Delivering Hate And A Death Threat

Yesterday afternoon, I hopped onto Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear bicycle, and pedaled with no particular destination in mind.  I simply wanted to spend an hour or two riding before the rain came and I had to get back to work.

After zigging, zagging and looping through "Hipster Hook" and eastward to the closest thing this city has to a stetl--the Hasidic enclave in Williamsburg--I found myself riding down the unprotected bike lane on the left side of Tompkins Avenue, a one-way southbound street in the Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood.  Although the lane is nothing more than lines painted on pavement, I'd had no issues during previous rides along its length.  In fact, I rather enjoyed it because it passes a park and some of the most colorfully-decorated stores and cafes you'll see in this city.  

Note my use of the past tense.  It doesn't mean I'll never go back; it means only that the string of pleasurable rides was broken.

Between Madison Street and Putnam Avenue, a USPS truck parked in the lane, on the left side of Tompkins, probably to make a delivery.  Those trucks often take up more than the width of a lane so, perhaps not surprisingly, there was a traffic "bottleneck."  In that queue was another USPS truck, just a couple of vehicles behind me to my right.  The driver seemed to lean on her horn as she shouted out the window--at me, it turned out, even though I waited behind the parked truck so she could pass.

Well, as they say, no good deed goes unpunished.  She veered her truck toward me and yelled racist, "Fuckin' white tranny bitch!"  (Hey, she scored a trifecta:  racism, sexism and transphobia, all in one!)  At the next intersection--Jefferson Avenue--she pulled over to retrieve mail from a box.  I stopped and yelled, "What was that all about?"

"Mind your own fuckin' business."

"I am.  When someone tries to kill me, it's my business."

"Fuck you, white tranny bitch!".

Since USPS trucks don't have license plates, I snapped this photo of the truck number.  Then I took a photo of her, from the side, as she came out of the truck.  Proud of herself, she posed for me.

I have filed complaints with the USPS and the local NYPD Precinct.

Two Shades of Blue, Two Seasons

 For two days, we experienced three months’ worth of weather at the same time:  February cold, March wind and April rain. 

Yesterday, two of those elements let up.  So, clad in a windbreaker over a base layer, I rode under clear skies in one shade of blue to water in another.

This month, however lived up to its reputation as I pedaled into a brisk wind on my way back from Point Lookout.  And, at the Point, there was another reminder that whatever the calendar tells us about the season, winter does not give up its grip on the ocean so readily.

At this time of year, the water is at its coldest—about 4 to 5C (38 to 40F).  Its hue seemed to reflect its chill, especially against the azure sky and sand and trees in shades of brown.

This is also an interesting time of year because, while I saw more people strolling and cycling the Rockaway and Long Beach boardwalks than I would have seen a month or two ago, they are not the same folks I’ll see in another month or two. Some of the people I saw today love the Sunday sun at any time of year; they were taking it in, perhaps, after going to church or before a weekend brunch or afternoon dinner with extended family. Others are the same hardy or lonely souls one sees a couple of weeks after the holiday season ends and the coldest, darkest part winter descends.

So, while the gatherings of people along the boardwalks and the azure skies signal the passing of a season, the waters in a darker shade of blue, the wind and the woman sauntering along the dunes showed me that winter isn’t dead, not yet.

Don't Look Now!

I took an Art History course that  included a final exam with this essay question: "Explain the Mona Lisa smile."

I don't remember what I wrote. I am sure, however, that it wasn't profound, brilliant or original in spite of my belief that it, like everything I wrote in those days, embodied all of those qualities.  So it wouldn't surprise you to know that the grade I got--a B, if I remember correctly-- aroused my indignation. (It didn't take much, did it?)

So, being older and wiser, I won't venture an opinion about why the young woman has her hands over her eyes:

I simply thought the image is light and funny--just right for a Sunday morning.