E.B. White, author of the children's classics Charlotte's Web and Stuart Little and the bible for every writer, The Elements of Style, was a wonderfully gifted essayist and editor, spending almost six decades at The New Yorker in one capacity or another. What makes White one of the most treasured American essayists of the twentieth century was his ability to come elegantly to the elemental core of the subject at hand, not just a stereotypical dilution. Not as easy as it may seem, especially when the subject at hand is a city that is a living, breathing entity all its own.

Many writers have tried (and failed) to capture the essence of New York. Here is one of the best definitions I believe I've read, written by White in 1948 (Here Is New York) and still true today.

"There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first the New York of the man or woman who was born there, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size, its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter — the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York on a quest for something…Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness, natives give it solidity and continuity, but the settlers give it passion."

I think the reason it's difficult for most people to put their finger on the soul of New York is because they are one of the three New Yorks, and that is forever how they see it. But Colson Whitehead (The Colossus of New York) says there are roughly eight million New Yorks, one for every person who lives here:

"No matter how long you've been here, you're a New Yorker the first time you say, 'That used to be Munsey's,' or 'That used to be the Tic Toc Lounge.' That before the internet café plugged itself in, you got your shoes resoled in the mom-and-pop operation that used to be there. You are a New Yorker when what was there before is more real and solid than what is here now. You start building your private New York the first time you lay eyes on it.

"I started building my New York on the uptown 1 train. My first city memory is of looking out a subway window as the train erupted from the tunnel on the way to 125th Street and palsied up onto the elevated tracks. It's the early seventies, so everything is filthy. Which means everything is still filthy, because that is my city and I'm sticking to it.

What is my New York? Certainly not the glamorous New York of the Manolo Blahnik-wearing ladies from Sex and the City, nor the salt-of-the-earth New York of the guys who are digging the 2nd Avenue subway line. I'd like it to be the inspired New York — the one that breaks new ground in the creative arts, much like the Bloomsbury Group in early 1900s London, though I guess my novel would have to be published for this to really be my New York. (Hello — any agents reading this?) Sometimes it's the Mary Richards "you're-gonna-make-it-after-all" New York, which makes me feel like throwing my hat in the air in the middle of Sixth Avenue. But right now my life feels like the "it's-up-to-you-New-York" New York, and it's not my favorite New York because that means things are out of my control as if the city itself will decide my fate. And, in case you are new to this blog, control is my middle name.

Maybe that's the lesson the city is trying to teach me. Get comfortable with being uncomfortable. Even though I feel the tidal restlessness of the commuter, remain passionate like the settler and stay solid like the native.

Or maybe I just need a vacation.

Jacquelin Cangro

Now the Nepalese government has taken the torment faced by widows a step further by offering men NRs. 50,000 ($650) if they marry a widow. A strange way to encourage  widow remarriage, you say? I agree. Women in Nepal are up in arms against this.

Guardian UK reports:

"Women's groups have condemned a Nepalese government plan to pay men for marrying widows, describing it as contrary to human rights law and humiliating for single women.

Under the proposal, contained in the government's annual budget last week, a lump sum of 50,000 Nepali rupees (£388) would be given to men who marry widows."

 

Widows are also angry at the government for putting a price tag on their dignity. The Times of India says:

"Dama Sharma, a Maoist MP whose husband was killed during the insurgency, says her party is also opposing the offer. "What about the children of a widowed woman?" she asks. "How many men in Nepal are broadminded enough to accept a widow along with her children? Instead of advocating re-marriage as a panacea, the state should provide her vocational training and a job so that she can stand on her own feet."

A Nepalese women's group based in the United States, Nepali Women's Global Network, has released a statement calling for a "comprehensive plan to address the need of widows" instead of focusing on re-marriage.

Bhumika Ghimire

Most have at some point volunteered at a food pantry or a homeless shelter, but the roots of these problems in and of themselves are rarely understood, despite the pervasiveness of these issues in our communities. And fundraisers are always easier to organize than actually confronting the situation at hand and forming a solution for fixing a system that lets thousands run through its cracks every year.

It seems like a funny contradiction because, in the United States, it’s not difficult to hear about the abject poverty that others live in across the world, and while the degree of poverty may appear worse in other places, the fact remains that poverty is poverty, and many assume that in the United States somebody somewhere — be it a government agency or the welfare clinic — is picking up the slack. Unfortunately, for those who do not meet the often strict guidelines for government aid, they are stigmatized by the public as having problems with drugs or mental illness.

That's why I decided to investigate a small meeting on Medary Avenue the other day in my city of Columbus, Ohio, called Columbus Housing Justice. 

Gathered in the living room at 9 p.m. with a small group of equally curious and homeless people alike, we listened as we were not bashed with a certain doctrine, but introduced to three people who decided to open a conversation in the community about the lack of public housing in our city and what could be done to solve the problem.

In recent years, internationally renowned groups such as Amnesty International have opened up the definition of human rights to include economic and social human rights, which brings up the question: What are our fundamental rights as human beings? And in a society that values self-building, are individuals actually inherently entitled to things such as guaranteed housing and food?

These are all fundamental questions in addressing issues such as homelessness and ones indeed that need to be addressed before you can confront the slashing of government funding of Section 8 vouchers and public housing in recent years.

Jane, who’s been homeless for five years after being kicked out of her house by her son, said being homeless in America is a sort of catch if you don’t have a child or a mental illness or some sort of record and are eligible for welfare. Because in America, if you don't have an address, you can't get a job. And if you don't have money, you cannot afford rent. Section 8 vouchers, which were originally intended to help people through these periods until they could get back on their feet, have been closed to new applicants and even those eligible could wait for five years. In addition to these issues, housing complexes accepting the vouchers are being relegated to suburban real estate where public transportation is often poor as suburbanites flock to newly renovated urban housing.

So where exactly does this leave a population with limited options and a department so underfunded it’s no wonder it’s so difficult to receive benefits? 

Organizations such as Columbus Housing Justice join other groups such as South Florida’s Take Back the Land and others in major cities nationwide in confronting the fundamental need and problem of housing in our own backyards. In an age where people are beginning to realize that the way we approach our basic needs, such as responsibly produced food and housing, has an enormous impact on larger conflicts and global issues, confronting issues such as homelessness and public housing gets pushed to the forefront of national agendas.

In the end, however, Columbus Housing Justice decides to confront the issue of homelessness. Perhaps the most important aspect of this grassroots movement is simply organizing a conversation about a broken system that is in clear need of repair.

Lara Gabrielle Blanco Heintz

One of the premier forms of entertainment when I was growing up was the dine-n-dash. The dine-n-dash combined the finesse of a track relay race and the stealth of a CIA spy.  A gaggle of us would go into a greasy spoon, say your average Waffle House, order plates of food, and slip out before the check hit the table. This was how we spent our time while the Beta vs. VHS debate raged.

Was it mean? Yes. Am I proud of this? Of course not. But like George Bush and mullet hair-dos, we cannot deny our bad choices.

Now, the subway version of the dine-n-dash:

A burly guy eating chicken wings covered with enough en fuego sauce to singe my nose hair decides to exit the F train at the York Street stop. (Why does this stop exist?) He wipes his greasy hands on a napkin, then deposits napkin and gnawed chicken bones into a Styrofoam box. He discreetly slides the open box under the seat with the toe of his work boot, careful not to get any sauce on it, and darts between the closing doors onto the platform, leaving the rest of us suckers with the reeking bill.

Jacquelin Cangro

I apologize for the frivolous post, but this is something that I just can't bring my head around: Relationships. For some reason I seem to be unlucky in the field of relationships, from friends to family to lovers. A shrink once asked me what I am doing wrong; at that time, I adamantly shrugged off the possibility that I was at fault, but now, looking at all the relationships I've seen crumble, I'm not sure. Maybe I am at fault. According to my friend, relationships are based on an equation of needs: Pam has x; Sam wants x; therefore Pam and Sam form a bond. However, let's say Pam and Sam spend years together until Pam loses x. Does Sam leave? In my life, Sam always leaves.

Scenario 1: The family

My family is a tragic story that is now almost non-existent. On my father's side, a feud of sorts broke out between my aunt and uncle. This led to the choosing of sides by the other family members. We chose the fence; our silence was manipulated by my uncle and we were kicked out by my aunt because we "chose" not to support her. The real culprit: Money.

On my mother's side, my aunt kicked us out of her life because we attended her step-daughter's (who I consider to be my cousin) wedding. This led to the choosing of sides by the other family members. The real culprit: Power.

Now I consider myself to have no extended family, save for a handful of cousins on my mother's side. People that I had grown up with, helped out, and shared timeless moments with were able to toss out lifetime bonds because of things as petty as money and power. Is the world that shallow? Or is it insecurity?

And I ask myself: What did I do wrong? Maybe it was my lack of action. Maybe I should have gotten involved. Maybe I should have been less hard on them. Maybe I should have persisted to resuscitate the relationships despite the angry farewells.  Did they just not need me anymore?

Scenario 2: The man I love(d)

It's been six months since we last spoke, five months since the I-never-want-to-have-anything-to-do-with-you email, and seven hours since I last saw him. Before that, it had been three years of being tortured by the false hopes of unrequited love. My friends don't understand why I still think about him; their reasoning is that we never went out; therefore there is nothing for me to mourn over. I believed that I loved him in that unconditional, "I don't need anything from you" way. My friend believes that I was infatuated and that love only exists when it is mutual.

Nevertheless, we were good friends. We studied together (sometimes even on Sundays), we wrote a book together, we were dumb together. My point is that he was not just a random man that I was in love with, he was a part of my life and I helped him out a lot. True, he did go through cycles of being mean and then being sweet, and usually we met up because he needed me in some way, but it wasn't nothing (or so I keep telling myself).

Then he fell in love with one of those "hot chicks" who hacked into his Facebook account and spent three hours convincing me that she was him and that he was madly in love with me. I don't understand pranks; I mean, someone has fun laughing at things that are important to someone else (be it a policeman or school or me). Anyway, that was when the man I loved told me that I meant absolutely nothing to him. That hurt more than him telling me, three years ago, that he will never love me because I was ugly. I feel used. They say that time heals all wounds, but this one just gets more septic with every day that passes because every day that I see him, it just stabs deeper: "Yes, you really did mean nothing to him."

And I ask myself: What did I do wrong? Maybe I was too gullible. Maybe I was too nice. After all, the worse you treat someone, the more they like you. Maybe I should have been less upfront about how I felt. Maybe I should have spent more time at the gym. Maybe I should have treated him better. Maybe  he just did not need me anymore?

Scenario 3: The friend

I've had a multitude of friendships dissipate into thin air — people who I gave my all to under the title of "best friend." My dad always told me that there are no such things as true friends, just people who use you. He also said that all one has is their family. I never believed him. A friend, that I hardly keep in touch with due to some petty fight, told me that I was a hard person to hold down, and at the same time, she only remembered the mistakes I had made; whereas I had only remembered the good things I had done.

And then I asked myself: What did I do wrong? I don't know.

Tharuna Devchand

Every year for the past four years (this year marked the fourth and counting), Ryan and Austin Eilbeck of the DIY punk group Delay, as well as a few others, take on the task of organizing Berea Fest: a two-day event featuring more than 30 bands from around the United States who gather in the dining hall of St.Paul's to bust out everyone's favorite punk and folk tunes for an enthusiastic and appreciative crowd who've traveled far and wide to hear their favorite groups. Ryan once told me that the whole reason they started organizing shows, and later the fest, was because they were tired of being turned down by venues and wanted to create spaces where people could play for their friends and on their own terms.

It's an unusual event in the sense that the network of DIY groups around the country is closely knit although usually spread out, so organizing in one place is a rare occurrence.  

Those expecting a Bonnaroo or Pitchfork will be sorely disappointed.  Because Berea Fest isn't organized just for music, but to bring a community together — something you can feel in the groups who gather in the parking lot between sets to chat or the dedicated few who donate and cook vegan fare for weary bands who have traveled from opposite ends of the country to gather on the shores of Lake Erie.

I'm always disappointed that many tend to look at the punk scene with a mix of trepidation and romanticism- rejecting at the same time the exclusionary 'damned-be-all-attitude' of supposedly what it means to be "punk" (not entirely undeserved, and many of the self governing philosophies of the DIY punk movement do go against mainstream political and economic mind frames).

And yet looking around the tightly packed room, you start to notice something. Ghost Mice is finishing their set and, as everybody stands around, the feeling of solidarity is palpable. These aren't people who've come to see their favorite bands not to destroy equipment and not to start fights. They come not as fans, but as friends. And in the end, that's what Berea Fest is all about.

Lara Gabrielle Blanco Heintz

We’re worn down.  I’m worn down.  I dread my long weekends locked onto 3 East with A.  The staff meets weekly for debriefings and diagnose each other with compassion fatigue.  We veer between giving up on her and belief that she’s tough and will survive.  We’re horrified at our visceral responses to her – anger mainly – and surprised when our collective negative energy evaporates as she charms us with a joke or smile, some token of affection. 

She should be out having fun with friends, attending college, enjoying a loving family.  Instead she spends her time with us, binging, purging, cutting, committing desperate acts of near self-destruction, attention-grabbers.  Both victim and predator. 

In my better moments, I compare her to Tinkerbell; A. doesn’t stand a chance unless we believe in her.

She has a bad week.  She’s handcuffed and escorted by a Multnomah County sheriff’s deputy to court, where she’s civilly committed to 3 East for a period of six months.  An older man who fills the role of lover, who’s accustomed to their reciprocal use of each other, disappoints her by taking up with someone else, someone who isn’t hospitalized.  Her uncle doesn’t visit; her mother doesn’t call.  She’s been with us a month.  A commitment buys her – and us – some time.                  

One of the staff psychologists takes her for a walk on the quiet street in front of the hospital, for some fresh air and a smoke.  A. runs toward the busy intersection and darts out into traffic.  He runs after her and tackles her down; cars skid and slam on their brakes. 

That week I feel the prickly aftershocks of this incident.  The staff is vigilant but gives her space.  She’s off "constant."  I count the number of times she paces the length of the ward.  Seventeen laps equal one mile; she does twice that. 

My stomach muscles hurt, braced against threat.  The signs are there.  We take turns walking past her room.  I feel apprehension but not surprise when I hear the crash in A.’s room.    

She stands on a chair with a fragment of fluorescent light bulb that she’s broken out of its ceiling cage.  She slashes at her wrists.  Blood drips onto the floor.  I grab towels to apply pressure while two others take her down from the chair.  When we attempt to pry the glass from her hands, she puts the shards into her mouth and swallows.  A. slithers and writhes across a floor that glitters with fragments of glass.  Her mouth oozes blood; she bites at us.

"Code Green" echoes over the hospital speakers and trained staff arrives from all departments.  The emergency room nurses are there when A. loses consciousness and turns blue.  We have minor cuts and bruises and other deeper injuries that don’t show.

Closure is overrated, and in our line of work it’s elusive.  Sometimes I read about a former patient in the newspaper – usually bad news.  Or I see a photo of someone vaguely familiar poised on the Burnside Bridge.  Not knowing is my way of holding out hope.

A. is referred to the state hospital, but does not meet their criteria for admission. Her problem is behavioral; she isn’t psychotic.  She’s lucky; the state hospital is no place to get better.    

A. is discharged early at the end of May into a run of good weather.  She gets better. She gains weight; she hasn’t cut herself in a month; she discusses her behavior with seemingly mature insight.  I’m not sure her improvement has anything to do with us.  

In the next few months I hear rumors that A. is or has been in our emergency department after another suicide attempt.  I want to see her, but I don’t want her back on 3 East.  It’s another hospital’s turn.      

A year later I find a note taped to the clinical desk inviting us to A.’s memorial service.  There’s a phone number if we want additional information.  I don’t call.

Evelyn Sharenov

 According to The Jerusalem Post,

The Society for Defending Women's Rights in Saudi Arabia said the religious police arrested the two sisters, aged 19 and 21, thus putting their lives in danger.

Their brother shot them to death in front of their father when they left a women's shelter in Riyadh on July 5, according to Saudi news reports.

I have wasted lot of words on the way women are treated in Saudi Arabia. I say wasted because nothing ever changes there. It is the same, over and over again. Today there is this shameful killing, and tomorrow another woman will be held in her home and not allowed to pursue her goals, and the tale of Saudi women held hostage by the regime and culture goes on.

A ray of hope I found online: read this article and you will understand why. It is at Saudi Gazette. 

Bhumika Ghimire

Last Friday night she played the Bell House, a music venue found in the Gowanus part of Park Slope in Brooklyn. It's down a mostly deserted alley, lined with storage compartments and seemingly abandoned garage space. Seemingly a secret in itself, the place is actually a host of great local and national talent and variety. From holding beer competitions, to showcasing Michael Showalter and Michael Ian Black's stand-up comedy routine, to booking indie-pop vets The Appleseed Cast and newcomers like Holly Miranda (of the Jealous Girlfriends), the Bell House usually isn't at a loss for entertaining. 

Most of the other bands that night (Animal Hands, Great Lakes, and The Brunettes) played on stage with more than one member. There's usually something about a full band that automatically creates a throbbing, dynamic appreciation for live music. Whether it's the drummer pouncing toward the back of the stage as the frontman looks on, or the bassist plucking away side by side with the lead guitarist wildly gyrating — in some respects, the more really is the better. 

Which brings me to Sharon's sparse set, where she and only she takes the stage with her lonesome guitar. Standing front and center, about a dozen spotlights shine in her direction, not only alluding to some kind of star quality, but also in a way blinding her a bit. "It's so bright up here, I can't really see or tell if there's anyone out there…are there people?" she said into the mic, half kidding, half serious. The singer-songwriter seemed shy by nature and often was very soft-spoken when talking in between her songs. Again, the smallness, or maybe meekness, showed itself. Her vulnerability was endearing, her fragility contagious.

The room itself was quiet throughout her set. We in the crowd even inched closer to the stage so that she would know we were there for her. Eyes were fixated on the way she'd lightly strum at her guitar and the way her neck would bend to the right and then to the left as she let out truly beautiful sounds, singing about love and growing to be independent. 

Michelle Geslani