I spoke to Ruth briefly while she was leaving to go to her room. She was smiling and told me she is doing well. I did not ask her how her volunteering is going at Metro Baptist Church, across the street from the shelter – another mental note.

And Dorca came over to me to say hello. She look good and was as talkative as always. I told her that a friend of mine really liked her self-portrait drawing in the gallery. I told her that my friend told me to tell her to continue drawing. Dorca like the comment and said she will think about it. We made a point to speak to each other in the next few weeks. She wants to write more about herself and her life.

We served around 38 women on this very cold and bitter night. Barbara, a volunteer there on this night said that it might be the weather which kept more of the women from coming out for dinner.

The shelter served chicken breast, mashed potatoes, vegetables and pudding for dessert.

Sitting in Jose Aguilar’s car with his son almost two weeks ago, I discovered a fear, wariness and humility embedded within the people of his country who, often struggle to make a living here in the city.

It was early in the evening, around six, and already dark outside. I expected to be sitting in his home along with his son and friend of mine, Jose, for the interview. It had taken two weeks of canceled appointments to meet with Mr. Aguilar. I had looked forward to the opportunity of speaking with both he and his family.

That evening we never set foot in his building. He hastily shook my hand in our first encounter and forced a quick smile. We proceeded to Mr. Aguilar’s car, which was just around the corner. My friend vaguely explained to me that it needed to be moved.

I entered into the back seat while Jose and his father got into the front, discussing in Spanish what sounded like my project. Mr. Aguilar started the car and turned on the heat, which I was happy about given the brisk temperature that night. The two stopped speaking shortly and we all sat in silence for about five minutes. It felt much longer. The car did not budge during this time. What was he waiting for? Traffic? The car?

Without turning his head, my friend said, “Whenever you’re ready man.” I knew by that point the interview would take place here. I felt awkward for a moment, and pondered why Mr. Aguilar decided to remain in the car and not his home. Did he feel unsafe? threatened? uncomfortable?

I couldn’t worry myself with these questions. I hastily proceeded to pull out my notepad and voice recorder. Mr. Aguilar was looking straight ahead through the windshield with a blank expression on his face. I began to have doubts about what he would say and permit me to take pictures of, if any. It took me two weeks to get this far. I wasn’t going to water down anything.

I asked for his name, age and occupation. He turned around halfway and answered my questions in a voice that seemed barely above a whisper. His English seemed much quieter than his Spanish. There was a modest murmur of late night traffic outside of the car that overpowered his voice at times. I worried the voice recorder wouldn’t pick him up as I struggled to make out what he was saying.

His answers were short and bulleted. I didn’t see more than half of his face because he didn’t fully turn around to face me. The only eye contact I was granted came courtesy of the rear view mirror. His answers were rigid, like his body, and brief. I felt as though I had to help pull the words out him.

I asked “why” as often as I could after he spoke and recalled experiences in my life that related to his. As we talked, he began to face me without the aid of the mirror. His voice remained soft but grew more assertive.

I asked him how the area has changed over the past two decades. He paused, smiled and shook his head. “It was very dangerous at one time. When Dinkins was mayor…people were getting killed [and] doing drugs right over there (points across the street).

Mr. Aguilar journeyed to the United States 24 years ago from Mexico at 17, almost his son’s age, from a small farming village in the south called Pueblo. It consisted of no more than 200 people.

He lost his father at the age of three because of a violent altercation in the nearby city where he used to work. His mother was the first of his family to leave the town for New York, feeling that she could earn more money in the city. Mr. Aguilar decided to follow her lead in pursuit of the same opportunities to help himself and his family.

He entered into California with a small group of Mexican immigrants who were led by a “guide”, or someone who knows the best accessible points to pass through at the border.

He was driven to Los Angeles along with the rest of the group and from there, he would take a plane to New York City. Taking a bus at that time was far more risky because of immigration checkpoints that were located throughout the country. “It’s much harder now than it was before 9/11,” recalls Mr. Aguilar. “Back then it was like nothing”.

Upon arriving, he tried to take English classes but soon discontinued them, feeling shy and reluctant to speak with broken words. He immediately looked for work after that.

His first jobs consisted of work in factories, kitchens, stocking and construction. After about 10 of eclectic careers, he found work doing fabric cutting in the fashion industry, which he says pays decent money. He continues working there today.

He attends the Catholic Church, Innocent Saints, on 37^th Street and Broadway. It is close to his job and he tries to a get a few minutes in each day during his lunch break. The guests are predominantly white. There are no Catholic Churches near where he lives now; the closest is located 15 blocks away.

Mr. Aguilar has been living in the neighborhood since his arrival in the city, but recalls how it’s changed more recently. “Maybe 10 years ago a lot of Mexicans started [coming] here”.

He got his green card in 1992, but it was only in 2003 that Mr. Aguilar acquired legal U.S. citizenship.  This has granted him access to greater federal and state opportunities for him and his family from the government.

Mr. Aguilar comes from a different generation of immigrants and says that most of the people who he stays close with are his family. He doesn’t necessarily associate with people because they are Mexican or Spanish, but rather because he respects their character.

Today nearly all of his family lives in Spanish Harlem with the exception of his grandmother. He still seems jarred by the noise from people on the street and in his building, even after two decades of living in New York.

Despite Mr. Aguilar’s gripes with the city’s excessive commotion and pace, he appreciates its convenience and various amenities. When he’s not working, he enjoys going to the park and listening to Mexican and Country music. Many of his favorite musicians and composers come from his country. One of his favorite artists is a Mexican composer named Alfredo Jimenez whose work has been reproduced by hundreds of other musicians worldwide.

Mr. Aguilar misses his grandparents most from Mexico, who raised him after his mother left. “Since I’ve come to this country, I [have] not been able to go back…I lost my grandfather but my grandmother is still alive. For me [she] is most important.” He continues to send money over to her and his family in Pueblo. Mr. Aguilar goes on to say that there is very little, if anything, that his misses least about his country.

“I miss the quiet there. You could do anything there…everybody [knew] each other. Most of them were family.”

Field Notes – Day One: My objective going out for the first time was to canvas the the area (1st avenue through Park on 116th Street) with the highest density of Mexican businesses/people in Spanish Harlem. I didn’t notice a significant amount of attention paid to me until I took out my digital camera and started taking pictures of restaurants, churches and local vendors.

It was uncomfortable as I tried not to make eye contact with people on the street, who were clearly burning holes into me with their eyes. As bad as this was at time, it only remained an obstacle while taking pictures or indiscreetly having my camera out.

Not realizing at this point that I had serious difficulty taking pictures of the people in this community, particularly ones who considered it not only an act of disrespect but also of aggression, I decided not ask before getting a picture. I tried to sneak in shots of their food and drink stands without them noticing me, which was difficult given emptiness of people on the street.

I was yelled at by one man selling fruit and jello after taking a picture. I attempted to sneak away. Approaching him, I decided to confront his understandable frustration, and explained in broken Spanish that the picture were for a school project. He seemed to be more receptive after this and didn’t appear as hostile. He spoke no English.

Field Notes – Day Two: I returned to the same area for my second trip on a Sunday. Based on what I was told, I anticipated seeing a large number of Mexican vendors selling foods, spices and clothing on 116th Street. I discovered, unfortunately, that these little street fairs begin in the spring and end around early fall, more specifically September.

I decided instead to look for families who might be out in the neighborhood for the day enjoying their Sunday. There were a varity of home assembled foodstands along the street as in my last visit, so I decided to see what was on the menu and ask about the food. Many if not all of the dishes primarily consisted of pork and corn in addition to other ingredients like chicken, rice, cheese and hot peppers. I orderred a few dishes like (need to check notes!) but I plan on bringing my apetite for the following visit because there is a lot I still want to try.

After asking people’s permission for taking a pictures, I found that half of them responded posively and the other half simply said no. I felt better about this approach to the photography but there was still a feeling of being unwelcome and a viewed as a threat. I found that speaking with them about non-intrusive subjects, particularly about the food they were selling, was a great way tot get the ball rolling, and gave me the opportunity to get a picture of two younger looking girls working at one of the stands.

The next places I hope to photograph and explore are the local the barbershops, foodshops, bars and churches (which I am still looking for) in order to get a deeper understanding of how this community spends time in the neighborhood. I’ll need to spend more time getting settled within these places before taking my notebook and camera out.

Field Notes – Day Three: A friend of mine from work told me that his father, originally from Mexico, has lived in Spanish Harlem for 25 years. I decided he would be excellent to interview given his national origin and familiarity with the area.

After about two weeks of canceled interviews I finally got an met with my friend’s father, Jose Aguilar. Jose (named after his father) took me to his parents apartment building on 110th and 5th Ave . We were supposed to meet early in the evening and I anticipated being invited into his parents’ home, greeted with the aroma of cooking food and the rest of his family.

Jose and I walked over from 116th street to meet his father. He greeted his son with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He shook my hand firmly at a rushed pace and a quick smile. We proceeded to Mr. Aguilar’s car, which was around the corner. Jose vaguely explained to me that it needed to be moved.

I entered into the back seat while Jose and his father got into the front, discussing in Spanish what sounded like my project. Jose’s father started the car and turned on the heat, which I was happy about given the brisk temperature that night. The two stopped speaking shortly. We all sat in silence for about five minutes. He had not moved the car during this time. What was he waiting for? Traffic? The car?

Without turning his head my friend said, “whenever you’re ready man”. By that point I knew that the interview would be conducted inside the car. I felt awkward for a moment, and tried to figure why Mr. Aguilar decided to speak in his car. Did he feel unsafe? threatened? uncomfortable?

I couldn’t worry myself with these questions. I hastily proceeded to pull out my notepad and voice recorder. Mr. Aguilar was looking strait ahead through the windshield with a blank expression on his face. I began to have some doubts about what he would say and permit me to take pictures of, if any. It took me two weeks to get this far. I wasn’t going to water down anything.

I asked for his name, age and occupation. He turned around halfway and answered my questions in a voice that seemed barely above a whisper. His English was quieter than his Spanish. There was a modest murmur of late night traffic outside of the car that seemed to overpower his voice at times. I worried the voice recorder wouldn’t pick him up.

His answers were short and bulleted. I didn’t see more than half of his face because he never turned fully around. The only eye contact was through the rear view mirror. The answers he gave me were rigid, like his body, and seemed rehearsed.

I began to ask “why” more often after he answered a question and spoke about expereinces in my life that related to his. As we talked, he fbegan to face me without the mirror. His voice remained soft but grew more assertive. He smiled and shook his head, remebering how dangerous the neighborhood was when Dinkins was mayor.

I have always been interested in identity and sense of place. Who do people think they are? What is their story? Where does one belong? These are all questions I ask myself as an aspiring journalist. I asked myself these same questions for this project – “Capturing Communities in Words and Images.” But there were other questions invariably on my mind: What shapes a community? What keeps a community together? Who belongs? Why do communities form? In trying to illuminate a community these questions need to be asked and answered.

I chose a non-traditional, often misunderstood and marginalized community to document – homeless women in a shelter. In documenting these women I want to give an anonymous population dignity, humanity – a face for others to care. There is a stereotype that exists: the bag lady. She is often dressed in tatters, with multiple plastic bags, picking through garbage collecting empty cans and is often pushing a supermarket cart. We have seen her. We have looked at her. We have ignored her. Yet in my search for this archetype I did not find her. Instead I found: “Dorca,” “Charlene,” “Ruth,” “Sandra” and “Jane” a community of women who shared with me their stories of loss – in not just a place to call home but in identity. To some they are just statistics however, they are real people and they let me into their community.

I discovered women who have often a mental illness but are released from state hospitals anyway without proper follow-up care or medication; many women that because of bad decisions and situations are forced into the streets and married women with jobs and husbands that divorce and then are left in precarious economic situations.

The statistics in the United States on the homeless are sobering, according to the Los Angeles Homeless Coalition 3.5 million people (1.35 million of which are children) will experience homelessness in a given year; 43% of the homeless population are women; 40% of these women are unaccompanied; 1 in every 5 homeless persons has a severe or persistent mental illness and 25% of the homeless nationwide are employed.

Why this community? This is a question I often asked myself, in my quest for an answer I turned to the community itself. In order to fully experience this community I chose to volunteer at a homeless shelter. The Dwelling Place in New York City’s Hell’s Kitchen is a private transitional residence run by Franciscan Sisters. As they say, “In the spirit of St. Francis they provide food and shelter in an atmosphere of love, respect and dignity.” In 1970, its founders; nuns who were nurses at St. Claire’s Hospital saw a woman picking through their garbage one morning, stunned and troubled by this incident they decided to take action. At the time most of the SRO’s (Single Room Occupancy) were for men because there was often more stipulations for women, there were also so-called “flop” houses in the Bowery which were also just for men. There were only two homeless shelters for women one of which was run by the Catholic Church. The Sisters saw a need and after much work The Dwelling Place opened its doors in 1977 in a building that used to house a homeless program and is owned by the diocese of New York.  In a neighborhood a stone’s throw from the Port Authority Bus Terminal – where many homeless gather, they formed their community.

Today the shelter is run by Sister Nancy, who is one of the original founders and Sister Margaret. Each one shares the responsibility towards the women and among other things, go with them to their disability appointments and administer their medications.

There is no better way to illuminate this community of women than to see their images and read their narratives and thereby giving them their own voice – their humanity. It is a community of hope, strength and dignity. They are just like anyone else.

“Dorca” – 58 years old who likes to go to the movies and walk her sister’s dog. Came to New York from Puerto Rico when she was two-years old and lived most of her life in the Lower Eastside. She became homeless after fighting with her partner who took away her disability payments.

“Ruth” – 54 who has a Bachelor of Arts degree in History from Bob Jones University. She likes to write short stories and poems. She was a teacher in Florida before divorce and mental illness wrecked havoc in her life

“Jane” – 55 years old grew up in Maryland. Chronically schizophrenic, has been in and out of New York and The Dwelling Place for ten years. She used to sleep in churches and Central Park until Sister Margaret from the shelter happen to see her at a Duane Reade and asked her to go to the shelter.

“Charlene” – 47 years old from Brooklyn. Her mother put her out of the house and to St. Patrick’s Church in Brooklyn after she could not deal with her mental illness anymore. She has four brothers and stepsisters who occasionally call the shelter but do not help her. She is in a day treatment program, with group therapy and cooking classes that keeps her busy. Her favorite season is Christmas and says The Dwelling Place is a community where she has found hope for herself.

And finally,

“Sandra” – 53 years old, formerly a resident of the shelter who now is on staff there. She cooks, cleans and does laundry for the women. She says she preferred to sleep in the streets than in city shelters – where women are often raped and slashed while security often looks the other way.

The factors that hold this community of women at The Dwelling Place together is a shared sense of hope and dignity. The Sisters have created a safe haven for the women to come together. Every Wednesday night the shelter opens its doors to other women, many of whom are homeless and others who live paycheck to paycheck and often go without a hot meal, to serve them a hot dinner. Yet is is more than just a meal, it is a chance for the women to talk to one another and have some fellowship.

This community is held together by a shared sense of respect for one another. There are three to four women sharing a room so they need to get along. Invariably they become friends and often go out together to explore the City. The respect they have towards on another begins with the staff and volunteers towards the women. They are not pitied or made to feel that they are being given a handout. The Sisters and the rest of the staff treat the women with value. Once the women are taken into the shelter, after a hot shower and a meal, they are evaluated and a female doctor gives them a check-up.

They each have their own stories, their own struggles – they also have each other. Often just the fact that they are all in the same situation helps them. This community has been formed by tragic and painful circumstances yet they move beyond this, to form a community of hope and renewal.

“Sister Nancy is like a butterfly,” says “Sandra,” “she represents hope and life. She is my home girl.”

Abraheme Hassan

Studio 1

Tchaikovsky, Victorian, leotards, bulges, glutes, pink slippers, poise, and power.  My initial thoughts of the ballet could be anonymous with anyone else – superficial. My time at the Joffrey Ballet School is insufficient; I’ve only scratched the surface. However, my preconditions have advanced and matured dramatically.
I grew up frolicking to Michael Jackson and MTV tunes, sparred with my older brothers in martial arts and wrestling bouts, and played every sport I could get my hands on. The performing arts (if you consider wrestling or martial arts – performing arts) were and are a significant part of my life. Ballet was the void and stagnant part of my curiosity. Ask any boy about the ballet, ‘ballet is for girls and sissies!” said my seven year-old cousin. “Sissies” in my neck of the woods were not respected nor harmed. Men who dance professionally other than hip-hop were like steel bubbles, floating in grace but with a macho exterior.
My curiosity of the ballet was reignited once again by the film “Billy Elliot,” a boy in a Northern England coal-mining town finds his true calling in ballet, a stark contrast to the his father and brother’s lifestyle. This project is my first glimpse of the ballet. Specifically, male ballet dancers, who testosteronal grace repulses many but intrigues and captivates me. Syncopated in classical composure is a delight you can enjoy and experience other than the clashing in sports.
Step into Joffrey Ballet School and you’re greeted by two entities; gossip from ballerinas and the rankest wall of humid perspiration, incomparable to the high school locker rooms your nose remembers. I stepped into the office and ask for Linda, whom I spoke to on the phone regarding photographing the men’s class. She greeted me as I step in, and takes me out to follow her. The funk over saturating my nostrils, Linda has her jeans rolled up above her curvaceous dove-white calves. A rusty brown bulletin displaying San Francisco Ballet posters, trips to local ballet schools and performances and schedules of the upcoming Nutcracker Suite with casting calls and dress requirements. A trail of pink tutus, like flamingos prancing in a small pond, stride past me to the vending machine. Overtures and abridged concertos danced in the hallways. Instructors repeat ballet steps in French meanwhile the falling thuds of ballet dancers echoed on my way to Studio 1.
I get into Studio 1, bracing myself for a hoard of eyes in confusion and discernment. Linda speaks to the instructor, Alexandre, a tall debonair man with persevering toned muscles takes a look at my camera and welcomes me with a nod. I take a quick glance panning the room. A tall slender figure, like meter sticks set at the largest obtuse angle possible, pale by the cloudy sunlight is stretching on the snaking and nailed parallel rails. Across the studio, an Asian man with voluminous straight hair wearing windbreakers drops his hands the floor, palms flat against it, pliability I only dream of having.  After a few minutes, six men in leotards with duffle bags and sweaters hanging off their shoulders march in and diverge into their self-assigned places along the rails. No hellos and handshakes, words are of no use here.
Immediately, I feel slight drafts from their semi-circling limbs. Seeing how fierce limbs can be without a stopping force is alarming to sensitive eyes. I get to chat with Eric, the tall slender man by the rails, and his life story about ballet and performing arts. “You learn to love it, you block the negativity around you, common people see it a girls’ sport.” He’s been into ballet for twelve years, through all the teasing by his schoolmates and even his brothers; he has supportive parents who push his dream of becoming a professional ballet dancer. “Music is part dance also, I was part of the orchestra when I was a kid, and I had to decide whether to dance or stay in the orchestra, I chose dance because with dance comes music, not the other way around.”
Henry, the Asian man across the studio had other thoughts of the ballet. He hated it as a child, forced by his parents because the Beijing Academy of Fine Arts is to China as the Actor’s Studio is to New York. Everybody around him practiced martial arts, foreign or Chinese literature. His English is basic, and his shyness to answer my questions shows through his hesitation and pauses mid-sentence. I really wanted to get a shot of his ambiguity, he’s only been in the school for three months, but ballet has now become his passion, seeking professional employment after sufficient training at the Joffrey Ballet School.
Alan, who occupied his spot nearest to the door, was chosen to be the cavalier of Cast B in the Nutcracker. He started in musical theatre, and then went into the ballet for seven years. With a fee of one hundred-fifty dollars for every three months, Alan has been in the Joffrey Ballet School for a year. ” The fee doesn’t scare people, it’s the determination and will power. Five days a week, four to eight hours a day can be a real put down for aspiring dancers.” It’s much harder for guys, I assume, our rigidity comes as a tipping point in ballet.
After my first day in the shooting in the studio, I was relieved and disappointed in my shots, some were what I wanted, others were repeatedly taken from the same angle. My sluggishness had got the best of me; I was the only rock in the river. Stephen, the most animated student to my eyes, whispered, ” thanks for watching,” as he exited the studio. Maybe it’s my camera and that fact that I’m not a professional dancer or a performer, I am a photojournalist. And I hope the Joffrey School students would be more accommodating, or as Diane Arbus said, ” If you can’t arrange the environment, arrange yourself.”
After several days of photographing and getting to itch the dancers’ and instructors’ skin from my presence, I wondered if the students were going finally open up to me voluntarily. Turns out they didn’t. I was there for the last three weeks of the fall semester – in essence, their finals week. I wouldn’t want to spill the story of my life during the most intensive and procrastinating week of the semester either.
During last weekend, the rehearsals of the Nutcracker took place. The entire school was empty on the last day by noon. All the dancers have gone to the Skirball Theater at NYU. The funk has settled down on the mildew stained wooden hallway floors. Being there five or six times, I can still hear the echoes of the piano music. I trek down several streets and avenues to the theater, and I see the final product of their training. In late-Victorian fashion and music, the whole dance school is scurrying across the stage: last minute stitches of buttons, make-up, the Nutcracker playing in the background for tests, Eric, Stephen, Henry, and Alan all rehearsing with their counterparts. The call by George, the artistic director, to stand by and to start rehearsal of Act I is made. The curtain closes. The music and ballet start.
I hope to extend this project past this semester and become a part of the community. Whether or not I join the school, which will not happen in the near future at all. I want to eat, dance, pray, sing, and dress with them. My camera, my license. My curiosity, my drive.

Yaphet Murphy – Capturing Communities in Words and Images

New York City Goths

It’s true. They live. I’ve seen them. They exist. Black clad gals and gents with whiteface makeup with an androgynous bent. They call themselves Goths. And if you’re really careful, they might whisper at you.

My entire effort in this project has been an attempt to get closer, close enough for someone to whisper at me, to tell me the things about the Goth community that are not normally transmitted to outsiders. I started at the periphery of this community. I didn’t know where to find a Goth. To me, Goths were scarce. If I was lucky I might see one in passing. But I was certain that they congregate somewhere. I turned to the internet to begin a search.

In short order I found a website, NewGothCity.com that contained promise. New Goth City is a website operated by a Sir William Welles, a long-standing member of the New York Gothic Community. The site contains a running list of Gothic-themed events taking place in or close to New York City. I scribbled the first three events in my date book and readied myself for the experience. I would need three things – a notepad, a camera…and the right clothes.

The first venue was a bar on East 14^th St., Otto’s Shrunken Head. It was a Tuesday and there was to be Gothic poetry reading inside the bar after 10pm. At 9:30pm I was at the door peering about to see who would enter. I was hoping to get a feel for things before venturing inside. I waited until 11:00pm before I gave up after realizing that no one ‘Goth-y’ was showing up for this event.

The next night, I went to the second venue on my list, a bar on the Lower East Side called Home Sweet Home for the Goth music party dubbed Wierd.. Home Sweet Home is a darkened bar located in the cellar of a non-descript building. A bouncer dressed in all black greeted me at the door, and waved me in. Downstairs, Victorian style candelabras hung from the ceiling, mist filled the air, and even the bartenders dressed Gothy. Wierd is a weekly event staged by the alt-rock/Goth music label of the same (misspelled) name. Every Wednesday, they have schedule a performer from their label to play. I didn’t know that going in but I found out soon enough. A plethora of Goth-dressed people attended, but I had trouble capturing any of them because of the dim lighting and misty air.

The third event I didn’t go to because it conflicted with the Wierd party. I had a winner and I was sticking with it. I came back to Wierd every other week. On other nights, I branched out to other Goth venues that I learned about through the New Goth City website.

One of the commonalities of all these gatherings was the music and the dance. Goths don’t get together to talk; they get together to dance. Even having a drink together is not as important as listening to music favorites and dancing. As such, deejays occupy a high place in this culture. All of the Goths I spoke to all had their favorites. You would often see the same faces again when a particular deejay was playing.

Music types enjoyed by Goths include Industrial, Alternative Rock, Gothic Rock, EBM, Synthetic Pop, Future Pop, 80’s New-Wave, Post-Punk and Electro. Dancing involved feeling the music and letting one’s body ride to it. The scripted dance moves that accompany more popular music cultures is largely absent here. Most Goths prefer to take to the dance floor, close one’s eyes, and sway arms, hips, and hands to the music. More uptempo songs would be met by rave-like dancing. If a deejay played a song that went outside the known and accepted genres, you would see a mass exodus from the dance floor. Deejays saw very quickly what the crowds wanted and often put things back on track after one song.

Another feature central to this community is the focus on fashion. The emphasis in being dressed ‘Goth’ is more prevalent in the women than in the men, but also taken seriously by the LGBT’s in the community. Some of the more remarkable outfits I’ve seen have been worn by the guys who clearly don’t identify as strictly male. All in all, fashion is an issue for every Goth, and beyond the music and the dance, one must be in some way fashionably appropriate in order to be seriously accepted by the other members of the Goth community.

Dressing Goth means dressing black, with machine-like, vampire-like or ‘Victorian-style widow’ styling. White-face make-up, buckles, and straps as forms of adornment are de rigueur. Leather dresses, lace-up corsets, and silver jewelry are popular choices. Fetish attire also makes regular appearances on the scene.

On my jaunts to the club scene, I would dress dark, but I didn’t really have Goth attire. I really couldn’t afford to acquire any. Also, even if I could afford it, I didn’t want to come under consideration as a poseur on the scene. Still, there were times when I wondered if it was safe to take pictures as a known outsider or whether I’d do better dressed as a member of the scene. In the end, I found it didn’t matter. When it came to taking photographs, it wasn’t who I was that mattered most. It was who they were. Some people were camera shy; others were not. Gesturing with the camera gave me an immediate signal as to who is which type and then I would proceed accordingly.

After club crawling for a while and seeing and faces and habits, I found that I needed to get in closer in order to truly understand the motives. A chance encounter put me in touch with a student who moonlights as a Goth. I got to interview her about what Goth meant to her. She told me her history as a Goth through high school, how she and her two girlfriends embraced the culture and how it lead to the practice of witchcraft. Says Teresa of the allure of being Goth, “As a Goth, you could just do anything and it would be okay. It was just crazy. It was awesome. It was fun.” Teresa picked up her knowledge of Goth culture and witchcraft through books borrowed from the public library. She’d go to a local forest park with her friends with candles and form a coven circle and use incantations. She helped explained the difference between angelic Goths and anarchist/pain loving Goths. Angelic Goths witches dabble in earth magic, out of a respect and desire for alignment with the forces of nature. Indeed, published books acknowledge the connection between Goth culture and Sado-Masochism. As for wearing black, Teresa couldn’t fully explain it. She said she felt more comfortable in black. “If I wear any other colors, I feel too bright.” Teresa only moonlights as a Goth now, saying that wearing the black clothes and silver jewelry presented a problem with job-hunting. I asked Teresa what she thinks of the future of Goths. She’s answered, “Goths should tell people what they’re really about so they won’t be so looked down.

My last contact was with Z of the Midnight NYC Meetup Group. This is a group that is organized online and meets for Goth happenings and events around New York City. I went to Lucky Cheng’s nightclub, located below the famed drag dining restaurant on 1^st Avenue near Houston St. in Manhattan. Z, and three others showed up for the Meetup – Purity, Lara and Uru.. I introduced myself to another patron at the club (no names exchanged) and told her what my intentions were. I asked her what about the Goth scene attracted her. She replied, “The music.” She paused, then she leaned over to me and said, “People won’t respect you if you don’t dance. They’ll think you’re a tourist and they’ll just ignore you. If you want to connect with people, first you have to dance.” I got the message. I took to the dance floor and started dancing.

Before I left, the same woman came back and told me how proud she was of me. She gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. This community has norms. Observe the norms and you’ll be fine. Break the norms and you’ll be sanctioned.

I met one more fellow, DJ Father Jeff, before I left the club. He agreed to talk to me about Goths, but not that evening. I kept his card.

I learned a bit about Goths on my explorations, but not quite enough yet. I plan to pursue it further. I’ve learned that really exploring a community like this takes time, lots of time, because insider access doesn’t come easy.

“It is going to be an extraordinary evening,” I was told approaching one of New York’s exclusive night clubs, “she will be here tonight,” my guide continued. Dressed to impress, party patrons stood in high heel stilettos crowding the sidewalks as far as I could see. I couldn’t help but wonder whether I was going to be allowed in. I was not sure whether I could brush off the rejection in the midst of all this frenzy. “What kind of a place is this,” I asked, as I composed myself approaching ever closer to the epicenter that marked the entrance. “We know the bouncer, her name is Monica,” my friends giggled, as we trotted closer to the velvet rope. Well, Monica as I learned later, is actually Michael during the day. I assumed a peripheral role. I stood behind my guide and hoped that I would be able to cross the ephemeral line that separated the in crowd from those who could only fantasize what was going to happen tonight, in a few hours, just underneath their feet. Like an auctioneer, my guide waved a few hand gestures and the rope parted as others watched in envy. Surely, the line was about one city block long. An exchange had occurred in midst of all the hand shakes as my guide talked his way past the velvet rope. A small price to pay for what was going to be an extraordinary night at this club. It is here that I was going to find Amanda Lapore.

Unable to decipher the song, my feet felt a trembling sensation with every beet of the music. It was as if the sound was confined, like a prisoner, and was impatiently trying to find an escape. Walking down the stairs, through one endless hallway after another, I felt like I was a part of a game, finding my way to the center of a dark labyrinth. At the last turn, before opening the doors to the heart of it all, a guy in black marked my wrist. Now I have been branded- no longer an outsider of the community. With the opening of the double doors, the music once held captive, now lashed out quickly immersing the hallways with a forceful deep base echoing off of solid black walls, teasing those still walking through the labyrinth. I entered and it was immediately evident why so many would consider the wait in the cold worth their while. In fact, tonight was going to be different, extravagant, and glistening. Tonight is her birthday celebration and everyone gathered to make sure it was just that and nothing less for the ultimate Diva, the odalisque of the gay world, Amanda Lepore.

I have entered the underground life of the community where rules usually do not apply. Dodging my way through the wall-to-wall crowd, I inched my way closer to the table with exquisite champagne, exclusive crowd, and VIP written all over it. The table where Amanda Lepore was celebrating her ‘twenty-first again’ birthday. Before I was able to find the star of the night, I couldn’t help but notice the other tables. I have walked into a room full of Dionysian characters. Taking a drag and hiding the flame of the cigarettes, partygoers bathed under a cloud of smoke. “One at a time please,” I heard in the background as bathroom attendants begged the patrons entering the stalls. Exiting, some were all refreshed, while others exited all disheveled. It is as if the rules of society did not apply here. I couldn’t stop but think that some, would consider this hell, others would relinquish their every day life to escape to this underground paradise. In this world, getting tired on the dance floor doesn’t mean that the night is over, it just simply implies that it’s time for another refreshment break in the bathroom stalls.

Some may mistake this event for a costume party, but to those within the community it is a lot more than that. It is the ability to leave behind their every day life at work or school and transform themselves to be who they want to be perceived as. An average man by day, a queen at night, is the escape they are seeking. Logan, a student at a city college considers his gender to be female, while his sex male. Even though he is hesitant about a complete transformation to another sex, for now he is satisfied with just transforming his gender at night. “It is as if a wild animal in me is set free!” he remarked, as vibrated to the music. Most believe that transgenders were born with the wrong sex and they feel as if they are in the body they don’t belong in. “Every time I look in the mirror, I see just a girl,” he answered when asked about his transformation at night. It is a challenge, he described, to be accepted in the society as a transgender. However, the obstacles he has to face every day made him mature at a much faster rate than an ordinary student his age. There exists a big misconception about transgenders. Stereotypes associate their community as a life style based on drugs and diseases. Many successful businessmen, company executives who graduated top of their class from Ivy League colleges also comprise a big part of this community, as I quickly learned. Logan’s best friend, who also transforms at night, was given a full tuition at Princeton, because of his academic brilliance. He does not consider himself smart, but because he was frowned upon by the stereotypes surrounding him, he compelled himself to strenuous work that in the end resulted in his success. Logan and his best friend are one of the many examples of a false stereotype clouding the transgender community today. For some like Logan, it is a transformation from day to night to participate in the festivities of this party. For others it is an every day life and the means of making a living. Lady Gadiva, as she calls herself, transforms into a female and stays that way for days on end. She works as a bartender and an entertainer and described the strenuous effort and the many hours spent to transform. Unlike Logan, Lady Gadiva spends majority of the workweek as a female. Transgenders, such as Logan, look up to Amanda Lepore as more than just a transgender. She serves as an Icon for the transgender community, as someone who represents the ultimate success story because of her fame and public exposure.

My mission would not be complete until I meet Amanda Lepore herself. As I pushed myself through the crowd, there she was, stepping out of her VIP section and greeting her many acquaintances. As she thanked them for coming, I jumped at the opportunity to speak with Amanda. She is nothing like no other, neither a male or nor a female, but perfectly androgynous, the envy of Ganymede in the Renaissance. She appears completely content. Like Marilyn Monroe, America’s most famous sex symbol of the early twenties, Amanda Lepore will one day commemorate the ultimate transgender.

Celebrating amongst her friends was Amanda Lepore’s photogropher, Jermey Kost. He has known the birthday girl for decades and has had the opportunity to photograph her incessant transformations over the years. As he explained, she undergoes plastic surgeries almost on monthly bases. For the most part, he added, she has reached her ultimate look, and now she is only maintaining beauty with minor changes. Her appearance is ever changing and her body a work of art in progress. All of which have contributed to her timeless image. It was time to bring the cake. Like Narcissus who kneeled daily beside a lake to contemplate his own beauty, she stares at the image of herself rendered in frosting on a birthday cake, while others wondered if there is even a similarity to the Amanda today.

As this was not my first attempt to immerse myself into the transgender community, one thing became very clear over time. For the most part, majority of the events that I have attended consisted predominantly of transgenders and gay men with an absence of the heterosexual community. It is very rare that you find a straight couple in a trangender club. This event, however, was very different. The crowd was mixed, consisting of both gay and straight men, heterogeneous married couples, journalists and photographers. They were all here to see Amanda Lepore the celebrity figure, the Diva, the transgender that has been behind the lens of world renowned photographers, such as David Lachapelle. After all, to achieve her appearance she has gone through a numerous surgeries over a spam of decades, some excruciating and others that defy mother nature.

Because of all the stereotypes, most of which I discovered as being false, the transgender community is not accepted and probably will not be accepted in its entirety throughout many cultures. New York City is unique in the sense that the transgender community has incorporated well into the everyday life of a New Yorker who is more accepting of this community. It is perhaps in diverse and large metropolitan cities where their hope lies. In some countries, the very act of being a homosexual is frowned upon and in certain parts of the world it is illegal and even punishable by death. New York City with its tolerance has accepted different life choices. The people of New York City, whether they are homosexual or heterosexual, professional or nonprofessional, young or elderly, have made Amanda Lepore into a celebrity figure despite her difference. Indeed, Amanda Lepore celebrated her ‘21^st again’ birthday here in New York among fans and friends, but more importantly she celebrated the victory of the transgender community.

Red Hook Brooklyn, named for the red clay it was built upon and the Dutch word Hoek, meaning “point” or “corner,” juts out upon the East River. As I sit on the pier in late summer, a familiar chill cuts through the warmth of the season, characteristic of the air above bodies of water.  It is evening time, and looking out upon the water and landscape, I feel as though I have discovered a secret. Lady Liberty, glowing green, appears as a sentinel, granting me permission to stay for awhile. This area, the only part of New York City that, on land, has a full frontal view of the Statue, is locally known as The Back.

I was brought here by a friend, who walked me down a long and lonely block, which seemed to be deserted and abandoned.  Shuttered warehouses loomed ominously, and dogs barked from somewhere within the darkness.  My friend, Jovan Torres, is a local who after a brief stint living with his father in long island, had recently returned to his hometown, and said he wanted to show me this place. I couldn’t imagine what kind of surprise lay beyond the rusted grey metal of the warehouse doors.

As we walk, the darkness gives way, and the water appears. It’s beautiful from a distance, and I am now eager to proceed. He greets a group of high-school aged kids, their voices and laughter echoing after us as we continue on to the edge.  I see the statue of liberty and can’t believe how close she seems. A group of men approach with fishing rods, greeting each other as though this has been a nightly summer ritual. One man pulls out a radio, and my friend and I take a seat. He tells me stories about jumping into the river as kids, and hopping from post to post.

As early as the 19^th century, Red Hook’s port made it a booming industrial center, loaning itself to the shipping and containerization industries. The Red Hook Houses, one of the largest housing projects in the city, were initially built for the Irish and Italian dockworkers and their families to live in. By the 1950’s, these initial residents began to fade and the town became one of the first Puerto Rican neighborhoods in the city.

[1]

Carmen Torres is Jovan’s grandmother. Carmen, age 67, and her husband Antonio (”Tonio”) age 71, were both born in the Commonwealth of Puerto Rico. Antonio sunk his anchor on the shores of Red Hook in 1954, and was joined shortly by his wife Carmen in 1959.They have lived here ever since. Over the course of the couple’s 50 years in Red Hook, they have witnessed many transitions, each decade bringing with it a unique chapter. Their story reflects the history of this tightly bound community on the shore; the shared victories and tragedies, the high and low points, and the experiences that bind its members together.

Their story starts out in 1959 when 17-year-old Carmen and 21-year-old Tonio moved into the city-owned Red Hook Houses, colloquially known as the projects. “How were the projects back then?” I asked. “It was mixed, good, everybody was friendly! 4 black families, 5 spanish, Italian, Jewish, Irish,” recalls Carmen of the buildings in 1963, as the civil rights struggle raged on in other parts of the nation. “Small gangs, but no drugs yet. In 1966, the Spanish and the coloreds started moving in because the city sent them here. They sent the whites some other place.”

In the 80’s, the Torres’ decided to go into business for themselves. Their very first venture was a burger stand in the houses. Carmen recalls that her burgers were loved because they were simply cheap and good. Building upon that success, Tonio invested in an ice cream truck, also a hit. With those proceeds, the Torres’ bought a building on the corner of Walcott and Richards streets, and opened up a small store on the ground floor. This was in 1983, and the building had a price tag of $20,000.

Carmen recalls the day she fired at a man three times, intercepting an attempted robbery. The man had been menacing the store for weeks and had come again to carry out his goal. One of the bullets grazed the man’s abdomen. This would not be the last time the police would visit the store.

A few years prior in the 1970’s, the drugs came, engulfing the town like a swarm of locusts, leaving a trail of devastation in its wake.  Carmen’s son and Jovan’s dad, Advendizo (”Benny”) Torres, recalls the onset of rampant drug addiction in Red Hook: “I would use the word transformative to describe the crack, AIDS as well.  Crack was devastating to the blacks. Heroin and cocaine was devastating to the Puerto Ricans. AIDS was devastating to both.” With theft and robbery on the upswing, keeping the store open became less profitable by the day, and they were forced to close it for good in 1989. “Honest, hardworking people became crack addicts. The crack was one of the main reasons we closed the store…So much stealing… Police never wanted to do anything.”

Benny describes Red Hook as the “epitome of urban life, which today is an artists’ community. Back then, it was urban blight.” He was born in the Red Hook Houses in 1963, shortly after his parents had first called this place home, and has a way of telling a story in such a way that his audience feels a part of the scene. He recalls the assassination of MLK: “You saw the anger of a lot of blacks in the projects… People crying in the streets… I was like six years old.”

He recalls the advent of the phenomenon known as Roots. In 1977, a mini-series emerged, comprised of 12 hours airing over the course of 8 consecutive nights. It documented the history of American slavery, beginning with Kunta Kinte’s capture, and culminating with the emancipation of his descendents. “It was a transformation for people, they were fighting back now. People were changing their names to…you know…less Anglican names.”

As an adult, Benny was an active member of a community taskforce whose main focus was to bring services to the neighborhood. One of the group’s major victories came when they demanded the opening of a bank in their town. Red Hook had never had a bank, and the group felt that this was a grave disservice to its community. Teaming up with a local non-profit group which had received funding under the Clinton administration’s Community Investment Program, the group approached the then president of Independence bank, who issued them a challenge. “Get me 3,000 signatures from people in Red Hook, and I’ll open a bank,” he said. Benny and his group knocked on door after door, collecting signatures in the dead of winter. In two weeks time, they had the signatures and were ready to claim their prize. Independence bank, Red Hook’s first such establishment, opened its doors for business shortly after.

The groups’ next victory came in helping to prevent the construction of a massive waste transplant port in the shores of the community. In 1999, the Giuliani administration was considering Red Hook’s scenic waterfront as the site of an enormous trash-processing facility that would potentially replace Staten Island’s Fresh Kills landfill.[2] “During the Giuliani years, Red Hook was known as the trash capital. They were essentially going to bring all the trash from all over the city here to Red Hook, put it all on barges at the ports,” recalls Benny. After an epic battle with fellow activists and the courts, the Giuliani venture was squashed.

Among the shared victories, the denizens of Red Hook are also bound by shared tragedies that pull on the collective heart strings of a community. In 1992, a young boy ran out of P.S. 15 on the corner of Richards and Walcott Streets. Principal Patrick Daley, deeply concerned for the welfare of his students, ran out after him, into the section of the projects known as Center Mall. There, he was caught in the crossfire of three young men feuding over drugs, and was shot dead. The media sensationalized the story and soon it made national headlines.

“One can still walk in any direction from the faded bloodstain on Center Mall in the Red Hook Houses and trace the lines of devastation. Madeline Daly still won’t talk publicly about her husband’s death. Florence Russell, the mother of one of the three young men sentenced to long prison terms for the killing, replays the events with as much anguish as anyone else. Many children are still haunted by the memory,” quotes the Times. [3]

“It was huge,” recalls Benny. “It was a white principal killed by black kids, you could imagine. He truly cared for the community. I went out to his wake on Staten Island, met his wife. There were so many people from the Red Hook who went, there was no hatred.”

Jovan, Benny’s son, was a student in the elementary school at the time of the shooting. So was his friend Richard (”Richie”) Soto, age 24. The pair met in the third grade, the year of  Patrick Daly’s death.  Richie invited me into his home in the Red Hook houses, just across the street from P.S. 15. He explains that the houses had been unofficially divided into regions by the residents. The Ave cuts right down the middle, and is the equivalent of a main street. “You could get everything from drugs to prostitutes, to pawning your stuff,” quips Richie. There was Flagpole and The Front and Paradise and Poor Block. “Poor block?” I ask. “Everyone on that block was on welfare. They were the poorest of the poor,” answers Richie. The most notorious of these was the aforementioned Center Mall , described as “crazy back in the day. They cut the lights out. You wouldn’t want to get caught in Center Mall. That’s where Mr. Daley got shot.”

Two years following the tragedy, mayor Giuliani’s then wife visited P.S. 15 and was escorted around the school by Richie. He recalls singing and playing the trumpet and bells for her. The visit came after the school was the winner of the Cool School Award. “I don’t think there was really a cool school award. I think they just felt sorry that our principal was shot,” says Richie, half jokingly. On the current state of things, Richie describes Red Hook as “a lot calmer.”  The last major event was a police raid carried out on the Red Hook houses last year.

I spoke with another resident of the houses, Glen Eaddy, age 38. Glen has lived here since the age of 2. I call Glen a jack of all trades. He has played the keyboard, guitar, drums, and violin since the age of 11; produces rock and hip hop beats, is a skilled kick boxer and handball player, and in his spare time, an aspiring comedian, not to mention, screenplay writer.  Growing up, Glenn recalls that he “stayed out of trouble. I was just not into it…I kept to myself.” He is an avid handball player, and travels to play tournaments with a group from Red Hook. “We watch out for each other.”

Three generations of a single family, and many more generations of a strongly bound community, have lived their lives in this town. The stories of the residents I interviewed, all with common threads running through the fabric of their narratives, weave the tale of a community.

[2] “The Wrong Haul”: www.citylimits.org