Sunday, June 3, 2012

ELSIE

Growing up on the streets of New York in the ‘50s was not a joke. All kinds of merriment, but also social tragedy came into play. Across the street where I lived in what was then called Manhattan’s Yorkville, was a row of tenements that were later converted into a post office. Some of the inhabitants were Italian, as was pointed out to me by my parents, German and Finnish. Further down the street on my side was a candy store, home to a juke box and, for want of a better description, some West Side Story inhabitants. There was also ‘Fleischman’s’, a small depot for eggs and milk, used by friends of the family, but not by my own. My point in writing this entry, though, is not some of these more picaresque details, but Elsie, a tall, slender older woman living in the tenement next to ours. She would appear, always with a cane, and sometimes with a another woman. They were slightly older than my mother, say in their ‘50s, and seemed ciphers to me. I was always provided with an unspoken message as we would sit on the stoop socializing, to avoid them, and still remember Elsie’s stare. It seemed like there was an unbroachable chasm between us. There was one instance where I remember the two women coming over to us, but they were seldom seen. I began this blog because of a continuing sense of isolation having relocated to New York’s Hudson Valley from The City. Last summer, after having homesteaded in Newburgh’s West End for 12 years, I suddenly came under siege from my neighbors, an unrelenting harassment that ruined my summer. In my astonishment at this, I fought back, ending in some ridiculous scenarios such as walking down my very long driveway nude to fetch my mail. But in the midst of all this hostility, there was the awakening in remembering my childhood, that Elsie and her partner were lesbians. I recently revealed this heartbreak to my psychotherapist, the woman running a bisexual support group at the White Plains Gay community center known as The Loft. It was such a strange experience that it defied any explanation to either my attorney, the city police, my social worker, or either of the two ministers I counseled with. My home had also been entered, and it took quite a while to do the math on what had been taken. At first the damages seemed minor until months later I realized that both my external hard drive and cache of photographs for framing had been stolen. Over the years, as I once attempted an explanation of my adult life, there have been issues following me everywhere I’ve chosen to hang my hat, all surrounding my sexual identity. In fact, this same kind of neighborhood discomfort and hostility is what originally removed me from my humble home in an East Village tenement. At the end of the day, I am always seen as an obstacle requiring removal. Not too long ago, doing some simple paperwork for a resident in Newburgh’s historic district introduced me to some of the terminology involved in City politics, something I’ve never chosen to involve myself in. In struggling against a continuing message of unwelcomeness, it suddenly occurred to me that I was a ‘stakeholder’, that I had bolted myself down in my home, with the determination not to be removed from it. Recently the President declared June to be LGBT Pride month. Let’s celebrate it.