the closet. As the man turned the doorknob, Vinnie called out to him: “Uh, Sir, can I ask you who are you, anyway?” “Oh, I’m sorry, I never presented myself. I’m your Uncle Rocco’s dream. He dreamed about me last night.” Vinnie sprung up from his bed trembling. He was in a cold sweat and was once again fully awake. He remained in a terribly confused and frightened state all the next day until he finally was able to reach his uncle and ask him whether he had really dreamt of that little neck-less man. His Uncle said he hadn’t, but that was the first and only time that Vinnie would ever have some doubt regarding his mentor’s words. “What If that little man was really in Uncle Rocco’s dream?” Vinnie pondered.

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Ants in the USA versus Russia Space Race (June 21– July 2, 1958)

My father grew up during the Cold War period. In the decade following the Korean War, International tensions were high. In the USA, nuclear air raid drills at school were a common, recurring experience for all children. At that time, an ideological and technological race was on between the USA and Russia regarding which country would dominate the space around our planet and, subsequently, dominate the World. The author and his friends were surrounded, and not unaffected, by this atmosphere. Here they elaborate an intricate plan which served to exorcise their preoccupations and fears of War and allowed them to ‘take part’ in what they saw as a national objective through the ‘instrument’ of play. While enacting their “secret plan,” the boys interact with a new and diverse culture and, more intimately, with non-human life. They explore unknown territories and come into close contact with risk and potential danger while tredding the permeable borders between legal and illegal behavior. Through play and dialogue, they actively experiment and concretize the abstract knowledge (notions) of science and technology they acquired previously in school.

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Vinnie rolled out of bed, thinking: “I hope Mommy wants to send me shopping on 11th Avenue so I can go with my friends to visit the old Gypsy woman’s shop across from Mike the junkman’s lot.” Every child’s favorite time of year had rolled around, once again. Summer provides unlimited free-time and so many opportunities for new adventures. Vinnie hoped his first day of summer—in a dark, mysterious storefront on 11th avenue— would open the door to an important opportunity for his gang. From downstairs, he could hear his mother singing in Italian along with the radio. Vinnie knew she was especially proud of that an Italian song which had finally made it to the top of the Hit Parade. She had taught him some of the verses just a few weeks ago when they had visited Tata to give him his monthly “allowance.” When that happened, every month, his grandfather never would fail to give Vinnie and Marco several long sticks of the hot and sweet dried sausages which he made and conserved in his cool dry basement. Vinnie licked his lips and began to play with the words he had learned that day: “‘Cantare’ means ‘singing’, and ‘volare’ means ‘flying’. ‘Blu dipinto di blu’ means blue skies, painted blue. I sure hope it will be nice day, today, with a lot of ‘blu dipinto di blu’. I sure would love to be able to fly, too.” His mother’s voice interrupted his stream of thought. “Hey Vinnie! Hey Marco! Come on sleepyheads, get up! Your breakfast’s ready.” While Vinnie and Marco gobbled down their waffles, the radio continued to play and their mother, as usual, sang along in her sweet, off-key voice. She crooned, and chuckled, as she washed the dishes. Vinnie spoke out: “I really like this song about that Purple Monster, Mommy. It’s funny, and it’s all about that outer space stuff, too.” “I like the tune, but I think it’s kind of silly, really. You know, I was talking with Aunt Emma, the other day, about the fact that there have been so many recent songs about the sky, and outer space and the stars. You know, like the Modugno song and this Purple People-eater nut job. Elvis did a beautiful ballad about the Moon last year and, of course, Perry Como’s been “Catching Stars.” Your Aunt Emma thinks that all this has to do with the fear and excitement surrounding the Sputnik and the ‘Space Race’ with the Russians. I don’t know. My sister always goes deeper than maybe she ought to into every single issue. What do you think, boys?’” “I think Zia’s right.” Marco responded. “Those songs get people’s mind off of their worries. The radio makes them relax and gets them to sing about the same stuff that they hear about in the news. But the songs are happy, and the news is scary. I don’t know, maybe. Like, that time when Uncle Bruno said that the Russians are gonna drop an A-bomb on us from outer space. And Uncle Rocco, too, he always says that the ‘Chinese are gonna eat us.’” “Oh, don’t take everything Uncle Rocco says as true. You know he only makes that joke when we’re at the Chinese restaurant. He doesn’t really mean it. And Bruno’s, well, he’s just Bruno. But you know, you are a sharp little man, Marco, listening to the news and thinking with your own head.” She fondly stroked his hair.

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“Well, I’m scared, and all my friends on the block are, too.” Vinnie said and perked his ears as a song by the Everly Brothers that he really loved came on the radio. “Like, last week at school we had another one of those stupid air-raid drills. You know, when they tell us to get under the desk and turn our behinds away from the window. Sister Helen says we don’t wanna’ get any radiation down there. Big Tony said that the nuns are a lot of crock. He said, ‘How can turning your butt around save you? Haven’t they seen the pictures of Hiroshima?’ I think Big Tony and Uncle Bruno are right. We all are gonna die if the Russians drop some A-bombs from the Sputnik. They even put a dog up there! Her name’s Laika, and maybe she really does know how to shoot bombs and rockets. We ain’t got nothin’ like that up in space yet!!” Vinnie frowned. “Now, dear, calm down. Don’t be frightened, ‘mi picciril’.9 Our country is doing its best to catch up to the Russians. And you know, maybe those Russians aren’t really as bad as uncle Bruno and the news make them out to be. Your Aunt Emma is absolutely sure that it’s all propaganda. Uh, that means they’re just white lies.” “You know, mommy, maybe I’m not really scared like I said I was. I’m more like angry, and my friends are, too. We just wanna catch up with the Russians! And, yeah, I think we can do it. We got a plan to do it, too. Mommy. Hey, do you want me to go to any stores on 11th Avenue today? Huh, do yuh?” “As a matter of fact, I do. I want you to go down to Aiello’s and picked up some smoked provola, a half-pound of Locatelli cheese and a pound of ham. Can you remember that? Or should I write it all down?” “Nah, I can remember. But, how much provola do you want, mommy?” “Oh, eight slices should do. Emma’s coming over for lunch today. You be back with the groceries by 12 o’clock, OK? And get a long loaf of that good Italian bread they have and, if you want, buy a quarter-pound of those big green olives that you and Marco like so much. Hey, where are you going? Don’t you forget to brush your teeth!” As he ran upstairs to get dressed, Vinnie called back “Hey Mommy, maybe you should write down all that stuff on a note ‘cause the counter guy, big Sal, gets confused with all my friends’ talking loud and laughing while I order.” As Vinnie laced up his sneakers to go out, he sang along with the radio: “Dreeeeeam … dream, dream, dream.” All through the last months of school, the gang’s ‘plan’ had been slowly evolving. Vinnie and his friends on the block—Tommy Kowalski, Big Joe and Little Joey Boy, Vito and their mastermind Aksel (two years their elder)—were all in on the ‘plan.’ The boys, like most Americans, were caught up in the mass hysteria which had spread throughout the Nation since the Russians had launched Sputnik 2 in November 1957. The news that the Russians had put a dog in space (by that time, down and dead) before America had done so was a shock to everyone. As of yet, the USA had only managed to launch an unmanned satellite

9

“My little one” in Southern Italian dialect.

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orbit (Explorer 1) at the end of January 1958 and a second one in March of the same year. While the Russians had already announced their intention to put a human into orbit in the very near future, the USA was only beginning to discuss the possibility of sending a monkey around the planet. As Aksel had put it, “Not good news! A man can aim an A-bomb better than a monkey can, for sure.” On that occasion, Vinnie had kept what he was thinking to himself: ‘maybe we should send somebody like Albert, our old mailman up into space.’ His Uncle Rocco had always said that the nice little man was ‘too big to be a monkey, too small to be a man.’ Maybe it was true, but since Albert rarely mixed up their mail Vinnie thought he probably did have the intelligence to aim a missile or drop a bomb—better than a monkey could, anyway. These thoughts were running through Vinnie’s head while he and his ‘fellow conspirators’ walked rapidly down the block towards 11th Avenue on the way to their destination. “Yeah, that old gypsy lady, Dilmaz, and her tribe are back in the empty shop between 66 and 67th again. They’ve been there since around Easter, just like last year and the year before. I bet she’s been real busy telling fortunes and curing warts. And I saw her sons and grandsons dragging scrap metal and empty bottles across the street into Mike’s lot, a couple of times already. But now, they’re getting ready for the 4th” Aksel lectured the others, as they walked along. Vinnie had met the gypsy woman once before. It had been in the preceding year, when he accompanied Aksel and Tommy to her shop. On that occasion, Dilmaz had softly caressed the boy’s dark hair and whispered in his ear: “I can tell from your darting eyes that you’re a lot like us, my son. You’re a ‘traveler’, just as we are. Someday, you too will wander the world trying to do good wherever you go. Maybe we’ll cross paths somewhere, sometime.” Last year, Signora Dilmaz had offered him some delicious sweet pancakes while Aksel was in the process of negotiating the purchase of illegal fireworks for the 4th of July. Now, once again, fireworks were the object of their visit. A successful purchase would represent an important step in the realization of the group’s masterplan. “Hey Aksel, why did you call them a ‘tribe’? That ain’t nice, they ain’t Indians.” Vinnie retorted. “You little kids can be really dumb sometimes, yuh know? They use the word ‘tribe’ or ‘clan’ in books about gypsies. A tribe is like a real big family that travels around together from place to place. They come to town, set up somethin’ like a small circus or an amusement park with pony rides, or do the sorts of things that Dilmaz and her family do around here. You know … pick up scrape metal and re-sell it or build a lamp or something out of it. They make some money, make some friends and, most times, a lot more enemies. Then they take off and move to someplace else. End of story. Hey, so what’s wrong with Injuns anyway, you little duffus?”. When they passed in front of “Mike’s Best Rubbish” lot, Aksel stopped the group in its steps, cupped his ear and said, “Hey, guys. Listen to Mike the junkman, he’s singing.”

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“Yeah, I guess he’s really happy these days. What with all the spring cleaning that’s going on in the neighborhood these months, he probably got a lot of good stuff to resell.” Vinnie retorted. The door to Dilmaz’ shop was closed when the group arrived. Afraid to knock, the younger ones peered into the window of the mysterious little shop while Aksel and Tommy ran across the street to buy Italian ices at the old blind couple’s dimly-lit store. That shop would sometimes display a large silver bowl overflowing with fly-covered pig’s blood and chocolate mix in its window. Little Joey had told them what that stuff was. He had said it was called ‘Sanguinach,’ and that his grandmother liked it a lot. All of the younger kids would depend on Aksel or Tommy to buy Italian ices for them from that shop because they couldn’t stomach the look or the smell of that bowl of blood pudding. Also, they were terribly frightened by the elderly owners’ cloudy, opal-like sightless eyes. In window of the temporary shop and home, Dilmaz’ tools of trade were scattered on display. There were variously-sized crystal balls, two shriveled monkeys’ paws, a few open decks of unfamiliar playing cards with colorful, scary figures on them; a discolored poster depicting a dancing bear and wiry acrobats balancing on big, thick tubes and tree trunks; some old porcelain tea cups and pots and, oddest of all, a scale model of the Explorer 1 missile. Right next to the big plastic rocket was a hand painted sign which proclaimed, in bright blue ink: “We sell Sky-high Rockets, kids. Be the first one on your block to fly high!” “Well, what do we have here? Some little spies have come to steal one of Dilmaz’ secret formulas?” The old woman had slipped up so quietly, not one of the boys had noticed her. It was as if she had materialized out of thin air. Vinnie had heard, somewhere, that old gypsy women could do things like that. The boys turned to discover that Dilmaz was not alone. Hand-in-hand, by her side, was a strikingly beautiful young girl wearing a colorful headscarf, a long-flowing flowered skirt and a bulky blue, stretched-out sweater top. When she smiled at Vinnie and his friends, her dark eyes sparkled. They reminded Vinnie of the special night-blue cats-eye marble which he had found in the gutter, just the week before. “Well, hello my little friend. I see you’ve returned once again. Oh, excuse me, I haven’t presented my grandniece, Zhamilya, to you boys. And these little gagè are …?” “‘Vito’, ‘Joey’, ‘Big Joe’ … ‘I’m Vinnie, nice to meet you, Jamila’.” Vinnie’s cheeks burned like fire. He felt as if his feet were melting into the hot sidewalk. He had never before seen such a girl. Her long, dark hands moved like spiraling birds as she spoke to the group. He hadn’t heard a word of what she was saying—his mind was far away—until Dilmaz snapped her small, bony fingers directly in front of his face. “… Paterson, New Jersey. I’ll go back there at the end of the summer, when school starts. I’ll be starting Junior High School this year. I’m 13 years old.” The beautiful girl concluded. When Dilmaz had captured Vinnie’s attention, she said:

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“Yes, I know that your name is ‘Vinnie’. I remember you from last year. You’ve grown some, but you still have those dreamy travelers’ eyes. Where have you been recently? Perhaps in outer space, I’d bet.” Vinnie thought to himself: “She knows everything. She even knows what I’m thinking. She probably knows all the details of our plan. Should we tell her, out loud?”. “We were just looking at your store, lady. You got some great-looking stuff in the window, and we wanted to just look around a little. Can we, please?” Vito said. Opening the door, the old women said “Of course you can. Please come in and sit down. Would you like a glass of cold water? Or, if you like, I was going to prepare some herbal tea.” “Nah, thank you. We’re OK. Besides, Aksel and Tommy just went across the street to get some Italian ices for us. Oh, here they come now.” As the two boys crossed the threshold into the dark shop, Aksel cupped his hand over his mouth and whispered into Tommy’s ear: “Holy Shit! Who’s that cute chick?”. “So, my little ones. Did you come to my pleasant abode with some special purpose? Or, as you say, ‘just to look’?” The old woman smiled as she scanned the young faces, all with downturned eyes, until she came to a halt on Aksel whose eyes were raised and jumping back and forth between Dilmaz’ grandniece and the beautiful Explorer 1 model on display in the shop window. It was like an omen. “And you, what is your name, young man? You appear to have a purpose.” “Oh, excuse me Mam. My name is Aksel, and this fat guy with me is Tommy. And yes, to be honest, we do have a purpose, as you say. The rocket and that sign in the window … that’s the signal, right?” “What exactly do you mean? Does Dilmaz send out signals?” She smiled. “Yeah, just like last year. That sign means you got fireworks for sale, right?” In less than two weeks, it would once again be the 4th of July. And, just like every year, that meant fireworks. In those years, the sale of fireworks was illegal in New York, but that was never much of a problem for the kids on Brooklyn’s streets. Every year in May, small temporary shops like Dilmaz’, or home ‘businesses’ (in backyard garages, basements, etc.) would begin popping up everywhere. Word would fly around the streets about who sold what and where. The cops appeared to shut an eye most of the time—they rarely busted the small dealers. They probably had some kind of tacit agreement going (or “racket,” as Vinnie’s Uncle Rocco would say) since every year, like clockwork, a few days before the 4th—when kids throughout the borough had stashed away their ‘booty’—the police would descend on the streets and sequester innumerable bags and boxes of firecrackers, bottle and booster rockets, Roman candles, and the like. The police especially targeted dangerous fireworks like ashcans, cherry bombs and M-80s. Those items were lethal ammunition which could blow out distant windows and blow off hands. These would become illegal in 1966.

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One particularity of the cops’ ‘racket’ was that most of the sequestered goods would show up again on the streets on the Fourth of July since most policemen would usually just ‘recycle’ them back to their own families and friends. The kids on 71st Street were lucky in this regard. Vito’s uncle and two other fathers on the block were cops. The sky above their street was always brightly lit and very noisy on the night of Independence Day. Purchasing fireworks was a dangerous game which was marked by the sensation that one was walking a thin line between legality and crime. At the time of this episode, none of the group had been punished, and only one teenager on 71st Street —his nickname was Bubby ‘Up the River’ Coppola—had ever actually been arrested. However, in future years, all of the children in our story—including Vinnie—would be severely reprimanded by their fathers at least once during their young lives. These events would follow a policeman’s having dragged them home by their ears, a few days before the holiday. Their punishment would be missing out on the fireworks or, at best, having been forced to watch the light-show from their bedroom windows. The fear of getting caught explained the downturned eyes and shifting feet whenever the question of fireworks came up. Now, in Dilmaz’ shop, everyone in the group was frightened except Aksel who knew the ropes and had learned, precisely, how to avoid the consequences. “We are in need of some special ‘works’ this year, Mam. In particular, we’re looking for really good bottle types and some bigger rockets, if you can manage. We would appreciate it, a lot, if you could sell us some.” Dilmaz laughed. “I think I can do something for you, my friend. But this year my husband, Roman, and I have decided to not carry “bombs” of any kind. We don’t sell anything bigger than firecrackers, since too many young ones were disfigured, or worse, last year. You seem to be a smart boy, you’ll surely understand.” “That’s fine. I do, Mam. Can we see the rockets, please? We need a bunch of them quick.” Aksel concluded. “Ok, I’m sure we can make a good deal.” The Gypsy women nodded. When the deal was made and the children were leaving, Vinnie timidly offered Zhamilya what remained of his melting chocolate ice. She declined his offer with a smile and a soft handshake. As the other kids darted up ahead towards Aiello’s Pork Store, Dilmaz came forward and blocked Vinnie on the doorstep. She caressed his cheek, slipped something in his hand and whispered: “Don’t fret my dear, little fellow traveler. Your plan will be a success. Dilmaz knows.” When Vinnie got to Aiello’s he looked into his hand. He found another perfectly round, dark blue cat’s eye marble. He held the tiny glass sphere up close to his eye, and up towards the sun. In the marble, he saw the entire universe. A week later, the gang met after lunch in Little Joey’s backyard around a wooden table under the big fig tree. His grandfather—who usually occupied that space—was taking his nap or ‘pennichella,’ as he called it. Aksel had stashed the rockets away in the hiding place which only he and his big brother, Knut, knew. The others were certain that it wasn’t in the Carlson home. Slowly and with determination, Aksel

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took the kids through his outline of the plan they had already heard, but he added a few new operational details he had come up with in the last weeks. They all listened raptly… all except Little Joey, as usual. “Like we said, we gotta’ show them Russians that Americans - even us kids know their stuff better than they do about this ‘space race’ thing. We have to put some small animals up in space, and we gotta do it quick! If we manage to pull off our plan … then the big guys down at the Space Agency in Florida will feel the fire under their asses, and they’ll get a man into orbit pronto! You all remember we talked about this, and we agreed to try different kinds of bugs for our astronauts. We caught them and studied ‘em, right? First off, Vinnie, you still got those spiders in the bottles?” “Umm, yeah but all of the big ones have died already. It’s really hard to catch their favorite food, horse flies. And the little ones that are still alive are in really bad shape. Plus, I think that spiders got too many hands …. I mean legs … to fit in our little space capsules.” “Ok. Spiders are out. Agreed? Hey Vit’ and Joe, how’s your experiment going?” “Bad news. Butterflies won’t work. They’re too delicate, and they tend to fly off and ain’t got no hands as far as we can see. Plus, Vito’s mom said she would kill us if we burned a butterfly to a crisp.” Aksel and Tommy grimaced. “Did you jerks tell her about our plan?! If she tells your dad, he’ll know we got fireworks, and he even might ‘rat’ to his brother, the cop. Then what will we do?!” “Nah, my dad wouldn’t do that. Plus, my mom promised she wouldn’t say anything if we promised to drop the butterfly idea.” Vito smiled timidly, while Big Joe tried to pull Joey Boy down from the tree. “What about you, dumbbell up in the fig tree? How goes it with the worms?” “No good. You were right, Aksel. Worms need lots of dirt and water, and they eat and shit a lot, too. Plus, they can’t do nuthin’, not havin’ no hands.” Joey yelled down. “He’s really a card ain’t he, our little Einstein?” The whole gang laughed, and Lil’ Joey threw some unripen figs down at Vinnie and Vito. Then, Aksel took the floor once again. “So, guys, we’re back to what I had suggested in the first place. That’s the ants. They’re strong and they work well together. They can’t fly away, so they’re easy to catch and keep in captivity. Plus, there are so many of these little pests around, that nobody will miss a few. One important result of my experiment was I learned that the big black ones are better than the small brown ones. They seem to work better in small groups or on their own. But we have to remember that we won’t have that much room in our rocket tips.” Having said that, Aksel pulled a couple of bottle rockets out of the old leather satchel bag he almost always carried around with him. He placed the ants, three in number, on the table. “No use waiting, let’s do a trial run. Right now!” Joe frowned. “I think them jap rockets are too small. They don’t go high and most of the time they blow up.”

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“No trouble trying. We start off small and cheap … and if they don’t work, we move up. Let’s get going.” From up in his fig tree, Little Joey grumbled. “We ain’t shootin’ nuthin’ here in my yard. My nonnu will kill me, sure as shit.” Aksel responded, “OK, then let’s go out into the street. Our stickball field ain’t got no trees, and it has lots of space. It’ll be easier to find the rockets when they come down.” Less than twenty minutes later, their first trial launch had been a fiasco. First of all, they discovered that only one big ant could fit in the folded paper pocket at the rocket’s tip, and the first test-shot had swerved sharply and landed on the roof of the Callaghan house. Then, the second rocket blew up in flight. The third try went straight up and came down on second base, but its tip—and the ant astronaut inside it—was crushed and burned to a crisp. Worst of all, by the third launch, numerous mothers were screaming from their front windows and threatening to call the cops. The gang took off rapidly up the block and slipped out of sight. Short-winded and disillusioned, the boys screeched to a dead halt close to the corner, in front of Joe’s front stoop. Aksel had managed to retrieve the last rocket during the escape, and he was already studying the damage when the last of the group, Vinnie, arrived. Their leader pronounced his verdict. “These small jap rockets are no good, and the street is definitely off limits for rocket testing.” “So, where do we go now, Aksel?” Joe asked. “We go to the woods on 86th street. That’s where we go.” The others understood that Aksel was referring to the Dyker Beach Golf Course. In fact, during the previous year, he had begun exploring those mysterious “woods” which comprised 217 acres of parkland with towering gnarled oak trees (great for climbing), shadowy glens and groves (great for playing hide and seek) and even two small lakes (which should be good for ‘swimming in the warmer months). From the course’s highest hill, those woods even offered a unique view of the Narrows, Staten Island and the ocean beyond. The fact that it was a golf course and that only paying customers over 18 years of age were admitted did, however, represent a considerable impediment. Aksel had told the others that he had been chased out on two occasions. Once, it had happened while he was collecting ‘lost’ golf balls, and then, another time, when he had made loud “fart noises” to distract a fat, ridiculously clad man just as he tapped his last putt on the 18th green. That time, it had been a very close call. Aksel had to run like crazy. He told them he had laughed his ass off, with the fat guy screaming behind him for the first 100 yards. He had finally stopped safely on 83rd street. After that incident, Aksel decided to visit the woods only after closing hours. That is, after 7:00 PM when no golfers would be around. While he spoke, the others were imagining the opportunity to finally make a first visit to that magical place. “Tomorrow night we’ll do it! Now, since we don’t want our folks to find out, we’ll need to invent a little white lie. You’re all allowed to go 86th Street for burgers, right? So, tell your mothers that we’re going to celebrate Little Joey’s

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birthday. I think that should work. Now, let’s get back to planning how we’ll pull it off. See you here in 15 minutes.” Aksel ran off to his secret hiding place to gather the big rockets he had stashed away. When he arrived with a canvas baseball bat bag slung over his shoulder, the younger kids were gathered around the table discussing ideas for protecting the space ants from fire and heat. Little Joey was up in the fig tree collecting “volunteers” for the gang’s space program. He had the idea—and this had somewhat changed the group’s judgment concerning his intelligence—that the big black ants up on the tall fig tree were better candidates than their “little brothers” down in the anthills. “They’re braver, and they’re way up above the ground. It’s like they want to get up closer to the sky. I think they really wanna be astronauts.” Little Joey had declared proudly. Tommy had proposed wrapping the ant, or ants, in wet balls of cotton and then surrounding them with “tin foil,” as aluminum foil was erroneously called in the 1950s. Vito suggested that some soil and breadcrumbs should be added to each capsule ‘to make the ants feel more at home.’ When the boys had presented their ideas to Aksel, he was impressed. He sensed that his “school of hard knocks” was finally producing the expected results on the other kids. Not usually one for compliments, on this occasion he openly praised them, and the littler ones all beamed with pride. “I’m glad to see you’re learning something from hanging around with me. You’re really not as stupid as I thought you were. We’re gonna become a great team. So now, let’s take a look at what we have now, and then we’ll decide which type rocket will work best for our space launch.” Aksel spread the complete arsenal out on the wooden table. There were four pairs of rockets ranging from 12 inches to about 3 feet in length. Everyone gasped. They had never seen such big beautiful rockets, up close. Aksel knew the specifications and characteristics of each type, and he explained the “costs and benefits” of each typology. He said the smallest ones exploded with a brief flash, sort of like the bottle rockets. But they were noisier, so they were out. The largest pair was a “wonder to see.” Aksel said he and Knut had shot a few off the previous year. This type blew up in a two-staged multi-colored pinwheel of sparks, at a really high altitude. “These cost the most, and they put on the best show. So, let’s try to save them, huh, for the 4th.” The intermediate-sized pair, Aksel thought, would be good for the team’s purpose. These “18 inchers” had paper clad tips, like jap rockets, with additional space for a small wad of cotton and aluminum foil. However, the last pair, each around 30 inches long, seemed to him to be the best. They possessed a larger plastic tip which Aksel had discovered could be pried open and fit back on again. Above all, the name printed on the rocket’s side in glittery silver lettering seemed, to the everyone, to represent an presage of success. The chosen rocket presented its name in bright red, white and blue letters: “Super High Star Buster.”

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While Aksel had been expounding the characteristics of the various rocket types, Vinnie had been thinking about how they might best house and protect the ant-astronauts. “Hey Aksel, I got an idea on how to keep the ants safer in the rockets. The wet cotton and dirt, with the ants inside, we could put it all in those plastic Mexican jumping bean things. I have some of those at home that I’ve emptied. You know, I usually take out the heavy metal ball inside and save the colored plastic outside part. I always thought they looked a little like something from the future … like a tiny space capsule or something. I have five or six of them in my desk drawer. So, I was thinking … why don’t we try them?” “You mean there ain’t no worms in those Mexican jumping beans? I always thought …” “Quiet, Joey Boy, those are the real ones you’re thinking about! Vinnie is talking about the new plastic one’s they sell at Al’s Toy Shop. It sounds like a good idea to me. Ok, my fellow rocket scientists, tomorrow is the big day. Let’s meet here tomorrow afternoon at 6:00 o’clock with all the stuff we need.” He continued, I’ll bring the rockets and the matches. Vinnie, you bring all the empty jumping bean capsules you have. Joey, you already have enough ants in that bottle, right?”. “Yup, Aksel. I picked the strongest ones I could find. There are about 10 of them. I’ll put some dirt and grass in this jar and punch some holes in the lid. Later, I’ll give them something good to eat. They’re gonna’ be really nervous tonight, so they’ll be hungry.” “Maybe, you should give them some of your grandpa’s home-made wine, too.” Tommy joked. “So, who can bring some cotton balls and tin foil?” Aksel asked. Joe spoke up “I’ll ask my mamma for some sheets of carta stagnola – I mean tin foil – and I’ll take a few of those cotton balls she uses to take her make-up off. She won’t miss ‘em, she’s got loads.” That night, not only the ants were nervous. Not one of the boys got the sleep he needed.

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It was around twenty minutes after seven on the big night, and the gang was nestled out of view below the lip of the sand trap at the golf course’s 18th hole. Two pairs of rockets were laid out on the grass and ready to fly. Six ants, the strongest and the bravest according to Little Joey, were tucked away in the rocket noses. The kids had decided to try a solo and a duo flight for each rocket type. “Better off on their own,” “not enough room for two,” “one’ll be lonely,” “better chance of one surviving, if they’re in two,” “someone to talk to” … so went the arguments. But, in the end, a natural compromise had been reached. The children decided that the smaller rockets could contain only the ant (or ants) and a small wad of cotton and soil dampened with water. The “Star Busters,” on the other hand, had ample room for a plastic jumping bean pod containing the two ants wrapped loosely in damp cotton and soil, with a bit of breadcrumbs thrown in. Both pods were then covered in tin-aluminum foil. At the last minute, big Aksel suggested that one of the two should be “customized for extra protection.” In the “solo ant” rocket, an extra layer of wet cotton was positioned between the pod and the foil. At this point, launch time had almost arrived. Aksel announced the launch order and, as was the custom, said that he would be the one to light the fuses. Despite the technical difficulty it would incur, Aksel said that the rockets should be ignited in ‘tandem’ (he explained that meant ‘both at the same time’). The others understood this decision was based on the ‘time risk factor.’ After the first flare-up and explosion, the boys would have very few minutes to retrieve the rocket or pod (or what remained of them) before the police would learn of the detonations. Minutes later, when the cops would arrive in the vicinity, the group had to be well down the escape route they had agreed on … and, preferably, all be well out of the golf course. The launch pad was the putting green. Aksel removed the flag and inserted both rocket-tail sticks into the 18th hole. He made certain they didn’t touch, and that they were aligned, perfectly straight up. The other kids positioned themselves as had been agreed. The two fastest boys, Joe and Vito, were half way down the wide fairway. The others fanned out around the green at the edge of the wooded area. If the rockets were to land in the trees, they couldn’t possibly be retrieved in time, and the boys would never discover if the ant astronaut had survived the flight. “We’ll start with the 18 inchers. That’s because I don’t think they’ll work well, and I’m worried that they might blow-up with a really loud noise. So, let’s try them first and get it out of the way.” Aksel’s worries were confirmed. One of the rockets was a dud and had burned out right on the green. It never left the ground. The other one had shot way up straight and exploded—not so loudly, at least—creating an inverted fountain of yellow, green and blue sparks. At that point, three of the six ant-astronauts were already goners. They had been either cooked to a crisp, or blown to smithereens. For the second launch, Aksel positioned one rocket into 18th hole and the other, an arm’s length away, was stuck softly into the beautifully manicured grass. Both were perfectly aligned at 90° to the ground. Aksel controlled the precision of the angles with a protractor he had brought along.

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“Hey guys, you see that Junior High School has taught me something useful? Now let’s make these ants fly!” “Good luck, fellas!” The others exclaimed. “Buon viaggio e buona fortuna,10” Little Joey murmured, and he kissed the Saint Jude11 medal hanging from his neck. Both rockets took off simultaneously. The one Aksel had stuck in the green curved low and crooked. He would have known this would happen, if he had not cut his science class so often. Its low curve took the rocket into the high trees on the right of the fairway where it exploded in near-silence, sending a shower of multi colored sparks onto the tree cover and onto the fairway. The foil covered capsule containing the ant duo had probably fallen into the thick woods, and was lost forever. On a good note, the afternoon rain had left the trees and grass wet, as Aksel had predicted, and had saved the boys from more serious trouble. A forest fire had been avoided. The last rocket containing the lone space ant went straight up, way up. It disappeared into the darkening dusk sky, and then, it exploded creating a series of spiraling, expanding carnations of blue sparks. For a moment, Vinnie thought he saw a dark hole opening in the night sky, and he gasped. He and the others stood in awe and watched in silence, for what seemed like infinity. Time, for them, had literally stopped. Then, they heard Little Joey yell out, “Here it is!! I found it!”. Joey was standing in the sand trap, unwrapping the layers of tin foil from the fallen capsule. While the boys regrouped on the sandy moon-like surface, Aksel laid his protractor on the perfectly cut green’s edge and awarded Little Joey the honor of dismantling the capsule and spreading its contents onto the smooth plastic surface. When the damp, soiled cotton had been rolled open, the lone space ant walked proudly out. Well, in all truth, it wobbled out like a drunken sailor on a Saturday night. In its ‘mouth,’ it was carrying a big crumb of bread. “Well will you look at dat?! What a cocky little guy … even after all the excitement and danger, our little “star buster” ant is still as hungry as hell.” Aksel smiled. “Hey, I am too!” echoed Vito, Little Joey and Vinnie. A police siren wailed in the distance, as the jubilant Rocket Team headed quickly down 86th street—as inconspicuously as a band of six ecstatically noisy pre-teens at 8PM could realistically appear—to celebrate their mission’s success and to toast their battered, six-legged hero with cherry cokes and French fries at the White Castle Drive-In. After their banquet on the way back home, Vito crooned in his sweet choir-boy voice: “Where are you little star? O – o – o ooohoo. Ratta tatta tatta tuuuu”

10 11

“Good travel and good luck” (from Italian). Saint Jude is the patron saint of lost causes.

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All the others vocally kept the beat and, as always, Vinnie’s fingers silently strummed an imaginary guitar. The group turned onto 71st Street at exactly 8.57 PM on July 1, 1958. All the kids, except Aksel, had to be home by 9 o’clock. As Aksel rushed off towards Fort Hamilton Parkway to meet up with some other “big kids,” he turned to the group and said: “Hey guys, I forgot to tell you something really important. You’re not gonna believe it. My Uncle Sven told me that the City is planning to build a huge bridge – the longest in the world! – right near this golf course. It’s gonna connect Brooklyn to Staten Island. But I don’t really care, anyway. I’ll keep on taking the ferry.” Before Vinnie could ask for details, his friend had disappeared into the shadows at the end of the street.

Curator’s Analysis This chapter recounts several significant episodes in the first three years (six to nine years-of-age) of the protagonist’s late childhood. While not underplaying the significant role of family and institutions in this life phase, the author here focuses greater attention on Vinnie’s experiences in the public realm and on the development of relationships with his peers (his friends, his “gang”). This is a leitmotif which will continue throughout the book. In this important developmental phase, children dedicate much time and effort in acquiring new, ever-increasing skills in various ambits. It is essential that they be accompanied on this path by helpful, willing supportive others (adults and peers) who assist the child in acquiring a sense of competency. While it is made evident that our story’s protagonist could count on such figures in his extended family and school, the author primarily points his lens towards the workings of peer learning and the added value of mixed-age playgroups. Even if, at times, the relationships in Vinnie’s ‘gang’ are colored by the sarcasm and mockery which is typical of Brooklyn, they are largely reassuring and supportive. A presage of the role which

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his older friend, Aksel, will go on to play in the protagonist’s development is presented. I think it important that the reader recognizes that the author is also sketching out the characteristics of what he considers to be an ideal environment for growing up —an accessible, loved place and a protective, convivial community which, to the best of its ability, facilitates children’s playing freely. In this construct, the protagonists of the story are able to positively interact with and learn from/about others and the environment. In this chapter, we see them beginning to comprehend and manage the ‘greater world’ outside their immediate community in many of its socio-cultural and natural components. They form bonds with their peers which will accompany the story until its end and, for the first time, they move beyond the boundaries of their block, thus setting the stage for further explorations and adventures. They experience the flow of human life in its joys and its losses (illness, injury and death) and emerge stronger from it. They apply knowledge and skills they collectively possess to create a plan to do something different, and its ‘success’ fortifies their conviction to design other ‘projects’ which they will carry out together in successive chapters (years). Finally, in the brief chapter entitled “The Power of If”, several of the book’s (and the author’s) fil rouge—the ‘catalytic power’ of raising questions, of creative or lateral thinking and of Imagining Futures—are first introduced. My father once admitted to me that this “pivotal chapter was one of my (his) favorites”.

References and Suggestions for Further Reading Alexander, J. (1993). The external costs of escorting children. In M. Hillman (Ed.), Children, transport and quality of life (pp. 77–81). Policy Studies Institute. Blakely, K. S. (1994). Parent’s conceptions of social dangers in the urban environment. Children’s Environments Quarterly, 11(1), 16–25. Harrison, F., Goodman, A., et al. (2017). Weather and children’s physical activity; how and why do relationships vary between countries? International Journal of Behavioral Nutrition and Physical Activity, 14, Art. no. 74. Ingold, T. (2007). Earth, sky, wind, and weather. In Wind, life, health: Anthropological and historical perspectives (Vol. 13, pp. 19–38). Royal Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland. Sandels, S. (1995). Children in traffic. Paul Elek.

Child-Centered Household Risk Reduction https://resourcecentre.savethechildren.net/node/14242/pdf/childrens_impacts_on_household_ safety_r2a_brief_eng_2018.pdf

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History of Traffic Accidents in New York (City Lab) https://www.citylab.com/transportation/2011/12/evolution-traffic-fatalities-new-york/741/ Carr, S., & Lynch, K. (1968). Where learning happens. In Daedalus (Eds.), The conscience of the city (Vol. 97, No. 4, pp. 1277–1291). The MIT Press. DeBono, E. (1991). Lateral thinking, a textbook of creativity. Penguin. Gleave, J. (2008). Risk and play: A literature review. Playday: Give us a go. National Children’s Bureau. www.playday.org.uk Goodey, B. (1989). Environmental perception: The relationship with age. Progress in Human Geography, 13(1), 99–106. Hagglund. S. (1999). Peer relationships and children’s understanding of peace and war: A sociocultural perspective. In Raviv, A., Oppenheimer, L., & Bar-Tal, D. (Eds.), How children understand war and peace. Jossey-Bass. Kipling, R. (1909). The poem, If. In Rewards and fairies. MacMillan and Co. Ltd. Oppenheimer, L. (2006). The development of enemy images: A theoretical contribution. Peace and Conflict: Journal of Peace Psychology, 12(3), 269–292. Sandsetter, E. B. H., & Leif, E. O. K. (2011). Children's risky play from an evolutionary perspective: The anti-phobic effects of thrilling experiences. Evolutionary Psychology, 9:2, 257–284. Stine, S. (1997). Landscapes for learning. Wiley. Zosh, J. M., Hopkins, E. J., Jensen, H., Liu, C., Neale, D., Hirsh-Pasek, K., Lynneth Solis, S., & Whitebread, D. (2017). Learning through play: A review of the evidence. Lego Foundation. (includes an excellent bibliography) Malone, K. (2016). Reconsidering children's encounters with nature and place using Posthumanism. Cambridge University Press. Pascoe, C. (2009). Be home by dark: Childhood freedoms and adult fears in 1950s Victoria. In Australian historical studies (Vol. 40, pp. 215–231). Routledge.

Chapter 4

The Old Man: Getting Around and Recuperating Commitment

Photo of Carlo Pagliarini (1926–1997)

© Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2022 R. Lorenzo, Children’s Free Play and Participation in the City, Children: Global Posthumanist Perspectives and Materialist Theories, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-0300-7_4

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Snapshots and Thoughts on the Streets of Napoli (July 2033)

The chaotic streets of Naples offer a picture-book panorama of human activities in public space which, my father held, no other European or American city could provide. He once told me that “… in the permeable public spaces of Napoli, even adults can – and often do – behave like free children.” Effectively, up until the last decades of the twentieth century this was true, and the city’s poor and marginal children (the infamous ‘Scugnizzi’) did continue to ‘play’ freely and, to the best of their abilities, manage to survive. Then, in the aftermath of the devastating earthquake of 1980, local organized crime (the so-called Cammora) expanded and increased its control of the city’s economy and of its political apparatus. From that point on, the lives of many ‘free’ children worsened as their risky and, at times, illegal adventures were, increasingly, transformed into adult-exploited, criminal employment. My father often wondered whether—and prayed that—the ‘End’ had liberated the enslaved children of Napoli that he so loved.

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Recently, my quest to recuperate a clearer recollection of my life has taken up much of my time. I have an abundance of free time, but if I really think about it, in the overall scheme of things, I probably don’t have that much time remaining to reconstruct the “whole picture.” Yesterday, the shippers arrived with the numerous boxes we managed to have sent over on a slow sail-powered ship. I was happy to have finally recovered a considerable portion of my papers, notes and visual documentation from projects and research. These treasures had been scattered among my other things, in various basements or attics, for nearly 60 years. When I opened one of the boxes, I discovered two thick, cardboard file-containers marked “Napoli 1976 – 80.” When I read the label, I had a hard time containing my emotions. Those had been wonderful, important years for me. In the same crate, I also found four flat metal boxes containing hundreds of photographic slides from the same period. From the type of mountings, I could establish the approximate dates of the photos. I remembered that until 1978, I mailed the exposed rolls of slide film to the Sunset Labs back in California. After a two or three-month wait, I would receive the company’s cardboard mounted images. I guess the Italian postal service wasn’t really as bad as people used to say it was. In one of the boxes, there were also slides mounted in plastic frames, and I recalled that I had mounted those by myself. My thoughts rushed back to the many enjoyable evenings I had spent with Francesco and Mario in their professional photography lab. I really enjoyed watching them process the film. We would talk together for hours about politics, and then we’d finish the evenings downing fried pizzas and cold beer. Those were good times. Today, I spent the entire afternoon flipping through my note books and studying those old slide-images on a forgotten, hand-made wine-box light table which had popped up and, to my surprise, still worked. It was a pleasant journey into another time and place. Afterwards, Vale and I had a late dinner with our new Afro-Sicilian friends—Lele’s big family—who live one flight up from us. They brought along two bottles of good homemade red wine which Tony’s brother produces out on Long Island. Vale made gnocchi alla Sorrentina (using a passable mozzarella surrogate) in honor of the ‘bellissimi giorni passati.’ We talked a lot, and we managed to finish off both of the big bottles. Afterward, as I sat on the balcony in a drunken stupor listening to the voices of teenagers playing pickup basketball down below, I tried to give life to the memories of the many days I had spent, obsessively and joyously, observing and documenting street life in Naples. The notes below are an unfiltered stream-of-consciousness depicting one such day’s excursion. The words are a continuous jet-flow from my heart, directly into the old PC which I also discovered in one of the crates and which, like the slide table, was still operational! I sure am lucky, these days!

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Piazza D’Ovidio to Piazza Carita through the ‘Pigna Secca’ July, 1979 My daily walk begins at our home in Piazza D’Ovidio. As usual, It starts with a short stop at Signora Elena’s Osteria (“tavern”) which is right beside the huge, ancient gateway to our ‘palazzo.’ I chat with the ponderously bovine, mustached proprietress who is, as always, permanently glued to her old oakwood chair. As often happens, I am obliged to use every possible stratagem and ‘giro di parole1’ to avoid having to sample the day’s horrible, smoking concoction which she inevitably offers me on a greasy, wooden spoon—accompanying her gest with a bittersweet, toothless smile. “Ueh, dotto’. Oggi aggia fatt’ u soffritt’ meraviglioso. Prendet’ un po’.2” Today, my escape plan is easy since it’s almost one o’clock. Elena understands that I am late in shopping for our babysitter-housekeeper, Rosa, who is her friend and is, also, a known tyrant. What the old tavern-keeper doesn’t know is that I’ve already stocked provisions for Rosa and, today, I have almost two hours of free time. While I’m attempting to excuse myself, and make my exit, I’ve already begun to furtively observe the activities in the piazza and the narrow surrounding lanes which lead onto it. “Vabbo’. A domani, Dotto’. E salutama’ la sua bella mujer’ e la deliziosa Bibbiana mia.3”

“Word play” (from Italian). “Good morning, Doc. Today I made a delicious offal stew. Here, try some.” (Translation from Neapolitan). 3 “Ok, Doc. Say hello to your beautiful wife and the delightful, little Bibbiana.” (from Neapolitan). 1 2

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Two young boys, around 11 years of age, are right across the street frenetically flame-cutting a rusty fender off a battered, old Fiat 500 while an old man, their father and boss, is bent over his lathe forming what appears to be a cast-iron bed stand. The noise of the blacksmith’s shop, which I’ve grown accustomed to since we’ve moved here, is almost (but not quite) drowned out by a blaring radio which pours a popular song by a famous singer and ‘guapo,’4 Mario Merola, out into the hectic piazza. Two old women—sisters, I had always imagined them to be—with their puffy elbows poised on towels on their balcony’s ornate balustrade-railing, peer down and yell to the boys to raise the volume of the radio, as they do every day. Today, just like yesterday, they receive an affirmative nod, and the metal-cutting wins out over the music. While I’m watching the women’s angry reactions, three boys who are even younger than the welders shoot by on a dilapidated scooter, waving the banner of the Napoli football club. One gestures, mockingly, to his working peers. I leave the Piazza, walk down Via Pellegrini and turn left into Via Pignatelli. Every time I take this street, I can’t help thinking that ‘Pignatelli’ was my maternal grandmother’s maiden name. Today, as I stop in front of Palazzo Pignatelli and joke to myself about how “all of this could have been ours,” I find Fortunato, the Taralli Man—selling his delicious wares. ‘Taralli’ are twisted, crispy-baked rings of lard and pepper infused dough, topped with roasted almonds. The little old man is dressed in a pristine white smock and small cap which just manages to hide the huge cyst on his forehead which he refers to as his ‘second little head.’ He passes under our balcony every day, except Thursday when—as the colorful, hand-painted sign on his wooden cart advertises—“The Fortunato Baking Company remains closed”. Napolitano self-irony is, truly, unsurmountable. As always, Fortunato is crooning, in a full baritone voice, his well-known publicity jingle “Fortunato vende roba bona, ‘n sugna, sugna5” to the open windows above. Two years earlier, Pino Daniele, a popular Napolitano singer-songwriter, had made Fortunato nationally recognized with a song of the same name. I buy a bag, say goodbye to the friendly man and move on down towards the Piazza and the street market. At its corner, four old men are sitting outside a tavern on rickety chairs conversing heatedly and eating their lunch. When the seven-year-old ‘waiter’ places a ceramic pitcher of red wine on their table, an old emaciated man with dark, fern-like eyebrows looks up and greets me with spirit, “Ueh Dottò! Che schifezze muglierema vi ‘a fatt’ assaggia’, oggi?6”

“Good looking” or more appropriately in this context “tough, sharp-witted guy” (from Neapolitan). “Fortunato sells real good stuff, made with lard, with lard” (from Neapolitan). 6 “Hey Doc! What crap did my wife try to get you to taste today?” (from Neapolitan). 4 5

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When I had explained how I had escaped today’s horrendous fare, Signora Elena’s husband repeats, for the umpteenth time, all of the slight-of-hand tricks which he utilizes to avoid eating at his own tavern. I laughed, and as I took my leave with ‘garbo’—gracefully—he replied, “Stat’ e buon, Dottò. E, soprattutt’, stat’ accortt’ con ‘a roba della mia Elena.7” He had offered me good advice. The name of the Piazza, I enter, and the street which emanates from it—Pigna Secca— means the “Dry Pine Cone”. Like so many of the street names in Napoli, and in many other Italian cities, it connotes a significant environmental element or characteristic which usually no longer exists in the place. I often think of these signposts as monuments to the various forms of erred, and oftentimes disastrous, urban development in History. On that day, the market in Piazza Pigna Secca is its usual old self. It is a kaleidoscope of colors and movement, a symphony of voices, noises and music and an open coffer of fragrances and putrescence. The square is packed with many women and children, and with fewer men. Most of the latter are positioned alongside their market-stands gesticulating and bartering or sitting at cafes chattering away. The wares are displayed with artistic and structural perfection in a sort of outdoor museum. One might call it “Food Architecture.” In fact, my nearly photographic memories of that day (and of many others), which I ‘project’ here, are the product of long hours painfully hunching over my slide table, with a magnifying glass in hand, studying the images in the metal box marked “Food Architecture.” So many camera “clicks”, from so many wonderful days in Napoli. “Click”—the glistening mountains of dew-moistened oranges and mandarins, ringed with wreaths of over-sized lemons dramatically punctuated by the dark green foliage of the citrus fruits; “Click”—the aquamarine vessels which magically transport the denizens of the Bay of Naples to the city’s center display mountains of silver-blue treasures; and the adjacent, man-made ponds are home to multitudes of multi-colored shelled creatures most of which seem to have been embellished by many miniscule brushes of highly skilled artists from Japan’s Edo period; “Click”—the wicker baskets filled to their brims with mutely colored dried fruits, legumes and nuts, all carefully arranged on a wooden cart whose painted scenography depicts an intricately detailed, colorful representation of the very same Piazza in the 18th century; “Click”—the moister-glossed, glass-box altars presenting the most neglected parts of the Genus Sus in artistic displays of pigs’ innards, skin, feet, ears and the ever-present, centrally positioned, smiling head regally circumscribed with expertly woven, golden lemon and beige-red garlic wreaths.

7

“Stay well, Doc. And, above all, watch out with that stuff my Elena offers you.” (from Neapolitan).

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“Click”—the shop window exhibiting the ‘staff of life’ in a multitude of forms, sizes, textures and tones. A sign reads, simply, ‘Pane’. The nutritional and cultural wealth of bread, as is only available in the world’s poorest cities.

On a stone ledge below the bakery window, sits a dark-eyed girl of about seven years, dressed in a makeshift princess costume, holding two younger children in her arms. Her mother calls from inside the store but the girl doesn’t hear her, or pretends not to. She is too absorbed in watching a group of seven street urchins playing a game of marbles on the pock-marked, dark-gray limestone pavement. Two young boys, one in short pants, are seated awry observing the game from the open flat-bed of a small, yellow three-wheeled pickup truck. The little girl seems to know one of the young players, who glances at her and smiles timidly. Her enraged mother finally has to come out and literally drag the princess and her two younger brothers into the store. I laugh to myself, and I turn the corner to catch a view of my favorite angle of the Piazza. I glance up the Salita Paradiso. In English, this name means the ‘stairs’ or the ‘climb to Paradise’, and its fitting name—or just almost. In fact, the steep alley offers a tight, triangulated view of the cobalt blue skies above the hill of Napoli. Up there, sits the Vomero neighborhood where we used to live. The narrow, climbing street runs between four and five-story, pastel-colored, decaying Baroque buildings. Salita Paradiso consists of a steep, alternating sequence of steps and smooth street surfaces. On the sloping segments between the ramps of stairs, there are always far too many parked cars. This presence has always seemed odd to me and would be out-of-place, in any place other than Napoli. I sit on the lower steps as I often do, and today I eat my taralli. As always, Salita Paradiso is packed with children of all ages, boys and girls together. Some kick soccer balls which inevitably roll down into the piazza. Others sit on the steps or on cars talking and playing

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hand-games. A group plays hopscotch—la Settimana—on chalk drawn grids on the pavement. Some take care of younger siblings with skill and affection, while others are busy at their ‘jobs.’ A small boy carries a heavy propane gas tank, while others deliver groceries or expresso coffee to the elderly watching the street action from old chairs placed alongside the massive stone-arched doorways. They are shaded by hanging vines which adorn tiny collective votive shrines. Suddenly, my attention is drawn by the sound of screaming voices. I see a crowd running in the direction of Piazza Carità. A man exclaims in an agitated, raucous voice: “La polizia sta caricando i Disoccupati Organizzati! Marro’! ‘O figliu’ mi’ sta la abasc.8” The police are repressing a demonstration of the “Organized Unemployed” down in nearby Piazza Carità. In the mid-70s, the people of Napoli had, once again, invented something that had never been seen before in all Italy. They had formed an ‘official’ union of unemployed workers. The Disoccupati Organizzati were a hot-headed, extremist grouping which, at the time, was still collocated on the far left of the political spectrum. I knew their story because my wife has done research concerning this phenomenon in her Urban Sociology class. I had often accompanied her and her classmates while they interviewed members and leaders in their homes and hang-outs. Their numbers were considerable and comprised the historically marginalized, urban lumpen proletariat of Napoli. They were chronically ‘unemployed’ in illegal, black-market activities such as the commerce of contraband cigarettes and fuel oil or the production and sales of near-perfect copies of famous brand shoes, clothing, luggage and watches. This evolving sociological treatise in my head is suddenly interrupted by a minutely feeble, white-haired woman who gently takes my hand and exclaims: “Stai attento, figliu’ mi. So’ cattivi i poliziotti.9” On her wooden throne below three singing canaries, my protector is dressed in the standard shawl, slippers and slipping-down, red wool socks local old lady uniform. She smiles at me, and I assure her that, yes, “I will be careful.”

“The police are attacking the ‘Organized Unemployed”. Holy Mary, my son is down there” (from Neapolitan). 9 “Be careful, my son. Those cops are really bad people.” 8

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I follow the dense, rapidly moving crowd down the length of Pigna Secca Street towards Via Toledo. As the heterogeneous mass nears the Piazza, the air thickens with the acrid smoke of burning car tires and tear gas and vibrates with the piercing sounds of sirens and angry voices. A typically Napolitano scene opens before my eyes: • street kids scatter left and right through the crowd, giving orders and pointing out the best escape routes; • people from the window-doors of their street level, one room apartments—the, so-called, bassi—offer hiding places to the scattering demonstrators; • a barman furtively seats two fugitives at an outdoor table, and he offers the safety of the cafe’s restroom to a trembling, blood-covered young man; • a church door opens, an elderly priest peers out and calls to a fleeing, wounded man … offering him sanctuary. From a corner of the piazza, I have a front-row view of the mayhem. Bloodied demonstrators sit on the curbs surrounded by young police officers in full battle gear. Improvised barricades of automobile tires continue to smolder and smoke as officials push broken, captured men into paddy wagons or long, open-back jeeps. A large group of demonstrators, and their supporters, carrying placards and red flags yell and chant from the safety of the distant Central Post Office steps. In that very instance, I hear band music and clamor coming from the same direction. All the others hear these sounds, too. The demonstrators, the police and the spectators turn their heads and take in what one might call a Napolitano miracle scene. A scene, which in other forms and in other angles of the city not only I, but—long before me—Walter Benjamin, had noted repeatedly. In his

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writings, Benjamin had called this phenomenon the porosity of Naples which, he affirmed, often presents itself in the form of an intermingling of the sacred and the profane. “As porous as this stone is the architecture. Buildings and actions interpenetrate in the courtyards, alleys, arcades and stairways.” He (with Asja Lacis), in the 1920’s, wrote of the manner in which the social relationships and the spaces of this city knew no hard boundaries. Instead, they flowed freely into one another. Here, on this day in Piazza Carità, those very same phenomena were panning out before my eyes. The procession, I later learn, is a preparatory run for the Feast of the Madonna of Carmine which was to be celebrated on the following Sunday. The colorful, shoulder-carried platform containing the statue of the Saint, the costumed devotees and a small orchestra appertain to the religious Society from a local church which is practicing the march towards the official Sanctuary of the Madonna of Carmine down in the Port District. As the procession enters the space of the demonstration a general silence prevails, marked only by the Police officials’ whistles and orders to their men to move back and let it pass. Some of the policemen, many of the detained or injured rioters and many of the on-lookers kneel down and bow their heads devotedly. In that lapse of time, I take note that more than a few detainees and demonstrators manage to escape into the nearby back alleys. When the procession has passed, the sides reform and the chaos resumes. Thinking that it would be wise, and healthier, to end my observations here, I walk carefully out of the Piazza, along Via Toledo in the direction of my home. I was to discover, once again, that there is always something else to see in Naples. Having gone only a few blocks, I notice a packed bus which stops abruptly in the middle of the street. The screaming bus driver hurls an emaciated, raggedly dressed man out into the street, yelling at him: “Ok. But this is the last time I’ll let you get off my bus where there isn’t an official stop.” When I see the old man stoop to pick up a thin, rectangular wooden box at his feet, I recognize him as ‘One String Gaetano’, yet another of Napoli’s uncountable ‘street characters’. Gaetano plays his one-stringed, cigar box instrument on the city’s buses and street corners. What most connotes him and, I think, what earns him the most money is his habitude to invent injurious, perfectly fitting verses concerning select people seated around him. The offended passengers usually pay him just to stop his playing the mocking song. As the bus pulls away, I can’t help but notice four young boys hanging dangerously off the back of the bus. Gaetano points to them and, in a most formal Napolitano dialect, seems to almost quote Frank Zappa: “Without deviation from that which is ‘normal’, any progress is impossible.” I have always loved everything about Napoli. But today, whenever I think of it, there was one thing that I dearly missed, and longed for, when I lived there. What was always missing from Napoli was snow—deep, soft white snow.

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Snow and the ‘Theory of Loose Parts’ (March 16, 2034)

It was nearly impossible for my father to write or converse about creativity, play or participation without turning his thoughts to his dear friend and mentor, Simon Nicholson. Simon’s life, ideas, writings and actions all rotated around this fundamental Triad. S.N. was a keen observer, a store-house of knowledge and a very effective ally of all children. In the Planning Profession, he is most remembered as the author of a short, seminal article (1971) on “Loose Parts” and the creativity and uninhibited free play of children in/with the environment. This piece would become one of the most read (and cited) papers in this field. This is an odd ‘prize’ for someone who had very little patience with “professionals” and “professors.” Figures he would often refer to as, “people who have the very sad and dangerous tendency to profess”.

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It has been snowing, on and off now, for the last three days. From the window, I can see the deep soft cover which has piled up in our courtyard and in the surrounding streets. I’ve been entertaining myself by watching my little friends down in the courtyard—playing their frozen little asses off in the drifts and the snow-mounds. These observations got me thinking, and I recalled a particular early-morning feeling I experienced as a young child, whenever it snowed a lot. Yesterday, that very same sensation returned to me. At dawn before my encrusted morning-eyes had opened, I could ‘feel’ the white-cotton silence I experienced as a child, on so many winter mornings. Still in bed with my eyes closed, I already knew that it had snowed heavily during the night. The uncommonly bright light from the window filtered through my eyelids, and the muted street sounds told me the rest of the story. I could almost smell the tall, heavy snowdrifts piling up outside my window. My neural synapses would then send a telegram to my brain announcing that: “School is Closed Today!” I would be overjoyed with the knowledge that the next days were to be filled with long, adventurous hours of freedom and fun … in the snow. Today, that fun is gone but the sweet memory remains. It has now been over 80 years since the great Dutch architect, Aldo van Eyck, who had worked extensively to inject new and abundant opportunities for free play into the devastated post-war urban fabric of Amsterdam, wrote the words which, I think, best capture the magical force of snow in turning the city into a child’s birth-right place. Recently, I had found one of his writings among my newly uncovered treasures. Vale refers to this collection of papers as ‘my cellulose based first-aid kit against Alzheimer’s Disease.’ She can be a really ‘bad girl’ sometimes. Anyway, back in 1957, van Eyck wrote: ‘The city without the child’s particular motion is a malignant paradox. The child discovers its identity against all odds, damaged and damaging in perpetual danger and incidental sunshine. Edged towards the periphery of (society’s) attention, the child survives, an emotional and unproductive quantum. (But…). When snow falls on cities, the child, taking over for a while, is all at once the Lord of the city. Now if the child, thus assisted, rediscovers the city, the city may still rediscover its children. If childhood is a journey, let us see that the child does not travel by night. Where there is some room, something more permanent than snow can still be provided as a modest correction. Something, unlike snow, the city can absorb; not altogether unlike the many incidental things already there the child adapts to its own needs, at its own hazard’.10 In that article, it is clear that Van Eyck’s intention was to prod his colleagues to provide urban children with something more permanent than snow. Unfortunately, very few of those heeded his urgent call. At the time, urban planners, architects and policy makers around the world were doing just the opposite. They were doing everything they could to confiscate the

Van Eyck, A. (1957) When the Snow Falls (English version of ‘Het kind en de stad’) in Goed Wonen, October. Amsterdam.

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streets from children and turn them over to the automobile. Their plans worked out even ‘better’ than in our worst nightmares. In the years that followed, demographics, parental culture, formal education, information technology and consumerism put the last nails into the coffin lid of Children’s Free Street Play. I often think how sad—and tragic—it is that ‘experts’ in their nefarious plans—and most adults, in general—have completely forgotten two fundamental tenets regarding children. First of all, they fail to recognize that young children are naturally creative and learn best through doing and experimenting, on their own. Relatedly, they should have kept in mind that, to do this, children need to be provided access to the environment and to a wide array of “ingredients” which facilitate their interaction, play and learning. Children need access to materials, tools, open space, people and nature with all the challenges and opportunities which these elements offer children to ‘control and manipulate’ their environment and their lives. My friend and mentor, Simon Nicholson, first called these elements ‘Loose Parts’. In his seminal piece, “How Not to Cheat Children: The Theory of Loose Parts,” Simon wrote: “… through touching and manipulating materials in the natural and human environment and through social interaction in their community children acquire the knowledge, the rules and the principals which make the world go around.”11 Throughout most of its history, the city with its intricately complex system of built, social and natural components had offered children the necessary “Loose Parts”—“to learn about what makes the world go around.” During the long decades of working throughout the world with Simon and Mark, and Roger and Selim and Jeff, and in Italy with Carlo P and Marcello P (in my earliest days there) and, finally, with Annalisa and colleagues at our ABCittà Cooperative in Milano, it had been evident that this was no longer the case. Nevertheless, we continued to believe that we might be able to turn the tide of History in favor of children. We believed that our counter-plans could work out, and they did in the many local contexts where we tried. But in the end, other sinister forces which were stronger and more capillary—forces which had all economic power on their side—had won out. And the children, and the world as we knew it and hoped could be, had lost in the end. Somebody (I can’t remember his or her name) once wrote something about the power of children to experience their own actions as transformers of the environment while imprinting themselves upon the landscape and, in turn, endowing that landscape with greater meaning.

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Nicholson, S. (1971). How not to cheat children: The theory of loose parts. in Landscape Architecture, 61, 30–34.

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That forgotten author had coined a beautiful term for this phenomenon—‘Children’s History-Making Power.’ Well today, in 2034, it is plain as day that somebody else (certainly not the children) has unmade history. The terrible proof is all around us. Yet, today, as I grow to know the place I live in, and I begin to see the small but significant changes which are taking place, I am forming the impression that society may have finally learned its lesson. I truly believe that people, here and now, do understand that a community needs its children, as much as—or probably more than—the children need their community. This morning, from my balcony, I watched a funeral procession slowly trace a black path across the fallen snow. I prayed with all my strength that the departed one being carried to a final resting place was an ‘old fart.’ like me. Please Heaven, don’t let it be a little one! We need to dearly hold on to, and to liberate, all the children we have.

“Art is Everywhere” (S. Nicholson)12

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Photo by Tuula Nicholson (Age 11).

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Power and Bureaucracy Versus Children’s Rights to Play (April–May, 2034)

During most of the half-century leading up to “The End,” most institutions—and adults, in general—had a hard time recognizing and respecting the needs and rights of children to play autonomously in city spaces. With the adoption of the United Nations Convention on the Rights of Children (1989), the situation gradually began to improve. In Italy, where the author was living at the time, societal and institutional attention to the themes of Children’s Participation and Play in the City literally ‘exploded.’ Supportive, relevant projects flourished and had success for some time. Then, as time passed, things began to once again take a turn for the worse.

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I don’t know if there’s any correlation, but since the cold weather has ended, my old bones are feeling better. My feet don’t hurt much, and my right knee bends more easily and with almost no pain at all. Vale says she thinks it might be all the garlic I’ve been eating lately. Who can say? It is true that since I’ve started walking down to the farmer’s market on the boardwalk, where they certainly do sell a lot of garlic of many varieties—and at good prices, too—I have felt much better. But, as that old saying might go, “which came first, the walking or the garlic … or the weather?”. A few days after Easter, on my way back from the market, I stopped to sit in our courtyard to rest my weary legs before making the long five-floor climb up to our apartment. I noticed that I wasn’t the only old crony in the place. Far from it, I counted twelve other old fogies hanging out, along with numerous younger adults. Several of these were tending to young children while others were reading, schmoozing, napping or just enjoying a beautiful sunny spring day. In the wide-open end of the courtyard—the area that gets the best sunlight—I observed what we would have called, in the old days, a ‘community garden.’ There was a group of children and adults busily at work, getting the garden ready for the summer planting. They were vigorously turning over the soil, delineating the plots, tending the seedlings and re-painting the white picket fence which surrounds the area. Next, I took to watching the bands of kids nearest me. Some of the children were the same little ones I observe incessantly from our balcony. This was the first occasion I had to see them from up close. Finally, I could clearly make out the words they spoke. There were so many children outside that day, I don’t know where to begin. Anyway, they were beautiful, and they came in all sizes, shapes and colors. It was a veritable human ‘minestrone.’ Most were dressed raggedly and ruggedly—just like we dressed back in the old neighborhood. They all looked extremely healthy with bright, ruddy cheeks and sinewy, sun-burned arms and legs. They wore their hair short and long, and that went for boys and girls. It seemed to me that there wasn’t any prevalent style or fashion, as there always seemed to have been in the final decades leading up to the ‘End.’ I could hear their voices clearly, and they were cheerful and uplifting. From what I could make of them, there were many accents and more than a few dialects being spoken. A few of the children spoke languages I couldn’t recognize or understand at all. I might have been imagining it, but it sounded to me like around half of the children (naturally, these were the ones I understood best) spoke with a distinctive ‘Brooklyn twang’ to their voices. During the time I watched, there were no fights and only a few of what one might call a ‘heated discussion.’ On only one occasion, two of the children had become so aggressive and loud that an elderly woman had yelled down from a third-floor balcony in a language which I couldn’t make out, and that put an end to their bickering. I imagine that the two long-haired kids who had been arguing might be newcomers to the apartment block. Since we’ve moved here, there’s been a steady flow of migrants and refugees into our complex.

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Just the other day, Tonino told me that, as far as he knows, all the apartments in the buildings are now totally occupied. Most of the children appeared to be out on their own, and they ranged in age from around 5 to 14-years old. They were playing an array of street games and sports. On the paved surfaces, children were engrossed in box ball, hand ball, poison ball, basketball, soccer, hopscotch, drawing with chalk, etc. In the area near the flower gardens and fruit orchards, some kids were playing marbles or digging in the dirt while others were decorating a wooden platform in a tree with long lengths of yellow rope. In the grassier parts, very young children accompanied by adults were playing near the flower beds, while a group of young teens were throwing Frisbee on the nearby lawn. Along the paved edges of the central area, mixed groups of children and adults were playing board or card games on makeshift wooden tables. On the hill situated between the community garden and the street, four children and a woman were flying large, colorful kites. Whenever one of the kites managed to attain an astonishing height, hordes of children would drop what they were doing and run over to cheer on the young flyers. Every now and then, two adults—a young, curly-haired woman and a bearded, long-haired older fellow—would interact with some of the children providing them with tools or just talking to them. I imagined that they might be what were once called “street educators.” I had a friend who did just that—for his entire life—in the sunless back alleys of Napoli. I think, if I remember correctly, his name was Moreno … or Mariano. Many children were moving around on one form or another of wheeled vehicles. I counted tricycles, bicycles, skateboards, skates, roller-blades, strollers and baby carriages. Adults and older folks slowly passed by on bicycles and strollers, too. At one point, a box-cart scooter and a wooden go-kart raced into the courtyard from the direction of West Brighton Avenue, and the drivers stopped to admire the kite flyers. I was stupefied, thinking that such homemade vehicles would only be found in museums. I wonder if Children’s Museums still exist, today. While I was daydreaming about one museum I had helped design years earlier, I heard a voice call out: “Yo’, Signò Vinnie! What are you doing down here? I’ve never seen you around here before.” I looked around and discovered the source of the query. It was Lelè, Tonino’s youngest son. He stood near the entrance to a fenced-in area. He was watching a group of older children who were holding aloft a large, white rectangular board with a curved border. When I neared the space, it became evident that the board was very thick and heavy. The kids struggled to lift it over the fence while the tallest member of the group, a red-headed girl, argued with the young woman I had previously identified as a probable ‘street educator.’ “Please Shamisha, let us bring it in. We need this piece of wood for our tree house. We carried it all the way over from Neptune Avenue. It was thrown behind some waste materials near that building they’re gutting. You know, the low one that used to have a ‘Trump Estate Realty’ sign up on top.”

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“Yeah, I know that place. And I know what’s written on that board, too. Have you read what it says under here?” She pointed to the under-side of the board which was beginning to visibly tremble. “Nah, we didn’t bother to read it. But, hey it’s heavy! Let us put it down in there, please.” When the sign had finally been placed down and flipped over, the children and I got a view of the cause for the young woman’s adamancy. In bold black print and in large varied fonts, the sign read: Welcome to

Trump Village Estates PLAYGROUND RULES AND REGULATIONS NO BALL PLAYING / BICYCLE OR SCOOTER RIDING NO USE OF CRAYONS / CHALK OR SPRAY PAINT NO GRAFFITI / NO SUNBATHING NO BEACH CHAIRS OR LOUNGES NO ALCOHOL / SMOKING OR DOGS VISITORS MUST BE A GUEST OF SHAREHOLDER / TENANT Playground Hours – 8.00 am TO DUSK

From the rapidly growing, grumbling group of children clustered around the sign arose an avalanche of Bronx cheers, loud sighs, imprecations and guffaws. “Don’t laugh, it isn’t funny! Can’t you see what’s written there? You know that name, don’t you? Most of you live in this apartment complex which that asshole, Donald Trump, once managed … and his racist, Nazi father built this place, too. At the Community School, you’ve learned about the terrible things that fascist did, and how his actions brought about the destruction of parts of the World and the death of millions of people. You’ve heard about how much he hated and belittled non-whites and women, and how he trampled on their rights. But I bet you didn’t know that he also despised children like you, too. Did you? Can you imagine living in a community in which the kinds of things written on this sign are forbidden? Would you like to live in a place without the right to play?!” “Are you kidding? With those kind of rules … we’d all be in jail, Shami.” Lelè said. “Yeah, Lelè’s right on! But, Shamisha, we really do need this piece of hard board for our project. We can just paint over the horrible words, can’t we? Please.” The tall girl continued to desist, while the other kids cheered their comrades on. Later that night, as I lay in bed being sweetly lullabied by the cheerful young voices rising from the courtyard, I couldn’t get the image of those big, bold-lettered rules out of my head. Those words smacked in the face of the fundamental rights of children and went directly against their best interests. And it was Donald Trump, himself, who had enforced those terrible regulations in this very building complex and probably in all of his many, so-called,

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Estates. I thought back to the innumerable colleagues who used to call me a ‘romantic nut’ whenever I would rant on about how I considered the demise of children’s free play in developed countries—and in the USA, in particular—to be one of the most insidious factors in (and indicators of) the de-evolution of culture, and of our society. In the long run, I had always understood that the question was ‘political.’ I fell asleep with these thoughts. When I awoke the next morning, I had strong motivation to take on another ‘archival research’ project. Or, as Vale says, I simply awoke with the need for another ‘dose’ of my cellulose-based, anti-Alzheimer elixir. April 21 Today, I broke open the last boxes which had remained sealed. While digging through their contents, I uncovered four forgotten containers marked: ‘Riconquista della Città’,13 ‘Andiamo a scuola da soli’,14 ‘Piedibus’15 and ‘Rosace’.16 These cryptic project titles essentially boiled down to one simple, ever-present objective of most of my/our professional endeavors. In all of these projects, our principal aim had been to apply participatory design and planning strategies which could best promote, and defend, children’s rights and opportunities to participate and play in the public spaces. I recalled that it was a very interesting and exciting period of my life. I have to say that I have always been most attached to the first of these projects. “Let’s win back our city” was a National Project and Campaign of the WWF-Italy which I had helped to develop and coordinate in the early 1990’s. It had grown out of my previous solo work, traveling around Italy and attempting, with difficulty, to introduce and promote the utility of participatory approaches in improving city spaces and social relations in favor of children. I had then begun working, on and off, with some youth and environmental associations during the mid-80s, immediately after our move back from New York in 1984. In 1989, with the adoption of the Children’s Rights Convention (CRC), our ‘movement’ and my work received a considerable acceleration thanks to the policies and the resources which the Italian Government began dedicating to the principles embedded in the Convention. As additional funding became available, our contracts with Public Authorities abounded. We designed our projects around those articles of the CRC which had to do with children’s right to actively participate in questions which regard them: access to healthy, safe and beautiful city spaces to play. These aspects are fundamental to children’s well-being and happiness, and the WWF project touched upon all of these, and more. That association’s broad and capillary National structure facilitated its dissemination in thousands of schools and in the association’s numerous ‘Panda Clubs’ throughout the country. The project’s school-based

“Let’s Win Back Our Cities” (Translation from Italian). “Let’s Go to School on our Own” (Translation from Italian). 15 “The Walking School Bus” (Translation from Italian). 16 Acronym for “Road Safety Cities in Europe” (Translation from Italian). 13 14

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and community actions took off nationally and grew to involve thousands of schools. The project’s focus on children’s participation attracted so much media attention, I literally had to hide from journalists. Unsurprisingly, my first thoughts turned to the city of Bologna where, in 1994, we had brought together more than 300 children representing fifty WWF local projects, over seventy ‘experts of International fame’ and numerous local and national administrators from Italy and Europe. The children, who had been involved for over two years in local micro-actions to “win back” pieces of their cities, met in Bologna to share their experiences and to elaborate useful indications for “adults who plan and decide” urban policy for young citizens and for others. At the end of three exciting days of serious ‘play’—in workshops, seminars, exhibits, flash mobs and press conferences—the important and widely diffused “Children’s Manifesto: How to Win Back our City” was born.

At the time, that Manifesto was a unique document, both in the manner in which it had been developed and in its content. It would go on to become highly regarded by the Italian Ministry of the Environment and, in particular, by its Preparatory Working Group for the Habitat II Conference (1996). It makes me laugh to remember that another similar document which emerged from an Expert Seminar I had attended in New York (in preparation for Habitat II) had impressed me much less than the Children’s Manifesto. The simple and feasible, child-formulated indications of the first document contributed significantly to successive Italian Government support of several UNICEF Projects such as the “Città Sostenibile dei Bambini e Bambine” and the “Bambino Urbano Project” in Milano, which my dear cooperative, ABCittà, successively developed and carried forward for almost a decade. As the new millennium approached, increasing numbers of adults and bureaucracies were drawn into the ruckus around the issues of “Child Friendly Cities” and “Children’s Participation”. More often than not, administrations would develop an array of incorrectly conceived formats for proceeding on the issues raised by the children. It is my opinion that,

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in general, when a new ‘concept’ (or a ‘new project’) becomes erroneously elevated to a conventional wisdom of the bureaucracy the projects suffer a downturn in energy, and often lose their original intention and spirit. The same sorts of things began to happen at that time. Two insidious errors (or capital sins) appeared on the scene, in Italy at least, and dragged the children’s and our well-intended efforts in the wrong direction. These errors were (and remain for me): (1) the tendency towards the institutionalization of children’s participation and (2) the frequent compartmentalization of the essentially global and systemic nature of life in cities and of children, in general. In the name of ‘institutionalization,’ many Mayors were heard to declare: “By law, our children must participate!” But it was always they—the adult decision-makers—who were to decide the ‘who, when and how’ of the children’s ‘participation’. Usually, the ‘who’ turned out to be the ‘best’, most complacent (“well-behaved”) child or children in a class or school; the ‘how’ regarded the child’s or the children’s having been chosen by the teacher and, rarely, having been adequately prepared for the ‘participatory’ event; and the ‘when’ was generally (just as is the case in most examples of ‘adult participation’) when it was too late. That is, the participation occurred after the decision had been already made or when the resources to resolve the questions or problems being considered had essentially dried up. The second error—compartmentalization—is the conventional bureaucratic practice of working exclusively within the strict limits set by sectors, departments or disciplines. I think this concept can be best explained by recounting a little story. It is something that actually happened, but I have enriched the audio-tape transcript of the children’s words below. The event in question occurred several years earlier (before my second return to Italy in 1984) when our “Gruppo Futuro” team at the City University of New York was working with children in the very poor and marginal Red Hook neighborhood in Brooklyn. Two classes of 6th grade children had explored and surveyed their community for many months and had prepared an audio-visual presentation containing their ideas for its future. At an early-evening community meeting, after having presented their slide-tape proposals, the kids were discussing the ‘problem areas’ they had identified and wanted to resolve with a Municipality of New York’s Local Community Planner (LCP). Charles: “Miss, what do you think about our ideas on crime, and how to stop it, in the neighbourhood?”. LCP: “Well, that’s not my responsibility. I’ll have to refer your instances and proposals to the Police Department.” Nyesha: “Um, mam, we also had some pretty good ideas about what to do with our parks. Do you think you can help us to get somewhere? The elderly people in the neighbourhood really liked our projects.” LCP: “Once again, this is an area outside of my Office’s competencies. I’ll refer your ideas, however, to the Parks Department. They’ll probably get back to you.” Charles (under his breath, uttered from the back of room): “Holy shit, we ain’t gettin’ nowhere.”

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Marcelo: “Well, did you see our beautiful drawings of the waterfront we imagined in the future? What do yuh’ think?”. LCP: “I like them but, you know, a Waterfront Commission has just been recently instituted, and they’ll work on that.” Monique: “How about the houses in the future? They’re a mess now with broken windows, leaking roofs and no heat sometimes. You name it! We got a good plan, but we need your help.” LCP: “Children, I don’t think you understand. I’m here just to listen. But I promise I’ll refer your ideas to the competent Departments. That’s all I can do for now. Do you have any other proposals?”. Michael: “Yeah, I do and it’s great! Me and Nyesha drew a project for a big cookie factory down on the piers. We think it will take about five years to build it. But we’re sure we’ll get it done and the cookies are great!”. LCP: “Oh, what a cute idea and nice drawings, too. But maybe the pier isn’t the best place for a cookie factory. You know there are health regulations which govern where you can produce food. Next?”. The children were greatly deluded, and one of them—the natural spokesperson of the class —raised her hand. Monique: “Excuse me, mam. I spoke before but can I ask you a few questions?”. LCP: “Why sure, dear, go on.” Monique: “Do you have any children, mam?”. LCP: “Yes, I do have two children. My oldest daughter is just about your age.” Monique: “Do you talk to her like you are talking to us’”. LCP: “Of course I don’t. But we talk about other things. Not about my work”. Monique: “Whew, I’m happy about that. But can you talk to us like we’re your children, like we’re at home?”. LCP: “Yes, I think I can. I’ll try.” Monique: “Thank the Lord! (whispered under her breath) OK, where do you live, mam?”. LCP: “I live near here. Just up the hill in Park Slope.” Monique: “Oh, I know that place. I like it. I go up there with my Granny to look at the toys in ‘Little Things’. LCP: “Yes, that’s a lovely shop. I go there with my daughter, sometimes, to look and shop.” Monique: “Well, my grandmother told me that the Slope used to be a dump just like Red Hook, just a few years ago. How did they do it? How did the situation change? Do you know anything about it?”. LCP: “As a matter of fact I do. I was involved in organizing workshops and meetings. I had just graduated from Architecture School, and I convinced my ex-Professor to bring his class down and do some projects there. Lots of the residents got behind us, and then the municipal offices got involved. Monique: “That kind of sounds like what Vinnie and Vale and Martin are doing down here with us, huh? Can you tell us more about what happened? And about what we can do?”.

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From that point on, the evening went fine. Monique’s incisive words had broken through the walls of this young woman’s heart. The planner became a real person, a mother. She was no longer a bureaucrat. She had begun to think outside the box of her official, bureaucratic water-tight compartment. As I thought back to that exchange of words, a catchy phrase in support of collaborative, inter-sectoral efforts came to mind. My daughter had made use of the incisive metaphor in her dissertation in the School of Architecture. If I remember correctly, it went something like this: “Water-tight compartments are only useful in sinking ships.” When I first read these words, I thought about how it was that people like ourselves worked with ideas and human resources and not with ‘water.’ Certainly, an uncontrolled flow of water into a ship’s hull can sink the vessel, but on the other hand the free flow of ideas and resources between administrative departments (compartments), help organizations to “rise up” and avoid ‘drowning.’ My colleagues at ABCittà had worked with vigor and creativity, for years, in an attempt to ‘open up the compartments’ through facilitating an understanding of the value and effectiveness of working collaboratively with children. We had elaborated organizational strategies and training courses, while we applied and tested new participatory methods with them in the field. At times, our plans worked out well, and all were satisfied. But, in the long run, the “water tight” bureaucracies won out. And their “ships”— our “ship”—began to sink, bringing the children with their rights to live and enjoy the city down with them. The unpacking of the last three boxes confirmed the down-hill tendency of bureaucracies to simplify children’s complex experiences of the city, and to compartmentalize essentially systemic questions into ever tighter boxes. The name on the second carton “Let’s go to school on our own” referred to a popular partial solution to a small piece of a serious problem. Of course, children should walk in the city. It is good for their health. And they should ‘walk by themselves’ since it’s good for their self-reliance and social development. But I asked myself, why did so many actors limit children’s walking, without adult supervision, to such a small part of their lives … to just going to school? The name on the next box—“The Walking School Bus”—can be read in much the same way, as a simplification of the very same problem and towards a further institutionalization of the solution. In this case, children were ‘helped’ to walk to school, but they were to be accompanied in large groups, by one or more adults. The kids were almost always clad in bright yellow or orange vests—just like little crossing guards. These colors connoted the danger of walking in cities. In this case, the parental and institutional motivation for participation was fear. The children had been asked to, essentially, sacrifice their autonomy. They hadn’t been provided any opportunity to explore freely the city’s spaces and routes, and they hadn’t grown to know and enjoy their neighborhoods as a whole.

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The final box contained materials from a European Commission funded project I had worked on from 2007 to 2009. Three important consulting groups, two Universities and five European Capitols had been involved in the Rosace Project. A budget of over three-million Euro had been spent in developing ‘Rosace – a New Approach to Road Safety Education in Europe.” It had disturbed me to learn that a significant part of the financial support for the Project came indirectly from an important automobile company! From the title of the Grant, it became clear (from the very beginning) that ‘roads’—not ‘streets’—were to be the places we were expected to consider. We consulting partners, creatively and competently, did everything in our power to expand interest beyond the official “road” focus through the utilization of participatory methods which brought the many children and adults involved to explore more encompassing questions and places in their everyday experiences. I think we did as good a job as was possible. In one of our final reports, we had written: “It is clear that children’s health, development and well-being are intricately linked to the quality of our streets and the urban environment and to our willingness to let them use them.”17 At the Project’s conclusion, on an official fact sheet issued by the European Commission, I discovered stamped in bold letters the phrase: “The opinions expressed in the study are those of the consultants and do not necessarily represent the position of the Commission.”18 Evidently, the European Commission did not share our views. In 2011, I ceased my professional activities and began dedicating time to playing music while facilitating small, local participatory placemaking actions with visiting American university students in Perugia. I continued to be an avid side-line observer of the demise of urban childhood in Italy (and elsewhere), and what I saw frightened me. In Italy, cities were becoming increasingly perceived as alien, threatening places. Fear of crime and of strangers—or people who were just ‘different’—had become exaggerated beyond proportion. Wherever, or whenever, a few young “urban survivors”, who were for the most part ‘foreigners’ or newly arrived refugees, did continue to play and hang out on the streets they were portrayed and treated as a problem. Now, we all know that feelings of insecurity and fear are self-reinforcing and directly impact the social and physical environment in an ever-expanding, negative spiral. Empty streets, perceived as ‘dangerous,’ are often uncared for and deteriorate even further. In fact, Italian streetscapes became emptier and, oftentimes, socially uncontrollable. Children, as always, were the first category of citizens to suffer.

17

https://ec.europa.eu/transport/road_safety/sites/roadsafety/files/pdf/projects_sources/rosace_method_ guidelines.pdf. 18 ROSACE Project: https://ec.europa.eu/transport/road_safety/sites/roadsafety/files/pdf/projects/rosace.pdf.

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Regarding this question, at the bottom of a last box I found a newspaper clipping from 2017. The article reported on a recent decision of the highest Italian Court which mandated that children under 14 years of age (!!) could be released from school only under adult supervision. Parents, or other guardians, could be accused of ‘child abandonment’ if they allowed children in their care to walk—a half-mile, or 500 feet, or even 100 feet—to their homes, alone. The article went on to cite a then-recent ISTAT (2016) survey which disclosed that approximately 30% of Italian children, under 14, were still walking to school. I couldn’t help but think that the legal death sentence to a free childhood had come at a time when less than a third of its intended victims were still ‘alive.’ That is, they were still walking on their own. I can’t say why, but, at that very moment, the husky and reassuring voice of my favorite uncle resounded in my head: “Well, Vinnie, when you die at least you’re done with the dentist.” Uncle Rocco was always great for using humor to exorcize one’s sadness and fear. Grazie, Zio. May 6 I just can’t stop the crazy flow of intense memories and the pressing need to put onto paper (i.e., in my PC) my reflections on the importance of a free childhood. It’s getting so bad that I almost never pick up my guitar anymore. Everything I see around the neighborhood, or what I hear on the radio or from friends, or read on a bulletin board gets me thinking. Whenever this happens, I just have to pull out notebook and write. Well, at least I don’t have ‘writer’s block,’ anymore. Now, I seem to have writer’s ‘schlock’.19 For example, yesterday I received a letter from our daughter in Buenos Aires. I have to say that the postal service is getting better. Bibbiana had sent it less than two months earlier, in mid-March. She mentioned that the son of her closest friend, Lucia, had recently had a baby daughter. She was happy that her granddaughter would have another playmate in her Co-housing complex. When I read that news, at first, I felt a rush of love for all my children. But, oddly enough, the letter also called to mind a funeral. It was the funeral of Lucia’s mother. It must have been back in 2017 or 2018. The unfortunate woman had been hit by a car, together with her husband, while they were crossing a street near their home. The driver, 83 years old, had absent-mindedly driven into the crosswalk and plowed into them. Her father survived, but her mom died, shortly after, from an incurable infection she picked up in the hospital (as often happened back then). During the funeral, as the morning sun filtered through the church’s stained-glass windows and while the priest rambled on about something that had absolutely nothing to do with the woman’s life, I got to thinking of how statistics on pedestrian casualties had been strangely inverting themselves during those years. Previously, children had always

19

Goods or artistic works that are cheap or of a low quality (in Yiddish).

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comprised the major part of pedestrian-traffic victims in Italy. That fact was frightening and tragic, but at least it was a sign that there were still children playing and moving about in the streets. Then around 1990, the number of elderly pedestrian casualties began to far surpass those of children. Automobilists continued to slaughter a high, ever-increasing number of pedestrians and cyclists, but at least the little ones were being spared (they were locked in, at home). “But spared for what?” I asked myself. Were they saved to sit in front of a TV set? Or, even more tragically, saved to grow up and live through—if they were lucky—the destruction of our world as we once knew it. At least after the ‘End,’ there are very few cars on the streets of our cities. From the looks of it, kids today have again become free-running and resilient—like we used to be. I still can’t get over the way the kids in the courtyard talked and joked about Donald Trump while they were building their tree house. I guess their parents, who were the very children who had been kept ‘safe’ behind closed doors from automobiles and from ‘strangers,’ have finally come to learn the lesson. The ‘End’ has brought them out of their houses and back into the streets, once again. Today, their children are at their sides … or—more frequently—off on their own. I have to say that my childhood years had several things in common with the chaotic years leading up to 2022. In both those periods (in the USA, at least), there was wide-spread concern about the possibility of nuclear annihilation. Both decades were also characterized by an oppressive atmosphere of fear and mistrust of ‘others’—of people who ‘weren’t like us’. Governments, during both periods, propagated and exploited people’s fear fostering, right-wing policies and reactions. The adult population, in both epochs, was terrified that our world would ‘blow up’. Many people even imagined the total extinction of the human race. But back in the 1950s, we ‘free children’, having the time and enjoying the street, simply continued to joke and play, living our childhoods to their fullest. For example, I will never forget the way we would laugh like crazy whenever our stupid teacher would instruct us to get under our desks and turn our asses away from the windows during our monthly air-raid drills. “Yeah, right?! Like this is gonna’ save our genitals from the radiation? Fuggedaboudit!” We would kibbitz. My teacher’s words are a perfect metaphor for conventional adult behavior. It makes me laugh and want to scream.

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Play and Danger in the Kazak Dust (June 20, 2034)

My father once told me that, in his mind’s eye, the numerous children he had had the honor and pleasure to meet and work with and for, in all the world’s corner, would often mingle and mix. He said their faces, voices and soaring spirits were inseparable—that the things they do, their play and pleasures and the problems they faced were, for him, universal. Yet, he admonished me to remember that, “each child is unique in their own special way.” He went on to say: “Universal or Unique, in any case, it sometimes happens that I meet (or imagine I see) the very same child in different places and periods of my life.” In this chapter, we learn that this had happened once again in Kazakhstan.

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‘If’ … if I think about how crazy the weather’s been these last few days, I could go nuts. On Thursday evening, it was around 75 °F when I went to bed, and then the next morning when I went out to buy bagels, I was freezing my damn ass off. I was wearing only a T-shirt and shorts, and the guy in the shop looked at me like I was out of my mind. He told me it was 45 °F, and he was kind enough to lend me a sweater. When I got back home and had warmed myself up, while I was eating my breakfast my mind began to wander. I don’t know why this happens so often. I began thinking about how, years ago, I had experienced a similar thermic-rollercoaster ride. It was before the years when climate change had really begun to wreak havoc, before it got so that you couldn’t tell winter from summer. I struggled hard to figure out when it was, but I still can’t quite pinpoint the year. I recall that it occurred when I had been assigned by UNICEF to go to Kazakhstan to prepare their national guidelines for a ‘Child Friendly City.’ Well, when we took off from Rome Airport it must have been 35 °C or more, and then when our plane arrived in Astana at 4 AM local time, it was below freezing. Still in my summer clothes, I was shitting ice-cubes. In keeping with my daily, paper-based ‘memory’ therapy, I went through all my notes, reports and photographic documentation from that ‘mission,’ and I came up with what I thought could be a pretty good story to add to my diary. Then I thought to myself ‘why not add a special twist to my writing?’. Years ago, I read a wonderful piece of speculative fiction about growing up on the streets of New York before World War II. I can’t remember the name of the author, but the protagonist was a cunning young child named Horatio Alger. That book had inspired me, so today I think I’ll attempt to write this diary entry as a sort of short story. Like what that author had done. I’ll keep it in the first person (as I always do) but, this time, I’ll add a lot of dialogue. Of course, I’ve had to bend the story-line a bit and to (re)invent people’s words, especially where there were details that I just couldn’t remember. But who cares, anyway? Who’s going to actually read this stupid diary? In any case, I’m anxious to see what just might come out of my old rambling brain. Deadly Dust in Semey, Kazakhstan (2009?) Layers of timeless dust covered the crumbling buildings and the pot-holed, desolate streets of the sad city. Soviet-era statues of crumbling heroes stood guard—forgotten and uncared for—at the entry to what I had been told was the “most popular park” in the sleepy city of Semey, or Semipalatinsk as it had been called when Kazakhstan was still a part of the Soviet Union. I was extremely tired after two days of meetings with a plenitude of aged, haggard and disinterested bureaucrats and with a couple of young, committed Children’s Rights activists concerning the policies concerning, and the conditions of, children in their nation and city. I couldn’t wait to finally meet some real kids, and to observe their everyday activities. I wanted to hear what they had to say. Shortly, I was about to meet a few.

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I had started the day, really early, in the hotel’s breakfast room with Alma, whom UNICEF had assigned as my official guide and interpreter on a journey to several cities in Northeastern Kazakhstan, near the Russian border. She was a young, blond Kazak woman who had been trained in Social Medicine in Russia. We had traveled, two days earlier, on a 390-mile kidney-bashing adventure in a dilapidated’58 Skoda taxi cab across the barren, breathtaking steppes between the Nation’s capital, Astana, and our first destination— Semipalatinsk. “Ugh, you look like you’ve been through a washing machine. And what a complexion you have! It reminds me of a bowl of ten-day-old yogurt. It appears to me that our infamous “Heavenly” Kazak vodka doesn’t agree with you.” She had really hit the nail on the head. The night before we had dined with three representatives from the Municipality. All three were women, as were most of the ‘officials’ I was to meet in Kazakhstan whose work had anything to do with children. One of the three, around 60 years old, was short and stocky, and she wore black, thick horn-rimmed glasses. She was dressed in a hemp-colored smock I was sure I’d seen someplace else containing potatoes. She wore a red silk scarf around her taurine neck and smiled at me a lot, more than she had during our previous meeting. As the dinner progressed, I jokingly took to calling her “Masha, the happy Commissar” in my mind. The restaurant, Masha assured me, was the “best eating place in town.” This was true, maybe, if you could even call the place a ‘restaurant.’ It was a huge industrial-style compound. We had seated ourselves outdoors in an open ‘garden’, next to the architectural body of the ‘restaurant’ which appeared to be a converted Soviet airplane hangar, or tank deposit. The building also housed a discotheque-pub frequented by what appeared to be the spoiled, noisy, fashionably dressed offspring of the city’s nouveau-capitalist elite. Enormous SUV’s and antiquated Mercedes dropped off mini-skirted, tall thin or short stocky blonde women who tippled past us, along the festooned portico which flanked the large outdoor ‘tavern’ where we sat. Most of these could barely manage to maintain their equilibrium on the absurdly high, stiletto heels or garish, vintage platform shoes they wore. And the ‘tavern,’ what a place it was! Its symmetrical design well exemplified the duality of Kazakhstan’s ethnic composition. Its layout consisted of an “open square” almost completely circumscribed by numerous dining cubicles each of which could contain from 10 to 15 people. On one L-shaped half of the “square,” the cubicles were built of open timber slats, with colorful tent-like fabric stretched above the parties who sat upon beautiful, traditional Kazak carpets and cushions around low wooden tables. The second half of the square consisted of gray or beige chest-high cinderblock bunkers, partially shaded by corrugated metal roof-sheeting. These soviet-style cubicles contained concrete-slab tables surrounded by an assortment of variously colored, battered plastic chairs. At the center of the “square,” was an abandoned band shell, a small dry fountain and a bigger-than-life concrete statue of a camel upon whose head someone had positioned a LA Lakers cap with its visor fashionably pointed backwards.

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On the command of my ‘Happy Commissar,’ our party had occupied a bunker-cubicle in the “Russian sector.” The food was surprisingly good—delicious, open-fire grilled meats of an astounding variety accompanied by spicy, pickled vegetables and fruits. These last were cucumbers, tomatoes, beets, onions and watermelon rinds. On our table sat eight, big bottles of Kazak beer and a mysterious, bulky brown-paper bag. Masha bent over and whispered to me. “We mustn’t sit in the Muslim sector, you know. Alcohol is not tolerated there.” At one point in the evening—while our meal conversation pleasantly evolved, and the empty plates and beer bottles multiplied—softened by the alcohol, I got up my courage and said: “You know, Masha, before I came here, I was really worried about having a business dinner in Kazakhstan. My good friend Selim, who has collaborated for years with UNICEF and other NGO’s in this part of the world, told me stories about his official dinners at which the guests were expected to follow-up each of their short ‘speeches’ with a big shot of vodka. He told me he was never able to get up from the table, on his own, at the end of the evening.” I then threw all ‘political correctness’ to the wind, and added: “But, you know, I had always imagined that my commensals would be the elderly male leaders of the local community, so I guess I’m safe tonight since you’re all women.” All eyes turned towards Masha, who put her hand into the mysterious paper sack and addressed me with the same glance and solemn tone Stalin probably had used with Lev Trotsky on that man’s last day on earth: “Well. I have to say you’re wrong, Comrade Vincent”. The whole group laughed rousingly as the Commissar pulled out a half-gallon bottle of vodka. I managed to catch a glimpse of the word “Heaven” on its label. It was downhill from there on, as shot after shot accompanied each of our ‘speeches’ or the arrival of each platter of new stranger delicacies which found its way to our table. Our voices mingled, confused with those of the surrounding tables and with the techno-din emanating from the tank deposit or from the blaring auto-radios. At one point in the evening, through the fog which enveloped me, my bladder somehow informed my brain that it had to relieve itself. Uncomfortable and bewildered, I had no idea where I was or whether restrooms actually did exist out on the Central Asian steppes. I can vaguely remember Alma’s offering to help me to the men’s room and then, from that point on, my lights went out. I awoke still fully dressed—ruffled and baffled—in my hotel bed this next morning. “Yeah, you were really wrecked last night. After I directed you into the restroom, it seems you passed out in front of the mirrors with your head in the sink. At least that’s what the two guys who carried you out into Masha’s jeep told me. You’re lucky you didn’t bang your head, and that your pants were up.” Alma remarked, chuckling, during breakfast. I moaned over my wretched coffee: “What a mess, I’m so embarrassed … what will UNICEF think?”.

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“Oh, don’t worry. That was normal fare for a night out on the town in Semey. Plus, listen here, you should be proud to know that, while I was waiting for you outside, two young girls approached me and asked if I knew whether ‘that drunken Italian fellow in the toilet was married?’ They said that you ‘weren’t so bad looking for an old guy’. I think they would have followed you to the ends of the earth, judging by the way they were peeking, pointing, chattering and giggling. They seemed to be really interested.” I told her I was sure they must have been of the ‘chubby short blond’ typology … and probably tripping over their platform shoes. Alma laughed and said to me: “Well, since we have a very long day ahead of us, I think I better get you something special for your head. It’s a traditional dish we Kazaks always eat, the morning after, to deal with a heavy hangover.” She asked the young waiter for what sounded to me like “hash”, and I became even more concerned. When I groggily peered into the steeping bowel of what was actually named ‘haash’, I had all to do in my powers to keep down what little remained in my stomach after the previous night’s wrenching. It didn’t get any easier when Alma informed me that the dish contained ox hooves and tripe cooked for six hours with red beets, pepper corns and lots of garlic. I remembered having eaten something similarly disgusting thirty-five years earlier in a Greek island port after a frightening, hurricane-whipped voyage from Athens. The elixir had worked in Samos, and it worked in Semey. After less than an hour, I was up on my feet and in adequate shape to go off and meet the children. Alma had made a 10.30 AM appointment at the entry to Victory Park with some pre-teens from the local Youth Recreation Center. We got there on time and waited, as has usually been my experience when young teens are involved, for about an hour for them to arrive. As we sat waiting, I couldn’t help but notice the thin layer of dust which covered the pedestaled T-34 Soviet tank, the statue of Lenin with his head haughtily thrown back and his sharp chin chipped off, and the numerous, toppling busts of “fallen heroes and comrades” which lined the dismal empty walkway. “Dusty town, eh?” I said, brushing the particles off the park bench we sat on. “Hey, be careful! That dust could damage your future family tree!” “You mean the radiation from the nuclear test sites? I spoke with Masha yesterday about that issue, but she underplayed it. She said that it was just the “usual capitalist propaganda”.

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Between 1949 and 1989, the Soviet Union had, in fact, detonated 460 nuclear ordinances at the Semipalatinsk test site, the “Polygon”, which was less than 100 miles from where we were sitting. Of those detonations, 116 were above ground, while the others had been set off underground. This wasn’t a comforting piece of History. “Listen. Masha is definitely of the ‘old guard’ type. She was an important Communist Party member when she directed the Soviet Social Services Department in Ust Kamengorsk. She did good work with youth then, and she still does. But her heart still sits on the side of the ‘party line’ - even if that Party doesn’t exist, anymore.” “Alma, I did some web research before coming over here, and I got the impression that the effects of the atomic tests really have been pretty devastating in this area. Especially, on the new born.” “Yes, the data is terrifying. Cancer rates in this district are more than twice the National levels and birth defects are almost ten times higher. Just a few weeks ago at the radiation clinic, I had the occasion to talk to a 78-year-old woman, Makysh Iskakova,20 who gets assistance there. You should have seen her. One of her eyes is withered due to several exposures to nuclear blasts she experienced while she was a young woman. She’s a farmer and still lives in a town near the Polygon but most of her family has moved to Semey to be “safer”. Her great-grandson, Valentin, is one of the children we’ll be meeting today. She told me she is very worried about his playing and rolling around in the dust in her housing estate courtyard. Alma also mentioned that over forty members of Makysh’s family now live in Semey. She lowered her voice to a whisper and looked around furtively. “Makysh also mentioned something I already knew, that the National Government has begun developing areas around the Polygon for commercial speculation and, especially, for mineral extraction. The district is rich with precious metals, natural gas and Uranium. Can you believe it? These people are nuts and dangerous! They’re even constructing what they

20

This conversation was informed and inspired by the following article: Gray, Louise (2011) City that suffered most calls for an end to nuclear testing. The Telegraph, London. August 29.

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dare to call a ‘model farm’ where they plan to test the effects of the levels of radiation on livestock, on produce and on the humans, too. Makysh said she had volunteered to homestead there with her 80-year-old husband, but she said that she has been turned down. You know, she also said that she thinks she’s ‘immune’, like she’s been vaccinated. Her precise words were, ‘I’ve been sanctified against radiation’. When I asked her what she meant, she told me that she, as a young girl, was never able to resist turning round to observe the bright explosions and the mushroom clouds outlining the barren plateaus. You should know that by doing that she had gone against an explicit Soviet military order. Her withered right eye is a souvenir or, she might say, her ‘stigmata’ for that transgression.” Alma then cited exactly what Makysh had said: ‘There was a bright ball in the sky, the form of a yurt. Then there was silence. The air smelled like hair … you know, like hair burning. That same terrible smell would rise up from the earth every time it rained.” Alma went on, “Well, she told me she has started to smell that same odor once again, ever since the Government began the excavations. I can’t believe it, but those idiots really think it’s enough to just scrape off five centimeters of top soil in order to decontaminate the area. And where will they put the soil, anyway? In the already radioactive lakes, or maybe they’ll recycle it in constructions around the country? Anyway, as I said, these days Mashya is sure she’s been smelling that same odor throughout the city. She’s terribly frightened by the dust blowing in from the steppes. She’s sure it’s dropping on Semey. And she’s right. Look at these benches and those statues! We should be careful. This explains why she’s so worried about Valentin and his six siblings. Hey, speak of the devil, there’s Valentin and his friends, now.” I looked up and saw a motley group of five kids, four young boys and an older girl, running towards us. Three of the boys skidded to a halt in front of us while the girl remained behind, struggling to convince the smallest and most wiry of the group to come down off the T-34 tank. I already learned the name of one of the children. “Roman! Roman! Roman!” The girl had yelled at the top of her lungs. Alma introduced me to the three boys, while down the walkway the “battle of the T-34” continued. Valentin was a wiry 10-year-old, tall for his age, with long blond hair. He was apparently of Russian descent and wore an over-sized Allen Iverson basketball jersey, baggy shorts and a pair of battered red Converse High sneakers. Bezhat, also around 10, was short and chubby with dark, expressive eyes. He wore his black hair shaved really short in a style which would have been called in Napoli ‘o melòn’ or, in Brooklyn, a “baldie bean”. The third of the musketeers was named Nursultan, and was he a showcase. Dark-haired and round-faced, he was by far the tallest and fattest of the gang. “I’m almost 13”, he declared, proudly.

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Nurslutan wore a blue college blazer over a spotless white shirt and beige chinos. When he presented himself as the “official representative” of the crew—“since I, by fortune, bear the same name as Kazakhstan’s Supreme Leader”—both Valentin and Bezhat broke out laughing. From then on, they teased him and didn’t let him get a word in edgewise. Valentin was, without a doubt, the most talkative of the trio. “We’re really sorry we’re late, Alma. We had a big basketball game down in the housing courtyard. Tell Vincent I really love to ‘jzoot hoops’ and that I’m a big Knicks fan … even with this Iverson Philadelphia t-shirt. It’s my brother’s. Alms, you did say your friend is from New York City, right?” “Yes, Vincent was born in Brooklyn, but now he lives in Italy. He wanted to hear what you think about “Victory Park”. He wants to know what you do here and what you’d like to do with it”. Alma presented me and my objectives. “Nuthin’, nuthin’, burn it down and start all over.” Valentine blurted out, brazenly. “Go a little slower, Champ. Back up, please. Here’s why I’m here. The City Hall told me this was the most popular park in Semey, and that we could see a lot of kids here. Oh, by the way, you can call me Vinnie.” Hearing “Vinnie” for the first time, Alma glanced at me oddly. She was probably thinking that UNICEF had made a big mistake in selecting some “Jersey Shore” grease-ball as a top-ranked consultant. “OK, Vinnie. I like that name. But really, Vinnie, we never play here, ever. I used to come here with my parents and with my grandmother when she would come visit us from the countryside, when I was little. You know, we’d usually come here on Sunday mornings after church to see the stupid statues and the sickly swans. Which are now all dead, by the way. Now that we’re bigger, none of us kids ever set foot in this park. You can’t even walk on the dead grass or jump in the fountain when the water is on. Which is, basically, almost never.” “But the ice cream is good here, no?” Bezhat added. All three boys agreed to this and turned as Roman and the girl slipped in next to us. Alma and I greeted them. My eyes were fixed, for the moment, on the dark eyes and face of young girl I imagined to be Roman’s sister. “Yeah, but I climb all over the Tank, and that’s fun!” Roman exclaimed, continually hopping from one foot to the other. The little fellow just couldn’t keep still. He literally had ants in his pants. “Not if I can help it, you little imp! You know that the police could arrest you, and me, for that. Our people have to be very, very careful. The cops don’t like our type.” She smirked. While the boys and Alma argued about the ‘play value’ and the related risks of the Cold War paraphernalia scattered throughout the city, I discretely tried to get a better look at the girl. I had an odd feeling that I knew her from somewhere. Still, I thought that couldn’t be possible. I was almost certain that she and her brother were of Roma descent. She wore her dark hair covered in a colorful scarf and wore a bulky blue, stretched-out sweater on top of a long flowing, flower-print skirt. She had blue plastic sandals on her dark slender feet.

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What I ‘remembered’, and what drew me most, were her penetrating black eyes. They called to mind the faces of young girls I had encountered in various projects around the world: Napoli, Bogotá, Cairo, Boston … wherever. Such experience, pain and—it seemed to me—such wisdom was enshrined in faces and eyes that had seen, at the most, eleven or twelve winters. But this time it was different, I truly felt that I knew this girl. It wasn’t just this young woman’s face that was familiar. There was something else, and I was certain that the Cold War artifacts and the talk of radiation had had something to do with my feeling a sort of ‘déjà vu’. “Hey, wake up ‘Vinnie!”, Alma smirked, “… that Haash hasn’t done its job yet, huh? Where were you?” “No, I’m OK. Sorry. You haven’t, uh, introduced me to this young woman. What’s her name, and who is she?” “Oh. Vincent, this is Zhamilya, Roman’s sister. She’s 13, and she works part-time in the Rec Center in the courtyard of the housing project where all these children live.” “Nice to meet you, Zhamilya.” Uttering her name, another piece of the curious mosaic in my mind snapped into place. Our “meeting” continued pleasantly, facilitated by the cups of ice cream we had purchased at a nearby kiosk and by the delicious Kuimak pancakes with fig marmalade which Zhamilya had brought from home. Valentin, with his mouth full, held the floor. He explained to me that: “We play, mostly, in our courtyard where there’s a small hill, a basketball hoop and some stupid plastic play equipment which the City Hall recently installed for the little kids. The Rec Center is OK, too. They have table games there, and Zhamilya and her co-workers involve us in organizing parties and tournaments.” Something which I had noticed during my previous days in Semey was that the Soviets had left behind a useful, yet dilapidated and mostly forgotten, legacy of relatively good planning for children and youth. Almost all the housing estates had been built in court-form and, in addition to the standard play and athletic equipment, each block possessed a Youth Club and a Day Care Center. I thought warmly of my dear departed friend, Carlo Pagliarini, and the praise he would always heap upon the Soviet Block’s—highly participatory, according to him—Young Pioneers Association. “But our favorite games in the housing project are with the ‘tubes’ and the ‘bridges’. We play war under them, we do acrobatic stunts and - best of all - in wintertime, the only snow that’s soft enough for snowball fights can be found under the warm tubes. You should come back here in the winter, Vinnie.” Most of the Kazak-Soviet housing estates I visited were literally covered with mazes of raised three-foot diameter civic-heating vapor tubes interconnected at their corners by rusted iron pylons or “bridges”. This system had seemed to be a crazy and inefficient energy distribution scheme for the frigid steppes. It was also odd that this primitive system had been designed by the skilled USSR engineers who had beaten the USA into space in the ‘1950s. I was surprised. During my field observations, I had noticed that many children were playing all over the skeletal network, just as Valentin had said. They could be seen hanging and balancing on them, inventing ball games off them, or just sitting in the shadows below the tubes scratching

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and digging in the infamous, deadly dust. To make matters worse, it appeared that the ripped fibers hanging from the poorly maintained tubes probably contain asbestos. “Hey Vinnie! Let’s get out of this boring place and go play in our courtyard. Maybe, Zhamilya can show you the Rec Center, and I hope her aunt, Dilmaz, will give us some more of her delicious Kuimaks.” Valentin interrupted. ‘Dilmaz?’, I was struck back. “Yup, that’s a good idea. Let’s go.” For the rest of the day, I wondered where and when I’d heard that name before. While we were winding our way through Semipalatinsk’s dusty, pot-holed streets, Zhamilya had turned her dark eyes towards me and said: “Vinnie, you know next week there’s a National Holiday and for that occasion my Aunt Dilmaz always has a special supply of fireworks at home which she sells really cheap. She told me that she has some great bottle-rockets this year. Perhaps, you might want to buy some?” Then, I remembered. Note to myself. While reading over these last pages, I couldn’t help thinking how the multiple strands and paths of our lives are, inevitably, interconnected and how people and places are, at times, interchangeable. Valentin’s aunt’s name was “Dilmaz”. I recalled that Dilmaz was also the name of the Roma woman who had sold us fireworks for the fourth of July. When Zhamilya mentioned ‘bottle-rockets’, my thoughts were hurled back to my childhood, and I recalled all my friends on the block, and how we would never fail to have loads of bottle-rockets and other types of fireworks to ‘light up the sky’’ and ‘blow things up’. If one thinks about it, it is frighteningly significant that while children everywhere were playing without a care with firework rockets during the years of the Cold War—at the very same time—Governments on both sides of the Iron Curtain possessed a lot more than just fireworks to play around with … and to blow things up.

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A Light Show Over the Looming Towers (July 5, 2034)

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A Light Show Over the Looming Towers (July 5, 2034)

Gilbert Chesterton once wrote: “All architecture is great architecture after sunset. Perhaps, architecture is really a nocturnal art, like the art of fireworks.” On one July 4th night—on what had once been the Belt Parkway—my father and his new young friends sat together, enthralled by a fabulous fireworks display and by the ‘great architecture’ of the two soaring steel towers in the bay. Surrounded by the children and his community, he recalled a past vision of a New World which was about to be born.

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Yesterday, I was rereading the last piece of this diary which I had written on June 20. I have to say that I was crazy to have tried that ‘novelist thing’. My writing stinks! Good old Paul Goodman,21 who turns out to be the author whose name I couldn’t remember, is probably turning over in his grave. I recall just how much that great thinker had taught and inspired me during my formative years. My writing ‘style’—or, more honestly, my lack thereof—is a tremendous affront to the hallowed memory of such an enlightened man-of-letters and incisive social critic. Well, I’ve decided to return to the old, ‘stream of thought’ notebook style I had used before. I think it’s more suitable to my inner nature, and to my life-long tendency to mix things up (things like academic and lay thought, theory and practice, and fact and fiction). Maybe, at some later date, I will try again to introduce some style and charm … if the mood strikes me. Yesterday, I expanded the boundaries of my daily walks. Vale and I took a good, long stroll down beyond Coney Island, all the way out to the old Belt Parkway’s walking path. What had convinced me to take such a long and risky journey was Vale’s having told me that the New York Commune had approved the re-institution of the traditional July 4th fireworks display off the shoreline along the Belt. I remembered the times I had stood and watched that show in awe as a child. I was happy that the decision had finally been made, especially since it came after quite a few years of bickering between the NY Commune and several of Brooklyn’s local Community Committees. The Commune had argued that “We don’t want to honor that Amerika, the way it was.” I really can’t disagree, but the local Committees’ counter-argument that “The fireworks could be a wonderful experience for our children. And what is more, we can use the day’s festivities as an occasion to set the record straight” convinced me even more. I’m very pleased, in any case, that the kids won out. The fireworks were a beautiful sight to see. The show was an extraordinary display of creativity and competence in pyrotechnic science, craft and art. As we sat appreciating the crossette and the crackle effects, listening to the children’s awe-filled joyous voices at each spectacular barrage, my electrified mind drifted back to my childhood days, in that very same place. Of course, the annual Independence Day fireworks display came to mind, but, even more so, I recalled the excursions my friends and I would make along the Belt Parkway … and all the adventures we had enjoyed. During last night’s show, recognized quite a few of the children I am getting to know at our Co-op. When Vale and I were about to leave, four kids came up and sat down next to us. I managed to remember the names of only three of them. Tonino’s son Lelè

The book referred to is “The Empire City” by Paul Goodman. This ‘Epic’ tome comprises four ‘novels’ set in an ‘imaginary’ New York City during the first half of the twentieth century. Laid out in distinct chronological parts, the book follows the adventures of its hero—Horatio Alger, a free street child—and his family, as the boy reaches maturity in a socially and politically tumultuous period. Goodman—with the ingenious creativity of a Master ‘story teller’—managed to effectively transmit most of the critical themes he had treated, non-fictionally, over the course of his life-time: autonomy and ‘natural’ learning in childhood; Community and Communalism and their arch-enemy, Bureaucracy; Pacifism and the War Machine, etc.

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knew that I had grown up in Brooklyn, and he wanted to know if I was familiar with this place, in particular. He asked me whether I had ever seen the fireworks here on the 4th of July. His questions got me going, and I told them stories from my childhood for almost an hour. I told them about the wonderful six-mile walks my ‘gang’ would take to Coney Island for the Nathan’s hot dogs and the rides. I recounted the crazy, sometimes dangerous, things we often did along the way. Jamal laughed at our sneaking into the golf course to heckle the players and steal their balls. Brenda especially liked the dangerous things we did, like the times we would jump down onto the sea-wall boulders to fish out horseshoe crabs and large pieces of drift wood. Little Lelè was fascinated by the amusement rides at the old Nelly Bly Park and by my stories of the odd characters who hung out down there. I showed him exactly where it used to be, and he said that “… maybe, we could build another one here.” When we were about to take our leave, the oldest of the group—whose name I still don’t know—pointed and said: “Mister, you see those two high towers far out there between Staten Island and us? The ones with the big wind turbines up on top. Do you know they used to be a part of a long suspension bridge? Shamisha told us its name was Verrazano, and that it was the longest bridge in the world when it was built. It got partially blown up during the revolt. If that hadn’t happened, we wouldn’t need the ferry. Yeah, we could walk or bike to Staten Island.” I was thinking about the many things that I could tell them about that bridge, when Vale gently took my hand and said we should start our long walk home. It was getting late, and I was very tired. Still, I managed to say to the youngster: “Yeah, I really loved that bridge. I watched it going up. My friends and I used to play on its foundations when the bridge was being built. But we have to leave now, I’m tired … sorry, I can’t go on.” “Someday, I hope you’ll tell us those stories Mister. OK?” She replied, and they all waved goodbye to us. As Vale and I walked slowly back home, I thought about a story I had written long ago, and about others I should tell.

Curator’s Analysis In this second part of the diary collection, the author is recovering his memory while gradually expanding the range of autonomous movement from his apartment out into the street. In choosing to present, in the very first chapter, a detailed anamnesis of a walk about through the streets of Naples (which had occurred more than half-a-century earlier), he is offering the reader insight into his strong and enduring sentiments towards that city, as well as into what he considers a valuable approach to city-learning and city-making. These are both themes which will permeate the publication.

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I hold that the author, here, makes use of the fluidity of memory and its relationship with what one does (or wants to do) in the present to disclose his belief that one’s professional and free-time activities are, inherently, inseparable. While strolling, in effect, my father was ‘doing research on city places’ - observing, collecting data, identifying hypotheses and confronting these with theory. Napoli, for him and for this field of study, offered a perfect context in which to do just that. He once told me that his “second most-loved city, after Brooklyn of course, is a real Flaneur’s Paradise”. Inspired by Jane Jacobs, who had admonished planners to turn their attention to the countless, spontaneous ways that people use the city and to the ‘ecological-systemic’ manner in which these functions interact within the ‘grand schemes of experts’, the author is implying that students and young professionals would do well to heed her lesson. To assist them, I have included below a fundamental reference to Jacobs’ opera magnus, in addition to a link which explicates the manner in which the simple act of walking has evolved into a useful, professional tool for participatory planning – the ‘Jane Jacob Walk’. While not central, children are nevertheless present ‘everywhere’ in the Ballet of the City which opens before the readers’ eyes in the author’s Napoli stroll. They will continue to acquire ever-increasing centrality throughout the book. In fact, in the very next chapter the author’s rapid, and critical, exposition of several of his professional projects introduces references to several methodologies, policies and programs which are fundamental to any understanding of the roles of professionals, institutions and children in the creation of suitable city spaces for the latter. These include: participatory planning and design, the Children’s Rights Convention, Child Friendly Cities, etc. A vast array of literature is available on all these themes and issues. Several references to these, and related questions, have been included below. Particularly interested readers and teachers would do well to carry out further searches. Aware of my father’s strong committal and enthusiasm regarding children’s participation, I was surprised by the demoralized and pessimistic tone of this exposition and analysis. While he had always possessed a radically critical opinion of adults’ willingness to promote genuine, effective children’s participation, here he appears to have lost his optimistic spirit. The reader should keep in mind his advanced age and the context in which he was writing. I am certain that he went on to write about his friend and mentor, Simon Nicholson, in the second section in an attempt to recover the foundations of his own utopian belief in the special power of children to “participate in world making” and to teach adults. Compared to Nicholson, my father might be considered “a conventional academic”. Having said that, while expressing pessimistic ‘defeat’ at the hand of ‘the powers’ which impede children’s participation and Child Friendly Cities, he never lost his faith in children nor ceased to listen to them. I think that the author’s representation of children and, especially, the incisive nature of their voices in this part and the last, on Kazakhstan, uphold my assertation.

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References and Suggestions for Further Reading Anirban, A. (2012). Jane Jacobs and the theory of placemaking in debates of sustainable urbanism. In S. Hirt (Eds.), The urban wisdom of Jane Jacobs. Routledge. Benjamin, W. (1968). Naples in illuminations: Essays and reflections. Harcourt Brace Jovanovich NY (This essay was originally written by W. Benjamin and Asja Lacis in 1925). Chawla, L. (2002). Growing up in an urbanizing world. UNESCO/Earthscan Publications (This book and the project on which it is based won Environmental Design Research Association “Place Research Award.”). Chawla, L., & van Vliet, W. (2017). Children’s rights to child friendly cities. In M. Ruck, M. Peterson-Badali, & M. Freeman (Eds.), Handbook of children’s rights (pp. 533–549). Taylor and Francis. Derr, V., Chawla, L., & Mintzer, M. (2018). Placemaking with children and youth: Participatory practices to plan sustainable communities. New Village Press (Winner of the Environmental Design Research Association “2019 Achievement Award.”). Derr, V., Chawla, L., & van Vliet, W. (2017). Children as natural change agents: Child friendly cities as resilient cities. In K. Bishop & L. Corkery (Eds.), Designing for kids in the city: Beyond playgrounds and Sskateparks (pp. 25–35). Routledge Press. Francis, M., & Lorenzo, R. (2001–2). Seven realms of children’s participation. A Critical Review in Journal of Environmental Psychology. Special Issue on “Children and their Environment. Francis, M., & Lorenzo, R. (2006). City design and the renewal of childhood. In Spencer and blades, children and their environments. Cambridge University Press (Contains an English version of the Children’s Manifesto). Hart, R. (1992). Children’s participation: From Tokenism to citizenship. Innocenti Essays No. 4. UNICEF International Child Development Center. Hart, R. (1997). Children’s participation: The theory and practice of involving young citizens in community development and environmental care. UNICEF. Jacobs, J. (1993). The death and life of great american cities. Modern Library ed., Random House (This edition includes a new foreword written by the author [first published 1961]). Lepore, L., & Lorenzo R. (1992). How to win back our cities: A handbook for children, teachers, communities (translation). World Wide Fund for Nature—Environmental Education Series. Lorenzo, R. (1992). Too little time and space for childhood, Florence. UNICEF Innocenti Research Center. Lorenzo, R., Majorano, C., & Lombardi, S. (1998). A guide to sustainable cities for and with children (translation). Italian Ministry of the Environment, Roma. UNICEF Innocenti Research Center. Malone, K. (2019). Walking with children on blasted landscape in the Children in the Anthropocene Blog (May 14). https://childrenintheanthropocene.com/2019/05/14/walking-with-children-on-blasted-landscapes/ Nicholson, S. (1971). How not to cheat children: The theory of loose parts. Landscape Architecture, 61, 30– 34. Robb, P. (2010). Street fight in Naples. Bloomsbury. Stott, T. (2019). Systems in play: Simon Nicholson’s design 12 course, University of California, Berkeley,1966. Journal of Design History, Oxford University Press. UNICEF. (1996). Children’s rights and habitat: Report of the expert seminar. February 1–2, 1996. United Nations Children’s Fund. UNICEF. (2000). Towards child-friendly cities. United Nations Children’s Fund. Van Eyck, A. (1957) When the snow falls (English version of ‘Het kind en de stad’) in ‘Goed Wonen’, October.

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Additional Web Links

On Napoli For an interesting overview of the city of Naples, through the eyes of another of its English-speaking fans (Jeff Matthews), see the website “Naples: Life, Death and Miracles”. http://naplesldm.com/newwelcome. php The site also contains reflections on the intense relationship between Walter Benjamin and the city of Napoli, as referred to in this chapter. http://naplesldm.com/benjamin.php

On Jane Jacobs Walks http://www.janejacobswalk.org/what-is-jane-jacobs-walk See also ‘Jane’s Walk’ information at Jane’s Walk – Citizen-led walking tours towards community-based city building (janeswalk.org)

On Aldo Van Eyck http://theinternationale.com/pennywilson/33-2/ https://merijnoudenampsen.org/2013/03/27/aldo-van-eyck-and-the-city-as-playground/

On Simon Nicholson and the Theory of Loose Parts https://cdn.ymaws.com/mnaeyc-mnsaca.org/resource/resmgr/docs/super_saturday_2018_handouts/burwell__the_theory_of_loos.pdf https://creativestarlearning.co.uk/early-years-outdoors/simon-nicholson-and-the-theory-of-loose-parts-1million-thanks/

The Author’s Projects Referred to in This Chapter ABCittà Cooperative Information: http://abcitta.org/chisiamo/ Child Friendly Cities—Innocenti Center: https://www.unicef-irc.org/research/child-friendly-cities/ Children’s Bologna Manifesto Manifesto per la riconquista della città (fiab-scuola.org). https://ec.europa.eu/transport/road_safety/sites/roadsafety/files/pdf/projects_sources/rosace_method_ guidelines.pdf ROSACE Project: https://ec.europa.eu/transport/road_safety/sites/roadsafety/files/pdf/projects/rosace.pdf

Part III

A New Community: Encountering, Reflecting and Taking Part

Chapter 5

The Boy: Growing Up and Out into the ‘World Beyond the Hood’

© Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2022 R. Lorenzo, Children’s Free Play and Participation in the City, Children: Global Posthumanist Perspectives and Materialist Theories, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-0300-7_5

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Expanding One’s Horizons and Building Bridges to the World (1960–1964)

Vinnie and his friend’s early adolescence (years 11–14) represented a period of accelerated ‘growing up’ in biological and emotional terms and of ‘growing-out’ as epitomized by their ventures into a wider geography of new places, and by new, challenging encounters with people and cultures outside their own. As their ‘turf’ expands, they come to (intuitively) ‘understand’ the impact of city planning and large public works on local communities and individuals. In this chapter, some first signs of the author’s interest in (his future vocation for) architecture and urban spaces, as well as his marked curiosity concerning the greater world beyond Brooklyn, are beginning to blossom.

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Growing up in Brooklyn, our protagonists’ geographical boundaries were not only delimited by the wide roads and waters that surround their borough but, even more so, by the rules laid down by their parents. Around 1960, as the confines set by their families began to expand considerably, Vinnie and his friends would regularly roam beyond their block and immediate neighborhood. During those excursions, they sometimes would do things which their parents didn’t know about or had forbidden. This was especially true of Aksel, the group’s rebel leader, who already possessed greater freedom because of his age and competence. He would often be heard to say, “Sometimes, my friends, the rules are made to be bent, just a little.” He would then add: “A white lie is OK, if it’s for a really good purpose.” As the boys grew older, and as the rules and limits began to feel like out-grown shoes, they didn’t hesitate to break or ‘bend’ them. They would tell their parents an occasional ‘white lie’ to facilitate their quest to expand their ‘turf’ and to have new experiences. They were almost always certain that their parents would understand. After all, hadn’t they been teenagers themselves? What about all those adventurous stories they had heard from their crazy uncles? Weren’t these tales an instigation of sorts? But, then again, some fathers are stricter than others, and most mothers (all of them, in the boys’ case) certainly fear for their offspring’s well-being. The important thing—the cardinal rule of the group—remained to “do what you have to do” and “try not to get hurt much, or caught.” Up until that time, it had usually worked out fine for them, and when it hadn’t, it had meant, at the most, a stinging smack or “a little time on probation”—grounded within the four walls of their homes. Around 1960, all the boys had permission to travel out to Coney Island. Even though area was five miles from their block, they preferred to walk the distance, along the beautiful bayfront. They would tell their families the choice was purely economic (i.e., to avoid the subway fare), and kept the true reasons to themselves. A few of those motives would have merited punishment, but, luckily, their ‘white lies’ remained undiscovered. When Vinnie turned twelve, from early June and on through the summer, he and his gang would often take the long bus ride to Riis Park—out in hated Queens— officially to swim, body surf and watch those big bad boys play some of the best three-on-three basketball games in the city. What their parents didn’t really know was that for two successive years, on the first ‘warm’ weekend when the water was (as Aksel would say) “as cold as a witch’s tit” and before any lifeguards were on duty, on several occasions the friends had risked their lives riding the wild surf on overturned extremely heavy look-out seats which they had enlisted as their imaginary ‘pirate rafts.’ One harrowing day, they had wrecked their ‘raft’ on a distant sandbar in the towering waves and—shivering with fear, and with “blue balls”—they had abandoned the immense splintered stand on the empty, cold windswept beach. At that time, the group also had permission to take the ferry from the dock on 69th Street across to Staten Island to swim in the public pool in St. George Town. They were permitted to go there only when accompanied by a ‘responsible’ older adolescent or adult. Aksel’s brother, who was 16 at the time, was often called upon to play that role. Hardly a ‘responsible adult’ and more an accomplice, he was usually part of the fun. During the walk from the dock to the pool, the kids explored the other

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worldly, nineteenth-century small-town atmosphere of St. George with the ‘General Stores,’ ‘Apothecaries’ and old maritime shops which surrounded its small port. The reason the boys’ parents opted for such a long and costly trip was the fact that the Sunset Park Public Pool, which was near to their neighborhood, was then being used primarily by the Puerto Rican community which had recently established itself in that neighborhood. The ‘PR kids’ had been branded as ‘hoodlums’ by several of the boys’ parents. The Puerto Rican teenagers were, exaggeratedly, considered ‘really dangerous’ so the Sunset Park had been placed on the boys’ “no go” list. In the ‘50’s and ‘60’s, much of Brooklyn was considered a dangerous place, in the general public’s mind. There were, in fact, hundreds of so-called “street gangs” in NYC, and Brooklyn was no exception. These gangs were territorial and were generally, but not always, sharply divided along ethnic lines. Blacks, Italians, Irish and Puerto Ricans made up the majority of the estimated 6000 gang members in that period. Gangs would fight or, as it was then called, ‘rumble’ for essentially two reasons—their turf and their girlfriends. The weapons which the gangs used were nothing like the deadly firearms which NY and the USA would become accustomed to in the 1980’s. Bare fists, motorcycle boots and brass knuckles were the most common arms, but the more dangerous, and sometimes lethal, switch-blade knives and homemade ‘zip guns’ were becoming more common. There were real and tangible dangers in venturing outside one’s turf, and Vinnie and his friends were well aware of these. The boys were frightened at times, but they felt they knew how to avoid trouble. Usually, their opinion of their own preparedness was correct. One day in late June, when summer had come and the days had begun to grow warmer, Vinnie and his friends were enjoying their first swim of the season at the St. George Pool. They had been there since early morning, and Tommy had gotten himself a real bad sunburn. Vinnie didn’t have to worry about the sun, since he was as brown as toast even in the winter months. They only had an hour left before they would have to get dressed and run for the ferry, so there was time for just one last swim. Aksel and his brother, Knut, were talking by the pool’s edge while all the other kids were horsing around in the water. “Hey Vinnie, what are you doing just standing there? Looks like you’ve been dreaming for the last ten minutes.” “Oh, nuthin’ Pete. I’ve just been going over some chords for a new song. In my head, yuh know?” Aksel from his outlook on dry land had been watching the scene evolve, and he knew the real story. “Bullshit, Vinnie. You’ve been eyeing that cute chick over there. Your eyeballs were just popping, my puppy dog.” “Nah, Aksel, that ain’t true.” Vinnie replied. Aksel dove into the pool, swam up to Vinnie and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Tell the truth, you like her, eh? Why don’t you just go over and say hello? You dig she’s Puerto Rican, right?” “So what? There’s nothing wrong with Puerto Ricans. My Aunt Emma always argues with my dad about that. But uh, no, I don’t like her. I wasn’t even looking. What are you talking about?”

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“Come on Vinnie, let’s go over there.” He nudged Vinnie towards the girl. “Buenas tardes, signorita. My friend Vinnie here was wondering where you go to school.” “Uh, really, I go to Fontbonne Hall on Shore Road. I’m going into my sophomore year. Why are you asking?” “Well, Vinnie said he thought he’d seen you at a dance at Xaverian, where he goes.” Aksel lied. Like clockwork, Knut called out to Aksel, and the boy swam off with a “I gotta go, see you” leaving Vinnie alone and embarrassed with the girl. Vinnie froze and stared at the long haired, bronze-skinned girl in front of him. Finally, he spoke up and started to weave the next line of the story Aksel had initiated. “Yeah, me and my band we were playing a couple of weeks ago at my High School, and I thought I saw you there. You know, a lot of the girls from Fontbonne come to our dances.” “No, I wasn’t there but maybe I’ll go sometime, probably. So, you play in a band? What do you play?” “Well, we call ourselves ‘The Gremlins’ and I play lead guitar. Do you play an instrument?” “What a weird name! I like it. But, yes, I do play an instrument. I just started studying the violin.” “That’s cool, we don’t have a violin in our band. Maybe, when you get good at it, we’ll take you in.” “Stop kidding me, funny guy. Oh, I didn’t tell you my name. It’s Rosario.” She shook his hand and raised her other to shade her eyes. The late afternoon sun reflected off her smooth shoulders. Her eyes shone like two black pearls. Vinnie was transfixed, but managed to speak out. “Huh? Rosario is my uncle’s name. In Italy, the name ‘Rosario’ is a boy’s name.” Vinnie smiled shyly. “Well, in Puerto Rico it’s a girl’s name. Do I look like a boy? She smiled, blushing a little. Before Vinnie could tell her that she certainly didn’t, he felt himself pushed down and held underwater by two strong hands. When he had finally worked his way loose and came up gasping for air, he found himself and Rosario surrounded by five Puerto Rican teenage boys. They were much bigger than Vinnie, and they were angry. One boy yelled: “Hey, chica! What you doin’ talkin’ to this Wop? And you, Guinea boy, you should know better!” “We were just talking. I didn’t do anything wrong. What should I know better?” Vinnie tried to stand up, and before his aggressor could throw the expected punch Vinnie heard a loud voice at his back. “Hey Jose, se acabò1!! Back off my sister, man! This ain’t your pool. How are you, Rosario?”

1

“It’s over!” (from Spanish).

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“Gracias, Angel. I’m Ok.” Rosario’s brother and five other muscular teenagers pushed the aggressor and his buddies out of the pool. In a few minutes, Angel—a real ‘Guardian Angel’—was back. He came close to Rosario and Vinnie who were now surrounded by a solid phalanx of the boy’s friends. He shook hands with Vinnie and said: “Sorry kid, you know how these hoods can be. We took Rosario and her friends to this pool to get them away from guys like that in our neighborhood, and they show up here, too. I guess you’re not safe anywhere these days. Sorry I have to break up your conversation, but we got to go now.” “Hope I see you around, Rosario.” Vinnie sighed. “Adios, Vinnie.” He would never see Rosario again. On their way back home, as the ferry passed along the Narrows Strait, the boys stood by the railing with their eyes fixed on the sun’s reflection on the soaring towers of the Verrazano Bridge. “Wow, it’s nearly finished! You remember when we found that dead dog? I haven’t seen the bridge, so up close, since that day. They sure have worked fast.” Little Joey yelled, above the din of the ferry’s engines. One of the gang’s longest-running undiscovered ‘white lies’ had begun in late 1960. It revolved around their plans to make early evening visits to the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge construction site. The preceding year, the City of New York—bending to the iron will of its “Public Works Czar,” Robert Moses—had finally decided to build a bridge to connect Brooklyn to Staten Island. That bridge would eventually render the kids’ beloved 69th Street Ferry obsolete. Until 1981, it would remain the longest suspension bridge in the world, and this primatum made New Yorkers and Brooklynites very proud. The fact that the bridge was named in honor of the explorer Giovanni Verrazano made the “wops” in Vinnie’s gang, and in the Italian American community in general, even prouder. Like many of Moses’ projects, its construction would bring about the destruction of a viable community and the displacement, in this case, of almost 7000 people. This had made the Bay Ridge community, including many of its “proud wops,” very angry. Their protests had been loud but useless, and their homes and businesses came down in rapid order. By the time the boys began their visits, a deep two-mile-long trench for the bridge’s approach roads had been dug through the neighborhood. Along its path, were the abandoned carcasses of the homes which had sheltered the families of quite a few of the boys’ friends. Vinnie, in particular, grieved for his friend and classmate, Freddy A, who had always vied with Vinnie for class honors, every year since first grade. Freddy’s family had moved in 1960 to California and Vinnie, despite their long-term competition, missed his friend. Little did he know that the boy’s unexpected return to Brooklyn in 1962 would cost him a full scholarship to High School. “Friends are more important than money. I guess.” Vinnie had thought upon receiving the news of his having come in second—right after Freddy—for the only full scholarship the school offered. He wouldn’t have to worry about the $300 per semester half-tuition rate, but Vinnie’s parents would have to foot the bill for four long expensive years.

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The trench, the construction site and, occasionally, the gutted homes became the gang’s exploratorium and building laboratories. For nearly two years, the site was their adventure playground. The only parent-known activity was their observation of over 10,000 workers who dug and dynamited, lugged and cut, welded and bolted —day and night—in the trenches and on the girders and rafters as the road, the ramps and the bridge itself took form. The friends had spent many fun-filled days watching the Mohawk ironworkers—as nimble as young squirrels—climbing, tight-walking and fixing the giant rafters as the bridge rose above the deep blue waters of the Narrows. Depending on the construction phase and the time of day, the boys’ favorite lookout posts would alternately be: the old Fort Hamilton site, the Poly Prep campus or the long walkway along the Belt Parkway. All of these sites were included on the parental-approved map of “places you can go to, at your age.” Entering the trenches and exploring the abandoned homes was, on the other hand, a completely different story. In order to explore these off-limits places, and do so at dinner time, the boys had developed an intricate white lie which would ever remain unknown to their trusting parents. Strategically, they went in groups of four with big Aksel always there. Their ploy was to tell their parents that they would be eating dinner at Aksel’s house. His mother was a compliant and widely trusted woman and, being a hospital nurse, she would often work at dinner time. On those occasions, her oldest son Knut prepared dinner for Aksel. He was held, by some of the neighbors, to be a ‘pretty good cook.’ “He’s as good a cook as a square-head can be. What’s a Swedish five-course meal, Vinnie? Three potatoes, a sardine and a can of beer!” Vinnie’s Uncle Rocco had joked, on one occasion, about the question. “Put on some good strong shoes, bring your work gloves and wear sturdy clothes.” Aksel would say before each incursion into the moon-like craters and the rat-infested exoskeletons of other peoples’ lives. “And don’t forget the potatoes and the hot dogs, right?” As in all their adventures, the gang’s main objectives were exploration and discovery. But, more importantly, the kids wanted to make sure that each and every early evening foray into a new adventure would conclude with a hot ‘meal’ cooked over an open fire and shared together under the stars. During those long months, the boys explored the disused sewer tunnels and abandoned homes. They climbed on the huge earthmovers and steam shovels. They imagined themselves to be a part of the crew preparing the way for the behemoth whose profile they could already see, rising against the setting sun. They would ‘surf’ the deep and dangerously steep surfaces of the trenches on flattened cardboard boxes or in an occasionally found, discarded bathtub. In the end, they learned all the ropes, and at times they truly believed that they understood what it took to create a monster-sized public works project. At times, they had felt pain and remorse for the displaced families as they dug through the discarded objects that had been left behind in the abandoned homes. They sat in rat-eaten, rain-stained arm chairs and imagined a defeated, forlorn father telling his family that they would have to vacate their beloved home. They had

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found broken toys and kitchenware, and baby shoes and old neckties, and yesterday’s newspapers and ripped comic books, and hairbrushes and shattered mirrors. One day, they came upon a yellow rubber duck in a filthy, cracked bathtub. On that occasion, Little Joey had cried while the others consoled him. The terrible night they found the rotting body of a German shepherd, whose former owner Aksel knew, sporting a collar tag emblazoned with the name ‘Bingo,’ their Verrazano Bridge adventures came to a close. The boys made a shared pledge to never come back and to never use the bridge once it was built, unless ordered to do so by their parents or by a future boss. Long after the dead dog incident, and shortly before the official opening of the Bridge in 1964, downtown Brooklyn and southern Manhattan had become new entries in Aksel’s magical subway tours. The younger boys always duly followed the adventure trails their mentor opened. They passed through multi-colored and multi-cultural worlds which had been, until that time, unknown and fear-inspiring to the younger ones. Elbows of all shapes and colors rubbed against theirs in the crowded subway cars and on the busy streets. A hundred lingos and accents—the sounds of a literal Tower of Babel—poured into their green ears: Latino, Hip-hop, Chinese, Polish, Beat, Yiddish, Lebanese, Jazz. “What’s that language, Russian? U-Bet, my comrades!” One of Vinnie’s favorite new destinations was located at the far end of Atlantic Ave, down near the BQ Expressway. This area had been home to a small Lebanese community since the early nineteenth century and, in the last two decades, it had become a food and culture Mecca for the increasing numbers of Middle Eastern people who had come to live in New York City. The boys had ventured there a few times during their explorations of Downtown, and Vinnie was fascinated by the colorful window displays with their mounds of colorful spices and dried fruits. In the old Sahadi Emporium—“established in 1938”—there were large bowls and jars containing olives of all sizes and colors, tiny light-green peppers, blood red beets and cubes of shiny white cheese floating in milky water. The boy literally swam in the fragrances of foods which spilled, abundantly, out of the shops. The spices, the grilled meats and, especially, the freshly baked breads sent out smoke signals of new, exotic dishes Vinnie would have loved to taste. He was hypnotized by the recorded music which emanated from many of the storefronts. These sounds were so different from the music he was accustomed to hearing. The tones and scales had nothing in common with the eight-tone sequences he knew so well. He wondered if his band would ever be able to play anything like those incredibly beautiful sounds. One day, he stood in front of a bookstore listening. While his mind and soul ascended in circles on the wings of a spiraling string and percussion melody, Aksel shook him out of his trance. “Hey Vinnie. We’re heading down to Modell’s to look for a football. You gonna come?” “Nah, I want to hang out here a little longer. I’ll catch up with you later at the store. I’m sure you’ll still be there fighting one another over the model, make and price … and maybe even about the right smell of the pigskin.”

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While his friends headed off up Atlantic, he could already hear Big Joe and Fat Phil arguing heatedly. In the store’s window display, Vinnie’s eyes fell on a big book with beautiful pictures of colorful strange buildings. He walked in and started exploring the piles of books, and the music played on. One of the largest, most expensive-looking books had a picture of an incredible place on its cover. It was a wide, white marble-floored courtyard surrounded by an open arch and column covered walkway. It reminded Vinnie of the Cloisters up in the Bronx, except it was much vaster and more exotic-looking. In the background, he could make out three tall, turreted towers and an immense dome-covered structure. He was thinking that the dome must be on some kind of a church when he heard a voice from behind. “You really like Islamic architecture, huh?” He turned to discover a tall, curly haired boy—maybe a year or two older than he —smiling at him. “Yeah, I like these strange colorful buildings. But is that what it is? Islamic Architecture?” he asked. “Before I explain to you, please allow me to present myself. My name is Mohammed Eldessouky. My family name derives from the name of the town my ancestors came from, Desouk, in Northern Egypt. But I was born in Cairo, and three years ago we moved to New York. My father works at the Egyptian Embassy.” “Nice to meet you, Mo Ham Ed. My name is Vinnie Telesca. But my family name isn’t the name of the town we come from. That place is named San Fele, and it’s down in Southern Italy. My dad’s father was born there.” “That’s interesting. We are both not Americans. But first, Vinnie, let me tell you that I have only one first name. Not three. You should pronounce my name ‘Mohammed’, all together. And, I hate to disappoint you, but we Muslims don’t eat ‘Ham’ either.” He laughed heartily. “Oh, sorry Mohammed. But two things first. I am an American. Well, I’m Italian-American but my parents and I were all born here. Second thing, why don’t you eat ham? Don’t you like it?” “I understand. Well, let me tell you I don’t know if I like ham since I never have tasted it. No, it is our religion, Islam, which forbids our eating it. Pork is considered unclean.” “Just like the Jews, huh? But they make stuff with beef that tastes like, or even better than, pork. Like Pastrami.” “Yes, we are like the Jewish people, in this regard. In fact, we all descend really, many centuries ago, from the same beliefs. Even, your prophet Jesus is recognized and revered in our religion. You Italians are Catholic, aren’t you?” “Yes, we are. But if you don’t mind it, can we get off all this religion stuff. I’m more interested in the Islamic architecture you mention. And I don’t have much time, since I have to meet up with my friends in about a half hour.” Vinnie didn’t want to be impolite, but he really had to rush. But he did want to learn. The two boys leaned over the display table, and Mohammed started flipping the pages of the book until he found the right section.

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“Ok. Well, this building here, the one you seem to like, is the largest and most important mosque – house of worship - in my city. Cairo, you remember? There are loads of mosques. So many, that Cairo is known as the ‘City of a Thousand Minarets’. That’s a little exaggerated, but there are really a lot of them. You can see their towers, the Minarets, from all over the city. The ‘müezzin’, from the minaret, calls our people to prayer five times during the day. Oh, sorry, no religious stuff, right? Ok, let’s get on with the Islamic Architecture lesson.” “Ok, I appreciate that. But, what’s the name of that building anyway?” “It’s the Al-Azhar Mosque. It was built in the year 969. In a few years, it’s will be its 1000th anniversary. Can you imagine that?” Mohammed beamed proudly. “Wow, a thousand years! We have some old buildings here in New York, but nowhere near that old. Back in elementary school, our teacher took us to see an old farm house out in Canarsie that was built around 1650. We thought that was old, but it’s nothing compared to your building.” “And, Vinnie, this mosque isn’t even the oldest mosque in Cairo. There’s another one, the Amr ibn al-As Mosque, which was built in 642 A.D. It’s the oldest mosque in all Africa. When I was little, our mother would take my sister and me to the ‘Old Cairo’ part of our city to play in the court yard of the Mosque. Would you like to see a photograph of me when I was six? No, you probably don’t but, anyway, that Mosque is one of my favorite places in the whole city. Let’s see if we can find a picture of it in this book.”

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They found the photo, and Vinnie was captivated by the image of a courtyard with a centrally located, thick-walled dome structure. Near the peach-colored cupola, he took note of a group gathered around what looked like a fountain or a well. It reminded him of the Baptismal Fount in the old Mother Church of Regina Pacis on 15th Avenue where he had been baptized. That had been when his family still lived in that neighborhood. “Hey Vinnie. I’m getting a little hungry. How about you? My father is in the bakery next door ordering things for a party at the Embassy. Let’s go in and see if maybe the baker might give us something to eat.” “Good idea, Mohammed. I’m always up for eating. Especially if it involves tasting new foods.” “Ok, let’s go. But, listen. Stop already with the ‘Mohammed’. You can call me ‘Mo’. That’s what my friends at the UN International School call me. And you are my friend, right?” “Sure, Mo, I’d say that I am.” Vinnie replied, happy to have made a new friend from so far away. Three steps led down into the little bakery which was situated a few feet below the sidewalk level. The front portion of the dimly lit, smoky shop was dedicated to sales and was lined with a display case overflowing with piles of round flat breads and trays of pastries. Towards the back, near a wood-burning stone oven, Mo found his father bartering with the short bearded baker. After their introductions, Mo’s father said, “Well, my young men, would you like some delicious ‘sfeehas’? My Syrian friend, Maroun, makes the best little meat patties this side of Damascus. I’m sure he’ll be happy to give you some.” The exotic delicacy was unlike anything Vinnie had ever tasted before. Still warm from the oven, when he bit into the small, triangular bread patty a salty-sweet cinnamon flavor delighted his taste buds. Inside the sfeehas, he could make out the mingled flavors of spicy chopped meat, sweet pine nuts and creamy butter. It tasted like heaven. He ate five and his friend, Mo, ate seven of the delicious pastries. As Vinnie was leaving the store, with a big gift-bag of patties for his friends, Mo shook his hand and said, “Salam sadiqi, ahlan wa sahlan” “What does that mean, Mo?” Vinnie replied with a puzzled look on his face. “The first part means ‘Live in peace, my friend’, more or less. The second part is a lot more complicated to explain, and you’re already late for your appointment with your friends.” “Um, oh. Ciao Mo. And, uh, … see you later alligator.” “In a while crocodile.” The Egyptian boy replied, smiling broadly. As Vinnie walked up Atlantic Avenue, he sensed that his small world in Brooklyn was slowly opening itself, like an oyster … revealing an intriguing glimpse of the shining pearl which was the planet Earth.

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It’s a Small World? (July 16, 1964)

In this chapter, the author recalls the day on which he and his friends, in their early teens, first got an inkling of the “World of Tomorrow” which adult “experts” were preparing for them. They were excited by what they saw and heard, but they were also more than a little bit frightened with what was awaiting them. Today, with hindsight, one would have to admit that the planners, the futurologists and the marketing people had gotten many forms and functions of the consumer products, the technology, the fusion food, and all the rest … just about right. What the experts did not reveal however, were the devastating environmental, socio-economic and political effects which their desired ‘designed’ Future would have on people’s lives … and on our planet.

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“Hey, have you guys heard about the World’s Fair that’s going on out in Queens? Maybe, we should go there.” “Nope, I didn’t. What’s that, Aksel? It must be hot stuff, if you want to go out to shitty Queens?” Big Joe grimaced. The group was sitting on Vito’s stoop trying to decide what to do during another long, hot summer. Some activities had already been selected: stickball just about every day; a big Ringolevio2 match-off against the four nearby streets in August; biweekly Riis Park beach trips; excursions down to Coney a few times; trips up to Greenwich Village once or twice and, of course, the big blast on the Fourth of July. When the subject of fireworks came up, the boys’ conversation inevitably shifted towards their own curious brand of ‘political science.’ “You guys remember the time we sent those ants into space around the Fourth of July?” Vito asked. “How can we forget it? You think we’re mental, or what? It was one of the best things we ever pulled off. You remember the parade we held the day after the launch, and the matchbox coffin we made for the only surviving Astronaut-ant? Well, really, he died during the night, but we held the parade anyway. We had to honor him and, shit, did we ever! The people on the block thought we were nuts – what with the flag, and the drums and everything else – but we just had to do it. You know, I still visit that ant’s grave in my backyard because I think he helped our country, in a little way, to beat the Russians in the space race. And we played a part in it, too.” Joey Boy continued excitedly. “I can remember the exact date. It was July 1st … that’s my birthday!” Aksel, with a perplexed look on his face, retorted. “Yeah, Joey sure, we beat the Russians into space, but where did that get us? The Cold War’s more screwed up than ever. There’s that Cuban missile thing, and crazy old Krushchev’s shoe and all of his “We’ll bury you!” bullshit. I’m fed up with this country. I don’t know, just I feel like I have to get away. Like, maybe I should join the Army next year when I’m 18, so I can travel around our country or maybe even see the world. I want to get to visit other places and meet other people. Fuck it! Is this whole world screwed, or is it only the Russians? Maybe we are, too. I don’t know, but I just have to do something. I just don’t know.” Aksel’s blue eyes were listless and lost in the late afternoon sky for a long moment, while the others remained silent. They had never seen their mentor so deflated. They just sat there and fidgeted, awaiting his word. A Mister Softy truck passed by, its familiar jingle broke the spell, and Aksel returned to what had been on his mind earlier. 2

Ringolevio was a game which was played exclusively in the streets. It originated in New York and is known to have been played there as far back as the late nineteenth century. It is one of the many variations of ‘tag.’ It required close teamwork and a near-military strategy. There are two sides, each with the same number of players. There are no time limits, no intermissions, no substitutes and no ‘weapons’ are allowed. There are two jails. The whole neighborhood is the playing field. There is only one objective—to not get caught (with all means possible).

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“Yeah, but anyway. As I was saying, my dad was talking the other day about the World’s Fair out in Flushing Meadows Park. It’s gonna be running all summer and next summer, too. They got stuff from all over the world – buildings, shows, food, girls – and lots of technological stuff, too. All kinds of big companies will be there with their newest wares. My dad said he read that it was like a trip into the Future. They give out free stuff, too, a lot of shit. You can get a taste of weird, foreign foods you never even heard of, too. I think we should put the Fair onto our summer list.” And that was that. That same day, the kids asked their parents for permission and some money to foot the bill for the full-day trip out to Flushing. All their requests were granted, and the boys planned the trip for the next week. On those rare occasions whenever a kid from Brooklyn went out to Queens, he somehow felt like he was betraying his borough. It was some kind of inborn, genetic code which had no identifiable or logical foundation. It was just a gut feeling, deep in one’s belly, something like the useful ‘eyes-in-the-back-of-your-head’ sensation you had when entering some ‘thought-to-be-dangerous’ turf where the bad guys live. Most Brooklyn kids didn’t know, or at least these boys didn’t, who actually lived in Queens or if there were actually many ‘bad guys’ out there. The only thing they knew was that they weren’t supposed to like that Borough or dare to go there. That’s exactly how Vinnie and his friends felt, on a hot day in the summer of 1964, when they walked off the subway at Flushing Meadows station and followed the flow of the crowd into the Fair Grounds. By the time they had passed over the Long Island Railroad cut and gone through the gateway ticket area, and when they saw the huge, glistening, lattice-work globe at the end of a flag-lined fairway, they had already forgotten they were in Queens. Instead, they felt like they were entering a “New World.” Masses of people shuffled around them, pushing their way along the three fanning walkways lined with colorful, odd-looking structures, and rides and buildings unlike anything they had ever seen before. An immense sparkling, white lattice-work geodesic dome caught their eyes. A long, open-air “Greyhound” tram passed by, and its hostess provided the boys with guide books and gadgets. On their right, they read “RCA” up on top of a mountain of enormous white and copper-colored spheres and to their left, behind a flower garden surrounded by still water, three thin grey church spires rose high against the deep blue sky. Aksel exclaimed, “Holy moly! Those are the Mormons. Those guys are nuts! My uncle Gustav, who lives Upstate, he’s one of those wackos. You just gotta’ hear his stories. They’re even harder to believe than my old Bible classes.” “Hey Aksel, let’s go to the Vatican Pavilion first” Little Joey yelped, “My grandma said they have a really old, beautiful statue of a crucified Jesus and the Madonna. It’s the real version of a little white statue from Italy she has on her nightstand. I have to go see it for her, I promised I would.” All the others were befuddled, to say the least. As always, Aksel took the lead: “The old stuff and the Pope can wait, Joey. We got time. First off, we’ll dive into the first two “F’s”: Food and the Future. And there’s the first “F” right across there under those skimpy trees. You all agree?”

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“Yeah, the sign says ‘House of Good Taste’ and ‘Restaurant’. So, they probably serve food.” Tommy added. “But it looks like it costs a lot. And, hey, who’s ‘good taste’ are they talking about, anyway?” Vinnie responded. The kids checked it out, only to find that the exhibit merely consisted of three houses in traditional, contemporary and future styles. They were all fully furnished and provisioned with everything, right down to liqueurs on the coffee tables. But there were exorbitant prices on every object, and there was no real food anywhere to be seen. “Let’s beat it. Shit, this is kind of like going to my aunt’s new place out in New Jersey. Only she doesn’t want to sell me her ashtrays and the kitchen sink. This ‘good taste’ stuff stinks!” Big Joe intervened. “Hey Aksel, look over there. There’s a Brass Rail Restaurant. My uncle Tony eats at one of those, out in Canarsie with his buddies a lot. He says it’s really good.” “Yeah right. Really good for Mafia meetings, and it costs a bundle, too.” “And besides, my Aunt Emma says they’re anti-union scabs. Before the war, the workers there held a big strike. It was the longest one in NY history, she said, but I don’t think it went too well.” Vinnie added. “Politics, schmolitics. We ain’t going,” griped Aksel. “Let’s go check out the crazies in the Mormon Temple. We can get ourselves a good laugh and then go look for some good, cheap grub. Whaddaya say?” The six boys tried to walk inconspicuously into the solemn space of the Mormon pavilion. They furtively took their places behind a throng of conservatively dressed visitors. “These people all look like they’re from some Midwest farm town.” Aksel whispered and Joe snickered. Two eye-glass toting, almost identical blond-haired young men dressed in black slacks and white short-sleeve shirts approached them. The taller of the two spoke up, “Are you fine young lads interested in the Church of the Latter-Day Saints?” “Ummm, yessir.” Fat Phil and Little Joey responded in unison. “Well, kindly follow us over to the diorama in which our Church’s history and doctrines will be fully presented in a few minutes.” The shorter twin said, leading the way. “This is gonna be good.” Aksel murmured to Vinnie. The three-dimensional exhibit depicted a bucolic scene containing a larger-than-life figure of a long-haired, white man in traditional nineteenth-century garb. Next to him, a much taller, good-looking angel was pointing to a pile of golden plates which lay at his feet. Both were surrounded by numerous extras who were considerably smaller and darker. These tiny buckskin-clad characters were, what was still called in 1964, ‘Indians.’ A deep voice, accompanied by celestial sounds right out of the soundtrack of a sci-fi movie, began to tell the story. “The Founder of our Church, Joseph Smith, met the Angel Moroni on the first of many occasions in September, 1823. It occurred, not far North from here, in the

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Western part of New York State. The Angel Moroni was the Guardian of the Golden Plates which we see before us.” Under his breath, Aksel began to sing a revamped, humorous version of a popular song from the late ‘50’s. “There was a guy named Goonie Mormoni …” The story continued: “These golden plates were revealed to Joseph Smith on a later occasion. They had been buried under a hill near Smith’s home. The plates are the sources of material for our revered Book of Mormons which is the fundamental text and basis of our religion.” Vito joined Aksel, and they sang a little louder “… he’s as dumb as a box of Rice-a-Roni.” The other kids began to snicker, deep in the backs of their throats. “Angel Moroni was prophet-warrior who, many centuries before this meeting, had been the last to write on the Golden Plates. It was revealed to Smith that Moroni had died during a violent battle between two pre-Columbian civilizations.” Phil guffawed in a loud voice. And Vinnie and Joe joined their friends’ get-away chorus: “Let’s all split now … dig it, now listen to me!” Spectators’ heads turned, and the blond guardians began to run towards the boys. “After his death, Moroni became an angel whose task was to guard the golden plates and direct Smith to their location in 1823. According to Smith, he returned the golden plates to Moroni after they had been precisely translated … ” At this point, all hell broke loose. Numerous clone-like, young men honed in on the group, and the visitors grumbled and scattered. The kids began to run, like their asses were on fire, towards the exit laughing. During their escape, they sang at the top of their lungs: “… or up shit’s creek we gonna be!” They reached the outside steps and ran off, but they hadn’t heard: “… and, as of 1838, Moroni still had the plates in his possession.” When they were safe behind the neighboring pavilion, Aksel still possessed the spirit to joke: “Hey, Johnny Boy, “Moroni” mean “morons” in Italian? Right?” “Yeah, Aksel … you should’ve used that word instead of ‘mormoni’ in your song!” Little John snickered. “I’ll write that down.” Aksel replied, laughing heartily. When the entire gang had regrouped, they discovered that Vito had laughed his pants wet, as usual … just a little. Aksel continued to kibitz: “Hey! I have to say we ain’t doing so bad. So far, we’ve hit two pavilions. One sucked, and we got thrown out of the other one. Let’s see if we can keep up our perfect batting average. But first, let’s get ourselves something to eat.” When they came out from behind the pavilion and caught a glimpse of its name, Tommy said: “Look guys! This place is called the ‘Festival of Gas’. Hey Phil, do you give fart parties here?”

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“After lunch at the Seven-Up pavilion over there we’ll all be farting, schmuck.” Phil frowned. Phil had only recently become an ‘official’ member of the 71st Street gang, regardless of the fact that he lived on 72 street. So far, he had supported months of harassment as an ‘outsider’ and had grown accustomed to being dumped on. In bright spirits, the group headed off towards the 100 foot-high Seven-Up sign with the clock on top. As they passed the first of the Fair’s many thematic fountains —the Lunar Fountain—Vinnie remarked: “What’s so ‘lunar’ about that thing? It just looks to me like a big aluminum spider pissing up into the sky. And I’m the one who knows just about everything about spiders, right?” In 1964, New York had not yet become the international culinary capital which it would be in the beginning of the twenty-first century. Back then, people dined primarily within their own ethnic confines and on the range of American mass-produced garbage which was available. In the city, there were numerous nationalities, albeit much fewer than today, but people for the most part stuck to their own ancestral palates. There were a few up-scale French and Mideastern restaurants in Manhattan but the only opportunities for ‘international’ dining for the working classes in the outer boroughs were Jewish delis or restaurants which attracted some Goys,3 along with the rapidly multiplying ‘Chinese’ which drew much of the same crowd. In this context, the World’s Fair represented the first opportunity for the New York masses to savor ‘true International Cuisine.’ The foreign pavilions at the fair introduced visitors to such dishes as: Spanish paella, Swiss fondue, Belgian waffles, Mexican tacos and Thai coconut-chicken curry. In all honesty, these dishes were essentially watered-down, Americanized versions of what would later become available everywhere in New York, and in most of the world’s cities. The kids were surprised to discover that the 7-Up Pavilion didn’t serve hot dogs but offered, instead, an opportunity to experience ‘around the world eating’ in its International Sandwich Garden. There, in buffet style, specialties from sixteen countries were sold at affordable prices. These were served in sandwich forms, more consonant to American palates, and the prices were dirt cheap. A platter with four small sandwiches, assorted relishes and cheeses cost only $1.55. But the part of the deal which attracted the boys was the fact that customers could drink as much 7-Up as they wished for the price of one glass. When they had made their selections, found a table in one of the outdoor open-air capsules and taken their first bites, the cross-examinations of the day’s third debate commenced. “What did you get Aksel?” “That’s easy. I took the lamb on Scotch barley bread. It’s something I could identify. And, hey, it’s pretty good.” Tommy intervened: “I don’t know what the hell I ordered is. It’s sweet and slimy, and not good at all.” “Read the label, jerk.” Aksel said. 3

Yiddish term for non-Jews.

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“It says it’s ‘chicken-ginger-coconut on cinnamon swirl bread’. I think it’s from Africa, or someplace like that. How ‘bout you Vinnie? How’s your sandwich?” “I like this one. It’s supposed to be ‘Lomi-Lomi’ salmon on Aloha coconut bread. I read it’s from Hawaii. I got it over at the “Pacific Region” counter. How ‘bout you Phil, what you eating?” “I don’t know, I lost the little flag. But it tastes good. It has beans, onions, chopped meat and cheese on a corn bread roll. I think I’ll get a few more of these and some more 7-Up, too.” “Look out! We’re gonna have a real “Festival of Gas” in a few minutes.” “Get off my back, Tommy.” Phil griped, as he got up and returned to the buffet counter for a second helping. The three Italian American kids—Little Joey, Vito and Joe—had conservatively ordered their food at the Meditteranean-Italian buffet counter. They all agreed that the “prosciutto and provolone on sesame bread” sandwiches had tasted like shit and were “nowhere near as good as the hero sandwichs we can get at Aiello’s on 11th Avenue.” Vinnie was known to have a tendency to wander off. In fact, after lunch, his friends found him standing fixated in front of another fountain, a short way down the midway. “Well, fountain number two – the “Solar Fountain” – looks to me like a great, big ‘pisciata4’ with a big golden sea urchin on top. It’s no big deal, but will you guys look at that place over there!? It’s looks like a medieval city or something. Let’s go!” Vinnie took off and all the others followed or overtook him. The kids entered the Belgian pavilion. It was a meticulous copy of a walled Flemish village with cobbled streets, tiled roofs, a real canal, a copy of a fifeteenth-century church and an old merry-go-round that reminded the boys of the one in Coney Island. Among the crowds, they spotted people dressed in traditional costumes performing street theater, riding by on beer carts or selling their wares in small shops and open-air markets. Some of the Belgian women wore low cut, billowy white blouses which exposed the upper portions of their breasts. The boys strained their necks and googled, unaccostumed to seeing such wonderous sights outside the pages of their forbidden girlie magazines. “Whoa! Will you take a look at that lady over there at the stand with the strawberries. What a pair of knockers!” Aksel pulled the group towards a long blue cloth canopied stand whose hand-painted sign advertised “Belgian Waffles.” There was a long line of customers in front of it. “You guys wait here in line, while I go up front to get a better look.” He winked and ran off. When the slow moving queu finally carried the boys to the stand, they found Aksel engrossed in a conversation with the buxom saleswoman. He stopped in mid-sentence. Then he said, “Mam, please tell my friends here what you were telling me about your delicious ‘Belgian Waffles’.” 4

“Piss” (from Italian).

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She smiled at the group and began speaking in a heavily accented voice:“Zeez pastri’ are our pride national. On zee sweet, crisp waffle we place fresh mounted cream and zee best fraise oh scusemoi! – strawberries that you ‘ave ever tasted. C’est magnifique. You want how many?” While the kids decided how much they could spend on this attractive treat, Vinnie snuck a peek at a timid young girl pressed so tightly against the older woman’s skirt that she seemed to be a part of it. She was his age, or a little younger, and was dressed somberly in a tightly bodiced, dove-gray ankle-length dress. Her auburn locks peeked out from under a wide-brimmed, dark gray bonnet. He noted how her beautiful glowing face contrasted with her dull vestments. Her downturned, long-lashed eyes were sea green, and the soft skin of her cheeks was a paler color-variant of the strawberries the saleswomen were laddling onto the waffles. She also had a deeply dimpled chin, just like Vinnie’s. He wondered what her name was and imagined, in that instance, her home and favorite games and friends. He wanted to talk to her, but he was frozen in place—unmovable. “Hey Vinnie! Wake up boy! How many waffles do you want?” Aksel, who knew Vinnie like the pocket of his own baseball glove, had read his mind perfectly. “Mam, my little friend here wants two waffles. That makes 19 in all for us, and I’m also sure that he would like to know who this young maiden at your side might happen to be.” “Oh, scusemoi, she is my daughter Manon. She does not speak the English. She helps me in our pastissieri in Belgique and, maintenant, here in your beautiful citè.” Manon whispered something in her mother’s ear, as Vinnie’s face burned red-hot. “She would also like to know your young friend’s name, s’il vous plait.” “My name is Vinnie, pleased to meet you, Miss.” He reached out his hand and Manon took it in hers. Her skin felt soft like the red Chinese silk scarf Vinnie’s mother often wore when he was a little boy. As they shook hands for a brief moment that seemed an infinity, the young girl looked directly into Vinnie’s black eyes and smiled. He felt his knees tremble and melt beneath him. “Bon, enjoy your waffles monsieurs. Next, please.” They ate their waffles sitting on the steps of the Vatican pavilion and the pastries truly were ‘magnifique.’ They tasted both sweet and tart at the same time and had a soft, sweet freshness they had never experienced. Nevertheless, a few of the boys continued to adamantly defend their own cuisine. Little Joey blurted, with his mouth full: “My nonna’s zeppole with honey are better and her pastiera is, too.” Joe nodded and Vito said: “Yeah, and my aunt Rosa’s crespetell’ are much better than these.” Vinnie ate his waffles in silence, barely tasting them. He said nothing. Aksel, again seeing inside of him, joked: “Hey, Vinnie, aren’t you Catholic kids supposed to go to Confession before you enter the Pope’s house. Specially, if you’ve recently had impure thoughts?”

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The kids deposited their empty plates into a waste basket and walked ‘solemnly’ into the immense Vatican Pavilion. “Give us Pietà.5” Little Joey chanted as they climbed the white marble steps. Michelangelo’s 465-year-old masterpiece, carved in the finest Carrara marble, was undoubtedly the most important and valuable work of art exhibited at the Fair, and it was the first time that this opera had ever left the Vatican. This fact alone had contributed to the Pavilion’s being the Fair’s second most popular attraction. Little Joey and Vinnie had spent most of the time standing silently in front of the intricately sculpted, white post-crucifiction scene. Joey was in tears and Vinnie stood lost in thought. Their visit lasted a half hour. The other boys had chosen to ride the moving aerial platforms positioned at different heights in order to get a different and quicker view of the ‘Pieta.’ They then moved on to visit the stamp and coin exhibition and quickly get out. Their visit only lasted about ten minutes. Aksel was talking heatedly with the others when Vinnie and Joey finally arrived on the outside steps. “Did you see all those gold coins and objects? And the size of that pavilion? It must have cost a fortune. But the Pope and his Church can afford it, they sure can. They got the mullah. My uncle Sven says the ‘Papists’ own Rockefeller Center and half of 5th Avenue. Did you know that, huh?” Joe retorted. “I don’t believe it. What about Jesus’ saying ‘blessed are the poor’, and what about that story about how a rich man can’t pass through a needle’s eye?” “What the hell are you talking about? Those are just words … just very, very old words. Look at the facts, kiddo.” Little Joey couldn’t contain himself and yelled: “This Pope is a good guy! My grandma told me they call him ‘The Good Pope’. And what about St. Francis of Assisi? He’s called ‘Il Poverello’. You know what that means, Aksel? It means ‘the little Poor Man’. So, the Catholic Church is poor, not rich.” “Yeah, it’s so poor that with those stamps and coins in there, alone, they could buy another skyscaper. Admit it. Yeah, maybe you got yourselves a ‘Good Pope’ now – just like every now and then we might get a ‘good President’ – but, overall, the whole thing stinks. Governments and religions are both just like that. End of the story.” Vinnie began to form vague words in his head to rebute what Aksel had been saying, but they were drowned out by the image of Manon’s blue eyes stamped in his mind’s eye. He got up and walked off down to a nearby fountain. This water sculpture was much more impressive than the previous two he had seen. It featured an illuminated central column of water which rose over 70 feet into the air. The noisy, rising liquid column was surrounded by a rotating drum-shaped structure, 60 feet high and 60 feet wide, configurated in a stainless steel fretwork of a star-patterned design. The structure was adorned with 120 star-shaped nozzles which ejected lacy streams of water in all directions.

5

“Pity” in Italian.

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Vinnie’s admiration of the magnificent structure was interrupted by Tommy’s words: “Hey Vinnie! There you are! We all couldn’t find you. I’ve been wandering around for 15 minutes looking for you. What have you been up to, huh?” “I’ve been looking at this fountain. It’s beautiful, no? They’ve named it ‘Astral’ – which means ‘like Stars’ – and I think this time they did a good job. It must be incredible at night, when it’s fully lit.” “I don’t know. Yeah, I guess it’s pretty. But, you know, it kinda’ reminds me of the old gasworks structure down on 66th and 6th behind that barbecue joint we used to go to. It ain’t there no more. You remember? When we were little kids, and we would make some money shoveling show. And then we’d go and spend everything we earned on burgers and fried chicken and onion rings! Those were sure good times.” “Yeah, they really were.” Vinnie could almost feel his frost-bitten ears, wet feet and frozen fingers after a morning of hard work shoveling his neighbors’ sidewalks and drive ways, followed by a tasty lunch with his gang at ‘The BQ Pit.’ And, as usual, there was no money left in anyone’s pocket at the end of the day. “Oh shit! We better hurry. The others are waiting for us on the bridge down behind the Vatican pavilion. You can see a lake from there. When I left, as usual, there was an argument going on about what to do next.” When they got there, Phil was leaning over the fence, pointing. As usual, a fight was going on. “I wanna go on the monorail and then stop in at Chun King for some Chinese food.” Fat Phil pleaded. “Look at those rides down there, and there’s a Circus, too. That’s for me.” Little Joey rebutted. Once again, Aksel made use of his role and rhetoric to get the upper hand. “Listen to me. While you guys have been fighting it out, I’ve been reading the guidebook and thinking that we got a few factors to consider here. Oh, hi Tommy. So, you found the ‘wandering Wop’, huh?” “Yeah, he was star-gazing, but now he’s returned to Earth.” Joe and Vito laughed. “OK, good. So, here’s the question as I see it. The monorail looks like fun and, yeah, it was made by the same guys who make the bowling machines we use down at Ovington Lanes. But, but it’s only an eight-minute ride, and it costs $3.50. I think that’s out. Agreed?” Since everyone was on a tight budget, they all conceded. “Number two, Joey, those rides down there look like they’re for little kids. Coney Island’s better, and we can go there whenever we want. Plus, the Circus costs $3.00, and do you see those waiting lines down there? They’re long, and it’s already 4.30. You guys have to be back home by 9.00 o’clock, right? And it’ll take – what? – at least one and a half hours to get back home? Then, Number Three, and most importantly, there’s one great place I definitely want us to see, and I’m sure

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old Vinnie and some of you will agree. It’s the General Motors pavilion, and it’s the showcase of the Future, my friends. There are flying cars, cities that are a mile high and electronic machines that, they claim, will do all the work for us in twenty years. What do you say?” “Ok. But what about Chun King? I’m still hungry.” Phil pleaded. “Chun King sucks. They sell that crap in the supermarket. You can get better Chinese food on 86th street. And don’t worry about your empty stomach – I’m still hungry, by the way – because my brother Knut told me that there’s a great German place called the ‘Lowenbrau Garden’ where they got good hot dogs. They call them ‘Wurstel’, but he said they’re as good as Nathan’s. It’s a Bavarian ‘beer garden’, too. Not that that interests anyone other than ‘yours truly’. Let’s go there for some food after the ‘Futurama’ thing. There’s a lot more to see in this place, but we’ll have the time. We can come back next month – if we have the money - or next year, most likely. Is this a plan, or what?” The argument was settled peacefully, and the kids rushed off excitedly past the colorful New York State pavilion and on over a roadway bridge towards what Aksel had said was the ‘showcase of the Future.’ The GM pavilion was the most popular attraction at the 1964 New York Fair, just as it had been in the previous International Exposition in 1939. In 1964, over 26 million people took that journey into the Future. Its extraordinary dimension and exterior design contributed to its popularity, but what most people came to see was the second, updated version of the original 1939 ‘Futurama’ exhibition. There, the crowds witnessed General Motor’s and the USA’s techno-capitalist vision of a ‘Better Tomorrow’ in which science and commerce would make ‘everything possible.’ Once again, the exhibit had been designed and built by Norman Bel Geddes. His new colossal opera consisted of a one-acre animated model of a ‘Dream of the America of Tomorrow.’ The huge scale model contained more than 500,000 individually designed buildings, a million trees of thirteen different species, and approximately 50,000 motorcars—10,000 traveling along a 14-lane multi-speed interstate highway. Bel Geddes’ ‘Future’ was synonymous with technological progress, and the simulated low-flying airplane journey through the exhibit was true to this credo. The visitor’s ‘journey’ consisted of a twenty-minute ride on a suspended conveyor system, which simultaneously carried 552 seated spectators on a winding path through this model world which was nearly a half mile long. Before entering the pavilion, the group of teenagers paused for a moment on the highway overpass to admire the exterior form of the immense building. They argued as to whether the sleek, long white structure resembled a spaceship or a car of the Future. Pointing below towards the main entrance, Joe exclaimed: “Wow, will you look at those tail fins?! It looks like a huge white ‘59 Chevy to me.” “Yup. Now we know where they’ve put all the fins they took off the last year’s models.” Aksel joked.

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The kids had agreed that they would only spend an hour at GM, so they skipped the first three stands exhibiting ‘Future Experimental Cars’ and ‘Dream Kitchens of Tomorrow.’ They waited fifteen minutes on line which left forty-five minutes for the ‘Futurama’ show. Upon exiting, they all agreed that this had been an excellent choice. They were amazed and shaken by “The Future” which somebody—probably, a lot of important ‘somebodies’—thought awaited them. As was always the case, their interests and opinions diverged greatly. “Did you see those moon vehicles that moved like caterpillars? The voice said that, in not so many years, we’re going to live and work on the moon. If we ever do get up there, we should build a monument to our space ant and to what he and we did a few years ago to get us there. When was it, exactly, Aksel?” “It wasn’t a few years ago, Joey, it was six years ago in 1958! On your birthday. Remember?” Vito nodded in agreement and said: “And all that stuff that they’re going to do under the sea? Fishing on the ocean’s deepest bottom, digging up all kinds of new minerals and pumping oil out of the rocks. Do you think they can really do that?” “I don’t know if I like that idea” interjected Tommy. “You remember that time an oil tanker sank off the Belt Parkway? People couldn’t swim at Coney for months, with all that oil on the beach. And my dad, who has been fishing his whole life out of Sheepshead Bay, told me that - since that happened – he catches much fewer fish. They’re less than when he was a kid, and one of the reasons, he said, is that the breeding grounds down on the ocean floor are covered with oil and garbage. I dunno’. But I have to say that I liked the way they showed all those trees being cut down in the Amazon, and how they will build ten lane highways through the forest in no time. They even built that modern city with 100-story buildings and elevated highways where the jungle was.” “I think that’s fuckin’ crazy!” Aksel exclaimed. “As if those primitive tribes in the Amazon really need, or want, a goddamn city! Give me a break, will yuh, huh? Those GM and oil guys just want all the wood and minerals down there. They ain’t gonna’ build no crappin’ future city out in the jungle.” “I really liked those 14-lane highways stretching all across our country. Boy oh boy! 100 miles an hour, and those cars were without drivers. What did they call them? Intelligent cars? I can’t wait to see those.” Phil added. Vinnie thought “Intelligent?! I hope they’re more intelligent than that guy who ran over and killed Vito’s cousin.” “Don’t you think smart people are better than ‘intelligent’ machines? I sure do!” He asked. He pondered his unanswered question for a moment, as the others continued arguing about mega-cities in the jungle and driverless cars. His thoughts converged towards what had really been worrying him most during the Futurama journey. The problem was that he hadn’t seen any people in the towering and sprawling cities filled with cars and flying vehicles. He felt he had to share these troubling thoughts with his friends.

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“Listen, guys! I wanna’ say something.” The talking stopped, and all heads turned towards Vinnie. “Those future cities, especially the ones they predicted here in America and in New York, looked really scary to me. Did you notice that there were no people or kids on the streets? Really, there weren’t even any streets like ours, as far as I could see. There were only huge highways and ‘skyways’ flowing through the city. Sometimes, they went right through the skyscrapers! Did you see anybody playing stickball or going to the store?! Sure, they did say that there were plazas and shopping areas, but those were all inside the big buildings. I bet they’ll be like those shitty shopping malls out in Long Island. You know, those places with that sleazy music playing all the time, and with those guards that yell at you if you run or bounce a ball. No people, no kids, no walking, no playing … just cars, cars, cars and weird kinds of future vehicles flying around. I don’t like it at all.”

The children of “Gruppo Futuro” saw the Future differently (Naples, 1978–9)

“Well, guess what GM sells, Vinnie. That’s right - cars and similar technology.” Aksel smiled and continued. “Hey my friends, we got one smart cookie here. Vinnie hit the nail on the head. This whole pavilion – and I would say this whole damn Fair – is just one big advertisement for everything all the Big Guys want to sell us. They know they can do it. They can make anything. They got science, they got money and they got the power. But just because you can do something, does that mean that you should do it? This, my friends, is today’s ‘Million Dollar Question’.”

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That was the first time Vinnie had ever heard such appreciative words directed towards him by Aksel, whom he respected more than almost anyone he knew. He was proud, and he began to feel a little more ‘grown-up.’ Aksel placed a hand on Vinnie’s shoulder and added: “And with that said, now I really need a beer.” The Lowenbrau brewers had reconstructed an open-air, Bavarian-style restaurant and grill set in a replica of an authentic German village square. Its styling and the quality of the beer and food sold there had made this place one of the fair’s most popular eating spots. When the boys entered the plaza, they were impressed by the five traditional wood and trompe l’oeil stucco facades, the bell tower and the big stone gate. But, above all, they were mesmerized by the aroma of grilled sausages and meats. At the ticket stand, they all ordered ‘wurstel’ with sauerkraut and soft drinks. All except Aksel, who brazenly ordered a liter of beer. The buxom young woman, like the women in the Belgian town with their striking cleavage in full view —evidently a European custom—didn’t even ask Aksel for proof of age. Something which he would have had a really hard time, an impossible time, providing. On Aksel’s suggestion, they selected an empty picnic table adjacent to one at which three young waitresses were eating and drinking. They were probably enjoying a short break from their work. He immediately struck up a conversation with them while the other kids devoured their German sausages. “So, where do you girls come from? Bavaria? Are all Bavarian misses as cute as you are?” “I wouldn’t know,” responded the youngest of the three, “I come from Glendale in Queens. And Brigit here wouldn’t know either since she comes from Yorkville.” “Well, that’s too bad. Maybe your third friend here might know. What does she say?” The girl from Yorkville responded “She can’t say anything, in English. Anna is really from Bavaria. But since she isn’t really that cute, and she knows it, maybe it’s better not to ask and just leave it at that.” “Well, I’ll say that at least the two German girls I know from New York – you are German, right? - are really cute. Please, tell me about the recipe for that stuff you’re eating. It looks really good.” The others were familiar with their friend’s tactics. They also knew when they could, and when they shouldn’t, participate in Aksel’s game. This was clearly of the second type, especially since they had to be back home by 9 p.m., while Aksel could be out on the loose until around midnight. “Hey Phil, go careful with that sauerkraut, that’s your third frank.” Tommy kept the pressure going. He still hadn’t bought into the idea that anyone from 72nd street could be part of his 71st street gang. Vinnie came to Phil’s defense: “Get off his back, Tommy. Let him eat.” He and Vito had grown close to Phil over the last six months, since the three had formed a rock band with a fourth boy from Vinnie’s High School. Phil had a great voice, and he also played a mean rhythm guitar back-up to Vinnie’s lead.

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“These wurst, or hot dogs, are really good. But Nathan’s tops them. The sauerkraut is fabulous … better than what you can get from any dirty-water cart that I know of. Don’t you agree?” Phil asked. “Agreed!” They chimed together, in unison. “Hey, Vinnie. Look at those big horses pulling that beer cart. The black one looks like Babe.” Little Joey said. “Yeah, it sure does. But Babe, poor old nag, died a few years ago.” Vinnie fondly remembered Babe. He conjured up a vision of the sagging, black horse lugging Joe the Vegetable Man’s wooden cart up their street and making its stop right in front of his next-door neighbor’s drive way. Joe would often let Vinnie and his friends feed Babe fresh carrots. Babe was really smart. After she devoured a carrot, she would never fail to demonstrate that she could count to ten. If you shouted “six” she would tap her hoof six times on the asphalt. “So, while my little friends here are talking about genius horses, we adults are discussing Conrad Adenauer.” Aksel quipped across and smiled at the waitresses as they got up from the table to resume work. He then ordered another beer. Vinnie could tell that Aksel was already a little tipsy, and he had understood that his friend’s pick-up tactics were working well, even before he addressed them. “Time for you kids to be moving on now, no? You’ll have just enough time to visit one more pavilion before you have to catch the subway at 7.15, at the latest. I’m gonna hang around here a little bit longer, since I have a date with Karen at eight o’clock when she gets off. Anyways, you should take a look at this guidebook and pick some good exhibits to visit. You can tell me all about what you saw, tomorrow. Ok? Have fun!” Upon consulting the World Fair guide, and after another heated discussion, the boys decided to split into three groups and to meet up, afterwards, at the subway turnstiles at 7:15. Joey and Tommy were going to the IBM pavilion since the second was fascinated with those new contraptions they called “computers.” Phil and Big Joe, as usual, were still hungry and had opted for the Chun King stand. Vinnie and Vito chose the Parker Pen pavilion because they had read in the brochure that they could be ‘matched up perfectly with an ideal pen-pal’ from a distant country. Vinnie had thought about Manon while making his decision. In the pavilion entry hall, the two boys were invited to sit at a keyboard and to type in their name and age. The remaining questions regarded two of their special interests or hobbies and the country with which they would like to correspond. The sign said that the computer would select a personal pen-friend whose age and interests were closest to the person making the request … “within a few seconds.” “This all seems like magic to me. How can they do all that so quickly? There are millions of people in the world!” Vito said to Vinnie, as he filled out the electronic form. “I guess Tommy and his brown-nose cousin, Gregory, must know what they’re talking about. These computers are really something else! In a few years, it will be like we’re living in a science-fiction movie. The machines will do all the work, huh? Hey, what ‘interests’ are you writing on your form, Vit’?”

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“I wrote ‘baseball’ and ‘music, especially Ringo Starr’.” “Hey, I wrote ‘music’, too. I think I’ll do as you did and add ‘especially George Harrison’ to my form.” “And what other interest did you put?” Vito asked. “That was a hard one, I didn’t know how to fit it all into the little space on the screen. In the end, I just wrote ‘life in the city’. I hope this machine understands what I meant.” “Well, we’ll see, kiddo.” Vito gave his friend a supportive look. Following the instructions, the boys punched the ‘enter’ button on the keyboard and, after three minutes (not ‘a few seconds’ as had been promised), they each retrieved, from the indicated slot, a printed sheet containing all the useful information together with a personal photograph of their ‘ideal’ pen-pal. They were also provided with special correspondence forms which had been automatically addressed and postage stamped by the computer. The objective was to allow visitors to immediately enact the central objective of the Parker Pen Company which was declared to “Build peace and understanding, through writing.” Vito had been twinned up with a timid looking 15-year-old boy, named Haruki, who lived in Tokyo, Japan. Vinnie was paired with a 14-year-old girl from Liege, Belgium—the country he had requested. Her name was Amandine, not Manon, as he had secretly prayed. One look at her photograph sent Vinnie’s heart even further into the floor. She had a round face with freckles, a female version of Alfred E. Newman of Mad Magazine fame. They sat down at one of the desks where other children and adults were busily writing their letters. Their spirits were lower than when they had lost a Little League Championship game, a few years earlier. “Can you believe it? I wrote Ringo Starr and they gave me a kid who likes Perry Como. He does like baseball, and he’s probably a better player than me. He was MVP in his league, last season. But who cares? Perry fuckin’ Como! How’s your pen-friend, Vin?” “Worse, if you can believe it. This girl here is a big fan of Rosemary Clooney! Even my father would consider her out-of-date. I think I’m going to throw this stuff away and just forget the whole thing.” Vinnie crumpled up the form and threw it into the wastepaper basket before Vito could see the photo and, especially, before he could read who Amandine had indicated as her favorite musician. It was ‘George Harrison.’ “Well, so much for World Peace and Understanding.” Vinnie felt guilty. He hoped that what he had just done hadn’t dealt a severe blow to International Relations. He and Vito slowly walked out into the plaza and somberly headed towards their appointment with the others at the train station. Half way there, they heard Little Joey’s voice behind them. “Hey Vinnie … Vit’, wait up!” “How was the IBM exhibit? Did you like it?” Vinnie asked.

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“It was great,” Tommy answered. “We have seen the future, guys! Just like Aksel said we would. There was an incredible movie show on nine big screens wrapped all around us - with numbers and formulas and the workings of those computers turned inside out. There were glowing wires and tubes and lights and magic. And the bleachers we sat on shot rapidly up into the air just before the show began. I nearly shat my pants.” “I liked the machine that could tell you what happened on a date you thought of and wrote into that gizmo. And you know what I wrote? I wrote the date we sent our ant astronaut into space. I wrote ‘July 1, 1958’. But the machine didn’t even know that happened. Look what it wrote out.” Little Joey passed Vinnie and Pete a printed slip of paper. On it, they read: “On July 1, 1958, Alaska was granted Statehood becoming the 49th State. The US Senate passed a bill …” “I guess that dumb machine doesn’t know everything.” Little Joey quipped. “Yeah. Ours was pretty stupid, too.” Vinnie responded. He hid his hands deep in his pockets. He didn’t want anyone to see his crossed fingers. As the boys passed in front of the Pepsi Cola Pavilion, they stopped to admire its tall, colorfully animated tower and, most of all, to google at and tease the assorted jolly Walt Disney characters who were mingling with the crowd. Vinnie was especially captivated by the musical jingle which filled the air. Happy children sang along in unison, chanting something about a ‘Small World.’ “Anyway, small or big. Somewhere, someday I’ll find Manon … maybe. Or someone like her.” Vinnie still held on to this thought as he entered the arcade towards the railway station. He was still pondering his Future when the boys got off the Long Island Railroad and followed the crowd towards the familiar ‘N’ subway line which would take them home … and set them down, once again, in the Present.

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At the time of this episode, creating music has become of central importance to the young protagonist. It is his passport to new skills, knowledge, places and friends. In the meantime, the Vietnam War had just begun, and the Country (and Vinnie’s generation) was on the brink of being torn apart. A chance encounter in Greenwich Village—with a strange and brilliant character—opens a window onto the boys’ growing struggle with the moral and political dilemmas of their generation. Despite their age, the group of friends continues to play freely and to share adventures, just as they had done as children. They carry out, for one final time, what can be considered a reckless initiation rite —a test of their coming of age. During this last adventure, while suspended over the East River, they learn of the World Trade Center for the first time, and they briefly imagine the Future of Downtown Manhattan. In that instance, they seem to catch a fleeting glimpse—a sort of presage—of the terrible destruction which awaits their city, and their World. “Doing the forbidden is a normal function of growing up.”6 — Paul Goodman

6

Goodman, Paul (1956) Growing Up Absurd. Problems of Youth in the Organized Society. Vintage Books, New York.

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Vinnie sat on his bed with his guitar in his lap. He was practicing two of the songs his band would be playing at the much-awaited ‘Teen Battle of the Bands’ out in Flatbush on the following Saturday. He still couldn’t believe that the ‘Gremlins’ had managed to pass the run-offs and had been included among the six finalist groups. And, just imagine, they would be on the very same stage with the famous Young Rascals who were billed to close the event. Vinnie’s group would play three songs at the contest—two covers and an original piece Vito and he had written the previous fall. Their composition of “Bombay Breadline” had been inspired by a recent Dylan song. The piece shouldn’t represent a problem since the band knew the arrangement upside down—they could play it with their eyes closed. Just one month earlier, they had even recorded it, perfectly on the second take, for their first demo record. Instead, Vinnie continued to worry about the group’s ability to pull off, in perfect unison, the other two songs which were complicated covers of pieces by the Blues Project Band. The boys had been practicing these two songs for the last three months. He was sure the first would be sung perfectly by Vito with his pure, angelic voice. Vinnie thought his drummer-friend caressed its verses as well as their author, Eric Andersen, had done. Vit’ was even better than the lead singer in the Blues Project version they would be presenting. And Bill, the group’s keyboard virtuoso, would keep the song’s spiraling melody on perfect time and carry it off into its intended, dream-like realm. The one thing that was really troubling him was his own ability to hold that same melody, for the full seven minutes, with the new folk-rock finger-picking technique he still hadn’t quite mastered. “At least,” he thought, “I still have a week to practice.” The second song was a cover of an original Bo Diddley piece, and it was more his genre of music. He was certain he’d be able to carry its driving, blues-rock tempo for a full six minutes. His solo breaks wouldn’t be much of a problem, either. What concerned him was his bass-player’s ability to sing the lead and keep the staccato rhythm going—both at the same time. Jim’s gravelly, husky voice was perfect for that song, but Vinnie was worried that his friend might not be able to maintain the cutting beat and hold the band on time, for the duration of such a long piece. Vito’s drumming would surely help, and they did have three more practice sessions to get the song down. So ‘maybe,’ he thought, he should stop worrying about it all and just get back to practicing his finger-picking licks, as best he could. While he plucked away, his thoughts traveled back to the night they had first heard both songs and had discovered the greatness of the Blues Project Band. It had been at the end of November—Thanksgiving weekend if he remembered correctly —when they had ventured down to the Café Au Go Go. They had been going there since summer, to check out the blues, folk and alternative rock acts which played the club. Those monthly trips to Greenwich Village had served to enrich the band’s repertoire and had gradually shifted their style towards a more bluesier and politically progressive bend. On the narrow back lanes of the Village, they had also acquired additional street smarts which had further reinforced their courage, and inspiration, to expand their still limited, geo-cultural confines. At that time, the boys couldn’t possibly have imagined that, by pure chance, they had happened upon several of the Blues Men who were the living corner-stones of

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their genre—stars like John Lee Hooker, Muddy Waters, John Hammond, Howling Wolf, Paul Butterfield and Taj Majal. They had also discovered struggling, underground folk singers who would become world-famous in the years to follow, like Dave Van Ronk, Tim Buckley, Tim Hardin, Judy Collins, Joni Mitchell and Richie Havens. They had been lucky to have heard so many of the still unknown musicians who would go on to become iconic legends who would make the History of Progressive Rock. Among those were: Stephen Stills, Neil Young, Linda Ronstadt, Mike Bloomfield, Al Cooper, Van Morrison and Jesse Colin Young. The last of these, with his group the Youngbloods, was Vinnie’s favorite and was the main reason that Vinnie and his band had taken the subway to Greenwich Village on that cold Thanksgiving weekend. When he stepped down the steps into the smoky darkness of the crowded, underground Café with Vito, Jim, Phil and Aksel, he had no idea of what an emotional and mind-opening experience the evening was going to be. Now in April, fingering his guitar alone in his room, he recalled how that eventful night had panned out.

“Aksel. I’m really happy that you came along tonight. We haven’t seen each other much over the last couple of months. I think it must have been July when we last came down here together. And since then, you haven’t been around the block very much, either. What have you been up to?” Vinnie asked as they maneuvered themselves through the smoke-filled, packed café.

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“Yeah, Vinnie. I’ve been real busy getting my life in order … getting’ my shit together. You know, my girlfriend lives way out in Queens, and a guy has to travel to keep the love-light burning every now and then, right? But, later tonight when the show’s over, I want to give you and the guys some important news about the plans I’ve been making for my future. For now, let’s just try to find a place up front near to the musicians - if there are any free seats left up there.” They spotted some empty places at a long table just left of the small stage and, in the dim candlelight, they could barely make out the faces of the two men who were seated there. One appeared to be middle-aged, while the other was probably around Aksel’s age. Both wore thick glasses and were hunched over tall glasses of beer. The boys got up their courage and asked if they might sit down at the table. “There’s room for at least five more souls here, so just pull up some chairs from over there and join us.” The older man, through a thick screen of sweetly fragrant pipe-smoke, gestured for them to sit. With a quixotic smile, he introduced himself and the young man, who they discovered was his son. “My name is Paul. I love this place and its penchant for youth-fired, rebel music. But talking about ‘youth’, you appear to be the youngest fellows I’ve ever seen here. What brings you all the way down to Greenwich Village, anyway? You boys don’t seem to be from the neighborhood. Am I right?” He winked. Vinnie and the others, except Aksel who had remained oddly silent, told their stories. They spoke of their block, their friendship, their ever-growing passion for music and the extraordinary learning experience which the discovery of the Café Au Go Go had meant for them. Vinnie concluded with a declaration of his passion for the Youngbloods. “Well, I don’t know them but my son, Matt, has recommended them highly to me. I’m here tonight, really, because a fellow I know, Dave Van Ronk, is also on the bill. Have you heard him?” “I’ve heard his song ‘Clouds’, and I like it very much. But I can’t wait to hear his whole set.” Vinnie said and added, “And who knows how the group which opens up the show will be? They’re called the Blues Project, and I really like that name. Have you ever heard them play?” “I have, and they’re great! Just wait until you hear their version of that Bo Diddly’s classic and of a recent song by Donovan. They’re both mind-blowing!” Matthew exclaimed. “My boy, Matthew, has great musical knowledge and fine taste for ‘Progressive Folk-Rock’. As for me, in the field of music and not only, I must say I’m basically just an old, ‘Neolithic Conservative’.7” Paul laughed. “What’s he talking about?” Jim whispered in Vinnie’s ear. “I’m pleased to hear that you boys have passion and a goal in your lives today. And it appears to be something that you yourselves have selected. That’s good.

7

Goodman, P (1970) New Reformation: Notes of a Neolithic Conservative. Random House, New York.

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I often ask young men, ‘What do you want to work at, if you have the chance, when you get out of school or the service?’ The usual answer I receive - perhaps the only normal answer in this decade - is ’I don’t know,’ meaning, ‘I’m still looking’ or ‘I haven’t found the right thing yet’.8 This is discouraging, but for me it’s not hopeless. Yet, as regards you boys, did I get it right? You really do want to be musicians. This is good. But do you think you can live doing that? Will you continue to make music after your studies or your military service? My son, for example, possesses an extreme passion for mountaineering which he acquired from his mother and, right now, he’s studying Biology in North Carolina. But I often ask myself what will he do when, if, he finishes his studies?” “That’s a tough question, Paul, and there are so many factors and so many chance occurrences which could take me off my course. But, maybe, if I’m lucky, I will manage to pull my two passions together. For now, I’ll go with the flow and just do what I have to do.” Matt said softly, but with conviction. As the Blues Project was taking the floor, Paul pointed his long, bony finger and declared: “Hey, look over there! There’s a picture of good, old Prince Kropotkin hanging on the wall. That’s quite cool.” The entire Blues Project set, as Matthew had anticipated, was in fact ‘mind blowing,’ and the kids couldn’t keep to their seats. Passion, creativity and well-honed musical skills on all the instruments were definitely the group’s trademark. Whenever they would hear musicians of that caliber, the boys felt the pressure and the need to get better in mastering their instruments. But they knew, deep in their hearts, that it wouldn’t be all that easy. Probably, it would be impossible. During the set Vinnie annotated a few details—some key chord changes and patterns of two songs he thought his group might be able to play—on the loose index cards he carried everywhere. He put them in his peacoat pocket, intending to bring them up with the others at their next practice session. Right now, as the band left the stage, the only thing he wanted was to hear more of what this fascinating, intelligent man and his intriguing son—he had called his father by his first name—both had to say. When the waitress came by, they ordered some food. It was hamburgers and fries all around, beer for Paul, Matt and Aksel and cherry cokes for all the others. They sat and waited for Paul to resume the discussion. “Did you dig that line about what he called ‘moments of uncertainty’? Wow, that entire riff and phrasing really blew me away! That phrase, for me, perfectly captures youth insecurity in the fleeting, tumultuous present state of things. Yet, at the same time, his words also seem to express the solid spirit of this generation – of your generation - and, just maybe, what might represent its only salvation.” “What exactly do you mean by that, Sir?” Aksel asked.

8

Goodman, P (1956) Growing Up Absurd. Problems of Youth in the Organized Society. Random House, New York.

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“First off, drop the ‘Sir’. Just call me Paul, OK? I, like, want you to understand that ‘uncertainty’ is, for some people, a problem or a dilemma. But it’s also the natural, dynamic state in which we find ourselves, in these terrible and exciting times. How can young people be sure of what they want to do, today, in an era which is characterized by top down, imposed choices and tumultuous change? It’s a time when, to all effects, you kids are Growing Up Absurd. Teenagers, especially the so-called ‘juvenile delinquents’, are merely asking for some manly opportunities to work, to make a little money, and acquire self-esteem; to have some space to bang around in, that is not always somebody else’s property; to have better schools to open for them horizons of interest; to have more and better sex without fear or shame; to share somehow in the symbolic goods, like the cars that are made so much of; to have a community and a country to be loyal to; to claim attention and to have a voice. These are not outlandish demands. But the Bureaucracy can’t allow it. It won’t allow it! You know, it’s the Bureaucracy which creates evil and makes Honor and Community impossible. And it’s you - the Youth - who really take it in the groin.9 Well, I think that song, simply and honestly, counter-poses ‘Love’, and with that, I mean being in the ‘warm hold’ of another’s or one’s own ‘loving mind’ as the first step towards - yeah, let’s call it – Liberation. Which is what we all, I assume, are striving for.” Aksel then spoke up. “I dig it sir, err, I mean Paul. I’ve been groveling over similar dilemmas for the last year or so. I’ve always hated school. I despise ‘the system’ which has never worked for me, and doesn’t let me be myself. My friends know what I’m all about. We grew up together, and we’ve been through lots of adventures and mishaps. They know that I’ve dropped out of High School and that, recently, I have literally disappeared from our neighborhood. I hope they understand why, but I’m not sure they do, and I feel bad about that. I came here tonight - it’s the first time we’ve been together in the last months - because I wanted to explain to them what I’ve been going through. It hasn’t been easy, and to …” Vinnie couldn’t bear to see the creases of pain on his friend’s face. He sensed that Aksel was really struggling to finally communicate the long-expected break with his ‘gang.’ He felt he had to say something. “It’s not your fault, Aksel. We’ve drifted away from the block, too. We’re all super-busy at High School and with our band, and we don’t spend much time around the neighborhood, either.” Paul interrupted the boy. “It’s not a question of ‘fault’. There is no fault here, if not in the System itself. You boys are all just doing what you have to do, and it seems, what you want to do, too. This is a good, and a rare, thing these days.” The older man leaned forward and stroked Aksel’s hand. The boy pulled back politely and replied, “I understand you, Vinnie, and all the other guys, too. We’re growing up, and we’re changing day by day. We have different interests and goals, and that fact has

9

Goodman, P (1956) op.cit.

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drawn us apart, recently. You know I’ve never been one to follow the rules. But now – it’s weird - I’m beginning to feel like I need a little discipline. I need someone to tell me what I should do, or better yet, to order me to do it. At least for the time being.” Aksel frowned. He appeared confused. It seemed to Vinnie that his friend wasn’t wholly convinced of what he was saying. “What are you talking about, Aksel?! This can’t be you talking. How can you say that? You know, the last time we were down here we heard a song that made us all think about you. We talked about it, too, later. You remember, Vit’? It was that cute girl who sang something about a ‘Different Drummer’.” “Yeah, I remember, Vinnie. For us, that song was all about you, Aksel. It spoke to us of the way you have always lived your life. Now, I’m confused. What’s up, man? You gonna go back to school? Or what?” Paul stood up and stretched his arms, like he was about to address an assembly, and he began to speak, “Let the young man have his say! He’s got it! He seems to me to be a person who does things and behaves in a manner that does not conform to the standard, prevalent or popular, societal norm. Just in the way that Robert Frost wrote, now your friend has come to a fork in his life’s path where two roads diverge, and he’s going to take the ‘one less traveled upon’. And that’s the one, it seems, that few of the others are really ready to take. Dig it, as our organized system, as our society, perfects itself there are fewer open environments available and it’s hard for a social animal, like your friend here, to make decisions and to ‘grow up’ when there is not an open margin to grow or decide in. Like some open space, an open economy, some open mores, some activity free from regulation. He’s made a decision, so let’s hear it! Because you know the very worst situation is when a young man doesn’t want to do anything. When he just says nothing, nothing, nothing.10 But here we have a courageous young man who wants to let you know - maybe defiantly and defensively, maybe diffidently but proudly - that he knows very well what he is going to do. And it is undoubtedly something great. I think your friend, Aksel, is indeed already doing it, which is the real test, after all.” Paul drew his breath and interrupted his proclamation. He continued to stand in silence, as if awaiting a response. Three of the listeners were baffled by his discourse, and the other two were so involved with their hamburgers and fries that no one managed to say anything. That is, until his son, Matthew, threw back his chair violently, stood up and exclaimed angrily: “Dad, uh Paul, simplify your rap! Will you?! You’re not giving a lecture here, you’re talking to some real-live young men, like the ones you write about and claim to love so much. Can’t you just talk like a normal person? Can you do that, just once in a while?! I can’t take it anymore, I’m leaving!” The discussion ended, with the son running out of the café, and the father following close on his heels.

10

Goodman, P (1956) op.cit.

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“Wow, what was that all about?” Vito asked. Aksel turned towards him and responded laconically, “Fathers and sons, it’s always the same old story. Even when they agree, they disagree.” Then he guzzled down his glass of cold beer. On his bed, guitar in hand, Vinnie recalled how that night had evolved, and how it had carried his gang to where they were today, the last day of April. Back in November, at the Café, they hadn’t had the time, and maybe the interest, to figure out what had come down between the older man and his son. They were much more concerned with what was going on with their friend, Aksel. But before Vinnie, or any of the others, could formulate a question the Au Go Go’s house band, the Youngbloods, had appeared on the small stage, and Jesse Colin Young’s mesmerizing, honey-smooth voice began modulating the verses of a nocturnal, eerie piece which seemed to Vinnie to have been a presage of what he would learn, from his friend, later that rainy, dismal evening. They stayed for the whole set, which was excellent as always, but none of the members of the Gremlins, except Jim who didn’t really know Aksel or care very much about his fate, was thinking about what the music meant or might contribute to the group’s development. When the Youngbloods finished, Vinnie and Vito were anxious to get back to the crux of Aksel’s interrupted announcement. They could see that he didn’t want to talk, and the noisy environment wasn’t a suitable place for such an important conversation, so they all headed for the exit. They came out into the Bleeker Street hustle and began to walk slowly, in silence, up Thompson Street towards Washington Square Park. Despite the icy drizzle which had started to fall, the Park bustled with Saturday nightlife as it always did. There were clusters of college kids smoking and schmoozing, bums sleeping under cardboard blankets or passing around the Gypsy Rose, and beatniks and hipsters singing, strumming, drumming, reciting poetry or just shooting the shit. The grim group sat down on the steps of the Judson Church to watch the street show, and Aksel lit up his first of many cigarettes. “Hey Aksel, you want to talk now?” Vinnie, nervously, tried to get back to what was on his mind. “Sure, Vinnie. About what? About the Professor’s ‘Growing up Absurd’ ideas? Or how about your cute, long-haired music-hero’s latest song? What exactly do you want to hear me say?” “Come on, Aksel, you know what I mean. I want to talk about you and about us.” Aksel took the lead and finally let out the whole story of his plan to get out of the neighborhood for a while, and about how he hoped this move would help him to find himself. He said he’d decided to enroll in the Army, since he considered it the only way, and the cheapest way, for someone from his background to see new places and meet new people. New people who weren’t from Brooklyn. He wanted to seize on the opportunities the Armed Forces could offer him to acquire new technical knowledge in electronics and to perfect the skills that he already possessed in electrical outfitting. He said that in a few years he would come back to

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Brooklyn and become a card-carrying member of his Uncle Sven’s union. His friends grimly supported his plans, but Vinnie was very worried about the consequences of his decision especially in the current international context. He was thinking about the Vietnam War. “Are you sure this is a good idea? Think about how the situation is worsening in Nam, Aksel. It’s become more than just airstrikes, now, you know. We have troops on the ground, and the numbers are destined to grow. There have been a lot of causalities in those search-and-destroy missions, and just last week there was a big battle with head-on, mortal combat for the first time in the War. My aunt said it’s going to get much worse - that the death toll on both sides is going to rise. She said that Johnson’s preparing to step up the draft call. You go and volunteer, and they’ll probably send you over there, sure as shit. I don’t like it, at all. It could be very dangerous.” Vinnie’s voice trembled as he spoke. “Don’t worry, pal, you know that I’m indestructible. How many times have I risked my life scaling buildings, exploring subway tunnels, diving off piers or just playing around in heavy traffic, huh? And I’m still here … and I’m all-in-one-piece, right? So, don’t worry your little head so much.” “Don’t kid around, Aksel, this is serious shit! M14’s and M3 grease guns aren’t street artillery or fireworks, they’re deadly shit! You could get fuckin’ killed.” Vito retorted. “Yeah! And I, for one, don’t even think we should even be over there, in the first place. We should let the Vietnamese people decide what they want to do with their own country. Why should we kill them or get ourselves killed for something that doesn’t really regard us one damn bit?” “Hey fuck you, Vinnie! Like the Nazis didn’t regard us, either? I knew you’d stick your political two-cents in. You’ve been hanging around too much with that Commie aunt of yours.” Phil interjected, vehemently. “Leave her out of it! In fact, these are my views, not my aunt’s.” “Yeah, get off his back, Phil. We ain’t arguing about politics, and I’m not talking about no fuckin’ war, either. I’m talking about my goddamn future and about my finally growing up. Can you get that?” Aksel added. “You’re right, Aksel, this isn’t the moment to argue about politics. I’m just worried about you, like Vit’ is, that’s all there is to it.” Vinnie interjected. “Like I said, guys, don’t worry. I know what I’m doing, I’ve put a lot of thought into this, and I even spoke to my uncle Sven about it. He had the president of his Union put in a good word for me down at Fort Hamilton. Now it seems I passed their entrance exam with flying colors. It’s the first damn time in my life that I’ve ever aced a test. Should I start worrying, you think? But seriously, guys, just last week I received word that I’ll be getting shipped off to Fort Meade to begin electronics training in the Army’s Radar Division sometime in the Spring. That’s why I wanted to talk to you guys tonight, to finally lay it all out on the line, and to explain why I’ve disappeared over the last few months.” He paused and smiled—in a circle—to all. Then he continued, “Can you believe that your old buddy, ‘Mr. Drop-out’, has been studying like crazy all summer, day in and day out? Plus, I’ve made so many long trips out to

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Glendale to hold Karen’s sobbing head in my lap and try, in all possible ways, to convince her of my plans. She doesn’t want me to leave and, to tell the truth, I’m going to miss her very, very much. But sometimes, as they say, you gotta do what you gotta do. Yup … and now, talking about doing what you gotta do, here comes the best part. I’ve made a little plan for us, a kind of underground going away party. It’s something we all gotta do, just like in the old days. But it’s gonna be better. Much, much better. Wait until you hear it.” “And with that phrase,” Vinnie thought to himself, “Aksel turned the latest page of his adventure-making manual and revealed the origins and details of his plan. It was a crazy-ass action-plan which will, in just a few hours, take us down under the city. And, Holy Shit! It just might get us killed or put us in the cooler for a stretch.” Vinnie sensed the ominous presence of a sort of shadow line in the trajectory of his and his friends’ development. He imagined the lofty threshold they had been challenged to step over, in order to truly grow up. The ‘gang’ had to do what it had to do. That night, they had to pass a last test of their friendship and of their collective courage. Vinnie was frightened—no, he was scared shitless—as he called to mind Aksel’s detailed description of his wild plan. On the steps of the Judson Memorial Church, nursing his fourth cigarette, his friend explained his idea to ‘take a walk together’ through the subway tunnels and ‘visit the beautiful, abandoned Myrtle Avenue Station.’ That station, on the 4th Avenue local line, had been dismissed in the summer of 1956. While the Brooklyn bound platform had been completely dismantled, the Manhattan bound side had remained intact—like a ghost train stop. The boys had all seen the station. It was visible from the North bound R and N trains and was just a short distance from the DeKalb station. A ‘short distance’ by subway, but certainly a long frightening journey on foot. The boys discovered that the seed of Aksel’s crazy plan had sprung from his affection and respect for his electrician uncle, Sven. During the months he had spent with the man working on his application for electronics training in the Armed Forces, he had heard many exciting stories of the man’s work and union activities. One day, Sven had asked his nephew if he remembered the time that he had taken him, as a young child, on a visit to the Myrtle Avenue Station. It had been in the summer of 1956 when the electrician’s squad had just begun shutting down service to that stop and were working to deviate its main power lines. “It all came back to me in a flash. I remembered me and my uncle sitting on a wooden bench, eating our sandwiches and watching the trains speed by. Some commuters even waved to me with looks of astonishment on their faces. I recalled that my uncle had even taken me down onto the tracks that day. He wanted to teach me how to watch out for the third rail and all the other dangers. I guess that’s how my fascination with subway tunnels and my dexterity and cautious attention, with anything that’s potentially deadly, got started.” Aksel had told them. Vinnie heard the doorbell ring downstairs, and he realized that his moment of judgment had arrived. His only relief, if you could call it that, was that he and his friends would still have Aksel by their sides, this one last time. He would be present

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to put his ‘dexterity and cautious attention’ at the service of the others, and eventually help them to avoid trouble and danger as he had done so many times before. “Ok guys, this is our stop.” Aksel said as the N train slowly curved into the DeKalb Avenue station. Five nervous teenagers, and Mr. Cool, stepped out of the first car and took their positions at the end of the platform. Lady Luck was with them tonight. They found the usually bustling station oddly quiet, and nearly empty. Probably it was a hiatus between the rush-hour-crunch and the evening-out-on-the-town crowds. Aksel scanned the platforms for cops and MTA workers and, seeing none around, he signaled to the others to move as inconspicuously as possible towards the nearby steps which led down to the tracks. Once down, the boys found a clear walkway about three feet wide along the right side of tracks just as their Sherpa-guide had assured them. The wall lamps provided enough light for them to see their way. After fifty yards or so, Big Joe began wise-assing that he hadn’t yet seen a rat, an albino crocodile or a dead body. “Yeah, the first part is a piece of cake.” Aksel joked. “The second part, I’m sorry, that will be another story.” After 200 yards of easy walking the boys could already see the lights of the abandoned station up ahead. Up to that point, no trains had passed by, just as Aksel had assured them in his Greenwich Village preamble. They all thanked Heaven, and some squeezed their crotches since three feet isn’t much leeway when there’s the possibility of a brush-in with a speeding subway convoy. They scrambled up onto the Myrtle Avenue platform, drew breaths of relief and spread out on the wooden benches to enjoy their brief moment of glory. “Well, we made it, and it was really easy.” Vito exclaimed and asked Aksel for a cigarette. “Yeah, just like I told you it would be. And will you just take a look at this place! It’s beautiful, isn’t it? And, you know, not a thing has changed since the first time I saw it. That was almost ten years ago.” “Yup, it’s really amazing, Aksel. This place is cleaner than I had expected, even cleaner than the working stations.” The white-tiled walls were spotless, as were the dark-blue ceramic, ornamental cornices and name plaques. The station lights shone dimly creating a dream-like atmosphere. The scene appeared to be a stage set with six teenage actors each playing their respective part. While the others chatted and enjoyed their well-earned fags, Phil and Vinnie roamed the platform fidgeting with the old, empty vending machines and running their hands along the smooth lucent walls. They noticed that they weren’t the first young explorers to have visited the place. There were written traces of the more brazen, previous visitors on the walls and columns. “Hey guys! Look over here, there’s a shitload of messages which other kids have left.” Vinnie called out. Most of the wall script was short and simple—just what one might expect in New York City. He read,

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“TONY AND MARIA 4EVER”. “MAU MAUS RULE”. “THE JOKERS ARE THE BEST”. “THE BISHOPS KICK ASS”. “YUH MUTHUH x*&!*z’s” As the two boys read on, they noted that the greater part of the graffiti had been signed by infamous Brooklyn gangs. A few had even been tagged by notorious gangs from the other Boroughs. Now, they felt threatened by yet another danger. It was a human danger they hadn’t expected to run into in the tunnels. Vinnie broke the nervous silence. “Hey Phil, let’s leave a record of our visit here, too. I have a magic marker.” “Ok, you’re our poet-songwriter, Vin. So, you should do the honors.” Vinnie thought for a moment. Then, he quickly scratched a passage from a new song of theirs in bold, red block print.

“Hey guys! What are you doing over there? We’re making plans that you should be ...” Aksel’s last words were drowned out by the roar of the N train which, at that very moment, streaked through the station pushing a strong blast of smelly, hot air. It had been exactly 20 minutes since they’d stepped off the train at DeKalb Avenue. Once again, their mentor’s calculations had been perfect. When the noise diminished, Aksel continued: “That’s it, precisely twenty minutes. And it’ll be exactly twenty more, until the next train comes. We should have enough time to get to the bridge, if we go fast.” He concluded, as the two boys took their place in the group. “What the fuck??!! What bridge? What are you taking about?” Phil screamed above the screeching of the train as it distanced itself from the platform and curved its way towards the Bridge and Manhattan. “That, my man, is part two of our plan. We are going to take a little stroll out onto the Manhattan Bridge, where we can take in the skyline as the sun goes down and the city lights come up. Nice idea, huh?” That idea didn’t seem so ‘nice’ to most of the gang. In fact, only Little Joey went along with it from the very start. It took Aksel over fifteen minutes to sway the vote. He played on the others’ sense of loyalty, and on the fact that this was to be their last adventure together before he would take off and risk his life in Vietnam. Most importantly, he had clearly demonstrated that he, as always, was well prepared for the difficult task awaiting them. Aksel informed them that during the last months he had made the same walk several times. He assured them that they would be in safe-keeping because he had “mapped out” every possible eventual danger. He had made a first reconnaissance together with his Uncle Sven. The boys were amazed to learn that the man had

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supported Aksel’s crazy idea from the very start. The plan, probably, had its origin on the day Aksel had first visited the empty station as a child. Now, his uncle had provided him with a blueprint of the subway section from DeKalb Avenue to the middle of the Manhattan Bridge. He had meticulously pointed out, and helped the boy trace on the plan, the precise route to take. He had also highlighted every potential danger along the tracks. For precaution, his uncle had marked the two stairways which led to the city’s surface in the case of need for a quick escape-route. Aksel had returned three more times and had taken the walk alone in order to clock its duration, to control the precision of the train schedules and to get to know the place, as best he could. He shared all the useful information with his friends, tracing with his lithe fingers the route they would take and pointing out the important locations to remember on the blueprint laid out on the oak bench. In the end, the group’s iron bond of friendship prevailed, and once again their trust in Aksel’s capabilities assuaged their initial fears. They all agreed to be part of the second part of his wild plan. “So, in two minutes, another train will come through. When it’s passed, we jump down onto the tracks and run at a quick steady pace. Remember to keep to the right, don’t follow the 4th Avenue line that curves to the left. We stay on the B track because it’s the straightest and shortest route. You got that? Follow me as close as you can and don’t worry, I’ll keep to your pace … unless something goes wrong along the way.” Like clockwork, exactly two minutes later, the subway conveyance rushed by. Vinnie caught a glimpse of a little, dark-skinned boy who waved at the group, and —he couldn’t believe his eyes—an old man with a wide-brimmed hat and bushy white beard was at the boy’s side. The man appeared to have winked in Vinnie’s direction. “Hey, did you see that weird, old ‘Santa Klaus’ guy?!” Vinnie exclaimed. “Who? We don’t have time now to talk about your crazy visions, Vinnie. Let’s go. NOW!” On command, the kids jumped down onto the tracks and ran as fast as they could straight down the line. The group kept Aksel’s pace, and things went smoothly. The lighting was good, the walkway was wide, unobstructed and ‘safe,’ but their young hearts beat like drums just the same. Aksel stopped briefly, and he pointed out each of the two exit stairways to allow the others to make a mental note of the locations. They had just passed a second stairwell which was about 100 yards from the point where the tracks would emerge from underground. They could just make out the amber light of dusk in the Jersey sky at the end of the tunnel, when a rumbling noise at their backs caught their attention. They looked back and saw the headlights of an approaching train. It was impossible to judge how far away the oncoming cars were, or how fast the convoy was traveling. To make matters worse, the concrete walkway they were running on had gradually narrowed and then had disappeared altogether, just as Aksel had said it would. From there on, it became harder and harder to keep their footing on the graveled surface with its intermittent, protruding wooden track fasteners.

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“Holy Shit!! Run your asses off and watch your step!” Aksel yelled and pushed Vinnie forward. The boys ran the last length as fast as they could manage. Vito, the fastest runner in the group, was up front with Joe close by, while Vinnie trailed them with Phil huffing his overweight frame behind him. Aksel had held to the rear, Vinnie was sure, to make certain they were all safe. When they came out of the tunnel, and were back in the light and safety of the city, they found a wide platform to their right just as Aksel had indicated on his map. It was a safe place to rest, well-distanced from the tracks, and they all fell back onto the iron-work railings catching their breath and laughing with joy. Vinnie peered down over its edge, and he felt comforted by the sight of autos and people passing below him and by the familiar city sounds rising from the bustling street. Then, Joe let out an ear-shattering scream. “Holy Christ!! Where’s Aksel … and Joey?!” While the terrified boy yelled, the B train emerged from the tunnel traveling slower than they had anticipated. It gradually picked up speed and dragged itself up the ramp towards the Bridge’s outer span. The boys’ collective heart froze solid, and desperate moans rose from their throats. “They’re dead, shit, they’re dead!” Big Joe groaned with his head pressed between his knees while the others sat in silence metabolizing, in a fraction of a second, the immensity of their loss. “Who’s dead?” A familiar voice called out from the shadow of a towering steel girder. They turned, to see Aksel approaching with a broad, crazy smile on his face. And there was Little Joey, hanging from his friend’s broad shoulders. Both boys’ faces were beet-red and wet with sweat. The scene that followed can only be compared to a Three Stooges’ slapstick routine, complete with back-slaps, rabbit punches, hugs, tears, laughs and a muddled, cacophonous and incomprehensible soundtrack. The only thing missing was the silly movie-music and some tin-whistle blowing. When it was over and when they had all calmed down enough to listen, they managed to understand what exactly had transpired. When Aksel had pushed Vinnie ahead, he had noticed that Joey wasn’t among the others in front of him. He had turned immediately, and he saw Joey Boy leaning on the tunnel wall a short distance from the stairwell. The boy was massaging his ankle and had then attempted to run towards Aksel. He continued his story. “I yelled to him to stay put, and I ran as fast as I could towards him. I thought to myself ‘I must be insane, running towards an oncoming train’, but I couldn’t leave a friend in danger. When I got to him, I could see that the train was close, and I knew I wouldn’t have time to make our way out, not with Joey on my back. So, we took cover in the stairwell while the train passed, and then I just carried him out piggyback. It was a piece of cake, I knew we had another 20 minutes, right? But Joey Boy - you can’t blame him for it - he was shitting his pants.”

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“Yeah, but why were you behind us, Joey? You’re the fastest runner in our gang.” Vinnie asked. “When I passed that second stair-well, I heard some music coming out from it. It was, I think, you know that song about lollipops that’s on the radio these days. The one with that girl’s squeaky voice. I stopped because I couldn’t believe my ears. Then when I heard the train close behind me, I took off like a bat out of hell and tripped on a wooden beam sticking out from the rails. I was scared shitless, for real, until Aksel showed up and saved my life.” “He’s becoming like you, Vinnie, hearing music and imagining things in the strangest places.” Aksel said. “Ok, so now that we’re all safe and sound let’s get off this fucking bridge and go the Hell home. But let’s take the easiest way possible, please. Whaddaya say, guys?” Joe pleaded. “No way, my friend, we’re not even on the Bridge yet. This is only the approach ramp to the Bridge, not the actual bridge, and the view from here sucks. Wait until you see the panorama when we’re out over the river. You can see all the way from Staten Island to the Bronx. It’s spectacular!” “What are you talking about, Aksel?! You mean our walk isn’t over yet?! We thought you both were fuckin’ dead. Isn’t that enough for you?!” Phil insisted. “Nope. Me and Joey Boy, we’re not dead. And my going away party isn’t over yet either. I want you guys to have a little sneak preview of the Future of Downtown Manhattan out on the bridge, anybody interested?” Once again, as always happened at the conclusion of their discussions, every member of the group had been convinced. They were all excited to be a part of Aksel’s adventure party. Shortly afterwards, the six found themselves strolling slowly along the outer walkway, up the sloping arch of the steel behemoth towards the lights of Manhattan. The lower level, where they walked, was lined with thick trusses and girders. The roar of the passing trains to their side and the rumble of the autos on the roadway above them was incessant, but their young hearts were light and their spirits were high. Vinnie was fascinated by the mastery of the intricate iron work surrounding him. When they arrived at the first tower, the walkway curved outward creating a sort of balcony which offered a spectacular view up the East River, towards Midtown Manhattan. The boys spread out along the balustrade, and Aksel passed around a pack of cigarettes to celebrate the group’s accomplishments. While the others smoked and chattered away, Vinnie took out his little notebook and, with his back to the balustrade, began to sketch the beautiful repetitive geometric forms which the builders had managed to create with forged iron and artistically distributed riveting. For just an instant, he imagined himself as a civil engineer or an architect somewhere, someday in the future. “Hey, sweet dreamer, get your head out of that sketchbook and take a look at this view!” Aksel yelled.

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Vinnie turned around and saw the Empire State Building framed by two trusses. It stood alone high above the City’s skyline, and was beautifully illuminated in a way he had never seen before. The upper third of the building was bathed in an intense white light while the beacon on the pinnacle of its radio tower, as usual, blinked red. Noticing the look of wonder on Vinnie’s face, Aksel explained that a new battery of powerful flood lights had been added on the 72nd floor in the winter of 1964 to illuminate the top of the building. They had done this so that the spire could be seen from the World’s Fair, way out in Queens, which had opened in the Spring of the same year. “Come on! How do you know all this shit, Aksel?” “Once again, my uncle Sven is the source of my enlightenment, as well as our salvation.” The two boys stood silently, marveling at the lights of the city for a minute or two. Then Vinnie remarked. “You know, I can still remember the first time I saw the Empire State in real life … and right up close.” “You mean like without King Kong and Fay Wray up on top? When was that, Vin?” “Oh, I must have been around five years old at the time. I remember that my Mamma and aunt took me and Marco on an excursion to the Manhattan with the sole intention of going up to the building’s observation deck. You’re not going to believe, but they still tease me about what I said when I first looked up at the Empire State from the sidewalk below. They claim that I said, loud and clear: ‘OK, so what?! It ain’t so tall’.” “Sure, doesn’t sound like you, Baron von Munchhausen.” Aksel chuckled.

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“Yeah, it’s really out of character, no? Doesn’t seem like me at all. I’ve tried to figure out why I might have said something like that. Maybe it was the angle up from the street, you can’t really see the top of the building from there. Or maybe it was the movie’s fault, you remember how big King Kong was? When he was climbing up the building, he was dwarfed by it. But shit, even so, it was way taller than anything I had seen so far when I was five years old! So why would I say something like that? What I do remember, however, was the long elevator ride up to the observation deck, and the view from up there. It was unbelievable. I’ll never forget it.” “You know something, Vinnie. Promise me you won’t tell anybody, but I’ve never been up there.” “Are you kidding me?! You’re the guy who walked the edge of McKinley High’s roof and scaled the caissons at the Verrazano Bridge … and you’ve never been up there? Why not?” “I really don’t know, I guess I just never got around to it. But I promise you that I’ll make it up to the top of the soon-to-be tallest building in the world, when it’s built.” Vinnie hadn’t understood what building Aksel was referring to. But he would a few minutes later, when Aksel rallied the group around him and revealed the meaning of his cryptic allusion to a ‘sneak preview of the future.’ He asked the others to look South towards the tip of Manhattan, and then he wound out the story. “Any of you guys been down around Cortlandt Street, recently? Have you ever been down to Radio Row?” All of the boys, except Vinnie and Vito, admitted that they had never been there. Vinnie recalled visiting the area, several times, with his father and with Uncle Rocco when he was a little kid. His father used to work on nearby Varrick Street and had taken him to his office. Vinnie’s uncle would occasionally bring him along on outings in search of missing parts for the strange electrical gadgets he used to build for Vinnie and his brother. “Well,” Aksel interjected, “I shop down there for parts for my short-wave radio or other whatnots, and recently I’ve begun to notice that many of the shops are closing or were already boarded up. Some of the older buildings have already been torn down. So, I asked my Uncle Sven what was going on in the neighborhood.” His ‘enlightened’ uncle, who was a key figure in the Electricians’ Brotherhood, once again possessed all the information. He told Aksel that the area was to be the future site of a new building called the World Trade Center. He had seen the plans for what was to be the tallest building in the world, (actually, two buildings-in-one) when they had been presented the previous winter. He had been at an event, as part of a delegation with his Union’s president, and he learned that construction was to start within a year and would be finished, if things went as planned, in 1970. The towers were a totally new building concept which would dwarf and contrast the ornate and elegant old Woolworth Building in its vicinity. The new towers would be stark, aluminum-clad square columns rising up 110 stories, almost 1400 feet tall. Vinnie’s beloved Empire State Building, the symbol of New York City, was about to lose its world primacy. Aksel showed the others a pamphlet his uncle had given

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him which described the project. It contained architectural renderings of the buildings and the surrounding area as the planners envisioned they would develop in the next decades. While the others compared it to what they saw from the bridge, Aksel spoke out. “Will you look at how the whole skyline is changing? All of the bulk and height is being concentrated down on the Southern tip of Manhattan. Mid-town is no longer the Center, the Center is the Financial District, now.” “Yeah, it looks kind of lopsided to me.” Little Joey remarked. “Lopsided towards where the money is, my brothers. All the loot is down around Wall Street. The World Trade Center is all about ‘trading’, and those dudes aren’t trading baseball cards like we used to. They’re trading stocks and bonds, and that’s big money. Even now, you can see it already happening. Look at the way the tip of Manhattan is becoming jammed packed with skyscrapers, and it’s going to get worse.” “I don’t like the idea of two identical metallic buildings in a dense mass of skyscrapers. Look at how the Empire State and the Chrysler Building still stand out in Mid-town now. And think about their details! I just love those old, art deco structures with their colored stonework and geometric inserts. Aluminum sucks.” Vinnie said. “And what if those two monsters ever fall over? Shit, they would cut across Manhattan and maybe even hit Brooklyn.” “Don’t even think about that, Joey Boy. I, for one, plan to be one of the first people to go up to the top and take a look around. I like to think that we can trust our engineers and architects. Or, at least, I hope so.” The debate went on until all the cigarettes were finished. All-in-all, it was a half hour of the group’s standard brand of sloppy, teen-style architectural criticism and just plain joking around. Now, the moment had arrived for the group to face the harrowing task of returning home. “So, my buddies, the time has come for us to descend once again into the bowels of our loved city.” Aksel announced when the group approached the entry arch to the dark tunnel. “Wait a minute! I’m not walking all the way back to DeKalb Avenue in no fuckin’ tunnel. Let’s try to use one of those stair-way passages up to the surface. Aksel, please.” In order to respond to Phil, Aksel was obliged to reveal the fact that he had never gone all the way up the stairways to the surface. So, he really didn’t know if the exit doors would be unlocked, or where exactly they might lead to. With this bit of scary information, the boys’ nerves were on end as they turned off the tracks into the first stairwell. “Well, at least we don’t have to listen to that squeaky voice.” Vinnie said when he heard the blaring, rhythmic horn and snare-drum soundtrack which would accompany the boys during the entire ascent up the dark staircase. After three turns, the concrete steps had ended in a dimly lit, tight airshaft. The only way out was up —way up—on what looked like about one hundred rusty, wall-mounted ladder

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rungs. Aksel led the way and Vinnie and the others followed their leader. At the top, they discovered that the shaft was sealed with a heavy, old cast-iron manhole cover. “Can you move it, Aksel?” Vinnie yelled over the din of the hip-hopping musical beat. “I’ll give it a try.” Aksel answered and pushed his shoulder as hard as he could against the plate. It moved a little and then opened wide as Aksel continued to push, flexing his strong legs against the final rung. Vinnie would never forget, until his dying days, what he saw when he slid himself out of the manhole. He was in a high vaulted, smoke-filled automotive repair shop, and he saw his friend shaking hands with a tall thin, wild-eyed, smiling black man. He was a very strange dude with a head of hair like nothing Vinnie had ever seen. His long locks flowed across his shoulders and down his back in innumerable, thick, rope-like strands—all the way to his knees. The fellow gestured to Vinnie and the others to come forward, all the time moving himself in perfect syncopation with the jumping music which continued to play on. All the boys moved in around Aksel and the rope-haired man, who continued to chatter on excitedly in a melodic patois. “Mon, I thinks to me it were a vision, or a nightmare, when I looks up and sees me a golden, ball-head peep out my floor. Check it out, Lawd, I thinks. Can it be the Iwah of Gideon? Can it be the End? Then I thinks, ‘Jah Jah, no Judah you just been blazin’ hemp, too strong. You best burn your Suru board, my man.” “Sorry sir, but I can’t understand half of what you’re saying, and it’s not just the loud music.” Aksel replied. The man walked slowly over and turned off the record player. “Like good, old Don Drummond was now wailing - I say – I am a man of the street, my brothers. But let me present myself, in your own lingo. My birth name is Winston, but nowadays I go by the name of Judah. And who might you be? And how did you happen upon my little nest and workplace?” And so, the boys told their story and Winston-Judah laughed and grieved and laughed again as the whole story of their adventure unfolded. And then Judah, or Winston, told his story and the boys, in turn, learned of Jamaica island and East New York, and Rastafarianism and Haile Selassie, and Don Drummond, and Ska music and the young man’s tormented passion for old automobile engines. “Yeah, man, with the help of a little Dingky dough - what you probably call ‘weed’, or ‘marijuana’, or ‘Mary Jane’ or whatever – I’ll tell you I can find the keys to the universe in the engine of an old parked car.” “Whew!!” The exhausted, exhilarant kids exclaimed in unison. Their evening of growth and triumph was rolling to an end. It was getting late, and the boys still had no idea where they were, or how they could get home from wherever that was. “We’re on York Street, my brothers, and the subway stop is just right around the corner. But if you have the time, I tell you that the city lights are blinking and I was thinking. Yes, young men, I’ll show you a place we all can go.”

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“Maybe another time, Judah.” Aksel replied and shook the man’s hand, as did all the others. While they were leaving, Vinnie noticed a small framed photo above Judah’s work bench. In it, a tall black man was poised at ease next to an old brown moving van. He had a warm familiar smile on his face. “Who is that old man, Winston?” “Oh Lawd, that my uncle Nigel. He passed on last year, bless his dear soul. I loves him more than life itself. He was ‘tap a di tap’. That means ‘top of the tops’, a really outstanding man. He taught me so much, I wouldn’t know where to begin. But one thing I’ll always remember, and something I repeat to myself almost every day is something he would often whisper in my ear, when I was a young boy. Yes, brother, he would say to me, ‘Remember, Winston, happiness is not in another place, but in this place. It is not of another hour, but of this hour’.” “Judah, you know your uncle once said that to me, too. Once upon a time … long ago.” Vinnie replied softly. Winston looked at Vinnie in astonishment, but in the blink of an eye his expression changed and, oddly, he seemed to have understood. In the following months, Vinnie and Aksel would return to visit Judah— ‘the Lion’—several times, and the wild friendly Rasta Man would come to hear, and truly comprehend, the boy’s story.

Curator’s Analysis Numerous scholars consider adolescence the most challenging stage in human development. In these three episodes, Vinnie and his friends (between the ages of 11 and 17 years) are shown encountering new and significant challenges. They are dealing with important changes and choices regarding their sexual, social, emotional and vocational lives. As Stanley Hall had written in 1904, one’s teenage years are, truly, a “period of storm and stress”.11 This is the phase in which individuals struggle to find and form an identity and to acquire a clearer understanding of their goals and wishes regarding the future (i.e., their adulthood). In this part of our story, our protagonist is experiencing just this. In order to ‘safely’ navigate oneself within rising currents of ‘storm and stress’, a teenager needs the encouragement and support of both adult caretakers and peers during these years. The reader has already been introduced to the primary adult caretakers who assist Vinny on his quest towards greater autonomy and a more defined sense of identity – his mother and godparents, Aunt Emma and Uncle Rocco. (His father, my grandfather Domenico, would remain a singular figure of conflict and misunderstanding in my father’s life until the latter’s middle-age).

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Hall, S.G. (1904) Adolescence. New York - D. Appleton and Company.

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Vinny’s primary peer group (his ‘gang’) continues be the primary context in which doubts, conflicts and choices are shared and ‘worked upon’. In this third part of the publication, spanning the author’s early, mid and late adolescence, several important identity related issues are introduced – the distancing of himself from his family origins and limits, his blossoming sexuality and first affectional attractions, the centrality of local place identity and its expansion into new and different territories, the challenges raised by sorts of ‘rites of passage’ which signal first timid steps towards ‘adulthood’ (risk initiations, first paid and/or fulfilling employment, etc.) and finally he and his friends’ confronting and dealing with what Allen Toffler first called “Future Shock” (the drama of the Vietnam war, the “World of Tomorrow”, rapid urbanization, ultra-consumer society, etc.). While “identity crisis” in adolsecence is, undoubtedly, fueled by biological and psychosocial factors, its implications cannot be separated (as Erich Fromm teaches us) from its historical context and the conflicting opinions (ideologies) which characterize an epoch. The author appears to be deeply embedded in this field of reasoning. My father had always considered mid-twentieth century America and his generation as radically unique and inseparable. The inclusion, in Chapter 3, of an ‘imagined’ encounter with – and a ‘lesson’ by - one of his mentors (Paul Goodman) who, perhaps, best embodied the spirit of dissent of that decade reinforces my conviction that his guiding objective was to share, with the reader, the innumerable socio-cultural influences which contributed to his (and his Generation’s) radical break with prevailing conventions. These ‘influences’ sometimes merely consisted of momentary and fortuitous conversations (Goodman, Uncle Nigel, Mohammed, etc.) which “light a spark” while others (many of which will be introduced in successive chapters) are more long-term and even “institutional”. These have been important inspirational teachers, significant ground-breaking publications and particular learning environments. While not included in this publication, I feel it necessary to mention one teacher (during the years treated in this chapter) which my father had identified as having strongly influenced his future professional and ideological positioning. The reader may recall that Vinny attended a prestigious Catholic High School. His teachers there were Xaverian friars. Most of these “brothers” were what might be expected: academically well-prepared in the Sciences and Humanities but strong on discipline and the prevailing “church line”. His instructor in “World Literature”, young Brother Thomas, was of a different mind-set. He introduced Vinny and his classmates to a number of controversial, socially progressive publications which influenced his future political and social convictions. These texts: The Silent Spring (Rachel Carson, 1962), Too Late the Phalarope (Allan Paton, 1953), The Invisible Man (Ralph Ellison, 1953), The Good Soldier Schwiek (Jaroslav Hasek, 1922) and The Little World of Don Camillo (G. Guareschi, 1950) were the author’s first encounter with anticipatory voices regarding future social and political choices in the areas of sustainability, critical race theory, pacificism and socialism. This was yet another example of the ‘lucky encounters’ with inspirational teacher-mentors which my father affirmed had characterized his life-course.

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References and Suggestions for Further Reading Expanding One’s Horizons and Building Bridges to the World Erikson, E. H. (1968). Identity Youth and Crisis 1. W. W. Norton & Company. Hall, S. G. (1904). Adolescence. D. Appleton and Company. Holloway, S., & Valentine, G. (Eds.). (2000). Children’s geographies: Living, playing, learning and transforming everyday worlds. Routledge. Valentine, G. (1999). Oh please, Mum, oh please, Dad: Negotiating children’s spatial boundaries, pp. 137–157. In: L. McKie, S. Browlby, & S. Gregory (Eds.), Gender, power and the household. Macmillian. Watt, P., & Stenson, K. (1998). The street: It’s a bit dodgy around there: Safety, danger, ethnicity and young people’s use of public space. In S. Watson & G. Valentine (Eds.), Cool places: Geographies of youth culture (pp. 249–265). Routledge. Woolley, H, J. Dunn, C. P. Spencer, T. Short, T. & Rowley, G. (2000). Children describe their experiences of the city centre: A qualitative study of the fears and concerns which may limit their full participation. Landscape Research, 24, 287–301

It’s a Small World? Cotter, B., & Young, B. (2013). The 1964–1965 New York World’s Fair. Arcadia Publishing. Maffei, N. P. (2018). The production and consumption of model worlds: Futurama and ‘War Maneuver Models’ exhibition in Norman Bel Geddes American Design Visionary. Bloomsbury Academic.

New Music Under the City and in the Air Above The fascinating middle-aged intellectual the boys ‘meet’ at the Café Au Go Go is, apparently, Paul Goodman. In fact, I discovered that my father had adapted parts of his ‘discourse’ from his well-known publication: Goodman, P. (1956). Growing up absurd. Problems of Youth in the Organized Society.

See Also Goodman, P. (1962). Utopian essays and practical proposals. Random House. Goodman, P., & Goodman, P. (1960). Communitas: means of livelihood and ways of life. Vintage Books. Ward, C. (Ed.). (1991). Influences: Voices of creative dissent. Resurgence Publisher.

Chapter 6

The Old Man: Interweaving the Past, Present and Future

© Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2022 R. Lorenzo, Children’s Free Play and Participation in the City, Children: Global Posthumanist Perspectives and Materialist Theories, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-0300-7_6

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In the last century, whenever people from different backgrounds and cultures met with the intention to communicate, in almost all cases, they barely understood one another. Specifically, the old and young appeared to be speaking different languages. In the decades (or centuries) preceding the “End,” respect for and true understanding of the needs, values and capabilities of ‘others’ was a rare ‘commodity.’ Now, it appears that the situation has changed significantly, for the better. In the course of my father’s work on Children’s Imaging the Future and Participation in Place Design and Making, he had often noted a glaring communication gap between children and adults, and this was always cause of great concern to him. He held that listening carefully to what children were really saying could represent a first remedy to this problem, and many others. I have now come to believe that he, in fact, was correct.

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At times, I ask myself whether our planet has become a better place than it was before the ‘End.’ I can’t provide a global answer because it’s difficult to get a complete picture of what’s happening outside our little world, here in Brooklyn. From the information I’ve managed to gather, it does appear that China’s domination of most of the world has brought what might be called a ‘Relative Peace.’ That Nation’s governance approach has produced material benefits for their colonies. However, I think one cay say that these benefits have come at a very high price—especially, the loss of innumerable lives and the effective elimination of self-determination in most countries under their control. Come to think of it, this situation isn’t all that different than what it had been during the centuries in which European nations, and afterward the USA, controlled most of the World’s Economy. America falsely justified its ‘peace-making missions’ as being ‘in the defense of Democracy,’ and we well know where that story got us. Today, the ‘Good Old U.S. of A’ is dead and gone. Recently, I’ve begun thinking about just how odd it is that China allows the Regions of the planet which are not ‘governed’ by them to, essentially, ‘do their own thing.’ For example, equitable trade and commerce between our Federation of Northeastern States and a few, small Canadian and Latin American Free Republics is now being tolerated, and this has improved the well-being of many. However, I am certain that should it begin to appear that these Regions are constructing some kind of a political alliance, they’ll be in trouble. I would suggest that we ‘Independent Regions’ would do well to stick by the old maxim that my friends and I had set down on our block, a long time ago: “Just do what you have to do. And try not to get caught … or hurt too much.” Well, I think I’ve exhausted all my ‘enlightened’ thoughts on international politics for the time being. It’s getting late, and I have to run (if only I could manage to!) and do the shopping for tomorrow’s dinner with Tonino’s family. Lele said he would come along to help me carry the bags. We’ll need at least four big, free-running chickens and a half-dozen liter bottles of local beer. Amy and Tonino have churned out quite a big brood, and those kids sure can eat. Oh, by the way. I have finally been reinstated as the full-time cook in our house, and I’m so happy about it. July 15 Yesterday evening, we had a fine dinner party. The food was great and the company and conversation were even better. Our neighbor Amy, a great storyteller, recounted tales of her life which started my weaving a few of my own. I have always loved to talk at the table with friends but, last night, two additional ingredients—Tonino’s strong red wine and a big bag of Long Island weed—really loosened my tongue and made the floodgates open. The stories, and the moments leading up to them, merit a special place in my diary. I have tried, here below, to remember each and every detail. When I heard the door-chime, I had just finished brazing the chickens and was thickening the sauce. My dinner plan was well under control. While the main dish sat and simmered on the fire, we would have time to nibble on the goodies that Amy had biked out to Atlantic Avenue to pick up. I really appreciated her effort since it’s a long haul to Downtown Brooklyn, these days. It’s been over 50 years since I last tasted the Middle-eastern delicacies which she promised to bring from a “very special place,” and I couldn’t wait to dig in.

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“Buonasera, Compagni. Happy Bastille Day!” Tonino exclaimed in his deep, baritone voice. I have always had a hard time matching his deep timbre with such a small sounding board. I should point out that Tonino’s curly, silver-black crown barely comes up to his wife’s chin. He is stocky and muscular, but he can’t be more than five-foot-four in his work shoes. In contrast, Amy is a tall strikingly beautiful woman. I always gasp in a mouthful of air every time I see her. I’ve always loved that sound-gesture, so like what the Norwegian people do whenever they’re inspired. At the doorway, we exchanged warm greetings in our conventional Italian and Eritrean corporeal manner. Behind the couple, five of their six children shuffled into the dining room and hugged and kissed Val and me affectionately. Lele, who came in last, zigzagged through the crowd and jumped straight into my arms. “Signò Vinnie! Remember you promised to finish that story you started telling us yesterday. You know, it was the story about that International children’s meeting on ‘Peace with Nature’.” He couldn’t contain himself. “For sure, Lele. But that will have to wait until after dinner. Now we’re all hungry, right? And I, for one, can’t wait to taste the treats your Mamma’s brought us.” Vali darted her beautiful green eyes up towards the ceiling. “And I can’t wait to taste your ‘pollo con la birra’.1” Tonino said. Then Vale intervened, “Let’s all sit down. Toni, you can pour us some of your famous wine. Amy, these are the serving plates for my husband’s ‘greatly awaited treats’. And you, Bella, come and sit near me. Everybody else can pick their places, as they like.” Lele sat down next to me at the head of the table near the wood stove while Amy’s oldest child, Selam, sat next to Valeria as requested. The others spread out in the remaining chairs. “Allora, Seli, how’s your new job at the bicycle repair shop going?” Vale asked the tall girl, so similar to her mother—a real beauty. “Oh Val, we’re very, very busy at the shop. They told me that summertime is their peak period, so I guess I got the worst of it. I’ll be back at Brooklyn College when things finally start to slack off. That’s the story of my life. No luck.” “You just got the wrong name, Sis.” Her brother, Fortunato,2 teased. “Yup, dude. You’re the ‘lucky’ one. The boy’s father added, chuckling. “Hey, Mamma. You and Papà should have been a little more equitable when you were giving out names, you know? Vinnie, I bet you can imagine what it’s like growing up in Brooklyn with a name like ‘Eyob’. How many times do you think I had to hear ‘hey yob!’ or ‘kiddo, you got a yob of muck on your face’? It’s a damn good thing that Eyob means ‘patience’ in Eritrean. Because, with a name like mine, I sure needed it.” The group roared with laughter at Eyob’s remark, and Amy started passing around the Middle Eastern appetizers. “Take it easy, kids. When I’ve finished serving, I’ll tell our friends the stories of all your names. For me, every name has a deep meaning. Anyway, we have hummus, baba ghanoush and sfeehas. And these are the best meat paddies in town. They’re from Sahadi’s down on Atlantic Avenue. Do you all know what they are?”

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Chicken with Beer, an Asturian recipe (from Italian). ‘Fortunato’ means ‘fortunate’ or ‘lucky’ in Italian.

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“Of course, we do, Seli. And I love them all. Well, maybe Vali doesn’t remember the sfeehas.” I said. “My memory is good, Nonno. Unlike yours. I even recall the last time I ate them. It was at Maddy’s New Year’s Eve party in … let me see,” she hesitated and then continued “Yes … it was 1984. Our last year in New York.” “Grazie a Dio for her memory! Where would I be without it? Amy, these sfeehas are fantastic! They taste like my favorites. Did you, by chance, get them at that tiny dimly-lit bakery two doors down from Sahadi?” “No, I didn’t. That little shop’s no longer there, but maybe the same baker supplies Sahadi now-a-days. Could very well be. But, Vinnie, haven’t you noticed that every shop is ‘dimly lit’ these days? She chuckled, and her golden-brown eyes twinkled. She hugged little Lelè and whispered in his ear. “Leave some hummus for our friends, my little man.” “Ok, Mamma. Sorry. But tell Signora Vale and Signò Vinnie the rest of the story … about our names.” I placed two large, heaping bowls of pollo con la birra and wild rice on the table along with four smaller plates containing tzaziki and roasted red bell-peppers. The kids went to town, and Amy began her narrative. “You all know that I come from Eritrea. But seeing that you’re Italians, I’ll just skip over our common ‘ancient’ history. Anyway, in 1991, the year I was born in Asmara, in what was then Ethiopia, our people were recovering from two long and devastating civil wars. The Provisional Government of Eritrea had been established, and we were moving steadily towards true independence. My father, a pediatrician and a very acculturated man, had been active in the EPLF. He decided to name me Amleset, because it means “she made it return.” By that, he intended the return of peace and self-determination for our people. Unfortunately, my name reflected that reality only until 1996, when armed conflicts broke out once again along the confines with Ethiopia. We were then living in a border town where my father was directing a Pediatric Emergency Center in a large refugee camp. Once again, my family’s life became an inferno, and now they also had a young child to protect. My father’s health worsened that year. And then, in 1997, my mother was killed tragically when an artillery shell ripped into the school where she was teaching. That terrible event broke my father’s will to resist. Shortly afterwards, he decided to leave our country to try to find a better life for us, somewhere else.” “Mamma mia, I need another glass of wine. But, please, go on.” My heart rose up into my throat. “Fortunately, one of my father’s brothers was also a doctor, and he lived in New York City at the time. He managed to find an opportunity for my dad to work at Green Point Hospital. So, after spending six months in a town near Rome with my maternal aunt, we finally moved to Brooklyn and settled down.” At that point, Selam and Eyob excused themselves and got up to leave. Seli had an appointment with a friend on the boardwalk, and her brother was expected down on the courts for the Commune’s Summer Basketball Tournament. “Before you go, Selam, would you please tell Vale what your name means.” Amy said.

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“It means ‘Peace’, Vale. But Mamma will have to tell you the rest of the story. Grazie, Val and Vinnie, for a great dinner. I am also speaking in name of my ‘patient’ brother, who didn’t have the time to do so.” Eyob was already downstairs and, probably, already out on the courts. “So, to continue my story, I grew up in Brooklyn and then in 2007 - it was actually April Fool’s Day - I had the ‘bella fortuna3’ to run into my beloved marito, Toni.” “Ah … and how did you meet, my friends?” Valeria asked. “Toni was working at the time for Save the Children’s NY office, and they were having a fund-raising concert in the waterfront park in the Green Point neighborhood. I happened to be there. The moment he began to speak of his work in Lampedusa from the podium, I guess I fell in love with him. You know what they say – ‘it was love is at first sight’.” “For real? That’s just how Vali fell for me.” I interjected. “Yup. She told me you’d say that. But, just as is our case, I know you’re kidding.” Amy slapped her knee. “Tony, I didn’t know you had worked for Save the Children. What are you doing fishing, now, out in Sheepshead Bay? You worked with children. Hey, we’re all colleagues!” I marveled. “It’s long story, Vin. I’ll tell you about it later. Now, I don’t want to interrupt Amy.” “That’s OK, babe. I can wait. You go on … yours is an interesting story.” She lit a joint, took drag and passed it to me. “Vabbò. I don’t think I’ve told you which part of Sicily I come from. Well, it’s the island of Lampedusa. For sure, you both will remember that, at the beginning of the century, our island was the ‘doorway to Europe’ for the hordes of refugees from the troubled areas of Africa and the Middle East. To tell the truth, our island has always been a crossroads, a doorway, for travelers from many parts of the world: the Phoenicians, Greeks, Romans, Arabs, Spaniards and the French. But all of those had come by choice. They were drawn by the island’s natural beauty, strategic position and resources - like its swordfish and tuna. Instead, the modern ‘desperados’ stopped in Lampedusa, because they preferred being alive there to being dead in their homelands … or at the bottom of the Mediterranean Sea. Well, when the gates of Hell opened, I was working on my father’s fishing boat. I was a teenager, and a week wouldn’t pass without our having to pull some poor souls out of the treacherous seas. I don’t know. Seeing all those kids we would salvage, alone and desperate, really got to me, and I started working as an ‘animator’ in the refugee camps. I had studied Pedagogy in Palermo for two years, but I had dropped out. I must admit, I gained quite a lot of experience in those camps. I liked it, and I was good. Then in 2005, when I was 22, STC offered me a job directing one of their projects. In the fall of 2006, after a rough summer, I needed a break so I took a trip to New York to get some R & R. I really loved your city. I was staying with a friend near Prospect Park. You lived near there once, right? After a few months, our NY office contacted me and asked me if I would talk about our work in Lampedusa – it was big in the news at that time – at a fund-raising event in Greenpoint. Of course, I agreed, and I met Amy at the event. We fell in love.”

3

“Beautiful luck” (from Italian).

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“How long after you met was Seli born, Amy?” “Quick, Vale, very quick. And this gets me back to my story. We’re almost certain that Selam was conceived the night of Obama’s first election. When she was born, we decided to name her ‘Peace’.” “Well, that makes sense … maybe. You know, I think Obama never went as far as he should have.” I interjected. “Yeah, but he was sure better than the alternative. No?” We all nodded our heads, and the wine continued to flow. “I have to say that, as the years passed, we also became fed up with the standoff in the House and Senate which tied Obama’s faltering hands. Then in 2012, our first son, Fortunato, came along.” “I get it. You called him ‘Lucky’ because Obama had won his second-term reelection, right?” “No, Vin. Fortunato was my father’s name. He died that same year.” He smiled hazily, ‘Bogarting’ the joint, as usual. “We were hoping that things would get better during Obama’s second term. And they did, just a little. Our movement grew stronger, and we became more numerous and more aware. Then you know how things took a turn for the worse - the worst turn we could ever have imagined. Toni and I worked our asses off for Bernie, but the orange asshole won. When our son, Eyob, was born in 2016, we selected a name which was fitting for what we most needed at the moment. You know my people, the Tigrigna, have an old saying, ‘Zurugay sava luchae yo-u-se’ which means ‘If you are patient, you will eventually get butter from milk’.” Amleset sighed. “Patience. That’s the trait I most admire in you, Amy.” Valeria sighed deeply. “Yes, and I sure need it with Toni. You know my little Sicilian stallone.4 Well, I became pregnant once again in December of 2020 – just around the ‘beginning of the End’. Can you imagine the state I was in?! It was terrible, but my carrying another child infused me with the hope that something good might come out of all the chaos. When Asmeret was born in August, the civil war was on hold, and the counter-revolt was gaining strength throughout America and in many parts of the world. What we needed most at that time was ‘Unity’ and again - fools that we were - we still continued to hope. And then that fatal May Day arrived. Asmi was only nine months old when our world exploded. What would happen to my children?! All the children! I don’t want to think about those terrible times, anymore. Excuse me, I’m sorry, but I can’t go on any further.” Amy sobbed and laid her head between her arms on the table. Valeria reached over and tenderly stroked her arm, Tonino held her tightly around the shoulders and her two daughters stood at her back softly running their fingers through her long-braided hair. Feven, her youngest girl, spoke up. “Ma, tell them about my name, please. That will make you feel better.” With a comforted expression, Amy said “Yes, my little sunflower, just as it always does.” I intervened, to pull the children out of the sadness we were all descending into.

4

“Stallion” (from Italian).

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“Why don’t you kids go into my studio now? Eyob, you can play my guitar for the others. I hear you’re getting good at it. And all of you can sing along. Leave the door open, please, so we can hear.” “And Signò Vinnie, I can play the harmonica now, you know?” Feven exclaimed. “Wow, that’s great. Maybe we can jam together sometime. You’re such a happy kid, I bet you don’t play the blues.” “Not yet, but I do know a song … you know, ‘My Sunshine’, or something.” “That’s fitting. Yup, that song is perfectly fitting for you. You know, that was the first song I learned on guitar when I was just about your age.” I hugged the little darling, and she ran off with the others. “I’m done with this stuff” Amy passed the lit joint to Toni. He and I continued for the rest of the evening. “So, where was I? Oh, yes. Feven. When she came along in March of 2025, the treaty had been signed, and there had been considerable rebuilding and resurgence in our part of the world. And we had been spared the worst. Toni and I wanted a name that suited both the moment and the future. We wanted to create a kind of ‘incantesimo’ - a spell, a magic word. And it came to us. ‘Feven’ means ‘Bright and Radiant’, and you should have seen the sunlight the morning she was born! It was one of the first days that there wasn’t a brown ring around the sun.” “Heaven bless the Child.” I sighed. “‘Burrasca furiusa presto passa’.5 You know, we Sicilians also have some pretty fitting proverbs, too.” The children’s voices and guitar music filtered from our studio room. It was wonderfully soothing. “Listen to what they’re singing. Wow! It’s an old George Harrison piece. The children really know the way. And, you know, your son Fortunato is getting better every day. The kid’s got natural talent.” I couldn’t believe my ears. “Your lessons help, and he works hard, too, Vin.” “Thank you, Amy, for your beautiful story. Those names are like magical, historical markers.” Vali said. But what about Lele? How did you come up with the name ‘Raffaele? “That was my nannu’s6 name. That was good enough for me. My grandfather was a great man, Vinnie.” Amy looked up and said “… but, you know, after Toni chose that name, I did do some research, and I discovered that Lele’s full name means ‘The Healer of God’. In the Old Testament, the Archangel Raphael had cured old Tobias from blindness. We sure as hell need a healer for the cruel god who had allowed the ‘End’ to happen.” “Men did that, Bella Mia, not God. Only men!” Valeria said, and then added, “Amy, why don’t we clear these things off the table and go out on the balcony and talk? The smoke is getting so thick in here, I can’t breathe.”

5 6

“A furious storm, will shortly pass” (translation from Sicilian dialect). “Grandfather” (from Sicilian dialect).

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Alone at the table, we continued to drink and smoke and talk. The lulling sounds of the children’s music, and of our wives’ sweet voices outside, accompanied our conversation in an unexpected direction. “You know I’ve always been meaning to ask you about all those magnificent photos. There are so many of them and with so many beautiful children, too. Did you take all of them?” Tonino asked. “Almost all of them, bro. Except those in which I appear, of course. And that group of photos over there above the mission table – those black and white photos of rushing water and spinning ‘loose parts’ - are by my dear friend and ‘maestro’, Simon. I told you about him. You remember?” “Oh yeah, he was that crazy guy who asked those kids in Oxford, back in the ‘70’s, to draw their ideas for alternative futures for an important UK motorway. The drawings you showed me were amazing! Solar panel farms, skate parks and bike paths, farmland and pastures and I don’t remember what else! Come to think of it, you should see what’s been done along the old Brooklyn Queens Expressway. Those British kids had predicted the friggin’ future.” “I believe it, and that wasn’t the first-time kids had done just that. But you know … Simon, yeah, he was crazy in his personal doings. But as an artist, and as a designer-futurologist, he was a genius and a visionary. He was also a natural-born educator. It was so wonderful to watch him, at work, with the children. I remember one time in Napoli ...” I sat back thinking about Naples, while I waited for Tonino to roll another joint. His hands were dexterous, and he hummed along to his son’s singing, as he created perfection. ‘… your children’s words …’. “Some of these photos are from here in NY, right’.” He interrupted my chain of thought, and then added, “Yeah, that one’s down on the Red Hook Waterfront, it’s from quite a while ago, for sure. The Twin Towers were still standing. What are those kids doing, anyway? Is that an old video camera?” “Mannaggia,7 I never liked the World Trade Center, but it was such a terrible disaster an event beyond our every imagination. Um, but what were you asking? Oh yeah, the kids in the photos. Those are a few of the children we were working with in the Red Hood Projects. You know that Public Housing complex down there. Is it still around?” “Sì, it’s still there. Nice place. We went down there last summer with Lele and Feven. There’s a big bakery on the waterfront that makes the best organic pies and cookies in all Brooklyn. What a wonderful view from the greenway along the water! There’s a pasture with flocks of sheep and some farms, too. We should go together, sometime.” “It’s a long way from here for me, bro. And that was a long time ago, too. But as you were asking, that’s a Beta-cam. A reporter from Public NYCE-TV was interviewing Charles and the other kids about their proposals for the future of the neighborhood. You’re not gonna believe it, but those kids actually designed farms, pastures and – holy shit! – even a cookie factory. I remember little Michael Rizzo said ‘It’s gonna take us a long time, at least five 7

An exclamation closest to “Shucks!” (from Neapolitan).

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years. But you know, I am floored by the fact that the kids’ dreams of the future, that their projects, have become a reality” “You’re stoned, man. I bet you’re bullshitting me. Come on, tell the truth.” “Truth, Toni, my word. I kid you not.” I was stunned. We both stewed and rolled in our own thoughts for who knows how long. I could almost hear the low, timid voice of Michael, one of the few white kids in the class, and a real Italian-American scugnizzo, asking me whether I thought his ‘Project’ for a cookie factory could really be built. Snaking its way through my reveries, like an astral sound track, came the notes of a Flying Wilburys’ song. I awoke from my time travels and was enjoying Fortunato’s picking and Asmerek’s sweet voice. I was almost back to earth, and I asked myself why in heaven’s name had the kids selected that particular song, and how in the heck they could have possibly known it. Then, I heard Tonino’s voice. “Hey Vin! Wake up! I’m over here. These are real beauties! The two photographs of children looking right into the camera. Every time I come over here, they fascinate me. What incredible eyes, green–blue like my Mediterranean on a stormy day … and the depth and intensity of their stares. They seem to know something important that we fail to see. It’s the very same expression I would often notice in the children, back in the refugee camps in Lampedusa.” He was standing in front of the two large photos, his hands behind his back and slowly swaying. I got up and went up close to the images. I touched the glass and, with my index finger, I traced the young girl’s hand on the big wooden loom. I clearly recalled the time and the place I had met those two children, as if it were today. It had been in a small, white-washed oasis-village just south of Cairo. It was in 1978.

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“Where were you, Bro? Someplace in the Middle East, judging by the faces and attire.” “Yeah, it was in Egypt, a short distance from Cairo. I was at a Conference there, and we had taken a day trip to an oasis to visit a sort of cooperative crafts school which an international NGO operated for female street children. The young girls – more or less, from 6 to 13 years of age – learned to read and write and would also work several hours a day making extraordinarily beautiful hand-woven, cotton rugs and clothe.” “She looks really happy, while she’s weaving. Don’t you think?” Tonino interjected. “I thought so, but some hardline colleagues from Germany, held the children were being exploited for their labor. I disagreed with them. In fact, we spoke with some of the girls – with interpreters, of course – and their stories, and the smiles which accompanied them, convinced me that those educators were working well. This girl with the headscarf transmitted a sense of self-esteem and security. That little girl behind her, in the shadow of the loom, was her sister. She was learning to weave from her older sibling.” ‘What a radiant smile. It reminds me of Feven’s. The light of the world, man. But that little boy in this black and white photo doesn’t look so happy. Was he at the craft school, too?” Tonino asked. “No, of course not, I told you it was only for girls. I ran into him, another day, in the Old Town of Cairo. It was in a part of Cairo that people called ‘The City of the Dead’. He was a street urchin, all on his own, and he was only about seven. You know I just remembered that I met him very near to the place in this other photograph.” I paused and placed my palm on the well in the center of that photo. “Is that a mosque, man? It looks really old.” Tonino reeled back on his heels, grabbed a chair and sat down. “Yes, it’s the oldest mosque in Cairo and the oldest in all of Africa. I don’t remember its name but it was an amazing place. Mystifying. As I recall, I had taken the little guy to a small, grungy café to get something to eat, and we were talking when …” Toni interrupted me. “Yeah right, ‘talking’, huh? You don’t speak Arabic, do you?” “No, you’re right, I don’t. But I hadn’t told you that we were accompanied by an older Egyptian kid who spoke a little English. He picked me up while I was wandering through the Old Town. He knew he could make a few easy bucks and, as it turned out, get himself a free meal. You know how it is in those countries.” He laughed. “Yeah, it was like that in Palermo, too.” “Anyway, that street kid - I think I remember, his name was Mohammed – at one point, told me that he wanted to show me his favorite place. He said that he loved it. So, he took me there. We walked along the Nile, taking shortcuts through cool courtyard-oases full of date palms. We finally arrived in the Old City, and when we walked out of the shadow of the main Mosque into an immense, sundrenched courtyard I had a strange feeling that I knew the place. I had the feeling that I had been there once before. I’ve never been quite able to place it, and I’ve been looking at that photo for over 50 years now. I still can’t understand that sensation. Maybe, it was just a Deja Vu”

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Tonino stared at me with complicity, and then he said, “You know, Vinnie my old friend, you are a very weird guy. From the way you handle that joint and from the way your mind works itself up into spirals and then head-dives, I think I’m beginning to get your number. And now that I think about it … like, how old are you, anyway? 81 or 82, right? I calculate that you grew up, you lucky man, in the good old days of ‘Peace and Love’. And you, my man, were – and probably still are - a dyed-in-the-wool hippy. You smoked a whole lot of weed, right? Maybe you took some ‘trips’, too. Don’t tell me I’m wrong. I have the proof right before my eyes. You have been identified, my Man! And that costume of yours doesn’t fool me at all.” He pointed towards my chest, roaring with laughter and with tears forming in the corners of his eyes. I looked down at my ‘Dark Side of the Moon’ T-shirt. My secret identity had been discovered. I cracked up laughing. “Will you, please, quiet down in there?! We can’t hear ourselves talk!” Vale yelled from the balcony. “Yeah, Papà and Vinnie. Please be quite a little. Feven is gonna play her ‘Sunshine’ song. Pulleeeez!’. Lele yelled out loud, and the other children were laughing like crazy. ‘Ok, folks. We’ll calm down. We promise we’ll be good.” We replied, in unison. I sat down next to Tonino and poured us both another glass of ruby-red wine. He was fidgeting with the sack of grass, trying to decide what to do. He pushed it away from himself with a frown. I grabbed his hand. “No, dude, don’t cut off our fun. I want to tell you the rest of my ‘Cairo Story’, which you will not believe. This weed has loosened my tongue and primed my old brain and I, for one, don’t want you to pull the plug. Let’s just try to quiet down a little, and maybe we might do well to add a little acoustic insulation.” I got up and went over to quietly close the studio and balcony doors. We were ready now. “Why didn’t we think about that before?” Toni wondered out loud.

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I pointed to the bag of grass, which my friend recommenced to handle. “So, go on with the Cairo story, already. I can’t wait.” He smiled crookedly, his red-ringed irises glistening. “Allora,8 where were we? Ah, yes. The Pink Floyd. Can you believe that they were in Cairo – for their historic ‘Under the Pyramids’ Concert – at the very same time I was there? It was in September of 1978.” “You were there?! You followed them all the way to Cairo? I always thought you were a ‘Dead Head’, Vin.” “Nope, I wasn’t there for them. I always liked them, but they weren’t among my favorite groups. I didn’t even know they would be playing until I got there. I had gone to the World Future Study Federation’s 6th World Conference. I was a member then. Anyway, a few of the younger participants at the meeting went to the concert, but I missed it. I had contracted Tutankhamun’s Revenge from the meat patties I’d eaten with my little street friend in that dump I mentioned before. I spent the whole night of the concert on the toilet, and with a very high fever.” “Minchia, che peccato9! So, there’s no story about the Pink Floyd? I don’t want to hear about any dull Conference! I told you I hate conferences. So, our party’s over, huh?” Toni took a drag and frowned. “Aspetta, amico mio.10 I usually don’t like conferences either, but sometimes they can be different. It depends on your prospective. You just got to twist them a little, sometimes. You can make them fun, like when you organize them yourself. I’ve managed to do so a few times, but that’s another story. This one was just weird. Plus, there was a little bit of grass going around, which of course helped out. But it’s what happened there that was enlightening, I think. Be patient and let me explain. And pass me that smoke, please.” “Just don’t get too ‘professorial’, Dottore. Remember, I dropped out of college.” “Ok, here goes. But first off, I have to give you a little background info.” I took a hit and delved into my tale. “At the time, we were living in Napoli. Our daughter had just turned two, and I had been recently hired as a Research Associate by the Open University in the UK where my friend Simon was a professor. He and I developed the ‘Children’s Futures Project’, it was in 1977. We involved elementary school children in Napoli and in Oxford for three years. We were facilitating the children’s access to a wide array of expressive multi-media, which existed at the time, to enable them to gather ideas and images from their everyday environments and to imagine, design and communicate the ‘Futures’ they desired, feared or expected to happen. We would then go on to disseminate and promote their ideas to the widest possible audience of adults and children. This allowed …” A loud howl from Toni stopped me cold. My reeling mind wondered what had happened. “Vin! I said no ‘Professor’ stuff, didn’t I? Let’s have fun!” He smiled to prod me on, and passed the joint.

“So” (from Italian). Literally, “Shit, what a shame” (from Sicilian and Italian). 10 “Wait, my friend” (from Italian). 8 9

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“Oh, I’ll get there. You should understand, though, that the theme of this conference was – and I quote – ‘The Future of Communication and Cultural Identity in an Interdependent World’” “Whew, that sounds like a mouth-load of bullshit. I don’t think those futurologists did a such good job in predicting or eliciting that kind of world. It’s 2034 … and look where the hell we are now.” He hit the nail on the head. “Yeah, so true. Their whole ‘plan’ went up in smoke. But wait until you hear about the way it all started, at least for me. I learned at that conference that even a, let’s say, worthy objective was always destined for failure, if only experts, politicians and vested economic interests were involved. The event was a total mess from day one.” I felt melancholic, longing to hear Feven’s sweet harmonica. I murmured, ‘Why did we have to close that door?’. “Imagine, if you can, a modern Congress Hall in the chaotic, litter-filled timeless context of Cairo. The immense, high-domed auditorium appeared modern enough to me when I first saw it. There was a wide, beautifully inlaid wooden podium. It was surrounded by a step-down amphitheater of at least one thousand comfortable, ornately cushioned wooden seats and polished writing surfaces. There were microphones at each post, and every participant had been provided with a head set for simultaneous translations. There were ten language settings but only two of them worked – Egyptian and English. And I discovered, over the following days, that the English was unintelligible.” “Just like in Italy, man.” Tonino snickered. “Right, well maybe not. It gets weirder, though. On the first day, we were maybe a half-hour into the official opening speeches, and I think the Mayor of Cairo was speaking. Well, I had to find a bathroom, so I got up to look for one. I was on my own, since no one could understand my requests for directions, and I slipped into the dimly-lit back corridors of the gigantic building. As I ventured down many flights of stairs, deeper and deeper into its winding bowels, I passed through a series of connected chambers containing scenography and technologies from eras I imagined defunct. In the first room, there were about thirty dark-veiled, young women hunched over noisy, mechanical mimeograph machines slowly churning out poorly printed, smeared blue-ink copies of the conference papers. I thought that those poor women would never have been able to prepare all the materials for the nearly 600 participants. In the second stone-walled chamber, which was dimly lit by a few ceiling-hung, bare, weak electric light bulbs my doubts were confirmed when I saw an even larger group of contemporarily-clad women bent over huge, turn-of-the-century typewriters. I still couldn’t find the restroom so I moved on into a vaulted corridor of at least 100 meters in length. I thought I had made a mistake and had deviated, somehow, into a covered bazaar. There was no electric lighting, only wall-mounted oil-fired torches. Additional illumination was provided by a few open fires which blazed along the length of the corridor. Around these fires, dark figures in hooded cloaks squatted stirring the contents of enormous hanging cauldrons, while others speared and turned large pieces of unidentifiable meats over charcoal grills. Three old men were boiling ‘jezz-va’, after ‘jezz-va’, of Turkish coffee right next to a long table covered with heaping mounds of pulsating bee-covered pastries and sweets. I realized that I had blundered into the ‘kitchen’. I shuddered to think that our international luncheon was to be provided by these catacomb caterers.

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The aromas, I do have to say, were appetizing, and the scene was so fascinating that I stopped and even accepted a small, gold-leafed cup of coffee. Then I saw light at the end of the long corridor and, through the dense smoke, I could make out the shapes of four camels which were being relieved of their cargoes of vegetables and fruit. I exited between the nasty animals – one even spit on me – out onto a bustling street, and I finally found a sort of restroom in a café.” Tonino slipped down on the couch and threw his head back groggily. “Whew, that’s wild and weird. It sounds like a scene right out of ‘One Thousand and One Arabian Nights’. Except for the typewriters and mimeograph machines. Pass me the wine, please. I really need it.” “Well, that’s the setting. Ok, at the time, I already knew that cities could be like that in those parts of the world. But this, I’d thought, was the goddamn Egyptian National Congress Hall, and a venue of a World Conference on the Future of Communication. In that same place, in the following three days, world-famous American, Dutch, German, English, Russian, Indian, Japanese and a few Egyptian ‘futurologists’ would communicate their visions and prognostics concerning an ‘Interdependent World and Cultural Identity’. They were scheduled to talk about our future ‘Inter-cultural World’ linked by ultra-fast computers and by the World Wide Web, connected by high-speed air and land travel and fed by Genetically Modified Agriculture. But, as we well know, all this would be fueled by Financial Markets with only one cultural identity. Greed-fired money-making! I thought to myself ‘we really don’t understand each other at all, do we?’. And, I remember asking myself, after the delicious buffet on that first day, ‘Yeah, right. But can these liberal, progressive ‘experts’ ever imagine where their lunch came from?’ I doubted it. But wait, it gets even crazier.” “I can’t wait, please go on. But in a minute, eh? Let’s take a break.” Tonino smiled like a Cheshire cat and drew a long toke of the joint. I rose from the table and brought him the bottle of wine and his glass. I went over and put my ear to the studio door and listened for a while. Feven was playing You Are My Sunshine, and it was beautiful. I told Tonino that his youngest daughter was developing into a wonderful harmonica player, and then I continued my story. “Early the next morning, I accompanied Marco, the son of the president of the WFSF, to the train station to check the time of arrival of the Conference’s Keynote Speaker. He was to speak at 5 PM that same day.” “Good morning. I’d like to know when the train from Aswan is expected to arrive, please.” Marco asked the unformed agent at the elegantly adorned information booth. “Which train? When did it leave Aswan, sir?” He replied. “It is supposed to have left yesterday at 4 PM.” “Well, let me see. The distance is exactly 684 kilometers. It should arrive at some time today.” He smiled. “Sometime today?! The person we are waiting for is to speak today at an important international conference at five o’clock. I don’t understand “sometime”! Can’t you be more precise, sir?” “I’m sorry sir. That is as precise as I can be.” He responded with aplomb, proud and bewildered. It appeared that he really couldn’t understand Marco’s agitated state. “When we exited the station we stood there, dumbfounded, on the high entry steps watching buses pass by like so many snails in an uninterrupted river of battered old

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American cars, brightly painted overloaded trucks and buses, shiny official limousines and smoking green military jeeps. The dilapidated buses were over-packed to the point where people were hanging off their rear ends or standing on the roofs.” “So much for highspeed, sustainable land transit.” Tonino quipped. “That afternoon I gave my presentation concerning the Children’s Future Project or the ‘Gruppo Futuro’, as the Napolitano children had come to call it. I projected many visual examples of the children’s wonderful ideas on the only working slide projector in the building. I spoke, at length, about the damage wrought on children’s development, and on the future of society and environment, by we adults having ‘colonized’ the children’s tomorrows. To all effects, I said, the adult world had excluded children from all decisions regarding their best interests and their Future. I tried to demonstrate how Simon and I were attempting to change that situation.” “What response did you get? Could they hear you? Was the translation working?” He laughed. “In general, it wasn’t that bad. I had a small group of allies and friends in the audience. So, I got a few claps.” “Then an angry man from the rear, in the ‘Observers Section’, asked to speak. He presented himself as a representative of the Muslim Brotherhood, and he went on to condemn me as a ‘blasphemer’ since I had suggested that children had the right to express their own views. He said ‘Only the father, as the head of the family and in the name of Allah, can rightfully make decisions regarding the Tomorrow’. He never used the word ‘Future’, during the whole time he spoke. His scathing attack then shifted from a critique of my ‘academic small talk’ to the US-European, Christian-Jewish Imperialists’ conspiracy to impose their ‘Tomorrow’ on his people.” I took a deep breath and slugged down a mouthful of wine. “Well, he wasn’t too far off the mark, was he?” Tonino commented and smirked. “I agree, but the thing is that the words he’d thrown in my direction had really shocked me. I had only recently begun to push for children’s rights to envision and build the Future, and I really didn’t expect that type of a reaction. Over the years since then, in Italy and elsewhere, I would go on to hear worse stuff, much worse stuff. Like, I should tell you about the time that the Education Commissioner of the City of Milan told my colleagues and I, as he ripped up our contract, that ‘giving children the right, and offering them the opportunity, to participate in society would bring about what he coined ‘a Second Massacre of the Innocents’. That phrase just blew us away.” I paused and asked Tonino, “Some people are just plain crazy, aren’t they, Amico Mio11?” “I’ll say. Like King Saul, Hitler, Stalin, the Muslim Brotherhood, Donald Trump … and my middle school teacher.” “Amen.” I nodded in agreement, stood up and went over to the window. It was dark outside, but the solar-battery lights were working well that night. I could make out small figures in movement on the basketball court below. I wondered how Eyob’s team was doing over on the Ocean Ave courts.

11

“My friend” (from Italian).

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Tonino had his eyes closed, and he appeared to be sleeping. So, I silently moved about in the room, lost in my thoughts. The faces of the many oppressors of free children and communities that I had encountered during my life materialized before me. But just as soon as they appeared, they were vaporized by the smiles and cognizant eyes of the children who had accompanied us on our long journey. Their voices and ideas came back to me, in rivers of light, and they lifted my heart. In a crescendo, a sweet young voice gradually insinuated itself between my sweet dreams and became stronger and stronger, until I could clearly make out the fitting words which Tonino’s son was singing so well. “Wow, my boy Fortunato is a real Stakhanovite!” Tonino, sitting upright on the couch, had yelled. “Wah? What did you say? I was really far away for a while.” I stuttered. I was very stoned. “I can’t believe it, Vin. Just yesterday, Lucky and I were listening together to that old Springsteen song, and tonight he already knows how to play it … so well.” “You know, that song was always one of my favorites. It seems to tell the story of my life, or maybe the story of everyone who’s grown up in a place they love. And about the return journey you just have to make. You get me?” “Yeah, I do, Amico Mio. That was a great story, Vin. Thanks for sharing it with me.” Tonino nodded. “Whoa, bro. It ain’t over yet. The craziest part is still to come. It was like, I don’t know, those people just couldn’t manage to understand each other. It seemed to me like it was impossible for different cultures, in that context, to communicate with one another. On the last day of the Conference, you know, something happened that got me thinking that, maybe, we just might have never managed to understand one another.” I took a long sip of wine. “Now you got me curious, dude. What exactly happened? Hey, you want some more weed?” “For sure.” He rolled another joint, and I went on with my story. “The day the Conference ended, at around 3:30, eight of us were waiting outside our hotel for a mini-bus which would take us to the airport. The plane was supposed to leave at 4 PM and our pick-up appointment was for two o’clock. A British fellow and two Belgians were already certain we would miss our plane, while the other five – two Italians, two Greeks and myself, to all effects, a ‘Napolitano’ – knew for certain that we still had enough ‘Egyptian Time’ left. We waited and waited, some nerves on edge and some tempers boiling, until 3.45 when an old white mini-van pulled up. The young Egyptian driver came up to us, smiled calmly and took our bags which he began strapping to the roof of the vehicle. The Brit pushed his face about two inches from the driver’s and exploded: “Where the hell were you? We’ve missed our plane, can’t you see? And you’re smiling, too?!” “Oh, Sir, don’t worry. I know for sure that your flight will be late. It always is, so don’t worry.” “I could see the poor driver was perplexed, as he speeded up his loading and secured the bags quickly. We all piled in, and he took off. Now, the road to the airport was over 15 miles long, and it went straight through the desert like an arrow. It was a wide new super highway, four lanes and with almost no traffic on it. Since the fellow was cruising at about 70 kilometers an hour, the Belgian futurologist told him to accelerate. The driver said the van couldn’t go any

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faster, that it was old and that the desert winds were dangerously strong. The Belgian and the Brit insisted vehemently and the driver, reluctantly, started going faster. We were going about 90 kilometers an hour when the mini-bus began to rattle and shake, ominously.” ‘Hey, slow down, please!’ the Greek futurologist yelled. She was very frightened. ‘Go faster, go faster!’ The Belgian insisted. Oddly enough, I was getting a kick out of the whole thing. Suddenly, one of the ropes holding the luggage on the roof broke loose. The driver, on instinct, slammed on the breaks, and the van went into a tail-spin. All hell broke loose inside the cubicle – with screams, tears and implorations of multiple-named Gods. Thankfully, the driver was skilled. He held the van on the road and slowed its spinning and swerving – for what seemed a minute or more – and finally brought the vehicle to a halt on the side of the road. He got out, opened the sliding door to let the shaken passengers out. He lit a cigarette and declared: ‘Thank Allah, we are all well.” He, I think, expected some sign of gratitude, but instead he received insults. The scene that opened before my perplexed eyes was, as I’d said before, ‘enlightening’. The luggage, most of it, had been thrown a great distance out into the surrounding sand dunes. Many of the valises had broken open scattering clothes, souvenirs and innumerable sheets of paper to the strong winds. “My life, my work is ruined!” The Belgian futurologist screamed and fell to his knees. “We are all alive, my friends. We are alive! Why do you cry so?” He turned towards me and Marco, who stood nearest to him, for words of support. We offered some words of gratitude while the Greek futurologist, in a fetal position, trembled and moaned. All the others ran into the dunes uselessly attempting to gather the dispersed papers which by that time had been blown deep into the sunbaked desert landscape. Their papers were obviously lost, but the Anglo-Saxon Futurologists continued their search for at least 15 minutes. In the end, each returned – sweat-coated and disheveled - to the mini-bus with a few crumpled pages in his hands. The driver murmured, “I don’t understand, I just don’t understand. We are all alive, thank Allah, and these foolish men cry for paper?” Tonino’s eyes were wide, and his expression was like one big question mark. I addressed him, “Yes, my friend. Before personal computers, for many foolish people, original copies of documents were even more important than life itself.” We laughed without conviction. I had a hole in my stomach. “Hey Signò Vinnie! The big poster in here is from that children’s meeting, right? So, are you gonna tell us now?” Lele, our redeeming angel, spoke as the children reappeared. The smiles on their faces lifted us from our desperation. They sat down at the table while Tonino cleared off the wine and the weed, and I preceded to bring out some apple juice and the remaining meat patties. I could see that Lele and Feven were still hungry. The little angel’s blue eyes were sparkling, and she was blowing music on her harmonica … like there was no tomorrow. Amy and Vale, hearing the ruckus, came in from the balcony and joined us. I began the final story of the wonderful evening. But this time, my tale was only for the children.

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“You like that poster, eh, Lele? Well, that was the official poster for our Children’s ‘Peace with Nature’ meeting. It was designed by a famous artist. He was a crazy, creative guy from Vienna who once designed a colorful, crooked, housing complex that contained no right-angles. Can you imagine that? All the rooms, doors and windows were rounded-off. Some windows even had trees growing out of them. He loved nature and children so much that he produced that poster for free. His name was Friedensreich Hundertwasser which means “Peace Place of the Hundred Waters” Funny, huh? If you want the poster, you can have it. What do you say?”. “Yes, thank you, Signò Vinnie. But, now, tell us about the meeting!” I went on to tell them how, in 1988, we had organized a huge meeting in Assisi to which children from all the world’s corners had been invited. They had been asked to prepare some kind of presentation of their visions and ideas about nature, at that time and in Future. Over 200 children had participated. They came from places like Japan, Poland, Scotland, Uganda, South Africa, France, Morocco, Switzerland, Sri Lanka, Spain, Costa Rica, Italy and the USA. There were a few other countries, but I couldn’t remember exactly which ones. All the children had stayed in Assisi for four days or more. I told them that my daughter Bibbiana, who was 11 at the time, had helped out as an ‘official translator.’ She had a great time and made a bunch of friends from all around the world. “Sounds like fun! What did they do there?” Asmeret asked. I hadn’t thought about that grand event for many years, but the sight of the bright smiling faces of Amy’s children stirred my emotions and brought back vivid memories of those wonderful days and of all those children. “The children’s works were presented in many forms – posters, video and photo-slide shows, sculptures, dance and song and theatrical performances. It was fantastic! The

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numerous adults – the children’s teachers along with designers, philosophers, environmental activists, religious leaders and the press - who were there for a parallel series of meetings had been very impressed. The children also took part in various workshops concerning the local culture and environment which were intended to prepare the children for the culminating event on the last day.” “What was that, Signò Vinnie?” Lele asked with wide imploring eyes. “On the first day of Spring, March 21st, the children planted an ‘International Children’s Peace Grove’ on the slopes of Mount Subasio. That’s the turtle-shaped mountain upon which Assisi sits. Each child planted a tree sapling with a little tag indicating the species of the plant – they were all local - along with the name and country of the child. It was a beautiful sunny day – like I said, it was the first day of Spring - and we had a fantastic time.” “Are the trees still there, Signò Vinnie?” Feven asked, still radiant despite the late hour. “I don’t know if they’re still there today, Sunshine. But the last time I was there, in 2017, the children’s grove was doing well. The trees had all grown splendidly. Some of them were over 50 feet high.” “Maybe we could do something like that, Signò Vinnie. We could do it in that big space around the old gas tower near the bay. What do you think? Can we do it?” Little Lele said, jumping down from his chair. “Sounds like a good idea to me.” I said, under my breath. “Maybe we can do that tomorrow, Lele. Now it’s bedtime for all of you.” Amy stood up and started moving the children towards the doorway. We said our ‘goodnights’ with the usual hugs and kisses. Amy stopped at door and said: “Tonino will stay on to help you and Vali clean up. But you know something, your story just brought to mind another Eritrean proverb which I want to share with you.” “Yet another one! You Eritreans sure beat us Sicilians, hands down.” Her husband remarked with a sweet smile. “Children, I am certain, are the only ones who just might be able to save our world.” Amy said. “I agree with you. But what about the proverb, Amy? How does it go?” I knew that she, once again, would nail it. “Oh, yeah. It goes ‘Kwakolo kus bekus bougru yehahid’ which means ‘Little by little, the egg will walk.’ After we had cleaned up, Vali went to bed leaving Tonino and me alone in the dimly lit kitchen. “What a difference, Vinnie, between the Futurologists’ Conference and the children’s meeting. The adults fought and misunderstood each other, and the kids peacefully envisioned – and planted - paths towards a better world.” “Yeah Tony, we’ve seen that happen many times. Futures Conferences, World Peace Talks and Environmental Forums. And even those Global Economic Summits. They all turn into battlefields with pre-announced victims as soon as the doors open. Even some International Olympics and World’s Fairs started or ended with a fight. What a mess.” I sighed and sat down. Tonino nodded in approval and began to take his leave. At the doorway, he stopped and added: “Yeah. But Vinnie, maybe, just maybe – as Amy said - someday ‘little by little, all our eggs will walk’.” “Yes. And maybe one day the children will finally lead their confused elders out from the darkness.” I muttered.

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Coney Island and a Hotdog-Induced Subway Reverie (September 6, 2034)

My father’s favorite childhood place had always been Coney Island. Today, it has again regained its status as a center for the recreation and socialization of “The People’. As might be expected, its revised form and functions are now characterized by sustainability and cooperation. In this chapter, the author’s storytelling—together with an overdose of his favorite local foods—transports him into an oneiric trance which brings with it a vision of yet another of his childhood icons—the NYC Subway. In my father’s dream, his traveling companions are some of his real-world, literary ‘friends’ (Whitman, Goldman, DeLillo, etc.). The tacit intention of those intriguing characters is to (re)remind him of the inestimable coherence and value of children. As Oliver Wendell Holmes once wrote: “Pretty much all the honest truth-telling there is in the world is done by children.”

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Since our Fourth of July walk on the waterfront, I have become more courageous. I now regularly take long strolls around the neighborhood with Vale and, at times, with my young friends. We’ve been down to visit what remains of the Brighton Beach boardwalk several times, and we even went to see what used to be the NY Aquarium. These days, the local community is utilizing its enormous tanks for aquaponic-agriculture experimentation. It seems to be working well. A few days ago, one of the neighborhood’s street educators told me that Coney Island was going through some interesting changes. Shamisha said that some of the old rides and arcades had re-opened, and that the baseball stadium was once again hosting a seasonal tournament of Brooklyn teams. I asked her if Nathan’s Famous was still there selling its wonderful hotdogs, but she replied that she didn’t know of it. She did say, however, that there were lots of small shops and wagons which sell grilled and boiled frankfurters, especially on weekends. My mouth started to water, and Shamisha read my mind. She asked me if I’d like to take a walk, sometime soon, down to Coney to see the sites … and taste the treats. She was certain that some of my little friends would definitely want to come along with us. We made an appointment in the courtyard on Saturday morning, and from there we would stroll down to see the boardwalk attractions and follow it all up with an ‘organic lunch’ at the Surf Avenue Food Cart Plaza. “Ueh, Signò Vinnie. You’re doing really good. So far, we haven’t had to make any rest stops …” Lele held my free hand, and Shamisha guarded my cane-side, spotting me for any slips or stumbles. So far, so good. When we reached the ocean-front of the former NY Aquarium, the old familiar skyline came into view. We could the colossal remains of what was once the Wonder Wheel and the newly painted, cast-iron spire of the Parachute Jump. Between the two, I could clearly make out the green–blue, ocean and sky horizon line. I stood still, gasping heavily, and took in the view for a minute. Then I responded to Lele’s compliment. “Grazie, Caro. Let’s walk down the boardwalk a bit, find a bench and have a short rest in the sun. Then we can walk back up to Surf and Stillwell. I want to take a good look at that corner. That’s where Nathan’s used to be.” “Sounds good. And, you know, that corner is exactly where the hotdog-stand we want to take you is.” Eyob said. I sat down on the bench and spread my arms out on the backrest. I stretched my weary legs and gazed out at the sand and the waves. The warm sun and the ocean breeze felt really good on my skin. The five kids stood facing me with their backs to the railing. Shamisha stood hand-in-hand with Feven while Lele and Eyob scrambled up onto the handrail. Aaron came up to me and asked a question about the Wonder Wheel. “Signò Vinnie, please tell us about that giant wheel over there. Why would people ever build something like that?” “Son, first you need understand that Coney Island was the place where millions of people, especially the poor, would come to have fun and blow off steam after a hard week of work. There were rides and attractions beyond your every imagination. That enormous wheel you asked about was called the ‘Wonder Wheel’. Between those long spokes,

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imagine if you can, brightly painted cabins suspended in the air. Each of those – there must have been thirty or more – could contain eight adults and even more children. When the big wheel began to spin, the cabins would sway like crazy. It could be scary, at times. Especially if you happened to end up in one of the ‘trick’ cabins.” “What do you mean, Vinnie?!” Eyob asked, with wide eyes. “Just imagine it. You would get into one of the cabins, and when you got to the top, way up there, you were thinking that you would just rock and swing. And then all’improviso, the cage would take off and start to slide down in a kind of free fall out towards the sea. The first time it happened, I tell you, I wet my pants!” “Wow! How did they do it? Did you slip off and fly free? No, you would be dead, now.” Lele exclaimed. “Of course not, Amico Mio. I’m still alive and kicking. But … you see those curved lines spreading out from the center of the wheel? Those are sets of rails that the cabins would slide down on. When it got to the end, the cage would tip up, and you thought you would be thrown out into thin air. But then the cabin would stop abruptly, and then start to rock and sway wildly. I can still feel my stomach doing somersaults, like it did the first time. Whew” I felt it for real. “I really hope they can get it up and running again, sometime soon. You kids would love it, I’m sure.” I concluded. We got up, and we resumed out walk down the boardwalk. It was a warm, end-of-summer morning, but I imagined it was too cool for swimming. To my surprise, there were a few groups of people who were venturing into the waves, while most of the others just laid around on the beach, sunbathing or building sand castles. At one point, Lele turned to me and asked: “Signò Vinnie, did you come to swim here when you were a little kid?” “Yup, Lele. When I was really young our parents would take us down here. This was the first place I ever put my feet in the ocean. My love for the sea and swimming began in this very spot. Usually, we traveled here by subway, with some aunts, uncles and cousins - a really big group. Each family would pack a huge lunch – you can’t imagine the stuff we ate – and we would stay all day. My Aunt Emma was great swimmer, and my father was, too. They would swim way out there beyond where that old collapsing pier ends, and sometimes they dove off from it when the police weren’t around. It was forbidden, you know, for a good reason. It’s damn high!” “I’ll say. It must be over twenty feet high.” Shamisha added. “My uncle, Rocco, would tell us great stories about the adventures they had in Coney when they were younger. That would have to be over one hundred years ago, now. He said they would sometimes go ‘skinny dipping’ in the evenings, when fewer people were around. I couldn’t believe my ears or imagine my Aunt Emma and my father, especially, who was always a stuffed shirt and no fun at all, swimming butt-naked at Coney Island.” “Heeeeh! How did they do that? What happened when they got caught?!” Aaron asked while the little ones snickered. “Oh, they had a great method to avoid capture, I’ll tell you. My uncle said they would draw bathing suits on their skin with black printer’s ink. It always managed to fool the cops who patrolled the board walk. Hey, they would party all night out on the beach in those days. Our ‘Summer of Love ‘60’s’ were nothing, compared to their ‘Roaring 20’s’.”

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“What’s that, Signò Vinnie?” Feven spoke up for the first time all day. “Oh nuthin’, sweety. This old man’s just rambling on, and getting a little nostalgic. Excuse me, kids.” “But, Signò Vinnie. Did you and your friends come down here to swim, too? Like we do now.” “You know Eyob, we didn’t really swim here, much at all. When we were old enough to get around on our own, Coney Island was beginning to lose its allure as a bathing place. On weekends, the beach was full of loads of people - packed like sardines - and the water was pretty polluted, much worse than it is today. So, my friends and I would head out to the better beaches, like Riis Park. The waves were much bigger there. And we had started surfing, kind of, when that West Coast rage arrived here in the mid 1960’s. I had learned how to surf a little from my cousin, out on Long Island. That place was New York’s make-believe California. Surfin’ U.S.A.” “You know, Lucky and I like to go out to Riis Park sometimes, too. The waves are really big out there, and there are some great ‘3 on 3’ basketball match-up games at the beach-side courts that we watch, too.” Eyob said. “I’m happy to hear that, son. Yes, I’m happy that some good things have never changed.” I smiled. While we had been talking, Lele and Shamisha had wandered off down the boardwalk steps onto the beach, where they were watching a group of children build a big sand castle. We strolled over to the railing and admired the kid’s beautiful works of art. Feven hung from her brother’s arms and exclaimed: “Great job, kids! Tomorrow we’ll come down to join you and make another one. Please, leave us a little sand!” I laughed with gusto, and then said: “It’s strange, but what I remember most about this beach really is its fine, white sand. Rolling in it, digging in it, building castles in it, skipping across its molten-lava surface to the cool respite of the moist shoreline. I can also feel the sand in my shoes, in my crotch and in my lunch. The crunch of it when you bite into to an orange-cream popsicle on a windy day. Yes kids, all glory to sand! May you never be without it, Sunshine.” I rambled on. Lele and Shamisha had rejoined our group. Lele took my hand and continue his interrogation. “Allora, Signò Vinnie, you and your friends never came down here when you were older.” “I didn’t say that, Lele. I said we didn’t come here to swim. But we did come here, quite often, for everything else the place had to offer. We loved the rides and games, the food and the aromas, the adventure and the curiosities, the weird characters, the sounds and the music. It was a Wonderland for us. We never got enough of it, and I’ll never forget it either. Why don’t we head down there under the Parachute jump, and I’ll tell you a little more?” We strolled slowly along the boardwalk. It was almost noontime, and the air was warming up. The sky was that marvelous shade of deep, cobalt blue which New York City offers best. ‘What a lovely day to visit a dear old friend.’ I thought to myself. All around me, I took note of the changes, and I also noticed that some parts had remained the same. A few of the old attractions for children had been re-opened, like the pony cart rides, ball-throw games, art workshops and climbing structures. I was especially

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happy to see that our beloved, post-civil war Merry Go Round on Surf Avenue had been moved to a new location right there on the boardwalk. The eateries, however, were notably different. They were smaller, less commercial and appeared to be more community-based. Most were housed in temporary, lightweight structures or consisted of moveable carts. Still, most continued to sport those old-fashioned, Brooklyn-style yellow and blue umbrellas. The only eating place I saw which hadn’t changed a bit was Ruby’s Bar and Restaurant. I remembered the first time I had savored its delicacies, back in the ‘50s. At the time, it was still called the Hebrew National Deli and Bar. Then in the ‘70s, a well-known Coney Island denizen named Ruby Jacobs had bought the place, and in the years that followed it had become a sort of landmark. Later on in the day, I would notice with great pleasure the inscription ‘Ruby Jacobs Walk’ on a corner sign of a boardwalk side alley which we passed along the way. I was pleased to discover that Brooklyn still never fails to honor its local heroes. Shamisha had us stop at the next corner, where there was a great view of the Parachute Jump tower and a big sign-adorned wall emblazoned with ‘Brooklyn Cyclones.’ She invited me to sit down and said with a wide smile: ‘So now, Vinnie, tell the kids about this place. What went on here, back in the old days?”. “Well kids, this for me is ‘the Place’. You see that big sign up there? Do you know what it refers to?” I asked. “That’s the name of our baseball team, Signò Vinnie, the ‘Coney Island Cyclones’. There are lots of big games here against other teams from around the city.” Lele blurted out. “He’s right, Vinnie. But Lele probably doesn’t know that back before the ‘End’ the team was named the ‘Brooklyn Cyclones’. It was a professional Minor League team. These days, people are just getting started to reorganizing the league and the teams. So far, they’re still local and amateur.” Shamisha explained. “Well, I guess it’s fitting that the whole Brooklyn thing starts again right from Coney Island. What more than ‘Coney’ is really ‘Brooklyn’, right? Anyway, back in the ‘old days’ as you called them, Shami – ‘Cyclone’ was the name of a roller-coaster. That was a short train of open two-seater, wheeled carts which were pulled up those high wooden inclines and then let loose at the top. It was the city’s fastest and scariest roller-coaster when it was built in 1927. It could go over 60 miles an hour down the slopes and around the curves. And would that wooden structure ever shake!! And that’s not all … right nearby were two other rollercoasters – the ‘Thunderbolt’ and the ‘Tornado’ – which were a little older, somewhat smaller and even more rickety. But that added to the fun.” I trembled pleasantly, thinking about the days spent on those rides, and I continued. “And now we get to the Parachute Jump, that tall red steel-skeleton tower in front of us. Do any of you kids know what a ‘parachute’ or a ‘parachute jump’ happens to be?” “I know, Vinnie.” Aaron said. “My dad’s grandfather told me about it. He said he rode on it when he was a kid. He said it was a scary free fall for about ten seconds and then the parachute opened and you bounced to a hanging stop. The seat, big enough for two people, was wooden and had no cushion. He told me that his ass would hurt for days.” “Yeah, it was really bad, I heard tell. But I have to admit to you that I never had the courage to try it out. My mother and aunt attempted to get me on it, as did my friends in the

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years which followed, but I could never bring myself to do it. I was just frightened, and I don’t know why.” “Scaddy Cat!” Lele heckled me. “True, so true. This is something I’ll always regret never having done in my life.” “What you all certainly don’t know is the history of this ‘monument’. It was originally built for the 1939 World’s Fair. At World Fairs, people would come from all over to get a glimpse of how their ‘World’ would be in the Future. Lots of countries and companies exhibited themselves at World Fairs. And while the pavilions sang of Progress, Technology, Business and Peace, the Second World War was brewing. Those governments didn’t know or, more probably, weren’t willing to tell the people what was really going on. Anyway, when the Fair ended, that ride had been such a success that the City of New York decided to move it to Coney Island. In the beginning, people referred to it as Coney Island’s Eiffel Tower. A few years later, it was moved to this site in what was then Steeplechase Park.” I smiled. “What was that? What’s a ‘steeplechase’?” Feven asked, excitedly. “Sweetie, ‘steeplechase’ was the name for a type of a horse race track back then, before I was born. But Steeplechase Park was an amusement park. ‘Steeplechase, the Funny Place’ was its motto, and there was never a more fitting name. The pavilions, rides and beer gardens which stretched over this whole area were, in fact, surrounded by a mechanical ‘steeplechase’. Eight beautifully painted, colorful wooden horses wound around and through the park on metal tracks. And we children, and everybody else who paid their fare, were the jockeys. If, by chance, your horse won you received a prize medallion with the weird, smiling ‘funny face’ of George C. Tilyou, the park’s founder on it. The place was incredible, and it has a fascinating history. It opened originally in 1897, centered around another Ferris Wheel – like our Wonder Wheel – which Mr. Tilyou had brought to the site from Chicago. He later added many other attractions which were modelled on all the world’s corners – an Arabian village, London’s Westminster Palace with the Big Ben clock tower, the Eiffel Tower. He added, of course, amusement rides, sideshows and eateries. Then in 1907, there was a huge fire, and the entire park burned to the ground. But old Mr. Tilyou was a tough cookie. He loved Coney Island and the people loved it, too. So, he decided to charge admission to see the burned ruins and with that money, and more of his own, he rebuilt the whole place. It re-opened in 1909 and was even bigger and better than before. When I first saw it, I must have been seven years old. It hadn’t changed since 1909 and, believe me, for me and my friends it was like walking into the 19th Century. All the constructions and the rides were made of wood and wonderfully crafted. For example, the immense central hall contained a sort of ‘human billiard table’. You would slide down an enclosed spiral chute onto a polished wooden ball-room floor which had rotating circles set into a smooth, parquet surface. When you slid onto one of those circles you would be spun out, inevitably careening into or onto another person. And there were hundreds of persons on the floor, at the same time. You can’t imagine it! Like what we would call, in Neapolitan, ‘un’ammucchiata’ – a pile of writhing human bodies. And that was exactly the objective which Tilyou and many others like him in Coney Island had set for the place. They wanted to create entertaining settings and exciting occasions where people who didn’t know each other, and who came from different backgrounds – and that’s what New York was and is all

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about – could meet and, get to know each other and become more ‘intimate’. It was wild and can I say, Shami excuse me for not being politically correct, very ‘sensual’?”. “I guess it’s alright, Vinnie.” Shamisha nodded, smiling nervously. “I like it!” Lele yelled. “And that wasn’t all there was. In Steeplechase Park there were huge rolling barrel-like structures you’d walk into and, inevitably, fall into the arms of someone you might not know. And then, there were other wild scary things which – at first – really shocked us. I can still remember ….” “Like what, Signò Vinnie?” Lele and the others exclaimed, in unison. “Like there were deformed mirrors which multiplied and bent your reflection into strange combinations and forms. There was a door marked ‘This Way Only’ into which unsuspecting visitors would enter and find themselves, suddenly, exhibited on a stage in front of spectators seated around them in a small arena. The provocative tricks they’d play on that stage were not nice, at all - like a pie in your face, a low voltage electric prod applied to your behind and, worst of all - and again, excuse me for not being politically correct – there were floor mounted compressed air jets which would spread women’s billowy skirts up over their heads. But, I guess, people were different back then. Everybody, even the victims, would laugh. I should tell you that at the entry way to the Luna Park there was a sign which read: ‘ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK.’ I paused and then added, “Yup, my buddies and I spent many happy, crazy risky days at ‘Steeplechase the Funny Place’.” “It would be great to have something like that, nowadays.” Aaron interjected, and Lele nodded in agreement. “I don’t know. We still have a lot of problems to work on, and maybe we shouldn’t invest in something as big and expensive. Anyway, I’m not sure I agree with all its, let’s say, ‘politics’.” Shamisha counter-argued. “I guess have to I agree with you, Shami. It seems the kids have a lot of fun available around here now, and it’s free. But we can continue talking about this, some other time. Right now, I’m hungry. Where are my hotdogs?” “Me, too! Let’s go for hotdogs … now!” Lele yelled, and everyone else agreed. As we walked up towards Surf Avenue, I was already savoring the delicacies awaiting me at the next corner. At Surf and Stillwell, where Nathan’s Famous had once stood, the scene had changed significantly. The original structure had been completely removed, and an open lot punctuated by trees and hanging trellises had taken its place. In that open space, there were numerous food carts and small wagons interspaced with wooden tables and benches. What hadn’t changed was the unmistakeable aroma of grilled hot dogs and a variety of fried foods. But new sharp and spicy fragrances in the air—absent from my childhood olfactory landscapes—informed me that nowadays a much wider variety of ethnic foods was being offered. Just the same, I only wanted hotdogs. We entered the lot, and we zigzagged between carts and stands, tables and people. I was happy to see up close, and smell the fragrance of, the diverse foods available: Korean BQ, Vegetable Woks, Tacos, Falafel, Sausage and Peppers and a variety of hotdogs, frankfurters and wieners. Lele and Aaron guided us to a long table next to a grill

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wagon with the logo “Frank(s) - Zappa” and the genius-musician’s iconic face painted on its side. I had to smile at the serendipity of it all. “I’ve eaten here. These hotdogs are really good, and they snap, too.” Aaron said. “That’s the litmus test, my boy. You feel that ‘crack’ in your mouth, and you hear the ‘snap’ when you first bite in, and then the succulent juices flow. It’s just beautiful. Nathan’s set the gold standard for me and Hebrew National was up there, too. But when I tasted my first open-fire Wurst in Cologne Germany, I had to do a little jostling of my prejudices towards Teutonic cuisine. They were so much more than what I had expected - German Yukki Grossfud.” “You dig me, Shami?”. “I got you, Vinnie.” She laughed. “Well, these eats are on me, my friends.” I said and opened the menu, just for show as I had already decided. “Three franks – Zappa - with the works, please.” The kids ate like all kids do—like there was no tomorrow. I savored every bite, and the franks were delicious. “Hey, Shami. Do you know where this meat comes from?” I queried. “Just about everything comes from Long Island or outer Queens, Vinnie. There are many small, organic meat farms throughout that region. They produce enough to satisfy our reduced intake of meat products, as you might know. And the vegetables, which make up the major part of our diet, also come from out on the Island, or even nearer by. Some produce is even grown along the nearby abandoned rail lines and at the dismissed shopping centers and parking lots in the district. My friend Kamal, who works at the Consortium which helps the small farm coops with their distribution, can give you more information if you’re interested.” While the kids gobbled down their food and chattered on about the last Cyclones’ ballgame, I took in the surrounding scenery, and I marveled at the transformations I saw. The shops and storefronts along Surf and Stillwell all told the story of committed community action. There were a Health Center, two Children’s Workshops, a Youth Forum and numerous smaller shops dedicated to a gamma of everyday needs: energy and maintenance ateliers, a book exchange and a small library, two woodworking shops and a cobbler, too. Diagonally across from us, where the old X-rated Shore Theater had once stood, the ornate marquis announced a concert entitled “Singing for Change” with the Brighton Beach Children’s Choir on Monday. The Gay-Way Grill had become the big bike shop where Selam, Lele’s oldest sister, works. It had a fine name, “Wheels and Ways.” Aaron looked up from his tacos, saw the direction of my glance and said, “You know, Signò Vinnie, my friend Pilar and her family live in that big building across the street there, on the top floor. You should smell their apartment on weekends. It’s like Hotdog Land, when the right wind is blowing.” “Well, I remember that building when it was a nice hotel with the Shore Movie Theatre below it, when I was a kid. Then in the ‘70’s the neighborhood plummeted into disarray, and the place became a flop-house - a single room occupancy hotel for the neighborhood’s many homeless persons.” I recalled.

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“Well, now it’s really nice inside. It’s a community coop apartment for refugee families. Pilar and her folks barely made it out alive from Baja California, five years ago.” “I’m growing to love this place, like I did as a kid, but for new and different reasons. Of course, the hot dogs are still great, and what about those delicious goodies over there, have any of you ever eaten them?” I pointed and asked. “You mean the clams, Signò Vinnie?!”. “Yup, Lele. I saw that sign for “Little Necks” and “Cherry Stones,” and I was thinking I’d like a dozen or two.” “Yuk, I don’t like ‘em! My uncle Nino harvests them out on Staten Island, and he brings us a big bushel or two, every now and then. But I never eat that stuff. They’re so slimy … uck!!” “Well, how about that! Your dad never told me about the clams, that cheapskate. Or maybe I’m just distracted.” I smirked, and Shamisha jumped in to the conversation. “You must be distracted, Vinnie. You mean to tell me that you don’t know that clams, mussels, oysters and other shellfish are among the most available and sustainable foodstuffs the New York and Long Island Region produces? The restoration of the shell-fish breeding beds on the outer banks and estuaries in the bay was one of the most impressive ecological public works projects ever carried out. It began a decade before the ‘End’ as an adaptation strategy for New York City in the face of climate change and the rising sea level. Its objective was also to improve habitat and water quality, restore biodiversity in the tidal marshes and encourage new relationships between New Yorkers and the harbor. It also saved the coastline areas when the seas rose. One of the most impressive examples is just off the waterfront park at Red Hook Point. We should take you down to visit the place sometime. My friends, Anna and Charles, work in that neighborhood.” “Yes, I’d love to see the place and its changes. But, right now, I’d like a dozen Little Necks, or two. Please.” So, we ordered a second round of food. The kids stuck to franks and fries, and I got my long-awaited shellfish. Our spirits were high and the conversation flowed from food, to baseball to the future. Shamisha held front court. The young ‘street educator’ was certainly well-informed and appeared to be very involved in the resurgence efforts underway in the district. I made a mental note to hang around with her more often. While we were talking, I had been eyeing the vaguely art-deco structure across the street which, I remembered, had once been the BMT subway terminal. I thought that there was still no subway service in our neighborhood, yet hordes of people entered and exited the building, and I wondered why. “Tell me, Shami, what’s up with that building over there? Is the subway finally back in operation?” “Nope, Vinnie. There’s only service in Manhattan. The solar energy grid isn’t sufficient yet for the entire system. But my brother, who you may remember works with the Commune, told me that things are improving, and that they expect to start servicing parts of Brooklyn in a couple of years. The building over there, that you asked about, is hopping because today is Market Day. And that ex-terminal, like most of the major stops on the line, is now a Farmers’ Market. I mentioned earlier that the farmer coops are producing excellently on all the railroad cuts, on raised beds along the tracks and up under the skylight-illuminated

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sheds, as well. In many of the tunnels, for about three years now, they’ve also been producing a vast variety of mushrooms. There even grow some exotic types like Shitake, Oyster and Shimeji. Refugees from Japan - those few lucky ones who survived - brought them over. The whole operation is intricately linked to the meat and dairy farms out in Long Island. The farms produce manure and rich compost which feed the mushrooms. And, you know Vinnie, those tracks do have a light rail service, but it’s not for commuters. Farm products are transported along the subway lines, to be distributed from the ex-station markets. Makes sense, no?” “Yup, it sure does. It’s really amazing, all that’s been done. How are those mushrooms … are they good?” “They’re delicious. We should take you to Rosa’s Restaurant out in Sheepshead Bay someday. She makes a great dish called “Myrtle Avenue Mushroom Risotto.” You and Vali would love it, I’m sure.” “Myrtle Avenue? Whoa! I remember that old subway-stop. It brings back memories, just to hear the name.” “Signò Vinnie, tell us now about the subway! When was working, when you were a kid.” Lele blurted, his mouth full. “Caro, the New York City subway was immense. It went everywhere. There were over 250 miles of tracks and almost 500 stations, the most in any city. When I was a kid, on a weekday, the system could carry over 5.5 million passengers. And – get this – you could go anywhere, even stay on the subway for the whole day if you wanted … for only 15 cents! I did that once, by the way. But by 2017, it cost more than your hotdog did. $2.75 or more.” “Numbers, shmumbers. Tell us, please, what it was like to ride around the city underground.” Aaron pleaded. “Well, you see that building over there. That was the terminal, the last stop on the line from my home. The line was called the ‘N’ train, or the ‘Sea Beach’. I’ll never forget the feeling upon arrival. I should mention that the Sea Beach line in the portion from my home to Coney, wasn’t underground. The train ran mostly in open-air trenches or up on elevated tracks. But, as I was saying, when you came down into Coney around a big curve, you got a complete view of the shore line and the Ferris Wheel, the rollercoasters and the Parachute Jump. And, in the summer when all the windows were down, the salty sea breeze would rush into the cars blowing out all the funky old air. It was inebriating.” “What does that word mean, Signò Vinnie?” Feven asked. “It made my head spin, and it made me feel good, Sunshine. I always loved riding the subway. I can still recall the first trip I made into Manhattan, when I was four. I went with my brother, Momma and my favorite Aunt. We were going to see the enormous Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. But what I remember most of all about that day was the feeling of having all those people, thousands of them, crowded up around us in the train and moving in unison through the stations. I had never before seen so many people and such a variety in color, dress and language. It was like I had finally left my ‘village’, and I had entered the big outside world for the first time.”

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“But what was it like on the trains? How was it moving around underground? Was it dark?” Lele asked. “It was a trip, piccolo. The speed of the train excited and jostled me, and its rapid, linear movement created a sort of moving picture show of the stations, people and tunnel-lights. A kaleidoscope of light and darkness. And, just like the arrival at Coney I mentioned before, when the train came out of the tunnel onto the Manhattan Bridge - Wow! A spectacular vista of the East River and the City with all its skyscrapers opened up before your eyes. I would always try to stand on my tippy-toes by the door window to get the best view. Ah, era così bello.12” “Signò Vinnie, when did you first take the train on your own, without any adults?” Eyob asked. “I guess I must have been around 10 or 11 years old. I don’t remember where we were going, maybe to Down Town Brooklyn. I do remember who was with me, though. I was with my friends from the block. There were five of us. Aksel, Vito, Joe, Little Joey and me. I’ll never forget what happened that day, and you won’t believe it.” “Tell us, Signò Vinnie, please.” Feven and Lele were hanging onto my every word. “Well, we were waiting at our Fort Hamilton Parkway station on the open-air platform which was nearly empty. Next to us, there was a poor fellow with no legs. He was strapped to a low, flat wooden cart with roller-skate wheels and, in his hand, he held a cup of pencils. I guess he sold them on the subway to make a living. He was dressed in an army fatigue jacket, must have been a mutilated Korean War veteran. He had an old, battered Brooklyn Dodgers hat on. When the train arrived, he was between Vito and me, and he raised his hands towards us and asked for help. When the doors opened, we understood that he needed to be lifted over the small gap between the platform and the train. We hefted him up as best we could - remember we were only 11 years old - but something went wrong. The straps that bound his lower body to the cart came loose, the cart went skidding across the empty car, and Vit’ and I were left holding the guy in mid-air. We stood frozen in the doorway and were terrified, but he just looked up at us, smiled and laughed. As the doors closed, Aksel ran across the car and recovered his cart. He and Joe strapped the guy securely back in place, following his instructions. Then we all sat down, and he held onto the central pole facing us. We had a nice conversation, all the way to Pacific Street, where he got off. I’ll never forget his kind, unshaven face and his big, wide smile as he waved goodbye and said to us ‘Always do what you have to do, kids’.” “Wow, Vinnie. You sure have a whole lot of great stories.” Eyob laughed and asked for more food. We continued eating and talking for two more hours, until three o’clock. In response to the kids’ prodding—as if I needed it—I recounted other stories. I told them how I came to really know the subway system and the city as a whole, when I was working as a messenger out of the basement of the Chrysler Building. I think it was in the summer of my sophomore year in high school. Delivering telegrams and the like to people around Manhattan, from 57th

12

“ah, it was so beautiful” (from Italian).

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Street to Battery Park, I discovered the hidden underbelly of the city in both physical and human terms. My love for cities, and I guess for City Planning too, was born during those two months. I explored the numerous pedestrian tunnels and arcades which linked the buildings, and I identified and mapped short cuts and found cooler routes for extremely hot days. By walking, I could also save the fares (subway tokens) my agency allotted to us and use them, instead, on social outings with my friends. Tips were sometimes offered by kinder customers, so along with my salary I was amassing a small fortune which I always invested in musical equipment or spent eating out or, for the most part, blues-club hopping with my gang or band on weekends. My tales of the typical NY weirdoes I’d run into brought a lot of laughs from the kids. Naturally, I had to leave out, or censor, some details of those encounters for the benefit of the youngsters. Those were, certainly, years of hormonal explosion. When our Coney conversation was drawing to an end, I had weaved my subway stories all the way up into my college years and the days on the Upper West Side. The subway had continued to play an important part in my life. In fact, to conclude my lunch-time show, I told them of a surprise encounter with the Grateful Dead in 1968. It was during the student occupation at Columbia University, and I had been working part-time that day—May 3— down near Battery Park at a Shipping Company. As I came up the subway stairs at 116th Street, I heard live music filtering from the street. I followed the sound, entered the campus near the Book Store, and found The Dead who were giving a free concert for the Student Movement outside Lerner Hall. College Walk, the central fields and the steps of Low Library were packed full. When I arrived, The Dead were playing an endless, jazz-rock improvisation which had the crowd in a frenzy. “Yeah, I’ve always been lucky to have been in the right place, at the right time” I added, as we walked home. “You know Vinnie, I really like the Grateful Dead, My Grandpa listens to them all the time.” Shamisha said. “I don’t know them, but I’d sure like to.” Eyob added. All the others said they didn’t know The Dead, either. “Maybe tomorrow, Eyob, I can teach you a few of their songs. I would especially like you to hear the one I love most.” “Thanks, Vinnie. I’d like that. I’ll bring my guitar over to your place.”

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“I’ll bring my harmonica, too.” Feven added, with a smile so sweet it melted my heart.

It was after 4 PM when I finally arrived back home, but I still felt the need for my daily afternoon nap. With three hotdogs, almost two dozen little neck clams and three large glasses of artisan beer in my stomach, I fell into a languid stupor. I fell asleep, and I had a strange dream. Light and dark, and light and dark, and light and dark. And clatter, clatter, clatter. Then a deep voice announced: “Next stop, Union Square. Go upstairs and take a look around, folks. It’s such a sunny day. Get yourself a bite to eat and join the Union, one Big Union. Have a great day, ladies and gentlemen. Doors opening, watch your step.” I awake on the subway as the doors open and a compact, multi-form mass of people shuffles in and squeezes itself incongruently into what little breathing space remained in the packed car. By my feet, there is a legless pencil seller perched on his low wooden cart. He smiles at me, and I purchase three pencils from him, for a sawbuck. Seated to my left, an elderly woman with round, gold-rimmed glasses and her silver hair pulled back tight in a bun is reading a book which I know so well – Fields, Factories and Workshops of Tomorrow by Petr Kropotkin. “That’s odd,” I mumble to myself, “… of all books, why that book?”. While I’m pondering the multiple strands of that question, an altercation breaks out between the pencil man and a well-dressed, young business-type (yuppie) seated to my right. Evidently, a wheel of the veteran’s cart had scuffed the broker’s Italian shoes, terribly upsetting him. “People like you shouldn’t be allowed on the subway … with your horrible stink and your gentle arrogance.” “Sorry, I’m just doing what I have to do, man.” The seller gently responded. The train was now pulling into the 8th Street Station and the elderly, granny-glassed woman rose to get off. She reached down, softly took the pencil seller’s hand and said,

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“My friend, why don’t you come upstairs and have an expresso with me? I’d like to talk with you.” “Thank you, Mam. I’d enjoy that.” He flashed a mile-wide smile at her, and at me. As they exited, the woman turned and directed her stern attention to the disgruntled business man. She said, “The most violent element in society is ignorance, Sir. Have a good day, if you’re capable.”13 The place to my left was now occupied by a diminutive, curly-haired young man. He was dressed in an old dark-gray leather jacket and worn denim jeans of the same color. He tapped his small, booted feet as he rapidly jotted words into a small brown notebook. I glanced at his face and I had the feeling that I knew him. He turned to me, and his squinting dark eyes sparkled over his Cheshire Cat smile. “I’ve always loved street people and hobos, you know?” he said. “I do, too. And they sure beat arrogant Yuppie business men, hands down. You dig?” I responded. The lights in the train went out, and the screeching of the brakes and the back-lighted, streaking figures outside the windows announced our arrival at Trinity Place. When the lights came back on, we were pulling out of the station. I found that both the foot-tapper and the business-type had gone, and their places had been reoccupied. To my right sat a broadly set, elderly man with a wide bristly white beard. He was dressed for manual labor and wore a broad, floppy felt hat down over his eyes. To my left, I found a good looking, thin middle-aged man with flowing gray hair, thick sideburns and sad, dark deep-set eyes. They were both, it seemed, immersed in deep thought. The car had emptied considerably and the floor, I noticed, was now covered with a thin layer of white dust. Most of the passengers also had that same dust on their visages and shoulders, and in their hair. They were sullen-faced and no one smiled, except for a jolly group of pre-teens who were playfully rough-housing it in the doorway across from me. With a long, wooden broom handle, the kids were scratching some words in the white dust. I tried to make them out. ‘Roots,’ ‘Cycles,’ ‘Streets,’ ‘City,’ ‘Change.’ I think I read. But maybe, I’m wrong. Then I heard a low, deep voice utter a phrase that splashed and sloshed like the swelling of waves on aged timber pierheads. “And the friendly boys that passed, and the quarrelsome boys.”14 “What was that you said, Sir?” I asked. “Oh nothing, mate. I was just dreaming.” The old man said.

Emma Goldman, quoted in “Arrest in Chicago of Emma Goldman, Preacher of Anarchy,” San Francisco Call (11 September 1901). 14 Whitman, W. (op.cit.) Leaves of Grass. 13

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The train pulled into the Whitehall Street/South Ferry station, and the group of kids and the white-bearded man readied themselves to leave. They were talking together now like they were old friends. “Yeah, let’s go down to the Battery and look at the bay and see …” a black youngster said to the others. “… the heavy-planked wharves, the huge crossing at the ferries.”15 The man concluded, and the doors closed. Now the subway car was empty, except for myself and the middle-aged, side-burned man at my side. The train continued on in the darkness of the tunnel, and I didn’t understand why. “Excuse me, sir. I thought the N train came out over the Manhattan Bridge. I was so hoping to see the East River.” “Nope, you’re mistaken. I’m sorry, son. Maybe it did years ago, but I can’t be sure.” His deep eyes scanned me, inside and out. “Next stop Brooklyn.” He added. “Well, that’s where I’m from, and that’s where I’m going, anyway.” “You wanted to see the Myrtle Avenue Station, am I right? That’s no problem, I can take you there.” He snapped his fingers and - like magic - the train was back in the daylight, and we were near the Brooklyn end of the Manhattan Bridge. I thanked him heartily as the train hurtled, once again, into the darkness. For some odd reason, I sensed it was now going in the opposite direction. “Check out the Masstransiscope!” He yelled above the din of the steel wheels on the tracks. Before our eyes, there appeared a linear kaleidoscope of changing, revolving colors and forms in rapid movement: blue, red, yellow, green … rockets, flowers, rhombi, squiggles and squares. It wasn’t what I had been expecting. “But I wanted to see the beautiful old, empty station with its oak benches and pristine white and blue-tiled walls.” Smiling, he turned towards me and said: “There’s always something you’re not supposed to see, but it’s a condition of growing up that you will see it.”16 I understood, and I agreed with him. I have learned that maxim through experience.

15 16

Whitman, W. (op.cit.) Leaves of Grass. DeLillo, D. (1985) White Noise. Viking Press, New York.

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I Never Liked Those Two Towers. Did You? (Sept. 11, 2035)

My father had an unsettling relationship with the World Trade Center for most of his life. While at Harvard, he finally came to understand the political, social and technical-esthetic factors contributing to his disdain (and ominous fear) regarding that icon of Urban Development driven by Global Capitalism. Yet, long before Graduate School, when he was a child, my father was already “aware” that the Twin Towers were the ‘wrong thing to do.’ In this chapter, he describes how its construction had forever removed a viable, human-scale neighborhood which he had dearly loved. Those buildings had destroyed a Living Streetscape which even a child could appreciate. By detailing his story of the evolution and destruction of the WTC through the thoughts of a child, I believe he intended to ‘tell’ the reader that young Vinnie, like the thousands of children he worked with throughout his lifetime, possessed a special power to Imagine Futures. That was something he always believed in and struggled to facilitate.

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Last night, we had dinner with an old friend of ours and her family. Thea is the daughter of our dear friend Madeline, who was the wonderful loving woman who first taught Vale ‘Brooklyn English’ almost sixty years ago. She, more than anyone else, helped my wife get through the difficult period of adjusting to a new country when we moved back here in 1980. The two went on to become the best of friends and soul sisters for life. Then Madeline died, tragically and prematurely, in December of 2002. From then on, her daughter has always lovingly referred to Vale as her ‘Italian Mamma.’ I have never known anyone who could make you feel more at home, or more welcome, than Maddy. To this very day, we miss her immensely. Her name comes up in conversation almost every day. I think of her whenever I see the numbers ‘11:11’ on a time piece. She said that “angels are watching whenever you see the number “11:11.” As a matter of fact, I see those numbers pop up quite often … more often than probability or chance could possibly allow. Madeline was a rare type of a person. She is the person who represents, for me, the epitome of commensality. So, it was more than fitting that yesterday evening we reminisced about her over steaming plates of molasses and carrot-stuffed meatloaf. Maddy had taught Val that same recipe, many years earlier. On the eve of the 34th Anniversary of 9/11, our words and our hearts inevitably reached out to, and embraced, dear Maddy throughout the course of the night. “I will never forget the moment when Maddy called our home in Perugia, minutes after the first plane hit the Tower. She told our son, Marco who answered, that she was fine, and that there was nothing for us to worry about.” At the time Madeline, Thea and her brother had been living for three months in an apartment on Greenwich Street just a few blocks from the World Trade Center. They had moved there from Brooklyn. We were, obviously, very concerned for them. As the terrifying details of the day’s attack unfolded on our TV, the immensity of the tragedy became evermore evident. After her call, all communication with our friend had been interrupted for 24 hours, and our trepidation for Maddy and her children’s well-being had increased exponentially. We didn’t sleep a minute that terrible night. Finally, the following morning, we managed to get a call through to Maddy’s ex-husband. He told us briefly of what she had been through. Our dear friend would recount all details of her harrowing experience by phone, a few days later. It was a terrifying and heart-wrenching story which we recalled together, over dinner last night. Only minutes after the first plane struck the North Tower at 8:46 AM, Maddy had made the call. When the second plane struck the South Tower, she realized that it couldn’t be an accident. She began to fear terribly for her daughter who was a student at Stuyvesant High School which was a short distance from the base of the North Tower. She passed harrowing minutes nervously watching the ‘Breaking News,’ peering out her window at the chaos below, heeding the official warnings to ‘not leave one’s apartment,’ and consulting with fleeing or shock-frozen neighbors. She tried as best she could to get her wits together. Then at 9:45, she threw all caution to the wind, put a robe on over her pajamas and rushed shoeless out of her apartment and started the descent towards the street. Only minutes after she exited the building, the South Tower collapsed with a deafening roar, and shortly afterward a blinding dense cloud of dust engulfed her.

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Maddy feared that Thea’s school had been crushed, and she ran desperately through the confusion and smoke in its direction. She found the building standing and undamaged, but it was empty. A police officer told her that the school had been evacuated, and that the entire student body was walking up the West Side Highway which had been, by that time, closed to vehicular traffic. As she walked towards the highway, the roar of the second Tower’s collapse reached her ears and shocked her to her bones, but it didn’t stop her desperate search for Thea. Minutes later, another cloud of concrete, paper and human DNA from the pulverized monolith and the lives it contained, encircled Maddy and the thousands of sleep-walkers surrounding her. The dust coated her skin, and its acrid odor accompanied her and the endless tide of lost souls for the entirety of their exodus from Ground Zero, in search of a safer place. Our friend would later describe the chaos surrounding her as ‘something biblical’ in dimension and apocalyptic drama. Miraculously, she happened upon her daughter’s class near 14th Street, where emergency workers and civilian volunteers had set up a safe-station which was providing water and assistance to the fleeing masses. After long, intense minutes of hugs, kisses and tears of joy, they had continued on, compressed in the human deluge, up to the Upper West Side apartment of one of her daughter’s classmates. Years later, Thea married another of her classmates, and they would have two children together. Last night, we all sat around our table celebrating Maddy, and remembering the tragedy which, I believe, accelerated our world’s “end-run” to 2022. That event—and the “fallout”—of the terrible day brought on the return of our friend’s cancer, in remission at the time, and was the cause of her premature death … fifteen months later. I have always disliked the World Trade Center. My disdain has deep roots which go way back, and I often try to explain to myself just why I feel this way. I have always experienced a sense of discomfort and foreboding in its presence. I never appreciated its style and image, and I never considered the Twin Towers the symbol of New York, as many did. Its iconic profile would never represent the ‘New York Skyline’ for me. I must also add that its starchitect-sanctified successor, the One World Trade Center (symbolically 1776 feet tall!), never has and never will, either. Regardless of my rancor towards those buildings, of course I condemn the terrorist attack and the destruction of those buildings. I sincerely mourn the thousands of victims, innocent and heroic of that day, and the millions more who would come, as a consequence in the succeeding decades. I comprehend and share the solemn reverence for the site and what it has come to symbolize to so many, but I continue to despise the Twin Towers. I have worked for most of my professional life against the architectural and political image-meaning-function which such models of urbanization represent. Still, I know that, in fact, my feelings of discomfort and the dread the place evoked in me began well before my ideologization. It extends back to my childhood years and continued through my adolescence and youth. As a young child, before the World Trade Center was built, I would often visit the district where it would one day stand with my father whose workplace was on nearby Varrick Street, or with my uncle who would sometimes take me along on his treasure hunts for scavenged, recycled components in Radio Row. He used to call the area the ‘Kasbah of Cathode Tubes.’ In my ‘child-eye,’ that area will always remain for me just that—a Kasbah, a Suk and a market place for small and medium-sized, popular post-war enterprises. The zone was a lively, vital neighborhood for the common people. I can still recall the musky smell of the

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humid wool overcoats imbibed with smoky residues in the overcoats pressing my shoulders as I—poised on my tippy toes—attempted to peer into the wooden trays of radio and TV parts. I can still hear snippets of the conversations and the deals, in innumerable accents from all the world’s corners, which encompassed me on so many early Saturday mornings. “Last night, I caught a strong wave from Hawaii, and we talked for hours.” “You got any war surplus radio equipment, Chief? I got a 42 megacycles receiver that’s gone bum.” “Yup. We got all kinds of used military gear at junk prices inside. Come on in, Mack.” “Hey Mo, didja’ hear they’re talking about knocking dis whole damn neighborhood down?” If I close my eyes, I can reproduce in my mind’s eye the syncopation of the multi-colored and multi-formed store insignias. In particular, the full façade-height, art-deco ‘Arrow’ on the shop of the same name stands out. I can clearly see the many make-shift, cardboard signs announcing the day’s special bargains. I remember the fun I had pointing out occasional spelling errors to the befuddled store-owners. “Duh kid’s sharp, Rocco!”. There was a fine-grained texture to that neighborhood. Its vibrant street life and ‘human scale’ were recognizable even to a tiny visitor like myself. And even though the area was denominated a ‘Specialized District,’ there was just the right mix and diversity in the services it offered, to satisfy the needs of all the shoppers and inventors. Along with the innumerable owner-run, small radio and TV components shops there were also a few larger ones, like Vim and Da Vega, which would manage to survive the demolition and go on to become chain stores. On Cortlandt Street, there were even three small old hotels. One even called itself a ‘Motel,’ oddly enough. Probably all of them were rundown, remnant flophouses from an earlier period when the nearby waterfront was still bustling with seafarers. There was even a bicycle shop and a toy store which I always thought someone had placed there, just for me. Like any other NY neighborhood, there were newsstands, tobacco and liquor shops, candy stores and, best of all, there were the coffee shops and luncheonettes. Those were the places—I especially remember Ben & Joe’s Luncheonette—where I first experienced the grand pleasure of “eating out for breakfast.” It was usually a huge meal, or so it seemed to a 6-year-old boy. The planning and building of the WTC brought this vibrant social and economic world to an end, and when the entire district was demolished, there was little or no compensation offered to the evictees. Some scholars have asserted that the construction of the WTC indirectly caused shop and business closings, or relocations, all the way up to 45th Street along the West Side of Manhattan. At the time, as a child, I didn’t understand the complex mechanisms behind these changes, and I certainly couldn’t, as of yet, ‘appreciate’ the nefarious nature of the model of urban (and global) development which the proponents of this plan—and not only they—were insinuating in the social fabric of my city. Nevertheless, my heart cried hot tears when the area came tumbling down. I can still recall a few vivid flashes of a last conversation between my uncle and one of his preferred used-parts dealers when word of the plan had just started to spread around the neighborhood. It must have been four or five years before the wrecking balls started to swing. “Yeah, Rocco. We’re gonna have to close for good or move, and it ain’t gonna be easy.” “What are you gonna do, Maxie?”.

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“I don’t know, maybe I’ll manage to retire in Florida although I hate duh place. But my wife likes it dere.” “Sorry to hear it. But, what’s gonna happen around here? What are they gonna build?” “They’re talking about building something called the World Trade Center. It’s gonna be a huge place. A pair of enormous, tall buildings which will take up the whole six-block area. My son-in-law works on Wall Street, and he said they’ll be selling something they call ‘Futures’ down here. No more tubes and switches, no more radios and whatnots … just ‘Futures.’ Whatever the fuck dat means!” “Seems to me like they’re selling your future up the river, Maxie. I’m gonna miss you, brother.” Uncle Rocco said. In the years that followed—strange how one’s life circle always takes you back to the same place—I spent a lot of time in the WTC area. I happened to be around for all of its successive phases: demolition, site preparation and construction. In the summer of 1966, upon graduation from High School, I found summer employment in an import–export company on Lower Broadway near Bowling Green. I continued to work there, part-time, throughout my Freshman and Sophomore years and, being a messenger whose main job was to schlep Bills of Lading and other shipping documents back and forth between various downtown, US-flag shipping companies and the Customs House on Bowling Green, I was out-of-doors most of the time. For this reason, I had a front-row view of the area’s destruction and transformation. By the Spring of 1966, demolition of Radio Row had already begun, and I would spend many of my lunch hours, on and around Cortlandt Street, watching the wrecking balls swing and the remaining buildings come tumbling down. These included old Maxie’s radio shop and my favorite place, Ben & Joe’s luncheonette. On August 5, 1966, when the groundbreaking began for the enormous hole which would accommodate the World Trade Center’s foundations, I was there. In the following months, I was astonished at the speed with which the work progressed on what the Port Authority engineers had dubbed the ‘Bathtub,’ with its ingenious ‘slurry wall’ designed to keep the waters of the Hudson River out of the deep trenches where the foundations were to be laid. It was fascinating and almost surreal to see the Hudson Tubes which carried the PATH trains into Manhattan suspended in air in the hole, mimicking a kind of elevated subway, below ground level. Then in my Junior Year at Columbia, I was hired as an Engineering Intern by the Port Authority, and I would actually meet the brilliant Chief Engineer who had devised the slurry wall scheme. I worked alongside other engineers who elaborated the computer programs that controlled the complex, first of its kind, Sky Lobby elevator system which would provide ‘local’ and ‘express’ service to 110 floors, for 99 elevators in each Tower. In my Senior Year, I even visited one of the unfinished upper floors of the North Tower from which we could clearly see the South Tower, still in construction. At that time, I must say, even if I had by then become fascinated by the technology, the structural refinements and the extraordinary engineering skills of the WTC team, that same ominous feeling of foreboding continued to haunt me whenever I was around the site or inside the unfinished buildings. This sensation reached its apex, one day, while we were measuring the sway of the South Tower through the banks of narrow, vertical windows which encircled us. Our boss had told us that the architect who had designed the building had specified that window

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design because he himself was terribly afraid of heights. To me, that seemed to be a crazy and ineffective solution since the long, vertical form of the windows only served to frame and, consequentially, magnify the constant movement of the other Tower. If I close my eyes today, I can still sense the nausea and the fear which engulfed me as I watched the South Tower oscillating slowly, back and forth, like an immense bamboo shaft in a steady wind. Several years later, on one of my first days at the Harvard Graduate School of Design, I would learn something which crystalized my comprehension of the disdain I hold for the WTC. A lecture initiated my morbid interest in the tragic and contradictory fame and fate of its creator—the diminutive, soft-spoken Nippon-American architect, Minoru Yamasaki. The class, ‘Dialectics of American Urban and Regional Planning’—if I remember correctly—had begun with our viewing a film which related the story of the infamous Pruitt-Igoe Public Housing Complex in St. Louis of which Yamasaki had also been the principal designer. The film contained striking footage of the implosion of that complex which had been demolished exactly 18 months earlier on March 16, 1972. After the film showing, our teacher went on to narrate the story of the housing complex’s origin and end. She informed us that when the project for the immense complex (thirty-three 11-story apartment buildings which contained 2,870 apartments, on an isolated under-serviced 57-acre site) was first presented in 1951, the prestigious Architectural Forum had awarded it as the “Best High-rise Apartments” of the year and had called its site plan an “Ideal Vertical Neighborhood for Poor People.” Once it was occupied, the Project’s ‘fame’ began to spiral downward from public outcry, to condemnation, to total demolition in less than two decades. The factors contributing to its failure were, she said, ‘multiple and complex,’ as she went on to innumerate each of its numerous ‘errors.’ The lecture’s intention was to highlight examples of ‘Dialects in Planning,’ and as such, we students were to understand—at least that’s how the ‘excuse’ went—that it ‘wasn’t only Yamasaki’s fault.’ His studio, we learned, had initially proposed a slightly different project with a better mix of low and high-rise apartments, more services and higher quality materials, etc. but budget restrictions and bureaucracy (the Korean War deficit had even been called into cause) led to the built result. What I, instead, took away from the day’s lecture was the utter failure in applying modernist, technocratic solutions and universal, non-contextualized principles to complex social, environmental and economic questions. During my two years at the HGSD, I would successively be introduced to Participatory Planning, Jane Jacobs, Kevin Lynch, Environmental Psychology and much more which would consolidate my belief and understanding that the errors of rationalist architecture and planning went much deeper, and that its practitioners—including Yamasaki—could never be ‘pardoned’ because they were ‘simply applying’ what some academics called an ‘Objective Science.’ I had heard enough of these falsehoods during my years in Engineering School, in the period of the Viet Nam War. When the Twin Towers came down, 37 years later, I couldn’t help but make the connection and realize, with more clarity this time, that—in this complex web of events—specific city planning decisions and policies had sacrificed the context and the everyday lives of a community in favor of universal principles and economic interests, and had actually been party to the disastrous, world-shaking event. I couldn’t shake the strange feeling that my ‘unripe’ eyes in childhood and adolescence had seen, or at least intuited, the Future of the Twin Towers. This, I thought, perhaps might explain the strange, ominously foreboding sensation which the WTC site and structures had always evoked in me.

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I sometimes think that poor Minoru Yamasaki must have been jinxed or, most probably, bewitched at birth. How is it possible that a single man had had (and I use the second ‘had’—instead of ‘seen’—since he was dead at the time of 9/11) his two most important built works demolished dramatically and tragically, only two or three decades after their construction? Even more ironic, and tragic, is the fact that the man’s very words—spoken softly and with a sensitivity which most other technocratic practitioners usually lack— seemed to have contributed to his terrible misfortunes or ‘disgrazie,17’ as a Neapolitan might utter when truly believing that a person is cursed. Still today, Yamasaki’s own words cry out irony, contradiction and tragedy. In 1962, after Pruit-Igoe had been built, he had said that Architecture should be “dignified and elegant.” He added that it must be “human-scaled so that it belongs to man,” so that he has pride in it, so that he loves it, so that he wishes to touch it. (But what human is he?). These ‘humanist’ traits certainly don’t seem to describe the reality and the fate of Pruit-Igoe. With regards to the WTC, perhaps some might concede the adjectives “dignified” and “elegant” which he used, but “humanly scaled to man” is not a fitting descriptor of the Towers. This term is more suitable for the “Radio Row” quarter which it had displaced. Even more strikingly, Yamasaki’s declared design intentions for the WTC seem to me to have literally turned the ‘evil eye of fate’ in his direction. I would imagine that not many persons know that he had modeled the site’s plaza, prophetically and ominously, after the Mecca. He himself had once described that space as “ … like a Mecca, a great relief from the narrow streets and sidewalks of the Wall Street area.” He had also incorporated several typically Islamic spatial patterns into his plan such as a central fountain in a vast delineated square with its radial circular pattern. He had utilized features of Islamic architecture in some of the buildings’ design details: the narrowly pointed arches, the arabesque patterns and traces in the prefabricated concrete and in the minaret-like flight tower. I often wonder, whether the Jihadists behind the 9/11 attack had actually known of Yamasaki’s symbolic intentions. Did they intend to punish the designer’s blasphemous act of confusing Market Capitalism with Allah? Certainly, Mohammed Ata was a highly trained and acculturated Engineer-Architect and Bin Laden was a constructor of Mosques, and of much more, so they may have known this and had sadistically intended an additional ‘irony’ in their horrendous actions. There was only one moment, I can say, when I appreciated and felt comfortable with the World Trade Center. That was when the French funambulist and daredevil, Philippe Petit, walked a high-wire between the North and South Towers in the summer of 1974. His perilous feat began on August 6. That date, strangely, is both my mother’s and my father’s birthday. It also happens to be the anniversary of the first Atomic Bomb attack on the city of Hiroshima. I have never really understood whether Petit had selected that date purposely, or not. His performance was spectacular, and I consider his accomplishment to be the only non-violent act which managed to domesticate the towers and ‘bring them down to size.’ Perhaps, his feat finally offered a glimpse of what Yamasaki had intended when he talked of the Towers’ being ‘humanly scaled for man.’ 17

Foreseen catastrophe (from Italian).

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When Philippe Petit was asked why he had carried out such a life-threatening stunt, he replied: “If I see three apples, I have to juggle them. If I see two towers, I have to walk between them.” Honestly, I think that Petit would have done well if he had gone on to say: “And if someone removes our sidewalks, I’ll simply recreate them in thin air. If we are no longer allowed to walk on the streets of our cities, we can - and we should – just take a stroll in the clouds above them.”

Curator’s Analysis This chapter of the author’s chronicle covers a one-year period during which he is gradually reacquiring a sense of autonomy and improving his ability to remember and reflect upon what had transpired in earlier periods of his life. As his range of movement expands outward beyond the Housing Coop, he provides the reader with additional details regarding the social and environmental regeneration which has been carried out in the surrounding

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neighborhood. He expresses admiration for the increasingly mutualistic social order and the local nature-based solutions which a new society has developed to provide nutriment, shelter and recreation, at the same time recovering the Region’s devastated ecological and economic infrastructures. This story line will continue to develop throughout the book. A recurring theme or, perhaps better stated, a narrative mechanism which is particularly evident in this section is the social function of eating together. In each episode, the author has purposely positioned new and old friends around a table sharing food, as he ‘invites’ them to tell their stories which, in turn, permits him to recount his own. In this way, he once again connects the present to the past and future, and he ably presents and reflects upon several of the book’s central messages. The themes (messages) which have been expounded and discussed are, briefly: • The centuries-old conflict between centralized economic and political power and local community initiatives in the context of globalization and its nefarious effects on the environment, science-technology and societal well-being. The ‘specter’ of the World Trade Center, a life-long obsession of the author, here assumes a central role as the symbol of the urban development model which anticipated the End, and which he contrasted in the course of his entire career. • The author’s practice of creating occasions for people (and children, in particular) to participate in Imagining and creating Futures, together with the arduous role which ‘open’ communication and listening can play in counter-balancing the conventional planning approaches and financial speculation of those in power is further revealed. • Once again, the author’s ‘beloved’ Brooklyn is at the center of our story. The places, the people and the adventures (in this Borough) which so influenced his personal and professional development continue to occupy the front stage. These themes will continue to evolve towards the book’s conclusion, assuming major clarity and relevance to the (academic) reader as the author enters his life-stage of university formation and professional development (in Chap. 7), where he critically reflects on the choices and contradictions which these contexts present.

References and Suggestions for Further Reading Intercultural Conversations Cohen, M. L. (1988). Children’s “peace with nature” festival—Assisi. Environmentalist, 8(4), 305–308. https://link.springer.com/article/10.1007/BF02243604 Dunbar, R. (2017). Breaking bread: The functions of social eating. Adaptive Human Behavior and Physiology, 3, 198–211 (This article is published with open access at Springerlink.com) Lorenzo, R. (1983). Children as catalysts of ‘another’ development. In Network for environment and development (Vol. 3, n. 1). Clark University. Nicholson, S., & Lorenzo, R. (1979). Future perfect? In Undercurrents (Special International Year of the Child Edition), September, London.

References and Suggestions for Further Reading

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Nicholson, S., & Lorenzo, R. (1980, 81). The political implications of children’s participation in futures. In Ekistics, March–April (2), London. And in International Foundation on Development Alternatives March-April Nyon, Switzerland Ochs, E., & Shohet, M. (2006). The Cultural structuring of mealtime socialization. In New directions for child and adolescent development (No. 111, Spring). Wiley Periodicals, Inc. To learn more about the World Futures Studies Federation see: https://wfsf.org/about-us/history

Coney Island and a Hotdog-Induced Subway Reverie Kasson, J. F. (2003). Amusing the millions. Coney Island at the turn of the century. Hill & Wang (FSG). Willensky, E. (1986). When Brooklyn was the world. Harmony Books, Crown Publishers.

I Never Liked Those Two Towers. Did You? Darton, E. (1999). Divided we stand: A biography of New York’s World Trade Center. Basic Books. Petit, P. (2002) To reach the clouds: My high wire walk between the twin towers. North Point Press. Yamasaki, M. (1979). A life in architecture. Weatherhill.

Part IV

A New World: Investigating, Visioning, Engaging and Creating

Chapter 7

The Young Man: Walking Through the Shadows

© Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2022 R. Lorenzo, Children’s Free Play and Participation in the City, Children: Global Posthumanist Perspectives and Materialist Theories, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-0300-7_7

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Walking (with my Head) in the Clouds (December 1–2, 1969) (Investigating Professional and Scientific ‘Objectivity’)

While waiting for his fate to be decided in the Vietnam Draft Lottery, Vinnie flips through his notebook-diary and recalls some salient events from his years at Columbia University. In these next pages, he confronts his many doubts concerning: Engineering Education, the Ethics of Science and Technology, the War in Vietnam, the Student-Community Protest Movement and the Hippy Counterculture. He laments the weakening of his ties with the neighborhood, friends and family. Still, he continues to cherish the formative value of his childhood adventures on the block. At this point in his life, strong signals of Vinnie’s interest in, and passion for, Children’s Free Play and Participation in Cities begin to emerge.

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Vinnie has been a student at Columbia University for over three years, now. He has lived on the Upper West Side of Manhattan for the last two of these. His life has been a wild, crazy roller-coaster ride with ups and downs and swerves and sways … a truly tumultuous journey. His relationships with his family (except his mother) and neighborhood have weakened considerably, and they are now much less essential to his well-being. At school, he has made new friends. As he sat in the tiny, top-floor room in a fraternity house on 114th Street and observed the framed miniatures of the lives of others unveiling themselves in illuminated tenement windows across the block’s inner court, he thought back over the string of events which had brought him to a shadow line he was about to cross. His future, and his very existence rest upon a Lottery shortly to be announced on National television. The extraction of a single number would decide where he would live in the next years and, possibly, whether he might even die. In less than two hours, Richard Nixon’s politically astute and inhumanly cynical Viet Nam War Draft Lottery would be taking place. While awaiting his sort, like so many thousands of his peers, he recalled the day —four years earlier—when he had first visited the Columbia Morningside campus. His mother had insisted on coming along for his entrance interview. Vinnie’s entire family, except she and his aunt Emma, had been against his attending Columbia University. The boy’s father and his Uncle Bruno were worried that he would ‘become a Communist in such a hotbed of radical thought,’ and his favorite uncle, Rocco, was certain that Brooklyn Polytech could best provide him with ‘the necessary technical skills and knowledge to get a good paying union job’ after graduation. For his extended family, and especially, for his friends on the block, Vinnie’s major crime was an original sin of having even considered leaving Brooklyn. In all truth, at that time, Vinnie himself wasn’t entirely convinced about abandoning his neighborhood. If he decided to live at home, he knew the subway trip to school would consume over ninety minutes each way, every day. And since tuition and other costs at Columbia were high, even with his half-scholarship, he would be obliged to continue to hold down a part-time job in lower Manhattan. This meant it would be easier for him to live on campus, but the additional expenses of this choice appeared to be unsustainable. He had originally chosen Columbia because its Engineering program (with its many required courses in the Humanities and Social Sciences, and the possibility of even more such electives) would provide him the most opportunities to open his eyes to the world and to investigate other fields of study. None of the other schools where he had been admitted, in particular the Brooklyn Polytechnical Institute, provided anything of that kind. In those institutes, you became an Engineer, and that was that. Secretly, Vinnie knew that he never had really wanted to be an Engineer. His heart had always been set on Architecture or City Planning, or something like that, and Columbia was the only place where he could take preparatory classes in that direction. In the end, he decided to enroll in what seemed to him to be the least ‘Engineering’ of all Engineering disciplines (Industrial

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Operations Research), and which had the lightest technical and scientific workload. For the time being, he found himself sitting in another Limbo. In his freshman year, he had made an excruciatingly long daily commute, while working three half-days in Downtown Manhattan, and had barely managed to carry his heavy 18-credit course load. Then in late spring—with his grades plummeting and, even more heart breaking, with the realization that his days as an aspiring musician with his band out in Brooklyn were coming to an end—Vinnie decided to move to the Upper West Side. His family had begrudgingly accepted this decision with the stipulation that he would ‘have to do it on his own.’ That is, he would be obliged to pay for all of his living expenses, excluding the half-tuition costs which his family would continue to cover. A solution to his financial dilemma had come from Lenny Horowitz, a Park Avenue hippy, who had been his classmate in the ‘Development of Western Institutions and Social Ideas’ course in his freshman year. Vinnie and Donnie Ruffolo, the only other working-class student in the class, had become friends with Lenny on the day the two Italian-American boys had helped the hilarious Jewish kid to understand—though their firsthand stories and exhilarating personal interpretations of—the intricate workings of the “Street Corner Society” they were studying in William Whyte’s book of the same name. Vinnie had been astonished to learn that such an important scholar had taken the time and effort to study the social organization of poor, urban teenagers. To Vinnie, Whyte’s treatise was just commonsense and simply explicated the rules of everyday group-life which all of his childhood friends could easily recite. Lenny was a member of the ODOR1 fraternity, and he had asked the boys to visit his ‘house.’ After some initial hesitation—the two “street kids” judged fraternities to be private clubs for elitist, rich, right-wing ‘athletic supporters’ (i.e., jocks)—the two boys had accepted Lenny’s invitation. They had started studying together after class at the house, and when they began to attend ODOR’s Friday night parties, Vinnie discovered that Brothers’ only flaw was that they were almost all filthy rich. He discovered that ODOR was, without a doubt, the strangest and most non-conformist house on campus. Its members were a motley, multi-ethnic crew of radical leftists, writers2 and intellectuals, hippies and pot-heads. Vinnie, and to a lesser degree Don R, grew to enjoy the company of the ODOR gang whose sense of humor, political views and tastes in music were right up his alley. When Lenny suggested that they consider vying for membership (which also would mean they could room cheaply in the ‘frat house’), both boys jumped at the occasion. The spring of 1967 was Vinnie’s period of tests and trials. These weren’t to be the typical hazing and physical rough stuff of the jock-style fraternity initiations. Rather, the members posed intellectually imaginative and pragmatic challenges which served to gauge the boys’ general knowledge, as well as their ability to think

ODOR is the imaginary name of the author’s fraternity. Significantly, it means “street” in Greek. One of its members of the fraternity authored a best-selling personal account of the 1968 student occupation which became an internationally acclaimed film: The Strawberry Statement.

1 2

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outside the box and to collaborate with the other pledges. Vinnie’s bid had been sponsored by Lenny and by Harpo Shapiro, a mandolin-playing hippy and Architecture student from Marin County. Both turned out to be intelligent, comical while serious, mentors during the six-week pledging period which Vinnie went on to pass with flying colors. The final initiation challenge had been, without a doubt, a ‘Night to Remember.’ That experience came very close to the Vinnie’s subway tunnel and Manhattan Bridge excursion, up at the top of his ‘Best and Most Dangerous Urban Adventures’ list. As might be imagined from a fraternity which hung posters of Che Guevara and Ho Chi Minh in its entry way, the date of the ‘final challenge’ had been scheduled on May 1, 1967. And that date couldn’t have been worse. In the previous two weeks, New York—like many other US cities—had been witness to massive anti-war mobilizations and Columbia, being a ‘hotbed of radical thought,’ had been one of the major centers of those actions. On April 4, Martin Luther King had spoken out publicly against the war in Viet Nam, for the first time, in the nearby Riverside Church. Then, on April 15, in Central Park’s Sheep Meadow, 158 young men had burned their draft cards (Harpo had been one of these) while over 300,000 people had gathered and protested angrily in the, so-called, Spring Mob(ilization) Demonstration. So, on May 1, the police and special tactical forces were still on the war-path. They were on a permanent lookout for ‘radical long-hairs’ in all of the city’s strategic locations. As might be expected, the jokester frat brothers had included a few of those very places in the mind-boggling ‘Treasure Hunt’ which they had prepared for the pledges. The ten-hour city-wide hunt was set to begin at sunset on May Day (a few minutes before 8 PM) and was to conclude at sunrise of the following day (one minute before 6 AM). Their ‘game’ was guided by a system of colored envelopes each containing a brilliantly contrived, cryptic clue drawn from a wide array of scholarly sources and disciplines which led to the identification of a specific site in some part of the city. A first red envelope was handed to them at the ODOR house and each successive one would, or would not, be found on the basis of the pledges capacity to interpret the envelope’s enigma. The pledges were divided into groups of four. On Vinnie’s team were: Chase, a thin, delicately skinned and permanently stoned Philosophy major, born in Belgium, the son of an American ‘diplomat’ (i.e., CIA) and a local noblewoman; Nelson, a long-haired, Chinese-American Economics major, always ‘elegantly’ dressed in a wrinkled black Armani suit and Beatles boots, and whose father owned, or so it seemed, half of Hawaii; and Junot, a frizzy haired, lanky Afro-Dominican full-scholarship kid majoring in Comparative Literature who came from Washington Heights. When the composition of the teams was announced, Vinnie’s first thought was. “So far, so good. At least two of us come from New York City.” His parochial optimism was confirmed, right from the first clue which had read: “Sometimes I feel like a motherless child, but not when I have the opportunity to drink a delicious egg cream in the local Ice Cream Fountain, with my beautiful mother.”

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Vinnie and Junot had no difficulty identifying the song by Paul Robeson, and Junot knew that the building Robeson had grown up in was in his neighborhood, only a few blocks from his own home. He also knew that there was an old candy store nearby that, he sustained, ‘made a great egg cream.’ The four boys rushed off on the subway to Edgecombe Avenue and West 161st Street. There, they had their egg creams and retrieved a second little yellow envelope from the befuddled, middle-aged counterman who declared to the boys: “Yep. A young, professor-looking guy dropped this envelope off here. He said that a group of four weirdoes might come by to pick it up, tonight. And was he ever right - excuse me for saying it - but you guys are really strange.” Since the first trial question had been so easy, and it was only 9.15 PM, Chase suggested that the group go to the nearby park to “… read the next clue and have a smoke.” Everyone knew exactly what ‘smoke’ he was talking about, what else could it be? They all sat back and got high. The next message was a ‘piece of cake’ for Vinnie, or at least he thought it was. Like most people from Brooklyn, Vinnie knew that ‘Nathan’s Famous,’ out in Coney Island, could (as they had found written on the clue card) “Dish out 2000 clams and oysters at a single sitting.” That place was advertised as “serving the Millions.” Chase and Nelson, rich kids that they were, had argued instead that the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Station also served thousands of shellfish. But the successive poetic stanza on the card had resolved any doubt about the solution. It recited: “Water, water, everywhere, And all the boards did shrink; Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink …”. Junot identified these lines as part of Coleridge’s The Ancient Mariner, and this suggested that the place had to be on, or at least near to, the sea. This meant that Grand Central Station was out. After the ninety-minute trip out to Coney Island and the additional 15 minutes explaining their mission to the overworked countermen and trying to find the employee who should have the envelope (‘an urban pirate with a black eye-patch’), Vinnie realized that he had been wrong. There were, he noted, very few seats in the place. Almost everyone ate standing up at Nathan’s Famous. The kids were baffled. Where should they go, now? At one point in their pondering other possibilities, Nelson remembered having eaten with his father at a huge, elegant seafood restaurant on the waterfront, somewhere. It was the biggest eatery he had ever been to, but he couldn’t remember its name or where it was. They had gone by limousine, he recalled, on a parkway so that meant it was outside Manhattan, which was a problem. It might have been in Queens or even Long Island. When pressed by the others, he managed to remember that the place was a “long, low tile-roofed Spanish style structure across from some docks, that had bold letters on a wide, colorful entrance awning.” Although he’d never eaten there, Vinnie was certain that the solution had to be Lundy’s Restaurant in Sheepshead Bay, only two subway stops away. After half an

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hour, the group had picked up the third envelope which Vinnie read aloud as they hurried to the subway which would take them back into the city. On the slip of paper, a reference to a “glass house” clicked for Nelson who identified its author as the architect, Philip Johnson, who had built several projects in or around NYC. The first two that came to his mind were a hospital in the Bronx and the Lincoln Center, but the second cryptic sentence made reference to a “Tent of Tomorrow.” There was also a small sketch-plan which laid out, in a nearly circular pattern, sixteen elements which appeared to be columns. There was a red ‘X’ drawn on one of them. The enigma’s solution came to Vinnie. The site plan reminded him of the NY State Pavilion at the 1964 World’s Fair, but he had no idea whether or not it was still standing. Their only possibility was to take the long subway ride out to Flushing and find out. The group was lucky with subway connections, considering the late hour, and by 1.45 AM, they had retrieved the orange envelope exactly where the red ‘X’ had indicated it would be. The next three challenges were easily and quickly resolved, thanks to the heterogeneous backgrounds of Vinnie’s partners and his own intricate knowledge of the city’s subway system, and some useful shortcuts. Chase had resolved an art history-mystery clue which brought them to the Metropolitan Museum’s side entrance. Next, Junot led them to the Argosy Bookstore on 59th Street, the only shop where a particular, antique French book could be found. Nelson’s critical knowledge of World Finance and Economic History permitted them to interpret a limerick which brought them, finally, to the steps of the NY Stock Exchange where they sat reading the seventh, and last, clue. It was 4.15 AM, and they now had less than two hours left before the deadline at sunrise. “Phoenician, Dutch and American seafarers look glumly down on the desolate chambers where the lives of so many of our young brothers are about to be put on the line. We must rise up together and pull the Red Key out of its massive portal, if we want to end the terrible bloodbath.” They had read this passage over and over again, but it still didn’t make any sense. Where could they find an international array of seafarers at this time of night, or morning? The perplexed boys sat on the Stock Exchange steps and passed around their last joint, with George Washington looking sullenly down on them. Suddenly, Vinnie cried out: “How could I be so stupid?! I got it! It’s right down the street!” He led the tired, and wired, group down to the US Customs House through whose doors he had passed innumerable times with stacks of bills of lading. The last time had been on the previous Thursday. He pointed up to the building’s central cornice and, lo and behold, there were the sea-goers gazing right down upon them. “Ok, those are our seamen. But where are the Chambers of Death, huh?” Nelson asked. Junot elbowed Vinnie and pointed up Whitehall Street to a spot where three haggard-looking Policemen were standing guard outside of the dreaded Armed Forces Induction Center. The boys all turned in that direction. A light bulb came on, and then proceeded to explode, in each and every head.

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“Holy Shit! Are they crazy? How are we supposed to get to that door with those Pigs on guard?” Junot had uttered the very words which had been circling in all their minds. In order to be admitted to the fraternity, they had to complete this final seventh challenge, and that meant they needed to retrieve the last envelope from the ‘massive portal’ which was, in fact, the main entrance to the Selective Service Center—where, at the moment, three cops were sipping coffee and throwing down donuts. Luck had it that the policemen had their backs to the group and hadn’t seen them yet. But now, the pledges would have to walk right up to them and plead their case. Not a wise thing to do for a long-haired Chinese mod-hippy or a gay, very stoned, European-looking type or a tall, black Dominican leftist intellectual—especially only days after 300,000 people had demonstrated vehemently against the Vietnam War and had burned hundreds of draft cards. The only reasonable candidate was Vinnie who, in 1967, still looked like your typical Italian American kid from Brooklyn. He would just have to behave like a ‘normal kid’ who happened to be out on the streets of Lower Manhattan at 4.45 AM, innocently strolling towards the police-patrolled Whitehall Street Induction Center. The other three boys slipped off around the corner, and Vinnie tried to stop his tremors. He put on a big smile and searched his mind for a convincing story during the fifty-yard walk which separated him from sure trouble. Fifteen minutes later, Vinnie came around the corner beaming and waving the crumpled red envelope above his head. He threw himself down on the steps and informed the others that the ‘pigs’ had even invited them all to come over and share some donuts and hot coffee. They wisely decided to decline the kind offer. “How the fuck did you manage to pull that off, man?” Chase asked when they were finally down on the subway platform, waiting for the train that would carry them safely back uptown. Vinnie recounted how the three policemen—a young Italian American and two older Black officers—had initially been very suspicious, especially since one of them had noticed the motley threesome slip around the corner. When he first approached the cops, two of them had their hands near their holsters. He had taken a deep breath, smiled nervously and told them exactly what the group had been doing all night—about the initiation challenge and their crazy treasure hunt around the city. The cops seemed to get a kick out of the story, but what really convinced them of his innocuousness were his purported ‘family ties.’ Vinnie had had the street savvy to tell them that his cousin Gerry was on the Tactical Police Force. So how could he, from the same family, be a leftist radical? Luck had it that the youngest cop actually knew his cousin. They had been in the Police Academy together. The young patrolman expressed reserve concerning his cousin’s reactionary political views and his, at times, racist behavior. Vinnie had agreed with him. This allowed him to position himself, tactfully, as a ‘Democratic voter and pacifist.’ The oldest black officer, at that point, jumped into the conversation and expressed his admiration for Dr. King. He had been on duty at Riverside Church for MLK’s speech

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earlier that month, and he said he had been ‘moved to my bones by the righteousness of it.’ “From that point, on things got so relaxed that I even got up the courage to point to, and ask them for, the red envelope stuffed in the door jamb.” Vinnie concluded. “Wow! Did they actually read what was written inside?” Junot asked. “Yup. And was I ever happy that it didn’t make any references to ‘the Pigs’ or ‘the Revolution.’ The cops all laughed when I read the contents and the older cop had said ‘Maybe you can take them up on their offer, the next time around’.” The boys chuckled and looked down at the message on the red sheet of paper in Vinnie’s hands.

On that Saturday morning, the four boys became brothers. On another Saturday morning, in early September of his Sophomore year, when Vinnie moved his guitar and belongings into a microscopic ‘penthouse’ room on 114th Street, he began living on his own. The time which transpired and the things he had seen, and people he had gotten to know, in the following 27 months, had shaken his sense of certainty. They had altered his opinions and changed his appearance. But at least, now, he had his brothers. Once again, he felt himself to be a part of an affinity group. “I really do feel at home here, now,” Vinnie thought to himself, sitting on the edge of a floor-laid mattress with his stubbled chin and tanned hands resting on the flaky, cobalt blue window sill. He allowed himself, once again, to get lost in the dimly lit windows of the poor, desperate or jubilant, families living across the dark courtyard. After a few minutes of spying, the young ‘peeping Tom’ picked up a crumpled, brown note book in which he had been documenting and annotating the significant events of the last two years. He felt the need to jot down his thoughts on this momentous and frightening night, but no words would come to him. His right hand was frozen in space. The music blasting through the thin wall from Nelson’s room certainly didn’t help, at all. ‘20th Century Schizoid Man’ did, however, seem a fitting sound track—or funeral dirge—for such a terrible evening. To pass the time, until the live coverage of the Draft Lottery, he began flipping through the pages of his journal. He flipped through the annotations of the events which had helped to form his present state of being. With King Crimson, in the background, chanting its terrible mantra on the rapidly approaching twenty-first century, he read on. November, 1967. How did I ever get myself into this situation? What the hell am I doing here? With each day that passes, I realize just how far I’ve come from who I am, and from what I really want to be. Not only is the field of Engineering not for me, as I had expected, but most people I’ve met, both students and faculty, couldn’t be further from my values and my sentiments. In my department, there’s almost no

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one I would even want to share a beer with. I have made only three friends in the entire freshman class of hundreds, and two of them probably won’t be around here much longer. I’m certain that Don will drop out at the end of this term and go back to Queens, and Julie is merely biding time here until he can get enough credits to transfer to NYU pre-Law. But Mike H, he’s a different story. We’ve become close friends since we started living together at ODOR. Mike’s intelligence, good nature and generosity have really struck me. I’m sure he’ll make it through the crunch and stick it out to the end because he really knows his stuff. He already has the makings of a brilliant computer scientist. Plus, the fact that he’s stoned most of the time seems to help him remain unshaken by the assholes and warmongers surrounding us in the Engineering School. The time we spend together with our friends at the House helps us decompress after the long, grueling days at Mudd Hall. So far, most of my Engineering professors are a total drag and really bad teachers. But what’s worse is that several are very dangerous human beings. Perhaps, it might be more fitting to say that their professional activities are vile and dangerous. Many of them have spoken out, in class, in favor of the War. I recently discovered, from leaflets distributed by the SDS, that some of these same men work on research projects funded by companies which produce armaments. It has also been revealed that deep in the underbelly of the campus, between Mudd Hall and Pupin, there is an atomic particle accelerator, called a Nevis Synchrotron, whose mysterious purpose is at the center of a hot controversy between student activists and the Administration. My ‘Physics I’ professor, J.R., who is also the director of that facility, stated that its function is purely for ‘theoretical research’ and is, according to him, ‘a factor in world peace.’ Most students don’t believe him since this guy worked on the Manhattan Project and he, unlike Oppenheimer, has never distanced himself from its ‘practical, applied’ outcome – Hiroshima and Nagasaki. My fears were confirmed after I visited to his office. Last week, Mike and I had a meeting there to talk with him about our ‘Electricity and Magnetism’ class project. We couldn’t help but notice the large glass paperweight on his desk and the framed poster on his wall depicting, respectively, a 3-D bell curve and a concentric plan map of the distribution of probable victims of a nuclear detonation over distance from its impact point, in the center of Manhattan! This man is a frigging monster. Vinnie was startled by a knock at the door. He closed his notebook and sighed deeply. Chase’s smiling face appeared in the doorway, and he asked Vinnie if he wanted a toke of the smoking joint in his hand. He turned down the offer since he was “already paranoid enough for a night like this.” Chase sat down on the mattress, stretched out on its crumpled cushions. “Hey, that’s Utrillo, right?” He asserted, pointing at a ripped poster on the wall. Then he continued, “Vin, I just got a letter from my cousin Nadine who’s studying at the Sorbonne in Paris. She told me about a slogan that’s going around the Student Movement over there. I thought you would appreciate it, you being the ‘street kid’ that you are. I remember your having told me about the way your street would sometimes be closed off to traffic when you were little, and how you could play in the roadway.

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Well, the ‘Nouvelle Gauche’ in France have come up with a great slogan which captures that sense of the Revolution, I think. It goes like this: ‘La barricade ferme la rue mais ouvre la voie’.” “How about a translation, mon ami?” Vinnie got up, went to the window and sat on the sill. “Oh right, tete de bois.” It means ‘The barricade blocks the street but opens the way.’ Nice, huh? “That’s beautiful and the truth, if you think about it.” Vinnie smiled and remembered those days. “Hey, two-eared Vincent. Seeing that our surfer friend next door has finally shut off that adrenaline-laden musak, why don’t you put on the LP I lent you last week? You know, the one you listen to all the time. I need to calm down a little before our fate is decided by Tricky Dick, and I’m sure you do, too.” Vinnie went over to the cheap, old record player, and he put on an album by a young French singer, Francois Hardy. The opening motif played, and then, the voice he loved so much filled the room. Chase went back to his room next door. The woman’s beautiful face stared back at Vinnie from the record jacket, and she intoned words which spoke of lost loves and lasting friendships. He picked up his notebook and went back to his reading. December, 16 1967. Last night was a total disaster! I went to the Christmas party at the Engineering School with Linda S, whom I’ve been dating, on and off, for the last few months. I had met her in my ‘Systematic Sociological Theory’ course, in September. She’s way out of my class - a rich Jewish girl from the Philadelphia suburbs and a Political Science major– but I really like her style. Lithe and sharp-witted, she always dresses in black - turtleneck, mini skirt, stockings and high boots - with her jet-black hair cropped short, and her cream-colored skin which glows like an autumn moon. I wanted to impress her, I guess, so I invited her to come along to the party, just before our Winter Break. How in the hell could I have ever thought that catapulting a leftist, intellectual woman into a loony-bin of jocks and technocratic lackeys of the Military-Industrial Complex would be a good idea? It was all Mike’s fault. He had told me that Professor Emeritus I.R., a theoretical Physicist and Nobel Peace Prize Winner, would be at the party. We had heard him speak several months earlier at a seminar organized by our Prof S.M., the most outspoken Anti-War activist on our faculty. The old man’s presentation had mesmerized us. He spoke of his childhood adventures in a small town in Poland, and he had linked those experiences to his curiosity and his creativity in the sciences. When he mentioned the query his mother would pose him on an almost daily basis - ‘Well, my boychick,3 did you ask any good questions, today? Yes, my little luftmensh4?’ - my eyes had welled with tears. (I remembered my Uncle Rocco). He had said that good Physicists were the ‘Peter Pans of the human race’ … that ‘they never grew up or 3 4

A Yiddish term of endearment for a son. Yiddish term for an impractical, contemplative person.

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lost their curiosity.’ I was moved by his passion and his sense of humor, and I was sure that Linda, who had mentioned him a few times, would be, too. When we arrived, Prof. I.R. was nowhere to be seen. At the center of the squalid, cinderblock-walled ‘Faculty Social Room’ we saw eight adjoining bridge tables covered with crinkly red paper. At the far ends were positioned a small, dry skeleton of a Christmas tree and a battery-operated Menorah. Fortunately, in between those two ugly ornaments, were seven two-gallon glass bowls of ‘Christmas punch’ and eggnog and numerous, half-empty gallon bottles of cheap red wine. Most of the almost exclusively male partiers (apart from a few Faculty wives, I counted only two female students) were already drinking heavily, which should make things easier to handle, and so I moved with Linda towards the table. As we approached the punch bowl, Mike pointed out ‘old Professor H Bomb’ who was holding court in the corner of the room with two of the most notorious Pro-War faculty members and their teaching-assistant jocks. “Keep left, people.” Mike had joked, adding a slight slanting motion of his head. “Where else?” Linda responded and, smiling sweetly, accepted my offer of a plastic cup of eggnog. The night dragged on, and we avoided almost all human contact except for Don R. who passed through for a few minutes to say goodbye. He told me he wouldn’t be coming back to Columbia in January. When we had had our fill of particle accelerator posters, snippets of dull or dangerous conversations and cups of cheap liquor, we were about to leave when we finally saw Prof. IR stroll absent-mindedly into the room. After a few minutes’ hesitation, during which time the Nobel Prize winner downed what appeared to be four huge cups of eggnog, we got up our courage and walked over to where he was standing, gazing dreamily out the window onto the cold light of the snow-covered campus. Mike and I presented ourselves as Engineering students and admirers of his recent lecture. Then, Linda introduced herself. “Hello Professor. It’s a great honor to meet you. My name is Linda S. I’m a Pol-Sci major at Barnard, and I’m writing a term paper about your brilliant, and courageous, defense of Robert Oppenheimer during the McCarthy hearings. I’d like to talk to you about it, if you have a moment now.” “That can wait, Bubbala.5 Can I offer you some yummy eggnog?” He said groggily. Linda politely refused his offer, at which point the Prof turned to me and slurred out these words: “This girl is, for sure, a politics maven.6 She’s got a real nice tuches,7 too. But she’s not anywhere near zaftig8 enough for my tastes. You don’t think, Bubby?”

5

Another Yiddish term of endearment. Yiddish term for one who is experienced or knowledgeable. 7 Yiddish for ‘backside’ or ‘bottom’. 8 Yiddish for ‘plump’ or (less frequently) ‘juicy’. 6

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Linda glared wide-eyed for an instant, then she turned and stormed out of the room. I tried to call her up today and talk, but all I got from her was a loud, enigmatic remark about her ‘stupid Uncle Manny,’ and then I heard the slam of the receiver. That was the end of our story. Vinnie rolled over and got up to put the skipping needle back down onto the only track he wanted to hear, again and again. As the song played once more, he thought of the numbers and notions that had numbed him and fed his feelings of hopelessness. He knew, deep in his heart, that the student protest didn’t have a chance of stopping the War, or of successfully combatting the power and the numbers of the system which was behind it all. His favorite, and only worthwhile Professor, SM, had described the origins of the field of Operations Research which dealt with the development and application of advanced analytical systems— mathematical modeling and statistical analysis—to ‘make better decisions.’ He had explained, citing several cases, how since its beginnings in Great Britain in the 1930s, Op Research had been applied, almost exclusively, in making the ‘Science of War’ more efficient and effective. Thousands of ‘brilliant minds’ have been using their brains, their professional training and the bigger and better machines and innovative computing systems (invented by other ‘brilliant minds’) to wage better wars and build bigger Empires. SM had presented, with some really interesting examples, alternative hypotheses of other possible ‘social ends’ for their field. Professor M had expressed his belief that small-scale actions can often have large impacts. He was convinced that our field could be reformed with struggle and intelligence. Still, the numbers and scale of the other side continued to speak differently to Vinnie. He couldn’t shake the vivid image of the macabre Poisson-curve paper weight on Professor JR’s desk. He remembered the exact number of nuclear warheads that the USA and USSR possessed—37,268 in these two nations, alone. Those arsenals were capable of wiping the human race, and a large part of the natural world, off the face of the earth. ‘How?’, he thought, ‘can a movement of thousands or millions of students take on such fire power and impede ‘Objective Science,’ and the powerful economic interests which has its back, from continuing business as usual?’ He was depressed, and he turned back to his notebook. ‘Maybe,’ he said aloud. He hoped, just maybe, he would find some inkling of an answer in its pages. If not an answer, at least, he hoped he might discover a signpost for an alternative road which he could travel. April 24, 1968. The Revolt is on, and I find myself sliding into the thick of it. How could I have ever thought that this wouldn’t have happened? Right from the first semester, my heavy class schedule and employment off campus, and my fears (about my plummeting grades, of being expelled and of what my father would say) had kept me from getting directly involved in the protests. Of course, ODOR is the only ‘Hippy House’ on 114th Street’s “Fraternity Row,” and there’s 100% support for the protests. We even have two recognized leaders of the student movement in our house. So, I’ve heard lots of vivid, first-hand stories and political analyses from my housemates concerning what’s been coming down. Since early last month,

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there’s been a white bed-sheet stretched between the second-floor bay windows of our building with its big, red letters howling out to the street:

And participate I do, almost every other night, in assemblies or informal meetings at the House and, afterwards, in heated conversations over beers at the West End, Moo Goo Pork at the Moon Palace, or cheese omelets and burnt toast at the Olympia Luncheonette at three in the morning. The war in Viet Nam is at the core of the nation-wide student movement. At Columbia, since SDS’s disclosure last year of the Administration’s and, primarily, the Engineering School’s strong ties with the Institute for Defense Analysis, campus activists have been snowballing their actions with explicit demands for an official severing of those ties. It really blew my mind to discover just how many Faculty members and researchers are on the payroll of the Defense Department, or of notorious corporations like Rand, Raytheon, Brown and Root, Bell, McDonald and Monsanto. Their power is formidable and ubiquitous. The blatant arrogance in positioning their corporate recruiting posts around campus seems inconceivable to me. In comparison to their force, the movement on campus appears to me like just so many fleas on the back of a gigantic, rampaging elephant. The irritation and the itchiness we ‘student-fleas’ are generating will probably only serve to make the wild beast even more angry and dangerous. In the last four weeks, the situation has been evolving, rapidly. The assassination of Dr. King, earlier this month, along with Columbia’s pushing plans to expand into Harlem and build a nine-story ‘gymnasium’ in Morningside Park (with merely a tiny, token basement space - with a separate entryway! - for the neighborhood residents) have doused a considerable amount of community-based fuel to the fires of protest. These developments have also served to bring together the SDS and the Student Afro-American Society in several effective, united protest actions. The number of students and community residents participating in the demonstrations has increased significantly, and the Administration now appears to be close to making a few, small concessions to the activists’ demands. The University administration evidently fears a strong, full-scale community revolt. It is apparent that a split exists between the student and community constituencies. Junot and Tyron said that the ‘white brothers’ don’t understand how effective local political organizing with its broad-based and focused, everyday community action can be. Harpo and Ted responded that the SAAS doesn’t want to confront the ‘bigger issues’ raised by the War, and by the Military-Industrial Complex and CIA complicity on campus. Jim said he thought they were both right, but added that he was sure that the Black activists and the Harlem community would be most capable of demonstrating political savvy and coming up with better organizational strategies when the shit came down. Jim was right, as he usually is. In fact, at yesterday’s demonstration, I was able to witness and comprehend the strength and the effectiveness of a unified, engaged

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and aware community in action. While the white radicals bickered violently with the police and among their own factions – whether or not to throw down the fences and invade the building site – the black community, peacefully and forcefully, stood its ground. There were numerous families, teenagers and young children, with flickering candles or placards in their hands, who sang and stood in defense of their right to live and enjoy their neighborhood and its public spaces. Several well-known local and national SAAS leaders, along with two Afro-American NYC Council representatives made powerful and incisive speeches which, alternately, stirred and calmed the neighborhood crowd. Their words even seemed to assuage the contingent of Black police officers who presided a small segment of the blue barrier which occluded the construction site on Morningside. The white protestors, led by Ted and MR, seemed oblivious to the community’s strategy and, at one point, they charged the police barricade, and all hell broke loose. Night sticks and batons wielded by uniformed police came down on flailing arms and unprotected heads, and I noticed a plainclothes cop using his sap to beat a fallen demonstrator senseless. More than a few slumping protestors were dragged away by their long hair while most managed to run free from the mayhem. I was one of them, and when I had run across Morningside Drive, at a safe distance, I turned and caught a glimpse of my friend, Ted, being carried towards a paddy wagon. Nearby, a little black girl playfully tossed a pink rubber ball to a young policeman. He threw it back to her, and I think I saw him smile as he walked away. “Hey Vinnie! Would you turn that fucking thing off??!! The record’s been scratching for the last five minutes and I can’t study with all the noise. It sounds like the goddamn lathe in our Metallurgy Lab.” Vinnie was shaken from his reading by a disheveled Mike H, who stood in the doorway in his forever-worn, sagging, checkered boxer shorts. He excused himself and went over to shut off the record player. “What time is it, Mike? I’ve gotten a little distracted here.” “It’s 8:15. We still have 45 minutes before the executioner drops his axe, man.” “Ok, I’ll be good from now on, I promise. I want to go to Heaven when I die.” Mike smiled and took his leave. Vinnie went over to the window and instinctively looked across the court towards a brightly lit bedroom on the second floor. As always at that time of night, three little Puerto Rican kids in their pajamas were rolling around playfully on their bed. Vinnie waved at them and—like magic—the smallest of the three, Carlos, came over to the window and waved back. “Hola, Vinnie, como estas?” He yelled. “Please don’t ask, Carlos. But do say hello to Mammita y Papi, OK?” He smiled and fell back on his mattress. He wondered why it was that children never failed to cheer him up and make him feel better on every occasion. Like on the day after the community demonstration when he learned that Ted was still being held on charges downtown, and that Harpo and Jim had been injured in the evening bust, respectively, with three stitches in the scalp and a broken wrist. He was feeling so depressed that he decided to skip classes that day and hang out in the warm spring sun. He just needed to relax a little.

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He found the atmosphere on campus electric and, surprisingly, festive. There was music being played, and there were groups gathered around soapbox orators from the various factions. The windows and walls of the occupied buildings were adorned with placards and painted bed sheets screaming demands for a National Student Strike. The pamphlet which he held his hand had said the strike was gaining support throughout the country. Vinnie climbed the wide steps towards Low Library to get a better view of the scene. What impressed him most, and lifted his spirits, was the marked presence of neighborhood people spread out across the Great Lawn and on the walkways. There was a large crowd of locals and black student activists near Hamilton Hall in support of the occupation, as was to be expected, but what struck him most was the out-of-the-ordinary numbers of children, teenagers and even families on campus. They were there, he was sure, in response to the message on the banner he had noticed at yesterday’s community demonstration. That ten-foot-long placard had proclaimed: Hey, Columbia U!! If You Occupy Our Spaces … We’ll Occupy Yours!

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Kids were playing ball games all over the lawn in front of Butler, roller skating and rhythmically executing Double Dutch routines on the walkways while the adults were picnicking or just milling around the speakers and musicians. He smiled to himself and walked behind Low Library towards Avery Hall which had been occupied by Architecture students who were unaffiliated to the SDS. That place had always fascinated him, and today it did more than ever. Most of its windows displayed colorful sketches or site plans of what appeared to be imaginary city spaces, and a long banner had been stretched between the four, tall entryway columns. He liked what he read:

When he moved closer to get a better view of the drawings, he spotted two students high up in a tree on the hedge-encircled lawn. He called up to them and asked what they were doing there. One of them replied: “This is a liberated tree, man!” Vinnie laughed and flashed a peace sign in their direction. “Hey man, you want to help us with this stuff?” He turned towards the voice at his back and discovered his bandaged friend, Harpo, and four girls struggling to carry a bunch of long, thick cardboard tubes, two-by-fours and large coils of hemp cord. He gave them a hand. They made four trips back and forth from Avery Hall, depositing the materials onto the lawn. When they had finished, he asked Harpo what they were going to do with the materials they had carried out. “We’re going to build a Geodesic dome, and we could sure use a hand.” “I don’t know what that is, but I’ll help out. Maybe, I might learn something.” Vinnie replied. They worked together for almost two hours, laying out the tubes in interlocking identical triangles and binding them together with the cords fed through their hollow interiors. Pre-cut, bright-red PVC joints held the triangles in place and the two-by-fours served to brace up the structure (when lifted vertically) around the base and at the center. When they had finished, the 24-foot diameter dome was ‘almost stable.’ Harpo tried to explain the structural principles behind the triangulated forms to Vinnie, but he wasn’t really interested. His attention was captured by the pure esthetic beauty of its structure, and by the pleasing forms of his co-workers. “You ain’t much of an Engineer. Are you, Vin?” Harpo had remarked at one point. “That’s what they tell me.” He replied and went back to adjusting the last joints at the apex of the dome. Several tables had been set up inside the cupola, and the student builders were now laying out baked goods, pamphlets and protest buttons which would be sold to raise money in support of the occupation. One of the Architecture students, Marla, told Vinnie that, on the following day, student-managed alternative courses and workshops would be offered at the dome.

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She invited him to a ‘Liberation Course’ she and a junior faculty member would be holding on ‘Utopian Cities’ in the morning. He assured her that he would be there. As Vinnie was leaving, Harpo thanked him and shoved a wrapped brownie into his pocket as his ‘day’s wage.’ “I hope this isn’t what I think it is, Harp.” Vinnie joked, certain that he was right. On the way back to the Great Lawn, just past St. Paul’s Chapel, Vinnie heard the familiar sound of a bouncing Spaldeen ball. On the steps below the statue of Alma Mater, he saw Martin, Carlo’s oldest brother, together with five other kids playing ‘catch-a-flyer-up’ off the base of the statue. Martin, who was ‘at bat,’ looked up, waved and called out to Vinnie. “Hola, Vinnie! Why don’t you sit down and watch us beat their asses?!” And Vinnie did just that, he sat back in the sun and watched their game progress. When the teams switched sides, he thought about how wonderful this all was. These little kids—four 10-year-old boys and two girls in their early teens—had brought their street games into the ‘inner sanctum’ of Columbia University and were now openly defying the rules of the Administration in broad daylight. The game turned out to be closer than Martin had bragged it would be, and when one of the girls bounced a really long shot off the statue, way out into the crowded lawn and over Martin’s head, her team took the lead. While the kids scrambled to find their ball among the picnickers and protestors, and then argued vehemently whether it was ‘in or out of bounds,’ a crowd of black activists had moved onto the steps near the statue and started setting up a podium and microphone. Vinnie recognized several leaders of the SAAS among them. The stoopball teams, having retrieved the ball, ran up the steps and began pleading with a tall, mustached, well-dressed activist who stooped down and talked to them in a measured, friendly manner. After a few minutes, the kids came over to Vinnie and explained that they would have to interrupt their last inning. “That dude was pretty nice. He explained to us what they were doing. ‘A Press Conference,’ he’d said, ‘was important enough to interrupt a ball game for half-an-hour’.” One of the girls told me. “Yeah, and if their demands are met, he said that we will be able to play here and in Morning Side Park all the time. That ain’t a bad deal, huh, Vinnie?” Martin added. “I agree, Martin, it seems worth the sacrifice, and it might even have saved your ass. Your team was gonna get whipped for sure. But all kidding aside, do you kids know who that guy is? He’s Ralph Metcalf, a real smart and important leader of the Afro-American students.” “I heard him speak last night at Morningside Park. My momma really liked what he said.” The other girl replied. “Well, it’s better to get kicked off a field for a good cause than by a grumpy, old fat neighbor.” Vinnie said. “Truth, my brother. And much better than by the cops, too.” She smiled at Vinnie, all the others waved, and he wandered innocently back into the thick of the revolt.

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Cops. Real and imagined cops, uniformed and undercover, were everywhere a few days later when the NYPD arrived in full force to put down the occupation. Vinnie, together with Mike and Chase, had watched from the sidelines while the police first evacuated Hamilton Hall. It was a relatively peaceful operation. The black activists, accompanied by their lawyers and some Congressmen, filed out straight-backed and with their clenched fists raised high, in perfect order, through a phalanx of Black TP’s. No one pushed, and nobody shoved. Word had gone around the night before that the community’s main demand, the interruption of gym construction, had been granted. The Columbia Administration, pressured by a highly organized community and by the Mayor of NYC, had backed down. To Vinnie’s surprise, the Trustees had also conceded to SDS’s first demand and had even declared its ‘unofficial intention’ to sever all ties with the IDA. But while the two concessions had abated the Black activists, the white radicals occupying the four remaining buildings pushed on with their other demands and refused to evacuate. They, unlike the SAAS protestors, had purportedly destroyed property, ‘sequestered’ a dean-of-students and broken numerous (in most cases, admittedly ridiculous) University regulations. They had also demanded a complete and total amnesty from any and all disciplinary measures against the occupiers and protestors. This question of amnesty had become a hot issue in the frat house and campus debates. Vinnie, at one point in a discussion, had accused the SDS leaders of being ‘privileged rich kids’ who wanted to ‘have their cake and eat it, too.’ Someone had called him a ‘working class snob,’ which would become an epithet Vinnie heard often in his regard, over the course of his lifetime. Jim, the wise one, had explained to Vinnie that this no-compromise position was, actually, a strategic choice on the part of the National SDS leadership to push the struggle towards an extreme standoff. That position would, most probably, incite a violent police reaction and, possibly, a blood bath which, Mark Rudd and the SDS theorized, would serve to ignite a massive insurrectionist, revolutionary reaction. “What are they fuckin’ crazy?!!” Vinnie had retorted. “Worse than that, Vin, much worse. Even if I share their vision of a more just society, sometimes those dudes scare the shit out of me. I have the impression that Ted and Bernadine might just have some sort of a Death Wish. You know what I mean? If they keep pushing things as far as possible, they might just get blown away.” The SDS did push it, and the desired ‘strategic’ bloodbath did come, in the early morning of April 30th, when the Tactical Police violently stormed and cleared the remaining buildings. Over 100 students and several faculty members were seriously injured in the pitched battles which ensued and over 700 protestors were arrested. No one had been killed, as of yet, in the ‘insurrection’ which continued on through the following day, but a young police officer had been permanently disabled when a student, supposedly, jumped onto him from a second story window. That cop was of Italian descent, like Vinnie. A few nights later, someone had painted—in bold, red letters—on the Low Library steps:

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The following weekend, Vinnie took the subway out to Brooklyn, to put some distance between himself and the ‘Revolution’ and to placate, as best he could, his parents’ worries. As it turned out, he couldn’t have chosen a worse moment for placating anyone or anything. In fact, Vinnie’s family had been invited for Sunday dinner to the home of his father’s brother, Franco, and his son, Gerry—the infamous cousin who was on the Tactical Police Force—would be there, too. For most of the meal, Vinnie and his family tried to avoid making any mention of Columbia, but when the pastries and demitasse were on the table, Gerry bluntly breached the subject. “So, Cuz, those radicals up at your school really got what they deserved. I didn’t see you, were you there?” Nervously, Vinnie sipped his coffee and tried to find the right words to express what he was feeling and what he believed in and, in some way or other, not set off his hot-headed cousin. “Yeah, Gerry, I was there on the sidelines, not in the buildings. I was very impressed by the way the Black students and community handled the situation. They had won their demands, so they came out peacefully.”

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“My Ass, they did! Those hot-shot niggers got some friends, just like them, high up in the chain of command. And a lot of those yellow-bellied Liberals, like your Mayor Lindsay, would rather kiss their asses than respect the rule of law and support me and my fellow-officers who are paid to uphold it. We should’ve beat their black asses blue, like we did to those rich, radical punks. But the chiefs held us back and protected the Negroid rebel rousers with an impenetrable wall of their, so-called, ‘brothers in uniform’. I would have smashed …” “Gerald, please, moderate your tone! We’re not all racists, you know.” Vinnie’s mother interrupted. “I’ll try, Auntie Lil. But those damn mulignans9 broke the law! They shouldn’t have been in those buildings in the first place. You give those types an inch today, and they’ll take a foot, tomorrow. You saw what they did out in Newark last summer, and Harlem isn’t so different from Jersey. Sometimes, we just have to educate them and get them back into line with nightsticks and teargas, for damn sure!” “Like you and your buddies did to the students in Low Library, huh Gerry?” Vinnie exclaimed. “Damn sure! Those hippy bastards were calling us pigs and spitting on us. And some of them even had sticks and baseball bats. But we gave it to them plenty good. You should’ve seen their faces.” “I did … and … and I saw that they were covered with blood.” Vinnie recalled the vicious beatings he had witnessed. Some students he knew were still in the hospital. His head was spinning and his face burned hot—just like the reddened faces of his father and uncle who sat nervously tapping their feet in unison. He knew that both men sided with his ‘pig’ cousin. So, he bit his tongue and decided, then and there, to shut up and not take this thing any further. He knew that his mother was on his side and, maybe, his brother Marco, too. He stuffed a cannolo in his mouth and counted the minutes until he would be out of there. “Cuz, those radicals are dangerous, and really crazy. Some of them even acted like they wanted us to beat them senseless. They just went limp and wouldn’t shut up or give in. Then, when it seemed like it was all over, and we were dragging them off to the paddy wagons, one of those bastards who was still in the building – and we didn’t know it – jumped down from a window right on my pal, Eddie. That rich punk broke Ed’s back, you know that? He’s probably gonna remain paralyzed for life. And he has two little kids!” “Jesus! At Marco’s school nothing like this has happened. It’s a good Catholic University. I told you, Lil, we should never have permitted Vinnie go to Columbia.” Vinnie’s father sighed deeply, and his foot kept tapping.

9

A depreciative term for Blacks, which means “eggplant” in Southern Italian dialect.

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On the long subway ride back to Morningside Heights, Vinnie had tried to distract himself by flipping through the illustrated paperback on ‘Dream Cities of Tomorrow’ which Marla had lent him. He glanced over the big plans and the intricate drawings of the various imaginary cities created from nothing—all born in someone’s mind, and some of which looked pretty good on paper. ‘But,’ Vinnie asked himself, ‘how can we really get there?’ He thought back to the first ‘Utopian City’ he had seen as a young boy at the 1964 World’s Fair. In fact, he had even found some pictures of the GM ‘Futurama’ in the book he held in his hands. He remembered what had struck him most about its skyscrapers, cantilevered streets, 14-lane highways and tree-lined boulevards. There had been so few people depicted there, and the human figures distributed throughout the models were so small you couldn’t even make out their faces. He felt that this detail was, perhaps, the keystone of the dilemma which had been tormenting him regarding the student movement and the police repression, the War in Viet Nam, the Military Industrial Complex and even his studies in Engineering. It was the contrast between the enormity of the System and the issues being confronted and the tiny faces, and the minds, of all the people effected by or involved in them. His cop cousin, Columbia’s President Greyson Kirk, the SDS leader Mark Rudd, Ralph Metcalf, the children from Harlem and himself were all simply ‘people,’ with different values, roles and degrees of power. But, he wondered, how can people—as singular individuals—really change? Personal change had to be, he was sure, the first step towards any lasting transformation of society. People change, he thought, through experiences made of conscious decisions and actions, but changes also result from the many chance encounters, external events and circumstances which are beyond their control. “Can my cousin, Gerry, really change his set-in-stone, reactionary world view?” He doubted it, at least not in the near future. In fact, when Vinnie had taken his leave a few hours earlier, his older cousin had hugged him. He had pressed his mouth close to his ear and whispered: “See you, Cuz. You know I love yuh. But just remember, if I run into you some other time, and if you’re on the wrong side of the barricades again, well, I’ll just have to beat your little Hippy ass black and blue.” A loud noise pulled Vinnie from his thoughts. Now, it was the roar of a fuzz-box guitar which introduced a funeral-dirge chant repeating an odd query about doing something or letting somebody go back home. “Hey, Nelson, we don’t need no goddamn Mind Police here! Could you turn that music down, please?!” Vinnie closed his door to keep out his friend’s cannabis smokescreen and went back to flipping through his crumpled notebook. He was looking for a day he remembered when the issue of ‘changing people’s heads’ had been discussed in his Personnel and Labor Relations Course. October 24, 1968. Today in Prof S.M.’s class I finally caught a glimpse of daylight at the end of the tunnel. I came out of the lesson feeling a little more hopeful about the future. That day, it was my turn to present a short paper I had written on Labor Relations. In it, I had discussed my firsthand experience of a

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pressing Labor issue which had been the object of my first weeks’ assignment as an intern at the Port Authority, the previous summer. After a few days of orientation, two other Engineering Interns and myself had been introduced to the first task we would be carrying out. We discovered that we were to play the role of ‘laboratory guinea pigs’ in an ongoing labor dispute regarding the levels of air pollution in the Holland Tunnel. Our boss had explained that the PA police, who patrolled the tunnel along the uncovered roadside walkways, had protested the ‘unhealthy conditions’ in which they were obliged to work. Our supervisor assigned us the task of walking the tunnels’ catwalks, for one-hour periods at different times of the day, over a two-week period. During those hours, we were to annotate, on pre-prepared forms, the prevailing ‘traffic conditions’ and our ‘physical sensations’ at precise 15-minute intervals. All this was intended to ‘scientifically test’ the validity of the employees’ complaints. In class, I got some big laughs when I presented the transcription of my notes from one typical rush-hour period with its ‘heavy, slow-moving traffic.’ I’d read aloud: “8.00 AM - feeling OK”; “8.15 AM - watery eyes, burning sensation in my nose and throat”; “8.30 AM - feeling groggy and dizzy, can’t see too well”; “8.45 AM - I can’t breathe, get me out of here!.” At the end of two weeks, our cumulative data sheets were compiled and a report was written by our supervisor which was then consigned to the Labor Mediation Board. “Science and Engineering for the Workers!” Someone had yelled from the back of the classroom. “Nice first job as an ‘engineer,’ right?” I replied, jokingly. I then went on to explain that this report had, in effect, served to help the employees win their case. Eventually, sealed cabins with independent aeration systems were installed along the catwalks in all Port Authority operated tunnels as a result of the study. SM was pleased with my thesis, but he had pointed out that the merit for the success should go to the Union which had protested in the first place and to my supervisor, who happened to be a friend of his, and the ingenious surveying tool he had designed. He said, and I quote: ‘Your Supervisor, Bob, is a good man and a competent, progressive Engineer. And, in this case, he had understood the particular value of ‘human data.’ He knew that the choice of words – or the ‘variables’ - which expressed the sensations and experiences of the workers would be much more effective and rapid in convincing upper management than conventional ‘hard data’ only demonstrating the concentrations of pollutants in the air. But from the beginning, I’m sure, he was also on the side of the employees. He wasn’t being ‘objective’ here.” Our discussion then moved on to the values and the politics of Engineers, and the ethical choices they are often called upon to make when choosing employment. He told us that my supervisor was a brilliant Systems Engineer who had been among the top five students in his class at MIT. Upon graduation, he had been offered several highly lucrative positions with military contractors like Rand, Raytheon and IBM, but he had turned them down and chosen to work in the ‘Civil Sector’ at the Port Authority, for much lower pay. There, he knew that his skills and knowledge would serve to improve the lives of working people living in New York City.

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As the class was drawing to a close SM raised the question which Vinnie had been mulling over for the last months. “How do you think an Engineer’s, or anybody’s, values and opinions are formed? And how might they might be changed in a more socially and politically progressive direction?” He asked. “I’ll leave you with these questions to sleep on tonight, friends. And tomorrow, if anyone is interested in continuing these reflections and getting actively involved, there will be a meeting of a new organization - Scientists and Engineers for Social and Political Action - at 5.30 at Pupin Hall. Try to be there, if you can.” And that was how Vinnie’s involvement with SESPA began. There was no need for him to look back over his annotations in the months that followed since he vividly recalled how his relationship with Professor M and with the organization of progressive engineers had grown stronger during the Spring and Summer of 1969. The thing that struck him most, right from the very first meeting he attended was the uncommonly high number of women at that meeting—especially considering the fact that female students made up a very, very small percentage of the total enrollment at the Engineering School. Vinnie would go on to discover, in future years, that women engineers and architects were more prone to be concerned with social or environmental issues and with questions of justice regarding their professions than most men who, for the most part, tended to be driven by more competitive and materialistic career goals. The atmosphere at the first meetings was friendly and active, and he appreciated the intelligence and commitment of the leaders—in primus, SM who was one of the organization’s campus spokespersons. The actions and strategies which were developed, and applied, were small scale and directed at individuals, at their homes and in their communities. The SESPA-Columbia strategy and tactics were shocking to Vinnie, when he first learned of them. The strategy was to bring the drama of the Viet Nam War— along with the issue of individual roles in rendering that war more ‘efficient’—into the wealthy suburbs surrounding NYC. Engineers and scientists involved in Military contracts and research had been identified, in part through the IDA files which had been leaked by the SDS, and the plan was to confront them at their homes and in their neighborhoods. Every Saturday morning, groups of ten to fifteen activists would travel out to places like Fort Lee, New Jersey or Greenwich, Connecticut and positioned themselves outside of the identified homes. There, the activists distributed literature and hung posters which graphically presented the hidden story of the targeted householder’s role in the ‘War Effort.’ The visuals displayed the dramatic, often horrifying, outcomes of the specific professional’s ‘scientific and technological achievement.’ Two posters had read, for example: “Do you know that your neighbor, Prof. X, is employed at Monsanto and that his professional talents and scientific acumen have contributed to the development of Napalm? Here are some of the effects of his research.”

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“Did you know that the advanced computing systems developed for the Rand Corporation by your neighbor, Engineer Y, has facilitated the localization of villages in Viet Nam? Here are the results of the precision fire-bombings.” Discussions with passersby were often heated. The activists tried to peacefully convince them that Applied Science is rarely neutral or value-free, and that individuals could and should consider alternative contexts in which to make use of their knowledge and skills. An effective strategy which had been devised was assuring the presence of a ‘testimonial person’ at every picketing effort. These were, usually, an engineer or researcher who had left an important position in a Military contract and had found employment elsewhere. These ‘witnesses’ would explain and discuss the ethical and economic conundrums which they had gone through to neighborhood residents and, most importantly, to the targeted individuals themselves. The most difficult part was overcoming their initial resistance to come out of their homes and talk and, in this way, allow themselves to be touched in their hearts and minds. Vinnie recalled the sullen, frightened faces of the engineers when they first realized that the secrets of their employment were being revealed to the world on the sidewalks outside their pristine, protected homes. He sometimes felt sorry for their embarrassment and for their pain. He could well imagine the explosive impact of such dramatic and ‘violent’ incursions into a person’s everyday life. Yet he had thought, “how can SESPA’s ‘aggressive’ actions ever be paragoned to the burned bodies of young Vietnamese children or the villages and human lives which the ‘neutral’ work of these well-respected suburbanites had ‘scientifically’ destroyed?” There was certainly no comparison and, as he later learned, many of the interested parties often knew it too. Yet, still, they couldn’t admit it to themselves. In their worldview, they were merely small cogs in a big, well-oiled machine which made the final decisions as to how their scientific efforts would be applied. For Vinnie and his comrades, instead, the System was rotten to the core. Usually, in the final instance, it would be the targeted individual’s family members—their wives and, especially, young children—who were most instrumental in breaking the engineers’ or scientists’ resistance. Their families’ reactions had often touch their hearts and changed their minds. When they finally were willing to talk—most of the time, it occurred during a second or third weekend visit—Vinnie discovered that most wives didn’t really know what their husbands’ work entailed. The thought of their children’s discovering the horrifying end-results of their father’s ‘objective research’ or project design was unbearable to them. This terrible eventuality was the shadow-line beyond which they couldn’t dare to tread. “Once again,” Vinnie thought to himself, “children appear to be important actors who can help to make our world a little better. So, why is it that children are never involved in any important decisions?” By the end of the summer, SESPA’s weekend activism had made significant progress. Six engineers and two researchers had left their positions with Defense contractors, and the SESPA organization and affiliates had assisted most in finding new employment in other areas—Health Care, Transportation and new fields of

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Environmental Protection. In six of the eight cases, the father-scientist-engineer had admitted that it was the ‘thought of his children knowing the terrible truth’ which had changed his mind and course of action. Kids’ power … once again. Sweet and slow, a strumming guitar pulled Vinnie away from his thoughts. “What a pretentious name – ‘Pearls Before Swine’. Nice melody, even if the words are terrifying.” He thought. Listening closely to the lyrics for the first time, the face of “Professor H Bomb” came to mind. Grimacing, he haphazardly opened his notebook, and by chance, he came upon an entry that caught his eye. He was certain that reading it could give him some strength to face the lottery which would, shortly, be presided over by some asshole bureaucrat in the name of the FPOTUS—the Fascist President of the USA. September 20, 1969. Last night, Aksel came up to visit me. I hadn’t seen him in over three years, and it was really good to spend some time with him, once again. He seemed to be his jolly old self and was overflowing with funny stories and crazy anecdotes. Still, his eyes told me something had changed deep inside him. After sharing some good, strong Mexican weed he had procured at the Fort Meade army base (!!), we went down to the West End Bar and there, in the dark and smoky, hops-imbibed atmosphere Aksel’s tale unfolded. He had been lucky, as compared to many of his generation. He had spent his entire military stint stateside servicing and upgrading radar systems - most of which ended up in Viet Nam, like so many of his fellow servicemen. He hadn’t experienced the horrors of war firsthand, but he had seen it in the hollow eyes and disarrayed bodies and minds of his friends who had been there and had come back, at least, alive. The young men he had grown close to in basic training had returned without limbs, or without faces, and with their minds and spirits drained of hope and happiness. Aksel had formed an opinion that the war was wrong but he still loved his country and continued to hold on to the conviction that it could change for the better. All in all, it seemed that he had essentially enjoyed his time in the Army. He was grateful for the opportunity which had been provided to perfect his skills and knowledge in electronics and computer programming. He told me that the training had helped him acquire well-paid employment in Brooklyn, shortly after his return. Now, he proudly exclaimed, he was a card-carrying member of the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers. He told me that he and Karen were planning to get married sometime during the next year. “I’ll be there in my best, and only, suit!” I said and hugged him. He said that he had made a lot of friends - and a few enemies - in the Army. The tales of his weekend and extended-furlough ‘sex, drugs and country music’ skirmishes with ‘rebel, redneck buddies’ were hilarious and shocking. He appeared to be the same anarchist kibitzer and skilled organizer he had always been. He had come out with flying colors in the eyes of his commanders while still managing to lead his band of wackos on a trail of forbidden high-jinx throughout the mid and

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Southern states. Their main topic of discussion, as would be expected in the confines of all-male barracks, had been sex. He recounted his buddies’ tales of their first sexual experiences with ‘chickens, goats and even sun-warmed watermelons’ (!!). On one occasion, he had asked one of them what he thought of girls, and the Southern yokel – his name was Otis, or something like that – had bluntly replied with a straight-face: “Yeah girls, they’re pretty good, too.” Aksel told me he had never again spoken to that guy. He explained how weird it had seemed to him that while most of these young men were convinced gun-totters, religious fanatics and, in some cases, self-declared racists, many were at the same time friendly and generous. Some of them had even become close friends with Blacks and Latinos in their squadron. “It reminded me of the way we felt about Puerto Ricans and people from Queens, you remember? We just knew, somehow, that we shouldn’t like them. Society, or our families, had taught us to be like that. But then, when we got to know them as individuals, we discovered that they were just like us. I mean, Karen’s from Queens and she’s a Kraut, but I’m going to marry her. Right?!” We both laughed. I realized, once again, how important it had always been for me to have a friend like Aksel. He had an inborn suspicion of, and distaste for, the intellectual elite and rich people, in general, but he heard me out as I told him stories of my evolving friendships with students and Professors from those very backgrounds. “Yeah, Park Avenue millionaires or Kentucky shit-kickers, taken one at a time and face-to-face, can be good and worthy human beings but put them together in a group and you got a gang, or a conspiracy, or a militia or the CIA.” He had said at one point, and I knew he was right. As was to be expected, we also reminisced at length about some of our shared childhood and teen-age adventures around the city and about how they had formed our character. When we were saying goodbye, with the agreement to see each other at the latest on his wedding day, he grasped my shoulders and said to me: “Vinnie, you know since I got back, I’ve noticed that much fewer kids are playing in the street on our block these days. Parked cars now occupy our stickball field, and the families seem to be becoming overly protective. Since you, as an engineer, might be in a position to do something about this … I’ve been thinking that you should really try somehow to work kids and young children into your career plans. I also think that, maybe, Industrial Engineering isn’t the quite right field for you. Give it a thought.” That got me thinking. After he left, I made a note – make a list of possible professional strategies involving KIDS. A loud knock on the door, and the sound of scuffling feet on the creaky steps in the stairway, interrupted V’s reading and reminiscing. He was pulled back to the stark reality of the terrible moment.

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The ground floor social room was packed full and all eyes were turned to the 24-inch, old black and white TV in the corner. As Vinnie entered the room, an indistinguishable white-haired Senator drew the capsule which contained the first birthdate which would be called to military service. “The first lottery number is … September 14.” He announced solemnly. “Fuckin’ shit!” Harpo shrieked and collapsed back into his chair. His usually ruddy complexion became ashen, and his long fingers alternately stroked and pulled at his frizzy red mane. All eyes turned his way, and no one managed to hear the second lottery number as Harpo went off into a tirade. “I just knew the Man had it in for me, just me! I get busted, I get my head split open and now I have the honor of being the first sucker sent off to fuckin’ Viet Nam! But you won’t get me, mother fuckers, my plan is already in the workings. I’m splitting Amerika! Next stop Toronto, Canada … Mon Amis.” Most everyone in the room knew that Harpo had been admitted, with a full scholarship, to the University of Toronto’s Graduate School of Architecture. That school had been his first choice. Now, the shocking and shattering Draft Lottery result would merely serve to accelerate his plan of escape from this “fuckin’ country.” He said he viewed his fate—written not in stone but in magic marker ink on a big Bristol board in a TV studio—as some sort of a ‘sign’ that he had been right all along. There was absolutely No Place for Harpo in ‘Amerika.’ The night went on dramatically for all and disastrously for a few of the brothers. Luck had it that ‘only’ eight of the twenty-seven ‘eligible victims’ were assigned numbers which fell below the safety line which had been set at ‘195.’ That is, the first 195 selected birthdates would probably be called up for service. Ralph—the best cook in the house, and unfortunately born on September 24—had been clobbered with that precise borderline number, and now his last year at Columbia was destined to be a tormented period of uncertainty and fear. Vinnie, himself, was among the ‘lucky ones’ who had been ‘saved.’ His birthdate, April 14, had been selected at the 231th position. While his fate, and those of many thousands of young men across America, was being played out that evening, Vinnie had been carefully observing the dynamics in the social room and had tried to gauge his own reactions. Now, he truly understood how cynically astute and cruel the terrible stratagem, which Tricky Dick and his cronies had contrived, actually was. One person might feel happy and relieved for his own sort, while he grieved for that of his brother. You came to feel guilty that you could ‘feel happy,’ while others around you were devastated. Vinnie had thought to himself: “Might this strategy really serve to divide and break the momentum of protest as its perpetrators had planned?” “Should we celebrate or should we grieve?” Mike questioned. “Neither and both” Jim, the wise one who had luckily come in at ‘333,’ responded and then continued,

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“But, above all, we must continue to organize and resist together.” Vinnie agreed with him. At 2 AM, Vinnie, Harpo and Mike had been sitting for about an hour in a corner booth in the Olympia Luncheonette. They were having what might be called a ‘very early breakfast’ or a ‘very late dinner,’ and were nervously debating the social and political implications of what had transpired that evening. When the check arrived, Harpo shifted their conversation onto a more theoretical and, in keeping with his mind-set, mystically funny plane. “You know, numbers – and tonight’s numbers, for sure – all have intrinsic, hidden meanings. Don’t you?” “That’s what good, old Science says.” Mike responded. “Let’s hear it, Mister Wizard.” Vinnie added. Harpo went into a winding and complicated discourse concerning prime numbers, polygonal numbers, composite and complex numbers, hyper-real numbers. Then, he morphed his discourse into a spaced-out spiel on the binary number system, which he held to be at the base of war and of all the world’s evil-doing. Yesterday, today and tomorrow. “Computer language.” Mike made clear, and then Vinnie asked: “Yeah, but take for example my number. What does the number, 231, mean? Can you tell me that, Harp?” “231 is what is called an ‘evil number.. But, at the same time, it’s a real lucky one, too, Vin.” “In tonight’s lottery, yup. But, in the general scheme of things, give me a little more of the lowdown, man.” “Well, Brother, your number is no other than what is called a ‘sphenic’ number. That is, it’s the product of three prime numbers – 3, 7 and 11. And are those three babies ever lucky, little motherfuckers! Everybody knows that, even my Uncle Hymie who wears his pajamas all day long. The Holy Trinity, ‘Roll a seven, mamma’ and ‘Lucky seven, you’re gonna go to heaven.’ So, it goes without saying, man that you should play 2 and 3 and 1, Vinnie, as a three-digit draw in tomorrow’s New York State Lotto.” “Yeah, ok, Harp. But I still don’t understand the part about ‘eleven’.” Vinnie sighed. “Once again, it’s that Binary Black Magic, my skeptical friend. Think about it! 111000111. Look at the symmetry and the beauty created by those 11’s and the zeros, all three of them, smack dab in the middle. That’s perfect luck, man.” Harpo was nodding off as he spoke. “I still don’t get it. Do you, Mike?” “Nope.” Mike replied as he eased Harpo out of the booth and helped him up to his feet. “And now think about me, poor me. Fucking Number One! You know who was born on my goddamn Birthday? Margaret Sanger, the feminist activist and social educator. She was a good friend and comrade of Emma Goldman! Those binary

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bastards knew it! They’ve got it in for us Anarchists. They always have and always will …” Harpo’s trembling voice trailed off into a snore. The next morning, with only four hours of sleep under his belt, Vinnie continued to ponder his ‘231.’ Especially, he thought of Harpo’s ‘11’ number theory as he rode the packed subway, downtown to his job at the Port Authority. From the very start of the morning, he seemed to be seeing that damn number’11,’ everywhere. First, that tall black teenage he’d seen on Broadway had a big ‘11’ on his high school team jacket. Then, his change for coffee and a buttered onion roll at Takome had been exactly 11 cents. Next, an elderly man who got on the subway at 96th Street had the book “Around the World in Eighty Days. Extraordinary Voyages. Edition Number 11,” in his hands. Then—best of all—there was that beautiful, middle-aged woman who pressed up tightly against him from 86 to 34th Street. She had been reading Shakespeare’s “Richard II” only inches from his nose. Well, the Roman ‘II’ sure looked like an ‘11,’ and he certainly felt very ‘lucky’ to be in her up-close company during the long trip downtown. On the subway, his thoughts had drifted to the goddamn binary numbers he had been punching onto miles of computer tape, for the last three weeks at work—ones, zeros and (yup) a shitload of combined elevens. He well knew those two digits (0,1) merely meant ‘opened’ or ‘closed’ but, put together, they served to run the complex elevator control system for the World Trade Center which his boss, Bob, and staff had designed. He was feeling particularly happy today, since he would finally be skipping that boring work assignment. Instead, Bob was taking the interns to the Twin Towers to visit the construction site. They would be making observations and measuring structural oscillations. His boss had even promised that they would make a visit to the open-air, unfinished upper floor of the North Tower, if there were time. He sensed that he was late, so he ran the distance from Greenwich Street to the WTC Plaza where they would be meeting up. As he turned into the open space below the Twin Towers, he asked an old hot dog vendor the time. “It’s nine-eleven,” the little man responded gruffly. “Eleven again! Good luck, for shit! I’m eleven minutes late!” Vinnie groaned. The group took the freight elevator up to the 80th floor where they set up the equipment to monitor the infinitesimal movements of the enormous steel skeleton. The din of the steelworkers’ riveting above them was almost unbearable and, to Vinnie’s chagrin, the view from the floor was almost totally obstructed by the thick sheets of plastic which enclosed the tower to protect the workers from the high winds which were common at such heights. On that day, it was calm and windless, and the translucent sheeting hang slack around them. For three long hours, it was going to be all work with no fun … and no view. At lunchtime, Bob walkie-talked down to his assistant, and he ordered some sandwiches for the group. Then, he came over to the group and announced, jovially, “Lunch will be served on the Port Authority’s elegant WTC roof terrace.”

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The team of eight interns and two Senior Engineers precariously climbed the six flights, up the unprotected stairwells, to the “elegant WTC roof terrace” which was, in all truth, just the last floor of the building which had been poured and hardened. The view surrounding them was breathtaking. Vinnie ran to the edge of the platform and positioned himself firmly against the steel girder which soared above him. He filled his lungs with the brisk mid-day air and took in, for the first time in his life, that unique view of his city. He called a few of his work buddies over to the edge, and he made use of his intricate knowledge of the layout of the Metropolitan Area to be their ‘Cicero.’ Vinnie kept them entertained while they waited for lunch to arrive. The major landmarks were known by almost everyone—the Empire State Building, Statue of Liberty, Brooklyn and Verrazano Bridge, etc., but they were remarkably beautiful and strikingly different from so far up. The familiar Port Authority facilities were easy to find, like the Holland and Lincoln Tunnels and the PA Bus Terminal, so near the latter. The work-mates had a barrel of fun recalling the crazy, unexpected things which had occurred in some of those places during their time of employment. “You remember our first days as guinea pigs down in the tunnels, huh? I’ll never forget Anthony puking his guts all over that patrol car when they pulled him out!” Randy guffawed. “Yeah, and how about the truck load of live turkeys that overturned on the George Washington Bridge the week before Thanksgiving? Wasn’t that insane?!” Sharon chuckled. Vinnie had been there on that day, and the bizarre scene of the commuters shrieking to a halt, jumping from their cars and struggling to drag the large, fighting birds back into their vehicles was vivid in his mind’s eye. He particularly enjoyed pointing out details concerning the less known places which were dear to him. He told them stories of how he had come to know them. He indicated the exact point on the Manhattan Bridge where his friend, Aksel, had first told Vinnie and his friends about the plans for the very structure they were then standing on. His hand traced an arch along the horizon from West to East. He pointed out some of the places which had marked his growing up and which represented his initiation into the world beyond his village: St. George’s Hill in Staten Island, the Verrazano Bridge approach ramps, the Belt Parkway waterfront, little Nellie Bly Park and, most importantly, dear Coney Island with its ever so clearly visible Parachute Jump and Wonder Wheel. When the sandwiches arrived, they all moved back from the parapet and sat down on the tarp-covered piles of construction materials to eat lunch. As Vinnie savored his hero sandwich, he imagined it to be the great grandchild of the very first brisket of beef he had eaten at Ben and Joe’s Luncheonette, with his beloved Uncle, when he was only six years old. He could almost see, and feel, the footprint of Ben and Joe’s place which was buried about 1000 feet below the tip of the immense steel and aluminum skeleton he was now sitting on. It struck him to think of how

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places, and cities, can change so dramatically in so few years … for better and for worse. What he first thought to be fog started drifting in around them, and the view was becoming more hazy and indefinite. “Hey, what’s with the fog, Bill? Does this happen, up here, often?” “That isn’t fog, Vinnie. Those are clouds coming down on us. If we’re lucky they’ll settle below us and wait until you see the show! You won’t believe your eyes.” His boss smiled. Aside the parapet wall, the group watched the clouds descend while Vinnie held his sight fixed on the Parachute Jump and the public housing towers out in Coney Island. The building forms gradually muted and became harder to discern. Suddenly, the structures—and the whole city around the Tower—disappeared in a blanket of white cumuli. “Hey everybody, look up! Now!!” Bill yelled. Vinnie turned his eyes upward. The noonday sky above him was cobalt blue. Then, turning his eyes downward, he saw a thick carpet of impenetrable white fleece. “Well, I’ve looked at clouds from both sides … now.” Vinnie sang dreamily to himself.

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On the Road West and Back to the Northern Lights (June, 1970) (a Fractured Nation: Engagement and a New Ecology)

A cross-country road trip represents an important learning experience for our protagonist. During his five weeks ‘on the road,’ Vinnie encounters people, places and situations which will serve to clarify his values and interests, and further shatter the trembling foundations of his ‘professional aspirations.’ He and his friends observe, discuss or take part in: the socio-political turmoil of the times (Kent State massacre, Urban Renewal struggles and racism, de-industrialization, etc.). Vinnie grows to further appreciate a ‘special power in children’ (Afro-American youth empowerment organizations (Chicago), adventure playgrounds (Vancouver), children in Native American mythology (First Nation, Hopi, etc.). He considers City Planning (Chicago, Portland, Vancouver), discovers Jane Jacobs (Toronto) and continues to acquire knowledge of and inspiration from Vernacular Architecture, Wilderness and Deep Ecology. Several fil rouge (artificial intelligence, theoretical Astro-physics and Native American mythology) begin to intersect with his passion for children’s free play. These interconnected threads will expand and accompany the story to its conclusion.

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An old blues tune by Blind Boy Fuller is playing on the radio, as the Turbo Air Six, 1962 Corvair convertible—a sickening pea soup color according to its many critics—trucks its way along a winding road through the verdant Allegheny Mountains of West Virginia. Vinnie, stretched out across the back seat, is taking in the wide-open wonders of the natural surroundings—so different from the dense and dirty, pot-holed canyons of the city he and his friends had left that morning, just before sunrise. The three comrades are on the first leg of a coast-to-coast trip which will take them out to Bend Oregon, for a ten-day stay with Mike’s classmate, Cal, and then back across Canada to their starting point in the Concrete Jungle, all in a little less than five weeks. There will be stop-overs at campuses, communes and crash-pads where friends of friends, or friends of friends of friends, are supposedly living. Up front, Mike skillfully worked the manual transmission of the little car as he maneuvered it along the tortuous inclines of Route 92. By his side, in the passenger seat, Nelson is fast asleep. His face is concealed by long, straight, oily coal-black hair. The sun is setting between two majestic peaks to the West, and Vinnie began to worry that they won’t make it to Marlinton before nightfall. “Hey, Hatzi. How far is it to Marlinton?” Vinnie sometimes used this play on Mike’s Greek family name. “It shouldn’t be too far, we just passed by a road sign for Green Bank. That’s where my friend, Norm, is working this summer … at the National Radio Astronomy Observatory.” “Hey, Mike! What happened to the music? We lost the station.” All Vinnie could hear was static. “Oh, the whole area around the Observatory is a “No Radio” Zone. The electromagnetic waves disturb the Radio Telescope, so the government has banned all radio broadcasts for the surrounding 500 square miles.” Mike’s words faded off in the wind and blue noise, and Vinnie did too. The drive to West Virginia had taken much longer than he had expected. Just out of New York, an accident on the New Jersey Turnpike had stopped them cold for almost two hours and then, near Washington, D.C., heavy traffic had slowed them down for another sixty minutes. Never two without three, a tire had blown near Harrisonburg, in Virginia. They were already behind schedule, but Vinnie’s spirits and expectations were still high. He really needed the open space and free time of a road trip with close friends after his grueling and tragic Senior Year. First, there had been the long months of fear of being drafted, and his elaboration of plans for fleeing to Canada or Europe. Then, like magic, it all had evaporated with the extraction of his lucky number, 231. Less than a week later, Vinnie would discover that his mother was seriously ill. Her health had precipitated rapidly and, when she was recovered in a hospital out near Prospect Park, he traveled back and forth from Morningside Heights, at least three times a week, with his heart pounding in his throat. His Mom’s mind unraveled, day by day, and the doctors couldn’t identify the cause or the cure. Then on March 17th, Saint Patrick’s Day, she passed away, and Vinnie’s world fell apart. She had been the love of his life,

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care-taker, best friend and beacon. She had taught him to believe in himself and had supported his every effort to move beyond where he was, and to take new roads. Now she was gone, and he went to pieces. It was a miracle that in the midst of the chaos, and shackled by grief, he had managed to graduate and even find an intriguing employment opportunity with the Municipality of New York. Luck and circumstances, he was sure, had once again played their part. The student occupation of the campus had blown the conventional grading system to the wind. The ‘P’ grades on his transcript served to hide the lack of attention and effort he had afforded the courses he had grown to despise. A light at the end of Vinnie’s dark tunnel came in the person of a bushy-bearded, charismatic and brilliant Texas-born automotive engineer he had chanced upon on April 22. That day, he had decided—for a reason he would never quite understand —not to attend the first Earth Day demonstration in Central Park. Instead, he had been attracted to a conference, held at the Columbia Business School. Its two-part title—“Transform NYC into an Italian Hill Town. Combat the US Automotive Industry” —had sparked his imagination. At the Conference, he had met and conversed with the fiery speaker, Leo Ketchman, who only three weeks later would offer him employment in a small, experimental Municipal Office he directed down on Astor Place in the East Village. Vinnie’s application had been accepted (and his lucky, ‘shady P’ Columbia credentials had surely helped). In just six weeks, he was to begin work as a ‘Junior Air Pollution Control Engineer’ with Ketchman’s experimental team. The job would begin shortly after reentry from what he hoped would be a rehabilitative, Magical Mystery Tour. His friend Mike would also be initiating a career in ‘Artificial Intelligence’ upon return, while Nelson Wong planned to abandon the return tour and fly back from San Francisco to his home in Hawaii for a period of surf, sun and fun. His vacation would be followed by short stint of part-time ‘work,’ somewhere in the Pacific, at one of his father’s luxury hotels. “Mike, why is Norm working down here in the boondocks, anyway? What exactly will he do at that place? I could never quite manage to understand him whenever he rambled on about Super Novae and Interstellar Space.” Vinnie yelled above the noise of the air-cooled, straight-six engine whining in second gear. “He’ll be assisting in the design and updating of its radio-electronics systems. But listen here Vinnie, this place is mind blowing. It’s the site of the largest and most advanced Radio Telescope in the world. These dudes are among the first researchers to explore the possibility of making contact with extra-terrestrial intelligence.” “Well, Doctor Norman Mayer should be a perfect addition to that team. He’s always totally spaced out.” Vinnie joked. “Yeah, but at least he cut off his beard and kinky mane before he came down here. He’s incognito now. He’s become an undercover freak in the belly of the monster.” Mike retorted. “What monster?! Where is it?!” Nelson, shaken from his nap, shrieked and grabbed the dashboard.

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“Take it easy, surfer boy, we were just talking about what they do at the observatory where Norm will be working this summer. This place is the home of powerful stuff. This is where scientists first discovered flat galactic rotation curves, which I’m sure you both know imply the probable existence of dark matter in the Universe.” “You mean like the funky stuff under Nelson’s fingernails, Mike?” “Be nice, Vinnie. You’re revealing the true dark matter of your vile, Italian-American working-class soul.” Nelson responded, turning around with a big smile on his face. “You know I love you, Nel. Peace and power, Brother.” Vinnie joked, wondering why it was taking them so long to get to Marlinton. It had been nearly an hour since Mike had said ‘it shouldn’t be too far.’ “So, anyway, where the hell are we?” Nelson perked up. “We’re rolling into Marlinton, right now. I guess this is Main Street.” Mike responded and pulled the car to a full stop in front of a free-standing, long wood and cinder-block building with a covered, raised porch stretching across the entire façade. Four overall-clad locals were sitting on the porch, smoking and talking. Vinnie turned around and checked out the only other buildings standing on what Mike had called a ‘Main Street.’ He noticed what looked like a long, low barn which had been converted to a makeshift ‘Auto Repair Shop’ and, on the corner, stood an old, two-story red brick building with a hand-painted sign advertising ‘Cold Beer and Food.’ All the rest was just flat farmland, surrounded by rolling green hills. The mountains had now receded into the distance. What caught and captured Vinnie’s eyes were six, perfectly polished Harley Davison choppers—four with flashy sidecars—parked out in front of the ‘Cold Beer and Food’ emporium. “Hey, Mike. Maybe we shouldn’t stop here. Look behind us, there’s a bunch of Hell’s Angels’ cycles parked outside that drinking hole. You think those dudes like hippies? I wouldn’t …” Vinnie spoke very softly. “We have to stop here, if we want to find Norm’s place. He told me to ask the manager of the General Store for directions up to the commune he’s living at. He said it’s not easy to find.” Mike responded. “Well, let’s make it quick and quiet. Try not to be too conspicuous and, Nelson, please behave yourself.” “Ain’t nobody around here going to tell me how I should behave. Mike and I are just going to ‘truck’ on into the General Store and get the directions we need.” He jumped out of the car, neglecting to open the door. “Don’t!” Vinnie adverted. But he did. It just so happened that Nelson was decked out in his usual uniform: a wrinkled, dirty black Italian-made (very expensive) suit and pointy black leather boots. And since the day was extremely warm and humid, he had decided to leave the usual ‘white’ linen shirt in his duffle bag. His bony, tanned chest stood in the wind as he crouched low and ‘trucked’—his long, thin arms waving in cadence to the music in his mind—in long, slow strides up towards the steps to the porch.

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The local ‘boys,’ who ranged from 16 to 60, all slowly turned their heads towards Nelson’s show, and their conversation stopped cold. Three of them angrily showed the few teeth they had, and the fourth one spat. “Hey, Clem, look at that skinny, Chink hippy. Where does he think he’s going?” The expectorator had spoken. “He ain’t comin’ up here, if he’s got any brains in his yellow noggin.” The youngest local whined and stood fierce. Nelson stopped cold in his stride, with one foot in the air. To Vinnie, he looked like a frame from one of Robert Crumb’s comic strips. At that very same moment, Mike lifted his massive, bearded-self out of the car and spoke. “Excuse me, Sir, can you kindly indicate the way to Hodder’s Creek? Then we’ll be on our way.” “We don’t give directions to no king-size, hairy hippies around here, sonny.” The toothless elder wheezed. “Well, then I’d like to go into the General Store and just ask the owner, if you don’t mind.” “Hey, Nate, come on out here. There’s some hippy-type Yankee askin’ for you.” A crow cawed in the tall pines behind the store, the screen door screaked and an old, fat bald man in a denim apron appeared in the doorway. Nate, the owner, was pointing a long shotgun in Mike’s direction. Vinnie slipped down between the front and back seat. He held his breath for what felt like a lifetime. “Get out of this town, before I blow your damn heads off! We don’t welcome your kind around here.” Vinnie cringed, imagining what would follow and hoping that Nelson, stoned as usual, wouldn’t speak up. He heard a ruckus coming from behind the car—feet shuffling fast in the dust and metal banging. Then a voice exclaimed, “Hey, Grandpa, put your blunderbuss down! These boys come in peace, just as we do. But give us the occasion, and we’ll kick ass like you have never seen in your long life.” Their unseen savior had said his piece. When he sat up, Vinnie saw his two friends surrounded by a motley crew of burly bikers. Several of them had thick chains or tire irons in their hands. The speaker was tall, long-haired and bearded. He had a hand on Nelson’s shoulder. There were seven men and two women, and all of them sported leather jackets or vests with their gang’s name, locality and symbol in evidence:

The group’s symbol, positioned between its provenance and its slogan, was a clever play on the Communist International logo with the hammer replaced by what appeared, to Vinnie, to be a barbecue fork.

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“You all just go back inside and have yourselves some Mountain Dew, or Moonshine if you prefer, and we and our friends here will just cruise off down the road to greener pastures. That OK with you?” Oddly enough, the five petrified yokels weren’t looking at the valiant orator— who Vinnie thought must be high on something if he thought that chains could compete victoriously with a loaded shotgun—but rather had their eyes fixed on something up the street, behind them. He turned and saw their winning card. A striking, red-haired Amazon in Red Angels garb was down on one knee, and she held what looked like an M-1 rifle pointed directly at sweat-drenched Nate or anyone else who might happen to move a finger on the rickety porch. “Yeah, I have to say that my step-sister Zara is a real bad-ass.” The young woman sitting on a faded oriental floor-cushion, smiled and said to Vinnie. After the harrowing close call at Marlinton, the gang of bikers had accompanied them for nearly an hour through back woods surrounded by soaring mountains to a secluded farmhouse near the town of Cass. Watching the position of the setting sun, Vinnie had been surprised that their caravan was traveling, once again, in a Northward direction. In fact, he had learned, upon arrival, that the Commune was only a few miles from the turn-off for Green Bank they had passed, hours before, on their way to Marlinton. “So, Maria, let me get this straight. Norm’s plan was to take us miles out of our way to a tiny shithole for an armed standoff between crazy racist locals and armed, leftist West Coast bikers.” “You make it sound stupider than it is in reality, Vinnie. I’m sure you can appreciate now that our ‘types’ are not welcome around here. The important thing was that the location of this new communal arrangement remained secret. So, Norm couldn’t have you ask for directions in Cass. You can bet your ass that the reaction there would have been the same, and a standoff - as you called it - so close to this place would have, probably, brought curious locals searching. Just like they’re probably doing, now, down around Hodder’s Creek. Norm may look like a nerd, but as that name implies, he and his friends are very smart and able strategists.” “Yeah, I guess you’re right. It sounds like a good plan. But what exactly is a nerd?” Vinnie had never heard the term before, but he thought he got the gist of it. “A nerd, or a ‘k-n-u-r-d’ as some people up at MIT spell the term, is an overly intellectual and technologically obsessed type who usually has zero social skills. The kind of dudes who, on a Saturday night, would rather discuss life on Mars or dismantle a piece of electronic equipment than go out dancing or get drunk.” “In fact, ‘knurd’ is ‘drunk’ spelled backwards. But, at least our buddy Norm and his nerdy colleagues here at Green Bank don’t disdain an occasional toke of good Mexican grass.” Mike interjected. Then Norm jumped in, “I’ve always been considered a ‘Nudnik’ by friends and family, then I discovered I was a ‘Nerd’ when I got to Columbia. Well, whatever I am, I’m famished now. Why don’t we go out to the back porch, where we’ll be eating our dinner. Brown rice with organic vegetables, sweet corn and home baked breads are on the bill of fare. Unfortunately, no latkes. And, sorry Vinnie, no eggplant Parmesan tonight.” Norm and Mike headed off.

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Vinnie and the diminutive, dark-skinned girl decided to take their time. Vinnie wanted to continue their conversation, and it appeared to him that Maria did, too. “So, Maria, do you and your gang live here, too?” “No, I live in Berkeley and I’m not part of the Angels. But you know, I don’t like that word ‘gang,’ at all. They’re more like a club or association which is prepared to defend, with any means possible, its principles and values. Anyway, Zara lives in Oakland with the dude who did the talking at Marlinton. He’s a Viet Nam vet who went over there against his will. He’d been drafted out of Stanford, and he came back angrier and with the intention to combat all that Nixon’s Amerika represents and perpetrates. Most of the guys in the Oakland chapter, like him, are affiliated with the Viet Nam Veterans Against the War. He had been a good friend, at Stanford, of one of Norm’s colleagues here at Green Bank. So, when Zara and he decided to take a ‘vacation’ out here in Red Neck Heaven, I asked her if I could come along. I had been planning to spend the summer doing research on the Communes that are sprouting up in the Southeast, so it seemed to me like this could be a good opportunity. I hitched a ride.” “Sorry about the ‘gang’ thing, Maria. For me, that word doesn’t necessarily have a bad connotation. My childhood pals and I, back in Brooklyn, we always used the term lightly. But, what kind of research are you doing, and does it regard specifically the Green Bank Nerd Collective?” Vinnie, too, had to learn some social skills. “I’m not interested in Norm’s collective, as you call it. It isn’t really a ‘commune’ as I would define one. I’m just staying here for a few days until the Zara and Mark, and the Angels, move on. Then I’ll be moving over to Virginia to a place called Twin Oaks to live in and study a real, vibrant Commune. I’ll stay there until I have to go back to school at Berkeley, in early September.” “What’s your field of study, Maria? And why doesn’t this place fit in with your research?” Vinnie interjected. “You Brooklyn boys sure ask a lot of questions, just like natural-born researchers.” She smiled and continued. “I’m doing my doctoral studies at Berkeley. I got an undergraduate degree in Architecture there and then went on for a Masters in Anthropology. While I was studying Architecture, I became fascinated with vernacular architecture, you know, the places that people – the common folk, not the experts – design and build on their own. Then I got involved in some Community Architecture projects and participation in Oakland. I felt I had to keep in touch with what was going on today in the real world, not only in the past or in faraway places that you’ve probably never even heard of, like Cappadocia or Matera.” “Whoa! I might be an Engineer, but that doesn’t mean I only know Calculus. Which I don’t, by the way. The truth is, I have seen pictures of those places in Rudofsky’s book Architecture without Architects. I really love that book. The places it depicted really blew my mind. They are so beautiful. The Professor of a course I took on Modern Architecture, Gino Santomaria, suggested that I read the book, when I told him my mom’s family came from a town only a few miles from

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Matera. I especially liked the chapter on children’s building miniature environments, with available natural materials, in different places and cultures around the world.” “Yeah, I remember that chapter had a great title, too. Block Lust. I think it’s a perfect metaphor for conventional architectural arrogance. You know, their almost pornographic fascination with straight lines, right angles and industrial mass production. The houses and towns I’ve visited in the Mediterranean Region and Central Africa were all so very different. They fit perfectly into their natural settings and, in all cases, managed to collaborate perfectly with and never subjugate nature and society. You dig what I’m saying?” “Yeah, I do and I agree with you. Modern Architecture has always seemed to me to be, I don’t know, kind of out of context. You see nice pictures of, sometimes, beautiful works of art. But where are the people who inhabit the ‘artwork’? And what’s going on around them?” Vinnie continued, “I do appreciate a few movements in Modern Architecture, like Art Nouveau, Arts and Crafts, the Jugenstil … and Antonio Gaudi. You know, the Modernists in Catalonia. The single buildings - their forms, details and craftsmanship - were extraordinary and took me places, in my mind. But I would always ask myself what were the people doing in, and around, these buildings? The clients, and the critics, may love those modern artifacts, but what do the neighbors think about them. And where do the children play in places like those?” “Then I took a short course on ‘Cities and Planning’. That class got me thinking about the way cities and urban places come into being and evolve over time. Now, that’s what I want to understand better - not how to make the ‘pieces’ but how to contribute to, and improve, the public places and the lives of the people who inhabit and use them. I’ve begun thinking that, after I spend a few years of faking it as an engineer and saving some money, maybe I’ll go back to graduate school and study City Planning or Urban Design.” That was the very first time Vinnie had ever formulated, out loud, this possible new direction for his life. “Sounds good, Vinnie. But, you know, I think that before you do that you might consider taking a long trip around Southern Italy to explore your family’s roots. You should see the places that they, and you, come from. Matera and the nearby hill and coastal towns will really blow you away. Those places are perfectly balanced integrations of place, nature, culture and society. I just loved them.” “And since I gather that you’re fascinated with children, I’ll tell you, those places were literally crawling with kids. Street play abounded, day and night, and the children seemed to be perfectly integrated into, and an important component of, local production and culture, too. I remember, once, I spent two days observing three young children helping an old fisherman, their grandfather, to repair an intricate, cantilevered fishnet structure on the Northern coast of Puglia. A few weeks later, in Nola near Naples, I was amazed to see hundreds of children and youth - together with their elders - building towering, ornate wood and plaster-of-Paris structures which were carried through the town in a yearly sacred-pagan festival. The entire town and all of its social and natural resources

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were involved in the symbolism and in the realization of the festival. The foods, the harvests, the craft guilds involved, the children’s roles - all of it was interconnected and participatory. It was mind blowing.” Maria passed me the joint, stretched out and went on.

“You know, during that long study trip, my idea for a thesis began to crystalize. I began to think that a possible entryway to a new, revolutionary and ecological society here in America might just be our reconnecting production and consumption, with regard to material culture and livelihood, to the local environment. That’s where my Commune study comes in. And, to answer your question, that’s why your friend Norm’s nerd collective doesn’t fully ‘qualify’ as a commune. Those engineers and scientists and their mates – when they’re lucky enough to have one, or two – just live together out in the country. Yeah sure, they have an organic vegetable garden, and they may bake their own bread, but they don’t really work here. And just think about the work they’re doing, and who they’re doing it for. It’s the NASA and a whole bunch of companies which will surely use their findings to wage better warfare, or worse. They’re nice kids, some of them, but I think they’re just playing at Star Trek meets Robinson Crusoe out in the Forest.” “Yup, Norm can be really lost in space sometimes. I haven’t met his friends yet, but I can tell you that Norm is a good man. He was very active in campus politics and did some interesting community work in East Harlem with children. He is, also, a brilliant researcher who just happens to be fixated on interstellar communication and technology. You won’t believe it, but he actually expects to find and communicate with somebody, or something, out there in space. And dig what he told me! These are his exact words: ‘… those little guys from another Universe will help us build an Intergalactic, Cosmic-Cooperative Anarchism.” I’m almost certain that,

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eventually, he’ll get deluded and drop out or, just maybe, try to sabotage the system.” Vinnie didn’t have a clue. The grass they had been smoking was home-grown and potent. Vinnie slipped away from the conversation for what seemed like eons in space and time, past and future. He found himself sitting in his grandfather’s lap listening to a story about Miglionico and radio telescope technology, when he heard a voice call to him. “Hey, Vinnie! Vinnie! You still here? … or have you slipped off to somewhere in Southern Italy?” “Oh, Maria. How the hell did you know it?” Vinnie smiled, perplexed. “I’m just clairvoyant, I guess.” Her face was radiant and, at the same time, reassuring. He felt at peace, a sensation he hadn’t felt for many, many months. Maria continued to talk, softly. “While you were away somewhere, I started thinking about a guy I heard giving a speech in Berkeley a few years ago. I can’t remember his name, but he was an Englishman who was a visiting Professor at the School of Art. I’m sure you would have loved him. He was both a visual artist and an archaeologist, if I remember correctly, and he talked a lot about children’s free play in the environment with what he called ‘Loose Parts’. He presented stunningly beautiful images of Stonehenge, of flowing streams and of Dogon children building things. And he spoke about organizing children’s workshops on the Future. He even went so far as to propose that our world could be saved only if all children are offered the opportunity to participate in, and manipulate, their environment without adult interference. He was a wild, crazy guy – and very polemical - but his wise words and vivid images struck a deep note in me. And I’m sure they would have meant even more to you.” “Wow, it sounds interesting.” Vinnie was captivated. “But how can I find him or read his works?” “I really don’t know. He said he would be leaving Berkeley that summer, don’t know where he was headed or based. But he did have a huge, high shiny forehead. He’s a lanky guy dressed completely in navy blue. Keep your eyes open!” They laughed heartily and—both with a bad case of the munchies—went off to, finally, have some dinner. The night he passed with Maria took Vinnie over a threshold towards fuller personhood, in thought and passion. He would never forget those few hours. But when he awoke, in late morning, Maria was gone. He went down to the kitchen to look for her. “Good morning, all. Have you seen Maria?” He asked Nelson, who was trying to make coffee. He was also naked. “She left with the other Angels about an hour ago, Vinnie. She said to kiss you goodbye.” Mike said. “Oh, Shit.” Vinnie grumbled, sat down at the long table and pushed Mike’s puckered mouth away from his. “Well, Bro, I’m sure you had a great night anyway. And this is only the beginning. Have some coffee.”

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“Yeah, right. Like next week, when Nel finally gets his shit together. Why are you bare-assed, by the way?” “We’re going for a dip down at Deer Creek later. So, why should I get dressed?” Nelson mumbled. “Right, asshole. And you’re going to walk a half-mile through the thorns and briars, on a rocky path, in your birthday suit. You just want to show off your tanned, perfect Pacific Islander’s body. To who? Me and Vinnie? Norm and Sarah? There’s nobody else around.” Mike said, and slapped Nelson’s bare ass. When the coffee, which Mike eventually made, came around Vinnie was still thinking about Maria. He was still savoring the heavenly meeting of mind and body the night had offered. Yeah, Mike was right. It had been a ‘great one,’ and he wasn’t even two days into his vacation. He wondered what would come next. “So, what’s the plan, Mike? I thought we’d be moving on, today.” “We will be, but Norm and Sarah - who both took the day off from work to be with us - said we shouldn’t miss the crystalline pools and waterfalls at Deer Creek. Oh, tonight there’s a special showing of Kubrick’s “2001 Space Odyssey” at West Virginia U, in Morgantown. We all want to see it. So, our plan is to take off from here around 3 o’clock and drive up there with Norm and Sarah. It’s about a three-hour drive.” “Don’t tell me we’ll coming back here after! We’ll be way off schedule, man.” Vinnie was worried. “Don’t fret, Vin. The movie showing was organized by the Green Bank Observatory people, so some of Norm’s colleagues will be there, along with most of the nerds and freaks within 100 miles of Morgantown. They already have a ride to work in the morning. We’re set up with first class reservations in a Five Star undergrad dorm. I’m sure our friend, Mister Hawaiian Hotel Mogul, will love the room service. Dressed or undressed.” Mike and all the others laughed, while Nelson struggled to get his bare feet into his black boots. “Let’s go surfing now!” Nelson sang out. The five freaks got up and rushed off, down to the creek. “I still can’t believe you had never seen “2001: A Space Odyssey” before last night, Vinnie!” Just North of Morgantown, Mike yelled from the back seat as Nelson took the car up to the legal maximum speed in West Virginia. They were already on Route 79. The driver’s long hair, like Mike’s and Vinnie’s, was pulled back in a ponytail to keep it out of his face. The morning light was just starting to glimmer behind the rolling, green hills to the East. They had left the WVU campus very early since they had a long drive ahead of them to Madison, Wisconsin. That city was planned to be their next stopover. “Yeah, it’s hard for me to believe, too, man. Last Spring you were always going to the movies all by yourself, it seemed like every other day. You never stopped blathering on about the ‘Film Medium’. Well, how did you miss fuckin’ “2001,” man? It came out two years ago. Don’t you dig Kubrick?” Nelson asked. “I read a little about him in my Film Class, but I’d never seen any of his films, until last night. It was amazing, really beautiful and moving. Anyway, I never go to

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American movies. I prefer foreign stuff, like the French Nouvelle Vague. Last year, I often went to the Thalia on Broadway where they offered double features of famous foreign directors. You know, like Truffaut, Bunuel, Kurosawa and Bergman. I think I just needed to get really far away from America and go deeper inside myself, since my mom died. Can you dig it?” Vinnie had a flash-memory of Bergman’s hooded, pale-faced personification of death, and he shuddered. “Yeah, Vinnie, I dig you. And I’m so sorry, man. But let me ask you one more thing. How the hell did a poor kid from Brooklyn become such a cinema snob, huh? And, if you don’t mind my saying so, such an asshole when it comes to evaluating films, too. Stanley Kubrick happens to be a genius, man. Don’t you know that your French intellectuals love his work? His cinematography is unique in the world, and he’s years ahead of anything coming out of Europe – like innovative set designs, special effects and script development. And what music! You’re a musician, aren’t you? I know that this film just blew your snobby little, nouvelle vague mind, man. And, probably, all that grass helped, too.” Nelson grinned and took a toke of his first joint of the day. Mike leaned forward, squeezed his big bushy head forward between them and went on, “And the story-line, man, whew! Kubrick and Arthur Clark, who wrote the book that the film is based on, created a frightening, though I must say disputable, reinterpretation of man’s evolution and a terrifying and a very possible - I pray not probable - prospect for the future. Probably half of the nerds in the audience last night are working on stuff that could go, in one way or the other, in that direction. And fuck it, I’m probably one of them!” “Come on, Mike. You’re not going to work for the bad guys. Are you?” Vinnie asked. “Well, to tell the truth, the little company I’ll be working with in Hastings does do some consulting with Bell Labs. Those are the guys who developed the first talking computers in the world. The small team I’ll be a part of is carrying out what’s called “speech understanding research.” That means we’ll be trying to move from electronic speech recognition to actual verbal communication with computers. Wait a minute! Come to think of it, the babies I’ll be working on just might become, to all effects, HAL’s ancestors.” “What the fuck are you talking about Mike?! You’re telling us that stuff in ‘2001’ is for real?” Nelson exclaimed. “Not yet, but theoretically it all can happen. And a whole bunch of people are working on it, and a whole lot of money is being invested in it, too. You should appreciate that Arthur Clark is a scientist, and HAL is based on a real IBM 704 computer he had seen, at Bell Labs back in the early ‘60’s. That machine had actually learned to sing - dig this - Daisy, Daisy. Just like in the movie. A few years ago, computers could only understand and compute spoken numbers, now they can print out the actual words which are spoken into them. The next step, and this is what we’ll be working on, is for these machines to understand spoken questions, search for or calculate the question in their data bases and tell you the right answer.

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But, fuck me and my colleagues, Clark and Kubrick are worried that these machines might, eventually, learn to think on their own and maybe evolve in such a way to even have fucking emotions, too!” “And they’ll kill us all!! If they don’t like what we’re doing!” Nelson screamed, and Vinnie spoke up. “Yeah, technology can be really dangerous, man. What science and big business call progress and innovation could cause the end of everything. And this stuff you’re telling us about is even scarier than the issues we were confronting with SESPA. I mean, weapons of mass destruction and war operations are bad shit, right? People should be able to understand that. But, man, many Engineers just kept on working, and deluding themselves into believing that they had nothing to do with the end products of their so-called ‘objective research’. Now, the stuff you’re telling us about, Mike, sounds less harmful, and like it might even be fun. Maybe, in the future, computers will be singing. Maybe they’ll help us solve our everyday problems faster, and be talking with us – like maybe about the weather or what train we should take. And then, one fine day, we wake up to find out that they’ve taken over. I can’t believe that no one is thinking about those terrible prospects and doing something to avoid them.” “You’re right, Vinnie, but I have to say that some of us are skeptical and worried.” “It didn’t seem to me like there was that much skepticism or worry in the words of most of the nerds I spoke with last night. Except one guy I met from Canada. That dude told me that a professor of his – William Thompson, I think was his name – will be giving a lecture in Toronto in a few weeks about the threat to the future of humanity and the environment which is represented by a mix of Technocratic Culture and new esoteric, apocalyptic movements growing on the West Coast. You know, the weirdoes who believe in the prophecies of Edgar Cayce, the historical fairytales of Tolkien and UFO’s. What do you think, Mike? Maybe we can stop over in Toronto on our way back to New York?” “Well, Harpo lives there now, so I’m up for it. But, like I was saying, the next generation of computers and connector systems could make prospects even worse. We’re not talking, anymore, about some nerd or researcher interacting with just one huge computer-being. We’re talking about people everywhere, just regular folks, who’ll be hooking up to an interconnected system of personal computers which can communicate between themselves, over very long distances. Like, all around the world! The consequences could be devastating when you come to think about it. I’m talking about the ARPANET. Haven’t you heard of it?’” “No! And I don’t want to hear anything! Let’s get some breakfast!” Nelson exclaimed and pulled to a full stop in front of a truckers’ diner just outside of Youngstown, Ohio. It was 8.30 AM. The low, white cinderblock structure stood alone at the rear of a vast parking lot marked by a towering Marathon Oil sign. There were only two trailer-trucks in the lot, and this was a good omen. Such a motley trio of ‘intellectual long-hairs’ could expect trouble in a trucker-packed, West Virginian diner in 1970.

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“Well, my friends, let’s have the biggest, most delicious breakfast which Gene and his Golden Grille has to offer. I’m gonna try the Steak and Eggs Special. How about you, Mike?” Nelson opened the screen door. “I’ll try to go unnoticed, and you should try to do the same. Keep your voice down. Ok?” Mike looked worried. “Stay calm, Mike.” Vinnie said and then whispered, “In this situation, my Uncle Rocco would have told you that ‘no war has ever started over a plate of good food. And anyway, if you do die - at least you’re done with the dentist’.” The boys snickered and sat down at the long counter as far as possible from the two truckers, hard at work on their breakfasts. Big Gene, a giant of a man and maybe of different name, turned from his grill and his smile morphed to a grimace when he saw the three long-haired youth. He spoke in a deep, menacing voice. “You kids lost? We don’t get many of your kind out in our neck of the woods.” He smelled like bacon. “Good morning, sir. We’d just like some breakfast and then we’ll be on our way.” Mike smiled meekly and Nelson, unnoticed by Gene, slipped his long ponytail inside his shirt collar. Vinnie did the same. “Well, we’ll get to that. But first, you still haven’t answered my question. Why are you here?” “Sorry sir and, by the way, ‘good morning’. Vinnie responded. “We happen to be on our way to Oregon to visit our farmer buddy Cal, and his family, and we noticed those tall smokestacks on the horizon. I was wondering if those might be the blast furnaces of the Jones and Laughlin Steel Company?” Vinnie had taken the lead, because he knew the industrial history of Youngstown from one of Prof. SM’s classes. He had also learned that a considerable decline in production was on the horizon, so he had to be careful with what exactly he said. “You know Jones and Laughlin? Good to hear that but, no, those aren’t their stacks. That’s the Youngstown Sheet and Tube Company furnace. My son Bobby used to work there.” The big man smiled with moist eyes, and he placed three big steaming cups of coffee and a menu on the counter in front of them. “I studied about Youngstown at College last year, sir. Before, I had no idea how important your city is in the history of our country. If I’m not mistaken, most of the tanks and cannons that won our country’s wars were made right around here. Up until the Second World War, at least.” “That’s right, we’ve done our part in the mills and on the battlefields.” The big man grimaced and continued, “But, son, things are changing fast. Those bastards in Washington are dealing us some trick cards these days. They can’t break our unions, so they’re making it easier to buy raw steel and unfinished products from overseas. Can you imagine it, my boy Bobby is over in Viet Nam and if – I pray to God – he comes back alive, he might not get his job back. Shit on those Japs that are selling us their steel. It’s good, and it is cheaper to buy. But the big boys with their shiny offices in Chicago and New York are the real culprits. You can’t imagine how many folks in this area are coming down with cancer. Even my brother has contracted it, and those bastards aren’t doing shit about it. They say it’s not their fault, but look out there in the

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fields. You see those smokestacks reaching like the arms of God in the smoky sky? They used to be our pride and joy, but nowadays they’re more like an eviction notice from the Grim Reaper. I just don’t know. But, excuse me, I’m running my big mouth off more than I ought to. You all must be hungry, and we have some great grub. What do you want to eat?” “You boys all be good and drive safely, now.” Gene—it turned out that it was his name on the sign—had sent them off after a delicious breakfast, with his blessings. Vinnie, once again relegated to the back seat, was thinking about the conversation they had just had. While the world was hurtling towards a future filled with computers and space travel, and global conflicts, Big Gene and his son and family were struggling to survive in the old, crumbling twentieth century industrial order. The man was friendly and seemed sincerely interested in their well-being, but Vinnie shuddered to think of what he would have said, or done, had he known that their next stop was Kent State University, less than an hour down the road. They had avoided the subject of Viet Nam. But Vinnie thought that, just maybe, Big Gene was beginning to understand that the War was wrong.

They stayed on the Kent State campus for a little over two hours. Their visit was brief not only because they had to get to Madison that night to sleep, and, before that, there would also make a stop in Chicago which Vinnie had insisted upon. The real reason for their getting out quick was that the place appeared to be under martial law. There were uniformed police and sinister, mustached dudes—they took to be undercover agents—in every angle. Cops were conspicuously numerous around the ugly ribbed, rectangular box of Taylor Hall where the massacre had taken place. They had walked solemnly and silently around the campus, avoiding the police, immersed in the terrible vibes of the site where, less than two months earlier, four kids of their own age had been shot dead by the National Guard. The students had

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been only protesting the War, just as they had at Columbia. Sixty-seven rounds of live ammunition—in just thirteen seconds—had ended the lives of those students and seriously injured nine of their classmates. The three boys vividly remembered their own reactions when they had first heard the news. They talked about the massive, fierce response which had exploded immediately at Columbia and on campuses throughout the country. Over four million students had taken part in a nation-wide strike during the days that followed the massacre. Vinnie thought those numbers were a drop in the bucket compared to the total population of the USA. For days, the mass media had continued to repeat the story that a few ‘violent students’ had caused the incident, and most people had accepted that lie. A poll taken immediately after the shootings reported that 58 percent of the respondents blamed the students, only 11 percent put the blame on the National Guard and 31 percent had no opinion. Vinnie thought it was pure insanity. His country had gone mad. He had felt a shock-wave of death vibes when he slipped his finger into a bullet hole at the base of an ugly, black cast-iron sculpture they had come across on campus. One of its thick, rectangular iron plates had interrupted the trajectory of an M1 bullet. The slug was still imbedded in the metal. Someone had etched a peace symbol, in white chalk, around the depression the bullet had made. The message “Never Forget May 4” was written below it. Before leaving for Chicago, they stopped to have some coffee at the Student Union and had met and a Kent State student, named Jerry. Vinnie would always remember his words: “Two of the four people who were killed, Allison Krause and Jeffrey Miller, were my friends. Jeff came from near where you guys are from, from Long Island. We were all running our asses off from those motherfuckers. It was like total, utter bullshit. Live ammunition and gasmasks—none of us knew, none of us could have imagined what would happen. They shot into a crowd that was running away from them! I saw the fucking exit wounds from M1 ammunition on the dead bodies of two people I knew. All I can tell you is that it completely and utterly changed my life. I was just a white hippie boy two months ago and now I feel, I don’t know, like I’m something else. I got real, real pissed off.”10 It was around 6.30 PM when Mike pointed to a sign on Route 90 which read “Chicago 30 Miles.” “You sure you want to stop in Chicago, Vinnie? If we get to Madison too late, your ‘High School Sweetheart’ is going to be really pissed off. She might not even let us sleep on her floor. That’s the deal, right?” Vinnie turned around and gave Mike the finger. “She wasn’t my ‘Sweetheart,’ man. And, well, she was in High School but I was a college Freshman.”

10

From an Interview with Jerry Casale of the musical group Devo. Casale had been a student at Kent State in 1970. https://boingboing.net/2010/05/04/devos-jerry-casale-o.html.

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“Yeah, Bro. I remember meeting her at our house - a real ‘Jewish Princess’. Obnoxious, to say the least.” Vinnie thought of the three months he’d traveled out to Flatbush to date Rebecca —Chinese food or a movie, and then their groveling on the living room couch while her condescending, nouveau-riche father worked in his ‘home office’ down the hall. It was a disastrous relationship, and Vinnie’s first real taste of class-culture conflict. They’d broken up quickly, and he hadn’t heard from her until April when he received the unexpected post card she had sent him from someplace in Florida. She must have been drunk when she wrote it. She told him she’d be staying in Madison for the Summer Session and had invited him to ‘drop in, if he was in the neighborhood.’ So, when the occasion arose, he thought ‘why not?’. He was curious to see how she had changed, although the fact that she was in Daytona Beach while her campus, like so many others, was in flames made him think probably ‘not that much.’ Essentially, the main purpose of their stopover would be, as Mike had said, to ‘sleep on her floor.’ “Yeah, I really want to see Chicago. It’s our ‘Second City’ and has some great early skyscraper architecture. You know how much I love city-life, Bro. All these flat, green fields and huge parking lots are making me nauseous. I want to meet some urban folk, share food with them and see a little street life. So, who cares if Rebecca gives us the boot? We can always sleep in your limousine, right? Turn off here, Nelson!” Vinnie stood up, his long hair pushed back in the wind, and pointed towards the Exit. “Windy city, here we come!” He yelled at the top of his lungs. Nelson took the exit off the Interstate into what looked like a very poor, old neighborhood. Mike started to check the map to find the best street route through the center of Chicago which would take them north to a connection back onto I – 94, and then straight on to Madison. “Hey guys, I’m hungry. Why don’t we stop someplace around here and get a bite to eat?” Nelson said. Vinnie spotted a group of Black teenagers hanging out in front of a luncheonette named ‘Teen Town.’ He thought this might be a sign from Heaven, so he suggested they stop there for information. The local kids were friendly. When they understood the urgency and the dimensions of Nelson and Mike’s appetites, they suggested that they try Lem’s Bar-B-Q, only a few blocks North of where they were. “Lem and his bro’ make the biggest, bestest rib tips and hot links in town, man. And their buttermilk fried chicken is just divine.” A tiny, short-haired teenage girl told them. “Well, I don’t exactly know what those dishes are, but they sound really good to me.” Mike said. “Oh, you’ll think you died and went to heaven, Bro.” The girl smiled and waved them off. Lem’s place was a small, low-slung, white modernist-style drive-in with a high, billowing smokestack up on top. The food was excellent, as the girl had promised, and was served out in huge portions. They ordered everything she had mentioned.

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While at Lem’s, time seemed to slow down and almost stop. Maybe it was the Chicago Blues which emanated from the juke box. Maybe it was the slow, mellow drawl of the voices around them or the subtle sweetness of the fried chicken batter or, just maybe a strange, hallucinogenic effect of the sharp, spicy BBQ sauce. Whatever the cause, they did spend a long time at the place. And, there, they got into another fascinating conversation with another big man, behind another lunch counter. “You like that music, son? That’s my man, Muddy Waters on the jukebox. You boys ever heard of him?” “Sure have! I heard him perform once at the Café Au Go Go in Greenwich Village. He was unbelievable! I tried for weeks to get down a solo break in one song he played, but it was too much for me.” Vinnie smiled. “He’s too much for any human being, son. Yeah, he’s more than human, much more. You know he stops in here every now and then, and always orders exactly what you got in your mouth now, son.” The big man chuckled. Vinnie stopped chewing his rib tip, and he savored its smoky flavor … Muddy Waters style. “And listen here, my friend, you see that tall, lanky guy over there with the tiny black fedora? Well, that’s Hound Dog Taylor. Plays the meanest slide guitar you ever heard. And he got twelve fingers! Well, now they’re only eleven. Cut one off with a straight razor for a bet, a while ago.” He grimaced, brought a hand-chop down hard and then smiled. Nelson pulled a tiny piece of rib bone out of his mouth, thinking ‘maybe his pinky fell on the grill?’. “If you ever get a chance, go listen to the man play at Florence’s Lounge up on South Shield. It ain’t too far from here. His is the house band up at Flo’s. They make some real fine music there every Sunday afternoon.” When the big man—after about a quarter-hour of stories about local bluesmen— was called back to the grill, Vinnie got into another conversation with a young man in a scruffy, black leather coat who was seated to his left. “Can I take a look at that flyer, please?” His request approved, Vinnie began reading the text. “Excuse me, but who is this ‘Bud Billiken’11 guy anyway?” Vinnie asked. “You guys have the time? It’s a pretty long story.” The Afro-haired man yawned and closed his eyes. “Vinnie, you wanted to see some of Chicago. And Rebecca’s waitin’.” Mike chided and Nelson munched his chicken. “There’s always a woman, my man, settin’ our alarm clocks.” The man smiled, dreamily. “No problem, Rebecca can wait. I’m all ears.” Vinnie was curious to hear about whoever the “40th Annual Parade & Picnic,” announced on the flyer for August 8th, was named after.

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For more information about the Bud Billiken story and parade and about the Chicago Defender, see: www.budbillikenparade.org/

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“Well, Bud Billiken was a fat, happy character invented by an 11 year old black boy. Boy’s name was Motley. It was back in the 20’s. That little kid went on to grow up and become some kind of big-time writer man, here in Chicago. But that’s another story. But the Buddy Billiken thing goes way further back, man.” Vinnie was waiting and eating happily, and the man forked his afro and drifted off into ‘deep thought.’ “Now, lemme see now. The ‘Billiken’ name refers to a funny, rolly-poly, elf-like creature which a guy named Bob Abbott saw one day, back in the ‘20’s, on the door of a Chinese restaurant down the street here. That little fellow, they say, was supposed to be some kind of a God that protected the children of the Chinamen.” His voice dwindled and then phased out. “I don’t understand. But who was Bob Abbott anyway, and how did this Parade get started?” “Let me help you, son.” An elderly, tall bearded man dressed in a colorful dashiki had slipped into the conversation from a stool down the counter. He moved over next to Vinnie, and the sleepy story-teller got up. “I guess our friend, Omar, was just leaving. Isn’t that right, my man?” “Yessir, I’ll be on my way.” He dragged himself over and walked out the door into the parking lot, leaving the pile of flyers on the counter. A few minutes later, Nelson followed suit and disappeared behind him. “You know Omar used to be a good kid. He was even in a Billiken Club for a while, but then he got hooked on horse.” The dignified, pleasant looking man presented himself as ‘Frank, a writer from Hawaii.’ He told them he had moved to the South Side after college in Kansas, and that he had been a friend of both Motley and Abbott. After the war, he and his wife had moved to the Islands, and now he was back in town ‘for some political meetings.’ The boys told the man a little bit about themselves and their plans for the next weeks. “The parade story, like Omar had tried to explain, has a long history and a lot of twists to it. Bob Abbott, whose full name was Robert Sengstacke Abbott, was the founder and editor of the Chicago Defender It’s been the largest selling AfroAmerican newspaper for decades, starting in 1905. Bob was a very civic-minded man and a political activist, and he believed that educating and responsabilizing our youth was the only way for us to rise above oppression. He formed a large number of youth clubs in Chicago whose objective was to guide Black youth to take pride in their race and strive towards ‘respectability through competency.’ When he saw a figure etched on a Chinese Restaurant, one day around 1910, and he learned that the minor deity it represented was their ‘protector of children.’ Well, he got the idea that it might be a fitting symbol for his clubs. Here the story gets complicated because it seems that a white woman, an art teacher and illustrator from Kansas City, had first penned that pudgy, elf-like character and had named it ‘Billiken’ a few years earlier. She, like many at the time, was into the esoteric ‘Mind Cure’ craze going around back then. She said the image and name had come to her in a dream, but many hold - as I do - that she had read the name in a poem written in 1896. Anyway, her design was patented and a company started producing

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and widely selling little “Billikens.” They called those dolls the “God of Things as They Ought to Be.” Bob thought he couldn’t find a better name for his clubs. It was both the protector of children and a talisman for a better future. Can you dig it?” “I sure can!” Vinnie exclaimed and added “But where does the name ‘Bud’ come from?” “Oh, that was Bob’s nickname, so he just added it on because he liked the sound - tough and direct. Now, Bob needed a face for his newly baptized ‘Bud Billiken Clubs,’ and he couldn’t use the doll design or the chinese symbol, so he launched a contest in his Defender. And that’s where Motley comes in. His entry won the contest, and he was only 11 years old! Abbott put that drawing at the top of the paper’s children’s page. Afterwards, Motley continued to pen sketches for the Junior Defender. That’s what the children’s section of the paper was called. You know, that pudgy and giovial ‘Bud Billiken’ would not only become the mascot and symbol of the Clubs - there were hundreds of them by the mid ‘20’s, in Chicago and around the nation - but was also used, afterwards, as the logo of the Chicago Defender.” “This is all so amazing! A nation-wide, Black children and youth organization in the ‘20’s, I had no idea of anything like that. And an eleven-year old child actually designing a national logo! Wow, that’s beautiful! But tell me, is this parade a local or a national one?” Vinnie was all ears, and Mike was equally fascinated. “Oh, man! It’s a big one, people come from all over the country. The Parade is the largest Afro-American cultural and political event in America. Nevertheless, a community flavor still abounds, and just about everybody participates with local foods, arts and crafts. And you can hear the best Blues in the world! Besides the fun, there’s serious business going on, too. There are youth meetings, conferences and political debates. Our organizations are still strong and capillary, but this year it’s going to be a particularly tough one. I’m worried.” The man frowned and looked out the picture window towards a group of teens huddled in the parking lot. “Why’s that, sir?” Mike asked. “Those damn Nazis, my friend. They’re going to try to disrupt the Parade this year, sure as shit.” “You mean Mayor Daley and his cronies? Like in ‘68, at the Democratic Convention?” Vinnie interjected. “No, he’s not a Nazi just yet. Although, I must say, the Mayor is revealing his true nature, every day that goes by. He’s a racist. But no, it’s not him, I’m talking about real, organized Nazis – the National Socialist Party of America which is very strong here in Illinois. They have been exploiting the wide-spread, local tensions over housing and neighborhood problems. Can you imagine, son, right here in Chicago, thousands of white people led by brown-shirted fascists stoned a few Black families who just wanted to move into a more decent place?! Well, that happened near here, in Marquette Park, only a few months ago. That’s the reason I’m in town now. I’m here for meetings with neighborhood associations, unions, local politicians and planners to try to develop a strategy to avoid chaos at the

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Parade, for sure. But I’ve come, primarily, to discuss National urban policies which might serve to alleviate the tensions and provide decent housing and livable neighborhoods for our people.” Vinnie recalled the demonstrations and assemblies he had attended back in Morningside Heights. “Son, you said you were interested in cities and planning a while ago. Well, this whole story and the rise of the Nazis not only revolves around the endemic, historical prejudice in America but is actually being exacerbated by the new ‘Urban Crisis’. It’s being fueled by local and national policies – like the Urban Renewal Program and the policies of the Public Housing Authorities – which are displacing poor people from viable neighborhoods while building new, modern ghettos and impenetrable barriers between neighborhoods and communities.” He paused and lit a cigarette, and Mike took the opportunity to interrupt their conversation. “Hey Vinnie, we’d better be moving. It’s almost 8 o’clock, and if we want to get to Madison by …” “I understand, my friends. It’s been good talking with you. You be sure to talk to different folk in the towns and cities you pass through in the next weeks. You’ll learn a lot. Now, keep your eyes open and be careful.” When they shook hands, the man raised a clenched fist and said “Power to the People.” “And Power to the Children, too.” Vinnie replied. “While you two were busy talking about pudgy elves and parades, I scored some grass, man!” When they exited Lem’s, Mike and Vinnie had found Nelson sitting on the fender of a battered, red and white’55 Chevy shooting the shit with three teenage girls. “You like to live dangerously, Nelson. Their big brothers or boyfriends might come over and break you skinny, Chinese ass.” Vinnie said and looked over Nelson’s shoulder towards a group of young men on the corner. “It’s all under control, my friend. That tall guy in the middle is Charlene’s big brother, and he turned me on.” “Well, you won’t be doing any more driving tonight.” Mike adverted him and sat down in the driver’s seat. When they were safe in Madison, as safe as one can feel, trying to sleep in a peasoup-green Corvair convertible in an empty White Castle parking lot at 2 AM, Vinnie played back the techno-color film in his head. He rewound his thoughts and relived the drive through the center of Chicago. And it was vivid. The Windy City had appeared massive and imposing to him, just like Manhattan. There was an amazing abundance of beautiful, soaring neo-gothic, beaux arts and art-deco skyscapers. It really was true, he thought, that Chicago had, in fact, surpassed New York in the early twentieth century in the art and technics of building towering cathedrals to capitalist financial power. And it looked to him like

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they were trying to do it once again in 1970, judging from the proliferation of construction sites with soaring, unfinished steel and glass monstrosities. He saw, in his mind’s eye, the thin tapered spire of the nearly finished Sears Tower which would soon push the unfinished World Trade Center from its briefly-held podium as the ‘World’s Tallest Building.’ He was particularly horrified by the two immense cylindrical flower-columned forms of a new condominium complex which probably commanded an amazing view of Lake Michigan. And that ‘Lake,’ it seemed more like a sea to Vinnie … or an ocean. There was no end in sight to its extension, and huge liners and cargo ships plowed its surface or were moored in its ports. Unlike the Manhattan river front, Chicago’s was accessible, and there were a multitude of recreational parks and bathing spots along its edge. Canals cut through the dense and towering central districts and, everywhere, these waterways were crossed by variegated, ornate bridges for cars, pedestrians and train lines. And, oh Man, the trains. Vinnie had never seen so many trains, railways, stockyards, freight exchanges and stations in one place. He had gotten the impression that the economic history of Chicago—as the central hub of the nation—was so much more visible in its cityscape than was the case in New York. But, what had struck him most of all was the ubiquity of elevated commuter-rail lines in the city. They were everywhere, and the open station platforms were packed with people. A good part of the route they’d traveled was under an ‘El.’ It had reminded him of New Utrecht Avenue, in Brooklyn. He wondered why the shops and houses under the ‘El’ in Chicago were not as dilapidated or abandoned as they were in New York. He realized he had learned little or nothing about the people of Chicago, and the way they live, by driving through the city. He had only noticed, from the car, that Chicagoans walked slower than New Yorkers. But, at least, the short stop at Lem’s had offered him a more intimate, yet partial, view into the lives of a community. He decided that, in the next weeks, he would get out of the car, walk the streets and sit down and talk with the locals in the hamlets, towns and cities they would pass through. Just as Frank had urged him to do. Now, the immensity of the early evening sky, with its striking pink color-mix contrasting the yellow-gray of the stony plateau outcroppings, mesmerized Vinnie. They had been driving for an entire day, since Madison. “The sky is really huge here in the Badlands, Mike. Don’t you think?” “Wait until we get to Big Sky Country in Montana, Vin. That’ll really blow your mind.” Mike stretched his arms above his head, a sure sign of fatigue after his almost six hours of non-stop of driving. “You getting tired, Mike? I’m hungry, we haven’t had a bite to eat since breakfast.” Nelson suggested. “Let’s pull off here.” The road sign indicated an exit for “Medora, Theodore Roosevelt National Park.” “‘Speak softly and carry a big stick’. Rebecca sure didn’t heed old Teddy Boy’s recommendation, did she Vinnie? What a voice! And I bet you’re happy as hell she didn’t have a big stick, last night.” Mike joked.

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“Nope, it didn’t go well. At all. But who cares? We only lost two hours off our schedule.” Vinnie smiled. “Yeah, but I could have used a bed, man. We’ve been on the road now for eleven hours and, with only Mike and I doing the driving, it isn’t a picnic. When will you, Vinnie, finally try to drive stick shift, anyway?” Nelson pulled down hard on Vinnie’s ponytail and pinched his ear lightly. “Tomorrow, I promise.” He thought the road looked flat enough to not require too much down-shifting. Mike parked alongside an imposing wooden, two-story structure on Medora’s Main Street. “Let’s eat here and make it quick. OK? We should drive a couple of hours more tonight, if we want to get back on schedule.” They got out and looked up at the Rough Rider Hotel with its “Theodore’s Dining Room” insigne. “You all want to eat with the old Rough Rider?” Nelson remarked, and they walked into the place. The interior was dimly lit and warm, with beautiful woodwork finishing, an amazing stain glass panel behind the long bar and a big brick fireplace crackling at the rear. The dining hall exhibited the most impressively ornate, iron-plate ceiling Vinnie had ever seen since he had peeped into Delmonaco’s Restaurant down in the Financial District, a few years earlier. He prayed the prices here wouldn’t be anywhere near as high as they were there. They were on a very tight budget. “Are you sure you boys are in the right place, son? The grub here isn’t cheap.” The waiter addressed Mike. “Oh yes, sir. My grandfather, who fought with Teddy Roosevelt on San Juan Hill, told me we shouldn’t miss your food and atmosphere.” Quick on his toes as usual, he didn’t want to miss out on whatever was sending out the olfactory telegram which was tantalizing his taste buds at the moment. “That Bison Stew dish was good shit.” Nelson remarked and smiled. He held the Corvair steady, at top speed, through the full-moon drenched, rolling landscape just past Billings. “Yeah, it was all really good, and the stories that waiter told us about Teddy Roosevelt were eye-opening for me. That dude really loved the Badlands, and I had no idea how much he had done in favor of Land Conservation in so many of the Western States. My high school History teacher, Brother Martin, was a dyed-in-the-wool leftist who always hit down on Roosevelt’s Imperialist vein. You know, Puerto Rico and the Philippines. He never had anything good to say about the guy. Well, at least old Teddy saved these magnificent places from land speculation and development.” “Yeah, Vinnie. And did you catch that phrase of Roosevelt’s the old waiter quoted to the letter? He must use it on all the nature lovers that stumble onto his establishment.” Nelson interjected. “It went like this: ‘It’s not what we have that will make us a great nation, it is the way in which we use it’.”

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“You buy that shit, Vin?! Yeah, like save the environment over here and exploit it over there to extract some ore and make some bombs. And if it just happens to be somebody else’s environment, like Viet Nam or Korea or Mexico, there are no limits! Grab it and make use of it, man, with any means possible.” Mike was furious. “Speaking about ‘use,’ I could use a rest. I’ve been driving for four hours now, and I’m gonna crash soon.” Nelson pulled into a parking lot across from an all-night café on Bozeman’s Main Street. “Let’s just snooze here for a couple of hours. Then at day break, we can have some breakfast over there and take off, real early. And then you, Vinnie my man, are going to finally do some driving. Just like you promised me.” The boys slept soundly for three hours. Nelson turned around and shook Vinnie’s damp hand. “Good luck, Vinnie. And I truly hope your transmission survives the test, Mike.” Nelson got himself comfortable—in a horizontal position—in the back seat. At 5 AM, Mike took Vinnie through some gear-shifting basics in the big empty parking lot. Getting out of Bozeman wasn’t easy. There were three stoplights on Main Street, and Vinnie jammed the gears and stalled the car several times. At least there was nobody out on the town at that hour of the morning to enjoy the show—if you don’t count the howling stray dogs, the fleeing cats and an old drunk who was vomiting on the corner. “Hey, I’m trying to get some sleep back here!” Nelson had yelled. When they finally got back onto I-90, Vinnie took the car up into 4th gear, and the going went smoothly. He relaxed into his driving. He could just barely make out the mountains off in the distance ahead of them. “You just stay with me, Mike. I might need help when this road starts to climb.” He was worried. Mike reassured him, sincerely, and then he fell asleep just as they were passing a town named ‘Manhattan.’ “This can’t be a good sign.” Vinnie thought to himself and clenched the steering wheel tightly, as a huge trailer-truck, loaded with the longest, thickest logs he’d ever seen, blew its horn and passed him on the left. The road began to rise slightly but Vinnie, to not take any chances, kept the car in 4th gear. His speed had dropped to 50 miles-per-hour. Shortly afterwards, the road leveled out again, and the Corvair began to accelerate. There was no need to wake Mike for help yet, he thought to himself. … but was he ever proven wrong. In fact, less than 15 minutes later, the road started to curve and climb sharply, and the cross winds had picked up, too. The car swerved, his speed-o-meter read only 25 MPH, and there was a column of huge logging rigs close on his tail. The trucks were blowing their compressed-air horns like crazy, and Vinnie couldn’t get the car out of 4th gear. Mike and Nelson continued to sleep, despite Vinnie’s screams and the roaring horns of the angry truckers. The car finally stalled, and shortly afterwards, Mike was startled out of dreamland by a fist pounding on the hood.

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“What the fuck??!!” He exclaimed and turned to see an enormous, bearded trucker staring down at him. At the back of the car, there was a mile-long, immobile convoy of brightly chromed behemoths. “You boys need some help?” The smiling man said. The road sign read ‘Whitehall’ and Vinnie whispered, under his breath to himself: “Once, down on Whitehall Street the pigs helped us. Now, it’s a trucker. Maybe, the times they are changing, for real.” The last leg of the trip went smoothly, and the landscapes they drove through offered the most breathtaking vistas Vinnie had ever seen. The snowcapped peaks and the winding, deep green river gorges captivated him. When they arrived in Bend, as might be expected, Cal was happy to see them. Following the ‘hellos,’ he wanted to hear the full chronicle of his friends adventures along the way… but he only got Vinnie’s side of the story, since Mike and Nelson slept for ten hours from the moment they crossed his doorstep. The days spent in Bend were relaxing and real homey. Cal’s mother was a friendly tall, broad-shouldered and round-faced descendent of the pioneers. She was also a fabulous cook. The evening they arrived she cooked up the largest and most delicious river salmon Vinnie and the others had ever eaten. Her husband had caught it up in British Columbia, months earlier, and put it in the ice-box alongside the venison and wild rabbit. It was seasoned deliciously with juniper berries and other herbs which abound on the high desert plateau which flanks the town of Bend on the East. Mike wanted to return the favor with some cooking of his own, so Cal took them fly fishing on the Crooked River two days later in pursuit of the locally renowned, ‘Red Side’ rainbow trout. It was Mike’s intention to roast the fish, he hoped to catch, in “Greek Style.” Their excursion to the breathtaking place was fun-filled, but unfruitful on the rainbow trout side of the matter. Mike and Cal were the only ones who actually fly-fished, while Nelson sat cross-legged most of the day hypnotized by the brightly colored dragon-flies. Vinnie, instead, played the day’s soundtrack on Cal’s father’s wonderful 1940, Style 15 Martin guitar. Vinnie picked a Taj Mahal tune to connote the day’s fishing failure. In the end, the day’s catch consisted of one tiny red side trout and a skimpy whitefish. Mike somehow managed to prepare a weak Avgolemono fish soup which the Hanson family, nevertheless, praised highly. The weather in Bend was not what the young travelers had been expecting. They had come unprepared for the extreme drops in the nighttime temperatures. It could be around 80° during day and then drop to 40° F at night. To survive the cold, they purchased identical, used dark-blue pea jackets at the local Army & Navy store. They spent their evenings in town drinking Oregon Beer with the locals. The presence of three long-haired, identically clothed hippies in military garb disturbed the provincial politics of the local fauna of pear farmers, loggers and would-be cowboys. Cal, who had been a state champion Greco-Roman wrestler in High School, was well known as a ‘pacifier,’ and that reputation managed to keep things under control. All in all, they had a good time and came out totally unscathed.

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On their fourth day in Bend, Cal proposed an excursion to the Southern slopes of Mount Hood which was relatively nearby. The four rode in the top-down convertible up to lower edge of the Palmer Glacier. It was accessible by road, only in the summer. Cal slept in the backseat while the others drank in the never-before-seen, spectacular scenery. Mike parked the car in front of the immense Timberline Lodge which sat just below the southern limit of the glacier. The lodge had been built by the WPA during the Great Depression, using local materials, and with extraordinary workmanship and landscape sensibility. The magnificent gray profile of its nearly 150-yard-long façade mirrored the profile of the mountain range behind it. The 92-foot-high, sloping, Tudor-roofed, hexagonal entry hall at its center made a gesture towards the towering peak of Mount Hood. Vinnie had never before seen anything like it. “Holy shit! Look at that the size of the sloping stone roof. It starts at the fuckin’ ground, soars up and blends into the mountain range! I don’t know why, but it makes me think of the monolith in “2001.” Ok, it is rhomboid shaped, but the desolate context, the sharp edges and the colors make me think of Kubrick. Maybe, he should make another film up here, some time.” Nelson remarked. “Yeah, and it’s title should be “1970. Nelson’s Spaced-Out Odyssey.” Cal teased. “So, this is the ‘volcano’ you wanted to show us, eh Cal? We got some real, smoking ones in Hawaii.” Nelson gave it back to him, and then added with a wide, beaming smile: “But it is really beautiful up here, I must admit.” Vinnie stared up at the glacier. He wanted to jump right into that snow. When Cal began bragging about his skiing skills and exploits on these very slopes, that’s exactly what everybody decided to do. “Well, I can’t ski so well, but I sure can surf.” Nelson exclaimed. “I can ice skate!” Mike followed suit. “We could sled down it, just like back on ‘Dead Man’s Hill,’ if we had a big cardboard box.” Vinnie added. Cal tried his best to dissuade them from tackling a mile-long field of white slush with a 15-degree slope—punctuated by gray boulders—but the boys regressed to their childhood selves and took it on. It was about 65° F and, since the sun was strong, there was no need for ski jackets. Gloves would have been useful, and their footwear was a nightmare. Nelson had on his Italian leather Beatle boots, Vinnie a pair of black cotton Converse Chuck Taylors and Mike, poor Mike, wore Huarache sandals over his bare feet. Cal the mountain man had come prepared. His toes were toasty warm and dry in his insulated hiking boots. The boys’ slides and runs, and rolls and topples were reckless and exhilarating. It was a half-hour experience they would all remember, forever. Bruised, battered and soaked to the skin with numbed fingers and toes (in three cases, especially Mike’s), they staggered into the cathedral-like entry hall of the Timberline Lodge and dragged themselves over in front of one of the three immense roaring fireplaces at the base of the 60-foot-high, centrally-locate, stone chimney column. They were awestruck by it all.

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“I’ve never seen anything like it.” Vinnie reverently whispered as a puddle of water spread, menacingly, from his frozen feet towards a beautiful sprawling hooked rug depicting local fauna and flora. “Hey Buck, please get me a mop over here quick! We have another flood.” A woman’s voice startled them. The four embarrassed boys turned to find a small, rugged and tanned, smiling middle-aged woman. “Oh, don’t be so glum, friends. You can’t imagine how often this happens. Go get yourselves dried off in the restroom over there. There are towels hanging behind the door, and you can leave your wet shoes – or sandals, oh, poor boy! – near the heat vents in the corners. Then come back to that table near to the fire. I’ll bring you all some hot chocolate. You’ll all surely be needing something to warm yourselves up.” Their conversation with Teresa, that was the woman’s name, was yet another chapter in Vinnie’s book of stories. She offered another them her perspective on society and the environment, and shared some ideas of what might be done to improve both. Her father had been a stone-cutter from Carrara, in Italy. He had come to Oregon, originally, to work on the scenic Columbia River Highway and then settled in the nearby town of Hood River. There, he married a local Native American woman, and they had five children. Teresa, the youngest of these, was born while her father was still working on the construction of the Timberline Lodge. “He was so proud of his work here and that of his ‘compagni12’. He never stopped talking about it, until the day he died. You know, my dad always considered himself an ‘anarchista’. In fact, he had left Italy to escape arrest. Here in America, ‘anarchist’ is just a cuss word. You know, somebody who throws bombs or wants to kill someone and overthrow the government. But Papa,’ he didn’t see it that way. For him, Anarchism was a natural freedom. He said it was the propensity to do good to others and to work together for a common goal. He was enamored of skilled manual labor of all forms and of the creativity which arises when people have the opportunity to work together with their hands, hearts and minds. That’s why he talked so much about this splendid Lodge. Just look around you.” She then proceeded to walk the boys around the hall pointing out the creative and skillful use of recycled materials. She told them that local women had woven all the draperies, upholstery and bedspreads from remnants. The hooked rugs, she said, were made from strips of old Civilian Conservation Corps camp blankets. Discarded cedar utility poles had been used to make the newel posts with their hand-carved crowns of birds, bears and seals. The immense fireplace screens had been fashioned from tire chains, and the andirons and other iron work had been forged from old railroad tracks. Naturally, all of the heavy construction materials were from the site. The huge timbers and the massive stones all came from the Mount Hood area.

12

“Comrades” (from Italian).

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“The workers were another story. Most of them came from other parts of the world. There were the Italians, like my father, who worked primarily as skilled stone masons. There were Poles and Irishmen, and Chinese and Scandinavians. Many local men and women were also employed, both Native Americans and descendants of the pioneers. My dad was so proud of the work that the WPA had stimulated, that he even started voting for the Democratic Party. He said he thought that the WPA had, in some way, managed to integrate anarchist principles into a large State project. But he would always add, ‘Remember, Teresa, you gotta start small … with real people and with their genuine participation’.” When they were leaving, Teresa had given them each a brochure about the history of the Timberline Lodge, and she had read aloud a short portion of it which she said her father would have loved. “All classes, from the most elementary hand labor, through the various degrees of skill to the technically trained were employed,`` reported the WPA’s Federal Writers’ Project. ' Pick and shovel wielders, stonecutters, plumbers, carpenters, steam-fitters, painters, wood-carvers, cabinet-makers, metal workers, leathertoolers, seamstresses, weavers, architects, authors, artists, actors, musicians, and landscape planners, each contributed to the project, and each, in his or her way, was conscious of the ideal toward which all bent their energies.”13 During the drive back to Bend, Vinnie’s feelings of marvel and joy morphed into excruciating pain. A decaying molar he had been neglecting since March reached a live nerve and drilled a searing spike into his brain. Upon arrival at Cal’s place, Vinnie was tucked away into bed with a hot water bottle on his face. His friend’s mother fixed an appointment with ‘Dr. Bob,’ early the next morning. Through a veil of pain and with a high fever, Vinnie was unfortunately still capable of discerning the dust-covered, post-prairie décor of the office of the man he would always remember as “Doc Bob, the Sadist Cowboy Dentist.” To cap it all, a sinisterly grinning skull of a long-horned steer crowned the doorway to the Doc’s torture chamber. While Vinnie awaited the ‘doctor’s’ prognosis, his watery eyes scanned the man’s ‘medical trophies’ on the wooden shelves which surrounded him. The perfectly polished, tooth-filled-jawbones of squirrels, foxes, wildcats and several very large antlered creatures—he couldn’t identify—were interspaced with grimy glass jars containing sets of human choppers in various dimensions, states of decomposition and hues of yellow. “A real man doesn’t need no anesthesia, Sonny.” Doc said, announcing that Vinnie’s tooth would be pulled. And that was that. A swab of whiskey, a potent yank and the rotten molar came out, amazingly, in one piece.

From the Federal Writers’ Project. “The Builders of Timberline Lodge”. Federal Art Project Documents. Essay for the proposed Federal Art Project report to Congress, Art for the Millions (unpublished). https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Timberline_Lodge

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Vinnie was sent home with a bottle of ‘antibiotics’ and Doc’s admonition to “stay in bed til the fever drops.” That night Vinnie slept an unsettling fevered sleep, and he dreamed deliriously. We were sitting and talking in a kitchen, as usual. Mike, Bonnie, Chase and I. That kitchen was unfamiliar, but I felt perfectly at home. A radio was playing. The large, multi-squared window looked out over a vast train yard – several miles of tracks, long trains and scattered equipment and cargo. It seemed as if it might be Chicago, but I knew it wasn’t. The sky above and the air around was yellow-brown, and I could smell the acrid fumes outside although the window was closed. I thought it looked as if a nuclear holocaust had happened. I imagined the din of steam hammers, clanging steel, although the only sound I heard was the radio. The speaker’s voice riveted my attention to the ochre skyline at the horizon. The cityscape looked as if it might be Manhattan, but not quite. One of the most prominent buildings in the distance had the shape an enormous ‘P’. Although it was several miles from us, I could clearly see that the building was still under construction and could clearly make out the equipment and the human activity on its various floors. “Today, the Mayor of Newark, Joe Pignatano, is inaugurating a new, important addition to our city.” The voice went on to describe the ceremony. Watching the scene, with the radio as its soundtrack, as if it were a documentary film simultaneously recorded and viewed, we began to notice tiny figures dropping from the building. We were terrified, and the voice continued: “A wave of madness has struck the guests who are jumping, and pushing each other, from the new tower.” In panic, Mike and I jumped up from the table and ran from the apartment. The connection inconceivable, we suddenly found ourselves at the foot of a staircase leading up to an elevated subway line. Trembling and exhausted, we ran up the steps onto the platform. From there, we could still see the yellowed skyline which was in the distance, but the huge ‘P’ was no longer there. This fact seemed unimportant, in fact it didn’t faze me at all, since my attention was riveted to the end of the long, empty platform. There stood two figures – a very tall, thin human outline in a long black coat and a wide-brimmed hat, with its back to us, facing a young boy who stood very close to the edge of the platform over the street. I ran to within a few feet of them, already sensing that the boy would fall. They both faced me now. The black draped figure had the pallid, white face of stereotyped death. The boy was beautiful - a man-woman of about thirteen years of age who was, alternately Hispanic, Black and Native American. The Messenger of Death now had his arms and hands extended towards the other’s face. The boy-girl, as if held by a magnetic attraction, was tipped out over the edge of the platform. Only the tips of their bare feet touched its surface. I asked them, please, to stop. I said that the young victim would fall. He/she continued to incline, and was at that point tipped back at a 45° angle from the platform surface, held trembling in space.

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The youth spoke to me and said that the danger was of no importance. It was only essential to Know the Truth. She said that Death would be easy, then, for him to accept. I was certain, now, that he/she would fall, and I grabbed for Mike’s hand and began to run down the steps towards the street. I turned and saw that Mike had become Maria, but this didn’t seem strange at all (as so often happens in dreams). Maria and I reached the street where many people were rushing by us. I was bursting with fear. And then suddenly, as expected, I heard the stomach-emptying thud of the body’s impact on the cold, hard asphalt surface. Shaking and burning with fever, I awoke and jumped from my bed. I rushed in a daze to Cal’s drafting table and reached for the antibiotics which Doc had given me. In the pitch-black room, I tipped the bottle towards my hand expecting the pills to fall out. Instead, what seemed to be dark blood spread over my left hand and splattered onto my bare chest. I screamed at the top of my lungs. Seconds later, I saw Cal, backlit, standing in the doorway to the dark room. He was yelling: “Vinnie! Why the hell are you pouring drawing ink on your naked chest!?” (From Vinnie’s notebook. Dated July 9, 1970. Bend, Oregon) The stay in Bend ended three days later, earlier than they had originally planned. Shortly after Nelson had taken the bus for San Francisco, to catch his flight to Hawaii, a heated discussion had developed between Cal and his father. It concerned the Viet Nam War, a subject which the boys had avoided because they knew well that Cal’s brother was in combat over there. Cal’s father, displaying some sort of contorted sensitivity, had also glided over his concern for his son while Nelson—‘a Gook,’ he said—was around. When Nelson was gone, the man’s Hell Gates had burst open. Cal had tried his best to remain calm but, when his father’s hatred and disdain for “those radicals and domestic foreigners who are undermining our War effort” spiraled out of control, their friend exploded and decided, then and there, to return to New York. They left for Portland at 3 AM. When Cal skillfully tooled the Corvair up over Portland’s Burnside Bridge at 7 AM, Vinnie was still thinking, simultaneously as usual, about the heated argument of the night before and the vivid notes he had jotted down concerning his strange dream of three days earlier. “What was the ‘Truth’ that the young man-woman in my dream had been searching for? Just maybe, might it have something to do with my own sense of delusion with America, with myself and the way things are going here … and my deepest fears for the Future.” Vinnie thought to himself. “Hey Cal, turn up the radio! I love this song.” Mike’s voice shook Vinnie from his pondering. “Ok. You know, K I S N is my favorite radio station. Kissin’. Nice name, too, huh?” Vinnie listened to words of the song. Oddly, they were closely intertwined with what he’d been thinking.

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“Crosby, Nash and Young are right on! Their fears and ours of the War Machine, of the H-bomb and its probable, terrible consequences set to poetry. This song is apocalypse politics put to music. Wow, it blows my mind.” “Right On, Michalis!” Vinnie said, unconvinced, his head still filled with the song’s image of a desolate, barren tomorrow. “You two are way too pessimistic for your own good.” Cal retorted and drove into the city. “The apartment’s right around the corner, but I think it’s too early to ring the bell and wake up Bonnie’s friends. Why don’t we have some breakfast in that diner over there? Fuller’s Coffee Shop sounds good to me.” “It is. Bonnie told me that their hash browns are other-worldly.” Mike smiled, as Cal pulled the car up front. After a much-needed nap, the three friends were once again having coffee, crunched around a kitchen table in a small, second floor apartment on Portland’s NW 10th Street, getting to know May and Amy. Like Bonnie, the two women were descendants of the Chinese men and women who had come to the West Coast in the late-ninetenth century. All three had grown up in Seattle, but May and Amy were now Architecture students at the University of Oregon, while their high school friend, Bonnie, was 3000 miles away at Barnard College in NY. “Cal, you mentioned KISN Radio. Well, my friend Dave disc jockeys the night shift there. He’s a great guy. We’re going to dinner with him tonight on the South Side, and since Vinnie said he was interested in urban planning and community struggles, I think you all should come along. I’m sure you’ll like meeting him. He’s super involved in the battle against the Urban Development Plan for the Southern edge of the Downtown District. And the place we’ll be eating at, Caro Amico, has great Italian food, too!” May smiled. “Nice name, Caro Amico. It means dear friend.” Vinnie tried to show off the little Italian he knew. “Buona sera, compagni.” A friendly, baldheaded man greeted them as they entered the restaurant. “Buona sera, Luigi. Are the gnocchi alla Sorrentina on the menu, tonight?” “As always, Dave. But, you know, you might wanna try something else every now and then. Don’t you think?” When the group of six had settled in around a table in the rear, and the waiter had taken their orders, May’s disc jockey friend lit up a small cigar and gave them some background info on Luigi, the restaurant’s owner. “Luigi is a good man. He comes from a family of anti-fascists in a town, Vietri, on Italy’s Amalfi coast. It’s an incredible place, I was there last summer. You should visit it sometime, Vinnie, especially if you’re into vernacular architecture and city form. Anyway, Luigi and his wife emigrated from Italy, right after the war. He was a partisan, fighting Mussolini and the Nazis. He told me an amazing story about an uprising in Naples near the end of the conflict. He called it the ‘Four Days of Napoli’. It was when the Germans were sent running from the city by armed groups of university students and workers, and some deserters from the Italian Navy. Hundreds of street urchins and teenagers, who had escaped from

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reformatories, had also taken part. There’s a monument to those street kids in Naples. He called them ‘scugnizzi’” “Sometimes, but much too rarely, the little guys come out on top.” Mike remarked and smirked. “Kids, again. Maybe, someone’s trying to tell me something.” Vinnie thought to himself. “Keep your spirit high, brother. We can do it here, too. Small, but significant, changes are happening everywhere. All we need to do is connect the pieces, create a network and organize as best we can.” Dave added. “May told us you’re involved in local urban struggles. Can you tell us a little about it?” Vinnie asked after dinner. “You may not know Portland, but where we are right now used to be a thriving, working class neighborhood. The people were primarily of Jewish and Italian descent. But since it’s located on the Southern edge of the Business District, it became prime real estate for Urban Renewal. That was eight years ago. Take a look at it now, just glass and steel office buildings and parking lots. The houses, the families, the shops and the children are all gone. Luigi and his wife somehow managed to stick it out. His building, with this restaurant, is one of the few historic structures still standing. The battle against that redevelopment plan was poorly organized, and it failed. But the associations which were formed during those years gained a valuable lesson from their errors, which will help us succeed in the future.” Dave lit up his cigar, which had gone dead. “What was that? What did they learn?” Vinnie asked. “They learned, and I learned, that you need a proposal, a shared vision. to combat their plans. Yeah, you can’t just protest and say ‘No!’. You have to work together to create alternative projects. That’s what we’re doing now, and that’s how I met Amy and May. Our association has been collaborating with U Oregon’s School of Architecture and Planning for over a year now. City Hall has slated the area around the Good Samaritan Hospital and the Lair Hill neighborhood for Urban Renewal, but now things are going differently.” “I’ll say.” May interjected. “Six studio classes at my school have been working on those areas for the last two semesters. My class in Landscape Design and the Housing for People Seminar that Amy’s taking are both involved. We’ve had numerous meetings and workshops with the community, and local support for the projects and proposals which are emerging is growing in leaps and bounds.” “Yup. And I tell you, my friends, this time we’re going to win.” Dave said and called, to Luigi, for the bill. That night Vinnie learned a few new things which he would go on to explore and comprehend in successive years. He heard, for the first time, the name of Paolo Soleri, and he tried to visualize glimpses of that visionary’s ecological, earthen city at Arcosanti in Arizona. Soleri’s name came up because Luigi’s brother had worked in a ceramic factory in Vietri which the Italian architect had designed. It’s a small world, for sure.

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“In less than fifteen minutes, we should be entering Canada. Get your Selective Service cards out, and keep on the lookout for Dudley Do-Right.” Cal, at the wheel, cracked a joke to break the tension which inevitably arose whenever a hippy had a run-in with an armed man in a uniform, during those troubled times. On top of it all, the boys were tired and hungry after the six-hour, early morning drive from Portland. The previous day had been a whirlwind of walking, catching buses and walking again. Vinnie had wanted to explore and get to know Portland, and what he saw impressed him. The green surrounding hills, the spectacular view of Mount Hood and the Willamette River bustling with timber-cargo traffic and surmounted by numerous caste-iron bridges connected the city to its ecology and to its historical context. This was something New York had always seemed to him to be lacking. The city’s scale was small, kind of like Brooklyn, with no ‘Manhattan-ish’ panoramas to speak of. Some of the older residential areas had been beautifully planned, and they abounded with enormous street trees shading colorful ornate, wooden Victorian homes. The vegetation was a lush green with many flowers, especially roses, marking the streets’ rhythm. Signs of a hippy counterculture were everywhere. Psychedelic posters announcing upcoming or long-past rock concerts were tacked up everywhere, and the aroma of marijuana waivered in the air of many parks and street corners the boys passed through. They saw a quite a few small food coops, community healthcare centers and children’s learning workshops but, just as Dave had begrudgingly told them the night before, it was evident that while the counterculture in Portland was thriving serious, local political action was only just beginning to take foot. He had said that he was almost certain that the growing anti-War movement and the local struggles against urban redevelopment would change the tide, and Vinnie hoped that he was right. The boys decided to spend their first day in Canada, exploring the city of Vancouver. For the first time in his life, Vinnie saw the Pacific Ocean. There was water everywhere. The sprawling city appeared to be built on a string of islands which were ringed by magnificent mountains. The group followed indications towards ‘Downtown’ and stopped on Granville Street. This old, busy Main Street framed an extraordinary corridor-view towards the snowcapped peaks. It was punctuated by a tall clock-tower building which reminded Vinnie of a similar one in downtown Brooklyn, near the Bridge. The syncopation of the colorful, tall vertical art-deco store signage recalled something half-way-between Fulton Street and 86th Street in Vinnie’s home borough. But the people on the street were of a different nature. Here, the black and Hispanic people he was accustomed to see, back home, had been replaced by a multitude of Orientals and Native Americans. The human-scaled, old strip was flanked and surmounted by numerous unfinished, soaring constructions. The entire city was bustling with construction sites, and recently built glass office towers and pristine apartment buildings were sprouting up everywhere just like he had observed in Portland, but more so. They parked in front of the Skillet Café, and a short discussion followed to decide between that eatery and the Astor Café directly across the street. In the end,

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the frying pan won out over the billionaire magnate, as might be expected. They walked in. The aroma was good, but the place was packed full with the lunchtime crowd. It looked like they might have to swallow their pride and break bread at the robber baron’s place, when Vinnie noticed a long-haired, mountain-of-a-man waving them over from the back of the café. When they’d made it to the fellow, they found a group of five hippies, including the giant, overall-clad ‘Indian,’ sitting at a long table having lunch. There were four men and one woman, who all smiled at them. “Slide in brothers, there’s always room for three more at our table.” They quickly introduced themselves. They were Bear (Anglo name, Ted), Beaver (Anglo name, Casey), Moira, Alex and Tony. The first two were brothers (although, to look at them, this seemed improbable) and members of the ‘Haida Nation.’ Ginger-haired Moira was from Ireland, while Alex and Tony were American draft dodgers, respectively, from Portland and the Chicago suburbs. “Our people originally inhabited the archipelago of Haida Gwaii in northern British Columbia on the border with Alaska. The colonialists named the area the Queen Charlotte Islands. My people have been there for over 10,000 years, can you dig it? We’re proud of our heritage which is widely recognized for its craftsmanship, trading skills and seamanship. But we were also a warrior nation, and we wreaked havoc, at times, on the neighboring tribes. You know, if I were living back in those days, I probably would have been a “draft dodger” just like Tony and Alex and would have skipped off down South to Hopi territory. I really like their ways.” “Yeah, right. And you would have stuck out like a sore thumb down there, what with your two-meter frame and your 280-pound carcass. And with that scowl on your face, just like an angry bear.” His diminutive, sparkling-eyed brother gave him a poke to the arm and smiled. “True. But my little-big brother, on the other hand, would have fit in perfectly with the Hopi. As the Romans would say, ‘nomen omen’. I should explain that the Beaver, in our culture, is a symbol for persistence and determination. Just like the ‘Beaver’, Casey is creative, stubborn and a very hard worker. He relishes, and always puts into practice, cooperative action. Like the Hopi people, my bro’ knows that you need to unite individual talents to achieve greater, common goals. When our momma felt how Beaver pushed himself on out of her, and she saw the friendly, inquisitive gleam in his eyes, she knew his name could only be what it is.” “Yup. And then the ‘Bear’ came along, two years later, with his size and strength. And with his scowl and ominous roar. His courage and leadership skills showed up a few years later.” Casey responded. “Not so sure about the leadership part. You’re my boss these days.” Bear smiled widely. “Well, really, your girlfriend’s the real boss on our current project.” Tony retorted. The word ‘project’ whetted Vinnie’s curiosity, and his new friends’ explanation increased his interested. It turned out that the group of five was concluding construction work on a playground in the nearby Fairview neighborhood. A few years earlier, Purdy’s Chocolatier, a beloved Vancouver institution since 1907, in order to

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assuage the community’s discontent with its loading facilities at their old factory— nestled into the poor residential area—had agreed to build, along with a road-widening, a much-needed play area for the neighborhood’s numerous young children and single mothers. Mr. Flavelle, the company’s co-owner, had received an Opportunities for Youth Grant from the federal government and asked the UBC Faculty of Architecture for help in organizing the project. Moira, who had just completed her thesis on “Adventure Playgrounds” in the Landscape Architecture Program at the University of BC, was recommended by the Department Head, and she got the job. She involved her four friends who, between them, possessed all the necessary skills in carpentry, construction, community artwork and social animation. The design and building had gone very well. The local children and families had been actively involved and were all very enthusiastic with its progress. Luck had it that, on that very day the team had a meeting with ‘Monsieur Charles’ at the site to put the final touches on the playground. In fact, they had to be over there in just 45 minutes. “Hurry up and finish your lunch! Or should I say breakfast?” Moira said, eying the remaining stacks of pancakes. When they arrived at the appointment, Mr. Flavelle was already there. He was surrounded by a hectic, joyful, multi-colored mob of children. The tall, dignified-looking young man stood at the side of a flat-back truck upon which a large, debarked tree trunk sat. He waved to the group as they descended from the vehicles, and walked quickly towards them. “Well, well. My dear hippy carpenters have finally arrived and, look here, you’ve brought along the additional manpower we’ll be needing to hoist this monster up.” He smiled and added, “Let’s get to work.” The work consisted in planting the tree trunk, weighing close to one thousand pounds, into a deep hole which had already been dug. At a safe distance, the children and some mothers laughed at the group’s comic, extenuating efforts for the full hour it took to get the trunk off the truck and into the deep hole. “Hey, Bear! Show us your stuff!” A beautiful, long-haired, shoeless Native American boy of about eight years of age had yelled when the trunk was nearly in a stable, vertical position. Cal, who had done summer work as a logger, assisted Casey at the other end of the rope and pulley for the final hoist. While Tony kept the children busy with his joking, Mike, Alex and Vinnie held the trunk firmly as Moira positioned the wedges and Bear brought the sledgehammer down. When the three wedges had been firmly driven, Moira and Flavelle filled the hole with concrete, up to about 18 inches below ground level. “What’s going to go into that circular depression?” Vinnie asked Moira. “Rich soil, and then the children are going to plant an indigenous flower garden around the totem.” “Doesn’t look like a totem to me.” Cal remarked. “Well, my skeptical friend, you just wait until Beaver and the kids get through with it.” Bear responded.

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A little girl, who had sidled over next to Vinnie on the wide pallet bench, showed him a drawing. It was a standing black-gray bird with a long hooked, red beak. Its wings were downturned, yet powerful. “It’s gonna be an eagle, up on top of the tree trunk. You know, it’s the symbol of grace, power and wizzum.” “You mean ‘wisdom’, Himari. And, please, tell Vinnie how we came up with the idea.” Tony interjected. While the others took a break, Bear and Beaver climbed the tall tree whose thick branches canopied the area and carefully mounted a rope and harness directly above the totem. Beaver donned the harness, and Bear lowered him into position. By that time, six more children had positioned themselves, at odd angles, around Vinnie and Tony. They all watched as Beaver began to chop and chisel the wood with extraordinary skill and speed. His hand movements were a perfect balance of raw strength and fine precision. “Beaver and Bear told us about the people, their people and the others, who have lived here since the beginning. The stories were great, with animals and Bukwus monsters and colorful, wooden boxes – like that one over there – and the chiefs and heroes. Girl heroes, too!” Himari told Vinnie, excitedly. “And after each story, Tony would ask us to make drawings and build things. Then when Jacob, over there, had the idea of building a totem to put near the entryway sign, we had to decide which of the animals or creatures to put on top. His drawing of the Eagle won, not because it was the best – mine of a butterfly was better, I think – but because everybody agreed that what the Eagle meant would be best for our park.” A skinny, long flaxen-haired kid beat his bare chest with his fists and then gave a ‘thumbs up’ sign. “The Eagle is the ruler of the sky! Just like me! Even if I can’t draw good.” Jacob said excitedly. “Hey, Jake. There ain’t no rulers around here, right? It’s the ‘grace, power and wisdom’ part that the kids all liked. And the sky … just look at it from up here! What do you all think?” Tony smiled and patted his head. “It’s beautiful!!” The kids all screamed. In different ways, words and voices. “And who’s power are we talking about, huh Himari?” “The people, Tony. You tell us that every day. Come on!” She smiled timidly and gave Tony a little hug. “Maybe our ‘comrade’, Tony, tends to be a little too ideological.” Moira had come closer and whispered softly in Vinnie’s ear. Then, she flashed a clenched fist, which became a peace sign, in Tony’s direction. “Hey, look at how beautiful the Eagle’s coming! Beaver, like most of his tribe, is a really good woodcarver.”

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“We say ‘band’ or ‘people’, Himari. We don’t say ‘tribe’. Don’t talk like a colonialist.” A lanky, Native American teenager yelled out from the dangling, bright blue oil barrel he was swinging on, a few yards away. Cal, who had come over, pointed to the entry sign and asked, “Don’t you think that’s a funny name, Vinnie? They spelled it wrong, too.” “C – H – O – K – L – I – T Park.14 I like it.” “That’s the way the kids pronounce it around here. Matter of fact, that’s the way we say it in Chicago.” “And in Brooklyn, too, Tony.” Vinnie smiled, and Tony continued, “We all decided we should spell it just like the kids say it. The children voted for that name. Their school principal was against the decision, but Charles convinced her of its meaning and value. In fact, now all the kids, even the little ones, know how to spell ‘chocolate’, the correct way. Man, this is their playground. All of the stuff you see around here, the kids contributed to in one way or another – designing, building, planting and painting, taking stuff down and making something new. That’s what an adventure playground is all about, Vinnie. I just love this place, and I love these kids.” Vinnie, who had barely heard those words, drank in the surroundings and his soul soared. He felt at peace with himself and with a place, a feeling which brought his childhood back into mind. This context, so different from Brooklyn, was naturally beautiful. The immense, soaring conifers framed the view down the hill and across the bay towards the towering mountains. The sky and sea became a deeper blue when the billowy clouds moved, and as the summer wind shifted the tree shadows. The small, peaked, dilapidated wooden houses were stacked along the hill’s contour, creating an almost musical cadence. This, too, was so different from his home. But the children, of colors and ethnicities far from his experience, were yet the same as he remembered himself and his friends—free and happy, taking control of their own activities, using the materials spread throughout the site to build and dismantle things. They were having ideas, making projects, enjoying themselves and learning together to collaborate. He thought of Moira’s words when they had driven out to the playground—her explanation of ‘Adventure Playgrounds’ and her excursus on their history. He had thought it odd that adults should have to plan and organize a special place for children where free play was possible. As a child, he had believed—he had felt— that this just happened naturally whenever children, like his friends on the block, gathered in any place. But she had said that the situation of children in today’s cities was worsening, and that we had to do something about it.

14

For more information about Choklit Park, see: http://www.vancouverheritagefoundation.org/ place-that-matters/choklit-park/.

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“Hey, Jacob, do you like how our Eagle’s coming?” Beaver’s loud words shook Vinnie from his reverie. “I love it!” He yelled back. Rights away, he called the other children’s attention towards the top of the totem. Vinnie realized that Tony was no longer by his side. He now stood aside the totem, helping the children to position and color-in with paint brushes, the geometrical templates along the lower length of its shaft. In Tony’s place, he now found Bear and Moira discussing the details for the inauguration of the park. It was scheduled for early next week, and it seemed that they were facing a dilemma. “I still think that we should present the true meaning of the Eagle’s symbolism. It means a lot to us of the First Nation, and to all of these children, too. Why don’t you think we should mention that the Eagle plays an important role, in our culture, as a messenger between all beings and their creator?” Bear asked, insistently. “Because some of the more radical members of the community don’t believe in the existence of a creator, Bear.” “Look at these beautiful children, look at the living landscape and the sky. How can they not believe?” Before Moira could respond, Mr. Flavelle addressed the group. He held up six large, ribbon-wrapped boxes. “Well, dear friends and fellow workers, I think our labors are over for the day. And, as a token of my gratitude, I’d like to give each of our three new collaborators six special selections of our finest assorted chocolates. Just, please don’t tell the union that I paid you so little for an afternoon of such hard work.”

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“Oh, thank you sir. This is surely more than enough for what we’ve done. You shouldn’t have.” Mike replied, hefting the stack of two-pound boxes over his head. “Let’s open up a couple of the boxes and share them with the kids and their mothers?” Vinnie’s suggestion was accompanied by joyous roars of approval from the children, and the afternoon ended with everyone eating their fill of the most delicious bonbons Vinnie had ever tasted. “We still have eight pounds of chocolates left! This should keep us going all the way back to New York.” Cal said as Mike, at the wheel, followed Bear and Moira’s pickup along the winding road to their home in Burnaby. Bear had offered three reasons which convinced them to stay the night there. First, it was late and their home was situated just along the road out of the Vancouver Metropolitan area, close to the connection to the Trans-Canada Highway which would take the three boys back East. Secondly, Bear and Moira wanted to get to know them better, and they also had some good grass and food at their trailer. And, thirdly, that evening the film Tell them Willie Boy is here was playing at the Cascade Drive-in near their home. “You gotta see it, man. It’s a true story about a Paiute who had a real bad run-in with the law down in California, back at the turn of the Century. His crime was that he fell in love with a white woman.” Bear said, and he reach across the kitchen table to lovingly stroke Mira’s crimson head. “Stop kidding around, my gentle giant, it isn’t funny. We saw the movie last winter in Vancouver, and it’s well worth a second viewing. It’s a really good film and the director, Abraham Polonsky, is a Marxist who was blacklisted during the McCarthy era. So, you know he’s on our side. He’s with the ‘Injuns,’ just like me.” Moira smiled, passed the grilled vegetables and offered Cal another piece of venison steak. “Sounds good to me, but you know what attracts me most is to go to a drive-in. I haven’t been to one since I was six years-old. We were on vacation in Upstate New York, and that was my one-and-only time.” Vinnie remarked. The Cascade Drive-in had been the first of its kind in Canada. It opened in 1946 and was an immense, fan-shaped, slightly inclined arena for automobiles. The wide screen was crowned by a full-width sign with its logo, the name of the distant mountains that framed it. Vinnie was impressed. During intermission, Vinnie and Moira went to the snack booth to get some popcorn and soft drinks for the group. While they were waiting on line, Vinnie felt a shove from behind and turned to see what was up. “Well, will you just look at this little timber nigger? He’s out on the night with a white girl, shiiii-t!” A lanky, greasy-haired man with a sinister smirk on his face stood behind him. He wore a crumpled ‘John Deere’ peaked-cap and had a beer bottle in his hand. And he wasn’t alone. “What are you talking about, man?” Vinnie retorted.

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“He’s talking about you, Chug boy. Why don’t you get a squaw of your own kind and leave the cute, white chicks to us?” A second man—huskier, angrier and more inebriated—growled in Vinnie’s face. “Bear!” Moira screamed at the top of her lungs, three times. Then, she let out an ear-splitting wolf-whistle. “Take it easy, buddy. We’re just waiting on line. It’s a free country, ain’t it?” Vinnie tried, jokingly, to calm them down but it didn’t work, at all. “What the fuck?!! You talkin’ back to me, boy? Just like Willie Boy in this shit-eating, commie film?! I think we should give you a little lesson you’ll never forget.” The big man swung his beer bottle in Vinnie’s direction. “Look out!” Moira yelled. The bottle struck Vinnie’s upraised arm. The thick, rigid wool of his pea coat attenuated the blow but its momentum knocked him off his feet. In an instant, the other baseball-capped greaseball was on him and raising his fist to finish the job. But before he could, he was lifted off Vinnie and went flying through the air. Bear reached out his hand and pulled Vinnie up. When he had reacquired his bearings, he surveyed the scene. Cal was sitting on the big man’s back and held his chin way back in what Vinnie would later learn was a ‘camel clutch’. Moira and Mike, both swinging baseball bats, were holding off the other three aggressors. Minutes later, the law arrived—the Royal Mounties, to the rescue—and brought the situation under control. Moira was a little shaken up, and Vinnie was in need of ice and medication for his arm, so they decided to skip the second half of the film and headed home. Bear joked with Vinnie and Moira in the pickup’s cab, Mike and Cal were back in the open bed with the baseball bats and the two six-packs of beer that the Mounties had sequestered from the ‘locals’ and given to them, as a ‘little compensation from the Township for your trouble.’ Something like that would have never happen in Brooklyn, Vinnie had thought. “Well, at least you got to meet our town’s ‘Dudley Do-Right’, Vinnie. And were we ever lucky it was Sergeant Dawson. He’s a really good man, I’ve known him since I was a little kid. His colleagues can be difficult, but if you know how to handle them, like I do, they can be OK, too. They even gave us some beer. I’m sorry you didn’t get to see the end of the film, but I can tell it to you, if you want, when we get home.” “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Bear.” Moira interjected. “Why’s that, Moira?” “For one thing, Vin, the Injun and his lover both end up dead. And, tonight, you were the ‘timber nigger’.” They all laughed, and Vinnie started feeling a little better. Bear then explained the meaning, and roots, of the ethnic slur. He also complimented Vinnie on his having been mistaken for a member of the First Nation. “Happened a lot when I was a little kid. People often mistook me for a Filipino or Korean, I got used to it. And my aunt told me I should be proud of it. She said I was a real ‘International Kid’.” Vinnie reminisced.

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“Well, now you’re an official First Nation native, my friend.” Bear smiled and winked. “You know, I hadn’t thought about it for years now, but, a long time ago, my friends had teasingly called me ‘Tupalit’ for a few weeks. That was the name of a young boy, I think he was an Eskimo, who was a character in an episode of the ‘Sergeant Preston of the Yukon’ TV show. Anybody remember it?” “Hey, I remember that show. So, tonight wasn’t the first time you were mistaken for a Haida. Well almost, anyway. The Herschel Islands, in that episode, are just outside our territory.” Bear had a good memory. “I felt fine with that moniker back then, and I didn’t mind tonight, either. But I was sure scared shitless.” “Good for you, that’s normal, brother. But what exactly is a ‘moniker’?” “You haven’t learned one bit of Irish from me in these two long years, eh sweetheart?” Moira poked him. “Uh, well, I was just kidding to see your reaction. I understand it means ‘nickname’. But seriously, I’ve been thinking that what happened with Vinnie might just be the ninth sign of the advent of the Hopi prophecy.” “What the heck are you talking about, Bear?” Vinnie was curious now. “It’s a little complicated, Vinnie. I’ll tell you the whole story when we get home, over some beer … and some good Mexican grass.” Bear smiled and pushed down on the accelerator. In Bear and Moira’s cabin, Vinnie learned of the prophecy. “I first heard the story from my friend, Ahote. That means ‘the restless one’ in his Hopi tongue, and the name fits him to a ‘T’. He’s out East somewhere, Boston I think, studying architecture these days. Anyway, the story of the nine prophecy signs seemed weird to me at first, and I thought he was bullshitting me but when I learned more about his people, and if I thought about our world today, it began to convince me.” “Like, why? Tell me more.” Vinnie, completely zonked, was having a hard time following the thread of Bear’s discourse. All the others had gone to bed a few hours earlier, and now, the dawn was beginning to show itself, in all its splendor, behind the distant mountains to the Northeast. “Before the nine signs, Ahote said, there had been four distinct worlds. He told me that the Hopi first world was destroyed by fire a long, long time ago. Then the second world was destroyed by ice, and the third by floods. Sounds almost like the bible, or natural history, maybe. Don’t you think? He said that, afterwards, his people had been guided by their deities and had emerged from the underworld, where they had hidden themselves during the deluge, into the fourth world. That world is our present-day earth.” “Ok, but this sounds to me like it might just be a re-visitation of the kind of stuff the missionaries and colonialists had laid on them. Can’t it be that?” Vinnie took another toke of his joint. “No, man, there’s more. Much more. Listen here.” Vinnie stared out the window and was transfixed by the pastel hues of the dawn sky. Bear’s story continued.

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“So, a long time ago - like a thousand years ago - around the pueblos the Shamans began having visions of nine signs which, they came to understand, would mark the passing from the Fourth World into a Fifth one. The Fourth World, they claimed, was ‘out of balance’. Their people had begun to neglect many of the important ethical tenets of their ancestors - like respect for all living creatures, cooperation and community, care for the environment and non-violence. They called this unbalance, ‘Koyaanisqatis’.15 Sounds like what our world is experiencing, doesn’t it?” Bear frowned, and then he smiled. Vinnie listened attentively, as his friend continued. “The signs, man! Those prophecies came about. And remember, they had been recorded, long before then. Listen, the first was to be the arrival of the white men, the Pahana, who struck their enemy with thunder.” “Guns, long rifles.” Vinnie whispered to himself. “The second sign would be the coming of ‘spinning wheels with voices inside of them’. The covered wagons, man, the covered wagons. Can you believe it? The third prophecy said that the sign would be the appearance of a strange looking beast, like the buffalo, but with great, long horns. That was the coming of the white man’s cattle.” Bear busied himself, making coffee, while he talked. “The fourth sign was to be the crossing of all the land with ‘snakes of iron’. Can you dig it, man?” “Holy shit, the railroads.” Vinnie muttered. “The fifth sign which they foresaw was that the world would be, with time, ‘crisscrossed by spiderwebs’. That, for sure, refers to the coming of the telegraph and telephone lines.” “And maybe the Arpanet.” Vinnie interjected. “Huh? What’s that?” Bear grunted from near the stove, and then he went on, “… and the sixth prophecy was the crisscrossing of the land by ‘rivers of stone that make pictures in the sun’.” “Those must be the highways, for sure. But what the hell are the ‘pictures in the sun’?” Vinnie wondered. “Heat mirages, man, heat mirages.” “I saw a few of those on I-90, in Dakota, when we were coming out West.” Vinnie mused. “Ahote told me that the shamans had predicted that their people would next hear of the sea turning black and of many living things dying because of it. That was to be the seventh sign.” Bear put the coffee percolator on the fire. “What the hell does that mean?” “That one perplexed me in the beginning, too. But, one day, I was talking to Moira about it, and she said ‘Don’t you remember the Torrey Canyon?’ I didn’t, so she told me it was the name of an oil tanker that had shipwrecked off the British

See also Philip Glass (Pruit Igoe segment) from the film Koyaanisqatsi. https://www.youtube. com/watch?v=OacVy8_nJi0.

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Isles of Scilly in 1967. It dumped about 100,000 tons of black, crude oil into the sea. The Hopi shaman had been referring to oil spills, Vinnie. Fuckin’ oil spills! I started researching this stuff in the library in Vancouver, and it’s scary. Those oil tankers are getting bigger and bigger. Some can carry over 200,000 tons of crude oil, man. And they’re becoming more common, every day. Can you imagine how much of that black shit is crossing our oceans?! And there have been other accidents, man, but the mass media keeps them under cover. They don’t want to scare consumers.” Bear poured Vinnie a cup of coffee and continued, “You know, I read a few weeks ago about a real big ship, the SS Manhattan, which has been converted for ice-breaking capacity, and it’s already made one run through the Northwest Passage. Fuck! There’s a lot of petroleum under the polar ice-cap, they say. This scared the shit out of me, and a few days later I had a nightmare. In my dream, I saw the rocky coasts of our islands covered with black, shiny oil. And there were enormous piles of seals, and sea lions and birds of all kinds, dead on the shore. They were all painted black, man.” Bear hung his head. “Mamma mia! I can’t take it. Bear, please, let’s go outside on the deck and see the sun come up. What do you say?” When they had settled themselves outside in the cold morning air, Vinnie took up from where they had left off. “Bear, I didn’t tell you that when we get back to New York I’ll begin working with a guy who wants to take on the automotive industry and turn the New York City into an Italian hill town, too.” “You hippies are really crazy, man. Who’s gonna pay you to do that?! You shitting me, or what?” Bear laughed. “Nope. The guy’s the director of a new Municipal department, and that’s his long-term agenda. To begin with, we’ll be testing low-emission vehicles which, he hopes, will eventually replace the City’s fleet.” “Sounds good, and really difficult. But you know, Vinnie, this brings us right to the Eighth sign, and to you.” “I’m all ears.” Vinnie smirked. “The Hopi’s eighth sign said that they would see the coming of many white youths who would wear their hair long like their people. You want a mirror? And that they would come and join the First Nations in order to learn their ways and wisdom. Now, don’t you think that’s what’s happening all around us? The Hippies, and Peace and Love, and the back-to-nature communes with the long-haired Pahana, like you and my friends, who are discovering and putting into practice ecological values and cooperative community action. The Eighth Sign has come! Now, we just gotta wait for the Ninth sign, and our world will be sane and saved, once again.” Bear extended his long, strong arms as if to embrace the magnificent landscape in front of him.

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“Ok, my friend. And what exactly might that sign be, and will it lead us straight back to Shangri-La, eh?” “This is a wild one, Vinnie. You need a lot of imagination to get it, but I don’t think you’re lacking that. So here goes.” Vinnie heard movement in the kitchen, and he realized that the others had awoken. “The Hopi predicted that we would hear of a dwelling-place in the sky. And that, whatever that might be, it would fall to the earth with a great crash. Its arrival would appear as a blue star, or flash, in the heavens.” “And then we’ll all live happily ever after?” Vinnie heckled. “You wish! And I do, too. But, no brother, it isn’t that simple. The collision and the blue flash are said to be the first signs of a great destruction which will follow. The shamans foresaw towering columns of smoke and fire. They said that the white men would fight against other peoples, in other lands. And, dig this, they said the fighting would be with those people who first possessed the light of wisdom. Real bad stuff will happen, before a better world. Amen.” “Sounds like a Third World War. But, in in this case, along with the Russians, we got the Chinese, or maybe India or Mesopotamia. Shit. Hey Bear, in the meantime … what do you think the children will be doing?” “I don’t know much about kids, Vinnie. You should ask Tony, the next time you see him.” When the three friends were just about to hit the highway, Moira leaned into the car window and said, “Hey, Vinnie, I understand that you Italians are big fans of Garibaldi, right? Well, just past the town of Keeters you’ll see a distant view of a mountain named after him. That’s Mount Garibaldi, and it will be visible on your left. You might want to stop there and pay your respects to the man.” “I don’t know about Garibaldi, Moira. All I know is what my grandfather told me about him. And my Tata, for sure, would have climbed that tall mountain - just to piss on it.” Vinnie laughed, and Moira looked confused. “I’ll tell you the story, next time around.” He yelled as the car took off. The first two thousand miles of the return trip were relatively uneventful with regard to social encounters. All the way to Winnipeg, there would be no particular people or urban settings, to write home about. But the natural environment and the creatures they ran into were another, magnificent story. The towering Canadian Rockies were beyond Vinnie’s every imagination. Deep green forests of pines and tall spruce stretched way up to the barren slate-gray moraines which nestled below sparkling white glaciers. Cal and Mike were formidable guides and teachers. The first knew the names and all the characteristics of the plants and animals they saw. And Mike, with a minor in Mining Engineering and a vivid imagination, was an extraordinary story-teller regarding the territory’s morphology, hydrology, geological composition and landscape history. Vinnie, the dumb city boy, knew absolutely nothing about all such matters.

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As they ventured through the landscape, and as each successive river valley and cluster of peaks surpassed its predecessor, Vinnie thought of the story which Bear had recounted—the history of his people, and of the numerous other ‘Nations’ that had inhabited these lands for eons, living in a near-perfect balance with Nature. The arrival of the White Man had altered drastically, and probably broken, that equilibrium. Maybe, Bear was right in holding that a terrible end was in the making. Yet, in the context of the Canadian Cascades and Rocky Mountains, this was hard to imagine. Vinnie came to understand that he needed to learn a lot more about ecology and natural systems, and about their connections with cities, urban planning, society and politics. During the four days spent on the road to Calgary, they had a number of face-to-face encounters with amazing wild animals: the mother black bear who stopped their vehicle cold in its tracks, and stared unperturbed at them, while her three cubs calmly crossed the road; the pair of forty-pound beavers they spotted near Canmore who dexterously made intricate adjustments to their dam, while their three offspring swam and played in the waters nearby. Another time, they had watched a small herd of mountain goats, for over an hour, who displayed incredible funambulism on the sharp outcroppings at the base of Cirque Peak. On that day, Vinnie learned that a ‘cirque’ was not only the Big Top, but in geological terms was, in fact, an immense natural amphitheater carved through the slow, incessant and invisible movement of enormous, ageless glaciers. Once Vinnie had a frightening run-in with a moose which weighed over one thousand pounds and whose shoulders towered above the boy’s head. Trusting Cal’s words that ‘moose are docile,’ he had walked up close to the beautiful animal, early one morning while the others were still asleep in the tent. When Vinnie was about 30 feet away, he noted, or so he thought, that the buck was ‘smiling at him’ through the undergrowth. He was wrong. The moose lowered its antlers, huffed loudly and charged in his direction. Vinnie ran like hell and dove into an ice-cold lake. The moose ‘smiled’ at him again from the shore and then slowly trotted off leaving Vinnie alone in the freezing water. On their last day in Banff National Park, Mike suggested they make a short trek up to the Sulfur Mountain “Cosmic Ray Station,” which he had heard much about. “Cosmic Rays, I like that. Maybe we’ll bump into Robert Crumb up there.” Vinnie joked. “Norm told me about this place, and he said we shouldn’t miss it. It was built in the mid-fifties for the International Year of Geophysics. It is the site of one of Canada’s only three NM64 neutron monitors.” “Say, what?! Sounds kind of dangerous to me.” Cal interjected. “Come on, Cal. Cosmic rays are showering down on us all the time. They are simply high-energy radiation waves, which originated primarily from sources outside our Solar System.” “Well, that’s reassuring, I must say.” Cal retorted.

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“We’re only talking about high energy protons and atomic nuclei. Scientists are not exactly sure what the exact sources are, but Norm holds by the theory that they originated from the explosions of supernova stars.” “Hey Mike, didn’t we protest stuff like that? Remember that infernal radiation machine on campus.” Vinnie was confused. “This has nothing to do with nuclear fallout, Vin. This stuff - these rays – possesses extremely low concentrations of atomic particles. Well, it’s a little higher than is normal down at sea-level but, I assure you, it’s not so dangerous.” “Ok, let’s go. Like I said, we might run into Bob Crumb or, come to think of it, more probably Mr. Natural.” Vinnie joked to assuage his growing anxiety. The station turned out to be a small, tower-like structure of gray stone. It wasn’t anything like the space-age, sci-fi complex Vinnie had been expecting. While they sat back to rest after the climb, and to contemplate the pyramid-shaped mount which cut the beautiful panorama of white snow fields and dark distant mountains in half, Vinnie thought of cosmic rays and supernovae in relationship to the ‘blue flashes’ and ‘explosions in space’ in the Hopi prophecy which Bear had recounted. He thought that maybe Norm wasn’t off the mark when he would blabber on about his up-and-coming ‘Intergalactic cosmic Anarchism.’ “The Hopis and the mad scientists might just be on to something.” He muttered to himself. “What’s that, Vinnie?” Mike, who had heard him murmur, asked. “That’s a fucking bald eagle, man!” Cal yelled and pointed towards the apex of the pyramid-shaped mount. The huge bird was gliding in slow circles around the nearby peak. Vinnie could clearly make out its golden beak and snow-white head. Its black and steel-gray tipped wingspread was immense and beautiful. Its talons, tucked back under its long white tail feathers, were exactly the same color gold as its beak. He was transfixed. “Can you believe that that marvelous creature is the symbol of our shit-ass country, man?” Mike grumped. “Maybe, once upon a time, when our nation was just born it wasn’t such a bad idea.” “Yeah, ask Bear and Beaver about that so-called ‘good idea’, Cal.” Vinnie retorted. “And ask our black brothers, or ask the Chinese who built the railways, or the Poles and Italians who worked the mines what they think about it. Oppression goes way back, and it isn’t letting up.” Mike added. Before their discussion could heat-up any further, a series of ear-splitting, screeching honks called their attention back towards the eagle which was now diving straight down, at extraordinary speed, into the rocky valley below the station. They saw a baby mountain goat that had strayed off, about thirty yards, from its herd. The big bird was pointing it, and two adult goats were frantically rock-jumping in the kid’s direction. One arrived just in time to head-butt the eagle as it lifted the kid off the ground. The sound of the horns’ tremendous impact

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echoed across the valley. The eagle dropped its prey and was thrown against a rock outcropping. While the enraged goats surrounded the shaken kid who slowly raised itself to its feet, the predator gathered its senses and flew off down the valley. It appeared to be bleeding. “Score one for the underdog kids!” Mike remarked and raised his clenched fist. “Yeah, goat lovers of the world unite! Gimme a break, guys. But, hey, we better get going if we want to be in Calgary before nightfall.” Cal was hungry and needed a beer, for sure, after a long day. Getting into Calgary turned out to be a mess. Bad luck had it that the Calgary Stampede, the world’s largest rodeo event, was to begin there in just two days. The road into town was jam-packed with cars and trailers carrying horses, bulls and hordes of drunken cowboys. The event, they learned at the gas station they stopped at on the edge of town at nightfall, would bring over half-a-million people into the city in the next days. “And,” the native American woman who had filled their tank had said, “you boys better get the hell out of here quick. Cowboys, as a rule, don’t take well to your types. And that dude,” she said pointing towards Mike, “is the spitting image of a well-known member of the QLF. You know, the Quebec Liberation Front - the supposed bombers. And that means the Mounties are gonna be on your backs, really bad.” She wasn’t kidding. They quickly grabbed a six-pack and some gas-station sandwiches, ate in the car while driving, and slept outside Medicine Hat for five hours. When the sun came up, the world around them was a totally different one. There was no green in sight, only yellow grassland, gray gullies and ominous barren buttes. They were back in the Badlands, and their spirits mirrored the name. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” Vinnie muttered as Mike eased the car back onto the highway. “Ain’t gonna be so quick, Vinnie. We got about 500 miles of flat, dry landscape ahead of us in Saskatchewan.” After five hours of depressing flatlands, they were bored, deflated and tired. They all agreed to stop the car, a little past Regina, for a pickup. They hoped for the usual, delicious ‘late breakfast aka early lunch’ fare. As the replenished group was leaving the truck stop, a long-haired Native American asked them for a ride to Winnipeg. He looked friendly enough and was carrying a battered guitar case and a big khaki satchel. There was no way they could ever refuse him. “My name’s Curtis, and I’m playing a solo gig in Winnipeg tonight. You can all be my guests, if you like.” The man was a great raconteur, and the six-hour drive flew by in a flash. They learned that he, a member of the Anishinaabe Nation, was born in Winnipeg but had grown up in Nebraska. He started playing guitar and developed an interest in popular music at an early age. He told them that hearing Buddy Holly, had been his “inspiration” to attempt a career in rock and roll. He said he had been playing in Washington, D.C. and New York as a backup man with several rock and rhythm-and-blues bands, for the last few years. But at the time, he was happy to “come home and get back into his Native roots.” He wanted to try to make it on his

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own. He had been traveling across Canada checking out the music scene that summer and, as he had thought from the beginning, Winnipeg was the place where he wanted to stay. “Winnipeg and Manitoba may look to you like a nowhere wasteland, but there’s been a whole lot of good music around here, recently.” He said, gobbling down another handful of the Vancouver ‘Choklit’ stash. “You surely know the Guess Who, right?” “American Woman, yessir!” Vinnie nodded. “Well, maybe, you didn’t know that they come from Winnipeg. That Randy Bachman, man, he cuts a mean axe! And that ain’t all. You are hippies, sure as shit. So, you’re probably big fans of the Buffalo Springfield and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. Well, Neil Young grew up in these parts, man. He lived in or around Winnipeg, on and off, during his entire adolescence. I know the dude. I heard his band play a bunch of times at Kelvin High School. It was just instrumentals at the time. Yeah, he wasn’t quite the poet yet, back then. Then he dropped out of school and started playing dives and community clubs around Winnipeg. I heard him play together with Joni Mitchell once in the same little place I’ll be doing tonight. It was like magic, man. Then he took off for the California sun and ended up in LA.” “There must be some kind of magic dust in these wheat fields, or in the water.” Mike joked. “Yeah, the water. Shit, our water is cursed. Can you dudes imagine that both Neil and Joni had polio when they were little kids? What a loss it would have been for the music world, if they hadn’t survived.” Vinnie closed his eyes and saw his long-lost childhood friend, Brian McNamara, smiling straight at him. That night they heard Curtis, whose stage name was ‘Son of Waawaate,’ perform in a small community club. Actually, the place was nothing more than a refurbished storefront, but the beer and food were good, and its denizens were multi-colored and friendly. Vinnie found Curtis’ guitar playing technically good but nothing special, and his voice was too syrupy for his own taste. But the texts the man had penned were something else. They spoke of Canadian history and of his People’s lives and legends. He sang primarily of past conflicts and contradictions, but the songs were also interspersed with numerous references to the growing, radical Native American Movement. While a mediocre musician, he was definitely a great story-teller. Vinnie wanted to hear some more of Curtis’ tales, so they stayed on, long after his last set, to talk. And Vinnie listened. “Yeah, I’ve heard those Hopi prophecies Vin mentioned many times, brothers. I’ve heard them from hippies, eggheads and from some real Hopis, too. I prefer the Hopi version of the story, and I think that some of that white man’s fairytale your friend in Vancouver laid on you is bullshit. It’s really strange to hear it coming from a Haida. Sounds to me like Bear’s been reading too many esoteric books by those maniacs from the West Coast. LSD, Theosophy, Edgar Cayce and the Age of Aquarius are a lethal mix. Those dudes are just a bunch of guilt-ridden, rich white kids who dropped out and then convinced themselves that they were either Buddhist monks or Hopi shaman.”

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“It sounded too perfect to me, too. But the last part which spoke of where we are now, and where we might go, seemed like what’s really coming down. You know, Koyaanisqatsi … out-of-balance.” Vinnie felt unbalanced himself. “Sure, our world has lost its original equilibrium. That’s just history, Vin. It’s been a long struggle, and many factors are beyond our control. A people starts small and local with its community, they respect and care for the land and creatures and, then, ‘The Man’ comes along and brings his war-axe down. But - I have to tell you – I would just love to see a few of those big blue flashes the Hopi talk about. Just wipe the whole mess away, and start anew and build a better world.” “That’s a big, scary agenda, Curtis. I don’t know if I agree.” Vinnie trembled. “Don’t worry. There are some other more comforting messages in the Hopi legends which Bear neglected to tell you.” “What are they?” His curiosity was whetted. “The little ones, man, the little children. I dig it that you’re into kids. You mentioned their innate freedom, their candor and imagination. I sometimes think they possess strong capabilities which affect and can, perhaps, change the Future. I believe that they, my man, could help us save our world. It’s all there in the Shamans’ words. They knew it, long ago!” “You shitting me, man? What did those legends say, exactly?” Vinnie needed more to be convinced. “Listen up! The Hopi have this beautiful folk tale, entitled ‘How the Hummingbird saved the Children’. It goes, more or less, like this. Long ago, the Oraibi people were facing a terrible famine. There had been four years of frost, followed by a drought that had killed off the entire corn crop. To all effects, their world was coming to an end. Their people were dying off fast, and when the food reserves were gone the remaining inhabitants abandoned the pueblo. In their haste to leave the village and find food, two children were left behind - a boy and his young sister. As the older of the two, the boy took responsibility for their survival, and went off every day to search the desert for something to eat. To keep his little sister occupied while he was gone, he made her a little toy bird from a sunflower stalk. She really loved it, man. One day she threw the toy up into the air, and yelled ‘fly, hummingbird!”. Miraculously, It became alive and flew away. When her brother returned, he was convinced that his sister had lost the toy bird and invented an excuse. They went to sleep hungry that night but when the little girl woke the next morning she saw a flash of colors—blue, mostly, and some green— enter the window. She called out to her brother. “The hummingbird has returned!” But when he got there, the bird was gone. He found, in its place, two succulent ears of corn on the sill. The boy still didn’t believe her, but he was happy. And their hunger was satiated for the moment. On each of the following four days, they found two ears of corn on the window sill every morning.

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The boy, gradually, came to believe his little sister’s story. Then, on the fifth day, there was no corn. This time, in its place, they found the toy hummingbird once again. The boy begged the inert object to come to life, but he didn’t truly believe in its magical nature. He implored the wooden bird to fly off and bring back not only food for them, but also to find his parents and the other villagers. After many attempts, nothing had happened. “How did you do it?” He asked his sister, “how did you bring it to life?” “Like this.” She said, and threw the cornstalk bird into the air. Once again, it came to life. Her brother then believed. “So how does the story end? Is their world saved?” Vinnie wanted to know. “Of course, it is. To make a long story short, the bird finds a hole to the Center of the Universe. While there, the bird asks the God of Germination to do something. She does and, in the end, the children’s parents and the other villagers also return home. They all live together, once again, in harmony with nature. But the point of the story is that it was the little girl’s love of nature and her belief in magic, and her older brother’s coming around to believe it too, that saved the village and the tribe. Can you dig me?” It was after 4AM, and Curtis wanted to go to sleep. But he had one thing more he wanted to tell Vinnie. “I wanted to tell you that my nom de plume - ‘Waawaate’ - means ‘Northern Lights. I’m their son.” “The Aurora Borealis. You can see them only at the North Pole, right?” Vinnie interjected. “No, you can see them pretty good around here, too. But I’ll get to that in a minute. Right now, I want to try to connect the Hopi prophecy - the blue flash in the sky and the special power of the young ones - to other legends of the First Nations of Canada and Alaska. These are tales which talk of our Northern Lights.” “While the Hopi are still awaiting a blue flash in the night sky, we – who live up North - are already blessed with the presence of colored flashes, and spirals, and star nebulae almost all year-round. And, you know, some of our legends about these marvelous lights seem, to me, to take us right back to the Hopi prophecy.” Oddly, Vinnie was once again wide awake. He had a feeling he was about to learn something of importance. “Some of the Nations in Alaska have a legend about how the Salmon learned to swim upstream. Their ancestors, like in the Hopi story, could no longer find nutriment … in their rivers. A magical being, a great white bear, told the smallest of the salmon – a little one, again, man – that she could find the strength and courage to swim to the top of the Great Mountain, only by following the mysterious colored lights in the night sky. After a long struggle, she - and all the adult salmon following her - made it there. When they arrived, the child-salmon became a part of the northern lights. All of the salmon were then transformed into a flowing river of light which all creatures – especially, when they are in difficulty and danger should always strive to follow.”

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“And a child-salmon, the littlest one, led the community on its journey.” Vinnie muttered. “There are many other references to children in Northern Lights legends. For example, the indigenous people of Greenland say that the lights are the spirits of their unborn children. Some Inuit bands believe that those lights are young spirits playing a ball game in the sky. Play, man! Isn’t play the very essence of childhood?!”

“But now Vinnie, I’m really zonked out. I have to get some sleep.” Curtis’ dark eyes were dreary, nearly closed. “Wait, Curtis. You still haven’t told us where we can see the Northern Lights around here.” “Oh, yeah. You know this isn’t the best time of the year to see them. Fall and winter are best periods, but since we’ve been having cool, dry weather the last weeks, the sky show could be pretty good now. Anyway, a good place is Thunder Bay which is a seven-or-eight-hour drive from here. But, even better would be for you to stop along Lake Huron just off Manitoulin Island. That’s about twelve hours further down the Trans-Can. Since you mentioned that you’re going to Toronto to hear some Nutty Professor, there’s no problem since both places are along the road you’ll be taking, anyways.” “Hey, Vinnie.” Mike interjected, “That reminds me. I forgot to tell you that I called Harpo on the payphone out back, while Curtis was doing his third set, and he said he can’t wait to see us.” “That’s great, man. I hope he’s settling in well.” Vinnie thought of his friend, on the lamb in Canada. “Well, Son of Waawaate, thanks for the music and, especially, ‘grazie’ for the great stories. They really got me thinking.”

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“My pleasure. But hey, Vinnie, will you do me a favor? When you get back to New York, send me a postcard with a nice picture of Bleeker Street on it. And, in the note, let me know if you guys managed to see any blue sparks or spirals in our midnight light show. Recently, I’ve begun seeing more blue swirls in all that green, purple and yellow.” “Will do.” Vinnie made the promise. And, in September back in New York, he would keep it. It was after midnight, almost forty hours later, and the friends were camping along Lake Huron right off Manitoulin Island. They had smoked the grass Curtis had laid on them in Winnipeg and were finishing off a barbecued Canadian bacon dinner and sipping beers. While the campfire still burned, the landscape surrounding them was barely visible in total darkness. But, when the fire subsided, to Vinnie’s surprise, the night sky had, literally, lit up. The firmament above was illuminated with an infinity of stars, constellations and galaxies. Vinnie had never seen anything like it. “Hey, Cal. I can even see your face by starlight alone, man.” He was amazed. “So what? Don’t you see anything like this, back in Brooklyn?” Cal poked his arm. A wide silence of time, interspersed with the soft sounds of creatures at work and play, surrounded them. Time evolved ever so slowly, and the friends drifted off … each into his own thoughts and sensations. Vinnie’s eyes were transfixed on the sky. He noticed that parts of the black backdrop of the stars were beginning to take on eerie greenish hues, while web-like wisps and swirls of purple light spread and swirled in opposing directions. These extraordinary phenomena were also reflected on the surface of the lake. In the midst of the Aurora Borealis, Vinnie could see—or imagined he could see—bright stars penetrating both the night sky and the water’s still lucent surface. “Aurora Borealis. Aurora. She was the Roman goddess of a new dawn.” He remembered, and his mind took off on a journey. A new beginning was to follow a terrible end, the Hopi legend had said. He trembled and hoped that maybe the little ones aloft in the Northern Lights could, in ways unknown to him, help to make things better. As so often happens when one abuses substances—or, in Vinnie’s case, almost all the time—his mind began making unexpected connections, catalyzed by the spectacle which opened before his eyes. Fragments from the stories of Bear and Curtis took the form of a cosmic mosaic unfolding before him. He sighted a soaring eagle and its wooden sibling with a crimson beak call out to a darting, blue-green hummingbird and to sparkling red salmons, swimming in celestial streams. He glimpsed Moira’s ginger hair and Maria’s swirling brown fingers which drew domed structures and stone-terraced lemon groves in the firmament above. The forms became gray monoliths, and craggy outcroppings and sloped-slate eaves stretching to the stars. He ‘heard’ visible words which became radio-waves which morphed into a stunned,

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snow-white baby mountain goat pulling itself up and hopping away … to become one, then many, exuberant children swinging from hanging vines or running playfully across the glaciers, and in the desert and in the streets of Chicago. Their movement formed multi-colored swirling, trailing curves and arches which marked the rhythm and the rules of play, and called to mind the implements of the street games he knew so well: a pink flash of a rubber ball, a green circle of chalk dust, a darting red tricycle, a purple t-shirt and a yellow baseball cap, all in movement … all around him. He caught a fleeting glance—out of the corner of his once-a-child-eye—of a cobalt blue flash that exploded out from his field of vision. He tried to follow its fading trace, but it was gone. He yelled aloud and ‘woke’ the others. “Hey, Vinnie, what are you screaming about.” Cal’s voice called Vinnie back to earth, back to lakeside. Vinnie thought he recognized that blue streak to be the school team jacket of his childhood friend and maestro, Aksel. “I just had an Epiphany, man. An Epiphany.” Vinnie spoke out. “Me too, I think.” He heard Mike reply groggily. “You guys are really zonked. What the hell are you talking about?” Cal cut the atmosphere and concluded, “Let’s get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a long haul.”

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During the ride to Toronto, Vinnie couldn’t shake off the images and visions he had experienced under the Northern Lights. Then, back in the city, ‘reality’ would catch up with him once again. He would go on to forget his ‘Epiphany’ for nearly seventy long years. At that time, he couldn’t possibly have known that on another day, forty years into the next millennium, his vision would all come back to him. And, in the Future, it would finally make sense and become reality. In Toronto, Vinnie was back in his own element—the city. Harpo, their draft-dodger buddy, lived pretty near to the campus in a small apartment on West Dundas Street in the old Chinatown. It was easy to find, and it seemed the perfect place for Harp with its convivial street life and abundant produce markets. It was near to good, cheap eateries and only a short walk from the waterfront. They stayed on for three days, and Vinnie loved every minute of it. “Yeah, I’ve adapted well. It wasn’t hard, Toronto’s a great place. And you can’t imagine how many other draft dodgers live here. There’s even an area nearby, down around Spadina Avenue, that the locals call the ‘American ghetto’. Toronto is a gas, man. I’ve made a lot of friends, and the music scene in this town is beyond belief. My group is playing Saturday night in a club on Yonge Street. If you’re still around, you should come along.” Harpo had cut his hair very short, but had remained his jovial and subversive, hippy self. “Nope, Harp. Sorry, we can’t make it. I have to start full-time employment on Monday.” After he had told him about his upcoming job, Vinnie raised the question of the “At the Edge of History” conference which he had heard about in West Virginia and which—he read aloud from a crumpled pamphlet in his hand—was to be held that very evening. “Tuesday, at 8.30 PM in the Faculty of Law Auditorium.” “Tough luck, Vinnie. The gig’s been cancelled because the speaker’s got just about everybody on campus against him, from the John Birch Society to the Maoists. The venue even received two bomb threats. One from the QLF and another, dig this, from a group called ‘Cayce’s Children’. That dude must be right on!” “Mannaggia!” His grandfather’s phrase of disillusionment came to him so naturally. “So, what’s Plan B, Harp?” “That’s easy, and you’re going to love it. First, we get some great chow - pardon my pun - down at Kwong Chow’s. It’s dirt cheap and delicious. Then, there’s an important town meeting at 9 PM concerning the TTC’s plan to eliminate all of Toronto’s street car lines by 1980. For me, the trams are what makes this city unique, man! My department has been collaborating with the numerous local committees and associations who are fighting the plan. Opposition is massive and well-qualified, and we seem to be winning. I think the mayor’s about to give the stop light to the plan. Tonight, you’ll also have the opportunity to hear a wonderful

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woman, Jane Jacobs - one of the most intelligent and acclaimed leaders of the struggle. And, dig this, she’s a Yankee, too. She lived for a long time in New York. Have you ever heard of her?” “No.” The three said in unison. “Well, my friends, you will all be blown away by her. And, Vinnie, I think hearing this woman will give a jolt to your career plans. We read her book “The Death and Life of Great American Cities” in class, and it’s a masterpiece. In it, she knocks conventional, technocratic planning theory for a loop. Listen here! She’s not a planner or architect – simply a brilliant investigator and thinker. She didn’t even finish college, and the experts hate her for this. Her book has had a huge, and unexpected, impact on the fields of planning and urban design. And, dig this Vinnie, her arguments relate to much of what you’ve always talked about – sidewalk life, children’s street play and the freedom to move and participate in the city. She talks of social control of spaces through ‘loving eyes on the street’. She indicts the automobile and Urban Renewal as the destroyers of social and environmental urban quality. And she doesn’t only speak and write well, she’s also an astute activist and organizer. She was fundamental in knocking New York’s Public Works Czar, Robert Moses, on his ass and defeating his plan for an expressway through Greenwich Village. Man, I think I’m in love.” They had never seen their friend so ecstatic about anything. He was literally glowing. Vinnie, too, was aglow after the meeting that night. During the following two days, he and Harpo talked for hours about cities, urban design and Jane Jacobs. He bought her book on the morning they left Toronto. All the way back to New York, for the last 500 miles of their journey, he read it and continued to glow. Harpo had been right: the words and the spirit of that small, powerful woman would, indeed, ‘give a jolt to his career plans’ in successive years. One could say, figuratively in Ms. Jacob’s honor, that Vinnie was about to step onto a totally different tram-line.

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Days of Rage, Research and Resurrection (April–May, 1971) (A Fractured Nation: Engagement and a New Awareness)

The dramatic months of April and May 1971 represent a shadow line in the protagonist’s personal development. During the harrowing days at the May Day Tribe Protests in Washington DC, Vinnie and his colleague-comrades are arrested. For the first time, he hears about affinity groups and recognizes their value in cooperative-mutualist actions. Successively, he carries out research concerning these ideas at the New York Public Library. This leads him to discover several ‘Maestri’ who will become important guides in his future development (Petr Kropotkin, Emma Goldman and Colin Ward). Towards the end of his employment at the first Municipal experimental station for catalytic converters and alternative fuels Vinnie experiences two close encounters with death. These experiences weld his decision to abandon Engineering, leave the USA and explore his interest in children’s participation in cities. Throughout this chaotic period, Vinnie’s childhood friendship bonds and his propensity to play continue to sustain his will to persevere.

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For the first time in more than a year, Vinnie was back in his family home. He would stay there for the next three nights. He sat alone in his tiny bedroom, staring at the dark formal-cut, European-tailored suit Chase had lent him for Marco’s wedding. His brother, whom he hadn’t seen since Christmas, would be getting married in two days, and Vinnie was to be his best man. He wondered—and thought he finally understood—how he could have grown so distant from a brother with whom he had intimately and lovingly shared his early life. “Maybe, in the future,” he hoped out loud, “we’ll reunite and grow close, once again.” The last three weeks had been an emotional roller coaster. Vinnie’s entire being felt like the exposed nerve of a broken tooth. He knew the sensation, but now it was even more excruciating. All the things he held important were rapidly crumbling away, and he didn’t know where to go. The career in Engineering which his father so wanted for him was, to all extents and purposes, over. Ever since his mother’s death, his relationship with his family had nearly evaporated. Even the social and political activism which had fueled his convictions and filled his days had come to a dead halt. The “Big Issues,” like the war in Vietnam and the struggles for racial and economic equality, remained what and where they were, despite the multitude of young people, and persons of color, who continued to put their lives on the line. He had come to think that centrally-organized mass demonstrations were not the answer. He felt the need to be involved in small-scale local action, but the city he had always loved had become unbearable to him. Its dirt and grime, street violence and—its mirror image—police brutality had insinuated themselves under his skin. It hurt him badly and, two days earlier, had nearly killed him. He walked over to his window and looked down onto the street. There, in what had once been his childhood world, it appeared as if nothing had changed. Other, new children—four kids he couldn’t even recognize—continued to play in the seemingly peaceful and safe place. He thought of his friends from the block. Even his closest companions and soul mates for so many years had receded into the background. Tonight, they would all meet up again for a drink, some good smoke and lots of small-talk about the ‘old-days.’ Vinnie hoped it would go smoothly, but he worried about some of the others’ views on Vietnam. Especially, Little Joey who had just gotten back from his stint over there. At least, Aksel and Vito would be around to placate souls and put a humorous lid on any eventual blow-ups, as they always did. He turned from the window, and his sight fell upon the wood-framed poem, ‘If,’ which his carissima mamma had hung over his bed when he was seven years old. He went up closer and read the penultimate stanza. If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings

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And never breathe a word about your loss …16 He understood that he needed to make a new start in his life. He felt like it was about to happen, like it was right around the corner, but he couldn’t imagine himself actually doing it. He had broken up with Jane, after long months of strife and incomprehension. He had moved upstate to a yellow tract-house in Peekskill with Mike, Bonnie, Chase and Franco. While the others hung out up in the pseudo-commune atmosphere, he commuted to the city every day to work. He had even taken an evening course in arch welding. He had spent a shitload of money on a beautiful, old Epiphone acoustic guitar and he was, once again, back into music. He had taken several jazz improvisation seminar-workshops at the New School and had composed and played the soundtracks for several of Skip’s urban documentary films. Now, after weeks of doubt, he had finally decided to drop out of the ‘commune.’ Despite his disdain for Engineering and his allergy to all that was mathematical, he had continued to work in the Greenpoint Lab tabulating and analyzing the impact of new technology, alternative fuels and engine modifications on the emissions of a sample of the Municipality’s vehicles. He had to admit that the money he was making was good (and he had managed to put aside quite a bit, by his standards), and that the team he worked with there was a friendly, fun group of people. Yet, in the last three weeks, several things had occurred which had provided the shove he needed to quit his job. He was beginning to set things in motion which would help him to leave New York City and America, to travel and learn … and, recently, some pieces were falling into place to finally make that jump. He had been accepted at Harvard in City Planning. They had informed him that his registration could be postponed for a maximum of two academic years, if so wanted. He had begun exploring the possibility of doing some substitute teaching in child care centers around the city and had found out it would be easy for him to qualify and that, usually, the part-time openings which became available were plentiful. He really liked the two centers in Spanish Harlem and in the East Village where he had substitute-taught. He just had to get his shit together and hand in his letter of resignation. So here he was, stretched out on the familiar bed in his room, down the hall from his napping disillusioned father. He was a stone’s throw from those sidewalks which had once been his universe. For a fleeting moment, he felt protected and at peace with everything—a feeling he tried to hold on to, but felt slipping away. “Maybe, it’ll be easier and better in a new place. I’ll only need to find another house, another city and another nation that feels like home.” He thought to himself, but he knew that it wasn’t enough. He direly needed companionship. He needed his friends and family. And, above all, he needed the courage to put his plan into motion. Recently, he had come to realize, more than ever before, that outside forces and people—evil and worse,

16

Kipling, Rudyard (1909) The Poem, If in Rewards and Fairies. MacMillan and Co. Ltd., London.

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known and unknown—were continually at work all around him. Their decisions and actions could throw a wrench into the works, blow the lock off the door and put his life at risk. The startling events of the last three weeks—especially Wednesday’s deathly close call—had demonstrated to him just how frighteningly real this eventuality actually was. His thoughts swam back to what had transpired in the last dramatic month. Early in the morning on the last Monday of April, Vinnie recalled, he had found Jake and Jessica talking excitedly about something as he dragged his tired body into the offices, above the auto-lab, on Frost Street. “When the Vets threw their medals onto the steps, man, I went to pieces.” Jess said. She curled the toes of her bare, slim, strong feet on the desk and stretched her legs like she was about to stand a pirouette. “Yeah, it was a powerful statement. All those angry Vet’s telling Congress to go fuck itself! And the demonstration on the next day was mind blowing. There were over 500,000 people.” Jake added, leaning on the file cabinet and looking as out-of-place as ever, like he’d just walked in from milking a cow or fixing a tractor. “Yeah, and the war still goes on, my people.” Vinnie grumped, throwing his old leather bag on his desk. “Where were you, man?! We waited for you at the bus.” Jake retorted, with an out-of-the-ordinary frown. “Yeah, I’m sorry guys. Something came up. Skip told me on Thursday that he had to get the soundtrack done on his film on Children in the City, by this weekend. And I couldn’t let him down.” He felt he didn’t need to add the fact that he had grown suspicious of mass demonstrations, and of leaders in general. His friends already understood where he was at. “Well, Vinnie boy, you better be coming along on Friday for the May Day bash. Remember, the Tribe is going to shut the Capitol down, man. And our ‘Ho Chi Minh Air Pollution Control Revolutionary Truckers Cadre’ wouldn’t be complete without you. We’re going and so are J, and Jasper and Harry.” “Oh, J’s going? And Harry’s coming, for real? I can’t believe it. Anyway, I already told you I was in. I’ve requested a five-day leave, and I hope you all have done so, too.” Vinnie sat down at his desk, and reached for the day’s memos. “Hey! What are you three conspirators up to, now?” Their boss, Leo, called out from his cubicle. “Where gonna’ put a little LSD in the water cooler, chief.” Jake joked. “Why the glum face, Vinnie? Haven’t you read this week’s Village Voice? We are in the news, folks!” The tall Texan stood, smiling in his doorway, with his ordinance denim shirt and jeans, and cowboy boots. “We don’t get radical papers way up in Peekskill, Leo. What does it say?” Jessica had pulled a copy out of her desk, and she started reading. “‘Emission Impossible’. That’s the title.” She was on her feet now, flexing and smiling.

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“Funny. But not nice, my people … not nice at all.” Jake interrupted. Buttered bialy in his hand, he rested his skinny frame against a free-standing column by the loft’s long band of factory windows. “Yeah, but listen here. It gets much better.” Jessica continued to read. ‘It’s almost impossible to believe it, but the City of New York’s Department of Air Resources has decided to take on the Big Three and, according to its Director Leo Katchman, “intends to rid our city of automobiles in 25 years.” We’ve discovered that the team this MIT-doctored engineer put in place to do this, out of a converted industrial building in Greenpoint, is a motley crew of highly-qualified hippies, communards, radicals and artists. When I visited the Laboratory, I thought I had dropped into a Berkeley Commune, not a Municipal office. There were cut wildflowers on the desks, the visages of Che Guevara and Sitting Bull on the walls, along with a ‘Reefer Madness’ poster in the corner. While a Grateful Dead tune played in the background, hunched over the control panel of a massive IBM System/360 computer, in the back room, was a lanky, longhaired, engineer from Texas - who has a PhD from Stanford.” “Somebody talking about me, y’all?” Jasper had come in from the stairs, looking like he had slept all night in the computer room, as he probably had. “Good morning, Doctor.” Jake gave Jasper the peace sign. Leo sat down, got serious and began to talk. “Well, my co-workers, now that we’re all here, I’d like to have a little talk with you.” Vinnie turned and said hello to J who had just walked in. He noticed that Harry was, also, now at his work table. “You probably have noticed that I’ve approved your requests for ‘vacation time’ to go down to Washington and ‘shut down the government’. I couldn’t believe that two of you had actually written these exact words on an official request form. Can you imagine how hard it was for me to convince Commissioner Rickles to give his approval? You know how much, he – and the mayor – respect our work down here. You’ve all seen how they’ll close an eye to your – or should I say, ‘our’? - weird attire and behavior. That’s because they both recognize how important and well-executed the work we do is. But this time, you may have exceeded the limit. From the look of things, this demonstration could be dangerous for you, and it could be detrimental to the City’s support for our efforts. If word gets out that you guys were down there protesting on City time, they – and we - will be in big trouble.” He ran his long fingers through his huge, auburn afro hairdo. “I’ve already said this to Vinnie, and I’m going to say it to all of you, now. In your life, you have to carefully select your battles. Down here, we’re all waging a struggle for the environment, right? For me, this is the most important battle, and I’ve dedicated my entire professional life to it. Some of you, want to do everything at the same time – protest the war, fight for racial justice and women’s rights, smash capitalism and, even, ‘uproot the Global Triad Conspiracy of Binary Numbers’. Did I get your words right, Jake?”

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“Right on, brother.” Jake winked and raised a gentle, clenched fist. Everybody laughed, and the tension in the air lightened up for a moment. Then Vinnie intervened. “Yeah, but Leo, I still think we have to find a way to bring all those struggles together. They’re all important, and they are connected. Well, maybe not the Global Triad …” His boss interrupted him. “I’m sorry, but not here, Vinnie! Here it’s all about science and engineering against the automobile industry. Stop.” “Like I’ve told you, Leo, maybe I’m just not cut out to be an engineer.” “Well, you know where the door is, man. But y’all be careful in DC.” Leo placed a caring hand on his shoulder. The planned five days of civil disobedience, through decentralized shock tactics and disruptive actions by small ‘affinity groups,’ at a city-wide scale, had been invented and organized by a new aggregation which had been dubbed the May Day Tribe. It was comprised of a loose network of experienced anti-war and civil rights activists who, like Vinnie, were disillusioned with the top-down, leader-centered approaches in the anti-war and student movements. They were also alarmed by, and in disaccord with, the most radical ex-elements of SDS who had gone underground and recently initiated a series of bombing attacks on the symbols and centers of power. The Tribe’s call to action had targeted, and attracted, people and groups with more decidedly hippie and counterculture lifestyles and values—which the Trotskyist and pacifist wings of the anti-war movement lacked. It had also managed to mobilize a wide array of local Black, Latino and Native American Power groups. The ‘occupation’ of Washington D.C. was to go down in history as the first and, perhaps, the largest protest-action of its kind in America. The exact number of persons who actually took part in the failed attempt to ‘shut down the government’ was probably somewhere between the official and establishment media numbers (15,000) and the underground press and May Day Tribe figures (200,000). An idea of its dimension can be presumed from the fact that by the end of the days of mayhem well over 12,000 people would be arrested. Vinnie and his colleague-friends couldn’t have imagined, in their wildest dreams, what they were getting themselves into when they stepped off the charter-bus they had boarded at a jam-packed Union Square, on Friday afternoon. The slogan of the May Day Tribe’s protest—“If the government won’t stop the war, we’ll stop the government”—was what had caught Vinnie and Jake’s attention when they had first heard about it, two months earlier. The organizers had elaborated a tactical manual which provided maps and gave details of the twenty-one key bridges and traffic circles the protesters planned to block nonviolently, with stalled vehicles, makeshift barricades or their bodies. The immediate goal of these actions was to snarl traffic so completely that government employees could not get to their

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jobs. The larger objective, they had read in the manual, was “to create the specter of social chaos while maintaining the support, or at least the toleration, of the broad masses of American people.”17 “That sounds impossible to me, but I’m still up for trying.” Jake had remarked, during the bus trip down to DC. Upon arrival, the occupants of the bus were immediately led into a rec center next to a church, in one of the many poor Afro-American neighborhoods of the Nation’s Capital. It was there they were to meet with other protestors from New York City for a general introduction and some tactical training. When they stepped into the small gym, you could already cut the tension with a knife. Tables and newsprint-paper-covered blackboards ringed the basketball court. At one table, tempers flared and two men were facing it off. “You’re an undercover pig!” The smaller fellow yelled. Finally, when they both had been ushered outside, things calmed down a little. But, just as Jake had warned the others on the way down to Washington, it then appeared more than certain that the protest had been infiltrated by a(n) (un)healthy share of undercover police and FBI provocateurs. The evening’s activities were well organized. First, a spokesperson had addressed the room. She went through the outline of the program for the next two days. She said that there would be rock concerts, action planning sessions and non-violent resistance training over the weekend at West Potomac Park where, surprisingly, a camping permit for both nights had been approved by the National Parks Administration. Next, she explained the guiding concept of ‘Affinity Groups.’ These were to be the fundamental nuclei of the next days’ actions. She said the name, which had been coined during the Spanish Civil War, referred to small groups of five to fifteen people who were spontaneously drawn together by ‘affinity.’ She explained, this meant—by friendship, individual trust, background or personal history. These small groups reflected the anarchist ideal of free association and increased the potential for mutual support and action while decreasing the danger of isolation and/or infiltration by counter-protestors or cops. Upon hearing her words, Vinnie thought to himself, “Hey, that’s what my gang was. An Affinity Group. We were probably Anarchists, and we didn’t even know it.” “In this way,” she concluded, “rather than just one mass action or conspiracy, there will be hundreds – or thousands - of conspiracies and actions spread out across the city.” The women then announced that each group of friends, or affinity group, would be asked to merge with several others into larger ‘Action Cells.’ In this way, they would get to know each other and begin to discuss the disruptive strategies for their assigned piece of Washington’s city center.

17 Source of quote and also an excellent complete description and analysis of this ground-breaking, Anti-War demonstration: “Ending a War, starting a Movement: May Day 1971.”. https://libcom. org/library/ending-war-inventing-movement-mayday-1971.

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When they heard “Ho Chi Minh Air Pollution Control Revolutionary Truckers Cadre” called out, the six city employees joined a group of people huddled around table number 11. They were introduced to the other affinity groups. These included eight members of the Young Lords, a Hispanic organization, from Washington Heights; a larger group of middle-aged people from a Catholic Workers collective in downtown Manhattan; and a small cadre of ‘stray dogs’ with no group name or apparent affiliation. The discussion went well, the people were pretty relaxed and friendly, until the question of what to do when cops arrived to break the blockades came up. Here there were wide divergences. The Catholic Workers intended to go limp and be arrested, the Lords and Vinnie’s group thought it best to “get our asses out of there, quick,” but the ‘stray dogs’ said they would “resist the pigs with all and any means possible.” “We got some ‘fireworks’ in our bags, and some of the brothers got a whole lot more. We’ll fight the Pigs!” One had said. During a coffee break, the friends roamed the space, listening in on conversations and group discussions and checking out the atmosphere. They all came back worried. Especially, Jane and Jake. “Shit, I’m sure there are a shitload of infiltrators here. They’re trying to work everybody up into a frenzy.” “I don’t know about the pigs, Jake.” J said, “But I ran into a few hot head Maoists I know from the Upper West Side, and they’re talking about real violence. Two of them even had fucking pistols.” After the meeting broke up, at around 10 o’clock, the six friends worked their way to West Potomac Park and found a place, among the almost 30,000 ‘campers’ who were already there. They laid their sleeping bags out, and their discussion went on, late into the night. The topic in question concerned what they should do on Monday morning. Should they “stick it out” in their assigned sector with their action cell or go someplace else? “Yeah, but where and with whom, guys?” Jessica insisted “We don’t want to be out there on our own.” At one point, Jasper who had been silent as he usually was in any group discussion raised his hand to speak. “I happen to know that a high school friend of mine is somewhere here with a commune from Texas, called ‘The Farm’. He said they’re nice, peaceful folks. Maybe, I can manage to find them.” “That’s a big word, ‘somewhere’.” Jake said spreading his arms, as if to embrace the enormity of the park. “I’m going to try anyway, tomorrow morning. What else can we do?” Jasper blurted out, with a look on his face that told the others that he had some kind of plan in the works. When they awoke, shortly after sunrise, Jasper was nowhere to be seen. After a breakfast of stall bagels, bananas and cold thermos coffee, they took in the scene around them. “This reminds me of Woodstock, man.” Jess said, “… on the first morning, before all the mud and garbage.”

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Vinnie laughed and added, “I wouldn’t know, I didn’t go.” “You shitting me? You’re from New York, and you didn’t go?!!” Jake exclaimed, lighting up a reefer. “I thought it was too commercial, for my liking. But, yeah, I guess I fucked up.” Vinnie closed the question. Around 11 o’clock, the music started up, and shortly after, when Three Dog Night was playing, Jasper reappeared. “I still haven’t found them, but I’m working on it.” In his hands, he held a hand-sketched plan of the park, on quad paper, onto which he had overlaid sectors. He showed it to Vinnie. “I’ve checked off half of the quadrants so far. Can I have some coffee, please?” He drank it quickly and took off. Two hours later, while Janis Joplin was belting out a powerful riff, Jasper showed up with two dyed-in-the-wool hippies. They were Randy, Jasper’s high school friend, and Janis. Vinnie thought it was really weird that the Texan woman even looked a lot like her namesake, who was up on the stage at that moment. The friends moved their gear over to the north side of the park, almost in the shadow of the Washington Monument, where the people from the ‘Farm’ were cooking and setting up for lunch. They stayed together with the group of friendly, organic farmers and artisans through the evening. They had brought along some young children to the protest. Vinnie enjoyed their day together. The “Truckers” cadre decided to change their allegiance to the Texans, who would be commandeering the intersection at Connecticut and R Street NW, just a short distance from the larger, and more strategic, DuPont Circle where their original cell, and several others from NYC, would be holding the fort. Shortly after dawn on Sunday morning, they were knocked out of their sleep by deafening, swooshing sounds. The friends turned and saw a squadron of combat helicopters flying low, above the mayhem of fleeing campers. Vinnie stood and scanned the landscape around him, and he was terrified. Near what appeared to be a theater building were several buses from which emerged policemen in riot gear. He turned and saw squadrons of helmeted, horse-mounted cops, holding shields and advancing in formation from the sector of the park where they had camped on Friday night. The friends were gathering their gear, and looking for an escape route, when they heard a voice blare from an approaching police truck, informing the protestors that “Your permits have been revoked. You must vacate the Mall by noon or you will be arrested.” Nixon’s strategy then became crystal clear. They realized that the next days were not going to be a picnic. The party was over … or, as Jake had remarked during the mayhem, ‘the War is about to begin right here.’

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They lost sight of the Farm people in the chaos that followed. For the rest of the day, the six fugitives tried to lay low, and to appear as inconspicuous as was possible for such a group. They slipped into coffee shops, department stores or university facilities whenever they saw the police, and they had been lucky. In fact, almost 4000 people would be arrested in a city-wide dragnet on that day, and many of the detainees had nothing to do with the protest. That night, the group managed to sleep a few hours in the basement of a dormitory at George Washington University. They shared bread and had some good conversation with a batch of protestors from Massachusetts. On Monday morning before daybreak, keeping their promise, they met up with around thirty of the Farm folks near the assigned intersection. Wisely, the children from the Commune had been left at the Washington Zoo with a few of its members. At the Connecticut and R Street crossing, fence wire was stretched across both streets and tied to lamp posts, colored balloons and hand-painted placards were hung on trees and street lights. Vinnie, himself, knocked out the green-glass covers of two stop lights with his Brooklyn-born, precision rock throwing. He and Jake took their position, together with the strongest Texans, holding a robust ‘bronco busting’ rope which was to be hoisted up against the oncoming vehicles. They awaited the morning commuter rush which would be, unfortunately, preceded by screeching police cars and slow-moving, US Army armored troop trucks. As the first of these vehicles neared the road block, the peace-loving, hippy farmers literally vaporized leaving the two eye-glassed and lithe, intellectual hippies with the slack rope in hand … commandeering the blockade, alone. “This is a no-win situation, Vin.” Jake whispered with a smile on his face, as always. Then he yelled, “vammanos!!!” As they ran off down Connecticut Ave, Vinnie felt oddly euphoric and, at the same time, angry. The euphoria was like the adrenalin-rush he had felt many times before in the close calls he had experienced together with his childhood comrades. The anger was a new feeling. He felt he had been betrayed by a group in which he had placed his trust. “Hey man, waddayuh say? Let’s go and see what’s happening up at DuPont Circle. I bet those bad-ass New Yorkers haven’t abandoned the ship.” He yelled to Jake, who ran ahead of him.

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“I’m game.” Jake replied. When they arrived at the Circle, they found the Young Lords and the Catholic Workers, along with many others, still holding the blockade. Angry commuting motorists and several police cars were tangled up in the barricades of ropes and timber which had been mounted across all entry roads into the Circle. A bonfire was burning at its center and, near to it, Vinnie spotted Jessica and Jane. Jasper and Harry were nowhere to be seen and, during the next days, they would never find them. They would learn, only upon arrival back in Brooklyn, that their two colleagues had been arrested with many of the Farm Commune people later that morning for ‘disorderly conduct.’ After only three hours in custody, they had been released with strict orders to leave the city and go straight back to New York City. The morning blockade held for about half-an-hour, until busloads of tactical police and truckloads of armed soldiers began to appear on the scene. The Young Lords, at least some of them, fought them off for a while with bottles and rocks, while the Catholic Workers were violently carried off towards the awaiting paddy wagons. Riot police were swinging their batons and shields, while undercover cops —wielding saps and Billy clubs—rained mayhem down on the fallen protestors. Vinnie and Jake ran up a low, hedged embankment to hide and to get a better view of the action. On the hill, Vinnie picked up a smooth, nearly round hand-sized rock. It felt good and reassuring in his sweaty palm. He stood silently and waited for the right moment. A few minutes later, he heard a woman scream, and it sounded like Jess. He turned and saw her being pinned down by a riot cop, who was in the motion of pulling a long baton from his belt. Jess was less than 20 yards away, near the Circle. In that instance, Vinnie ceased being an acolyte of Mahatma Gandhi. At that moment, he was just a kid from Brooklyn helping a friend in danger. He took aim and hurled the stone. The rock hit the TP on his helmet and knocked him back, off his friend. While the cop struggled to regain his equilibrium, Jessica managed to run off down P Street. Vinnie could see J crouched waiting for her near the far corner. Since the TP hadn’t seen Vinnie throw the rock, he and Jake easily exited the Circle and fled down O Street. Two blocks down, they turned back up to P Street. There they finally managed to find Jessica and Jane huddled in the corner of the open-air atrium of a public building. “This town sucks! There aren’t any subways or water tunnels to hide in, man. You know what I mean?” Vinnie thought of the numerous underground escape routes which New York would have offered them. “Nope, tell us about it, Sewer Rat Man.” Vinnie was happy that Jake still had the spirit to kibitz around. They walked quickly down P towards an overpass since Vinnie thought there had to be something under it. He wanted himself and his friends to get below street level and be out of view. In no time, they reached what they would later learn was the roadcut of the Rock Creek Parkway. They slid down a grassy embankment and ran along the wooded creek flanked by a raised roadway until they came to an underpass. Finally feeling safe, they stopped to catch their breath in the arch’s shadows. Finally rested, they continued to walk the valley path which curved

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sharply and dropped under a second bridge. They decided to stay there until the sounds of mayhem which filled the area subsided. In this perfect hideout, they were out of sight from all points on the city surface, while close enough to slip back into the crowds if the need arose. After three hours, a need did arise. It came in the form of Jake’s hunger pains. “I’m starved, guys, I need some grub. What do you say we eat?” Jake’s hunger was notorious. He didn’t really like food, or even enjoy being at a table, but when he was hungry, he just had to eat. He would say “to get it out of the way.” Despite her Marxist-Leninist leanings, Jane was the most straight-looking, least conspicuous component of the group so she was selected to venture up into the city to procure some food. She came back with enough grub (in her flashy white duck bag) to last through the night. The group stayed put all day: alternately napping, playing around, speculating and worrying about the chaos surrounding their underground hide away. They spent the night there, waking up at around 5 AM. It was then Tuesday, and their plan was to move out under cover of the pre-dawn darkness and work their way back to the George Washington University campus. Their sneak-about progressed slowly, with numerous deviations off the main boulevards, and it was successful. As they moved through the dark streets, Vinnie recalled the lessons he had learned from his childhood mentor. When moving into unknown territories and places of potential danger, Aksel would warn them to ‘keep your head down and your eyes up; keep your ears perked and hum a happy tune in your head; skirt the hedges and shoulder-high walls to keep yourselves invisible, try to look like somebody else but, always remember to be who you are’. The last time they had been in danger together, he had said to Vinnie: “you can change your hairdo, your job, your underwear and even your alliances, but deep inside your core you will always remain who you are. You may be growing, but you are still ‘you’ - just like the old horse chestnut tree in front of your home, brother.” When they got to the campus, they went straight to the student canteen for breakfast. On the way, J picked up a fresh copy of the NYT and read the headlines. “Nixon calls out over 15,000 US troops and local police,” “7000 arrested at May Day Protests.” They were worried about the whereabouts of Jasper and Harry, but didn’t talk about it. Vinnie and Jake bought GWU baseball caps and pinned up their long hair, out of sight. Jessica put clean sneakers on her bare feet and slipped a long university t-shirt over her tank top and—sedate for her—donned an ankle-length denim skirt. They were now, as Aksel had recommended, camouflaged to blend into the crowd and be invisible. Out on the streets, the police round-ups and street fighting continued, but on campus it was relatively peaceful. There, the protest took the form of colorful banners, picket lines and assemblies. The four spent the morning roaming the campus, mixing with the crowds of students still busy with their everyday lives. Around noon, Vinnie convinced the others to attend a lecture on “The City Beautiful Movement” he had seen publicized. For the first time, he learned how some cities had been designed to provide space for large crowds and, at the same time, for controlling and repressing mass protests. While the speaker was presenting the example of Baron von Hausmann’s Paris, Vinnie couldn’t help thinking of

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Washington in the same terms. That city’s wide boulevards, he thought, were perfect avenues for troop carriers and armored vehicles. Its vast open spaces provided adequate room for large groups to assemble and, at the same time, be easily surveilled by the authorities. In the eighteenth century, its soaring monuments had been so widely distanced, he mused, in order to allow wide corridors for future flying machines, like Sunday’s Huey helicopters. There was no place to hide. In late afternoon, chaos broke loose on campus, and the four friends found themselves in the thick of it, once again. A large contingent of tactical police and National Guard had pursued a group of protestors onto the campus and had blocked them in the Marvin Center where, unfortunately, Vinnie and the others were at the time. When police orders to evacuate the premises were disobeyed, teargas canisters were launched into the building to force the occupants out. Again, Vinnie’s street-smarts and Jake’s sense of humor got them out of trouble. They managed to escape, gasping for air, through an underground passage which emerged in the University yard. From there, they managed to walk calmly—pushing an empty baby carriage they had found in the basement—out onto G Street and down towards the White House. The fact that the sun was finally setting made this comical ‘family’ feel just a little bit safer. “Hey, people! I know a really good Jewish Deli that’s right across from the White House. Let’s go there and invite Tricky Dick and Pinhead Pat over for some pastrami sandwiches.” Jake had a weird idea, and it worked as usual. The stereotypically grumpy, elderly woman who served them her specialties was the proud proprietor of the place and was also the perfect Yiddish, guardian-angel grandmother for a group in dire need of respite. “In the memory of my many battles up in New York’s Union Square, you boychicks18 and meydls19 can sleep in our backroom for tonight. Mazel Tov!” She had said to them, after three hours of excellent noshing and schmoozing. During the night, they devised their exit plan: head straight for Union Station, first thing in the morning and from there split for New York. But as the saying goes: ‘the best laid plans of mice and men’ … often get screwed up. Jessica and Vinnie’s curiosity killed the cat, and Jane and Jake’s strong sense of solidarity did nothing to bring it back. As they approached the station, Jessica had spotted an old friend from her Martha Graham School-days in Manhattan. Like them, the woman was leaving Washington, but she told them that her brother—an organizer of the May Day Tribe —was still at the nearby Capitol Building “in a last-ditched effort to make our voices heard.” She said that the remaining, dispersed protestors were all regrouping on the Capitol steps. There, accompanied by several Democratic Party Representatives, they planned to present a “People’s Peace Treaty” to Congress. Those words were enough to convince Jake that they should change their plans and participate. Jane

18 19

A boy or a young man (from Yiddish). A young girl or ‘damsel’ (from Yiddish).

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agreed, and she added that it was a legal right to ‘speak’ with one’s representative, therefore, “no one should get arrested today.” “Yeah, right? I’ll bet the cops are going to work by the books today.” Vinnie mocked. “I gotta see this. Let’s go.” When they arrived at the Capitol, a Congressperson they recognized as the fiery Bella Abzug was addressing a silent crowd of around one thousand disheveled, tired, frightened and angry people. The friends edged through the ‘at ease’ ranks of tactical police officers and moved closer to the left side of the steps. From that vantage point, Vinnie caught a fleeting glimpse of a line of gray buses moving slowly down Constitution Avenue. Only a few minutes later, a heavily medallioned DC Police Chief loudly announced that the assembly was “unlawful.” When the crowd and the four Representatives refused to desist, the ‘pigs’ moved in and, with varying degrees of tact and torment, ‘escorted’ the protestors to the waiting line of buses. Successively, the four friends—and the other 1,142 protestors—would spend the next three days and two nights, unofficially under arrest, in a covered practice field at the Robert F. Kennedy Stadium. When they had been arraigned and led down the bleacher steps onto the hot, crowded playing field, the group’s initial tension gradually dissipated into warm feelings of mutual support, camaraderie and gratitude: one example, when the prisoners’ thirst and hunger had been satiated by the ‘care packages’ a neighboring Afro-American community had provided. On the whole, Vinnie’s experience could be characterized as surreal and comical. In the years to come, when he would talk about it, and think back on the time spent in the stadium he would always laugh. Their ‘imprisonment’ had been more like “A Night at the Opera” than a “Midnight Express” experience. His friend Jake had been the leading actor in the full-length, technicolor action-movie which usually was screened in his head. Like on the first day, before the community-donated bologna sandwiches and bottled water had arrived, Jake had responded to a friendly policeman who had jokingly asked him if they would like something to eat, saying “Yeah, what will you give me? A club sandwich?!” The cop and Jake had both laughed. Or like when, on their last day in the stadium, Jake pulled Vinnie aside and confessed that he was about to say something totally out-of-character—sexist and macho, so unlike Jake—and politically incorrect to a young officer who had been ogling and harassing Jess for hours. Vinnie would never forget the skinny figure of his long-haired friend, literally floating in his filthy Oshkosh overalls and with no shirt on—it was damn hot in the stadium—standing up to the robust, nightstick-twirling guard and yelling in his face: “Man, I’ve made love with more beautiful women in the last week, than you have in your whole damn life.” This time, a second cop had laughed as he held back his enraged colleague and commented: “I believe you, man. We’ve heard that you hippies get a whole lot of girlie action. And Tony here, heh, he’s married.”

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Or like when, on the last day, they had been unexpectedly informed that they were to be released earlier than most of the others. They had been brought before an anonymous, gray-faced official who said: “You kids must have a friend up in New York. We received an official communication from the Commissioner of the Department of Air Resources. So, you can go now, but keep in touch. Oh, there’s a message for you.” He handed Vinnie a sheet of NYC stationery with a hand-written note from the Commissioner which read: “I agree with Leo. In life, we should select our battles carefully and one at a time. See you all on Monday.” Vinnie and his friends would never learn which strings had been pulled or ever understand whether or not any bail had actually been paid by someone. At that moment, they were simply happy that Vinnie’s phone-call request for ‘a few more days off’ to their boss, and friend, had triggered such a surprising result. Vinnie was surprised and happy. But he still couldn’t agree with Leo and the Commissioner. On the train back to New York, they talked and laughed (and cried a little) about the week’s tumultuous episodes and incidents. Oddly, they felt both satisfied and disillusioned, at the same time. At that moment, they were unaware that the so-called failed occupation of DC had marked a strategic and methodological turning point in the organization of political actions and social movements in America. They couldn’t have envisioned the impact it would have on the roll-back in popular support for the Vietnam War. They couldn’t yet fathom the dimension of the Government’s illegal over-response to the protests … or how that authoritarian over-reach would eventually contribute to the unraveling of Nixon’s and his henchmen’s strangle hold on Constitutional order. Most of all, they couldn’t possibly have imagined that a massive class action (in the name of the 1,146 people who had been illegally arrested on May 5, 1971) would be initiated, in the following years, against the DC Chief of Police and numerous other government officials; or that, ten years later, they would each receive a check for the amount of $2,275.00 as compensation for “cruel and inhumane incarceration for 65 hours, and for the denial of the plaintiff’s First Amendment Right to peacefully assemble and express his views to the United States Government.” In 1981, when this happened, Vinnie would have to admit that Jane had been right in saying that such arrests would be considered unconstitutional. But at the time, he was only able to laugh sardonically after having read the letter of accompaniment which informed him of the monetary value of the plaintiffs’ First Amendment Rights. He discovered, to his amazement and disgust, that the value of his Constitutional Right to take his grievances before his government had been placed at the ridiculous figure of $75! All in all, the events of the week in Washington had been too much for Vinnie to handle. He couldn’t bring himself to return to his job, so he requested a one-week sick leave to finally try to figure his life out. Back in Peekskill, after only twelve hours of sleep, he had discovered that while he was away his brand-new, night-blue Volkswagen beetle had been totaled by Chase. His friend had been high, as usual,

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when it had happened. He did give Vinnie a check for the entire original price of the car, as soon as he walked in the door. They remained good friends as before, but Vinnie now wanted out of his pseudo-hippy, country life. His ‘communard days’ were soon to be over and gone. He felt the need to stop in his footsteps, isolate himself and reflect in depth on questions which had been set in motion during his week in Washington, and which were still spinning around in his head. Regardless of its outcome, the organization and ‘methodology’ of the week’s protest had struck a strong chord in him. He felt the need to learn more about ‘Anarchism,’ especially in the terms presented by the Tribe’s spokeswoman on the first night. Her explanation of the origin and effectiveness of ‘affinity groups,’ her brief and enthusiastic discourse on the Spanish Civil War and, especially, her reference to the power of something she called ‘mutual aid’ had intrigued him. He decided to use his week off to do extensive literature research on these issues in the New York Public Library at Bryant Park. Each morning, he would board the train in Peekskill at 6:45 AM. He returned each evening shortly after eight, increasingly more informed and enthusiastic as the week unfolded. He spent the entire time in NYC inside the library, apart from an occasional coffee break and a 45-minutes walk-about, during lunchtime. On the first of these days, as he watched the river of people flowing down 5th Avenue from his perch on the library steps, he recalled how much he had always loved Public Libraries, when growing up in Brooklyn. His local branch had been one of his favorite hang-outs in his last years of elementary school: doing book-reports, discovering the types of literature he would come to love and talking with the girls. Then in High School, to carry out an important term paper, he had ventured to the imposing, art-deco styled Main Branch at Grand Army Plaza. He had found it impossible to believe that so many books could be housed in one place and was awed by the silent immensity and the soft light of its main reading room. But none of that had prepared him for the wonders of the Public Library on Fifth Avenue. This place offered free-of-charge, and to everyone, its palatial scale and décor. It provided the keys to, what appeared to him to be, the entire treasure chest of the world’s knowledge. He began referencing the card catalogue, but then decided that he preferred doing a shelf search through all the sections relating to “Anarchism” and “Communitarian Studies.” He was surprised at the large number of publications in the first. Almost immediately, his eye was caught by the title ‘Mutual Aid.’ When he pulled it out and began browsing the cover notes, he discovered that the book had been written, oddly enough, by a Russian Prince. The author’s name was Petr Kropotkin. There were many editions available, but he selected a copy published by Pelican in 1939 because he liked its blue cover and the feel of the bindings. In the introduction, he discovered that the author’s intention had been to take on the huge task of debunking the generally accepted doctrine of Darwinian evolution. Kropotkin wrote that the thesis was erroneously based on the ‘survival of the

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fitness.’ The ‘Prince’ held, instead, that animal and human societies hadn’t evolved and progressed through competition but, rather, through mutual aid and collaboration. In the long, annotated index, Vinnie discovered that the book’s first two chapters contained systemic expositions of many cases with data from animal societies which supported the author’s thesis that collaboration, not competition, was, in fact, the primary relationship between animals. This was especially true among members of the same species. Kropotkin, nevertheless, noted that in conditions of environmental scarcity (which, he pointed out, were the cases most often cited by his contemporary reactionary evolutionists) conflicts and competition between members of a single species could occasionally occur. But in plentiful environments this happened, according to Kropotkin’s studies, rarely. “Yeah,” Vinnie thought, “but what about in human societies?” In the immensely silent reading room, Vinnie began to skim-read and take notes on the much longer second part of the book which dealt, in fact, with human societies. The nearly chronological chapters considered Mutual Aid in prehistoric and in some rare, modern-day ‘savage’ societies. The author presented and considered examples of mutual aid among the ‘Barbarians,’ and in the “Communes” of the Medieval era. In the final two chapters, the author finally touched upon ‘ourselves.’ There, he wrote of people in ‘modern’ societies. In those chapters, Vinnie slowed his pace of reading and, for the first time in his life, learned about the innumerable historical examples of thriving, feasible ‘Anarchist’ or ‘collaborative’ communities, organizations and societies. He read about the guilds, the leagues and the federations, the village communities, the first labor unions, the cooperatives, the free associations of varied purpose and the “mutual aid societies” in areas of dire poverty which had provided personal assistance, insurance and even pension funds. At that point, Vinnie’s thoughts went to Spain where, as he had learned in Washington D.C., the extraordinary, wide-spread experiences of cooperation, mutual aid and affinity groups (“tertulias”) would—years after the publication of Mutual Aid—make their mark on the world. “Hey, me and my buddies on the block were living in a ‘Society of Abundance’ back in the ‘50’s, weren’t we? So, just maybe, that’s why we formed our affinity group.” Vinnie thought to himself and softly chuckled. Kropotkin wrote beautifully and treated the dense and new—at least, for Vinnie —subject matter with a rare clarity and methodological rigor. The text contained a surprising quantity of references and citations from important scientists and authors of the period. Vinnie would learn that the man, himself, had been a renowned Geographer and Biological Scientist in his own nation. He had been persecuted for his ideas and political activism and would spend much of his life in exile—far away from his home. What had stuck Vinnie more than anything else was Kropotkin’s frequent, eloquent treatment of places. He was fascinated by the detailed descriptions of the environmental settings and social contexts of each city or village which the author considered. At 7 PM on Monday, Vinnie put down this important treatise, and he would never pick it up again until many years later. For the time, it had served its purpose.

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It had led him in a direction he wanted to follow. He wanted to acquire a deeper understanding of the relationship between places, communities, participation and ‘Anarchism.’ The very next day, he found just the book to satisfy his yearning. It was entitled Fields, Factories and Workshops and was written by the same author. In it, Kropotkin wrote primarily about integration—of city and country, of manual and intellectual work and, as the title implied, of agriculture, industry and craft-work. The motors of an integrated socio-economic development, which the writer was certain could produce more well-being than compartmentalized capitalism, were necessarily individuals forged in small, committed groups practicing mutual aid and collaborative actions, especially in the areas of work. Kropotkin had taken Malthus and Adam Smith face-on and, Vinnie thought, he had knocked them on their asses. This was something Vinnie had hoped someone would do, ever since he had read of these unsupportable, ridiculous theses in Economics I at Columbia University, back in 1968. Vinnie couldn’t then have known, as he sat in the Reading Room, that he would purchase a revised edition of the same book in London, in 1976. The original text had been updated with contemporary images, and the word ‘Tomorrow’ had been tagged on to the title. Vinnie would go on cite its editor, anarchist architect and educator Colin Ward, many times over the course of the years. He would even meet the fellow on two occasions. That same ragged and marked-up 1976 copy would still be in Vinnie’s possession, nearly 70 years later, during his last days. Vinnie was ecstatic while he spoke with Mike of his discoveries and decisions, that same Tuesday evening. Later that night, the two friends agreed to make a summer appointment to meet up in Athens, after Vinnie’s planned journey through Southern Italy. Together they would travel to the Greek Islands, and then move on to Turkey and Mount Athos. When Mike went to sleep, Vinnie prepared a first draft of his resignation letter for Leo. The next day, while exploring the same shelves in the library’s basement, Vinnie was approached by an old man. “I see you’re interested in Anarchism, son.” The diminutive, baldheaded librarian had whispered. When Vinnie explained his growing interest in the subject to the archivist, the man’s words became a river. He was a depository of so many facts and recounted so many anecdotes about events and personages that the boy realized that the fellow wasn’t merely a scholar, but had actually been in the thick of things in New York in the tumultuous years between the two World Wars. At one point, he suggested that Vinnie take a look at some copies of an old anarchist journal entitled ‘Mother Earth’ which had been published right here in New York. “Nice, hippy-sounding name.” Vinnie mused to himself. “It will give you an idea of just how much was going on, back then, in your own city, son.” The man smiled and went off into the bowels of the building. He came back, huffing and puffing, with a tall stack of old marbleized, cardboard folders and

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placed them on his own desk, and said to Vinnie, “You can stay here and read them, if you prefer. Come to think of it, maybe it’s safer if you do just that.” He winked and went off. The folders were organized chronologically from 1906 to 1917. Almost immediately, in journal number two which was dated April 1906, he found an article that caught his eye: “The Child and its Enemies” by Emma Goldman. He had heard that woman’s name for the first time at Columbia. His friend, Harpo, had mentioned her on a few occasions. Then in Washington, the woman who had coordinated the training meeting on the first night had cited her. Afterwards, Jane— a radical History major—had told Vinnie a little more about the woman’s life. Now, he had discovered that Goldman, an anarchist, had also written about children and, in particular, about free play and autonomy. Vinnie delved into the piece and excitedly jotted down the first notes on a subject which would become a central theme of his work, and which would draw from him many more notes, articles, books and projects over the course of his lifetime. He annotated: “The child shows its individual tendencies in its play, in its questions, in its free association with people and things. But it has to struggle with everlasting external interference in its world of thought and emotion. (Society demands that, sic) The child must not express itself in harmony with its nature and growing personality. It must become a thing, an object. Its questions are met with narrow, conventional ridiculous replies, mostly based on falsehoods. And when, with large, wondering and innocent eyes, it wishes to behold the wonders of the world, those about it quickly lock the windows and doors, and keep the delicate human plant in a hothouse atmosphere, where it can neither breathe nor grow freely.”20 (Emma Goldman, April 1906) Note to myself: Goldman struck me to my core. She understands children so well, and she respects them. I agree with her that parents, schools and society often work against children’s free ‘nature’. From my own experience, I think children can work together to evade some of these controls and/or limit their effects. As children, we managed to do it. Were we special? What factors were at work? The kids or the place? Is Brooklyn a special place? This stuff needs to be studied further!! (From Vinnie’s notebook, dated May 12, 1971) His week off had been productive and was instrumental in his having finally made the decision to move on. His spirits were high, and his thinking was lucid during the first days back on the job. He applied himself completely to all the tasks assigned him, and he pledged complete availability for any and all additional overtime requests which might be made of him. He wanted to contribute as much as was possible to the success of Leo’s, and his colleagues’, ‘struggle’ in the month remaining before his departure.

20

Goldman, Emma (1906) The Child and Its Enemies in Mother Earth Journal. Vol.1, No. 2 (April). New York.

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On the Wednesday before his brother’s wedding day, just back from his lunch break, Vinnie was at his desk. He was checking the results of the last week’s emission tests when he felt a tap on his shoulder, and a voice which said, “Hey, Vinnie. You gotta help me out.” He turned to find Bob, one of Mayor Lindsay’s “Wonder Boys,” standing behind him. He was decked out in his gold-buttoned black blazer, school tie and burgundy penny loafers. The Princeton graduate, Clark Kent look-a-like, was one of the many clones which Mayor Lindsay had hired to ‘liaison’ with the entrenched Municipal Departments and the unions. Their role was to ‘facilitate’ the “recognition of the value” of the mayor’s, decidedly, ‘liberal’ policies. Environmental protection was one of these and, unfortunately (for Vinnie and his colleagues), one of Bob’s assignments regarded the very project at the Frost Street Lab. Vinnie had always wondered how Bob, or any of his fellow clones, could possibly convince any New Yorker, of anything. He couldn’t stand the man. “Oh, hi Bob. What exactly do you need me for?” Vinnie replied, remembering his promise to himself. The wunderkind informed him that there was to be a press conference at the lab at 5 PM, and that he urgently needed help in picking up two catalytic-converted vehicles out in Staten Island for the presentation. Usually, the two staff mechanics would have done the driving, but they were ‘working like crazy’ to get the recently modified garbage trucks and Fiat 128 sedans ‘clean, shiny and running smoothly’ for the show. “Sure, I’ll help you. My data for the presentation is in order. I already gave it to Leo.” “Good. Thanks, I’ll buy you a quick cup of coffee, and then we can take off.” On the way back to car after the coffee, Vinnie asked Bob how he intended to get his own city vehicle back from the Staten Island. The consultant smiled and said “Oh, somebody will pick it up tomorrow. You know, I’ve always wanted to drive one of those new turbo-charged Plymouths that the police tool around in.” “Now, as I said before, we’re going to take off.” He pulled a long, perfectly rolled joint out of his pocket. Vinnie forgot his pledge to be a ‘good engineer,’ and he took a first toke. His amnesia would cost him dearly. Traveling along the BQ Expressway, Vinnie felt the effect of the marijuana come over him in ever-strengthening waves. His mind soared in all directions, his eyes scanned the decaying industrial landscape and the skyline on the horizon. The afternoon New York sky was an unbelievable hue of cobalt blue. “Hey, Bob. This shit is potent stuff.” He blinked and, for a moment, forgot where he was. “Yeah man, this ‘schmatta21’ has been souped-up by a plant biologist friend of mine.”

21

One of many slang terms for grass or hash. Literally it means ‘old rags’ in Yiddish.

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They both slipped into silence and time ceased to have any meaning. Vinnie was just there, somewhere. Now … The car was in the trenched approach-road to the Verrazano Bridge, and on the radio Cousin’ Brucie—with his particular timbre, accent and rhythm—announced “Now, the number one hit song by Three Dog Night.” The familiar voice beckoned Vinnie back to earth for a moment, and he saw and recalled where he was. “Uh, Bob. “So where are we going, exactly? Out to the Sanitation depot on Staten Island, right?” “Nope. I forgot to tell you … we’ll be picking up two police cars at the 122nd precinct out on Hylan Boulevard.” At the sound of Bob’s words, Vinnie crashed hard. He was engulfed by the gravity of the situation he had gotten himself into. In an instant, his mind weaved nightmarish images of the worst possible scenarios. “What the fuck??!! You bastard! You shitting me?!” He shrieked. Bob just smiled and turned away. Vinnie tore the red May Day armband from his fatigue jacket, as if this minor adjustment could hide his identity or change the fact that the New York police, in those terrible times, hated and perhaps even feared people of his kind. The streets of New York, and those of America, were a literal battle zone. The barricades had been raised, and the cops were on the one side and he was on the other, together with the Weathermen, the protestors and all the other ‘long-haired, radical hippy-types.’ Vinnie knew there had been the signs of an impending race riot in Brownsville just that week, but he couldn’t know that, just three days later, two police officers would be gunned downed by the Black Liberation Army in an ambush in Harlem. And it was better for the police, and especially for him, that those killings hadn’t yet happened. He tried to calm down, remain silent and appear straight and innocent while they walked into the police station. “Are you kidding? You’re asking me to let a hippy radical drive one of our vehicles? You’re crazy, Chief!” The desk sergeant, and all the eyes of the uniformed officers in the room, shot daggers at Vinnie. “Sergeant, Vinnie here is an engineer working on our project. And he was the only person available today.” “I don’t care if he’s the Queen of Sheba, Bob. This just ain’t gonna happen. Ever! You understand me?!” “And do you understand that I’m going to have to call up the mayor and tell him that Sergeant Riley out in Staten Island intends to sabotage today’s important press conference and presentation?” In the end, the sergeant had to give in. He begrudgingly gave the car keys to Bob and added. “But I never want to see this guy back here again. You hear me?” “Gotcha, chief.” Bob replied and gave him his best Ivy League smile.

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He took the keys for patrol car 1047 and gave those for car 1111 to Vinnie, who backed out of the police station, sweating and trembling. Somehow, he had managed to control his high during the minutes inside, while surrounded by cops, but when they were finally alone in the parking lot it came back down on him like a ton of bricks. Vinnie was scared shitless. He didn’t know what to do. “Bob, listen. Please, stay close to me on the road and go really slow.” “You know you can trust me, brother.” Bob replied with a suspicious glint in his eyes. Bob did drive slowly, and Vinnie stayed on his tail all the way through Staten Island. But then, when they were easing back into the traffic flow onto the Verrazano Bridge, Bob turned on his car’s flashing lights. He accelerated, moved into the fast lane and, a few minutes later, disappeared far ahead. Vinnie was petrified. He kept the vehicle well under the speed limit, and his paranoia grew as the minutes passed. He prayed he wouldn’t be noticed, he prayed for invisibility. But the startled, suspicious eyes of the motorists who passed him let him know that he was the center of attraction. He wondered how long it would take for him to be reported. He had a fleeting, flashing image of being captured, and he nearly lost control of the car. When he realized he was passing through his old neighborhood, he longed for the peace of his childhood, for a moment. Then, he was startled by a honking horn. To his left, a yellow school bus was keeping pace with him. The driver, a young Afro-American woman, waved at him and gave him a raised fist. The bus’s teenage passengers had all rolled down their windows and were cheering and gesticulating wildly, in his direction. “Right on, brother!” “Power to the People!” “Trash the pigs! And steal their cars, too, man!” Vinnie, still stoned, grew cooler and more confident with every chant and every supportive smile. He began to feel like a hero. He felt like Robin Hood. He imagined that he had really had the courage to steal a Charger from the cops. He imagined himself part of the Revolution. He imagined himself at Emma Goldman’s side. He imagined … no, he actually saw two police cars up ahead. One was blocking the roadway, and the other had closed the exit marked “Tillary Street - Manhattan Bridge.” In a flash of blinking red lights, he thought he saw his childhood friends standing on the bridge-way above him, and he felt protected, for an instance. He squinted, and they were gone. Sirens wailed and spinning red lights surrounded him on all sides, and a loudspeaker voice ordered him to “Pull Over.” He stopped the car, and he dropped his throbbing head onto the steering wheel. “Put your hands on your head and get out of the car. Move slowly. I repeat, move very slowly.” With his trembling hands up, Vinnie stood facing four lock-jawed policemen with drawn pistols. A fifth one approached and roughly handcuffed him. Perhaps the cops could tell from his ashen, panic-stricken face that he wasn’t really all that

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dangerous. Or maybe, something else—maybe luck or fate—had spared his life that day. The commanding officer demanded that Vinnie explain why he was in a police vehicle, and Vinnie tried his best to do so, but try as he did, he couldn’t even remember the number of the precinct station in Staten Island. They asked for his identification card, and Vinnie had none. He had forgotten his wallet, employee card and driver’s license back at the office. His situation was critical, and the police tension grew visible once again. Then, just as one of them was about to contact Precinct 122 (the provenance of the car was clearly indicated on its doors), from the radio in the ‘stolen’ car came a loud cheery, sing-song jingle. Vinnie couldn’t believe his ears. Bob, in all his Harvard arrogance, was brazenly singing the theme song from an old TV comedy show - Car 54 Where are You? over a patrol-car radio. Vinnie hadn’t noticed that the police officers around him were smirking and giggling, or that the cop who had called the 122nd precinct had given his commanding officer a thumbs up sign. However, he had seen the captain go over to car 1111, reach in the vehicle and heard him scream into the handset: “Who-the-fuck are you, Mister?!” “Oh shit! It’s obvious that you are not Vinnie. Um, this is Bob Reinhart, the Mayor’s special assistant speaking. Who are you, may I ask? Officer … is there a problem?” “There sure is, Mister Special Assistant. We have a long-haired hippy here who was apprehended while driving a police vehicle. He’s in our custody, and he has no identification on his person. Do you have an explanation?” Bob mumbled to the captain that he had ‘grown concerned’ when Vinnie hadn’t shown up at the lab. He used his best mediation bullshit shtick to explain the incident and, in the end, the situation was brought back under control. Vinnie would be escorted to Frost Street and released with no charges, but not without the captain’s harsh order to: “… never put your hippy ass in, or near, a police car again. If you don’t want to get shot!” Before this had been said, while the drama was being resolved, something occurred which had raised Vinnie’s shattered spirits and given him hope. At the head of the backed-up vehicles behind the road block, there was yet another yellow school bus. This time it was filled with elementary school children. From an open window, a little girl had called out: “Hey officer, can we give your prisoner some Jujubes, or a box of Cracker Jacks? You can have some, too.” The young officer had accepted the child’s offering with a big smile on his face. Vinnie, smiling to himself, ate the Cracker Jacks in the back seat of the police car—the captain had preferred the Jujubes—and recalled a phrase of Emma Goldman which he had annotated at the library:

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“No one has realized the wealth of sympathy, the kindness and generosity hidden in the soul of a child.”22 The delicate power of children is, he thought, truly inestimable. The following Friday afternoon, Vinnie was still thinking about Goldman’s words, and how that little girl’s gesture of kindness had been like a light from above. He still couldn’t believe the impact it had had on him and on the officers. His fear had dissipated and, as if by magic, he’d even felt happy. He had to admit to himself that he had been extremely lucky, even before that child had appeared on the scene. A young bureaucrat had been reckless, a younger engineer had been stupid and the enforcers of the bureaucrats had been just that far away from pulling their triggers. Some people are crazy, some are beyond hope and some are just damn lucky. In any case, Vinnie had made a decision that same day. He decided to consign his letter of resignation to Leo, on the following Monday. Now, stretched out on his bed, he was looking forward to seeing his childhood buddies that evening and shaking off the persisting demons in the only possible way —by rendering comical the dramatic events of the last weeks. He hoped that it would work out fine. It always had with his friends, back when. “Well, Vinnie, my man. I must say you’re notching up points on our “get your ass in and out of trouble” list, at an unbelievable rate.” Aksel drained his beer mug and smiled. All the others laughed along with him. So far, the night had gone just as Vinnie had hoped. The friends had listened to some good music and smoked some grass in Little Joey’s basement. It felt homey there, just as it always had when they were just little kids in need of shelter on a rainy day. From Joey’s place, they had gone down to King’s Tavern on the corner for some beers and fries. The TV set, as usual, was blaring in the corner. “This week the peace talks between the US and North Vietnam are entering their fourth year.” It announced. “Hey Tim, change that channel. The Mets are playing Atlanta tonight.” Even Joey seemed to be fed up with the war. The place was packed, as usual on Friday night, and the same old crowd was there. There were mostly elderly loners at the bar, and a few families were in the back room eating the dishes that Tim’s wife slopped up. Vinnie and his friends didn’t frequent the joint much, but he had the impression that Little Joey was now a known figure in the bar. Maybe, his friend had taken up drinking-out since he’d returned from Viet Nam. A few minutes later, a downtrodden middle-aged man—who Vinnie couldn’t quite place—came up to their booth. “You boys don’t like the war in Nam, do yuh?” He directed his harsh words at Joey. “I just got back from over there, sir. But, yeah, I guess you can say I ain’t jumping with joy.”

22

Goldman, Emma (1906) The Child and Its Enemies in Mother Earth. Vol.1, No. 2 (April). New York.

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To break the building tension, Aksel politely invited the man to sit down and have a beer with them. He could see that the guy had been drinking heavily. They made some small talk, mostly about baseball and the fact that the Yankees had gotten their asses kicked up in Boston the night before. As it turned out, the man was the father of a kid who had gone to Fort Hamilton High School with Aksel. “So, how’s Kenny doing these days? Still playing basketball? He was really good.” Aksel asked, sincerely interested. “My Kenny’s dead, son. Those gooks killed him over on fuckin’ Hamburger Hill, and I still can’t believe it.” Condolences were offered all around and, in his special way, Aksel tried to both assuage the man’s pain and subtly change the subject as best he could. Vinnie remained silent the whole time. Then in passing, Joey made an inconsiderate reference to a funny incident that Vinnie had recounted about his days in Washington. Aksel glared at Joey, furtively, hoping that the man hadn’t heard the remark. Unfortunately, he had. “So, you’re one of those commies, eh boy? One of those fuckin’ radicals trampling on my Kenny’s grave?!” The man went on a rampage. He spat vile epithets against hippies, against Blacks, against the press and against his wife who had recently left him. But when he started coming down hard on ‘that garbage load of Vietnam Vet cowards who, once back safe at home, say they’re against the war,” Aksel’s expression changed. He responded with a vehemence Vinnie had rarely seen in him. As quickly as it happened, Aksel caught himself and changed register. He tried to bring the discourse back onto a, sort of, nonsensical plane. “No, sir. Our friend here isn’t a communist. Vinnie has always despised all that top-down, centralized bullshit. When we were little, he used to say that Khrushchev was a douche bag. He was just telling us that he recently discovered that now he’s an anarchist. In fact, he thinks that we, like all children, were anarchists when we were little kids. I kind of agree with him, come to think of it.” He flashed his best smile, but it didn’t work. The man’s face tightened and his eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets. He nervously reached down into his coat pocket and, on his third attempt, pulled out a Saturday night special. The boys froze, and all eyes were fixed on the small black hand gun the man had placed on the table. “So, you’re an anarchist, huh? Like those guys that plant bombs all over the place and gun down presidents and kings and archdukes? You know, I kind of admire them. I don’t know, the idea of killing someone, someone who’s pushing down on you - like your boss, or your wife or the President of the U.S.A. - doesn’t bother me so much these days. Then, if you happen to get killed in the act of making a little justice, what does it matter, anyway? I’m ready to die, you know? Who’s gives a damn about me, anyway? Nobody, fuckin’ nobody.” He pointed the gun at Vinnie’s face. In an instant, which lasted only a few seconds, Vinnie saw his life pass before him. He felt as if a heavy, knotted net had been cast over him, and he couldn’t move a muscle. If he did move, he knew, he would be pulled down into the deepest abyss of the black ocean.

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Ever so gently, Aksel put his hand around the man’s gun hand and slowly pushed it down. When the pistol was back on the table, the man took his head in his hands and began to sob. In the meantime, several patrons had gathered around the booth. The bartender helped the man to his feet and walked him slowly over to a bar stool. It was apparent that he knew the man and his problems. “I think it’s best if you fellows move on to another watering hole. You don’t mind, do you boys?” he said. The friends decided to heed the bartender, and they walked to Holsten’s Parlor for ice cream sodas—to calm down and to come down. It was the kind of place that had always served that purpose very well. On the way back home, two hours later, they found a large crowd outside King’s Tavern. There were two police cars with flashing lights. An elderly drunk, one of the many lookers-on, remarked to the boys, “Some poor guy just shot himself in the face. There’s blood all over the place.” They just kept on walking. They didn’t want to hear any more. Vinnie didn’t even look back. “Aksel, these last six months I’ve felt like I’ve been in Limbo. You know what I mean?” Vinnie and his friend were sitting on the stoop, all the others had gone home after over an hour of soul-searching discussion. They had tried, in vain, to figure out ‘What the Hell had happened?’. And why. “I know the feeling, Vin. Like you’re stuck in that old Jimmy Durante schtick23 about not being able to decide whether to stay or to go. And so on, and so on. You remember that song, don’t you? Well, I felt just like that during the long months before I decided to join the army. You remember, no?” “Of course, I do. But I don’t know. I think it’s different now. I mean, I’m sure I want to go. I’ve finally decided to make a break in my life. I’m leaving my job and throwing Engineering out the window, for good. I’ll be leaving my city and my friends for who knows how long. But at the same time - I don’t know - I feel good, and at the same time I feel sad about it. That’s what I mean by ‘Limbo’. Like you’re not in Heaven, but you’re not in Hell either.” “Don’t give me any of that Catholic-school bullshit, Vin! What’s Heaven? And what’s fuckin’ Hell, anyway? This country is one big hell of a shithole, but do you really think Italy or Greece are going to be any better? I doubt it, totally. From the stories you told us about your last months, it sounds like to me you’ve been on an emotional roller-coaster, Bro’. You’re soaring up high one day and crashing down hard, the next. You feel protected and safe, and then one minute later your life is on the line. You say you’ve found, what you called, ‘the truth’ and then you discover that it might not be what you were expecting. Like, which truth do you want? Your Anarchism or the brand of anarchy of that poor guy with a bullet hole in his forehead and his brains on the wall?”

23

A show business routine, or piece of business, inserted to gain a laugh or draw attention to oneself (from Yiddish).

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“I dig you, Aksel. But I can’t shake the feeling. Right now, I’m just sitting here in Limbo.” “Don’t worry, Vin. I know, for sure, that this little boy will be moving on. Just don’t forget the buddies you have here in Brooklyn. You just promise me that, my friend.” Three weeks after his brother’s wedding, on June 13, 1971, Vinnie boarded a charter flight to Rome.

Curator’s Analysis This chapter covers a period of four years which comprise an important phase in the protagonist’s personal and professional development. I imagine that many of the book’s readers will be of approximately the same age as Vinnie and, as such, I hope that they will be able to closely identify with some of the author’s experiences and with the challenges and choices he confronted during these formative years. Vinnie left his family and began living on his own and, like so many others, he assumed a significant degree of responsibility for his own livelihood for the first time. He formed friendships with persons from different backgrounds than his own and, driven by a natural desire to be somewhere else, he traveled to new places and had significant encounters with other cultures. In the tumultuous socio-political context of the late ‘60’s, Vinnie is drawn into “the struggle”, experiences its consequences and becomes civically active, on various planes. His horizons widen as he acquires new values, skills and competencies. His experiences, I am sure, are all passages which most young readers can relate to, and I would suggest that they consider them comparatively with their own. In the events recounted in this chapter, I hold that the author is, tacitly, affirming his credence in the inseparability of one’s personal and professional spheres. I would suggest the readers make an examination of their own experiences and views regarding this matter. In this chapter, several factors which influenced the protagonist’s selection of a ‘vocation’, and the politico-ethical foundations of the same, are revealed. The happenstance of being a student at Columbia, in a very particular moment in history, quickly rendered the contradictions of a purportedly objective Engineering Science apparent to the author. At Columbia, my father first experienced what he would often call his “lucky, enduring encounters with inspirational characters and teachers” which, he held, had characterized his professional life. In particular, one of his “favorite professors” (Seymour Melman24) opened the door to an alternative way of viewing engineering, research and political activism and, eventually, to his pursuing a new radical vocation. In addition to his important ‘enduring encounters’, the author - in a quasi-Dickensian manner – offers the reader an endless list of

Three important publications by this seminal figure are offered in the references at the conclusion.

24

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momentary, ‘chance’ encounters with exceptional people (and places) which anticipated, and eventually affected, his successive actions and choices (Maria in Green Bank, Frank “from Hawaii” in Chicago, Teresa at Timberline Lodge, May and Amy in Portland, Bear and Moira in Portland, the eagle and the baby goat at Sulfur Mountain, Curtis in Winnipeg, his Northern Lights inspired ‘epiphany’ and, finally, Jane Jacobs in Toronto). Throughout the various episodes, the author also ‘hammers in’ his credo that practice precedes theory. The reader should note the ways in which, for example: Vinnie’s childhood “Street Corner Society” experiences came well before his encounter with William Whyte’s treatise of the same name; his internship experiences as a ‘Lincoln Tunnel guinea pig’ came before Labor Relations theory; his concrete observations and understanding of “affinity groups” in Washington DC preceded his library research of the origins of Anarchism and Communitarianism; his collaboration in the participatory construction (with children) of an adventure playground in Vancouver preceded his studies, and his eventual selection of this particular approach to place-making as one of his modus vivendi. In conclusion, I feel it necessary to point out that - even where children are not present - the book’s central theme (the value of children’s free play and participation) is still there between the lines in all the stories. In fact, Vinnie’s continuing quest for adventure and his tendency to play, bring him (and his ‘affinity groups’) into dangerous situations and, twice, to close-calls with death. The skills and attitudes which he/they had acquired as children (through free play) help them to manage, and emerge safely from, these perilous occasions. Objectively, youth in 2046 are living in a very different world. Still, I hold that the ‘lessons’ which the protagonist experienced in his formative years continue to be of value today and should be taken into serious consideration. The factors which influence the choices and the development of individuals and society remain essentially unchanged. What is more, our society may evolve in ways we might not expect, and today’s students would do well to heed the intrinsic message of this publication to care for and listen to the child within themselves and, in this way, be prepared to effectively avoid the errors which Vinnie and their elders may have made.

References and Suggestions for Further Reading Walking (With My Head) in the Clouds Botelho, A., Schmalzer, S., & Chard, D. (2018). Science for the people: Documents from America’s movement of radical scientists. University of Massachusetts Press. Christiane, C. C. (2015). A storm foretold: Columbia University and Morningside Heights 1968. EbookBakery.com Kunen, J. (1968). The strawberry statement: Notes of a college revolutionary. Wiley-Blackwell. Melman, S. (1970). The defense economy: Conversion of industries and occupations to civilian needs. Praeger Publishers.

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Melman, S. (1971). The war economy of the United States readings in military industry and economy. St. Martin’s Press. For an excellent, detailed account of the Columbia University Protests see “The Sticking Place” web site, and in particular the page “Columbia 1968” http://www.thestickingplace.com/ projects/projects/columbia/ Melman, S., & Falk, R. (1968). In the name of America: The conduct of the war in Vietnam by the armed forces of the United States as shown by published reports, compared with the laws of war binding on the United States Government and on its citizens. Dutton.

On the Road West and Back to the Northern Lights Adhya, A. (2012). Jane Jacobs and the theory of placemaking in debates of sustainable urbanism. In: Sonia, H. (Eds.), The urban wisdom of Jane Jacobs. Routledge. Allen, L. M. (1969). Planning for play. MIT Press Cambridge. Bengtsson, A. (1972). Adventure playgrounds. Praeger CA. Coulander, H. (1987). The fourth world of the Hopis: The epic story of the Hopi Indians as preserved in their legends and traditions. University of New Mexico Press NM. Dennis, W., & Virgil, M. (2004). People of the corn: Teachings in Hopi traditional agriculture, spirituality, and sustainability. American Indian Quarterly, Summer/Fall 2004, pp. 435–453. Dozier, E. (1970). The Pueblo Indians of North America. Case studies in anthropology—Holt, Rinehart and Winston, Inc. Francis, M. (1989). Control as a dimension of public space quality. In I. Altman & E. Zube (Eds.), Public places and spaces (Vol. 10, pp. 147–172). Plenum. Herrington, S. (1999). Playgrounds as community landscapes. Built Environment, 25(1), 25–34. Jacobs, J. (1993). The death and life of great American cities. Modern Library. Lambert, J., & Pearson, J. (1974). Adventure playgrounds—A personal account of a Play-Leader’s Work. Penguin Books. Rice, M. S. (2012). Images of America: Chicago Defender. Arcadia Publishing. Rudofsky, B. (1965). Architecture without architects: A short introduction to non-pedigreed architecture. Doubleday & Company, Inc.

Days of Rage, Research and Resurrection Goldman, E. (1906). The child and its enemies. Mother Earth Journal, 1(2). Kropotkin, P. (1974). Fields, factories and workshops tomorrow (edited, introduced and with additional material by Colin Ward). George Allen & Unwin. Kropotkin, P. (1955). Mutual aid: A factor in evolution. Dover Publications, Inc. Kropotkin, P. (2014). Fields, factories and workshops: Or, industry combined with agriculture and brain work with manual work. (reprint of 1902 Edition). Martino Fine Books Eastford, CT.

Chapter 8

The Old Man: Reaching for the Light

© Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2022 R. Lorenzo, Children’s Free Play and Participation in the City, Children: Global Posthumanist Perspectives and Materialist Theories, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-0300-7_8

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On Aging and the Power of Children’s Imagination (May 1, 2036) (Children Imagining Futures)

The author opens the chronicle with a reflection on the process of aging and its effects on his body and mind. His thoughts flow freely into considerations of parallels between childhood and old age. It is the realm of dreams and imagination which intrigues him most and, in fact, we learn that he and his two young neighbors have begun recounting each other their dreams, on an almost daily basis. The children, by their nature, dream of the future (the “not yet”), while the old man dreams of the past. In keeping with the book’s ‘fil rouge,’ still, his vivid dream possesses strong futuristic content: his dream concerns the “Gruppo Futuro” Project in Naples. This ‘story’ allows the author to describe several participatory design approaches with children and provides an opportunity to present additional evidence of the catalytic power of children’s imagining the future to affect/change reality. He also reminds the reader that imagination is a fundamental factor (cause and effect) in all children’s free play (and in imagining the future). In the episode’s final pages, the reappearance of a man who had been a member of the author’s “Red Hook Future’s Project,” a half century earlier, introduces the important question of the potential longitudinal (life-span) effects of participatory processes on the future development of children.

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A few days ago, I found an old digitalized manuscript I had been working on (for quite a few years, I later remembered) before our world came tumbling down. The file was hidden among the thousands of other useless word-packages in an external hard disk I found at the bottom of a crate I had left in the Coop’s storeroom. I had completely forgotten my having written the text, until I opened a file marked “AutoBio.doc” and read the title page Coming of Age in the Streets of Brooklyn. Then, it all came back to me! It felt like a flood dam had broken open in my brain. I recalled the many late nights I’d spent relentlessly tapping away at what I then thought would be a final ‘gift’ to the youngsters entering the ‘profession’ I was abandoning at that time. I had hoped that my ‘memoirs’—a (partially fictionalized) autobiography of my childhood and youth adventures in the streets of Brooklyn and beyond— might serve to get students (and parents) thinking about how many essential experiences had been stolen from children in the course of a half century. As I read on, I recalled that I had originally utilized “childhood storytelling” to inspire critical thinking concerning the role of free play and autonomy, community bonds, place identity and group collaboration in the development of one’s personal and professional skills, values and life choices. For me, such experiences were central factors in my becoming the person that I was (or am?). My “street adventures,” the collaborative relationship with my “band of conspirators” and everything that I had learned outside of the institutions entrusted with my formal education had molded the way I interacted with—and tried to make the best of—the knowledge and ‘skills’ those institutions nominally offered. Back then, I was certain that most people considered my point of view (and my strategy) an insane one, but nowadays I think many people would probably agree with me. The passage of time, with its world-shattering events, can certainly change reality … and can alter a society’s value structures. Ok, I may have ‘won that argument’ but now, to all effects, I’m just a weary old man— with no influence at all—fondly reading over and recalling his earliest years. I found the stories in the file to of such interest that I decided to hide their existence from my daughter. If she were to read these chapters, she will surely begin pestering me to publish this manuscript in addition to my diary! I hope I can manage to keep her away from it. In any case … now, back to my diary-chronicle. Aging is a slow, relentless process of disintegration. Recently, the aspect of this deterioration which has saddened me most has been the significant loss of agility and precision in my hands. Manual dexterity has always been the capacity I most pride myself on. I could mention my guitar playing skills, my once near-perfect calligraphy as I would etch easily read notes and symbols on large sheets of paper at public workshops, but most especially I would praise my former precision in managing the complex, multiple manipulations and micro-movements necessary in the preparation of food—of anything from a cup of expresso to a twelve-course Thanksgiving dinner. Sadly, in the last few years my hands have become gnarled and weaker (as is to be expected), but the change which most troubles me is the loss of the natural, intuitive and immediate connection between my brain and my fingers. I’ve found that the complex hand motions which once came easily—after decades of repetition, I guess—now have to be consciously induced, controlled and—let’s say—“celebrated.” This “illumination” led to my practicing, on a near-daily basis, what I’ve come to refer to as my ‘Zen Meditation on Everyday Manual Operations.’

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One example is my making mocha coffee in our dimly lit kitchen … at 5.30 a.m. When I had first noticed, a few years ago, that after the “macchinetta1” was on the burner, I would inevitably find a considerable quantity of expresso grains on the sink’s drain board, I understood I had to take action. My diminishing eyesight, particularly in low-light, and my unsteady hands were, obviously, the culprits here. I gradually grew to understand that the principal cause of the resulting mess was my lack of concentration. The remedy, I thought, was to somehow mend the disconnection between my brain and hands. I needed to close the new-born gap between the project and the product. I understood that I had to consciously envision, enact and control the process, and expressly focus on and enjoy every single step. This is what young children do when they first acquire ball-catching skill or learn to make a yo-yo walk-the-dog. I started applying this praxis. Now, I do it every day, and it’s been working out well. After having immersed my hands together with yesterday’s dirty mocha pot in the jet of ice-cold water, I use my fingernails to carefully scrape each and every heat-dried fleck of café off the base’s brim. And, then, when I’ve carefully deposited the necessary, ever-diminishing teaspoon measures of ground expresso into the filter to form just the right mound, I’m happy to say that not a single coffee ground marks the lavabo. And what’s more, the whole enterprise fills me with a strange, unexplainable joy. Can you imagine it? … the coffee even tastes better. An even more invigorating and complex Zen exercise is my preparation of the traditional Napolitano dish, ‘zucchini alla scapece.’ The process begins, as calisthenics, with my hefting the twelve-pound, nearly one-hundred-year-old, hand-made (by my Tata for his daughter, my mother), thick oak cutting-kneading board from its place of honor on our kitchen wall. Then, with a wide, sharp ten-inch knife, I carefully cut seven or eight long Zucchini into many hundreds of wafer-thin slices of identical thickness. This is the first challenge. These small, dark-green rimmed white, circular masterpieces are then deep-fried (in olive oil) in a wide, shallow pan until they are golden-brown at their centers. This is the part I most enjoy. The continuous stirring and flipping of the tiny wheels and observing their transformations until they reach ‘perfection’ intrigues me, because it entails carefully removing the near-crisp wheels, one-by-one, when their hue is ‘just right.’ They are then delicately deposited, drained of the cooking oil—with as few drips as is possible—onto absorbent paper. In order to produce a serving for four to six commensals, at least three large frying pans of Zucchini need be prepared. Two cloves of garlic and mint from our balcony herb pots have been microscopically chopped, and together with abundant cold-pressed olive oil and a splotch of white wine vinegar, are waiting in a glass bowl to receive the circular guests-of-honor which will be induced to mix and mingle with the condiments, and then sit patiently for at least six hours before being served. All these Zen practices have brought a new fluidity to my hands and fingers. My guitar fingering and picking, for example, has regained flexibility, speed and precision. My mental capabilities, primarily in the context of these Zen practices, have also begun to improve. Sometimes, these cognitive micro-leaps have even brushed off into other unrelated moments

1

Literally, “the little machine.” In this context, it refers to the “mocha express coffee maker” (from Italian).

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and activities. For example, just last week, I helped Shamisha design and organize a community workshop and even successfully facilitated one of its sub-groups. I have to say that my calligraphy remains wobbly and irregular, but that’s more the fault of this damn computer. I rarely pick up a pen or colored marker, these days. On another note, much has been said and written about the progressively weakening minds of the elderly. From personal observation, I would guess that my failings, in this area, are probably within the norm. For example, I often forget some of the words I intend to use. Obviously, this is more troublesome and embarrassing in conversation, than when I’m writing. It can happen in both English and in Italian. I also tend to mix up the two languages in the same breath. But Vali says, just to reassure me (I hope, at least), that I have always had this ‘little problem.’ Another demonstration of my deteriorating brain is my regularly forgetting those few appointments I might have these days. Even worse than this is the problem of my losing a hold on what’s been decided, or even what happened, at the meetings I’ve been lucky enough to remember to attend! Here too, there are some simple, partial remedies such as keeping lists or leaving scattered—usually illegible—post-it notes around the house, out in clear view. Something else which works very well and which comes naturally, it seems, is repeating over and over again in my head (usually at 2 a.m., when sleep won’t come) all that I’ve done that day … and what has to be done when the sun comes up. Yet, not all of the changes brought on by the aging process are problematic, however. For example, while it’s true that, in the last years, my short and medium-term memory has diminished (for example, my having forgotten the autobiography I had written only twenty years ago) my recollection of things which occurred many years earlier are ever-present and have become more crystalline and richer in details. (For example, I could clearly remember —and actually see—every detail of each episode in my ‘forgotten biography’ from the moment I read the first sentence). This fact has brought me even closer to the children in my life. My young neighbors, Lele and Feven, have always loved listening to my wandering narratives of the ‘old days.’ Nowadays, the fact that my stories are becoming much more vivid and intricately detailed has stimulated the children’s coming to visit me with their pressing requests for more and better tales—on an almost daily basis. Each morning, I can’t wait for my door chime to ring. Especially, I long for the day when I’ll finally be able to tell my stories to my daughter’s new-born grandson, Pablo. I can’t wait to see the look on his face, when that cute little guy first catches onto the drift of one of my tall, crazy tales. I am coming to realize that childhood and old age go hand in hand. Life’s circle inevitably takes us back to our beginnings. Nowhere is this more evident than in the realm of dreams and imagination. I like to believe that all of us can manage to remember how rich and accessible our night-dreams were in childhood. For me, this is surely the case. Most of the research I’ve read posits this as an almost universal truth. Upon waking, children are apt to hold onto vivid images from their night visions—soaring through the sky without fear or effortlessly leaping tall mountains in a single bound; finding themselves surprisingly in possession of new skills and the abilities to accomplish unprecedented tasks; frolicking with, or fleeing from, real and imaginary animals or faceless monsters and conversing with people they’ve lost and others they may have never known. Children want to remember and talk about their night-time adventures. It is beneficial to them, and I hold that they should be encouraged and assisted to do so. I still remember quite a few intense dreams from my

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childhood. And, since I have also always made a practice of encouraging my own children to talk with us about their dreams and nightmares, I hold on to a veritable storehouse of their visions and incredible sleep-stories. Maybe, someday, I should write a book about them. Yeah, right, another ‘book.’ In old age, like a child reborn, my dreams have once again become vivid and complex. And when I awake, I almost always remember them in their entirety. This was a rarity in my middle years. I long to recount them to someone upon waking, and this is where the children come into the picture. Lele and Feven have assumed the role that I played, as a young father, with Bibbiana and Marco. The kids encourage me to recall and narrate my ‘night visions’ for them. We discuss and interpret my dreams, one might say, and we do the same with theirs, too. Our Secret Dream Society meets two or three times a week, in the early evening on school days or over breakfast when the kids are free. Today we met at the breakfast table. Lele’s jubilant face was ruby-red with excitement as he—with his mouth full of pancakes—began to recount his most recent dream-story. “I was down in the Children’s Grove, but it was way different from now. The little trees we planted there had become really big and were covered with colorful flowers and fruits. And there were animals everywhere, too. Rabbits were running through the bushes, and there were red birds and little monkeys in the trees. I even saw a moose, I think, near a sparkling fountain. There were weird blue lights, like flashes and spirals, in the sky, too. There were lots of children around, but I only knew a few of them. They were all busy picking berries and collecting mushrooms in baskets. Then, I ran into Shamisha down there. She and some kids were near the seashore, hanging long nets on tall wooden poles. She thanked me for having given her the idea to build whatever it was they were constructing, but I didn’t understand what she was talking about.” “Hey, Lele, that’s really weird.” Feven interjected and continued. “I dreamed of Shamisha last night, too. We were sitting on the boardwalk, near the edge of the Grove, watching the sun go down. The place looked different to me, too. There was a yellowish building, I had never noticed before with a sign over its door which read: “Woody’s House of Earth – the Children’s Place”. I asked her what it meant, and she looked at me strangely. You know how she does that, when she doesn’t really understand what we’re talking about. A little like that look Mamma gives us, when we act weird.” “Yeah, I dig you, Feven.” Lele smiled. “Anyway, she asked me what activities I had planned for the children that day, and she even called me ‘Chief’. Then I woke up. I wonder what that dream meant. What do you think, Signò Vinnie?” “Interesting, kids. You both dreamed about the same place and the very same person. Both of these are, obviously, very important to you, and I can understand why. You’ve been extremely involved at the Children’s Grove during these last months, and you both harbor great hopes for it to grow and get better. In your dream, in the Future I would say, both of you have also grown more competent. You both could do things you had never imagined to be possible. And Shamisha, well, she is always there for you in real life. She’s a person you both respect and, just maybe, someone you would like to become. This is ‘normal’, and it’s natural, in the sense that much of it’s going to happen, over time, but your unconscious self wants that time to be right now. And, in effect, maybe it already is.”

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“Signò Vinnie, you’re a funny guy. You believe we kids can do just about anything. You know, that’s why we like being with you so much. Not all adults are like you, though. Even Shamisha tells us, at times, to ‘wait until we grow up’ – like when we say or do things that she thinks aren’t suitable for us kids. Maybe she’s right.” Feven frowned, got up from the table and walked over to the window. “Yup, Sunshine, you have a point there, but I can’t really bring myself to say that other adults are wrong in their thinking. They all have their reasons, but I see it differently. The fact is that there have been so many times in my life when children have astounded me with what they’re actually able to do and, especially, with all that they can imagine or dream. I’ve even seen, I tell you, some of their dreams – and their projects, too – become reality. Regarding their images of the Future, more times than not, the children had gotten it right, while we adults had totally blown it.” “Like at that ‘Peace with Nature’ meeting, Vinnie?” Feven called from near the window. “Yes Sunshine, and as I had told you, that wasn’t the only time. There have been other moments, even more surprising and unbelievable, I have to say. In Boston, in Brooklyn and in Naples groups of children I worked with had imagined and designed Futures for their neighborhoods which - after ten, twenty or thirty years - actually did come about. And I’m not talking about the numerous small projects we carried out with kids, like designing playgrounds, safe streets or community gardens, which were easy to build. I’m thinking here about the large-scale neighborhood plans imagined by children which often represented fundamental and striking evolutions in the conventional ways we adults, experts and non, think about, organize and build our cities.” “Hey, Signò Vinnie, that’s hard stuff for me to understand. Can you give us an example?” “I can do just that, Lele. If you’ll be patient, I will start off by telling you about a really strange, vivid dream I had just the other night about some kids I once knew in Naples. But, before that, I think you’ll be needing some more pancakes.” Feven nodded. Lele smiled and—while I prepared another steaming batch of flapjacks— I recounted my dream, specifying (for the children) that it concerned an “apparently past event.” “I found myself in the center of a tall, narrow court of an ancient Palace. My eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light, and I took in the intricate majolica patterns of the multi-colored pavement at my feet. My glance was drawn up the spiraling baroque staircase, got lost in the (Escher-like) interplay of towering archways and dark shadows and came to rest on a sliver of bright blue sky at the apex of the volume. I could tell from the odors, from that sky, from the distant voices and from the architectural details that I was somewhere in Naples. A motley group of kids, my beloved scugnizzi,2 were busy building something in the far corner of the court. They stopped when they saw me and gesticulated wildly in my direction. One of them called out my name.

2

“Street kids” (from Neapolitan).

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“Ueh, Professore Vinnie! Let’s go down into the Gruppo Futuro3 workshop. Nunzia told us she found something really strange in the underground crypt, and she wants to show it to you. Now!” “As I approached them, in a split second, the whole story and its context came back to me as so often happens in our dreams. You know what I mean, like when you can’t figure out whether you had dreamt a preceding ‘chapter’ that same night, some years before or just maybe - it had actually happened in real life. I just knew I was in the courtyard of Palazzo della Porta4 on Via Toledo, near Piazza Carità. I remembered that our workshop space there had been provided by a very old, sweet-faced Countess. She was a descendent of the Palace’s aristocratic family, and she had heard that the school I was working at in her Montecalvario neighborhood was looking for facilities for an after-school program I coordinated entitled ‘Let’s Imagine the Future’. I recalled our first meeting in her magnificent but dilapidated, dimly lit apartments on the ‘Noble Floor’ of the Palace. She told me she was pleased and honored to host a program which would conduct children through, what she called, the ‘Doors to Tomorrow’ especially since her ancestor, Gianbattista della Porta – who had been an alchemist and philosopher of the 16th Century - had ‘opened such doors’ in his studies and writings right there in that very same place. She said it was perfectly fitting that the ‘little ones’ and myself would be continuing in the footsteps of her famous progenitor in the place that had once been the seat of his “Academy of Secrets.”

The details of the “Gruppo Futuro” Project have been freely adapted from visual and audio documentation and from the author’s memory of the Community Participation by Children in Futures Project of the Open University (1977–79). 4 “Palace of the della Porta Family” (from Italian). 3

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The elderly Countess then proceeded to open a large, leather-bound tome, entitled “Magiae Naturalis”, to its frontispiece which displayed a remarkably life-like etching, in profile, of her ancestor. With her slender graceful fingers, she lovingly traced the man’s elegantly curved forehead, his interrogating right eye, aquiline nose and his soft, goateed mouth. Contessa della Porta went on to relate many details concerning the life and works of the futurologist-alchemist and, as I was leaving, she turned to me and whispered that she was certain that ‘Nonno5 Giambattista’ would have surely loved the name the children of Napoli had invented for our Futures Project. “Gruppo Futuro è un nome bellissimo6” she said as I took my leave.” “Once again, I found myself walking down a steep, narrow stairway which led to our Futures Workshop with Ciro, Salvatore and Roberto close on my tail. We entered the high-vaulted room, and there we found Nunzia bent over a slide table. Her tiny face, illuminated by a cold white light, brightened up when she saw us enter the dark chamber. “Ciao, Professore Vinnie! You have to see what I found down in the cantina,7 you won’t believe it!” “She means the crypt, Vinnie.” Ciro, the oldest—and smuggest—of the group, specified. Nunzia was one of only three girls in our group of fifteen. She was nine years old, small for her age and was a creature of enthusiasm, curiosity and imagination. Her sweet visage was always characterized by wonder and amazement. She thought herself the ‘best photographer’ in the group and probably was. For this reason, she was responsible for the organization of our archives of slide and printed images. On the light table sat the latest batch of the group’s collages on photographic bases—depicting ‘Napoli in the Year 2000.’ She and Roberto had assumed the task of selecting the best images which would be presented to the community on the following Saturday. “Prof, I found some bones and skulls down there. It was really scary! And there are lots of big white, stone boxes with faces and dolphins, and horses and angels carved on them. And I got a great idea I want to tell you about.” In my dream, Nunzia somehow also knew everything I knew about Giambattista’s secrets. Maybe her grandfather who was the Montecalvario neighborhood’s renowned ‘barefoot historian’ had told her the story of the Palace, or maybe it was just the usual dream-stuff. She ‘knew’ that the countess’s forbearer had developed a formula-stratagem for envisioning Future scenarios and, some people even believed, for making them happen. In our minds, we both had a crystalline image of the wise man holding an etching of a person or a place to his prominent forehead while reciting the fate or future of the image in hand. Della Porta had worked closely with Tommaso Campanella on studies which had contributed to the development of that man’s famous treatise “The City of the Sun.” Both men had been important proto-futurologists long before that term came into existence. “One of the boxes down there had Giamba’s8 face on it.” She exclaimed. “My Granddad” (from Italian). “Gruppo Futuro is a beautiful name” (from Italian). 7 “Basement” or “Wine Cellar” (from Italian). 8 Shortened version of the name “Giambattista” (from Neapolitan). 5 6

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“That’s his tomb, Nunzia. Della Porta’s bones are probably in it.” Ciro interjected. “I know that, dumbo. That’s why I want us to do my plan.” Nunzia retorted, brazenly, to the arrogant teenager. Nunzia’s plan was extraordinary and startled me. She told us that we should carry the slide projector—connected to the longest extension cord we could find—the long way down into the crypt and project images of the children’s Future collages directly onto Giambattista’s sculpted likening. Nunzia had already selected the three images she wanted to use, and when she shared her choices with the others, they all agreed. The photo images she had selected were: • A wide view up the monumental staircase at Montesanto onto which the kids had collaged images of children and families playing and picnicking, street musicians and performers, rows of fruit trees and vegetable gardens flanking the steps, a suspended cable car connecting the hilltop neighborhood of Vomero. There were, also, several out-of-scale, smiling sheep on the rooftops along the steps. • A distant view of Mount Vesuvius re-elaborated with color-penned words and drawings depicting: a ‘special metal plaque’ which would automatically cover the volcano’s mouth ‘when an eruption was coming,’ seven flying ‘safe houses’ and three high-speed ferries which would evacuate the numerous residents of the high-rise settlements amassed precariously on the mountain’s flanks. • The covered entryway and steps to the Metro station at Piazza Cavour almost completely covered by images of large, ornate classical sculptures, two Roman galleys, a colorful collection of real and mythical sea creatures and a double decker London bus filled with—Nunzia had specified—‘lots of happy tourists.’

In the cool limestone-carved vault, each of the three colorful images illuminated the perfect liking of the alchemist and his tomb for a precise total of eleven minutes. The total time was to be divided into 1, 3 and 7-min intervals, Nunzia had specified. I somehow understood that Giambattista, in his writings, had recommended those very same intervals. “Ok, Nunzia. So, then what happens?” Salvatore asked mockingly, in reference to the girl’s ‘plan.’

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“Now we go out and see how those places have changed into what we had imagined, kiddo.” “Yeah, right. Like the Future can be changed in only half-an-hour. You’re crazy!” Ciro chided. We went directly to the nearest site, Montesanto. At the Piazza, Nunzia was disappointed to see that, in effect, nothing had happened so far. The older boys started teasing and mocking the girl, who appeared to become even tinier. Suddenly, our attention was caught by the sound of cow-bells, hoofs on cobblestones and loud baaing. The group turned their heads and saw an old, raggedly dressed shepherd leading a flock of sheep across the Piazza, out towards the long staircase. When the sheep caravan had passed us and started to ascend the steps, Nunzia turned towards me and with a beaming smile on her sweet, sun-darkened face said: “Well, it’s starting to happen anyway, at least. What do you say, Prof?” At that moment, I woke up and, I can tell you, I felt more exhilarant than I had been in a long time.”

“Wow, Vinnie, that was an incredible dream. Do you know those Naples’ kids? Are they real?” Feven asked. “And did it really happen? I mean, in your real life.” Lele added, between heaping forkfuls of pancakes. “That’s hard to say. My answer would have to be: yes, no and maybe.” I smiled and went on to explain that some of the children were in part like kids I had worked with in Napoli and elsewhere. Yes, there had been quite a few ‘Robertos,’ ‘Ciros’ and ‘Salvatores’ among the children I had known, over the years, in that city. But the Ciro, in my dream, had the looks and the swagger of a teenager, named Carlos, I had met in a project in Boston. I clearly remembered a youngster named ‘Nunzia,’ who resembled the girl in my dream, in one of my Naples-based Gruppo Futuro teams, but it couldn’t have been in the Montecalvario neighborhood. In fact, I had never worked with children in that part of the city. Yet, we had lived in that neighborhood for almost three years. I couldn’t understand where all the information about the Palace, the crypt and Giambattista della Porta had come from. I had heard of the Count, but I needed to check up

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on the veracity of the details in the dream. Two of the collages which appeared in my dream —Mount Vesuvius and the Montesanto steps—had actually been made by children in Naples, and the dream images were similar to the originals in my archives. I promised my little friends that I would show them copies of the collages, when I found the time to look for them. “But, Signò Vinnie, did those sheep really walk up the steps in that neighborhood?” “No, Lele, that never happened. And I never saw sheep on those steps, or in that neighborhood, by the way. But I can tell you that it wasn’t rare to see small flocks of sheep grazing in the abandoned fields around apartment blocks in the newer neighborhoods on Naples’ edge, during those years. But remember, Amico Mio, the real children had collaged their sheep on the rooftops, not on the steps or in the streets. And the sheep were smiling cartoon figures.” I smiled, too. We then went on, for the next half hour, to discuss some things that actually had happened, perhaps as a result of the children’s power of imagination, in the decades following our Gruppo Futuro experience. I told them about the ways that Naples had changed between the late 1970s and the last time I saw it, in 2020. The Montesanto staircase, in the second decade of the new millennium, had been the object of considerable community participation and place-making. The terraces flanking it had been re-naturalized with fruit trees and vegetable gardens, social life had been reintroduced to this forgotten passageway, and plans for new funiculars and aerial trams, near the steps, were actually underway when the ‘End’ had come. In the same period, the new subway system and stations of Naples had become world renowned for their artistic beauty. Many of the art installations and intricate stonework actually recalled the imagery which the children had proposed. For example, the mythical creatures and the iconic symbols of Naples, and the rich marine-life of its Bay, were present in the subway’s mosaics. The station which the children had worked on in my dream, Piazza Cavour/National Museum, had become almost a carbon copy of the children’s collage. There were installations with Roman artifacts, imagery and information. After its opening, hordes of happy tourists crowded that very place. Lele and Feven couldn’t believe that a Roman galley had actually been discovered during the subway excavations and had been placed on permanent exhibit at the Piazza Borsa station. In my dream, the kids of our ‘Gruppo Futuro’ had merely mistaken the location. Regarding Mount Vesuvius, I explained that in their project the children had been intuitively evoking what are called ‘preventive measures’ or ‘emergency plans.’ These were all considerations which were virtually unheard of in Italy, in that period. I recounted that, in reality, numerous lives had been spared in the terrible eruption of 2020 because society (and the planning profession) had evolved in the very direction the children had imagined. A few years before the catastrophic event, many of the illegally located buildings had been evacuated, and their inhabitants had been relocated in other parts of the city. The access streets had been widened and an efficient evacuation plan had been developed which had, in effect, made use of a high-speed ferry service along the coast to quickly redistribute the fleeing residents to the islands and to smaller cities along the Bay—just like my dreamed children had imagined. “Yeah, OK. But there weren’t any flying houses or special super-metal plates to close off the volcano!”

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“Don’t be silly, Lele. Those are just high-tech, futuristic things that kids just like to dream up.” Feven said. I explained, tactfully, that Feven was right. Children often do catch on to and express the icons and images of widely desired, better Futures early on. But, I explained, it is the ‘experts’ and the adults who should know how to come up with the technical and social solutions to the problems and the goals the children evidence. I then added: “Something I’ve learned in my long life, piccoli amici, is that children are like sensors or catalysts of change. I firmly believe that extraordinary, even improbable, Future events when they’re evoked by children with their power of imagination - will most likely happen, at some point in time. We adults simply have to learn how, and be willing, to facilitate children’s participation. Above all, we need to listen to - and truly understand - their voices.” “I gotcha Vinnie.” Feven interjected, and continued. “I really like their idea to put sheep on the rooftops. And, you know, there’s something like that that really exists today. A few weeks ago, Shamisha told me about a place in Brooklyn - a big old factory down on the waterfront - where farm animals are being kept on the roof. And she said that some kids in a nearby school had designed a project for sheep pastures along the shoreline, years ago. She said she thought that maybe those kids’ visions of the future might have influenced the stuff that adults had realized later on. She said she knows a guy who …” A bell rang. “Hey Signò Vinnie, somebody just rang the door chimes. I’ll get it.” Lele said, and he ran off to open the door. “Well, speak of the devil. It’s your dream girl.” I, jokingly, whispered into Feven’s ear. Shamisha gave me a perplexed look and introduced the tall, good-looking and equally baffled, Afro-American man who stood at her side. Strangely, the fellow appeared familiar to me. “Hello Vinnie, this is my friend and colleague, Charles Thomas. He has been asking about you.” I replied that I was happy to make his acquaintance. I tried to dampen any possible tension which might have been created. I needed to explain my murmured remark about ‘the devil … and the dream girl.’ “Shamisha, we were talking about the children’s dreams and images of the future, and of their special powers to influence social and environmental change. And, just imagine it, your name came up quite a few times. In fact, our two little friends here both dreamt of you and the Children’s Grove last night. You’re obviously a very popular personage in the netherworlds of these two children.” Shamisha had recently been elected Director of the Children’s Collaborative Center near the Grove. I knew that, in this new role, she had been establishing contacts with the other similar Centers around Brooklyn and the Region. So, I assumed that this middle-aged, intelligent-looking fellow might be part of that network and, as such, he’d probably be attuned to what we were discussing. So, I threw him the ball. “What do you think, Charles, about children imagining the Future?” “I think they can, and do, make things happen. And I’m living proof of that statement.” He smiled broadly, and I knew.

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“Do I know you?!” I exclaimed. I excused myself and rushed into the living room to take down a photo of Charles Thomas, as a child on the Red Hook docks, with a microphone in his hand. My emotions swelled, and a tear rolled down my cheek, when I tightly embraced him and placed the photo into his hands. Shamisha then explained that she had heard the story of our Red Hook Project from Charles, and that her colleague had dearly wanted to come out to Coney Island to ‘meet his old, dear friends.’ He had said that he needed to tell me how his having being enabled to imagine and design change, as a child, had transformed his and his neighborhood’s future. We sat down over coffee, and Charles told his tale.9 Charles Thomas had been one of the forty sixth-graders from PS 15 who had taken part in our Red Hook Futures Project in the 1982–3 school year. The Red Hook waterfront neighborhood, in that period, was a vast agglomeration of crumbling, abandoned factories and marine warehouses and decrepit, late nineteenth-century single-family housing scattered around the city’s oldest, largest and most neglected public housing project. The Public School, where we worked, was an important social garrison which stood between the neighborhood’s children and a future of drug dealing, gang membership, social marginality or worse. The local hoodlums feared the positive energy of the school’s combative principal 9 The Brooklyn children’s words about and the images of their neighborhood and its future in this chapter, as well the next have all been extrapolated directly from the actual documentation of the Red Hook Children’s Futures Project (1982–3).

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and his dedicated staff. In fact, one of the first things Charles mentioned was the 9 mm gunshot which had shattered the principal’s window during the first week we were working there. I then asked him if he remembered the blurred action-photo (astutely used by the children in the Project’s AV presentation) of a fleeing teenager in the act of ripping off a tape-recorder during one of our first neighborhood explorations. He did, he said, since he had taken the photo. From the beginning, the Red Hook children had been extraordinarily active, and had all grown to love the Project. Without a doubt, Charles had been one of the most intelligent, motivated and collaborative participants. I hadn’t forgotten him, certainly because the photo of him being interviewed by WNYC-TV on the waterfront—with the Twin Towers in the background—had been on my studio wall for over half a century. As he spoke, I recognized the timbre of his voice and the unchanged cutting, intelligence of his words. He still sounded so alike the young boy in the soundtrack of the slide tape he and his friends had created fifty years earlier, almost to the day. Charles must have been reading my mind and said, “Vinnie, I’m sure you remember that great slide tape we made to present to the community.” “I sure do, Charles. I’ve watched and listened to it so many times that I can recall just about every image, word and musical note. The last time I recall watching it was only a few years before the ‘End’. Unfortunately, my video tape copy got lost along with a lot of other stuff during all the moves we’ve made since then.” “Don’t worry. I have a digitalized copy at the center of the TV show which was made about the Project, and all of our documentation of the Hook, too. You’ll be amazed by how the neighborhood has changed. We really got it right, man.” “Please, tell us about it, Charles … and Vinnie. Hey, what’s a ‘slide-tape’, anyway?!” Feven implored. We laughed together, thinking about how the times and technology had changed. We could have, just as well, cried. We told Lele and his sister of the pleasures and pains of the archaic, analogical world back then. “Vinnie, do you remember that huge boom-box Marcelo used to bring to class? Grandmaster Flash, man, could he rap! If only the people had really listened to ‘The Message’ which he and a lot of other Brothers were laying down.” I had to struggle to keep my flap shut—difficult for a Big Mouth like me—because I wanted to hear Charles’ version of our experience and of all that had transpired in Red Hook in succeeding decades. I was sure I would have the occasion to tell my side of the story. I knew that I would be interrogated by Feven and Lele, as soon as we were alone again. I did well to remain silent, since Charles’ tale was a very good one. He recalled every detail of the many days we had spent together walking the neighborhood, interviewing people, photographing and sketching the situations and places which the kids wanted to change and discussing together what they were observing at the moment or experiencing in their personal lives. Our outings were always followed by long hours in the classroom reviewing what had been gathered and by drawing, collaging, cutting and composing the multiple Futures the children imagined and desired for themselves, their families and community and for the places they inhabited, and for the services or amenities that were lacking.

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Charles talked about the community people involved in the project. There had been so many local voices: Grandma Macey, Mrs. Briggs, Lucy, Fat Tony, Bertha, Sister Reed, Miss Elisabeth and Mr. Slim at the Senior Citizen Center across the street. He spoke fondly of Mr. Morfesi, the principal whom we all grew to love and who, Charles said, had retired shortly before his successor had been shot and killed in 1992. He recalled Pastor Watkins sitting back on the broken steps of his rundown church, and the unnamed people on the street, like the friendly ‘bums’ who cooked potatoes between the old warehouses. We laughed when he talked of the outspoken, gruff mustached owner of the Fried Chicken shop up the street who fueled the children’s conviction to act … and the cops on the beat, and the young mothers in the park with their little children, and the emaciated, radical “street person” outside the ‘Checks Cashed’ shop. Charles recalled the “tough kids” on the street corners, and the innumerable graffiti ‘artists’ at work down at the abandoned Parks Department pool.

“You remember Marcelo, Vinnie? You remember the time he had the courage to speak up to Ms. Leonard, our strict but amiable teacher. I recall he said, ‘Sorry, Mam, but I don’t agree with you. I do think, graffiti is art’? Well, listen here, Marcelo went on to become an accomplished artist. He has a studio down on the waterfront now. He said he’d love to see you. He really hopes you’ll come down to Red Hook someday soon.” As Charles spoke, I revisited the places we frequented, and I could hear the children’s words floating above them. There had been so many places, and the children had expressed so many ideas to: ‘clean up’ the streets and the parks, ‘knock down’ the old docks and put in restaurants and movie houses, ‘fix and color-up’ the old houses so ‘poor people can live decently,’ ‘create jobs’ in the abandoned factories ‘even for the muggers,’ ‘put sheep pastures and farms on the waterfront where the docks are,’ ‘build money factories so everybody can have the same amount to live with,’ install a tramline ‘on the old railroad tracks’ to connect the Projects to the water and the beautiful view and construct a ‘big cookie factory’ on the docks … ‘but that will take us a long time, at least five years.’

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I could hear the voices and see the children, as if they were right there around me.

“I love that place … the Cookie Factory! We went there with Mamma and Pop. Is it the same place?” Lele interrupted. “In a way, yes, Lele. Michael Rizzo was the kid who came up with that crazy idea, and who wouldn’t let go of it, even when the other students teased him. You remember him, Vinnie? Well, that little guy was really stubborn. When he was 18, he disappeared from the neighborhood and word got around that he was in Europe, but nobody knew where. Well, about seven years later he came back home to Red Hook. I finally met up with him in 1998. I can remember the exact year, because I had just gotten my Master’s degree and was working in the Community Center, when I ran into him in a bar in Carroll Gardens. We had never been close friends as kids. You’ll remember, he was – excuse my ‘French’ – the only ‘wop’ in the class and was a real outsider. He lived down in the dumps on the waterfront with his grandma, you might recall. He never hung out with us near the Projects. Maybe, it was our fault. I guess we were racist, too.” “Yeah, I remember him well. He was a real scrawny, disheveled and timid little guy. In the beginning of the Project, he was always on the sidelines and then my wife, Vale, took him under her wings and brought out the best of the boy. I couldn’t believe the way he started to take that microphone – even out of your hand once, I recall – and talk up, during the last month we were together. He even gave a fine little speech at the final presentation. You know my wife really loved him, and I think he had a big crush on Vale.” I took a pause and smiled. “A lot of us did, Vinnie. Like me, for example. She was really beautiful and so smart, too.” Charles smiled shyly. “I know she’d love to see you again, Charles. She should be back from the Greenmarket in a little while.” “Hey, what about the Cookie Factory?!” Lele yelped. “Sorry, Lele. Yeah, the Cookie Factory. Well, Mike and I became good friends, and I got to hear his story. When he left the neighborhood, he had gone to Southern Italy where his grandma was from. He took her back to her home town, and she died there a few years later. After her passing, Mike moved to Naples - he admitted - mostly because Vale and you had spoken so much about that city, and you’d shown us lots of photos, too. Anyway, get this, he started working as an apprentice in a pastry shop while he was there. I think I remember that its name was Bellavia Cafe.” “What?! I know the place! It was up in Vomero. We never lived in Napoli after we moved back to Italy, but I went to Bellavia every time I was in Naples, at least three times every

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year. He might have been in the back of the shop when I was there, but I never ran into him.” I thought about our missed serendipity. “Yeah, you know, he said that he had hoped to find you, too. He thought you and Vale had moved back there.” Lele jumped up, and we could both see he was about to scream once more about the cookies. “Gotcha kid! So, anyway, Mike became a master pastry chef. When he moved back to Red Hook, he opened up a bakery on the waterfront and a coffee shop on Van Brunt. And its name is – you got it! - “The Cookie Factory”. His cookies are renowned in the city, as are his fine Neapolitan pastries and American-style pies.” “Yummy! I love them!” Lele and Feven both shrieked. At that moment, Vale walked into the apartment. She saw Michael, shuffled over and hugged him with all her might. She had recognized him immediately. Or maybe she had been tipped off, I was sure, by the T-shirt Charles was wearing which read:

That logo was an exact reproduction of the closing slide in the children’s presentation to the community, entitled. “Red Hook: Our Neighborhood and its Futures.” How could she, or I, ever forget it? Vale put a big bowl of local strawberries from the Farmers Market on the table, and she joined the group. Charles briefly repeated his tale for Vale, with a running commentary by Lele. He told us a little about his life and his work in Red Hook in the last decade. Time was running short since he and Shamisha had an appointment at the CCC, so we gave him a very quick, synthetic one-paragraph version of our lives since the Red Hook Futures Project days. As he was leaving, Charles gave us a photograph which had been taken on the day of the NYC-TV shoot at PS 15 in 1983. Val, myself and our dear friend and colleague, Martin, who had died tragically in 2009 at the age of 54 were seated in front of several large posters depicting four of the children’s ‘World Futures’ drawings. The children’s ideas in words and images included: ‘the robots who will take our jobs away,’ ‘nuclear war will destroy most, but not all, of the continents,’ ‘we will return to a more primitive kind of civilization which has finally learned its lesson’ and ‘there will be two planets – one for good guys and one for the bad – when the planets finally meet up.’ During the following days, I would manage to find

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the time to study and truly understand those drawings. I came to realize that three-out-of-four of the kids’ most feared scenarios had actually come about. But at that moment, my eyes were still fixed on the beaming faces of the beautiful children that surrounded us. They stood proudly, microphones in hand, near the posters describing their works. Monique and little Michael, who had done most of the talking, were there. Yesenia and Nyesha affectionately flanked Martin, while Scott, Eddie and Marcelo were huddled up close to Valeria. I was seated at the center of the group and a smiling, proud-looking Charles stood directly behind me with his coal-black hands resting on my shoulders. His short visit was over. Vali and I warmly embraced Charles, at the door, and we said ‘Arrivederci, a presto.’ “Signò Vinnie! That’s really you with all that hair?! I can’t believe it.” Lele had yelped, upon seeing the photo. “You know, Vinnie, you kind of look like that Jerry Garcia guy.” Feven, my budding musicologist, added.

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A New Waterfront and City: Children, Nature and Our Futures (May 20, 2037) (Children Creating Futures)

During a trip to Red Hook the author observes and describes many of the environmental and social transformations which his ‘re-born’ Brooklyn has undergone: coastal eco-restoration, reforestation and renewed practice of foraging, urban farming and grazing, convivial places with innovative community services, sustainable transport, eco-social housing and learning environments. The factors which facilitated these changes are disclosed. It is significant that children have been, and remain, important protagonists in the city’s participatory place-making processes. In yet another (day) dream, my father (re)visits the Children, Nature and the Urban Environment Conference (Washington, 1975) where the reader hears the inspirational words of several scholars and practitioners of our story’s themes: Edith Cobb, Margaret Mead, Yi Fu Tuan, Paul Shepherd, Simon Nicholson, Mark Francis and Roger Hart. Successively, in a regenerated Red Hook several children from the 1983 Children’s Futures Project reappear, as adults. They talk of their experiences and describe their proposals. The reader learns how that neighborhood has ‘evolved’ in the last decades. Excerpts from the documentation of the action-research project demonstrate that the children had, on occasions, identified real problems and, when Imagining the Future had not only accurately predicted ‘The End’ but had also essentially anticipated several of the successful actions of resilience and regeneration in the neighborhood.

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Last Sunday, the new lightweight tramline connecting Coney Island to Downtown Brooklyn was finally inaugurated. Its availability meant that Vale and I could, once again, venture well beyond the neighborhood. The new service is solar-powered, and each convoy comfortably carries over two hundred passengers. For the most part, the line follows the old roadbeds of the Belt Parkway, Shore Road and Gowanus Expressway. It occupies the two lanes which have been freed of all privately owned vehicles which the New York Commune and the surrounding Regions banned three years ago. The city’s streets are now utilized exclusively by service, emergency and goods transport vehicles which have been almost entirely collectivized. These conveyances, I’ve heard, are all powered by fuel cells or some such gizmos which I’ll never quite understand. The trams travel at slower speeds than cars and trucks did in the old days. People, back in Italy, would have been pleased. As they say: “Chi va piano, va sano e lontano.” Yes, there’s no doubt about it. If you move slow you travel further, and you get there in good health, too. Today, we certainly did travel ‘lontano,’ at least by my old man standards. We went all the way down to Red Hook to visit Charles at the Community Collaborative Center. We traveled slowly … nice and slow, so I had lots of time to look around. The seven-mile trip took us around ninety minutes, including the short walk from the tram stop to the Center. Vale and I were excited to finally be able to return to parts of our Brooklyn which we hadn’t visited in nearly twenty years. We hadn’t left the Coney Island-Brighton Beach zone since our move back in 2033. Lele and Feven, accompanied by their mother Amy, also came along for the ride. Those kids weren’t going to miss out on the opportunity to stuff themselves full with all the sweet goodies at Michael Rizzo’s ‘Cookie Factory.’ On the tram, I felt like a child with my nose pressed on the window of a candy shop. I observed the places I had known so well—once upon a time—and I was struck by the significant and satisfying changes which had been brought about through a new culture of mutualism, cooperation and frugality. The first thing I noted was the abundance of edible greenery. The wide swaths of mowed lawns which had once flanked the Belt Parkway had been replaced by pasture land, orchards and community vegetable gardens. People of all ages were everywhere about, at work and play. The wide, previously near-empty waterfront paths, along which my friends and I had walked and kibitzed, are now bustling with human activity. I saw people strolling, jogging, cycling, cooking, eating, bartering, painting, reading, flying kites, fishing and sleeping. In the crowd, the overwhelming presence of children pleasantly amazed me. I did notice an occasional ‘playground,’ every now and then, but those places were for the most part only populated by toddlers in the company of adults. In general, children over the age of six were spread out everywhere, taking part in all the activities usually in the company of peers. In this new vital context, children appeared to have truly become an integral, notably autonomous and essential part of the community. I was ecstatic. On the side streets which branched off from the right side of the tram way, I noted groups of children playing freely in the streets and on the roadways. Now that the century-old, destructive myth of universal supremacy of the automobile has finally been flushed down the toilet bowl of History, this is all possible. The games the kids were playing appeared to be identical to those of my childhood. Some things in Brooklyn never change, or almost never. Nowadays, the children didn’t have to watch out for passing cars—as we once did.

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When I shifted my joy-filled eyes once again towards the sea, I was surprised to note a surprisingly high number of fishing boats, trawling the bay or being unloaded at the ends of the long, protruding jetties along the coastline. Since the sea was at low tide, I could see just how much the coastal morphology had changed. I wondered whether it had been human effort or natural processes which had brought about these transformations. Most probably, it was both. The filthy, polluted creeks of my childhood had become wide, vibrant salt-marsh channels. The tidal flats were more numerous, larger and evidently full of marine life to judge by the extraordinary number of people who were walking the flats and digging clams, or the like, as we passed by. The Verrazano Bridge towers still stood in all their original splendor. But today, they are crowned with the additional, breath-taking heights of the four soaring Aeolic turbines. (I watched that bridge being built, I thought to myself). I counted numerous ferryboats, crisscrossing the bay below the bridge, and I recalled a time when there was only one service line from the 69th Street Pier. Today, Shamisha told me, there are three ferry-lines running to Staten Island—from Coney Island, from Fort Hamilton and, once again, from my beloved 69th Street jetty. “Hey, Feven. Have you ever taken a ride on the ferryboat?” I asked. “Sure, Vinnie, I’ve been to Staten Island two times this year alone. Once, we all went out to visit our uncle Vincenzo. You met him. He’s the guy who brings us the clams and mussels. And the other time, Shami took the kids from the Center to visit a milk and cheese coop in St. George Port. We made mozzarella, that day.” “I bet it was delicious.” I smiled and turned back to the changing scenery. As we approached what once had been the Dyker Beach Golf Course, I noticed that its thick woods had spread beyond the original confines and had ‘invaded’ the neighboring baseball fields along 14th Avenue. The tram stopped and most of the children on board got off. I watched the kids nimbly ascend the bridge way that connected the tram to the wooded area. The station stop was beautifully arrayed with large panels depicting what appeared to be detailed maps with forest section drawings and photographs of children and adults gathering woodland products in various seasons. “Hey, Shamisha.” I called out. “What goes on now in this place?” She got up from her seat across from me, came over, sat close and recounted the fascinating story of how that “once wasteful and exclusive” golf course had been transformed into a regenerative “children’s foraging forest” and an Environmental Learning Center. As she always does so well, she situated her narrative in the context of the over-riding social, cultural and environmental changes which had occurred in the last fifteen years. Humankind, she said, had finally learned its lesson and had begun to work with Nature, not against it as it had been doing for over three hundred years. In effect, this quantum-leap was forced on us by the Nuclear War—and by the ‘End’—which had brought about the collapse and death of International Financial Markets, the demise of multinational corporations and of large State bureaucracies and, in the case of the USA, the end of its National Government. Even though the Northeast Region had been spared the devastation of direct bombings, its population had diminished considerably in the initial years due to food shortages, disease outbreaks and widespread chaos and inter-class violence. Shamisha said that the speed with which the Metropolitan Region and surroundings had managed to organize a new cooperative social order and regenerate the natural and built

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environment—not only to sustain life, but to improve it for the majority of the population— was the result of three preexisting local factors. The first was the flexible, collaborative and highly competent disaster management and reconstruction network which had been developed and stood ready since 9/11, and which had been fine-tuned during the successive natural calamities which had struck the Region. The second factor was, what she called, a “New York-Brooklyn cultural soup” which is characterized by strong neighborhood identity and progressive politics. The third ingredient was the widespread availability of socially motivated, technically skilled and scientifically qualified individuals and institutes in a vast array of fields of study, and action, conducive to a sustainable and economically just development process. The SUNY system of Borough-based, high-quality public university education and the ample distribution of free Community Colleges which had served as “stepping stones for the ‘potentially disenfranchised’ had fueled this alternative force.” As an example, she mentioned Barry Commoner’s extraordinary legacy at Queens College which always had a “world class reputation” in Natural and Social Ecology, not to mention its earlier applied, participatory experiments in Marine Biology and Coastal Regeneration. The astonishing evolution of these prescient endeavors was evident all around us and was, after hearing her explanation, more comprehensible to me. Despite my growing weariness, I continued to listen to Shamisha with great attention. She also wanted me to understand that the City’s and the Region’s resources were not only academic or professional. She referenced a wide array of community-based initiatives, some of which had grown from collaborative efforts with local universities. These included the Pratt Center for Community Development, the Hunter College Planning Department and the Environmental Psychology Doctoral Program at CUNY (“I know you worked there, years ago” she had said). She specified that most of these had gone on to become permanent, locally managed enterprises. She also pointed to the proliferation, from the late 1990s onward, of small-and medium-sized, socially oriented design and planning studios and a myriad of innovative start-ups in information technology and communication, alternative energy and transport, food and agricultural sciences, manufacturing and craftwork, culture and education. “Then when the ‘End’ arrived, the Big Guys collapsed and folded while the Little Ones kept on going. They were more capable of reorganizing, and they did it rapidly.” “That’s what we’ve always held to be true, Shami.” I replied. We were passing onto Shore Road when she finally got around to responding to my initial question. “Take, for example, the Children’s Foraging Forest which you asked about when we passed Dyker Park. During the years of chaos, large-scale industrial and commercial food supply systems broke down and, in the face of starvation, communities turned to ‘grow-it-yourself’ and to gathering anything that was edible in the region’s ‘natural’ eco-systems. They foraged the sea, the abandon lots and fields … and the remaining wooded areas, in and around the city. There wasn’t all that much available, at the time. It was calculated that only around two to three percent of the population’s nutritional needs could be met, then, through local foraging, fishing and hunting. And those resources wouldn’t have lasted very long if these activities weren’t carried out in a sustainable manner. This was where the ‘experts’ and the collaborative networks came into play. There was a ‘Foraging Institute’ at Brooklyn College, there were associations and clubs of sport hunters

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and fishers, and there were the traditional practices of ‘gathering and conserving’ which many recently arrived refugees contributed. Well, they got it together. It soon became evident that the Dyker Beach Golf Course could become an important food source. The children, who started playing there in increasing numbers after its closure, had brought home stories —and some samples—of mushrooms, asparagus, ramps and wild herbs. The families were quick to follow their children’s example. The availability of the valuable facilities, machinery and instrumentation at the adjacent Fort Hamilton—when the US Army base had been dismantled—led to the idea of creating a permanent Regional Institute for the Applied Study of Forest and Woodland Resources and Traditional Practices. Numerous associations, cooperatives, educational and research centers in the Metropolitan Region and individuals who had anything to do with the edible ‘natural’ environment pooled their know-how and resources, and the present Institute was born. Presently, it coordinates data collection, research and project development regarding Forest Resource Sustainability for the entire New York City Metropolitan Area stretching from the Pine Barrens all the way up to the Adirondacks. And, thanks to its efforts and those of the Queens College-based Coastal Ecology, Sustainability and Nutrition Action-Research Center, it is now estimated that over 15% of the food resources in the Region come from one form or other of ‘natural foraging.’ The plan of the Regional Federation is to stabilize and increase, where possible, this figure. The attainment of this objective not only requires very careful management but especially, I would add, the involvement and education of our citizens. This is where the Dyker Beach Foraging Forest comes in, with its accent on children and learning. She told me that our mutual friend, Charles, had had a lot to do with the direction that place process had taken. His participation in planning workshops, which led to the development of the conversion plan and educational programs, was pivotal in putting children at the center of the process. “You’re familiar with his, and your, mantra. You know, ‘let’s listen to and learn from the children!’.” Well, Charles managed to convince the various committees and the local community of the importance of children’s participation, and that idea has worked out wonderfully. Today, kids of all ages participate in workshops on foraging wild edibles, native plant basketry and wood-crafting, hunting, fishing and more. They can, if they wish, also learn about native medicinal plants and indigenous peoples, animal habitats, forest ecology and ecosystems. On the weekends and holidays, the Forest is open to families and children who can visit to play there or forage within the established limits which they themselves understand … and never fail to respect. Informed and motivated through active and appreciative environmental learning, the children are now teaching their parents and further catalyzing community interest. Some European researchers in the first decade of this century had shown that Environmental Educational projects which started with children had greater impact on their families’ values and behaviors. Well, that’s what’s happening here. In fact, there has been so much adult interest in regenerative nature that the Committee decided, two years ago, to convert the adjacent baseball fields to forest and grazing land. “At present, that area is used primarily by the residents of the adjacent intergenerational co-housing complex.” “I noticed that place when we passed by there. I was really impressed.” “Yes, it is impressive, Vinnie, and it’s important. You should understand that foraging of wild foodstuffs is the oldest and most basic subsistence activity of humankind, but up until the ‘End’ we had lived in a world where these skills had been, to all effects, completely lost.

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Foraging was one missing link in our so-called ‘modern’, or ‘civilized’ culture. And I think, it is this direct physical connection - in the form of procuring sustenance - that will bring society to an even deeper appreciation and understanding of the natural world. The kids seem to have understood this immediately, and the adults are slowly, but surely, catching on.” She smiled and glanced towards Lele and Feven. I rested my weary head on the window pane. Colorful images, encased by her words and natural sounds, began to spin around in my head. I was in an oneiric and reassuring dream space, and my head was whirling. I saw flashes of white and blue light. I was pulled upward, drawn by the incessant and soothing rhythm of tram wheels on the steel rails below. I caught glimpses of rollercoasters, playing children, lush nature and a living urban environment. Shamisha’s voice grew evermore distant, and her words became garbled. “Hey Vinnie, are you listening to me? Are you alright? Oh, I think he’s fallen a …” Sleep. And with sleep came yet another dream. Was it a vision … or a memory? I read the words on the large banner stretched high above a glass doorway which stood before me:

Children, Nature and the Urban Environment10 I was drawn towards the building, like a fish being reeled out of the Narrows Bay. I could see that the immense, sky-lighted entry hall was bustling with activity and crowded with people. I saw, in their midst, the familiar faces of old friends, living or dead. All of these I hadn’t seen for many years. “Where have you been? We were looking for you, our presentation is set to start in forty-five minutes.” My dear old buddy, Mark, together with four children, stood in front of me. I noticed he hadn’t aged a day since 1975.

My eyes were stinging. On the back of my tongue, I had the bitter aftertaste of tear gas. It seemed strange to me that no one in the foyer appeared to be the least bit flustered by, or even aware of, the intense anti-war protests which I, alone, knew to be in progress outside The protagonist’s “day dream” freely narrates some of the events and presentations which took place at a real conference the author had participated in The Children, Nature, and the Urban Environment Symposium-Fair was held at the C. H. Marvin Center of the George Washington University, in Washington, D. C. from 19–23 May, 1975.

10

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the building and in the surrounding streets. I realized, in that instant, that we were at the Marvin Center of the George Washington University. Mark took me by the arm, and he led me towards the elevators which would take us up to the fourth-floor auditorium where, he said, the Conference had already started. When the elevator doors opened, the humid and sweet aroma of a rain forest engulfed us. I recalled our having foraged the Rock Creek Park with children from the Stevens Elementary School in search of ‘loose parts’ to decorate (and ‘convert’) the elevator. It was just the day before … or had it been 60 years earlier? I could see, once again, the jubilant faces of those children and the angry eyes of the members of the Conference’s ‘Participation Committee’ when they had first seen the results of the children’s “Alternative Elevator Project.” The adult ‘experts’ were shocked by the hanging vines that completely covered the walls of the elevator, the thick carpet of dark green moss on the floor, the bright flowers arranged in hanging pots and, especially, by the centrally positioned, scavenged toilet bowl filled to its brim with fragrant, auburn-colored cedar chips. As we rode up in blissful silence, I recalled that I had been here. Once upon a time. When we entered the hall, I noticed Simon and Roger engrossed in their work at the slide-projector. On the nearby stage were Yi-Fu Tuan, Paul Shepherd, Florence Ladd (my favorite Prof from Harvard) and Margaret Mead. My two friends waved hello and signaled for Mark and I to come up front and sit down. Yi-Fu Tuan was in the middle of his speech. “A young child has keen senses, but his world is not thereby more filled with sensory values than that of an adult. A young child’s experiences of nature are often more intense than those of an adult. Among the reasons for this are synesthesia and the child’s ability to isolate experience from its distracting social, theoretical, and practical contexts. But, to enjoy the physical environment fully the mere capacity to experience stimuli is not enough; it must be complemented by appreciation, which is an intellectual activity. We should do all we can to facilitate environmental appreciation in children.”11 Tuan concluded, and loud applause followed. Next, Paul Sheperd12—a handsome, bearded guru of the ‘Deep Ecology’ movement— stood up and took the microphone. He proceeded to present a dazzling array of profound ideas about the nature of the relationship between earlier (historic) development stages and natural places, as experienced in a variety of cultures. He introduced his ‘Pleistocene Paradigm,’ eloquently stating that modern civilization itself runs counter to human nature which is, to all effects, consciousness shaped by our evolution and by our environment. He offered data, including some captivating case-stories to support his critique of the sedentism of modern civilization. When he proposed that we would do well to model future human lifestyles on those of nomadic prehistoric peoples, he projected several slide images of what I alone, perhaps, understood to be the Dyker Beach Children’s Foraging Forest in the year 2037. 11

Tuan, Yi-Fu. (1977) Experience and Appreciation in Children, Nature, and the Urban Environment: Proceedings of a Symposium-Fair. Forest Service, U.S. Dept. of Agriculture, 1977 Upper Darby, Pa. pp. 1–5. 12 Shepherd, Paul (1977) Place and Human Development in Children, Nature, and the Urban Environment: Proceedings of a Symposium-Fair. Forest Service, U.S. Dept. of Agriculture, 1977 Upper Darby, Pa. pp. 7– 12.

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“We are, and will always be, essentially, beings of the Paleolithic.” He closed his presentation amidst waves of vibrant applause and some loud, scattered boos of disapproval. Mark and I stood and clapped our hands bare. Gradually, the lights dimmed and Vivaldi’s ‘Primavera’ movement filled the auditorium. As the volume diminished, Margaret Mead gently and slowly accompanied the elderly speaker across the stage to the podium. She then introduced the woman as “my dearest friend and distinguished colleague, Edith Cobb.” My heart beat fast, and the soaring reception became silent. Professor Cobb began to speak. “You know … it’s quite alright to talk generally about ‘Childhood’ as ‘The Child’. But as a theoretical concept, ‘The Child’ is a fiction. We do not know enough about what children, as biologically given creatures, will do at different stages in development or under different cultural circumstances. We will not develop a useful theory of child development until we recognize that ‘the Child’ does not exist. Only children exist - children in particular contexts, children who are different from each other, children with different senses. Having said that, yet I do hold that there is a special genius of childhood which is a precious Human possession, and a biological condition, common to people in all cultures. And I want you to consider the possibility that in the imaginative experiences of childhood can be found the essential kernel of the highest forms of human thought. These special qualities, however, are seldom retained throughout the life course except in the most highly creative of individuals. The spontaneous and innately creative imagination of childhood should be seen as a spur to positive human evolution and an important factor in mental, psychosocial, and psychophysical health. In its mature form, which unfortunately is a rare item today, the quality of creative imagination promotes self-transcendence and is essential to the development of enlightened human compassion.”13 She concluded her presentation, and I could see that she was tired. Then, I heard another voice. The voice of a man said … “Vinnie, don’t you think that, in the Future, compassion will be more common if we just let the kids participate?” I turned towards the voice behind me, and I glimpsed the smooth, shiny forehead of Simon, wrinkling, as he smiled at me and winked. Lele, who stood proudly at his side, nudged my shoulder and called out to me. “Hey Signò Vinnie, wake up! We’re passing the 69th Street ferry pier you wanted to see.” “Huh? Lele, I didn’t know you were with Simon. When did he get here?” I was baffled and squinted my eyes just in time to see the passage of the remodeled, once-familiar pier packed with children. “What?! Who’s Simon? You must have been dreaming. You didn’t hear what I was saying to Shami, did you? I was telling her about some ideas me and my friends have for the Children’s Grove. Are you listening, Signo’ Vinnie? 13

Cobb, Edith (1977) The Ecology of Imagination in Childhood. Columbia University Press—New York. Mead, Margaret (1977) Children, Culture and Edith Cobb in Children, Nature, and the Urban Environment: Proceedings of a Symposium-Fair. Forest Service, U.S. Dept. of Agriculture, 1977 Upper Darby, Pa. pp. 19–24.

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Uh oh, Mamma, Signò Vinnie’s fallen asleep again, I think.” In the huge, dimly lit conference hall, we are now on stage—Mark, Roger, Simon and I. All eyes are on Margaret Mead who, I realize, is introducing us to the audience. She spoke, “So, as I was saying, freeing men’s imagination from the past depends, I believe, on the development of a new kind of communication with those who are most deeply involved with the future. These are the Young who were born in this New World. That is, it depends on our guaranteeing the direct participation of those who, up to now, have not had access to power, and whose nature those in power cannot fully imagine.” “Or are willing to permit”, I murmured. Then, Mead continued. “In the past, in the so-called co-figurative cultures, the elders were gradually cut off from limiting the future of their children. Now, as I see it, the development of a, soon-to-come, pre-figurative culture will depend on the existence of a continuing dialogue in which the young, free to act on their own initiative, can lead their elders in the direction of the unknown. Only then, will the older generation have access to the new experiential knowledge, without which no effective plans can be made. It is only with the active participation of the Young, who possess that knowledge, that we can build a viable, and better, Future.”14 She gestured to Simon, indicating that he should come closer to her. “And so, along these lines, I am happy and excited, now, to present our next group of speakers. Together with Simon Nicholson and his colleagues, you will meet the children from the Stevens Elementary School here in our National Capitol. These children are the true protagonists of the day. Simon Nicholson will now share with you a very interesting youth participation action project, carried out explicitly for this Conference. Their project is entitled: Our city:the Scary Dairy and the other places We PlayIn”

As Simon took the microphone, I couldn’t help but notice a mysteriously looking, large cardboard box at his feet. He began to speak out with fervor: “An Environmental Score, like a musical score, is essentially a notation of events and activities in time. This, some of you may not know - most scores are imposed on individuals and communities, by the members of an elite. These might be composers, artists, architects, city planners, university professors or politicians. To be able to construct one’s own score, is to be able to construct one’s own ideas, one’s whole life and Future. Scores and environments invented at community and professional levels are very different from one another. For example, Environmental Scores invented by children themselves differ, greatly, from scores invented by adults for children. In order for you to be able to experience this, a group of 5th grade children from the Stevens Elementary School, which is only three blocks away from here, have constructed an Environmental Score for you.

14

Mead, M (1970) Pre-Figurative Cultures in Culture and Commitment: A Study of the Generation Gap. New York: Doubleday—Natural History Press.

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Their score – they entitled it “Our City: the Scary Dairy and the Places We Play In” – will enable you to participate with the children in an exploration through their neighborhood. Together, we hope, you will be seeing, hearing, touching, smelling, feeling and understanding their real outdoor learning and play environments.” The sound of murmuring, nervous voices and chairs scraping the floor spread throughout the auditorium as—I well knew—Simon edged, bravely, towards the conclusion of his introduction. “There was to be a copy of the children’s score in your registration packet. But unfortunately, the mayor decided to censure the children’s work and words, and to destroy all of the printed materials. He, and his public relations experts, felt that an exposure of one of the places the children often play in - and especially their evaluations of that so-called Scary Dairy, for the most part positive - would represent very bad press for the city.” All hell was now breaking loose in the hall. Members of the Mayor’s staff were rushing towards the stage but Simon held his ground. I turned towards Florence. She smiled, winked and gave me a ‘thumbs up.’ Disregarding the chaos, Simon signaled to the children in the wings to come out, and he continued talking. “But, since I had imagined this might happen, I took the opportunity last night to make some additional uncensored copies of the children’s score, which I have here in this box. I’ll now ask my colleagues and a few of the children to distribute them throughout the room. There should be enough copies for everyone.”

I grabbed a pile of the children’s scores and ran off up the aisle. On the cover of each hefty document, dear subversive Simon had, as was always his way, rubber stamped in bold red ink numerous, tiny American flags along with the glaring, bold-print words: “Uncensored, Original Version.” Five beaming children (Alfreda, Earl, Leslie, Keith and Larry) moved their way lithely through the aisles and rows handing their scores to the alternately shocked or ecstatic participants. When the distribution was completed, from the back of the auditorium, we turned our eyes towards the stage as the lights dimmed and the first slide image appeared. It was a colorful, child-drawn map of their neighborhood, stretching from 25th Street to

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Washington Circle, crowned by an oversized, meandering swath of dark blue waters of the Rock Creek Valley. The largest and most prominent feature on the map was the “Scary Dairy,” and I couldn’t wait to hear the children’s description of that forbidden (and “censored”) place. Becky and Calvin stood proudly in the spotlight with the big, ball microphones pressed closely to their lips. When the boy began to speak, it was difficult to make out his words from the last row where we were seated. I jumped to my feet and started yelling and signaling wildly towards the stage. Calvin understood my gesture and yelled back, “Can’t you hear me, Signò Vinnie? Can you hear me, Vinnie? Vinnie!” “Can you hear me? Signò Vinnie, can you hear me?” “Signò Vinnie??!” I was baffled. Since when does Calvin speak Italian? I awoke and, once again, found dear, little Lele pulling gently on my shirtsleeve. Vale held my hand and Feven, Shamisha and Amy encircled us with worried expressions on their faces. “Are you OK, Signò Vinnie? You’ve been saying crazy things in your sleep. You were saying something about a scary dairy, and you yelled out ‘Simon’ and ‘Mark’ a few times. What were you dreaming about? I wanna hear about it.” “Oh, it was really a doozy, Lele. But, please let me catch my breath a bit. I’ll need an expresso and some water, first. Someday, I’ll tell you the whole story, but just not now. Where are we, anyway?” Gradually, my senses were returning. “We’ve almost reached our stop, Vinnie. In a few minutes, we’ll be there.” Shamisha responded. I looked out the window, and I immediately recognized the Red Hook neighborhood. The tram was traveling slowly, down Lorraine Street. I saw the red brick towers of the Red Hook Houses to our right, now retrofitted and in excellent shape. The landscaping between the buildings had become much lusher and was very well kept. “Good old Mrs. Briggs would have been very pleased.” I thought to myself and sighed happily. The street, sidewalks and courtyards were alive with people socializing, playing and working. The vast open spaces which had once been trash-filled, abandoned lots or underused parking areas were now community gardens, green markets and the like. I could see that we were approaching what had once been PS 15, and I craned my neck to get a view of the adjacent Senior Citizen’s Center where we had spent many an afternoon with the kids and the ‘old folks’ (“Hah! Look who’s talking, now!” I thought) sharing stories about past and present futures. I read the sign on the beautifully refurbished structure. It read “George Morfesi Intergenerational Futures Workshop.” I thought how happy that good man would have been to see that what he had always considered the most important and innovative aspect of our Project had become an everyday practice. My heart was filled with joy. The tram stopped and Amy asked the conductor to take it slow, so I would have the time to climb down. “Thank you, Mam, I can’t move as fast as I used to.” I said, although probably I didn’t really need to explain. “Slow is beautiful, Father. Have a good time in the Hook.” The smiling driver replied and waved us off.

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How can I describe what I was feeling? I knew exactly where we were, at the corner of Wolcott and Van Brunt Streets. The original forms of the school building and its entry square were still there but everything had changed in the details. I felt like I was observing, once again, one of the many colorful collages the children had made on their black and white, neighborhood photos. The square had become a naturally restored wetland park—like one I had seen, years ago, in Portland Oregon—with luxuriant, reed-enclosed fishponds surmounted by wooden arched bridges and bird lookouts. Across the street, the once boarded-up storefronts had become vibrant, diversified local shops and workplaces. It seemed to me that the transparent acetate layers of the children’s colorful images of the future had done their magic and had superimposed a new reality on the old places and faces. “Ciao, Professor Vinnie!” A woman’s voice shook me from my reveries.

I turned towards the voice and saw, in an opening between the reeds, Charles and a tall, copper-skinned woman in a bright North-African headscarf sitting at a canopied table. They waved, got up and came in our direction. When they reached us at the corner I noticed, and immediately recognized, the woman’s sparkling, pearl-gray eyes. She came closer, took my hand and hugged me warmly. Charles, always the gentleman, took Vale’s hand, embraced her and gave us all a big, sparkling smile. “You don’t recognize me, Professor, do you? I’m Monique, remember, from our Gruppo Futuro.” “Monique, of course I do. What a striking woman you’ve grown to be. And no ‘Professor’, please.” “Should I be jealous, vecchio15?” Vali murmured, squeezed my hand and smirked.

15

“Old man” (from Italian).

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“Valeria, how can you be jealous? You’re as beautiful as you were back then.” She hugged and kissed Vale. “Before we all ‘Return to the Future’ could I please get my much-needed expresso, Shami?” I begged. “That’s our first stop, Vinnie. Michael’s ‘Cookie Factory Café’ is just down the street.” Charles interjected. The place was only fifty yards down Van Brunt Street, but it felt like a mile to me. When we were settled into the coolness of the shop, and I had been resuscitated with a big glass of fresh water and an excellent double expresso, our greetings could finally take up where they’d been left off. “Well, Monique, tell me about yourself. What have you been up to for the last half-century?” “It’s a long story, Vinnie, and I know you’ll like it. I can’t begin to tell you how much our Futures Project influenced my own personal development. Maybe you remember that I was the kid our group selected to make the project’s weekly announcements over the school’s PA system. That experience really got me going, and I became fascinated with audio recording and editing, and its power in communicating my ideas and those of others. I joined the PS 15 Radio Club, and I was the director of the school journal when I was in High School. Then I got a full scholarship to Columbia, and I went on to receive a Master’s Degree in Journalism there. Now, I’m the Manager of one of Brooklyn’s most popular radio stations. Can you believe its name is ‘Radio Futuro’? What do you think about that?!” “Mamma mia!” I exclaimed with a vivid image of a young Monique in my jubilant head: a sprouting 11-year-old hunched over a stand-up mic, surrounded by her classmates, juggling two portable tape recorders. One was for real-time recording, and the other to broadcast a sampling of the week’s selected interviews. “Hey, look! Mike has arrived.” Monique exclaimed, and all heads turned towards the doorway. A gangly, long-armed and tanned fellow—sporting a flour-spotted, night-blue apron and a pair of oversized, rectangular black eyeglasses—ambled across the premises arm-in-arm with a dude who could well have been Pancho Villa. His wind-blown, shoulder length hair and broad, drooping black mustache, light-weight khaki fatigue jacket and knee-high, ornately decorated boots all seemed to raise the question—“Where’s his caballo?”. I waited anxiously to be (re)introduced to the strange duo: a middle-aged, Jerry Lewis-clone in a baker’s outfit and a long deceased, Mexican revolutionary with a bouquet of wild flowers in his hand. As I expected, the first of the duo was Michael Rizzo, who greeted us warmly and shed warm tears when he hugged Vali. The second—the ‘revolutionary’—revealed himself to be the Gruppo Futuro graffiti artist, Marcelo Maldonado. “I’m so happy to see you, boys. I guess I’ll have to ask you both the standard question I probably should get printed on my business card. That is, what have you been up to in these last, what is it, fifty years?” “Bakin’ things and makin’ things.” Michael responded. “Makin’ things and takin’ things.” Marcelo added as he handed Vale the bouquet of flowers.

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“Wisely stated, in today’s New Economy, I must say. Well, Michael, I’ve heard something of your (hi)story from Charles, so let’s leave the floor to Marcelo’s tale for the moment.” I couldn’t wait to hear it. “Well, Vinnie. I’m now a starving artist. And it’s all your fault, you know.” Marcelo began, smiling widely. “Yeah right, starving?! To compensate his weight-problem, I’ll bring you all some nutritious cookies and cakes to fill up on, ok?” Michael joked and then disappeared through a door behind the counter. “Well really, Vinnie, I probably would have ended up in jail, or maybe even have been killed, if I hadn’t experienced our Futures Project. It changed not just all us kids, but especially our teacher, Ms. Leonard. She began to see me and graffiti in a different light, after our year together. I finally felt I was respected and understood, and I began to really love making art. I became good at it, too. I went on to the High School of Art and Design, and then I went to Pratt Institute for a few years. But I dropped out before graduating because I had to get a job when my padre died. Then, I made a lucky choice. I went to work in the old scrap-metal dump down on Canover Street. Mi mama’ thought I was ‘muy loco’ to take that job instead of seeking employment down on Wall Street, like everyone else was doing then.” He winked and continued. “I had already learned many useful skills in school – welding and metal cutting, woodworking and such – and I picked up a lot more savvy and physical strength working at the dump. I was, like, in the right place at the right time. Pratt Institute, in that period, was collaborating on a development plan and Public Arts project down in that part of the neighborhood, and I got myself involved. I became a sort of ‘creative liaison’ between the community and the planners. I was also commissioned to do a few pieces of art, and I even got my boss, Mr. Ponte, interested in public art. He really freaked out when he discovered that his junk and know-how could be useful ingredients in creative community projects. The area developed around us, some docks and warehouses were rehabilitated, and old Signore Ponte sold off some of his buildings. But he was a good guy, and he always stood on the side of the local community. His dump became our ‘Heavy Loose Parts Art Workshop and Supply Center’ with half of its acreage totally reclaimed and converted into a Children’s Community Wilderness Garden. Charles and Monique were involved in that project. Then, after the war, the high-end, international hipster enterprises folded, the luxury condos were emptied and converted, and I moved my studio space into the abandoned Liberty Warehouse Complex down on the docks.” “Did I hear ‘Loose Parts’?! You seem to be following in my maestro Simon’s footsteps. How did that happen? Do you remember the time he came over from England to visit our Project?” I was flabbergasted. “Of course, I do. Well, actually, he came back to mind when a teacher of mine, at Pratt, introduced me to his magnificent article ‘How Not to Cheat Children. A Theory of Loose Parts’. When I saw his photograph, I remembered it all. And, hey! How could I ever forget his huge forehead? I recalled that we kids would often joke about the giant brain he must have had inside his head. He was so much fun, too. Then, when I started to study his works in depth, I realized that fun was what his art, and mine, was all about. Just as Michael - citing Jerry Lewis - always says:

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‘Nowadays, I get paid a lot for doing what most kids get punished for’.” Marcelo laughed. “Hey, I’m a little jealous! Simon was here for only four days, and you talk about the fun with him.” Val retorted. “Oh, come on, Valeria. You, and Vinnie and Martin, were the best thing that ever happened at our school. And, if you think about it, maybe the first seeds of what we see all around us here were actually planted back then.” Michael returned, placed the plates of pastries on the table, sat down and dove into the conversation. Cookies!! Lele screamed. “I love your Cookie Factory, Mike.” He and Feven ran off into the back of the shop to see the workings ... and taste a little of everything. “You know, I agree with Marcelo. I never would have spent the time I did in Napoli, or learned my trade or created the ‘Cookie Factory’ if I hadn’t been part of the Future Project. My dream of opening a big bakery became a fixation of mine for years, after we made that big map of ‘Red Hook in the Future’ with Martin.” “I still have a big blow-up of that plan on the wall at the Center. You can check it out later to see just how many of our dreams have become reality. We did get a few things right, I know for sure.” Charles said and smiled. “Well, for me, my Cookie Factory dream started to become a reality when I went to Napoli. And I never would have gone there if it hadn’t been for you two. You and Vale told us so many stories about the places and things and people you loved there. And those delicious sfogliatelle16 you brought one day from a pastry shop out in Greenpoint! And your photos, Vinnie! You know, when I was walking around Napoli, I would sometimes come upon places I felt I knew already because I had seen your slides. I can remember the day I came upon the beautiful Montesanto staircase in Naples. It was like a dream. I can’t explain it. But you should know, there weren’t any giant sheep around!” “Serendipity.” I thought to myself and smiled. “On that same day, at a book vendor’s stand in Port’Alba, I bought an antique etching of some Count, or Prince, who reminded me of Simon. He had that same giant forehead. He probably had a whole lot of brains, just like Simon. Look over there behind the coffee bar. That’s him next to the photo of Simon.”

16

A Neapolitan pastry.

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I squinted my eyes to better see the numerous photos, in the shadows behind the counter. I recognized the steps and marketplace in Montesanto, the hill of Posilipo and Mount Vesuvius. I could clearly make out dear Simon right next to my dream-friend, Giambattista della Porta. “You know, Vinnie, I often mention to Marcelo that Simon seems to pop up everywhere, in our conversations and in our works, just like ‘o petrusino’.” Michael remarked, with a laugh. “Yeah. Good old Simon, the ubiquitous parsley in the salad of creative life.” Valeria translated for all. “And speaking of parsley, that reminds me of a story I heard recently. You want to hear it?” “Yes, Michael. But make it quick, I want to get over to the Center to see the old videos Charles mentioned he had. I don’t want to fall asleep, another time, before we get there. By the way, are these cakes spiked?” I insisted, jokingly. “Here goes.” Michael began. An old man was riding the subway … a young man was sitting across from him. He had wildly spiked hair with streaks of color: green, blue and purple. The old man was staring at him intently, so the young man said, “What’s the matter old man, haven’t you ever done anything out of the ordinary in your life?”. The old man said, “Yes, twenty years ago I had sex with a parrot. I thought you might be my son.” The whole group broke into waves of laughter, except Marcelo, who had probably heard the joke a hundred times before, and I then summed up our ‘coffee klatch’ with a thought I felt they might appreciate. “You know, my friends, I have always held that we should never allow the child within us to die, or vanish. In fact, I’m sure it's that very child itself which keeps us all really alive.” Marcello smiled at me, and then he added, “Along those lines, Vinnie, don’t forget what good old George Bernard Shaw once wrote. I quote, ‘We don’t stop playing because we grow old; we grow old because we stop playing.’”

Charles and Monique accompanied us to the Children’s Center, while Michael and Marcelo went back to their places of work … and play. They both promised to come out to Coney Island to visit us during the summer.

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“OK, Charles. First of all, let’s check out your “Red Hook in the Future” map, just see to how many of the group’s prognostics came true.” I suggested, and we all huddled around the enormous blow-up of the children’s ‘plan’ on display next to an aerial photo of the neighborhood dated April, 2031. Charles began talking, “Well, first off, look at all the new farmland. You see down there between Sigourney and Halleck Streets? That’s the site of the original Red Hook Community Farm which was initiated in 2001. We had actually selected that same location for a farm, along with some others places, back in 1983. It’s still going strong, and there have been a whole lot of spinoffs, too. In 2013, the Red Hook Houses Farm was the first of its kind to be created on NYC Public Housing property. We hadn’t imagined that one. How could we back then? But you know, a few years before the ‘End’ those two places were producing enough to stock two bi-weekly local Farmers Markets and several of the up-end restaurants down on the piers, in the ‘Hipster Hook’. But, hey anyway, those enterprises were providing work and income for a whole lot of folks down here. Then, after the USA and the world collapsed, the local needs and know-how came together, and farms and community gardens multiplied throughout the neighborhood. Look at all those small green areas and that big swath down below Bay Street.” Charles pointed to that site on the aerial photo. “And those big green areas all along the waterfront, around that big building? Are those farms, too?” “Nope, Vinnie, those are some of the famous pastures we had dreamed about. You’ll remember them, for sure!” “How could I forget them? A few of the kids, especially Eddie, had imagined flocks of sheep and goats all along the waterfront. And I remember that you, Monique, didn’t totally agree with them.” “That’s right, Vinnie. But I guess I got it wrong. In fact, around 2010, the Community Farm introduced sheep grazing - for their milk and as a source of natural fertilizers. They kept them out on that grassy area between the run-down baseball fields off Columbia Street. By the time of the collapse, that new idea had taken hold and had multiplied considerably. They had more than doubled the number of sheep and started marketing cheese and milk products. They even began to introduce goats in the wilder, more barren areas around the Hook. The re-naturalization of the Gowanus Bay Terminal began in that period. Nowadays, there’s a goat herder who lives in a small yurt down there on the water, and keeps a herd of about 40 or 50 animals down there. She produces some really great goat cheese and yogurt.” “Don’t tell me Eddie is part of these operations, Monique.” I winked and hoped it was true. “No, Vinnie. Eddie didn’t make it. He was one of the kids we lost before the changes started happening.” I grimaced and could see in my mind’s eye slim, coal-black Eddie hunched over a colorful drawing of his ‘dream pastures’ on the very map-plan stretched before us. Sadly, not everything comes out the way we hope it will. “La società è una brutta bestia.” Vali, crestfallen, remarked and then, to lighten the atmosphere, she asked. “What about you kids’ famous ‘Money Factories’? Did those ever get built?” “There isn’t any need for them these days, Vale. The wealth has been redistributed equitably, anyway, just as we had been hoping. You remember? The old folks we interviewed

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had given us the idea that ‘everybody should have the same amount of housing, work, wealth and opportunity’. Yeah. Grandma Macey, Sister Reed, Miss Elisabeth and Mr. Slim sure knew what they were talking about.” Monique declared.

“Hey, so where’s the Cookie Factory that you guys imagined!” Lele yelped. “Take it easy, Lele! That’s Michael’s big bakery down here.” He said, pointing his finger. “Maybe Vinnie remembers that this building became a huge IKEA shopping center. Michael started negotiating with that company to build his much-needed extension on their land, but then, when the ‘End’ came and global enterprises like IKEA fell apart, he and his cooperative actually converted their warehouse into his ‘Cookie Factory’.” “Wow! His factory takes up that whole space! I can’t believe it.” I exclaimed. “No, Vinnie. His activities don’t need such a vast area. He isn’t Nabisco, eh?” Charles smiled and added, “The Cookie Factory is here in this narrow wing that opens out onto the Erie Basin Park. Mike and his people use the ex-IKEA docks for shipping their wares across the river to Manhattan and all the way up to Beacon.” “Impressive. But I imagine that the rest of the IKEA complex is still abandoned.” “Don’t be so pessimistic, Prof. What ever happened to your good old Utopian thinking?! The rest of that complex has become the Red Hook Light Tram Cooperative. Back in 2014, a Mobility Innovation start-up was founded on Beard Street, and the first project they undertook – you’re not gonna believe it! – was the light rail line that I had, kind of, ‘invented’ in my speech during the WNYE-TV program. Maybe you’ll remember when I declared that there should be a train, for kids especially, on the old abandoned rails along the docks which could take us from the Projects to the waterfront, and back. ‘Just like in San Francisco’, I had specified.” “Do I ever remember it!! But they really built it?! Were you involved in the project?” I was amazed.

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“Nope. But I practically fell off my seat when I heard about the project! It was part of an extensive waterfront redevelopment plan, for tourists and businesses mostly. In the end, it did serve the local community well, too. That small enterprise not only survived the collapse – since it had been entirely created with local resources and know-how – but, it grew into an important city-level Cooperative and, actually, went on to design and manufacture the light tram technology you came down here on.” “Mamma mia! Having heard all this, now I’d love to have a look at the production-cuts Charles said he had. The ones that WNYE made for their TV show on our Project. I want to hear you talk, Charles, and I want to see all of you, as beautiful youngsters, and listen to all of the other kids’ ideas, in their own words. I think I recall that the troupe did hours of filming, and that you kids talked a hell-of-a-lot. You not only made presentations of your plans for the neighborhood, but also showed your ideas on the Future of the World, in general.” We went into a smaller room, just off the atrium. There was a large flat-screen monitor on the wall. Charles closed the skylight shutters to darken the room, and we all sat down in the cool, open space. The first ‘video’ came on, and there we were—Vale, Martin, Ms. Leonard and principal Morfesi—trying hard to appear relaxed in front of the TV cameras. We repeated our discourses every time the director said it hadn’t gone well, or when we had bumbled our lines. Mr. Morfesi was super-cool and relaxed as he synthesized and praised the numerous learning objectives our Project had achieved. Vale, despite her ‘language problem,’ gave a really good speech. I, the Project Director, was expected to introduce the project and its international connections at length. But did I ever blow it! There were four takes before I got it right. Everybody teased me back then … like they were doing now. When Martin, who at the time was a doctoral student with a thesis concerning the Project, launched into a spiel about ‘Interpretation and Planning,’ ‘Deep Hermeneutics’ and ‘Critical Human Geography.’ Lele groaned out loud, “Please, Charles, turn this boring stuff off! I want to see you and Monique … when you were little kids.” Charles juggled a few dials and got the digital recording right to the point when the children were about to begin presenting the drawings of their ‘Future World Ideas,’ which they had completed that same morning. The camera panned the classroom and took in the joyous bustle of activity which filled the place. There was a group of four kids around a slide table organizing the community AV presentation. There were smaller groups, mostly couples, hunched over tape recorders in animated conversations. And there was little Michael, with his huge, tear-drop tortoise-shell eyeglasses. He was scrubbed clean and ‘dressed to kill’ in his best Sunday duds—pressed chinos, striped polo shirt and a colorful clothe belt — weaving through the crowd recording each child’s response to his pressing question: “What does your collage of the Future mean to you?”.

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Along the walls, a continuous sheet of meter-high newsprint paper encircled the space. Along its length were depicted the colorful visions of what the children feared, hoped and— just maybe—actually ‘knew’ the Future of our World would be. The program director of WNYE had requested that, in addition to the class’s many proposals for the neighborhood, the children might openly discuss the Future, in general. The policies of Reagan’s presidency and a few recent international incidents had, once again, instilled widespread fear for the survival of humanity and the planet. The director wanted to know what the children thought about their world, at that time.

Monique—dressed in a flowing, salmon-red chiffon dress which fell below her knees in counterpoint to her shiny, black Mary Janes—with a microphone in hand, approached the teams-of-two positioned in front of the wall drawings. I was struck by the loving care which all the mothers and grandmothers had afforded their children on this special day. It was to be their first television appearance. Monique’s radiant face was framed by a pair of elegant, coral-red triangular earrings and perfectly braided hair. Michael, snickering nervously, was at her side holding the portable tape recorder. The historic interview, which I had been so awaiting, commenced. “Well, Eddie and Charlene, tell me about your drawing. What are those robots doing down there around the clock factory?” Michael, with his natural-born showman’s poise, pointed to an enormous robot holding a writhing stick-figure human above its head.

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“The robots are pulling the workers out of the windows.” “Why they doin’ that, Charlene?” Michael interjected. “Because they’re taking away their jobs. All the jobs, and the workers are fighting back.” “Except, the workers lost.” Eddie added. “Those dudes are big, strong and violent. We can’t ever beat ‘em.” “Yeah, but like when there are no more people, who’s going to build the robots, huh?” Monique asked. “Maybe, the robots can build themselves. Maybe.” Eddie replied. “Why do you always say ‘maybe’? Why don’t just say ‘yes’ or ‘no’?” Monique insisted. Receiving no answer from both of the children, Monique and Michael moved on to the next drawing. “Hello, Marcelo. Hi, Nyesha. Tell us about that yellow-purple circle and the triangle-shaped thing in your drawing. What are those bumpy things sticking out? It looks like the moon. Maybe, they’re planets?” “Yeah, Monique, those are the ‘Good Planet’ and the ‘Bad Planet’. In the Future, the government decided to put all the good people on this planet and all the bad guys on the other one.” Nyesha pointed to the circular planet. “So, then what happened?” Michael asks. “The bad guys got good, because after they started fighting and killing each other – they had learned their lesson.” “I don’t buy that.” Marcelo retorted. “People just get worse, hanging around with only bad people and fighting. How could they learn to be good? How could they change themselves?” “That’s a good question, Marcello.” Michael smiled. “And I don’t know the answer.” “Maybe, it’s like Grandma Macey and Miss Elisabeth always say – you just gotta love each other and take care of people and places, and then a positive change will come about.” Monique suggested. “I sure hope so.” Marcelo replied, with an unsure grin.

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Monique and Michael then walked over to where Charles was standing, all alone, in front of a large drawing. “Hi, Charles, where’s Randy?” Monique asked. “He went back to work on the slide-tape because he didn’t like my ideas about the future. He was afraid of what I think is possibly coming. I’m afraid, too. But that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t talk about it.” “Ok, Charles, so tell us about your drawings, please. There’s a lot happening up there.” Monique indicated. “Yeah, this drawing here shows World War III between Russia and the USA in the Future.” “You mean you want a war between Russia and us?!” Michael looked astonished and scared. “What are you crazy, Mike? I don’t want it to happen. I just think, like I’m afraid, that it will happen. What with all those nuclear bombs that they’re building. And that Star Wars thing, too. You know there’ll be satellites in orbit soon that can shoot missiles and stuff from way up there. Why would they spend all that money building atomic bombs and missiles, if they don’t want to use them? I’m really scared it’s gonna happen. My mom says that Reagan is a nut-case who doesn’t care at all about us poor people. And he doesn’t even like New York City. I heard they’re even trying to make a Hydrogen bomb, or something like that. They said that it will only kill all the people and leave the buildings and all the other stuff still standing.” “That’s scary, Charles. So, if it happens, are we all gonna die? Do you think all of the continents will be destroyed or just some of them?” Monique asked. “I don’t know. Maybe some parts of the world, like South America, might not be involved. They don’t have any atomic bombs there. I think. But New York, man, we’re gonna get blown away! New York has so much important stuff here that it will be a sure target for the Russians.” Marcelo, who had slipped into the frame, grabbed the microphone and interjected. “Hey amigos, I’m gonna move to South America or Mexico. I can speak the lingo. You wanna come along?” “Don’t kid around, Marcelo, this is scary stuff. And I want to understand it.” Monique took the mic back. “So, these other pictures here show forests and rocks, and cavemen and dinosaurs. What does that mean?” “Like I said, maybe not all of the people will die but, for sure, most of the buildings and modern stuff and technology will be blown away. And then there’s all that radiation and fallout which will kill animals and plants and change the cli, cli …, you know, the climate. Like they said it might get really hot and rain a lot, or there might be another Ice Age or something. They really don’t know.” “So, where did the dinosaurs come from?” Michael asked. “Oh, here I just wanted to say that like maybe the whole world will just start all over again. You know, like animals will evolve again and people will, too. And maybe, they might be different this time around.” “What do you mean by ‘different’?”. “Like nicer and smarter, Monique. I really hope so.”

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The frame froze at that point, and the time code on the screen read “2.45PM/10.21.83.”

“Oh Madonna mia, Charles! It seems to me like you kids had some kind of a crystal ball. You saw it all coming.” I needed a smoke. I thought it odd that I had completely forgotten that part of that day … or maybe I had just blocked it all out. It was evident that Charles had been a very smart young boy, and that he and his family had followed the news. They obviously knew about Reagan’s so-called ‘Strategic Defense Initiative’ and about the massive buildup in the two countries’ nuclear arms arsenals. Maybe he had even heard of the downing of a Korean airliner with over 200 passengers, by a Russian fighter jet, just one month before that day. Our world was already careening towards destruction, and an 11-year-old boy had sensed it, while I myself—if I remembered correctly—was oblivious to it all. I was probably distracted by my convictions that local action with children and youth was more important and could do something to dissipate the madness and turn the tide of history, in some way. My thoughts were interrupted by Lele, as often happened. He tugged my shirt sleeve and said, “But, Signò Vinnie, there aren’t any dinosaurs around Brooklyn now, and I like the way things are today.” “I agree with you, Lele.” “I” continued, “I’m really happy that Charles got the part about New York wrong, too. You know, I’ve never been able to really figure out why this part of America was spared the bombing. There have been so many hypotheses, theories and explanations, but I still don’t get it. I mean, even Trump at that point in the war, would’ve wanted to bomb New York. Can anybody, please, provide me an answer?” I asked. “Maybe somebody in Moscow loved Brooklyn’s bagels and bialys as much as you, my gluttonous husband.” Vale cut the glum, tense atmosphere with a joke that started the group laughing and put a welcome end to any further discussion of politics, or the like. “Listen, Vinnie. It’s getting late, and you said you would like to visit the waterfront. Why don’t we take the tram which stops down there, near the eco-plaza?” Charles suggested and we all agreed. When we stepped off the tram onto the waterfront promenade, it all came back to me. I recalled how the final, dream-like scenes in the kids’ slide tape had been sound recorded

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and photographed here, on the same day of the TV shoot. After long hours of indoor recording, the children wanted to take a walk down to the waterfront since it was a beautiful day, and because many of their most interesting proposals regarded that particular section of Red Hook. “You know, Charles, I remember what we did and what you said on that sunny afternoon – almost every word of it – clear and easy, just like it was yesterday. Over the years, I’ve watched that slide-tape dozens of times.” I scanned the beautiful horizon with its altered distant skyline, and I took in the changes right around me on the docks, and in the streets that led down to the riverside. “Yeah, we want to hear you do it, Signò Vinnie.” Feven and Lele chimed in unison. “Give it a try, Professor.” Monique added, and Charles nodded, smiling. “This is gonna be a good one. Dio salvaci.17” Vale teased me, as usual. With a clear image in my mind of the out-of-focus slides of blue sky and water, I began reciting Charles’ words: “Hey look! This view of the river is so beautiful. Look, what’s that I see? It’s the Statue of Liberty with one hand held high, with her book in her hand … and with the chains around her feet. It’s a beautiful sight from here. It’s just a beautiful sight. Well, most of the people are looking at the water. Boy, is this river really dirty around here! Today pollution is really getting out of hand. All this … There’s bugs and dirt and wood and everything. Bananas even in here. Now, look over there … ugh! What’s that I see here? Bananas … yuck! Just plain, old dirty. The water is just so disgusting, it’s so sad. I hope in the Future, that finally people will clean it up. It’ll be so beautiful. Let’s listen to the water for a minute.” I interrupted the soundtrack, and I described the scene from memory. I mentioned the look of terror on the sound technician’s face when Charles had pushed his boom down towards the river’s surface to record the water sounds and stopped the expensive microphone just inches from the splashing, dirty river. “That’s just like we’re doing now. Listening to the river, on a beautiful day.” Lele remarked. “Right, sweetie … the weather is beautiful just as it was then. But the river is so much cleaner now.” “Did Charles say anything else, Vinnie?” Feven asked and—with the sound of the fast-moving river, then and now, in my ears, and the blue sky around and above us—I took up from where I had left off.

17

“God save us” in Italian.

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“Isn’t the beautiful current so beautiful? Hey, like Scott just said, he got a point. If they start cleaning up the river and making it beautiful maybe they’ll clean up and repair the whole city. Like we could take these rusty, old buildings and make them of use. Turn them into Children’s Centers where the children could play in them.” I interrupted the beautiful discourse of Charles as a child, and I said, “And then at that point, Scott and Charles began to talk about the abandoned railway tracks. They suggested that they could be reutilized. Scott had said: ‘… we should make a nice tram line which would go through the whole neighborhood, just like the one we saw in a book about San Francisco’.” “And they really built it! Not only around Red Hook but all the way down to where we live, way out in Coney.” “Yes, Feven, the power of Children’s Imagination - together with the support and goodwill of adults - is unstoppable.” It had been a marvelous, invigorating day. On the way back to Coney Island, I called to mind the wonderful, hope-filled words which Charles had used to close the children’s slide tape “Red Hook in the Future.” “It’s a lovely day for a walk, it’s a lovely day for everything. The sun is shining … There’s not too much and there’s not too less. There’s not one raincloud in sight. The sky is all blue …”.

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At that point in the presentation, the music had come back in. Once again, the powerful “Message” from Grand Master Flash and his crew sounded, and then the final slide image appeared. I could see the big blue words on a white background proclaim:

We Love the Future!

Original photo by Marcelo Maldonado from the Red Hook children’s slide tape May, 1983.

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Children’s Free Play Can Save Our World (March—May, 2043) (The Mystery Resolved, a Belief Confirmed)

In this final section, my father’s lifelong “romantic thesis” that children’s free play and genuine participation could, in some way, “save the world” is put to a final test and emerges—he believes—confirmed. During the months described herein, the intricate and incomplete mosaic of ‘life pieces’ which have filled this book—and which comprise the author’s very being—fall into place and, finally, make sense to him. I sincerely hope they will make sense to the reader, as well. His memories and rediscovery of places, personages, ideas and experiences (e.g., the Green Bank Observatory, Norm and Mike and Worm Hole Theory, the Northern Lights epiphany and a Hopi prophecy, the reactivation of the Internet, etc.) assist the author in reflecting back and forth in time. This process facilitates his reconstruction and resolution of unanswered questions. In the end, the author’s faith in—and love for—free play in All Children is reconfirmed as the essential ingredient in the story … and (for my father) in History. For the moment, I think it best to not reveal the resolution of the, so-called, “Mystery of Green Bank.” I will leave this to the contents of the following pages. Note: On the cover of a bound vintage portfolio (containing many of this publication’s original manuscripts) which I found in my father’s archives, after his death, was a yellow Post-it. On it, in black and red marker ink, was written in trembling script: “Under the summer roses, when the flagrant crimson lurks in the dusk of the wild red leaves, love - with little hands - comes and touches you with a thousand memories, and asks you beautiful, unanswerable questions.”18 I think this ‘stanza,’ by Carl Sandburg, which I discovered by chance sums it all up.

18

Sandburg, Carl (1916) Under the Harvest Moon. In the collection Chicago Poems (Public Domain).

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Mea Culpa (05/04/2043) Hello again, dear diary. And hello to all the readers of the book which this crazy chronicle has become. I still can’t believe the fact that this has actually happened! I am literally bursting with joy. It has now been almost six years since we’ve last spoken… but, seeing that our days together are drawing to a close, I think it only fitting that I explain to you what I’ve been up to during this period of silence. I assure you that, despite my having become weaker in body and mind, I haven’t become lazy! In all truth, I have been busier than ever in this last year. And, in these last months, so many unbelievable things have happened that I don’t know where to begin. At the center of this vortex has been, as usual, my daughter. As I said earlier, her long quest to get my writings into print has finally been successful. Bibbiana managed to overcome my initial resistance and, in the end, she pulled off the impossible. In December of last year, a very prestigious Academic Publisher approved a new editorial proposal which not only included my diary chronicle but, in addition, a significant portion of the “Coming of Age, etc.” manuscript which I previously told you I had rediscovered … seven years ago. The definitive project, which will contain numerous photographs, visual ideas by children and audio transcripts of their voices from my project archives, is structurally and graphically complex. Still, I am certain that she (and the editor) will create a beautiful book, wonderful to see and touch. My only fear is that I will never have the occasion to hold it in my hands. In December, the initial euphoria inspired by the Editor’s letter subsided after a few days when she realized that the nine chronicles, I had written in the previous six years (and had never shared with her) hadn’t been calculated into her definitive proposal. Were these sections to be included, the final draft would have exceeded the editor’s limit by almost 200 pages! Since she is her father’s “greatest fan” (and probably, l’unico19), she insisted that these portions be included. Naturally, I opposed the idea as best as I could since such a decision would have meant long months of bickering and, most of all, an insurmountable editing task on her part. Our stand off continued until late December, when I finally acquiesced and agreed to provide her with the missing chapters. “Next year … on New Year’s Day” I had grudgingly said to her. My cheeks are flushed with shame as I write these words. Can my sagging, crimson jowls explain—or justify—what I did that night? No! Nothing on this good earth can do so. Here is my confession, my ‘mea culpa.’ Shortly after midnight, in the first minutes of yet another New Year, I sat alone in my darkened studio revering in the multicolor pyrotechnics reflecting off my old photographs on the white walls. My inebriated eyes blissfully scanned the many places and young faces from my long life. Those images were rendered crystalline and concrete by the thousands of words I had written over the last decade, and had reread ever so carefully … in these last months.

19

“The only one” translation from Italian.

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I thought how, as my own end approaches, I have begun to glimpse flashes of a counter-life in another place and time. This led me to reflect on two close encounters with death which occurred in another time—at the threshold of my adulthood—and which brought me to seek another life in another place, in Italy. The powerful trauma image of those two events convinced me that our last editorial solution was correct. Those dramatic episodes certainly represented the best narrative twist with which to conclude the “growing up” part of the book. But I thought at that moment, what about the diary part? How should that portion conclude? With my eyes fixed on the faded photo of the Red Hook waterfront, I recalled that day— in 2037, I think it was—when I discovered that the better futures which the children from that neighborhood had imagined and designed in 1982 had actually served to create our better today. Imbued with an undying faith in childhood, I realized how perfectly that ‘diary’ episode —with its closing words of hope and conviction: “We Love the Future!”—could best orient the book towards this, its final chapter. As clear as day, I decided that my last six years of writing would find no place in my daughter’s “editorial project.” Without further thought, I proceeded to delete all those ‘useless’ files from my old PC. Minutes later, I was sitting silently staring at the empty folder icon on the screen, when a loud explosion from the street shook me from my thoughts. In that instance, my cowardly plan imploded. I shuddered as waves of shame swelled up within me. The sound of my empty words—my betrayed promise to Bibbiana—pounded in my skull. I knew that in a few hours, after our traditional New Year dinner, she would expect to receive those now inexistent files from me. There’s no need to say that I didn’t sleep a wink that night. How could I confess my shameful act to my daughter? Then again, should I? Perhaps, I could come up with a shrewd, yet tender, way to hide my misdeed? The light of dawn brought no pearls of wisdom, no solution to my dilemma. When I awoke paralyzed with guilt, I understood that I would have to improvise, as I so often do. Improvise … and tell the truth. That afternoon, as faltering words formed the story of my vile act, my daughter’s expression revealed that she understood and accepted what I had done. Without saying a word, not only did she let me know that she had forgiven me, but she also informed me that she was, in fact, pleased with—and relieved by—my midnight stratagem. The terrible tension I had borne into the New Year vanished in the blink of an eye. At that very moment, my great grandchildren rushed into the room, and immediately I knew that 2043 would be a peaceful and easy year. What is more, the odd sensation I had been feeling over the last months—that some wonderful and hard-to-believe events were in the making—morphed into a near-certainty in the same instance. By the end of the day, one of my ‘premonitions’ had already come true. Since the only editorial task Bibbiana assigned me was to edit the last three diary chronicles, the year 2043 would certainly be an easy and peaceful one. I shared my feeling that the first months of the year would be particular, but I could never have imagined what actually was about to transpire.

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Before I tell you what happened, I want to first share a few, quick notes which my daughter insisted I write. Smiling, she had said to me: “Papà, I think the readers will be interested in knowing a little about your life and about our world during these six years you let’s just say, for convenience – lost by accident.” Here goes. Regarding a mini-chronicle of the events and developments in today’s world over the last six years, I am pleased to say that nothing terrible has happened. While small-scale uprisings and repressive governmental reactions continue in the Chinese-dominated territories, there haven’t been any major wars or environmental catastrophes. There haven’t been any of the unpleasant ‘surprises’ that we might have expected. Interregional communications have improved, and it appears that many of the world’s regions have initiated and are maintaining collaborative exchanges. In our part of the world, mutualism and cooperation, symbiosis with nature and active participation of all citizens continue to be the guiding principles, and they are working out very well. As far as I can see, I can safely say that everything has continued to improve in the Region and city. As my Uncle Rocco would have surely said: “… everything around the block is just hunky-dory.” I’m certain that he and Aunt Emma would have been very happy here, today. What I can easily do, with a minimum expenditure of energy, is jot down a quick synthesis of my home and community life during the years which “got lost by accident.” Here’s a rundown. I get up early every morning, cook when no one is around to help me and still eat with pleasure. I hang out on the terrace when the weather’s good, and I continue to enjoy watching the kids playing down in the courtyard. I smoke a little (much less than I used to), play my guitar often and write occasionally (that part is lost, however). I converse, argue, kid around and cuddle with my life’s love each and every day. I go to sleep and, thank God, I continue to dream intensely and colorfully. Lele and Feven are my witnesses. I see quite a few people … family and friends. We get more visitors than we used to during our first years back in Brooklyn, and the steady flow of company has kept my health good and my spirits high. Affinity groups are truly the Secret Elixir of a Long Life. Since my children and their families have moved back to Brooklyn (it must be three or four years ago), we often see them. It’s great to have my five grandchildren and their nine offspring within arms’ reach. Grand and great grandchildren are a wonderful invention. The children all love my crazy stories, and they can’t get enough of my letting them do whatever they want. I have the impression that each and every one of them has come to really love the good, old Brooklyn life. I go outside occasionally, accompanied by the family kids when they’re over, but mostly I hang around with Lele. These days, I get pushed around the neighborhood, and sometimes beyond its limits, in my brand new wheelchair. He and the other kids are certainly lucky that the new solar energy elevator was installed before I became entirely “wheel dependent.” As I said before, it appears that things are going great in our neighborhood and in our local world. I can’t say much more (than I did) about the rest of the planet. I don’t manage to follow the ‘News’ much, these days. Vale had been almost totally bedridden, during most of the last year. Her chronic arthritis had gotten the best of her. Her mind is still as sharp as ever (I wish I could say the same for mine), and her spirits are always high. I’m happy that I finally managed to convince her to use marijuana (after 60 years of trying), and now she has almost no pain at all. In the last

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month, in fact, she’s begun getting around better once again, and I pray that she will hold on longer than I do. I couldn’t live without her. In conclusion, my brain has been in great form recently. This is probably a result of the extraordinary turn of events. These last two months have been full of surprises. They literally blew me away! I think that they’ll have the same effect on you, the reader. March 2 Last night, Lele came by to visit us. It was great to see him. He hadn’t been here since Vale’s birthday. It’s been almost a month, which is a long lapse of time for him not to visit. He came with a present for me, so I guess he was feeling a little guilty. It was a pen-drive video file of an old Garcia and Grisman live performance. When he uploaded it onto my PC, I couldn’t believe my eyes and ears. He couldn’t have known it, but that song had always been my favorite version of that old Jimmy Cliff song. The interplay of David’s mandolin and Jerry’s guitar were as sublime as I had remembered. There’s that verse in the song which I’ve always considered my life theme that keeps on going round and round in my head. I hear you loud and clear, Jerry. But excuse my asking, “moving on to where?”. Lele informed me that he had been down in West Virginia visiting his brother during the last month. He said he had been on a study leave from his ‘Bernie Sanders High School’ (I just love that name!). He met up with his brother down there. Since last summer, Fortunato has been in the town of Green Bank (that name seemed to ring a bell when I heard it). His affinity group is part of the New York Commune’s Skills Exchange Program. They have been there teaching the local community how to apply the shared protocols and procedures for something Lele referred to as ‘Ariadne’s Thread.’ Fortunato’s group, in turn, was learning about the Southerners’ innovative strategies for harnessing the power of carbon cycles and for rebuilding the delicate, and essential, natural infrastructures. It sounded like it probably was a nice collaborative exchange and learning process. When I asked him what the hell was this “Ariadne’s Thread,” he replied, “That’s the new name for what you old fogies used to call ‘the Web’ or ‘the Internet’. You mean to tell me you don’t know that we’re reconnected once again?! Here in New York, the ‘Thread’ has been in place for almost a year. I can’t believe you didn’t know it! Of course, it does make sense. You still use that vintage jalopy PC! I guess it’s a miracle that old thing still works. And if it does, you have only your friend, Lele, to thank for it.” He smiled proudly. I asked him if he thought my old wreck could be connected to the ‘Thread,’ and he said he would give it a try. If he didn’t possess the necessary skills, he said he was sure that his brother could manage it, upon his return. To make a long story short … by the end of the afternoon, Lele had hooked me up to the local server which had the lovely name of “linkconey.net.” Finally, I’m back on line with the ‘world.’ Or am I on the ‘Thread’? Anyway, it seems to work very well. Thank you, Lele. And grazie, Cara Ariadne. March 20 Today was a full and emotional day. In the morning, Lele came by with some bagels and spreads. We had breakfast together with Vale on the balcony. It was the first time she’d been outside in a while, and she was in great spirits. She brought up the subject of my upcoming Birthday, and she said it was about time that we had a really big party—like in the

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good old days. It probably had to do with her feeling so much better. Lele was very excited with the idea, and he offered to help out in its organization. He suggested that we could hold the party down in the courtyard. I liked the possibility of a party, but I said that it all would depend on how Vale was feeling when the time came. At one point, seeing that the weather was warming up, Lele asked me if I’d like to go down to the Children’s Grove where Feven was preparing for the next day’s annual Children’s Spring Festival. I was game, so we went. “Well, hello there Signò Vinnie! It’s such a joy to see you down here again. How are you feeling, today?” Feven, my ‘little sunshine,’ has grown into such a splendid and brilliant 19-year-old woman. When we arrived at the House of Earth, she was playing her harmonica and teaching the young children the words to an old, little-known Guthrie tune. I gave her a big hug and told her to get back to the preparations. Then we (st)rolled over to sit in my favorite spot in the Grove, the awe-inspiring majolica fountain gardens. Lele wanted to continue planning for my party. He said he thought he could use Ariadne to try and find some of my long-lost friends—the ones he had heard so much of in the stories I’ve told him, over the years. Even though the thought intrigued me, I told him not to bother. I didn’t think I could take it, emotionally. He grew silent and took out his notebook, and I sat back to relax my bones. Whenever I’m in that place with its sculptured benches and fountains, and its walkways —inlaid with majolica ceramic remnants—oddly enough, my thoughts don’t turn to Antonio Gaudi but, instead, go to the Santa Chiara cloisters in Naples, where I’d spent many moments with Vale and Bibbiana when she was a baby. Who knows why? Maybe, it’s the prevalence of the yellows and blues, so reminiscent of my beloved Tyrrhenian Sea, which takes me back there. Or, perhaps, it’s the pergola with the lush hanging grapevines and wisteria. Or, most probably, it’s the fact that I so treasure the out-of-focus photo that my daughter snapped there … when she was only two years old.

Photo by Bibbiana, age 2 (1979)

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When Lele noticed the thoughtful, far-away look on my face, he asked me what was on my mind. “Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about Napoli, Lele, and about how lucky and strange my life has been.” He had heard my stories of the children and the places of Naples, but I had never shared much information with him, or others, about how I had arrived and stayed on in that city. He knew very little about our family life there, and that was what I was thinking about. For some reason, the floodgates opened and I spoke out. “Lele, have you ever stopped to think of how one simple decision, like where you want go to eat one evening, might turn out to change the entire course of your life? Well, it did for me.” My mind was bubbling with vivid images. Lele straightened up and closed his note book. His expression, full of curiosity, drew out the whole story. I recounted how I had arrived in Southern Italy with a good friend following our graduation from Harvard’s Graduate School of Design. Mark and I made two stops before reaching my destination. We had landed in London where we worked with Simon Nicholson on a BBC radio program concerning children’s sound landscapes in an East London neighborhood for his Open University Art and Environment course. Next, we went on to Paris for some pleasant ‘rest and relaxation.’ Afterwards, we continued our travels together to Italy. There, I decided to stay on in Positano where friends of mine were living, while Mark—after a week on the beach—headed up to Norway to do just what I was planning to do. We both wanted to rediscover our family roots. After five months of making music and sketching in Positano or, alternately, traveling through the regions of my ancestors, I was, once again, feeling lost (aka ‘in Limbo’). I was feeling that I should probably move on. One afternoon, while seriously considering a return to New York my friend’s brother, Ettore, suggested that we all go into Naples. He wanted to show around me the city and to offer me “the best pizza I had ever tasted.” The possibility of sightseeing intrigued me, but it was the second item on his list which really convinced me. After a fabulous dinner in a pizzeria in Port’Alba, we were walking through Piazza Dante when we ran into Ettore’s Sociology professor. The friendly, round-faced man was intrigued by my stories of the street work I had been doing with children in Boston’s Columbia Point. He wanted to better understand what ‘participatory design’ was all about. He invited me to give a talk in his Urban Sociology class the following week, and I accepted. On the day of my presentation, the Aula Magna was packed beyond belief. The students were even more numerous than those in my first General Chemistry class at Columbia. There must have been over four hundred students, and half of them were standing and smoking in the aisles and doorways. Little kids, who couldn’t have been more than ten years old, ran up and down the amphitheater steps carrying trays of smoking expressos. In confirmation of the ‘Small World’ theories, in the hall were three young women that I had met in Sicily at a Danilo Dolci20 workshop, a few months earlier. They had mentioned that

Danilo Dolci was a Sicilian Sociologist, Poet, Educator and Pacifist. He has been referred to as “The Italian Gandhi.”

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they were Sociology students in Naples, but I never imagined to meet up with them again. In fact, in Sicily, I tried to avoid them whenever I could, but they just stuck to me like flies. When the lecture began, they took their places below the podium, behaving like groupies at a Grateful Dead concert. I tried not to look at them. I fixed my attention, instead, on the striking green eyes of a beautiful, black-haired woman sitting a few rows behind them. She didn’t appear to be very interested, but I was. Although I’ve often tried over the years which followed, I can’t remember what I actually said that day. At the time, I couldn’t speak more than twenty words of Italian, but I had a big selection of slides from my Harvard children’s participation projects. When the presentation was over, something had happened. Probably, it was the fact that the students were very interested in my work or, perhaps, the fact that it felt good to be back in the midst of students and activists, or maybe it was just that emerald-eyed woman. In any case, when the Professor’s teaching assistant asked me if I wanted to stay for a while at his apartment to get to know Napoli better and to observe a new political movement which was “involving the city’s Lumpen Proletariat,” I jumped at the occasion. The very next day, I moved my backpack and guitar into his sixth floor, walk-up “penthouse.” It was a convivial dump. His roommates were friendly, out-of-town students from the countryside to the East of Naples. When they discovered that my family was from Basilicata, like them, we immediately became ‘cugini21’ and very good friends. We remained friends for life, as it turned out. During the first weeks of my stay, there was a constant stream of visitors to the apartment. One day, a friend of my ‘cugino’ Peppe came over for lunch. The guest, I learned, was my roommate’s ex-girlfriend. In all truth, it was “ex” for her, but he still hadn’t gotten over it. When she walked into the kitchen, I dropped the wooden spoon into the ragù22 I was preparing, splattering myself. She was the very same, green-eyed woman who had been at my talk. A few minutes later, after I had cleaned myself up, I discovered her name was …”. “Vale!” Lele exclaimed, his humid eyes glistening in the sunlight. And then he added, “So, Signò Vinnie, you started getting those gravy stains on your shirt years ago.” He laughed heartily. I was disappointed that he had managed to anticipate my surprise ending, and asked how he’d guessed she was Vale. “Green eyes, Napoli, beautiful. Who else could it be? For me it was the proverbial ‘love at first sight.’ For Vale, it would take quite a bit longer. But I’ve always believed that for her, too, a spark was lit that day. When she tasted my ragù, she had smiled and said it tasted just like her grandmother’s sauce. This led to our discovering that my paternal family came from a village only fifty kilometers from her family’s home town. I think that when that happened there must have been some sort of genetic magnetism at work. I told Lele that we saw a lot of each other over the next weeks. She took me around the city and even brought me to play with some children she was working with in an elementary school in the Vomero neighborhood.

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“Cousins” in Italian. Southern Italian meat and tomato sauce.

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We grew closer as time passed. I can be pretty sticky at times. In general, it’s real hard to shake me off. “But what about that teaching assistant guy? You were sleeping in his room, right? What did he do?!” “Oh, we had some close calls and a few blow-ups, which I don’t intend to tell you about. But I will say that the way Vale handled that situation gave me a first glimpse of what an incredible person she is. Oh, in the end, I remained on talking terms with her ‘ex’. Then, he finally went off to Paris to finish his doctorate there.” I told Lele that, a few months later, my friend Simon (“That guy with crazy ideas about kids and a huge forehead,” he remarked) offered me a teaching position in his Open University Summer School Program in Brighton. Vale decided to come along. When the course was over, we took a wild car-sharing adventure across Europe with the intention of going to Greece on our way back to Naples. Since our money, and our patience with the wackos who were sharing the trip, dried up we decided to stay, alone, for a while on a desolate island in Yugoslavia. On our second day there, a huge storm front came through. No ferries could reach the island, and we were stranded. It was an incredibly dismantled place, like something out of a post-apocalypse movie. (I correct myself: it was almost like what we all lived through during the years immediately following the ‘End.’). There were bombed-out houses, boarded-up tuna packing plants and abandoned farmland everywhere. Almost all the inhabitants were grumpy old women, dressed in black, and the only foods available were stale black bread, canned sardines and pickled beets. We had to wait on line to get our rations, which ran out quickly since no boats could arrive. To survive, we would occasionally forage the abandoned fields for edible plants. We found uncultivated grapes and tomatoes, which were tiny and tart, and we picked delicious wild berries which were varied and abundant. Finally, when the bad weather broke, we were able to get back to the mainland. We hitchhiked to Venice, because we had no money left. Vale sold some jewelry she had been making (we had also sold her wares in London to finance our trip down South), while I played my guitar in Piazza San Marco. We made just enough to take the train to Florence, where we stopped once again to gather more lire to pay for another train to Napoli. While we were on the Ponte Vecchio, Vale gave a beautiful pair of blue earrings to a young Roma woman. The grateful woman said something we would both never forget: “Thank you, and may you have a beautiful baby girl.” Back in Napoli, three weeks later, we discovered to our surprise that Vale was pregnant with Bibbiana. I then told Lele something which Vale and I had always kept cherished in our hearts, but which I, at least, had never expressed to another person. During the trip, our being in places which were unfamiliar and far from our homes, and our having to collaborate creatively to survive and move forward in very difficult times, had permitted us to really get to know one another. It had strengthened our relationship and intensified our love. “Yeah, and I bet being on a deserted island with a beautiful woman, and nothing else to do, probably helped too.” “Caro Lele, you took the words right of my mouth.” We both laughed.

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“At that point, with a child coming we had to make a big decision, and we did. We decided to get married, and here we are. That’s the end of my tale … and the beginning of our story.” I sighed deeply. “And”, I added, “I am so, so happy that we made that choice.” “I am too, Signò Vinnie. For you and Vale, and for all of us.” I looked up, and saw tears rolling down Lele’s smiling face. I was crying, too. March 23 Early this morning, I was listening to a melancholy chanson I have always cherished. Francoise Hardy’s warm voice modulated images of lost loves, and of friends and places one would never again see. I was deep in thought, pondering as to why that song’s significance had never diminished, for me, in the course of almost seven decades. “Shut that music off! It’s depressing me. You got me misty the other day, and this stuff is going to start me off, again.” Lele’s words, as he burst into the room, shook me from my dreaming. We hugged, and he went to put on the morning’s second pot of coffee. I turned the player off and followed him into the kitchen. He seemed excited—like he wanted to reveal a secret—so I asked him what was up. He smiled and replied, “There’s something that I’ve been wanting to tell you ever since I got back from West Virginia. I don’t know how, but it slipped my mind for all these weeks. I think you might not be the only one who’s getting a little forgetful around here. Anyway, it’s something that happened down in Green Bank. It is an incredible story, and it’s right up your alley. It revolves around kids, play, radio waves, the night sky … and magic, maybe.” My ears perked up at the sound of his words. When I heard ‘radio waves,’ I realized why the name ‘Green Bank’ had sounded so familiar to me. I remembered that I had been there once … many years before. I recalled the radio telescope, and Mike and Norm, and the bikers, and 2001: A Space Odyssey. Those marvelous, lost days of my youth came back to me in a surging river of vivid images. “Tell me the story, Lele. Please, tell me about it.” He recounted that while he was in West Virginia, he and his classmates had stayed in a Commune near Green Bank. It was one of the many which had been established there in the 60s and 70s of the last century. This one, the Blue Light Commune, was composed primarily of the descendants of some former employees of the nearby Radio Astronomy Observatory which had been operational until Trump shut it down in 2017. Lele had been hanging out with two grandchildren of the founder and, one day, they had taken him to see the abandoned radio satellite dish on the top of the mountain. He said it was almost as wide as a football field. While they were in the lab, one of children begged his older sister, her name was Aurora, to tell the story of how she and her friends had once reactivated that radio telescope. “This happened before you were born, back in 2022.” She had begun her tale. “You know that in those years, a terrible World War was in course. The possibility of total annihilation was on the horizon. People, everywhere, were living in fear and chaos. It was a terrible time. Even our peaceful community, which had isolated itself technologically from the rest of America, felt the imminent danger. Every day, the adults and elders dreaded that the End might come. But for us kids, it was different. As is our nature, we children – remember, I was only seven years old at the time - continued to play freely, and to explore and enjoy the

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splendors of the natural environment surrounding us. By the way, there were very few, tangible signs of war or unrest around here.” She went on to tell Lele that on May Day, while the annual festivities were going on, and the adults were trying to forget the approaching Apocalypse for at least one day, she and a group of friends had slipped away and climbed up to the Observatory. It was shuttered closed, but they knew a way to get in. They often went there to play and fantasize amidst all the strange machinery. Aurora’s grandfather had taken her there the first time and, afterwards, he would often prod her to go up there with her friends to explore and to play. On the day in question, she said something extraordinary happened. A few of the older kids were playing poison ball in the laboratory while Aurora and a friend were sitting at a deactivated computer console. The two were absentmindedly stretching and twisting an old Slinky toy Aurora’s grandfather had given her. It was her favorite toy, and her Nonno had told her that it had been his favorite, too. She loved to watch the slow, hypnotic movement of the blue steel coil as it descended the steps of her porch, one by one. At the time, she and her friend were simply testing its stretch tension. They had stretched it way out, nearly to its breaking point, that moment right before it would become deformed. In that exact instance, a stray fast ball hit her sharply on the hand. It hurt badly, and it knocked the Slinky out of her grip, sending it spiraling up into the air. “It gets a little confusing here, Signò Vinnie. I hope you can manage to follow me.” Lele took a deep breath and continued on with the story. Aurora had told him that the over-pulled spring had flown, spinning into the air. Her friend had also lost his grip when Aurora screamed. The Slinky’s aerial movement captivated them. Its ends contracted, and then it rotated in space and came down directly onto what, her grandfather would later tell her, were two electrical terminals. In that very instance, her friend had fallen back, and his arm had slammed down on a lever. There was a bright flash of white light, and Aurora was thrown back off her chair. One of the older boys screamed, fearing that the flash could be the expected attack. When she and her friends had finally recovered from the initial shock, they noticed lights blinking everywhere, on the strange machines and computers surrounding them. They then heard a deafening screech, followed by a loud and constant humming sound. It was coming from the immense oval roof surface above them. They huddled together, terrorized, in a corner. They prayed and hoped to Heaven, as only children can. After what seemed an eternity, they decided it would be best to try to make the descent back to the settlement. When they emerged from the laboratory, they were surprised to find that night had already fallen. In the pitch-black sky, they saw swirling curves of intense blue light which converged into what appeared to be a big hole in the night sky. Aurora and her little friend were transfixed in awe, while the older kids were terrified. They were convinced that the End had surely come. When they heard a deafening howl in the sky above them, they couldn’t contain themselves. They scurried, in fear, down to their homes where their families, in apprehension and awe, were all waiting for them. Aurora told me that her Grandpa Norm had told her, the following day, that she and her friends had “saved our world.” He died one week later, and she never learned from him what he had really meant. “Norm?! Wait. Did you say Grandpa Norm?” I was floored. Trembling, I asked him.

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“Lele, do you know Aurora’s last name?” “Her name is Aurora Mayer. Why?”. “Her grandfather is, or I should say was, a friend of mine.” I was astounded. March 29, EASTER Today, two of our grandchildren came by with their families for Easter dinner. This day has always been a recurring, non-religious tradition of ours. I’m now too weak and feeble-minded to whip up my famous mealsfor-many, so they brought the food. I did manage to prepare a Neapolitan potato gateau for my grandson, FJ. He wouldn’t have forgiven me, if I hadn’t done so. I should mention that today was the first time that I met his new-born daughter. She’s a real beauty, and I was amazed to see that her hair was chestnut brown. At long last, she is the first of Marco’s eight descendants who has overruled that stubborn, beautiful red-hair chromosome. Carla, Bibbiana’s daughter, came with her companion and their two children. And what splendors those two kids are becoming! They’re like inquisitive, fast-moving Andean elves. They always seem to be searching for some buried treasure. That’s just the way I remember their mother was when she was their age. After dinner, Carla and FJ were telling us about some of their recent community projects, and I remarked that it appeared that our family’s old ‘destined to become an architect curse’ would never end. My granddaughter just smiled sweetly and retorted, “Oh, don’t be silly, Nonno. We’re not architects. We just help people to build things, that’s all.” Vale, the best ‘architect’ in our family—and the only one with no formal training in the field—laughed and said, “Remember, Vinnie. You started that silly myth back in the days when you were still masquerading as one, Caro.” After they left, sustained by the thoughts of my seeing them again on my birthday, I immediately went back to my web research. Ever since Lele had told me his incredible story, and I grasped the mysterious role which Norm might have played in it, I have been exploring the ‘thread’ to see if I could put together the missing pieces of the puzzle. I did a search for “Norman Mayer” and almost immediately found a web (or ‘thread’) page entitled “The Blue Light Commune – All the Errors of Our Founder” which the same Commune had recently put on-line. There were a few photos of Norm as I remembered him, along with more recent ones taken in the last years before his death. I wasn’t surprised to find that he had maintained that subversive, other worldly sparkle in his eyes. The piece told of the first years of the Commune and of Norm’s role in its foundation. I learned that he and a few of his colleagues from the Green Bank Observatory had initiated the experiment in communal living in 1971. I also discovered that he and his companion had had a son in 1977, whom they had named Boreas. The page contained a link to another file with additional information on Norm’s activities at the Commune during its first years. I discovered that my friend had been the primary mover of its 1984 decision to make the Government’s ‘No Radio’ rule for the five hundred square miles around the Observatory even more restrictive within the confines of their community. At that time, the Council had approved a statute which banned all forms of

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electronic communication technologies within its confines. In the Blue Light Commune, there were no televisions, telephones or internet connections. It was completely off the grid. Over the years, its life-style orthodoxy had spread throughout the surrounding region and I discovered, to my amazement, that those verdant valleys had become a literal mecca for the, so-called, ‘No-Link Communes’ in the decades straddling the millennium. I learned that there were seven such intentional communities in the area when the End had come. Unfortunately, the page contained only minimal information about Norm’s professional career. It was mentioned that, in the early years, he had continued to work at the Observatory. The authors criticized the ‘contradiction’ of his having remained connected to a place which represented, at the time, the apex of Radio Astronomy Science and Communications Technology. I recalled how I had often thought about Norm, affectionately, in a very similar manner. It had always amazed me how he could be, simultaneously, a scientist and a hippy subversive. He had always been perfectly capable of juggling thoughts on theoretical Astro-physics and Social Anarchism, Science Fiction and the “Scientific American,” psychedelic drugs and information technology … all in the same breath. With growing interest, I read that Norm had been fired from the Observatory, in 2003. It didn’t say it, but I was certain that the stringent security measures imposed after 9/11 wouldn’t have left any space for subversive geniuses of his caliber in any government facility. I learned that Norm had also been ousted from his Commune three years later when it had been discovered that he had furtively introduced a small generator, several computers and other electronic equipment into his wood-working laboratory in the forest. Near the end of the day, I finally found a link to short article Norm had written. It was entitled: “A Pathway towards a Commune in the Stars.” Upon opening it, I found a short, decidedly visionary piece which Norm had produced in 1974. I delve into it with renewed energy. As I read, I could hear my friend’s voice with its lunatic (or “star-struck”) Brooklyn accent. I took some notes because I thought that some combination of key words from his writings might aid me in doing successive web searches and, just maybe, in unraveling Aurora’s mysterious Green Bank story. March 31 The night before last, I had difficulty falling asleep. My thoughts ran back and forth between the past and today. With some effort, I managed to recall a few of Norm’s exact words in our college day conversations. I tried to juxtapose these with the ideas and the language in the article I had read. When I awoke, I reread with greater attention “A Pathway towards a Commune in the Stars.” I learned that Norm had begun to piece together several theoretical underpinnings to the existence of a door—or ‘doors’, as he had written—between parallel universes. He had been working to validate his vision-theory of what he called an “Intergalactic Cosmic-Cooperative Anarchism.” The references and terminology he used were beyond my comprehension—I was never any good with all that scientific stuff—but it was evident that my crazy friend, at the time, was onto something which appeared to have the inklings of a consistent internal logic. At one point, Norm had quoted an article which had considered Einstein’s work, in reference to wormholes. These were clearly his so-called ‘doors.’ He had written:

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“The equations of the Theory of General Relativity have come up with solutions that contain wormholes. The first type of wormhole solution discovered was the Schwarzschild wormhole, which would be present in the Schwarzschild metric describing an eternal black hole, but it was found that it (i.e., the wormhole) would on almost all occasions collapse too quickly for anything to cross from one end to the other.” He had made a note that he would need to dedicate greater effort towards finding the precise mathematical equations which could lay the theoretical basis for keeping “the doors open long enough” and “keep them wide enough.” “Just long (and wide) enough for something (bigger than a matzoh crumb) to pass through them.” He had then continued writing: “… and just as there are two separate interior regions of the maximally extended Space-Time, there are also two separate exterior regions sometimes called, by some, two different “universes”, with the second universe (might this be my ‘Cosmic Anarchist Dimension’?) allowing us to extrapolate possible particle trajectories in the two interior regions. This means that the interior black hole region can contain a mix of particles that fall in from either universe (and thus an observer who fell in from one universe might be able to see (blue) light that fell in from the other one), and likewise particles from the interior white hole region can escape back into either universe.” For some odd reason, at several points in his treatise Norm had specified that the light which he envisioned or imagined, rather than being white (as others had written), would have to be blue. He hypothesized that the persistence of blue light could well be a first sign that such a hole was about to open in the Universe(s). “It can only be blue,” he had typed in bold font and underlined with vigor. Another important question he considered regarded the characteristics of particles which would be capable of not only opening the hole(s), but also of passing through themselves. He offered several hypotheses regarding the size, nature and energy coefficients of such particles. Successively, he began to explore a gamma of technological options for capturing, storing and (re)emitting such particles. “Might we be able to utilize the very same radio waves which we’ve picked up from other galaxies?” He had written. He wrote that he was certain that some type of technology would be developed, in the future, to generate a suitably sized electromagnetic wormhole. He also held that mathematical theory would, one day, uphold a wormhole effect from electromagnetic waves of all frequencies. (“But which frequency, or frequencies, would serve best to open just that door – the one I’ve always imagined?” He had pondered.) He was certain that someone, someday, would also find a configuration which could both store and transmit those electromagnetic waves. He described one such scenario: “Just imagine millions of thin wormholes sticking up out of a cup. They’re like tufts of long, thin bamboo fluctuating in the wind. The wormholes themselves can’t be seen, but their end-tips would transmit the blue light up from below. Just maybe, he concluded, the radio waves we are capturing (and storing, ideally) can somehow form the correct combination ‘like the salt and spices in chicken soup get the flavor just right’ … and ‘get the whole thing cooking’.” It warmed my heart to note that dear Norm was still prone to intersperse colloquial, comical jargon in the context of rigid scientific terminology. He had also written, “The

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Schwarz wormhole would have the form of an elongated, convoluted bagel. The kind of bagel you would refuse at the corner shop. It would be impossible to put a schmear23 on it.” Or when he wrote “The absolute, infinite cosmic silence of the black hole will then be broken by an ‘immense celestial voice’. A voice which would put my Aunt Selma’s shriek to shame, and was she ever a loud alter cocker.24” I laughed, and I wondered, for an instant, whether the ‘deafening howl’ which Aurora and her friends had heard that fateful night might have been some celestial alter cocker in the act of belittling Aunt Selma’s scream. Exhausted by my digging, I began to think that—at least theoretically—Norm’s crazy hypothesis could be plausible. But I asked myself why, in Heaven’s name, did it happen precisely on that terrible May Day night? I knew, for a fact, that the Observatory had been abandoned for over five years when Aurora’s story had occurred. I had assumed, incorrectly, that most of the laboratory’s equipment would have been dismantled and/or inoperable at that time. Most of all, I wondered what exactly Norm had meant when he had written that “… The last step in the chain of actions and events leading to the aperture of the hole in our universe (s) must be unintentional.” In the very next sentence, he had cryptically asserted “… this final passage can only be brought about by an unintended childish, playful act.” When I read these words, my heart beat like a drum. I read and reread that last phrase, over and over again. Still, I was beginning to fear I would never come to understand what had happened at the Observatory, or what actions had set the stage for Norm’s granddaughter’s becoming the actor who had “saved our world.” I disparately needed to decipher the meaning of Norm’s affirmation to his granddaughter. But I just didn’t know how. April 3 Today, when I awoke, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Norm and his granddaughter might have been, in some way, instrumental in the salvation of our part of the world. After all, no one has ever really understood—or been able to explain—why the missiles launched by Russia towards the US Northeast had not reached their target. It was never officially confirmed (Nb. the Federal Government no longer existed), but word on the street held that over fifty war heads had been launched by Russia and had been tracked on our radar. Beyond that, nothing more definitive had ever been said or written about it. The mystery remained, and it bugged me tremendously. Where did those missiles go? I went back to Ariadne and tried several new combinations of the key words: Norman Mayer, Radio Astronomy, Green Bank, Black Holes, etc. These brought up a plethora of references, all of which were useless for my ends. I found some early scientific publications by Norm and a few articles by others about his work and findings. I discovered, to my surprise, that two new galaxies had been discovered and named by Norm himself—the Boreas Dwarf and the Jerry Garcia Dwarf Irregular. Here, I had a big laugh (and a glass of red wine) in Norman Mayer’s honor.

23 24

A spread (in Yiddish) of Cream Cheese, of course. An old, noisy and complaining person (Yiddish).

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I was exhausted. Then, when I attempted a few words I recalled from Norm’s stoned rantings, and which I knew to be of true importance to him like ‘anarchism,’ ‘blue,’ ‘doors’ and ‘stars’ a reference appeared on my PC screen. It was an obituary piece entitled: A Blue Door to a Better World. Remembering my Dear Friend and Brilliant Star-gazer, Dr. Norman Mayer

When I saw the name of the author, I nearly fell off my chair. The eulogy had been written by a dear friend from my Columbia days, Mike Hatzidakis. I remembered when Hatzi and I had visited Norm at Green Bank during our road trip out West, with Nelson Wong. It had been right after graduation in 1970. Norm had just begun employment at the GB Observatory, at that time. The last time I spoke with Mike was in 1981. I had telephoned him shortly after we moved back to Brooklyn and had gone up to Hastings to visit him a few months later. Since then, we had lost all contact, and I had often wondered whether he was still alive. When I read the date its publication—2026—I was happy to see that he had survived the End. But this didn’t necessarily mean that he was still alive. The obituary had been uploaded only eight months before my reading it. It was a pdf of an older journal, and that made sense, since there was no Internet during those terrible years. Someone had posted the piece, but maybe it hadn’t been Mike. I remembered that he wasn’t in good shape when I last saw him. He would now be around 92 or 93 years old, now. So, in all likelihood, my friend had passed away. The eulogy was deeply moving (Mike had always loved Norm) and contained some very interesting and useful information, for my ends. It had been originally published by an institute named the “Beacon School of Cooperative E-Communications Science,” and Mike was listed as its director at the time. He started by stating that he had learned of his friend’s death, four years after it had occurred. This portion of the article was very personal. It spoke of their friendship and of how much Mike—who, like Norm, I imagine had also become a highly renowned scientist and engineer—had learned from him. In the first paragraph, there was an anecdotal episode concerning the first time Mike had heard his friend’s “Blue Light Hypothesis.” It had occurred on the very night we had seen “2001 A Space Odyssey” in West Virginia. I remembered, with a smile, how much grass we had smoked before, during and after that movie. Mike recounted that, at one point, Norm had declared: “The color blue conveys a chromo-significance of trust, sincerity, wisdom, confidence, stability, faith, heaven, and intelligence. So, how could the light I envision around the ‘door to cosmic cooperation’ be of any other color?” I recalled how Norm had smiled and added that blue would also be “the color of the home jerseys of the Intergalactic Cosmic-Cooperative Anarchists’ basketball team.” Mike had neglected to mention this in his writing. The next part treated the importance of Norm’s life work, for the most part outside the Observatory. I was fascinated by this section. Mike pointed out that very little of the work which Norm had truly considered his ‘life-mission,’ and which Academia had always held to be non-scientific and highly subversive, was ever published in the ‘so-called respectable’

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scientific journals. Hatzi wrote that most of his knowledge of Norm’s alternative research had come exclusively from personal exchanges between the two. Their communication had been in the form of letters, while Norm was still at the Commune, and successively by email until 2017, when Norm finally returned to his home, in West Virginia, for good. After that date, the two friends had lost contact. Mike also wrote that his recollection of the contents of a Blog which his friend had posted until 2009 (when the NSA had finally managed to hack it and shut it down permanently) had been another important source in his reconstruction of the “(w)hole story” of Norman Mayer. I discovered that Norm had made important progress in verifying the hypotheses he had first raised in his 1974 paper while he was ‘on the lamb’ in isolated locations in the USA and Canada, immediately after he’d been fired from the Green Point Observatory. Norm had not only lost his job in 2003. When he had been ousted from the Commune three years later, there was also a FBI arrest warrant out for him. The charges were “surreptitious purloining of documents and equipment from a Government Facility” and “illegal tampering with Federal property with the presumed scope of sabotage.” Mike adamantly defended his friend’s research and his so-called ‘illegal actions.’ He wrote that his friend’s actions were “the only way, and the last way open for a truly cooperative, peace-loving scientist to carry forward important research which would be extremely beneficial for humankind.” Mike went on to recount that while Norm was in hiding, he had continued to work on the development of the technical parameters and equipment modifications necessary for reaching his goal of “opening a door between universes.” His calculations had explored the specifications of frequencies, time durations and energy levels (dimensions) for the transmission of the most effective radio electromagnetic waves. Norm had told Mike that he was “almost certain” that he had come up with a solution which would permit his using existing equipment (electronic, sonic and mechanical) to reverse their functional modes from the recovery and storage of radio waves to the transmission of the same. The last part of the eulogy became personal, once more, and I had the impression that Mike was here unable (or perhaps unwilling) to hide his emotions. It also seemed to me that my friend had intentionally left out some important details regarding Norm’s real objectives and his exact plans. Mike wrote about the “happy shock” he had experienced when he had found Norm on his doorstep in Beacon in the Fall of 2017. “Looking like a wildly possessed hermit from Mount Athos, he was wearing granny glasses,” he had written. Norm told him that he had been living and working, for the previous four years, in a remote bungalow on Manitoulin Island in Lake Huron. He had also told Mike that he had selected that specific location to be “able to see my son, Boreas, in the mid-night sky.” His reference was to the Aurora Borealis, as Mike well understood. In fact, Norm had gone on to describe the ever-increasing apparitions of “out-of-the-ordinary blue elliptical and sphere-like forms in the icy winter nights.” Mike had indicated that Norm held these to be “sure signs that the moment to act was approaching.” The single event which had brought Norm out of hiding and concretized his decision to return home—to “make his move and act”—had been the birth of his granddaughter Aurora, in 2016. Norm wasn’t quoted, but Mike clearly implied that the “disastrous state of our world in those years” certainly had been a major factor in Norm’s courageous decision to come out of hiding and “attempt the impossible.” Mike concluded his writing with these powerful, moving words:

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“And then, in 2017, with the clouds of an imminent war, and possibly, the Apocalypse on the horizon, my dear friend wanted to be once more with his life-long companion, Maria, and his son … and to finally meet his new-born granddaughter, Aurora. I am certain he understood the End was approaching rapidly, and that he had to work hard and fast at the abandoned observatory to fend off that eventuality. We will never know how or if he succeeded, but I will never cease to thank him for his life efforts. Maybe, someday, all Humanity will, too.” April 4 I was floored by Mike’s eulogy and, especially, by his closing words. I awoke today in a sort of catatonic stupor and was unable to leave my bed. Vale, who luckily was feeling a little better, made coffee and then called up to Amy for help in getting our breakfast ready. We talked, and I tried to explain what I thought I had discovered. Vale, always the realist, was skeptical at first. But since my story contained an extraordinary number of startling interconnections and suggestive happenstances, she gradually acquiesced. “Maybe, that little girl really did save our world.” She conceded at one point. “And don’t forget her crazy grandfather, eh?” I smiled and hugged her. When Lele showed up a little later with bagels and lox, I was feeling better but wasn’t quite ready to share my ‘discovery’ with my young friend, or with anybody else. He stared at me, oddly, when he entered the bedroom. “You gotta problem, kiddo? I just felt like staying in bed today. It’s Saturday. I’m off, right?” I squawked, suspiciously. “Gotcha, Signò Vinnie. I’m sure it’s been a long, hard working-week as usual, huh?” He smiled, ironically. That boy is really an intuitive, sharp-witted scugnizzo. Sometimes, it seems to me like he can read my mind like an open book. His expression changed, and he sat down. Then he moved on to what he had really come over for. Timidly, he said he hoped I didn’t mind that he had opened my computer the other day while I was taking a nap. He told me he had needed to complete the list of invitees for my party, and that he had thought that he might have been able to find the missing contact information on my friends in my ‘old wreck.’ “How did you get through my password?” I said gruffly, even though I really didn’t mind that he had done so. “B_R_O_O_K_L_Y_N … are you kidding?” He laughed, and then added “It was my second choice.” I think I know what he meant. He then started rattling off a list of the people he had been trying to contact. The litany of names sparked images of loved faces from various periods and places of my life. I didn’t feel like I wanted to hear what the results of his search might have been. I really didn’t want to know which of my friends might have passed away … nor to discover those living who, most probably, didn’t want to ever see me again. I tried to stop him cold. “Please, Lele.” I said “Remember, what I said to you about my not being able to handle all this.”

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“Ok, Nonno. I’m sorry. But, listen here, I did manage to contact a few people - not the names I called out before, è chiaro.25 The ones I managed to contact said they would try come to your party, or get in touch you. And are you going to be surprised!” Lele then said he had to leave. There was important work to be done down at the House of Earth in preparation for this year’s May 1st Arts Festival and Community Banquet. When he had left, I realized that it had been the first time he had ever called me ‘Nonno.’ And, unsurprisingly, I loved it. April 5 Early this morning I opened my PC to read over the last days’ notes and, just as Lele had promised, I had my first big surprise. My ‘mail box,’ or whatever it’s called these days, had four messages in it. These were the first emails I had received since 2020. I read the addresses of the mysterious senders and, naturally, tried to imagine who they might be. They were all pretty easy to decipher. They read: gremsfarfi[email protected] (I knew to be Bill A) [email protected] (Peppe A) [email protected] (Mark F) [email protected] (Nelson W) I thought to myself that some things never change, and that old ways—in old people— are surely hard to shake. After all, hadn’t I chosen to use the same email name-address I always had—[email protected]? Well, there they were! Four dear, old friends had risen from the dead, shaken off the dust of our fallen ‘civilization’ and taken the time to send me Birthday greetings. I was bathing in joy and, for a long moment, I was unable to open the mails. When I did, I learned a little about their lives and even found a few pictures of them and their loved ones. Bill, always the family man, was at home on a lake in Northern NY State with his people, loads of them, all around him. Camille, as ever, was by his side. To my delight, his long delicate fingers were resting on the keyboard of a vintage Farfisa electric piano, very much like the model he played with our Gremlins. My heart exploded. Peppe, my compaesano26 and our compare27 hadn’t changed much in the 25 years since I’d last seen him. It must be the food (provola), or the mountain air or the timeless magic of our Lucania. He wrote that he and two of his siblings’ families, and a few ‘compagni28’ were living on ‘the ranch’ we had so often dreamed and joked about at the table in ‘Donnalbina Street.’ Still the ‘Reform Socialist,’ once again Peppe lovingly mocked at my Anarchist views. I was ecstatic to learn that Mark—dear Marco, my best buddy and colleague—was still alive. His health hadn’t been good back then, and Norway had been nearly blown away but,

“That’s clear” (from Italian). Fellow townsman. 27 Best man at our wedding. 28 “Comrades” (from Italian). 25 26

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somehow, he and all of his family had made it safely to Iceland. He wrote me that Kirsten, like the “good Norwegian” she is, was “still taking hikes in bad weather.” I could imagine it, and laughed to remember her ways. In closing, he asked me if I was “still playing out in the street.” Nelson Wong was the last person I would have imagined to have written me. If I hadn’t kept this diary, I probably would have forgotten him. I hadn’t seen Nelson since Bend, Oregon in 1970, and he recalled our parting. In his photo, taken on a beach near Vancouver, he extended a tanned hand as if to offer me the joint he was (still) smoking. I was thinking about the good old days and anticipating, in my head, what I would write back to my friends when I realized that this wasn’t only a great day for me, but was, in effect, a great day for our world: a world which, I had discovered, went well beyond the borders of the New York Commune and the Northeast Region (and beyond the small South American Republics we had passed through 20 years earlier). The mails had demonstrated that there were, at the least, three other Free Republics in Iceland, in Southern Italy and in the Pacific Northwest. Who knows how many more there might be out there? And what is more, now— thanks to the Fortunato’s and Mike’s of our world—these communities are linked together. They can finally communicate with and, I hoped, work together for a better tomorrow. I was blown away, and was about to run to Vale (if only I could run!) to give her the good news, when another message arrived. I opened it immediately, without checking the email address, and the first line read: “Well, my buddy, I bet you never thought this old Greek dude was still alive!” More than a surprise, it was a miracle! The message was from Mike! He explained that Lele had contacted him about my birthday party, but he admitted that he had discovered my whereabouts (linkconey.net) a few days earlier when he had noticed that someone was “snooping around in Ariadne” in search of information about Norm. He wrote that he “still keeps tabs on that little mystery.” He recounted a little of his medical history—he was still confined to a wheelchair and has been “voiceless since 1999”—but, he said, he was still going strong. He continues to live in Beacon, where I had last seen him, and is still working with his affinity group to “keep the voices flowing.” He didn’t say it, but I imagine that he might be one of the people—or the person—who had gotten Ariadne’s Thread (a mythical legend from Greece, just like Mike) working again. He wished me “a good one” and said that he would contact me soon. He didn’t come right out and say it, but I got a strange feeling that he wanted to tell me something very important. April 11 It’s been a wild last couple of days in our apartment and around the Coop grounds. Relatives and friends have been continually stopping by, leaving off baked foods and big bottles of homemade wine in our place. There’s also been a whole lot of movement down in the courtyard. It looks like they’re stockpiling for a long siege. As happens occasionally, the teenagers are building a big bandstand down in the inner yard. I just hope they don’t expect me to play my guitar. There are so many good musicians around here, starting with Eyob and Feven. It appears that Vale and Lele are putting together a huge bash in my honor. They must really like me. Hey, what’s the big deal, anyway, about ‘94’? It isn’t even a round—or magical— number.

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With all the ruckus, I haven’t found the time or peace of mind, until now, to put down my thoughts on what’s been transpiring between Mike and me. Over the last six days, I received four emails from him, and I think I now possess a pretty good hypothesis concerning, what we two have come to call, the ‘Mystery of Green Bank.’ It’s still hard for me to believe it, but I’ll try to put down my play on what most probably happened down there. Mike had followed the evolution of Norm’s efforts over the years, and he certainly possesses the scientific knowledge and technical expertise to understand what these were all about. He told me that he is convinced that his friend had actually found a way to “open a two-way tunnel to a parallel universe.” “Every one of Norm’s theoretical suppositions and technical specifications were right on!”, Hatzi wrote me. One thing he still couldn’t figure out, or believe, was how Norm (“remember in 2020, he was over seventy years of age”) could have had the strength and willpower to have made so many electronic and, especially, mechanical modifications on so much equipment in such an isolated locality. We both agreed that he must have, somehow, convinced other members of the Commune to disobey their statute and help him in his quest. In those frightening times, most people would have done anything to avoid the End. Mike had calculated that the dimension of the hole—“a variably morphing circle of close to two hundred square miles”—which had been opened in the West Virginia sky would have been more than sufficient to “capture the entire barrage of fifty-four nuclear warheads.” I understood (that’s a big word!) that the missiles had disappeared but, I wrote him, “where the hell had they gone?” And here, the story gets even more complicated. We couldn’t avoid calling to mind Norm’s endless spiel about his “Intergalactic Cosmic-Cooperative Anarchism.” I had always thought that my friend, in all his weirdness, had actually expected to make contact with “cooperative brethren” from some “other world.” So, naturally, it seemed to me to be totally out of place, to say the least, for a brother to knock on their door with a shitload of nuclear missiles. Mike, who had given a lot more thought to the matter, told me that I had been mistaken in assuming that Norm’s ‘ideal world – other universe’ was in ‘another place’ or that ‘there were other beings of some sort out there.’ He said, and I lost him here for a while, that Norm had been referring, instead, to “… the wormhole’s probability of absorbing negative intentions” and, simultaneously, transmitting radio waves which would contain “positive vibes capable of amalgamating the cooperative thoughts and energy present in this world, in the present and past eras.” Mike held that the ‘Utopia’ Norm had been searching for was right here on Earth, all the time! The “missing ingredients which were needed to make ‘utopia’ a reality,” Norm had written, “were to be found in the confluence of multiple factors, some resulting from careful programming and others occurring by pure chance.” Mike’s last email was of enormous interest to me. It regarded Aurora and her role in the Mystery. In that message, he was responding to my previous email in which I had described the string of events which occurred at the Observatory on May 1, 2022. When Mike heard of the role of a slinky toy in the incident, he said he thought that this might be a key to the mystery. He wrote that “Aurora’s having played with a slinky toy, and with nothing else” was

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proof enough for him that Norm—and his granddaughter—had actually opened a door between two Universes. “Hadn’t I ever mentioned to you that Norm, back at Columbia, would often speak of his beloved slinky?” Mike wrote. He went on to tell me that, as a child, Norm had been fascinated by Slinky toys, and had loved his Slinky more than all his other playthings. Norm had received that fascinating toy on his fourth birthday, and he had “played incessantly with it” in the succeeding years. Norm was convinced that his passion for science, and in particular for Physics, had been born from his “endless hours of observing its waves and oscillations … alone, and with friends.” At the age of eight, he was already capable of calculating the oscillation periods of his ‘toy,’ and he appreciated the rules which governed its mechanics, especially regarding tension change. He later (re)discovered these rules in Hook’s Law of Physics and the effects of gravitation. But—Mike told me—what had most inspired young Norman was his realization that information concerning tension change was actually being transmitted, invisibly and silently, along the coil from its top to bottom when the slinky was in the act of starting its descent down my front porch steps. He had intuited this ‘discovery,’ playfully and with joy, when he was only ten years old! “In that very moment, Norm began his long journey towards a conjunction of science and freedom! Because, dear Vinnie, the key ingredients at work then, and throughout his entire life, were simply free play and love. And in the final act - the act which saved our world Norm and his granddaughter were imbued with both.” April 12. “The Mystery of Green Bank Revealed” or “Faith in Children” Since Mike’s last message, I’ve been struggling to comprehend, and truly believe, what I’ve learned in the last weeks. I’ve struggled to understand the meaning of Mike’s startling affirmation that the actions of Norm and Aurora had, in essence, saved our world through free play and love. And, now, I want here to share my/our reflections. We ‘know’ for certain that a ‘wormhole,’ or the like, had opened in the West Virginia skies, and we know that fifty-four nuclear warheads had been sucked into it and, evidently, had ended-up ‘somewhere else.’ For sure, they didn’t land in the Northeast, or on Brooklyn’s head. We’ll probably never know where they really went. This fortunate event had been made possible through the efforts of a crazy, anarchist scientist who—over the entire course of his life—had lovingly played with, contrived and worked on a stratagem to open such a wormhole-door. We need also to recognize that his seven-year-old granddaughter had played in the right place, with the right toy (a slinky that both, she and her nonno, especially loved) for very few minutes—but at exactly the right moment. Aurora thus became the pivotal component in a chance event which occurred at the end of Norm’s decades-long chain of programmed actions elaborated through free play and creative thought. Her act of play saved this part of the world from being nuked to dust. To me, this makes sense up to this point. I still struggle, however, to understand how that moment, and how that string of actions and theories, could have possibly contributed to the string of events which followed. How can we explain what transpired after Aurora’s playful, unintentional act of ‘salvation’? I continue to ask myself why our part of the world (and other Regions, also, as I have discovered) decided to reorganize and to regenerate the

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environment and society in the manner which it did? Stated simply, why have things worked out the way they did, and why has life gotten better—much better—than it was before the End? I’ll try to proceed with my/our chain of reasoning. The economic and political institutions—and their ideologies—which had been pushing our world’s ecology towards disaster for decades (perhaps, centuries), had finally decided to push the button(s) and, as a result, they were annihilated. The existing world order had, to all effect, been knocked on its ass. Along with the many millions of innocents who perished, those few madmen who had willingly commandeered the attacks—and the many more who had supported, or acquiesced to, their rise to power—were swept away by their own hands. They had made the decision to commit suicide and had, effectively, self-destructed. ‘Self-destruction.’ This, I hold, is an important component of the question. Had those, like myself, who dissented and who opposed the existing order intentionally brought about the End (that is, had we been successful in the violent destruction of these forces), they/we would have been transformed and ruined by their/our own actions and by such a ‘victory.’ We would have been transformed into the bearers of the same values and methods which we had always struggled to oppose and transform. I am certain that History, which is full of ‘lesser’ or ‘smaller’ examples, will continue to demonstrate the validity of this hypothesis. In the first years following the Green Bank incident and during the long months after the End, life was extremely difficult, and many terrible, unnamable things occurred in all the world’s corners. In our Region, in the initial years, there had been considerable suffering among the survivors. But as the darkness began to recede—figuratively and de facto—a new, hope-inspiring light had begun to glow on the horizon. Things slowly began to get better, and they have continued to do so. Now, especially after our Green Bank revelation, this turn of events continues to obsess me. I ask myself why it came to be that a cooperative, sustainable communitarian society actually did come to the forefront, develop and flourish in our part of the world? I discussed this query with Mike, and he jokingly raised the possibility that the beloved blue waves in Norm’s crazy dream of a ‘Intergalactic Cosmic-Cooperative Anarchism’ had perhaps emanated from some other Universe and landed directly in Brooklyn and spread from there? Clearly, we both understood that this could not be not the ‘answer.’ We had to come up with another hypothesis. I think we did, and I will try now to share it. Mike and I have always held (and I think many people—certainly those who live in my neighborhood—would agree) that there have always existed, in all parts of the globe, innumerable small and medium-scaled examples of mutualistic and cooperative actions, of associations and communities which have strived for the common good and have worked in harmony with Nature. Some would hold—like good, old Prince Kropotkin did—that these forms had been prevalent, and perhaps even the norm, in the beginnings of civilization(s). They would also admit that throughout History, unfortunately, the oppressive and centralized bureaucratic forces had almost always won out. That is, until 2022 came around. From where we are now, it appears evident that most of the ‘bad guys,’ with their power and their ‘evil intentions,’ have been eliminated. In our (ex)Nation, which had been one of the most important centers of global capitalism, this is certainly the case. As the years passed, we have come to discover that alternative, regenerative social and environmental

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changes in our Region were occurring in other places, too. I think this is occurring because the End had set the stage for, and made necessary, the emergence of the numerous small-scale, cooperative, progressive and communitarian experiences which were previously evolving, or had been forced into dormancy. These ever-present energies had reemerged, joined forces and been enabled to spread. These values guided the trajectory during the period of emergency which followed. Kropotkin’s principle of Mutual Aid had been put to the challenge, and it had come out victorious. Mike and I strongly believe that people want to, and are able to, collaborate whenever the need arises. People and Society—as my old friend, Aksel, would always say—“just did what they had to do.” The proof of this maxim is all around us in the Fields, Factories and Workshops of today. And it is joyously evident in our homes, our streets and our neighborhoods. Yet, one last Big Question still remained to be answered, at least for me. How and why did the playful, casual and chance act which brought on the ‘happy ending’ to our collective story occur at precisely the right moment? Had that slinky toy flown from Aurora’s hand one week, or one day, or one minute earlier … those missiles would have reached their targets, and we wouldn’t be here now. To fully understand the steps and the inter-connections leading to the ‘miracle’ of that precise moment, I think one needs to—yes—recognize the important role of Science and Technology when, and if, it is working at the service of Interspecies Well-being and Social Justice. Equally, we should reflect on and give recognition to other forms of ‘Science.’ By this, I am referring to the myriad, ageless intuitive wisdoms of archaic ‘magic,’ vernacular crafts and the so-called myths of other cultures, and of our own, which are so often forgotten. Stirred by this recognition, I began to recall the fascinating Lucanian folk tales which I had heard on my grandfather’s knee. Recently, I’ve also been calling to mind the Hopi prophecies and the legends of other indigenous Americans, which I happened upon when I was a young man in disparate search of alternative directions for my life. Those tales speak of the importance of respect for, and collaboration with, the land and all its inhabitants, human and non. Some of those ‘myths’ narrate the fatal dangers—and the terrible End— which awaits those who betray their human and natural community and stray from a balanced, collaborative and just way of life: what the Hopi called ‘Koyaanisqatsi.’ In my youth, I hadn’t yet found an answer or a clear direction, but I had begun to notice increasing signs of possible ways forward, in the world around me. I had caught glimpses, and heard the murmurs of such signals, in my chance encounters with living and dead poets and artists, with builders and learners and with teachers and activists who were treading new and different roads. I had sensed these harbingers in the warmth of my friendship-affinity bonds, in the shared development and enactment of participatory projects with colleagues and communities, and in the lasting lessons and love I received from my family. I have seen these signs in many wilderness landscapes and in those beautiful, yet rare, human-made creations which dwell in harmony with nature. Just last night, I suddenly recalled the night I experienced an Epiphany of signs and symbols in the multicolored swirls and streaks of the Northern Lights. Instantly, I came to understand that the progressions of that ‘light show’ had offered me a first pre-vision of the Blue Door to Norm’s “Intergalactic Cosmic-Cooperative” Universe. In that moment, I first

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intuited the inter-connections between the balanced cycles of life in nature and in cities and the magical power and the importance of children’s free play and participation … which I, now, can truly understand. I yelled ‘Eureka!’ when I realized that it could only have been—it had to be!—a child (with her friends as representatives of all children) who should play the central role in our world’s salvation, and in helping it evolve for the better. It has taken me a lifetime, but now I finally understand that it is only through the fullest expression of the true nature of childhood that our communities—and our world—can get better and can be saved. In Green Bank that fateful night, Aurora and her affinity group simply continued to do what all children have done, or have strived to do, through the ages. They played freely, and they loved what they were doing. They did this regardless of the fact that the adult-world around them was on the brink of disaster. For most people, in the world which is no more, the behavior of those children would have been considered idiotic and reckless, given the moment. Many would have probably even branded it as illegal in most moments of modern history. For me, theirs was simply a wonderful, natural act. They were ‘simply being children.’ They were children abounding in faith. Aurora and her friends possessed an unshaken faith in their own inherent nature as playful, curious and carefree children. I want to remember, here, that Paul Goodman once wrote precisely that: “Children, if we observe them, seem normally to be abounding in faith. They rush headlong and there is ground underfoot. They ask for information and are told. They cry for something and get it or are refused, but they are not disregarded. They go exploring and see something interesting.”. In the same writing, Goodman went on to strongly chastise ‘the evil genius of our society’ which so often tends to belittle and neglect this abounding faith in young children and attempts to literally destroy it, especially as they grow older. He had also chastised the fact that the adult-world has almost never adequately “provided children with worth-while opportunities and relevant duties” and, he added, that the young ones “cease to be taken seriously as existing” as they move into their adolescence. The existence of Aurora, and of all the world’s children, must be taken seriously. Children need the opportunity to live, to their fullest, and to maintain their inherent faith in being children. Wherever, and whenever, children possess even a minimal amount of space and time to play in and with, they will inevitably make the most of what they have. I have observed and verified this fact, over the course of years, in my projects and my research. I have always agreed with Goodman that children must also be provided with relevant duties. I have tried to put this credo into practice, for decades, by offering them the time, space and resources to help adults imagine, design and build different futures for the environment and society. Today, I am absolutely certain that my dear friend and mentor, Simon Nicholson, was correct in holding that children must be offered the opportunity, the duty, to actively participate in society. In many, we were correct in believing that children’s imagination and actions in organized projects, and in everyday free play, would contribute to the creation of alternative, and better, Futures. Today, the proof is all around us. Children’s free play and participation in Green Bank—and everywhere—has saved and changed our world.

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April 15 Yesterday was a blast! It was, without a doubt, one of the most wonderful days I have ever lived. When I awoke, my spirits were already sky-high. I had spent half of the night lolling happily in my new-found illuminations concerning the “Mystery of Green Bank.” I felt that my lifelong faith in children, and our work with them, had been canonized. When I opened my crusty eyelids at 9 a.m., my six great-grandchildren were there, sitting on my bed or standing around it. What a blessing, I thought. Twelve sparkling, smiling eyes were lovingly fixed on mine. By noon, our apartment was overflowing with friends and activity. All fourteen of our descendants and almost all of Tonino’s clan were there, moving to-and-fro, busily at work preparing and transporting foodstuffs and accessories for the feast. There were sounds of happy voices and of furniture being moved in the staircase. The door to our apartment was never closed. As the guest of honor, I was free of all responsibility but I had taken upon myself the pleasant task of preparing four large pans of my grandmother’s lasagna. All that remained to be done, at that point, was to put them in the solar oven, have a glass of red wine and wait for the party to begin. While I was scrupulously dressing myself—I wanted to look my very best, as you never know who might show up for one’s 94th Birthday Party—I took some time to check my mail. I found birthday wishes and images from many parts of our region and of the collaborative world—from cousins and nieces and nephews, from many old friends and some new ones, too. I was grateful to Lele for the great job he had done in his web-searching. What a gift it was to find greetings from people I thought dead, or whom I hadn’t heard from in over twenty-five years. And what a joy it was to discover that Napoli, Palermo, Barcelona, Tirana, Montevideo, Santiago, Portland, Samos and Perugia were still standing and, to judge from the messages, beginning to thrive! When Vale and I got down to the courtyard, the first persons we ran into were my cousin Zinny and his wife. They were there with Marco, Gio’ and their entire family. I was happy to see my older brother and his husband there. They almost never made it out to Brooklyn.

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Come to think of it, Marco almost never came to Brooklyn even before the End! He told me, to my delight, that a new light rail line had been activated from the cow farming area of Whitestone (where he continues to live) across Queens, along a beautiful greenway and then onto the coast road at the wetland nature reserve where Kennedy Airport used to be. “You won’t believe it, Vinnie. It took us much less time than it did when the Belt Parkway was packed.” We laughed. After a long exchange of hugs and kisses, Zinny told me that his twin sons’ band would be performing today, and that one of the two had recently moved back to our old block, and into the very house where I had lived in as a child. I was happy to hear that we continued to have family on my beloved 71st Street. It looked like the whole coop was there for the party, the courtyard was jam-packed. I couldn’t help thinking that this would have been impossible on a Tuesday afternoon, back in the old days. People would have been at work, at jobs which they probably didn’t even like. Living frugally and sharing goods, and “from each according to her capacity, to each according to his needs” isn’t such a bad arrangement, is it after all? On one of the basketball courts, I saw my son playing a three-on-three pickup game with Eyob and his friends. “Marco still plays well, and he’s pretty fast for someone over sixty.” I remarked, as he sank a three-pointer. A long table, over fifty feet long, had been set up on the linear green strip at the center of the area and was full of foods, condiments and drinks from all the once-world’s four corners. The denomination ‘Pot Luck,’ or ‘Potlatch,’ never had more significance. On stage, Feven and Eyob were playing “Here comes the Sun” when Vale and I were led to our places at the head of the table. Lele was there waiting, and by his side sat a very old man (um, look who’s talking!). He had a bushy white beard and long braided hair. He must have been around 100 years old and, with his imposing posture, strong hands and proud countenance, he looked like a Viking chieftain or a village sage. “How the hell did you do it?!” I exclaimed to Lele, my jowls splitting with joy. I had recognized my childhood friend. Aksel and I hugged for what seemed an infinity, as the music played on. We talked and reminisced for a long time. He was the only component of our ‘gang’ who had come to the party. The first thing he told me, smiling broadly, was that his great-grandson, Eric, was a playmate of my cousin Zinny’s granddaughter. They hang out in the same places and do many of the things we did back then. He said they were in the ‘same gang.’ Then he corrected himself and said “nowadays, they tell me, they’re called affinity groups.” For most of the day, I avoided raising questions about our ‘affinity group’—about Vito, the two Joes, Tommie and the others—I didn’t want to ruin such a beautiful day. But after the cake, and with too much wine under my belt, I could no longer hold my big, flapping tongue. At one point, I blurted out, “Aksel, how are the rest of the gang? Who’s still alive? What did they do with their lives?” “They all had good, full lives. But I’m not going tell you much, Vinnie. Two are alive, the rest are dead. Most died peacefully, but one died tragically. That was on 9/11.” His voice dropped to a mournful rasp, and he continued,

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“But let’s skip over the details. Let’s not talk about the past. I think we should just try our best to continue to ask each other the same old question we would always pose at the end of each wonderful day, back on the block. You remember?” “Hey, what are we gonna play at, tomorrow?” We said in unison. “Yeah, what new adventures are awaiting us?” I added. May 2 I think I can honestly say that these will be the last words I will ever tap into this machine. The events and discoveries of this last month have put me into a veritable state of grace. The realization that a child had played a central, magical role in the salvation of our world and had ignited the fire under the dormant caldron of a cooperative, sustainable society, the miraculous reappearance or proof of existence of beloved friends and places from my past and—in the last measure and in my home—the immense joy and love I experienced at my birthday party have put my restless old soul at ease. The morning after the party I awoke at peace with myself and with our Future. There was nothing more for me to worry about. Nothing more had to be done. I was certain that the children around us, and their children, and their children’s children would take care of our world. I could retire … my brain. “You can stop thinking about the past” I mumbled to myself. “Maybe I should read a book, or prepare some coffee or make a pizza.” I thought. In the end, I just kept on living as I always had during these last years. Vale and I spent pleasant mornings together on the balcony talking and watching the children down below. Family and friends came over to visit, and brought us nutriment, on an almost daily basis. I felt no need to go out, although we both still had the energy to do so. The days passed, and we were happy. Then yesterday afternoon, Feven and Lele rushed into our apartment, colorfully dressed and both with odd looks on their faces. It didn’t take long to discover what those expressions were all about. “Ueh, professori! Che succede qui? Non siete usciti dal giorno del compleanno di Vinny. Oggi, il quartiere, e i bambini in particolare, richiedono la vostra presenza.29” Lele exclaimed, using only Italian for the first time in many years. I said I hadn’t realized that we had been inside so long, but that I was happy that we’d been convoked by the children. “Yup, you both have to come down to the Grove today. Today is May Day, and there’s going to be a big party at the House of Earth. Did you forget? I told you about it at the party. There’ll be food, art exhibits and a string of concerts. Eyob and his band will be closing the show at midnight.” Lele explained. “Oh, by the way, my little brother forgot to mention one thing. You should bring your axe, Vinnie. Today, you’re going to be on the bill. And we’re not taking ‘no’ for an answer.” Feven added, and winked me smile.

“Hey, professors! What’s going on here? You both haven’t been out of the house since Vinnie’s birthday. Today, the neighborhood, and especially the children, request your presence”.

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I agreed, and the four of us slowly strolled—I rolled—down to the Children’s Grove. I had my guitar case in my lap, and inside of it was my old, dear friend. “She’ll always be five years younger than I am,” I thought to myself. It was a beautiful spring day with not a cloud in the cobalt sky. A soft, salty breeze came in from the bay. When we had gotten as far as the fountain gardens, I asked Feven whether we might sit down to rest and enjoy the peaceful enclosure and colors of that place. Her sea-blue eyes sparkled. She smiled and said, “Signò Vinnie, why don’t we play something together, right here? We might even do some busking.” She pulled a yellow baseball cap out of her bag and placed it on the blue tiled pavement in front of us. Next to the hat, she positioned a hand-written cardboard sign, onto which she had elegantly scrolled: “All your donations will go to the Woody Guthrie - House of Earth - Children Center. Thank you, so much.”

At first, I played hard to get. I made up all kinds of excuses to get myself out of performing in public. “I’m out of practice and, what with my feeble mind, I can’t remember the chords.” “My arthritis is acting up and, what’s more, my trigger-finger syndrome is back. It must be the humidity.” “It looks like it might rain. I don’t wanna get this old baby wet. She’s a delicate heirloom, you know.” I had a million excuses and, from the look on Lele’s face, it appeared as if he believed me. With Feven and Vale it was a different story. The first just stared and smiled, tapping her foot to some inaudible music. Then she stooped gracefully and opened the guitar case. When my axe was out, Feven started tuning the strings. Vale was shaking her finger at me and rambling on about something I couldn’t make out over the noise of my own whining. The pitch of her voice sounded like she was upset with me, but her impish smirk and her laughing green eyes told a sweet other tale. That expression took me back to the first time I really saw her. I stood up, took the guitar in my hands and declared: “Ok, luce della mia vita,30 you’ve convinced me! I don’t know what you said, but it’s changed my mind.” In the meantime, a crowd of neighbors—kids and adults—had gathered around us to listen in on our bickering. Now they were all smiling and laughing and, through the tumultuous merriment, I heard Vale say, “You’re fly is open, silly old man!” She shifted around to block the view, and I zipped up. Red in the face.

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“Light of my life”.

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“Oh, um. What was I saying? Oh, yes. How can I refuse you, with all the work you’ve done?” I went on. “First off, let’s do that song - dedicated to you, my ‘Little Sunshine’ - the way old Pete did it when he was doing it like Woody would have done it. You sing the main vocals and the harmonica break, Lele and Vale the harmonies, and I ‘ll just pick away here in the back. Does that sound OK?” I strummed, and then plucked, a ‘D’ chord. With the clarity of a perfectly forged church bell toning on a Italian hilltop, her sweet voice began to fill the space. As the song took form, a vibrant image from my childhood came to me. I saw myself in the tiny basement music school of Maestro Rinaldi. I felt my young pained fingers on the fretboard struggling to make the simple chord changes of the very first song I had ever learned. It was the same tune that Feven was singing, and that I was playing effortlessly. We continued to perform, and the crowd pushed up closer. The shaded little square and the lanes leading up to it were packed, and the little ones sang along with us. At the end of our third piece, when Feven’s harmonica cut the late afternoon air like a hot knife in butter, the crowd clapped and yelped their approval. A little child, he must have been four years old, slinked his way up to the front. Beaming with generosity, the tiny first ‘donor’ of the afternoon dropped a pink, high-bounce ball into the yellow hat. I stopped my playing, caressed the boy’s fluffy black hair and said, “Thanks, kiddo. Keep it up. Never stop playing, you got me?” We kept on playing for a long time, and the baseball cap overflowed with coins and old bills, candy and trinkets. There were small piles of used books, and apples and tiny toys scattered around it. When the light had nearly dwindled away, we brought the proverbial curtain down. I said to my quartet, “You know what, friends? I’d really like to go on down to the boardwalk. Do you feel up to it, Vale?” “Of course, I do, Caro. I’m still one year younger than you are. And don’t you forget it, Nonno!” She winked. On the boardwalk, in silence, we watched the sun going down. The calm waters of the distant Narrows were like liquid gold. It was a view and a treasure I have always cherished. Vale and I had grown tired, and we wanted to go home. But, for me, there remained one more act to perform before nightfall. I shared my little plan with the others, “Feven! I have an idea. Let’s do a road show.” I blurted out a phrase which even I didn’t quite understand. “Huh? What do you want to do, Signò Vinnie? You really want to form a band and travel the Region?” “Nope, nothing quite that complicated or tiring. What I wanted to say was that I’d like to play my guitar while you roll me back up to the Coop. And I’d like you to sing my favorite song. You know, the one by the guy you once said I looked like. Jerry Garcia.” I couldn’t contain my joy. “I sure do, Nonno.” She bent over and kissed me. Then, with a wink, she added:

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“But Lele and I have a big surprise for you. We’ve written our own words and have set them to the identical motif of the original tune, and we’re sure you’ll prefer our verses. You know the chords … so just keep on picking.” “Yeah, I got yuh! I’ll bet you don’t want some evil music publisher to lay a big licensing fee on me, huh?” “There aren’t licensing fees any more, Signò Vinnie. These days, culture is free - it’s all Open Source or Copy Left.” She laughed affectionately, took Vale’s hand and started walking. “I guess that leaves me to carry this heavy guitar case, huh?” Lele’s comical frown morphed into a broad smile. The last rays of orange-gold sunlight illuminated the towers—our home and the home of our friends. While I played the opening notes to a Future I was now living, Feven’s crystalline voice paved the golden path we should all take. “If there were no kids, there would be no sunshine And our music fall on stone-deaf ears. The city streets would be so lifeless, But we are here, Rejoice oh Life!

It’s a simple thing, but oh so potent Now the big ones know, what took so long? Don’t give a shit, at least they’ve got it Let there be kids to fill our Streets.

Young heroes roam the rooms of hist’ry Newsies,Crusaders, Suffragettes and Clowns I say,I know, the Truth is Simple Let there be kids to fill the Streets.

Play is All, like water It flows, that’s all, it never ends It’s everywhere.

Play is All, like water It flows, that’s all, it never ends It’s everywhere. There’re no set rules, we make them … playing And if you come, you’ll make them too Look over there, I see a meadow Lie ourselves down and be the clouds

So, take my hand, come play together, The gang awaits us, the corner’s here. Are no deadlines, and no appointments Just joyous children … playing in the street Children playing freely When our world was on the brink And breath was short. You, who lead, were all mistaken But we, the young, we knew the way. Now, if you like, just join our comp’ny With our full love, we’ll take you home.

I lifted my fingers from the fret board, and formed a trembling fist towards the sky. At peace with all which surrounded and embraced us, I murmured, “Ok, my young friends, you know the way. So, please take us home.” Singing together in perfect harmony, we walked slowly up the street …. to our Home. “La dee da da da, La da da da da, Da da da, da da, da da da da da. La da da, da da, La da da da. La da da da, La da, da da.”

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,

Curator’s Analysis and Conclusions While guiding the story to its surprising conclusion, the author winds meta-reflections into each of the chapter’s three distinct parts. In this way, he reproposes and better explains several of the publication’s central themes and tacit lessons. These, briefly, are: (1) the intrinsic interrelationship between imagination, dreaming (diurnal and nocturnal), hope and change; (2) children’s inherent imaginative capacities as the missing element in the creation of other better futures; (3) the efficacy of the multi-fold techniques and approaches which the author and others have utilized to promote children’s participation in imagining the Future, together with a selection of extraordinary child-made ‘products’ from these processes; and, lastly, (4) a reaffirmation of the natural propensity of all children to play freely (and to love their playing) as the source and the foundation of all of the preceding. In the first part, a sincere exposition of the author’s process of aging and its effects on his own motor and cognitive capacities progresses into a reflection on the first theme - the nature and importance of dreaming. The reader has certainly noticed that this book, in fact, abounds with vivid descriptions of dreams. Here, for the first time, the author also provides a

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sort of meta-analysis of these phenomena in children and adults. In our story, Feven and Lele tell Vinnie of their dreams concerning ‘future’. The future is a common component of dreaming in childhood since children – in dreams, imagination and in play – are driven by a desire for something different, something elsewhere, something better or, essentially, by that which is not yet. Marking a difference between the dreams of the young and the old, the protagonist specifies that he had dreamed of an ‘apparently past event’. While the context of the dream – Naples and the “Gruppo Futuro” – is undoubtedly ‘of the past’, at the same time it contains elements which speak of the future and of the creation of the “not yet”. Most significant, I hold, are its opening references to Giambattista della Porta and his relationship with Thomas More, both important Utopian thinker-philosophers. This is the author’s way of positioning his (and especially Simon Nicholson’s31) work in the utopian school-of-thought. The reader should appreciate that Simon Nicholson’s ‘Futures Project’ was essentially ‘political’ in nature. Nicholson had specified in his writings that his proposal to diffuse the practice of “children’s participation in community futures”32 was based on his belief in the special powers of children – wonder and amazement, free play and ecological imagination – which render them even more worthy of participating and more capable of creating better futures than are adults. In 1981, Nicholson and the author wrote: “The world that will be has already been colonized by adults who, effectively, exclude the young from making any choices about the Future. This situation enormously limits both the possibility of a more ecological future and the personal development of the children themselves.”33 In this and the second part, the author provides a wide (but, for lack of space, superficial) description of techniques and approaches (future collages on neighborhood photos, future question books with self/community interviews and storytelling, environmental scoring, museums of the future, etc.) which he and Nicholson had developed over the decades. My father published numerous pamphlets, manuals and teaching-aids in Italian which were widely diffused in that nation’s schools and associative settings. One of these texts, Immaginiamo il Futuro (Let’s Imagine the Future, 1990), was the guiding-formative instrument in a WWF-Italy’s national campaign of the same name which involved many thousands of teachers, activists and classes and which catalyzed the diffusion of children’s participation in city design and future thinking into the following decades. Unfortunately, little of this material is available in English (see references).

In the chapter’s second part, the author goes as far as to paragon the visages of these two ‘visionaries’. This is the title of the Open University supported international action-research project which Nicholson and the author carried out in Oxford and Naples between 1977 and 1980. 33 Nicholson, N. and Lorenzo, R. (1981) The Political Implications of Children’s Participation: Steps towards a Participatory Society. In IFDA (International Foundation for Development Alternatives) Journal N. 22, March/ April 1981. Switzerland. 31 32

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In the same two parts of this chapter, the author has also provided a significant collection of examples of children’s ideas and design proposals for the future(s) of their neighborhoods which have been produced utilizing these approaches over the years. They are drawn from the documentation of the Naples and Red Hook projects and include future collages, posters, drawings, slide-tapes, children and community interviews and public presentations. The examples, I think, serve to demonstrate the wisdom of children and their special capacity to imagine futures which are not only feasible but are, my father would insist, far better than those of their elders. As the story unfolds, we learn that many of their proposals have become a reality in our “post- end” ecological and communitarian present. Near the end of the second part, the Red Hook children present their fears and proposals concerning the future of the World. The passage in which the children appear to have correctly predicted our planet’s future(s) with almost 40 years of head-time brings the narrative back to the story’s “bigger question” as to how the “End” could have (or has) been avoided through the participation/actions of the young. In the last part of the chapter, the author offers a detailed chronicle of the steps leading up to the resolution of what he calls the “Mystery of Green Bank”. Various pieces of his life-mosaic fall into place, and the reappearance of personages, ideas and memories of experiences from his youth assist him in finding answers to many open questions. The passages concerning Worm Theory and Astrophysics, I think, should be taken with a ‘grain

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of salt’. As my father admitted in the story, he was “never very good at all that techno-scientific stuff”. Nevertheless, he arrives at an answer which he holds to be true. His conclusion is that the ‘simple’ love-filled, free play of a young child had, effectively, catalyzed a string of events and phenomena which served to absorb an apocalyptic missile barrage and bring forth the positive transformation of our society and environment. Through his “fantastic story” and analysis, I think my father is asking the reader to recognize an inherent faith in childhood which he, and all children, possess. With this, he is also exhorting us to embrace, cherish and maintain the spirit of childhood in ourselves, well into adulthood. The resolution of the ‘Mystery of Green Bank’ with its fantastic revelation reintroduces and ultimately reaffirms my father’s thesis that children possess special powers which can help adults to save the world. Should my father’s interpretation of the “Mystery of Green Bank” be true, and if this miracle did actually occur then, as Ernst Bloch once wrote, “… something will come into being in the world that shines into everyone’s childhood and where no one has yet been home.”34 The final lines of the book seems to confirm that the author believes it actually did happen.

References and Suggestions for Further Reading On Aging and the Power of Children’s Imagination Lepore, L., & Lorenzo, R. (1991). Immaginiamo il Futuro (Let’s imagine the future—A teacher’s manual): World wildlife fund environmental education series, Rome, Italy. Lorenzo, R. (1983). Community context, future perspective and participation. Childhood City Quarterly, Children’s Environmental Research Group (CERG-CUNY). Lorenzo, R. (1997). Collage making in futures projects in Hart, Roger children’s participation: The theory and the practice of involving young citizens in community development and environmental care. Earthscan-Routledge-UNICEF.

A New Waterfront and World: Children, Nature and Futures AA.VV. (1977). Children, nature, and the urban environment: Proceedings of a symposium-fair. Forest Service, U.S. Dept. of Agriculture, 1977 Upper Darby, Pa. Baldassari, C., Lehman, S., & Wolfe, M. (1987). Imaging and creating alternative environments with children. In C. Weinstein & T. David (Eds.), Spaces for children: The built environment and child development. Plenum Press. https://link.springer.com/chapter/10.1007/978-1-4684-5227-3_11 Boulding, E. (1980). Children’s rights and the wheel of life. Transaction Publishers. Casey, T., & Robertson, J. (2016). Loose parts play: A tool kit. Inspiring Scotland. Cobb, E. (1977). The ecology of imagination in childhood. Columbia University Press. 34

Ernst Bloch quoted in Jack Zipes, Breaking the Magic Spell: Radical Theories of Folk and Fairy Tales (London: Heinemann, 1979), p. 129. “Heimat (home), that is, as a world in which human beings do not perceive and treat the world and each other as if they were strangers”.

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Commoner, B. (1990). Making peace with the planet. The New Press. Damerell, P., Howe, C., & Milner-Gulland, E. J. (2013). Child-orientated environmental education influences adult knowledge and household behavior. In Environmental research letters (Vol. 8, Number 1, 015016). IOP Publishing Ltd. Francis, M., & Lorenzo, R. (2001). Seven realms of children’s participation: A critical historical review. Journal of Environmental Psychology (Winter, 2001–2) Special Issue on “Children and Environment”. IOP Institute of Physics. (2013). Kids teach parents to respect the environment. 13 February 2013. http:// www.iop.org/news/13/feb/page_59540.html Jungk, R. J. (1987). Futures workshops. Institute for Social Inventions. Lorenzo, R. (1985). Gruppo Futuro: Children designing their neighborhood’s futures. In Architecture multiple and complex, Sansoni Editore, Florence. Mead, M. (1970). Culture and commitment: A study of the generation gap (see chapter “pre-figurative cultures”). Natural History Press. Polak, F. (1973). The image of the future (Translated and abridged by Elise Boulding). Josey Bass Inc.

Children’s Free Play Can Save Our World Sandburg, Carl (1916) Under the Harvest Moon in Collection Chicago Poems (Public Domain). The imaginary annotations concerning the ideas and works of Dr. Norman Mayer are the product of the author’s free elaboration of the language from these sources regarding Wormhole Theory and Astrophysics: Wormholes in Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wormhole Einstein, A., & Rosen, N. (1935). The particle problem in the general theory of relativity. Physics Revue 48 (73). Thorne, K. F. (1994). Black holes & time warps: Einstein’s outrageous legacy. W.W. Norton & Co.

Curator’s Conclusions Nicholson, N., & Lorenzo, R. (1981). The political implications of children’s participation: Steps towards a participatory society. In IFDA (International Foundation for Development Alternatives) Journal N. 22, March/April 1981, Switzerland. Zipes, J. (1979). Breaking the magic spell: Radical theories of folk and fairy tales (p. 129). Heinemann.

Brief Conclusive Notes from the ‘Real’ Author

While typing the last lines of the curator’s analysis, the sight of the citation from Ernst Bloch brought back a memory of the moment I had first read his name. If my mind isn’t playing jokes with me, I think it was the same day of the TV shoot in the Red Hook neighborhood described in Chap. 7. As we were walking back from the waterfront, Martin Koeppl, a dear-departed friend and colleague gave me a blue-covered copy of Bloch’s book “A Philosophy of the Future.” Martin, of © Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2022 R. Lorenzo, Children’s Free Play and Participation in the City, Children: Global Posthumanist Perspectives and Materialist Theories, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-0300-7

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German nationality and a graduate of the Frankfort School, had made me this kind gift as a token of his gratitude for my participation as an external member of his doctoral committee at Clark University. The Red Hook Futures Project was the subject of Martin’s thesis. I had never read Bloch before that time. I delved into it immediately and discovered that, just as Martin had anticipated, my work and thoughts seemed to have been surprisingly (in)formed by portions of that text. Some of Bloch’s words made their way into one paper I wrote successively, but afterwards, in all truth, I forgot his important teachings for decades, and I must confess that I never researched him further, or referenced any of his other works.… that is, until now. Inspired by these recollections, I carried out a rapid web-search and immediately found several critical reviews of Bloch’s most important three-part tome, The Principal of Hope. I also discovered an interesting article1 which paralleled his ideas to those of Paolo Friere, a philosopher-teacher I had studied considerably, and whose work had influenced the approaches applied in our “Futures Projects.” Yet another article,2 by the same author, treated Bloch’s ideas on childhood (with moving references to his own) and his resulting radical critique of conventional, capitalist and authoritarian education. In these two writings, I was startled to find an extraordinary number of passages which revealed a marked serendipity between Bloch’s “utopian philosophy” and the ideas, concepts and voices I had depicted in this book. Interestingly, one author had likened Bloch’s ideas to “flaschenpost” (German), in the following terms: “… notes in a bottle cast into the chaotic and irrational sea of capitalist dominated modernity in the hope that they would be found.”3 This linguistic discovery gave me the idea to ‘throw’ a small selection of Bloch’s “notes in a bottle” into the “chaotic sea” which is certainly the world described in my story. In particular, I am here referring to a society which, for the most part, had denied children their rights to free play and participation. I offer these flaschenpost with the hope that they might serve as keys to a further understanding of the theoretical foundations of the book and, also, as flames to light the fuses of more and greater calls-to-action.4

1

Cemiloglu, Nina (2019) ``Flaschenpost'' from the Past: The Critical Utopian Pedagogies of Ernst Bloch and Paulo Freire in Temmuz/July 12/2 ISSN 1309–1328. 2 Cemiloglu, Nina (2018) Between Marxism and Romanticism: Childhood and Education in the Works of Ernst Bloch in folklor/edebiyat, cilt:24, sayı:94, 2018/2. 3 Ott, M. R. (2014) “The Migration of Religious Longing for the ‘Other’ into the Historical Materialist Critical Theory of Utopia in the Thought of Theodor W. Adorno and Ernst Bloch”, in Michael R. Ott (2014) The Dialectics of the Religious and the Secular: Studies on the Future of Religion. Leiden: Brill. (Cited in Cemiloglu op.cit. 2018). 4 Brown, Judith (2003) Ernst Bloch and the Utopian Imagination. In Eras Journal Edition 5 – 2003/11 Monash University, Australia.

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These flaschenpost are: • Bloch seems to be referring the actions of young Vinnie and his friends where he writes: “A child takes up and handles everything he sees, to find out what it means. Throws everything away, is restlessly curious and does not know of what. […] They are looking for more, they unpack it”5 (Bloch, 1959, p. 21). • Bloch also holds that “the inclination of human beings (and, especially, of children) to daydream and to creative work indicates that there is something missing in our lives, and that something is a wrong which must be remedied.”6 This last missing element has been both the motivation and the characteristic outcome of all the children’s participation projects I have conducted throughout my professional career. • When he further asserts that “day dreaming and creative work are conducive to change because these activities presuppose and bring forth a further venturing beyond,”7 he is not only describing the very nature of Vinnie (and of all children), but he also calls to mind the specific, ever-expanding (ad)ventures of our story’s young protagonist(s) beyond the enforced limits of their neighborhoods, cities and lives. • In his writings, Bloch often described the class room as a place of suffering: “Parents and teachers certainly know how to inflict sadness on the child” (Bloch, 1959, p. 23). According to him, “the suffering in school can be more disgusting than any kind of suffering experienced later in life, except the suffering of the prisoner”8 (1959, p. 23). I am sure that Vinnie, and especially his friend Aksel, would have agreed wholeheartedly with Bloch’s opinion of most schooling. • Ernst Bloch and the story’s Dr. Norman Mayer—as well as Vinnie, a few of his professors and most students in the university-years’ episode—appear to go hand-in-hand both in their opinions of, and treatment by, empirical and positivist ‘capitalist’ science. Bloch argued that this brand of science is harmful to our well-being and limits our self-esteem because it ignores the most important human capacities, namely to think, to feel, to learn and to dream.9 Apparently referring to the many ‘crazy’ opinions of Norm presented in the book, Bloch wrote: “Before what is thought is thought, what ought to be thought is opined.”10 • Finally, when Bloch argues that one of the strongest forces in the production of knowledge is wonder, which (he affirms) is liveliest and strongest in young people: “… it ties philosophy again and again to youth, makes metaphysics at every point impatient again, conscientious of the wisdom of age in the early,

5

op.cit., Cemiloglu (2018). op.cit., Cemiloglu (2019). 7 op.cit., Cemiloglu (2018). 8 op.cit., Cemiloglu (2018). 9 op.cit., Cemiloglu (2019). 10 Bloch, E. (1970) A Philosophy of the Future. Page 99, Herder and Herder, New York. 6

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unerring freshness of adolescent, primordial wonder”11 (Bloch, 2001, p. 170), he literally appears to me to be standing on stage at the Washington, D.C. “Children, Nature and the Urban Environment” conference—in the company of Margaret Mead, Edith Cobb and Simon Nicholson. One last surprising parallel—the fact that Bloch, Vinnie and Norman Mayer were all extremely fascinated and influenced by fairy tales, myths, fables and science fiction—leads me almost to assume that Prof. Bloch would not only have appreciated the fairytale you are holding in your hands, but he would probably also have shared Vinnie’s interpretation of the “Mystery of Green Bank.” For the moment, I think we can only leave this hypothesis open. References and Suggestions for Further Reading Bloch, E. (1959). Das Prinzip Hoffnung III (The Principle of Hope, Part III). Verlag. Bloch, E. (1970). A philosophy of the future. Herder and Herder. Bloch, E. (1986). The principle of hope (Translated by Neville Plaice, Stephen Plaice and Paul Knight). The MIT Press. Brown, J. (2003). Ernst Bloch and the utopian imagination. In Eras Journal Edition 5 – 2003/11 Monash University, Australia Cemiloglu, N. (2018). Between marxism and romanticism: Childhood and education in the works of Ernst Bloch in folklor/edebiyat, cilt:24, sayı:94, 2018/2. Cemiloglu, N. (2019). “Flaschenpost” from the past: The critical utopian pedagogies of Ernst Bloch and Paulo Freire in Temmuz/July 12/2. ISSN 1309-1328. Ott, M. R. (2014). The migration of religious longing for the ‘other’ into the historical materialist critical theory of Utopia in the thought of Theodor W. Adorno and Ernst Bloch. In Ott, M. R. (Eds.), The dialectics of the religious and the secular: Studies on the future of religion. Brill (Cited in Cemiloglu op.cit. 2018).

11

op.cit., Cemiloglu (2019).