What Did Your Bike Look Like Yesterday?

 Here’s a 4th of July bike decorating contest unlike any other:

250 And A Long Way To Go

 

Yesterday I wrote about how I remember the summer when I graduated high school: a haze of long, hot days. Today is like one of those days. I took another early morning ride to City Island, where I saw only a couple taking selfies (couplies?) against a marine backdrop.

The summer after I graduated high school, though it seemed to be a procession of days like this one, also happened to be the US Bicentennial.  People seemed to celebrate it more than they’re celebrating this, the 250th. Part of the reason, I believe, is that the president whom I shall not name is trying to make it all about him, as if the signing of the Declaration of Independence wouldn’t have happened without him. While some people follow him like cult members, many more are ashamed that he is the (scowling, glowering, leering) face of this country.  Not many people were crazy about Gerald Ford, the bicentennial president, but I think it had more to do with the circumstances that brought him into the office than his policies (such as they were) or personality.

But I think there is another reason for this year’s less-festive mood.  Perhaps I am projecting my own journey in saying what I am about to say, but here goes:  While the MAGA crowd wants to “return” to a white heterosexual male-dominated Christian (their version, at least) society —as if that ever existed—more of us are aware of the rape, genocide, plunder and other crimes that helped, along with the principles enumerated in the Declaration of Independence and Constitution, to forge this country.  

At the time of the Bicentennial, I only knew of the history I’d been taught and whatever it would enable me to learn on my own. To be fair, that is probably as much as my teachers knew because that is what was taught to them.

Of the 2767 students in my high school, perhaps two dozen were Black and even fewer were Asian, Hispanic or Native American.  And Rutgers, which I would attend after that summer, wasn’t nearly as diverse as it is now. So I had —I was going to say  “fewer opportunities,” but I now realize “less reason” would be more accurate—to question, not only what I had learned, but the perspective from which it had been taught.

So today is for me, as a transgender woman who has friends of races, nations and cultures different from my own—and a cyclist in an auto-centric society—a reminder that there is still a long, long way to go in achieving anything like a fair and just society-and that we still have the tools to accomplish that.

A Hot Morning Road Trip In The Bronx

 Early this morning I pedaled out to Randall’s Island. Even then, it was hot, brutally hot:  Even the breeze and blue sky felt like waves of heat searing into the pores of my skin.

On my way back, I stopped at Addeo’s to feed one of my addictions:  their pane de casa.  That, a ripe tomato, a slice of red onion and some cheese:  (more Macadam’s Munster) are a great no-cook meal for a day like today. 

Just after I left Addeo’s, a small car with a big loudspeaker rumbled by.  Normally, I expect rap or Hispanic music, being in the Bronx.  To my surprise, I heard, “Take The Money And Run” by The Steve Miller Band.

It made sense, in a way: It always seemed like a summer road-trip tune to me.  As much as it annoys me, whenever I see someone, usually a young man driving a loud car with even louder music, I can’t help but to think the driver wants to be out on the open road somewhere. Especially if his girlfriend or one of his buddies is riding “shotgun:” sort of like Billie Joe and Bobby Sue in the song.

While the lyrics tell a kind of “Bonnie and Clyde” story, the rhymes, some of the lamest I’ve heard, sometimes distract.  But the tune is so catchy, and feels like a hot, hot day like today and yesterday, and what’s forecast for tomorrow.

And it brings me back to 1976, the year it was released—and, of course, the US Bicentennial.  For some reason, I think of that summer as a hot one. Perhaps it had to do with also being the year I graduated high school.  For many of us, the summer that follows is the last time we see people we grew up with and, perhaps, the last time we live with our family. (At least it was then; I know that many young people who today remain with their families for even longer because it’s so expensive to rent even a basic room.) There is something about the “last summer”—whether of a stage in our own lives or of history—that is remembered in a haze like that of long, hot days.   

Of course, we don’t always know that it’s a “last summer” and just how different everything that follows will be. Perhaps that is what beclouds memories:  We reminisce as different people from what we were when we experienced whatever we’re recalling.  In my case, that difference is literal: My body has changed, not only from age, but also because I was living as a young man who was trying to fit into the world of young men, at least as I understood it, and other people’s expectations of me. As silly as that song is, when I first heard it, it echoed my wish: to run away, which I equated with freedom.

This morning, I wasn’t running away from anything: I started my day exactly as I wished, as the person I’ve become—and only faintly envisioned on those long-ago long hot summer days.