I wake up late on Wednesday, around 11 AM, after a night of drinking. I’m a freelance writer, and I have my own website, but I’m struggling to make ends meet. My plan for the day is to head from my Astoria, Queens apartment to Chef Ho’s Peking Duck Grill, a Chinese restaurant I love on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, for the lunch special. After that I plan to go to a trendy hipster cafe in the neighborhood and bid on some freelance writing jobs, and if I’m really inspired I’ll also work on my novel or a short story.
I shower, shave, feed my cat Copper, and head out for the day around noon. Before I leave the apartment I decide to listen to a little music, so I plug “Southern Man” by Neil Young into Spotify on my phone. I’ve heard the song a million times, and I love Neil Young, but I’ve never really paid attention to the lyrics. It was released in 1970, four years before I was born, so it wasn’t ever really on my radar. But this time I decide to listen to the lyrics.
Wow. They’re really powerful:
Southern man
better keep your head
Don’t forget
what your good book said
Southern change
gonna come at last
Now your crosses
are burning fast
Southern man
Now that is some heavy stuff. I mean the song was released in 1970, at the height of the civil rights struggle in the South. But Neil Young is straight up warning Southern white men to live by the Bible they claim to value so highly, and to do unto others as you would have them do unto you. He’s shooting straight fire from the New Testament.
And then he says their crosses are burning fast. Is he saying the days of their terrorizing black people and burning crosses on their lawns is coming to an end, or is he just saying it’s horrible and they’re evil men? Who knows.
The next stanza is just as strong:
I saw cotton
and I saw black
Tall white mansions
and little shacks.
Southern man
when will you
pay them back?
I heard screamin’
and bullwhips cracking
How long? How long?
I mean, “I saw cotton and I saw black, tall white mansions and little shacks.” We all know who’s living where, don’t we. And then bang! “Southern Man, when will you pay them back? I heard screamin’ and I heard bullwhips cracking, how long? How Long?!”
Jesus Christ. Four hundred years of African slavery, suffering and injustice captured in a few song lines.
Now that I’m thoroughly depressed, but also extremely emotional because of the passion of the song, I head out into the Queens afternoon.
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I have to walk about twelve minutes to the N train subway station at Astoria Boulevard, because my local station, at 30th Avenue, is closed for renovations until the spring.
I board the train at Astoria Blvd., transfer at 59th and Lexington Avenue for the 5, and head up to 86th Street and Lex. Fifteen minutes later I’m at Chef Ho’s ordering the lunch special. I usually go for the chicken and shrimp combination, and at $8.95 with soup included, it’s a bargain. But I’m feeling a little different today, so I order the shredded chicken with garlic sauce, with a wonton soup, and a Diet Coke.
While I wait for the food I listen to WFAN sports radio on my smartphone. The talk is all about Aaron Boone becoming the Yankees’ new manager, after they didn’t renew Joe Girardi’s contract. I’m a Mets fan, so I don’t have a really strong opinion about this move. But I thought Girardi was a good manager, so I’m a little surprised they let him go.
Boone comes on the air with Mike Francesa and talks about the importance of preparation, team work, and honestly I don’t even remember what else he said because it was so freakin’ milquetoast. The Yankees were choosing between Boone, who was a former Yankee player, and Hensley Muellins, a Curacao native and also a former Yankee player, along with a few other guys.
A Korean-American friend of mine posted on Facebook that the Yankees had a chance to hire the black guy who speaks five languages (Muellens) and has significant major league coaching experience, versus the white guy who speaks one language and has no coaching experience whatsoever, and they went with the white guy. Just like most American corporations and institutions do, according to this same friend. I’m not sure if I totally agree with him, but he’s a pretty smart dude, and I respect his opinion. It’s also funny.
Finally the wonton soup arrives and I tear into it. It’s good, but at $8.95 for lunch you only get two wontons, which I quickly wolf down. Yum.
My shredded chicken arrives next, and I dig in. It’s pretty good but not great. I find myself wishing I had ordered the chicken and shrimp combination after all.
While I eat I’m forced to endure one of the waiters talking to a pair of middle-aged Jewish women about the history of Chinese Judaism, and explaining to them how he came to be a Chinese Jew. I’m Jewish myself, but honestly, I majored in East Asian Studies, I’ve lived in Japan, I’ve studied China, and I’m well aware of the story of China’s Jews, in Shanghai and elsewhere. As they talk louder and longer, pontificating on the history of cross-cultural travel and ethnic migratory patterns, I find myself getting tired of their dime store history lesson.
To block out their conversation and just enjoy my food, I pop “Southern Man” on my smartphone again. Boom! It’s just as powerful and heavy as the last time. But it moves me, and being moved is not a bad thing. For some reason I keep picturing John Carlos and Tommie Smith on the Olympic medal podium in 1968 in Mexico City, with their fists raised in glorious defiance. Who knows why, but that’s what comes into my mind.
Just as I’m finishing my chicken and thinking about heading to the cafe, a text comes in from my mother, who’s currently in a rehab facility/nursing home on the Upper West Side. She broke her hip several weeks ago, and she’s had two surgical procedures to repair the fracture.
The whole thing has been super stressful on her, on me, on my brothers, on her boyfriend, and on her large circle of friends. She’s 80, but she’s incredibly vital and is still a practicing psychologist. So it’s been tough, and we all just want her to recover and get home as soon as possible.
The thing is, my dad is also at the same rehab facilty. He’s 82, and they’ve been divorced for about 35 years, but he checked in to the facility about a month ago because he was having trouble walking and he needed rehab to strengthen his muscles.
So that’s been tough as well. My stepmother, whom my father remarried about 25 years ago, dutifully visits him every day. My brother Dave and I visit as often as we can, and some friends stop by here and there. But like my mother, we all just want him to get home as soon as possible.
My mother’s text asks if I can stop by at her apartment on the Upper West Side, pick up some clothes, her computer, her tablet, and a few other things, and bring them to her at the rehab facility. I had been planning to go to the cafe and work, but my mother’s needs take precedence, so I tell her sure, no problem. I head out of the restaurant, take the west 86th Street crosstown bus to 86th and Broadway, and head to her apartment near West End Avenue.
I pick up the stuff she needs from her place, pet her two beautiful cats for a bit, and walk the one block to the rehab facility on Riverside Drive.
She has a shared room on the 13th floor, and when I enter her half of the room, which is separated by a curtain, she’s in fairly good spirits. This is largely due to the fact that over the past three or four days she’s been calling the top administrators of the nursing home at their offices and complaining about how poorly she’s being treated, which happens to be true. She’s also expressed her grievances forcefully to all the staff and supervisors, which include everything from their lack of experience in preparing her vegan meals to the very crucial fact that she’s not getting as much physical therapy as she should be. And the reality is, she’s only there for the physical therapy, so if they can’t deliver on that, what really is the point of her being there?
The staff and administration have been chastened by her authority and forcefulness, and for the past couple of nights they’ve let her order dinner from her vegan restaurant of choice rather than endure another night of watery tofu. That’s my mom. Kicking ass and taking no prisoners.
Soon after I arrive they come to change her sheets, and I exit the room to give them some space. In the hallway there’s a portrait of a bridge over a river in Central Park, and I have a fantasy of breaking my parents out of this place and taking them to that very bridge, where they can kiss, or not kiss, or just hold hands, or maybe just be.
Next I visit my father on the 10th floor, and he’s in a much better mood than the last time I saw him. We chat, and I tell him about my latest professional lead, which involves making bids on freelance writing jobs on gig economy websites. He wishes me luck.
His Jamaican nurse aide is there with him, and we chat amiably. She tells us how her son tore the ACL in his knee playing football at Wagner College. It sounds horrible, and both my father and I give her our sympathy. I tell her I used to love football, but as I’ve gotten older it’s become harder and harder to watch because of the violence, and especially the toll that it wreaks on the men’s bodies. I tell her I prefer basketball and baseball now.
My dad and I chat for a bit about politics and sports, the usual guy stuff.
Then I look at Patricia, and think about “Southern Man” again, and John Carlos and Tommie Smith, and I think about the black liberation movement a little. My dad suddenly gets inspired and wants to talk to my Mom that very second. So he calls her and they talk, and they make a date to get together in the home. This makes me really happy.
I finally head out from the home, exhausted, and drop off a check for my mom’s dog trainer with the doorman at her building. Then I get a Lyft back to Queens. The driver is either African or African-American. Once again John Carlos and Tommie Smith pop into my head, and I play “Southern Man” one more time on my phone. We cross the Queensboro Bridge at 59th Street and I look at the night skyline of Manhattan. I think about what a beautiful island it is, and I feel a little melancholy that I’m heading back to Queens.
I get home, eat some cold pizza from the fridge because I’m starving, and pop on the Knicks game. Kristaps Porzingis has returned to the team after two games away due to injury. I’m pulling for the Knicks tonight. I love KP, but like most fans Knicks fans I’m a little worried that he’s brittle. The guy’s gotta stay healthy, because he’s an incredible talent who can fly through the air and manipulate his 7’3” body like no one I’ve ever seen. And he’s from Latvia, which makes him interesting.
Tim Hardaway is out, so Courtney Lee picks up the slack for Hardaway and scores 24 points. The Knicks ultimately pull away and win the game. Towards the end I flip over to the Food Network and watch an Iron Chef battle just to chill myself out. Sports can be so goddamn serious.
I play “Southern Man” one more time, and I think about whether I want to eat some rice pudding or not. It’s been a long day, but a good day, and I’m ready to just chill now. The rest of the night is mine. I’ve done my filial duties, and I’ve given my parents my love. Now I’m just going to have a few drinks, watch Food Network, and maybe listen to some more music. It was a day full of Chinese food, my parents’ health struggles, and remembrance of the civil rights movement. All in all, it was a typical day, a full day, and it was definitely a New York City day. We’ll see what tomorrow brings.
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Great story thanks for sharing
Thanks Theresa!