Be the change ...

It's hard to believe that it's been nearly two years since I had what you might call an epiphany, or perhaps just merely a coincidental realization.

Late December 2011: I had been shopping for Christmas gifts in Dumbo that evening, and I decided to cross back to Manhattan over Brooklyn Bridge. Twas breezy as always, but not as chilly as you'd expect on the old bridge that night. Repainting and minor repairs (the bridge has never required anything more in its 130 years) were being done on the center portion of the promenade; sheets of corrugated metal wrapped the construction area, creating a cattle chute of sorts for the herds traveling on foot and wheels. Both had cause for complaint: cyclists had an even more restricted path over the bridge, while camera-toting tourists were denied a spectacular view of the city, and especially, the harbor.

The promenade was one of the original—and unique—features of Brooklyn Bridge. Engineer/designer John Roebling was particularly excited to compliment the trolley tracks and roadway with an elevated path for casual foot traffic. Pedestrians, now as much as then, could enjoy the exposure to fresh air and an unparalleled view of the natural and urban environment.

But the new limitations on enjoying the bridge have fostered a creative response: graffiti—both an art and an act of defiance. The Wall Street Journal this past spring reported on the graffiti, as well as the mixed responses it elicits. I, for one, see nothing wrong with defacing these barricades, and here's why.

Gandhi? Uh, sort of.

That night on the bridge, I noticed among the collage of colors and words, a message of action and hope, pragmatic and optimistic, simple and containing multitudes. "Be the change you wish to see in the world" was not spoken by Gandhi, but it sort of seems like it, right? But he didn't. It's probably the best known example of a false quotation attributed to the likes of Gandhi, Thoreau, and Mandela. Author Brian Norton considered this phenomena in The Times a couple years ago. His final paragraph I found particularly insightful (italics added):

But ours is an era in which it’s believed that we can reinvent ourselves whenever we choose. So we recast the wisdom of the great thinkers in the shape of our illusions. Shorn of their complexities, their politics, their grasp of the sheer arduousness of change, they stand before us now. They are shiny from their makeovers, they are fabulous and gorgeous, and they want us to know that we can have it all.     

He's certainly correct that "it’s believed that we can reinvent ourselves whenever we choose," but this has been an American notion since ... America was just a notion. It's fundamental to this country's saga--both in the recorded history and in the enduring mythology. But I will agree that simplifying the subtle or multifaceted words of inspiring figures is a modern trend, and abets the perpetuation of the belief in our abilities to transform ourselves. And some, in the vein of the "Gandhi" quotation, believe that doing so will also trigger a rippling wave of change whose effect will broaden as it grows wider. A notion paradoxically selfish and selfless? Maybe, but maybe I just haven't thought about it enough. I'm sure I'm missing something.

Back to my story. I realized upon reading this graffiti quote that I had discovered my theme. This was a message that I could both convey to a young adult audience and effectively portray with the characters and circumstances I already had in mind. Excited, I sent Tim a text before I even reached the Manhattan tower. Naturally, he replied with something like, "Yes. Good. Now go do it!" And even if this is a misquotation attributed to the enigmatic Timothy Decker, it still's pretty damn true.   

Writing about not writing

This daily writing thing has become dangerously undaily.

Book thought: what is it like to be under the East River? Something to ponder there.

Also to ponder, these Andrew Wyeth quotations:

Inspired by a candlelight dinner on my roof the other night …

During the summer of ‘63, the shantytown mirrored the night sky. Each hovel tended a fire, and in the blackness between the river and the Central Park, these points of light were a veritable galaxy. Desperation fueled the flames—hope burning bright, yielding little more than ghostly smoke. But like a star to the Sun, these feeble hearths were dim compared to the menacing glow downtown.  

Craptacular writing day ... but you get a picture of an historic landmark

St. Patrick's Old Cathedral in the Lower East Side

The old church caught the dying light of day, but the ringing of its bells had caught Aedan’s attention. The cross was small, as if the building itself defined its purpose—this is a house of the Lord, you knew it and felt it without being told. The granite walls towered over the streets, but the tenements--rising with the stability and audacity of card houses--hemmed the cathedral in on all sides. The cleaner residents among them could be accepted as parishioners, but the majority could only accept the trickle of charity that leaked into the neighborhood. Aedan hadn’t entered the churchyard in years. When they moved downtown after Seamus returned from the War, his mother attempted to restructure their lives around the church. Aedan only remembered a few stories of the Bible ...

His father said she was buried there. Kyla believed this, and insisted on stopping outside the gates to greet their mother, ask her about heaven, cry a bit. But Aedan knew better. The man his father had paid to handle his mother’s body had no connection with St. Patrick’s, nor any parish. For all he knew, his mother had been dumped in the East River, and drifted out to sea just as easily as she’d come.

Has anyone seen the bridge? (Where's that confounded bridge?)

Really, the only thoughts on the story I had today concerned how to maintain the construction of Brooklyn Bridge at the center of the story, or at least, as an essential context and narrative force. There are scenes in the caisson I have yet to really imagine, but that setting was the impetus for the entire project. What happens down there? Who’s down there? What does one think of it? And then of course, there are the effects: income to spend, rivalries with other workmen, the exhaustion physical labor, and the invisible danger of caisson’s disease. Aedan meets Jim there, but who else? He comes down with a bout of the disease—and meets Dr. Smith, his mentor for a life away from the streets. He gains his income from there—how he can support his sister, and how he can piss his life away at saloons and with hookers. 

And in a larger sense Brooklyn Bridge is a symbol of rising American prosperity and ingenuity and grandeur and industrial might. But it’s built on the labor of the working class, many of them immigrants after a dream or just survival. This is a story of survival and desperation after all. 

But first I need to get back to the Bridge. It is the foundation of the story. I need the research and sense of the Bridge to write confidently about it—the construction site, the operation, the workings underground. And what was the impression of it at the time? What would it mean to someone in New York only casually familiar with the project? The Bridge is a portal to developing Aedan the character. Why does he choose a legitimate line of work over crime? Why does he stick through with it? What happens when the shifts get shorter and less frequent? Is he there when Washington Roebling collapses? What happens with the worker's strike? The strike, and Aedan's involvement, has the potential to be a climactic event. And knowing the Bridge is the start.

Considerations

Recently, while walking the streets of New York, I’ve become distracted by the notion of depicting a duality of city life—as apparent now as then (1872): the prosperity and the poverty. In the span of a minute, across from Macy’s—an extremely recognizable and successful brand, founded in this city in 1858—I walked by a disheveled middle-aged man shuffling down the sidewalk with an armful of cardboard, another man eating greasy Chinese food with chopsticks, a sign propped against his knees begging for handouts, and then another man asleep while sitting, his trumpet quiet at his side. How can someone obviously with musical talented be sleeping in a subway tunnel? How can these coincide with tourists and prospering businesses—and how has this not changed? I’m not wondering how I can change any of this. Yes, I could start volunteering, and maybe bring relief to a few individuals for a few hours. Or, I could join a movement railing against capitalism, or the deficiencies in our welfare/outreach systems (state, religious, non-profit, etc.) Selfishly perhaps, I’m really just concerned with how to depict this two-sided coin in my book. In a film it would be rather easy (the difficulty there would be to do it with subtlety). But how do I do it in writing without being completely explicit about it? This has nothing to do with character or plot or theme—those big issues. Or does it? There’s something there … the conflict and tension between the rising city and the squalor of the streets. And that it’s just as evident and relevant now as then. I can show it then, and speak to it now. 

A bit of Chapter 1

Padraic entered the room. It felt colder than on the street outside, and he wondered how that was possible. He would have liked to have spoken to his uncle first, but the bearded man lying on the table in the center of the room seemed indisposed and unreachable. “Aedan,” he said, embracing his cousin. And while the taller man’s lean arms wrapped around him, Padraic could not help but notice the protruding ribcage beneath Aedan's shirt. “And … ?” Padraic hesitated as he approached Kyla, looking to Aedan for her forgotten name.

            “Kyla,” said Aedan, as he reached for a chair to offer to their first guest in years.

            “Good morning to you, Kyla,” Padraic said, removing his cap and bowing slightly. “How are you?” 'What a foolish question,' he thought. 'Can’t you see how this freezing child starves, while her father drinks his life away?'

Where to (re)start? The Brooklyn Bridge novel redux

Charlotte lowered the revolver to her side. Aedan clutched at her hand and the gun slipped from it, clattering against the floor. The sound, more than his sudden movement, startled her; but Charlotte stood rooted the floorboards. She should have fled out of fear, but something held her there.
            Squeezing her hand tenderly, he pressed it against his chest—his heart—where a moment before she had aimed her weapon. She reached out her free hand and Aedan anticipated a slap across the side of his head. But rather, Charlotte caressed his ruddy cheek, the eyelets of her lace gloves catching on his stubble, producing a rasping sound heard only by him. But, when they passed just below his chin, her fingers curled into a small fist hidden from his sight.