Picture Paris: a Photo Essay – The Metros

 Let Us Not Forget Paris

Mapping the metro world

My lapses in travel posts show a laziness that embarrasses and motivates me at once.  However, my time between posts was not all idle; I did use it to process my experiences in Paris – not in a lineal way (me lineal? Nah) but more visceral; I sorted the colors, the stories behind the structures, the tastes of the wines and the smiles of the genuinely nice people I was fortunate enough to meet. No, Paris was not all grumpy and ill-mannered people and from this distance I can appreciate, more fully, the good and the beautiful.

Speaking of the good and (sometimes) beautiful, the Paris metro system is by far the best means of getting around. Some Paris metros have a theme and my favorite was all copper Arts et Metiers (so named for the Museum of Arts and Crafts) with its constant luminous interior giving it an other worldly feel. Standing on the platform, at a loss for words, I could only guess at the fate of all this shining beauty if it existed in some U.S.

Copper clad metro - Arts et Metiers in Paris' 3rd Arrondissement

city: There  would be some Americans who would have this entire metro stop stripped down to its girders before anyone realized they were being robbed. The copper would be parsed and sold quick and silent to those who make a living in that shadow economy known as the black market.  Just a thought.

Without FDR , I suspect this metro would have a more German name.

The Metro Quatre-September (the closest to home base) was so named to commemorate the date of the beginning of the French Third Republic after the capture of Napoleon III in

Quatre-Septembre metro - line 3

1870. The entry, wrought iron twisted into the metro name became a point of arrival and departure so many times that I began to feel rooted to the area.

Opera lovers

Opera Metro with two lovers  sealing their pact  with Paris : they really were kissing with abandon.

And then there were those metros treated much like the starving unseen we fail to acknowledge due to a collective shame, guilt or worse, lack of compassion. These metros (usually in the outer arrondissements) wage war daily against the olfactory with the stench of unwashed walkways and walls crawling with urine and vomit. The steady barrage of smells are the only weapons that these metros’ have at their disposal. I did not capture the travesty of human injustice that is the unloved metro. The times I could, I chose otherwise as there were humans – often just one but other times children sat with their elder (on a thin blanket to protect them from the filth but not the stink) in simple supplication. The yoga of misery; sitting behind an empty cup, legs lotus-crossed, praying-hands together beneath a bowed head begging – for anything. To photograph this agony would be to cement the fate of the subject – for me, such a purloined image would never change. I began to see little difference between photography and thievery – making me a thief of space, time  and experiences that were not mine to share.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

What Matters Most…

I work for a NYS educational institution that, curiously, expects students to attend          classes on Veterans’ Day and gives the same students Columbus Day off. Then I got this e-card which informs me just why these students need this explorer’s day off.

I get it now.

Posted in Uncategorized | 2 Comments

Helping The Help: The Sliding Scale of Victimization

Helping The Help: The Sliding Scale of Victimization.

Posted in Movie Review & response, Race: The Eternal Conversation | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

CONTAGION: Coming Soon to Your Neighborhood

CONTAGION: Coming Soon to Your Neighborhood.

Posted in Movie Review & response | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

CONTAGION: Coming Soon to Your Neighborhood

Cinematic themes featuring a world done in by some uncontrollable force – Godzilla,   Disturbing the universe meteorites, nuclear weapons and, in the case of Contagion,  virus, are not new. Although, Contagion does take our collective fear of a pandemic and brings that fear home in a very realistic manner. This threat is not wrapped in the guise of some cute-faced monkey (think Hot Zone) but rather it arrives on a beautiful (if unfaithful) host from it its Asian swine/bat origin. This virus is off and running throughout the world population in the first half hour of the film and, until the end, we can only guess at the virus’s epicenter or day-one of its cycle. The reality of such a disaster coming as the peace, love and happiness generation enters old age seems deceptively unimportant and begs the question, what remains of this world for Matt Damon, Kate Winslett and Gwynneth Paltrow – the beautiful representatives  of the generation to follow? Well, death of course (for some).   According to Dr. Paul A. Offit of Medscape Today, Steven Soderberg’s production has not sacrificed “science in favor of drama.” Contagion’s realism carries a cautionary note. And while I didn’t leave the theatre in immediate search of hand sanitizer I did attempt to count the times I rubbed my eyes.

Contagion did what a good movie should do – educate. As part of the scientifically uninitiated, I came away understanding rates of viral spreading. The ubiquitous numbers and web-like connections were made comprehensible by putting in perspective this virus’s contagion rate compared to diseases like polio and influenza. I learned too the role of fomites.  A fomite is a means of transmission – that is – any contaminated surface or inanimate thing, (clothing, dishes, doorknobs, telephones, money) once touched, can and did permit rapid spread of this deadly virus.  Soderberg’s montage of Paltrow’s final days drive home the tragic consequences of social and cultural obliviousness. I saw a side of Paltrow that I never want to see again.  Contagion’s backdrop of boarded up houses, lanes of traffic heading one way, and lines of ragged, cold and hungry people waiting for an untested vaccine speaks for itself. One scene provided frightening detail of how society will break down in the face of hopelessness. When the long line of sick and healthy alike are told the allotment of an herbal remedy has been exhausted, it comes as no surprise that people, utterly deprived of hope, will return to the sewers of their baser instincts. Pharmacies are smashed and looted, grocery stores hold only what can’t be consumed, and people are killed as their homes are raided. Even the home of Laurence Fishburne, the CDC official, is broken into by masked looters looking for any of the vaccine. It is here I wondered about the total breakdown of authority. If the breakdown was as complete as implied why would these trespassers wear masks? Old habits die hard I suppose.

The virus gets top billing in Contagion with Winslett, Paltrow, Damon, Fishburne and Elliot Gould doing the grunt work of surviving, dying and breaking all the rules to find the antidote. Dr. Sanjay Gupta offers a bit of realism as he interviews Fishburne, the CDC official thrown under the bus for being human. Fishburne’s character finds its foil in Alan Krumwiede played by Jude Law. Law’s character comes with a penchant for promotion of the pseudo-cure Forsythia.  The connection between the idea of Forsythia as a cure and the idea of Forsythia as a money making tool is a bit fuzzy made so by Law’s paranoid and heart-felt acting on behalf of the unproven homeopathic remedy.   Law’s political paranoia comes dressed as passionate righteousness in the form of his blog “Truth Serum.” This is Glenn Beck territory sans the tears. Law’s character irresponsibly yells government conspiracy and his legions fall in line lock-step with the theory.  Contagion holds important questions that, in the case of real Krumwiede-type citizens, should be answered now – not in a time of widespread panic. Is blogging journalism? Or is blogging, as one character implies, just speech with punctuation? Also, and most importantly for professional journalists, is it unfair to expect some sense of journalistic propriety here?   Krumwiede has millions of followers and he is, in a sense, screaming fire in a crowded theatre. Conceivably, millions of lives depend on his relationship with the written word. Alas, for Krumwiede, blogging is simply a narcissistic venture that smothers all truth.

There was hope to be had by the end of Contagion– even as panic dances on the slender fomite thread of ignorance. Trust in science is a huge message here. Today, trust in human nature may seem at an all-time low, but one cannot rule out the potential reality of individual humans willing to commit the ultimate sacrifice for the furtherance of the species.  I left the theatre rubbing my eyes and considering how rapidly society has changed. In my day, a half million people could gather, share music and fluids and no pandemic. Now, a forest is disturbed and an ancient virus is vexed to new life.

Posted in Movie Review & response, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Just(ice) Another Day

It is Wednesday morning, my second work day of my four-day work week. I get to work at 10:18   – three minutes late for my first tutorial.  I don’t worry for long as the student does not show. I will sit at my computer and log in stats and information pertaining to the

Troy Davis - Photo courtesy of Savannah Morning News via Associated Press

students who do show up for tutorials. When I am finished I will grade journalism quizzes. If my 11:15 tutorial doesn’t show I will put the finishing  touches on an article I am putting together for my department newsletter. Later, during lunch I will complete an i-photo slide show putting text over two remaining images. I will wander to the next office and talk with co-workers.  I will tutor any or all who come in today appointment or no. At the end of this day, I will gather my things and go home, pet my cats eat my dinner and sleep in my own bed. Such will be my day. But today is no ordinary Wednesday. This Wednesday Troy Davis is scheduled to be put to death by the state of Georgia.

I am saddened and angry that in the face of so much evidence to the contrary that the Georgia parole board would not stay Mr. Davis’s execution.  According to the New York Times,  

Seven of nine witnesses against Mr. Davis recanted after trial. Six said the police threatened them if they did not identify Mr. Davis. The man who first told the police that Mr. Davis was the shooter later confessed to the crime. There are other reasons to doubt Mr. Davis’s guilt: There was no physical evidence linking him to the crime introduced at trial, and new ballistics evidence broke the link between him and a previous shooting that provided the motive for his conviction.

I am no friend of the helplessness that grips me. I search for actions to be done; I sign a petition, a last ditch-effort  to achieve justice for this man – a man who is seemingly quite sanguine about the events that now surround him.  In the Times’ comments section, I come across a letter written by Mr. Davis expressing his gratitude for the outpouring of emotion in his favor.

From Troy Davis, Sept 10, 2011:
As I look at my mail from across the globe, from places I have never ever dreamed I would know about and people speaking languages and expressing cultures and religions I could only hope to one day see first hand. I am humbled by the emotion that fills my heart with overwhelming, overflowing Joy. I can’t even explain the insurgence of emotion I feel when I try to express the strength I draw from you all, it compounds my faith and it shows me yet again that this is not a case about the death penalty, this is not a case about Troy Davis, this is a case about Justice and the Human Spirit to see Justice prevail.

I cannot answer all of your letters but I do read them all, I cannot see you all but I can imagine your faces, I cannot hear you speak but your letters take me to the far reaches of the world, I cannot touch you physically but I feel your warmth everyday I exist.

So Thank you and remember I am in a place where execution can only destroy your physical form but because of my faith in God, my family and all of you I have been spiritually free for some time and no matter what happens in the days, weeks to come, this Movement to end the death penalty, to seek true justice, to expose a system that fails to protect the innocent must be accelerated. There are so many more Troy Davis’. This fight to end the death penalty is not won or lost through me but through our strength to move forward and save every innocent person in captivity around the globe. We need to dismantle this Unjust system city by city, state by state and country by country.

I read this, fighting tears with every line and I wonder if I could be so sanguine in the face of death. Once, when I was 26 years old, I was faced with surgery and a 30 percent chance of survival. I sent the priest away from my hospital bed the night before feeling hypocritical for bo-hooing my young fate when I no longer believed in commercial religion. As I lay on the gurney minutes before the operation I cried at the thought of not seeing my niece and nephews again. And maybe this is what put the fight in me because when I awoke from the anesthesia I knew I did not want to die and if  or when the time came I was going “kicking and screaming” and dragging any perpetrators along with me. So, no. I would not be so calm and I am in awe of Mr. Davis.

In his letter from death row, Troy Davis has done something “wonderful” for all those who would unquestioningly put him to death; with his sanguine honesty and faith he has absolved the executioner of guilt. The expediters of justice can say they are “just doing the job they are told to do.” It is an excuse for the ages; “Just doing my job” has been tossed about in tribunals worldwide.  What is my job? Our job?  It is a question for all of us who live comfortable and relatively free from the injustice that befalls the Troy Davis’ of the world.

I wonder too how this justice system has gotten so far from its original tenet of innocent until proven guilty. This system is not new. In fact, in 1895, the U.S. Supreme Court, in a decision in the case Coffin v. United States, 156 U.S. 432; 15 S. Ct. 394, traced the presumption of innocence, past England, Ancient Greece and Ancient Rome, and, at least according to Greenleaf, to Deuteronomy   (http://www.talkleft.com/story ).

A belief as ancient as the “presumption of innocence” should hold some weight – even in our misbegotten southern system of criminal justice.  My fear is that this is another example of how we have fallen victim to the ravages of this country’s original sin – slavery.  I base this on the southern propensity for executing African-American males. The stale idea that continues to get traction in racist minds is the presumption that African-American males are prone to violence. As recent as last week, in the case of African-American, Duane Buck, a psychologist’s sentencing testimony stating that Mr. Buck’s race increased the chances of future dangerousness, was deemed prejudicial enough to lead the Supreme Court to grant a stay of execution.  The trial took place in Texas – a state  that holds the record in executions.   That the state has no public defenders “for indigent defendants, and instead and relies upon court-appointed lawyers who likely do not have experience in capital murder defenses or appeals”  is unconscionable. “ … incompetent defenses in capital murder cases are legion in Texas.  One decision, which turned down a defendant’s habeas appeal due to bad lawyering, concluded that ‘”[t]he Constitution does not say that the lawyer has to be awake”’ during trial proceedings” (http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/shows/execution/).  The fact that a jury of one’s peers cannot be relied upon to render unbiased judgment is monumentally frightening.

It is my hope Troy Davis is not executed this evening and that justice will take off her blindfold and look at the strong presumption of innocence that surrounds this man. The New York Times calls the parole board’s  “failure to commute Mr. Davis’s death sentence to life without parole was a tragic miscarriage of justice.”  By the NYT’s own admission, all evidence points towards innocence – so a “life without parole” sentence is just as dead wrong as death. At best, Troy Davis needs to be set free. At worst – the man needs a new trial preferably in a new venue.

If we want to leave our children a better world then we have to get up and do our job – a job that includes protesting a very criminal justice system.

Posted in Race: The Eternal Conversation | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

A Diary of Change: September 12, 2001

I have a picture of the Twin Towers – they stand tall and strong in the background – behind a group of frolicking high schoolers headed for the Statue of Liberty on the ferry out of

The Twin Towers - February 1994. Before the hole that swallowed my memories.

New Jersey. I looked frantically for that picture last night to no avail. I can still see the faces of my students though, BJ’s thousand watt smile, Kim, Thea, Byron, Jessica, Tiffany, Kristy, Nikki, and Katie all in adolescent poses of deep friendship. There were more but these faces found the camera at every turn. It is what I see when I close my eyes. And I could be wrong, relying like most, on the sovereignty of memory. I could be thinking of the picture we took on the eighty-third floor of the Empire State Building – different year but some of the same smiles and definitely the same Twin Towers in the background. I will always remember these pictures and yet over time I know these memories will fight a losing battle with the vision I beheld Tuesday, September 11th. Shocked, I watched the south tower as it belched smoke and flame. I saw the second plane bank and then plunge out of sight into the tower behind, propelling the fireball out beyond the south tower. I knew then that this plane was not coming in to drop flame retardant on the first tower – as I first thought. My heart raced. I held my head.

Only later did I curse technology. Oh to return to the world of word-of-mouth transmission. The time when one hovered around the newspaper or radio, listening to the newscast as it was filtered through the minds and hearts of stoic announcers. I thought of Cronkites’ voice coming over the all-com speaker in my junior high library and how it cracked and caught on the words that our president, John F. Kennedy was dead. That was a time when we were allowed space to form our own mental pictures of catastrophe – however tragic. It is different now.

Even as I write this I shake my head. I had a student write in her English essay, “Change is inevitable…” At fifteen she knows this. And here I am, half a century in age and barely able to remember when a postage stamp was two cents and the closest war was the ‘gas war’ happening over on the boulevard. I’ve missed something about change. Maybe it is the sameness of my days; the only changes are the ones I make.

Now my days are changed. An unseen hand has written A tragic script complete with murderous planes. How does one teach this? I don’t want to gather my son and the sons and daughters of others around me and have to explain hatred and intolerance. I fear it is completely beyond my ability. And yet I must.

I left school on that Tuesday with nowhere to go. There was nothing at home but lure of television news so I stopped and watched my son’s soccer practice. I read the local newspaper, the last one printed before the attack. I could believe, for a few minutes anyway, that the news of the day was light. Periodically, I’d look up at the boys and girls of various ethnic backgrounds on the soccer field in the bright sunshine. The day was exquisite, with the green hillsides only hinting at the golden leaves to come. On the broad expanse of lawn I witnessed young people in innocent athletics giving high fives to friends and competitors alike. I could have stayed there forever, a frozen tableau of perfection – no hatred, no intolerance, no headlines of alarm.

I was asked about our annual New York City trip by a student who assumed we wouldn’t go. I was resolute in my response. “We will go. That’s one thing that will not change,” I told her. But change is inevitable. A fifteen-year-old told me this. And she was right. The New York City trip did happen that spring. Phantom of the Opera enthralled my forty-five students, most from the hinterlands of rural western New York. On the subway to South Street Seaport, I decide not to make the trek to the hole in the ground that changes forever they way I view human nature. Most of the young people go with another chaperone. A few students stay with me and the vendors of cheap memorabilia. I sigh with relief. I am not ready.

Our chartered bus is faithful to our departure time and, after a last minute buying flourish of knockoff glasses and watches, we depart. I count heads then relax amid the excited chatter of adolescence. Even as darkness descends I sense we are on THAT parkway. My senses are validated by the silence that befalls the group. The bus slows to a crawl – not for traffic but for the view of the remains of the Twin Towers – the hole that has swallowed my city memories. I thought if I didn’t look – maybe things would become unchanged.

I looked. Foolish pretzel logic – to think we could achieve some type of retro-sameness. Like the skyline of lower Manhattan,  we are all forever changed.

Posted in Essays: Life in These Hinterlands, Teaching, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | 1 Comment