How To Look And Feel Like A New Yorker And Not A Tourist

Part Two: On Walking

Approaching an intersection, do not stop walking until you’re a good 3-4 feet into the street. Walk signals, green or red, mean nothing in this town. Your walk signal is looking up the avenue and deciphering whether or not you can make it to the other side before the oncoming traffic enters the intersection. If you decide you can, do so. And you must walk across the street as if the automobile was never invented. If you decide you cannot safely cross, then refrain, but not without a look of exacerbation. Throwing your hands up in the air is a nice touch, but be careful not to inadvertently hail a cab.

If, on your walk, you see something interesting, you may glance, but under no circumstances are you to look at it. Whatever it is that has caught your attention, I assure you it’s not at all interesting, and only the Tourist would think so. This applies to noticing “how tall the buildings are,” “how many taxis there are,” “just how big Central Park is,” and, of course, “just how crazy Times Square is.”

How To Look And Feel Like A New Yorker And Not A Tourist

Part One: On Riding The Train

Once you’ve arrived on the train platform, it is important to go right up to the edge and look down the tunnel to see if your train is approaching. Two key things here: 1) Be sure to stand rather liberally upon the “Do Not Stand” yellow strip, and 2) Be sure to look the correct direction—do not be caught looking uptown for a train that is coming from downtown (this can easily be avoided by noticing which direction the New Yorkers are facing). Give it a good lean and a good long look. If you see your train approaching, simply stand back up and nod your head once or twice. Be careful not to give away more emotion than necessary. Your train’s timely arrival is not exciting, it is expected, and you simply want to convey your satisfaction with the result of your good planning and general skill at riding public transportation. If you do not see your train approaching, lean a little farther and let your look last a little longer. Then, upon returning to the upright position, shake your head side to side and roll your eyes slightly. Perhaps check your watch/cell phone for good measure. Repeat leaning/looking procedure every 30-45 seconds.

Out Of Sorts

Somewhere along my Sunday morning commute on the Number Six train I made the realization—or perhaps finally admitted to myself—I had fallen hopelessly out of sorts. Out of Sorts: that state of being irritable, unsatisfied, off-kilter, vexed, often the related to the occurrence of certain unexpected events and/or the non-occurrence of certain expected events.

I should have seen it coming the night before, as I pulled together all the final details for the Sunday worship service. I felt the first pangs of being out of sorts when I broke a guitar string while rehearsing the music. Being without an extra set of strings, I would have to find a different guitar for church. Not ideal. Nothing throws a guitarist more out of sorts than playing an unfamiliar guitar. It’s like borrowing someone else’s car: the mirrors are set too high, the seat too far back, you have no idea where the windshield wiper controls are, the radio pre-sets play all country music stations… Shortly after the guitar string broke, my printer ran out of black ink. I was now short one guitar string and about six copies of music.

And then, in the morning, this: the terribly unfortunate (although not altogether uncommon) loss of hot water in my apartment. I turned on the water, ready to put aside the grievances of my ill-fated preparations for worship from the night before and be renewed, rejuvenated, soothed, comforted, and consoled by perhaps the greatest and (I now realize) least appreciated technological advancement of all time—hot water on tap. I ran my hand through the unfeeling and unapologetically freezing water streaming from the tap, coaxing it, naively and ultimately ineffectually, to turn hot.

Yes, there you have it, I thought to myself as the Number Six train lumbered along. A complete accounting of my falling out of sorts for the morning. Well, no permanent damage. Certainly I can put this all behind me and pull it together before I get to church. And then the announcement came, crackling and nearly incomprehensible, through the train speakers: “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, due to construction, all Number Six trains will be running express from 14^th Street to Brooklyn Bridge/City Hall. For local service, take this train to Brooklyn Bridge/City Hall, and transfer to an Uptown Number Six train making all local stops. Once again, due to construction…” I tuned out the rest of the announcement as I spent a moment silently shaking my head at the MTA, before plotting a new transportation strategy. I was already running late; I had foolishly been counting on this local train to make all local stops. Apparently too much to ask. Only one thing to be done: I had to take a cab.

I arrived at church ten minutes late, five fewer dollars in my wallet from the cab ride I shouldn’t have had to take, unshowered and with a guitar I was unused to playing. This is an outrage, I thought. An outrage. The broken guitar string, well, that amounted to an unfortunate inconvenience. But the hot water… I don’t pay my hot water bill to be provided with cold water. And the train… I didn’t pay $2.25 to arrive almost at my destination. This is an outrage! An outrage I say! Who will rally with me against these atrocities? I do not deserve to be put out of sorts by such negligence. No one does! Who will boldly stand with me and say that enough is enough? Hot water should come from the hot water tap. The train should take me where I’m going, on time, every time. Ink should not run out. Guitar strings should not break.

Oh the things on which I’ve come to rely.

World Day

Each day brings a unique energy and excitement here at the New City. Every Friday, for instance, dawns a new “World Day,” a day that can include everything from geography lessons— usually in the form of the seven continents and five* oceans rap**—to interviews with New City alumni to current events reports from students.

A few weeks ago, we had a special musical guest, Patrick, who grew up in Madagascar and now plays bass guitar professionally in New York City. The kids played some of our favorite After School songs—“Shout Hallelujah!” and “Blind Man”—with Patrick on bass and then he played a few songs on his own. Every one sat in rapt attention—I’ve never seen it so quiet—as Patrick made his six-string bass sing out in melody and rhythm. This guy was good. Really good. Afterwards, Patrick shared about his life—what it was like growing up in Madagascar, how he first became interested in music, how he became a Christian and how his faith impacts every aspect of his life. For the kids in After School that day, Patrick’s message was one of encouragement and inspiration about the significance of a life devoted to God, and the opportunities that may come through practice and dedication.

I must add that during question and answer time, one of our second-graders raised his hand and asked, “Did you know that you’re almost as good as Kyle?” I like this kid. He’s always got my back. His question, I suppose, could be attributed to a sort of “home-town bias,” but hey, I’ll take it.



*As I diligently researched information on the (to my knowledge) four oceans, I came to the discovery that a fifth, The Southern Ocean, had been added by the International Hydrographic Organization (I am not making this up) in 2000. It is perhaps also important to note here that my childhood suffered a bit of a shock a couple years ago with the sudden exclusion of Pluto as a planet from the Solar System; with the addition of an ocean I feel a kind of consolation.

** The Continents and Oceans Rap

North America! South America! Antarctica and Africa!
Then comes Europe and Asia and finally Australia!
These are the seven continents, its true,
But what about the oceans, the five oceans blue?
There’s the Pacific, Atlantic, and Indian
And up in the North, the Arctic, too.
The last of the oceans in this little rhyme,
That one’s called the Southern, and that makes five!

Nautical Etymologies

Last summer, I learned to sail. And, having earned my degree in English, I was delighted to learn that many common phrases in the English language have their origin in the nautical world. For example:

Spring is upon us and we’ve been making headway as we chart our course for the upcoming City Sail season. This summer we hope to set a new tack, introducing our teen-sailors to the world of racing. And so, with Pastor (Captain) Trevor at the helm and (first-mate) Kyle on board, we have set sail with our sights set on acquiring a sailboat designed for racing. We’ve tried our best to remain even-keeled about the whole adventure, but we can’t help but get excited about the notion of finding a J/24 or J/105 sailboat (or J/22 or Colgate 26... You get the picture...). We’ve been writing letters, making phone calls, striking up conversations with random folks at the marina… the whole nine yards. We’ve had some leads, but so far nothing has solidified. We certainly won’t let that take the wind out of our sails; we’re ready to take this thing down to the bitter end.

If it comes to mind, pray for a sailboat for City Sail!

September 11, 2008

Through Thick and Thin

Greg, one of our teen employees and rather accomplished drummer and rap artist, approached me the other day wondering when we were going to write a song together. This came as a bit of a surprise to me—I’m an acoustic guitarist who listens to bluegrass and experimental rock; I don’t know the first thing about rap except that in my earlier, more rebellious days I occasionally listened to Coolio. I didn’t expect Greg to be altogether interested in writing a song with me. But write one we did. Greg and I sat down together one Friday evening in the small back office at New City, waiting for inspiration to strike, when Greg burst out, “Let’s write a song about friends.” Alright, I said, sounds good. I played a guitar riff—“How about something like this?” I asked. Greg listened and slowly his head began to groove to the music. “Yeah I like that,” Greg smiled, “I can work with that.” Which is exactly what he did. Forty-five minutes later we had two rap verses that Greg wrote, with a sung chorus and bridge that I wrote.

This past weekend we debuted our song, entitled Through Thick and Thin, at the Xchange, the monthly hip-hop worship service put on by the New City teens. With the addition of an electronic drum beat created by Giovanni, a member of the Xchange Prep crew, and a bass line written and performed by Khalil, another teen-staffer, we performed our song to the crowd of about fifty, all of whom were out of their seats, waving their arms and singing along by the end of the song. It was, if I may designate it so, a hit. But perhaps more than just a “hit,” it represented to me the coming together of not just two rather different music genres, but the coming together and intermingling of two rather different cultures. For four minutes and ten seconds, it was the joining of two different musical, creative, and cultural backgrounds, sacramentally fused together in the form of a song about friendship.