12/31
Sun. Warm. Melting snow. Coffee at Barney Greengrass. Open the doors. Sweep the steps. The last day of the year. Moving forward, these are the important words:
Presence
Relationships
Action
and this above all:
Hope
The capacity to believe in spite of the evidence and the courage to work to make the evidence change
12/30
The sun is bright, the snow is melting. Walking down Amsterdam, there’s an ambulance in front of the projects. Someone is being carefully loaded into the back. A snow plow driver had pulled over to see what’s going on.
Stopping into Barney Geengrass for my morning coffee, I marvel at the multicultural staff Gary has put together . Asian, African-American, Latino, tattooed white guys and an actor. All who take pride in their work. They slice sturgeon,nova, lox paper thin with the delicacy of surgeons.
Green snow-suited department of sanitation workers are digging out the trash cans. And widening the crossing pathways on the church’s corners. It’s only taken four days for them to get here. Can’t complain though, major parts of the outer boroughs are still snowed under, angry at feeling ignored by our city and its self-described competent and efficient technocrat mayor. By tomorrow, many corners will be deep pools of impassable slush spilling out into the streets. But not ours. Ours will be dry because we shoveled them out every day.
I open the doors. Marty is sitting there. He looks up. “Is it ok to sit here, Reverend?” he asks. “Sure, make yourself at home.” I sit down with my coffee to join him. “So Marty, what’s going on?” I ask. “I wish I knew what was going on,” he replies. “ How you doing?” I ask. “Not bad,” he says, staring off into the distance. He continues to stare. then gets up and walks off. No extended philosophical discussion today. No jokes, stories of his father. Not today.
I decide to do some paper work. More unexpected bills from the long landmarks fight. Promotional materials from the denomination and Spanish Bible study materials delivered months too late. With unused service bulletins, its all recycling.
Nazim, the super from the Belnord across the street drops by to see how it’s going. If we’re moving back in ok. We talk in great detail about the process of checking out the pipes, getting the water back on. I find it overwhelming. As overwhelming as dealing with the boiler and getting the heat back on. My first priority. A place where I’m feeling stuck. He wants to help make a plan to get his staff involved, with his boss’s permission, of course. We need a licensed plumber. I thank him again for his gracious help removing the gates. For him, helping us is a form of prayer. He wishes me good holidays and a happy new year. It’s time to lock up.
12/29
After breakfast with Marsha planning a stewardship campaign, I head to the church. The sky is gray, the snow melting and dirty. Not much for Deacon James and I to do today. Our paths have held up well. We push the shovels, clear the slush. There are thanks. Two women pass by, Deacon James bows a bit and says, “Have a nice day, ladies.” We look at our paths, clear and dry, allowing people to cross without slush or snow. “A thing of beauty,” we agree. I take down the signs announcing the Christmas Eve service and the Crafts Fair. No George today, only plastic silverware and cardboard lining the step where he usually sits.
12/28
First thing this morning, I was called by Chuck, my shoveling friend from yesterday, wanting to know our next step. Walking down to the church, I ache all over. But it’s a good ache, physical labor ache.The snow is second day wet, frozen, dirty. As I reach the church, George is there eating a good looking tuna salad. One of the wreaths has fallen down. And someone has left a bag of clothes. I ask if they’re his, he says “no.” So I move them aside. Hang the wreath back up. Get ready to start on the steps. I shovel them off, getting closer to clear.
I’m discouraged to find that most of our hard work of yesterday has been undone. The pathways filled in, ice hardened banks of snow filling the walkways we cleared. (Metaphors abound again.) There’s nothing to do but to dig in and do it all over again. As I start in, there’s Deacon James back again snow pants and a Russian hat. I’m happy to see him and that he’s in good shape. We’ve got an ice breaker and three kinds of shovel between us.
As we dig in, an elderly African-American woman in glasses dragging a shopping cart appears. “God bless you, she says, I can hardly get my cart through. I grew up in the church. If I had my little shovel, I’d dig in myself.” We clear her a path and she walks through, dragging her cart, laughing, talking about the city. “God bless” you she says.
It’s the same routine as yesterday,the people walking over you like you’re not there, like they’re entitled. Finally, a woman says, “thank you so much, thank you.” And James says, “Hallelujah. You take what you can get. Leave the rest alone.” When able bodied young African-American men walk by, he always extends the shovel, asks them to join him. None do.
Rolando Matalon, rabbi of B’Nai Jeshurun, walks through the path I’m creating. “BJ” is the largest progressive synagogue in the country, a major presence in the neighborhood. Marshall Meyer (of blessed memory) brought them back from near extinction back in the late ’80’s. After having gone one on one with the junta in Argentina during the “Dirty War.” Marshall, my predecessor Bob Davidson and Daniel Berrigan made quite a trio in the neighborhood. We have been sharing SPSA with BJ these last three years. “Hello Roly,” I say. He looks startled to see me in my football practice jersey, watch cap and shovel. “Bob,” he says, “you’re getting good exercise.” I think of saying “grab a shovel,” but just say “thanks,” and keep digging.
There’s a crisis. A man in a motorized cart is stuck in the middle of the street. Can’t find a way through. As annoying as these days are for most of us, especially parents with strollers, for disabled people its a frozen hell. The 86th Street crossing is almost wide enough, so we dig in double time. He starts through, gets stuck, James pushes him through to the clear walk. James raises his arms, shovel in one, the other a fist, “Victory is ours!” he shouts. This made coming here worthwhile.
A classic older Upper Westsider in his long camel hair coat, fur hat, wire rim glasses and leather gloves has been watching us. “Where are you people from?” he asks. “West-Park Church,” I say, “that church right there” and I point over my shoulder.” “God’s work,” he says, “you people are doing God’s work.”
On the one hand, that made my day. The suffering servant part of me says that just to clear the paths and have hundreds be able to walk through is worth it just as is. The community organizer part of me says we need a sign to stick in the snow banks to say “These pathways dug out, cleared and maintained by West-Park Church,” and the money conscious part of me says that we need donation jar.
We dig back in and finish the pathway across 86th Street. I look at James and say, “I think we’re done here.” “No think about it,” he says, “we’re done.” “Good work,” I say, and snap his picture with his shovels. We put the shovels away. I lock up. I wave goodbye as he heads home.
I say “take care” to George. He nods.
12/27
Walking down Amsterdam is an adventure. Shoveled blocks alternate with rough deep snow and mountains where the plows have gone by. As I near the church, I see that a path has been shoveled down our block. Then I’m shocked to see George’s feet sticking out from his portal. I’m half afraid to look and maybe find him buried in snow, or worse.
But there he is, calm as always.
“George, are you ok?”
“Yes.”
“Did you spend the night?”
“No. I was forced out. They picked me up and took me away.”
“Who? Where?”
“The police. To St. Luke’s.”
“So was that ok?”
“No.”
“So who shoveled the sidewalk?”
“Your neighbor, Barney Greengrass.”
Just as I suspected. I tell George I’ll be doing the steps now. I tell him I’m surprised to see so much snow, I thought the scaffolding would catch most of it. He tells me the wind was wild, from the west, blowing every which way, filling the street and steps with snow.
I start with the steps. I keep finding folded up newspapers under the snow, like others had come up under looking for shelter until the snow got too heavy. I finish all the portals except where George is. He moves his encampment, picks up any trash around his space. I finish the steps and head for the sidewalk. I give Deacon James a call. His doctor’s appointment has been cancelled. Lingering walking pneumonia and all, he comes and joins me. Together we shovel towards 86th Street.
After an hour, he tires. I can see he needs to head home. I tell him to go warm up, I can take it from here. I decide to dig into the mountain blocking the crosswalk to the other side of Amsterdam. As I shovel, inch by inch through 2-3 feet of snow, it begins to feel like a metaphor. The almost insurmountable financial odds we’re facing. The overwhelming work that must be done to bring a congregation back to life. Well, we have kept living, but back to growing vitality again.
With each shovel full, I’m growing angrier. Yes, our Council member Brewer has been to every event we’ve had, always spoken supportively. But she won the landmarks vote by convincing the politicians she could deliver on at least $11 million. Advocacy groups swore they’d come through. The statements are on public record. In all honesty, it’s been over seven months. Around $11,000 has been raised for external repairs. The Friends of West-Park and Landmarks West! have promised $100,000 to get the insides going again, but at the price of a promise not to seek to reverse landmarking by any means. There are both integrity and practical issues around that. The clean up day felt great, but it’s been too long. Time runs short. Where are the other politicians? Who really cares? Where is the community support group? Why am I shoveling all alone against a mountain of snow? What kind of romantic fool was i to believe that presence alone would bring support? That someone would see me and join in?
In the past, this was the job of our then handyman, Israel Sanchez. I remember the blizzard years ago when he and I dressed in work clothes and tackled the snow. As we shoveled and talked in Spanish, people walked over and around us as if we were not even there. With this sense not of appreciation, but entitlement.And I realized that in blizzards, it’s the support staff, the janitors and doormen the busboys and kitchen staff who always have to make it through the snow so that the rest of us can enjoy our “snow days.” From the far reaches of Brooklyn, Bronx and Queens they make it in no matter what.
Today, some step right over me. Some get annoyed if they find me in their path, the one I’ve just cleared. I want to say, “get a damned shovel.” Some say “excuse me,” some actually say “thanks,” and amazingly two or three say, “thanks for making it safe, “ or “thanks so much for making me a path..” I’ve reached my peak of cynicism when I hear, ‘Do you work here?”
It’s a father and son carrying snow shovels. “Yes, “ I say.
“Are you the minister?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure you’re not just some guy the minister pays to do this work?”
“No, I’m the minister.”
He looks at his son. “Then I suppose we should help. I don’t want to but we will.”
“That would be cool.”
“So you must be a cool minister. How far do we have to go?” I point east on 86th, the length of our building, “anything you do’d be great.”
“All right then, let’s get started.”
And as i continue to dig away at my mountain, they do the whole length of the building. I look up and see what they’ve done. I walk over. “Thank you so much,”I say. “Listen,” the man says, "I could buy a snowplow, rent space from you, we could both make some money.” I ask him where he could store it. He points to the church, “inside.” I say, “Let’s go take a look.”
So he and his son come inside with me. I take them down into the bowels of the church. And there, in the boiler room we see it: a Murray Elite snow blower. “That’s it!” he says. I tell him it hasn’t been touched in three years. He says it looks great. Needs gas. Maybe oil. Check the spark plug. “I think we’re in business”he says. “What the hell happened here?” So I tell him our story. He stops at the boiler. “What’s the deal here?” So i tell him. “You gotta check that out” he says. “Bet It can be cheaper.” So I offer to send him the report.
Upstairs, we talk. The son is red haired, glasses. Toboggan hat, down jacket. Guilford College, a Quaker School in North Carolina. Has been to Israel and the Friends School in Ramallah, wants to go back and do solidarity work. I tell him about my oldest son, Micah. They ask what kind of church this is. I tell them, ask about religion. “I don’t care so much for religion,” Ben, the son says, “I just want to help.” “I’m Catholic, the boy’s mom, Jewish,” Chuck, the father says, “we married Ethical Culture.” I tell them I’ve done lots of marriages like that. Have one myself. Chuck tells me of his long journey here from his start in Corvallis, Oregon to his current home in Harlem. Back on the street, I say to Ben, “my favorite kind of people have issues with religion. Just want to make things better. They ask the right kind of questions.” We exchange information, decide to see where this might lead. I say thanks again and they’re off.
There’s still too much to do. I call home, ask for help. Nate will be here soon. Andrea tells me to take a break. I stop into Barney Greengrass. One of the servers brings me a fresh coffee. “It’s hard work, “ I say. “tell me about it,” he says, “I started my day shoveling your sidewalk. Along with the boss himself, yeah, Gary.” ‘Thanks,” I say. And I thank Gary for all he’s done today. “Looks like it snowed,”he says.
While I’m waiting for Nate, I go back to talk with George. “How wide you gonna make that?” he asks, “single file?” and laughs.
“No, at least two by two.”
“Like the motherfuckin ark,” he says, laughing, ”gotta be big enough for two of me.” The he tells me of his snow shoveling days, the “wide ass paths” he made and then the city plows coming by and “fucking everything up.”
I ask, “Aren’t you cold?”
“Nah,” he says, “I’m good. Listen, last night, that thunder and lightning and snow. You been around, ever see the like?”
‘No,” I say, though a friend from Oklahoma where I lived ten years will remind me that there, anything is possible.
“That was apocamotherfuckinlyptic” he says. “Say what if an earthquake come in behind that snow,the earth open up, buildings fall in the ground, heating systems go all to shit, everyone running around like they don’t know what the fuck is gojng on, I be here, the warmest motherfucker of them all, I be prepared.”
And I have no doubt, if the apocalypse were indeed to come, George would come through intact.
Nate arrives. We finish off two great tunnels, two great pathways to cross Amsterdam and to cross 86th. We widen the lane on Amsterdam in front of our building. The sun is shining off our work. I feel something close to happy. I put the shovels away. Lock up.
“You take care, George, I say, and he nods in response.
12/26
The sky is gray and heavy, full with the prediction of snow. I’m late as I get to church having had to stop at a copy shop to copy the bulletin. At the steps, I’m greeted by George, back again. “George,it’s cold,”I say, “ Not too cold yet this morning,” he replies. He pauses, then, “Hey, they were looking for you. Philip and that lady. The one with short red hair and tight spandex, you’re supposed to open up.” “I’m here now,” I say.
I go in and open the doors. Someone has left a box of Starbuck’s breakfasts on the steps. Who knows how long ago. I ask George about them “They’ve all got eggs,” he says, “I don’t eat eggs.” So I throw them out. I’m cold. And with the threat of snow, I don’t expect too much. Philip arrives. I tell him I need some coffee and will be right back and so I head to Barney’s for a cup. One of the server asks how the church is going. I recognize him as an actor."29th Street Rep, " i say. He reminds me of his friendship with Chuck Willey, a fellow 29th Street rep founder and church member. "It's a never ending 15 year renovation project, " says Gary. When I get back Phillip says, “Ana is here with Jamie and Ashley. They’re inside.”
We all come in. Ana says she was afraid no one else would show up. I decide to begin with casual conversation. Soon Arcadia has arrived. The Andre, looking at Philip and saying “this place’s not big enough for the both of us, brother,” and laughing. I tell them my friend Melissa in Rochester has invited her congregation to show up in their pajamas. I actually did that once in Oakdale, outside of Pittsburgh. On Christmas morning Sunday. We had hot chocolate and cookies and sang carols. That’s harder to pull off on the Upper Westside of Manhattan.
We talk about our Christmases. The Puerto Rican traditions of pasteles and arroz con gandules. And of course, coquitos. A late night visit from Santa. Nicaraguans and pernil and gallino relleno. We share our stories.
I ask for a favorite carol. Ashley asks for “Silent Night.” Then we sing “Good Christian Friends Rejoice” in English and Spanish. Ashley and Jamie come up to light our candles. Arcadia reads Isaiah in Spanish and I read the gospel story. The story of the Holy Innocents. When we talk about Herod, being an ethnarch, of course someone mentions Karzai.How imperial powers always install people to rule on their behalf. How illegitimate power is always threatened by that which is legitimate. How the innocent suffer always, especially children. And how you can't talk about God made flesh unless you allow for that part of the story. For God to be present in human form is to be ready to experience that, be present in that reality. We choose to be in the cold, others do not have that choice. We are called to be present.
I wanted to give Philip the Sunday off but he’s moved to stand up and sing, “Jesus the Light of the World” as we take up the offering. It’s easy to join in. For our doxology, Philip leads us into “We are standing on Holy Ground,” to bless our space.
As we all gather together in a circle, I tell them what Nate had said on Christmas Eve. And that I embrace and celebrate our circle on this morning, this 100th West-Park Christmas, as is. We conclude with “Joy to the World,” and after the benediction, “Halle,halle,halle, hallelujah.”
Ana has brought a thermos of Puerto Rican coffee, cafe con leche, hot, milky, sweet and rich. It steams as she pours out cups full.
We lock up. Go out together. I wish George well. Across the street, there is no sign of Francois and Max and Pascal. No one would ever know that they had ever been there. I pick up pastrami salmon and nova to take home for breakfast. As I leave Barney’s, snow has begun to fall. I see Deacon James heading my way. “We’re going to need salt,” he says, “We’re going to need salt.”
12/23
In my office, waiting for Eleanor. A man walks in and goes into the sanctuary. As he comes out, I introduce myself. His name’s Fernando. From Spain. Always wanted to see inside. I share a brochure. And our story. He smiles and we exchange holiday greetings as I see him out to the steps.
Eleanor arrives with her daughter Isabel bringing a load of computer equipment to donate. Eleanor was my intern from Union during 2000-2001. One of my best. Her project was the amazing “Parallel Lives” production that drew over 250 to our sanctuary and led to a six month exploration of racism with small groups.When she was here we were on our best upward swing. Later she would bring her daughter to the program Rudy ran in our gym. She’s now an ordained UCC minister. I am hoping I can get her involved in our project. She’d bring the organizational skills I need so much.
Her daughter Isabel is alert and precocious. As Eleanor and I are talking, Isabel breaks in. “ You know what you should do?” she says, “if you start to fix this place up, make it better, on one of the floors you should make small rooms. Parents could rent them and their children could use them for art studios and you could have art supplies to sell. We kids need a place to make art.” I’m amazed at how her idea is exactly what we’re trying to create. “That’s a great idea, Isabel,” I say. “ I’m going to write that down. Tell me your full name so I can give you credit.” “I’m Isabel Mackie Harrison Bregdon,” she says. “They call me Isabel or Izzy and my Spanish friends call me Isabella.” She pauses. “And you know what else? You need to have two rooms for homeless people, people with no place to stay. They could stay here.” She has understood our Centre vision without even knowing it. “And you know how you could make money? You could buy things at one price and sell them higher. Or people could give you things and then you sell them.” I laugh and tell her I’m going to put her on our advisory committee.
As we are talking, Deacon James walks in with his broom. I introduce him to Eleanor. He became a member after her time. He sees that the sweeping is done for the day. And so after hand shakes and holiday greetings, he’s on his way. We talk about getting together to see what might be possible and out of the corner of my eye, I see a woman walk in and sit in the pews, looking up at the stained glass window.
Isabel has walked down the aisle and is studying the creche. I tell her about how in Central America, they call them nacimientos. That on Christmas, someone will steal your baby Jesus and when they bring it back you have to give them a party. And how in Mexico, they put baby Jesuses in Roscas de Reyes (“bread of kings”) that are then ransomed for parties, with tamales. isabel is not sure what tamales are but likes the idea. While we talk, Eleanor notices that Isabel is eying baby Jesus. “Don’t steal the baby Jesus, okay Isabel?” Isabel smiles and laughs.
I see Eleanor and Isabella to the door. They’re heading to WSCAH for some volunteer work. She looks across the street. “I’ve been negotiating with those guys for a good tree price,” she says. “Francois and Max,” I say. “I’ve been taking them coffee. Looking for a good deal myself.” And I tell her about the Quebecois Christmas tree cartels, the Sopranos style competition for control of street locations. Isabel says that if I keep looking, I’ll see their tree. Eleanor says they’ll pick it up on their way to the country, put it on top of the car. I wish them a Merry Christmas.
It’s cold. I want to lock up and leave. Looking around, I see there’s still clean up to do after the crafts fair. We need another day. The woman is still sitting in the pew. I don’t want to disturb her. In winter clothes, it’s hard to tell who she might be. I walk up and tell her I need to close up, ask if I can do anything.
She looks up and I’m surprised to see she looks like a young middle class woman. She’s sitting lotus style on the bench. “No,” she says, “I’ve just been enjoying the quiet time. I always wanted to come in here. I was just passing by, saw the door was open.” Her name is Heather, she lives up on 103rd. I share a brochure and some of our story. Tell her I hope she comes back. “Thanks for the quiet time,” she says, “I needed that.”
I lock up, get ready to go. Can I actually get my shopping done? Get a tree and put it up? Will anyone come tomorrow night? Can we get signs? Will the Hammond work? Will someone help me with candles? Cider? It’s time to get moving. It’s been a good day of office hours.
12/21
Deacon Linda Marassa is waiting at the bus stop in front of the church. She has just finished her daily shift as a volunteer at the Westside Campaign Against Hunger down the street at SPSA. She compliments me on my red and green Christmas Yankee hat. Inside, the door bell rings. I open to find a young man in a yellow down jacket and black Euro glasses. “Hello,” he says,”I’m from Italy. These are good clothes. I thought you could use them.” I say “thanks” and take the bag. Outside, no George. I hope this means he’s indoors and warm. Stop by and say good morning to Francois, talk about the water falls near La Malbaie, Quebec, near Le Domaine Forget where Micah spent two summers. it’s the first day of winter, the longest night of the year.
12/22
First, an evaluation meeting with Ted at the Diner and then John joins us for a financial discussion. Some 750 people came through the fair and there was between 9 and 10,000 dollars in sales. The music made the difference in the cold. Some were just curious it to see the space, to see life in it again. The financial mountain to climb by mid-January to gain the chance to bring this project to life remains daunting, even overwhelming. John asks the hard edged questions that must be answered to have a chance to live.
Barney Greengrass is a maelstrom of activity as Gary prepares for the avalanche of Christmas orders. Boxes of bagels and bialeys stacked high, his workers, experienced over the years, keep calm in the storm. By tradition, it seems like every Jew in the neighborhood comes in for a Christmas morning breakfast of sable and lox and scrambled eggs. I wish Gary the best to get through these days. “Say a brucha for me, Reverend,ok?”
The steps are quiet today. The sun is shining, the air warming. “A beautiful day,” says Francois. From here on out, the days grow longer, the light will grow.
12/20
As I go to open the doors, I hear George engaged in animated discussion with someone else on the other side. Amanda appears and as we’re talking, Hope walks in and says how good it makes her feel to walk dow the street and see the church doors open. We review the events of the last few days. How having worship upstairs while the craftspeople set up turned out to be a great idea, a witness, in fact. How good it was to have all those craftspeople our building, cold as it was. How the music had been so good and the musicians so supportive of what we are trying to do, even some of them not only playing for free, but contributing to the church as well. How so many of our church members spent so any hours working at the festival. All in all, it felt good to have so much life filling the space. And after the last three days, it ll feel strangely quiet.
I go out side to sweep. But first stop and ask George why he’s not at his apartment. “They fucked me,” he says. And explains that new regulations have reduced his four year guaranteed housing contract to two years, ending in January. And if he doesn’t get out voluntarily, he’ll be evicted. And that if you have an eviction on your record, you’ll never get another apartment. Later my friends at the Interfaith Assembly on Housing and Homelessness explain that the limit kicks in if you are “not actively seeking work,” but for George, that’s not an option. He somehow believes that there’s a connection coming back to the steps and avoiding eviction. And then he says, “these motherfuckers are even charging rent to stay in a shelter. Can you fuckin’ believe that? How fucked up is that?” (Dennis from the Assembly tells me that the shelter rent law got thrown out.) And I think of erstwhile political candidate Jimmy Mc Millan and his “Rent is Too Damn High” fringe political party, looking more sane all the time.
Then George is off on the corporations, their layoffs, how the rich don’t create jobs, they just eliminate people to get more rich. And then he says, “You want to know how bad it is? you know that buy back program the NYPD has? The money for guns program? I hear even white people are bringing in their guns. How we gonna have a motherfuckin’ insurrection with no motherfuckin’ guns? And as you know, we have a new regime coming in January and things gonna get worse. Just you watch...”
As I’m sweeping and George is preaching, RL walks by in his top hat. I ask him to bring me back a cup of coffee. And now George swings into the Illuminati and their master plan to thin the world’s population and expand their control. How the government is in on it. And the various flus, avian, swine, are just ways to force people to get vaccines which are ways to poison us. And that Bayer Pharmaceuticals out of Germany, is doing to us what they did to the Jews back in the Holocaust. “I told you this before,” he says, cocking his head and eying me for emphasis.
Up in the balcony, Amanda has lit her candles, set up the mike and a camera on a tripod. She’s going to use the opportunity to do a reading of the prologue and first chapters of her book. RL has appeared to listen. Piano Dan, who provided the sound system, arrives too. Together we will be her audience.
And so she reads her story of how as single mother with an infant daughter, she regained her cafe, reclaimed it with her own hands, brought back to life. That’s the experience she immediately connected to the first time she saw the inside if West-Park. Saw it as a metaphor for a concrete vision. And wanted to help. That’s part of the story. As she reads, these words too enter into the sanctuary, become part if its spirit.
When she’s finished, I help them pack up all of Dan’s equipment and load it into his car. His help for the Balcony Music Festival had been invaluable. Couldn’t have done it without him. Somehow it all fits, the trunk closes and they’re off.
I call Reachout to ask about George. They’ve closed out his case, thought it was over, problem solved. George had said to me, “People think, once you get a place, you never be homeless again. Bullshit. We be there awhile, the circle back here. That’s how it go.” I tell them he’s been on the steps for three days. They say they know of no change in housing situation. I repeat, it’s been three days. So they promise to send over his former caseworker, do an assessment. See what can be done. I also track down Tracy’s caseworker, leave a message, wanting to know how he’s doing.
Tonight will be Comfort Ye! at Symphony Space. Still benefitting the Westside Campaign Against Hunger, the Interfaith Assembly and New York Cares. It started here, right here at West-Park sixteen years ago. The sounds of all that music still lingers in the walls, “O Holy NIght” still echoes.
