LJ Idol: Season 9, Week 12: Barrel of Monkeys
I consider Rochester, NY to be my adopted hometown. It’s where I met my spouse, got married (at a city park), and where our first child was born (in a hospital within city limits). I only lived there for about four years, my wife many more. But they were good times, some more interesting than others.
One does not spend long in the Rochester culture without noticing its rather skanky race issues - some of the nastiest I’ve seen in the Northeast, where we’re supposedly better than this. We’re not. Let’s just get that out of the way. In 1964 the city was host to some rather violent race riots and many older residents remember the aftermath well. Even more, those stories have been passed down to their children and grandchildren. 50 years later, people still talk about it. We found out all about it from our gay landlords, who weren’t faring too much better in terms of social acceptance back then. And because we were pretty poor ourselves, and being poor was almost as much of a crime as being gay or black even in the 21st century.
My first job in the city was in the now-demolished Midtown Plaza. I worked in a small deli kiosk that sold subs, sandwiches, and soup. I was hired under the table, as was everyone who worked there. My boss was called Marty. He was a hard-nosed Irish Catholic convinced that the world was out to get him. I’ve learned in life that people so convinced tend to invite that sort of trouble. He was no exception.
Now Midtown Plaza was primarily the connector between several office towers, as well as a bus terminal for local and long-distance buses. It also resembled a mall in that there were a couple of levels and stores in that sort of arrangement, but even in 2003 most of them had closed. The food court was most of what was active. The only reason anyone would come there not just passing through or employed in the area was this gorgeous 100 year old musical clock with scenes from around the world. It survived the demolition, now being kept at the regional airport.
Our kiosk was within spitting distance of that clock. It got loud sometimes, but we really didn’t mind. However one day something else got our attention over the sound of that clock. A group of dark-skinned people had circled up between our kiosk and the clock, as though the courtyard of the plaza were a schoolyard. Yup, it looked like they were about to drop the gloves.
This was the point at which Marty shows my coworker and me a revolver in his pocket, and passes us large kitchen knives. I will never forget his comment - “Looks like the monkeys are about to drop their bananas. If they approach the counter, use these.” I didn’t remain in this man’s employment much longer, especially after he suggested he would deny I ever worked for him were I ever injured on the job - a large storage rack of Snapple bottles almost toppled on me one day, and he said he would have just accused me of being a burglar in the back.
Not long after that there was a row over the radio. Elections were coming up and the mayor of Rochester, a man of color, was running for a higher position. There was also an escape from the local zoo during the middle of all of this. Add it all up, and you get the following quip: “A gorilla has escaped the Seneca Park Zoo and he’s running for county executive.” They were of course promptly fired, but it didn’t take them long to get their jobs back after an apology tour. It’s almost as though the entire thing were staged, including the firing.
Monroe County, the area surrounding the city, is ridiculously segregated. The economic barriers for escaping the city of Rochester are extremely high. This is on purpose. Some might claim that the region segregated itself - no, it did not. White people did their level best to funnel anyone poor, and especially anyone of color into the city. White flight did the rest of the job, to the point that every surrounding municipality was majority Caucasian and regularly elected Republicans. The city was the Democratic bastion and still had enough people to control regional politics, but the difference was clear just in crossing city lines. The same house on one side of the city line would be half the price as the one sitting just outside. Segregation even got so bad that the Federal government got involved in enforcing integration, and for a while - possibly even still going on - city children of color are bussed to suburban schools. The exchange program usually meant gifted musicians and artists went to the city’s one actually diverse high school. Hardly a fair exchange when almost every public elementary in the city is overwhelmingly black and/or Hispanic.
So where’s the hope in all of this? We were part of a faith community that was notably integrated for its time - a Unitarian Universalist church right in the middle of downtown. It was tiny in comparison to the borderline mega-church of the same denomination in a nearby wealthy suburb. We were also part of a neighborhood where people decided sunflowers were their symbol, and united around these things like they were some sort of magical totem. And they were, really. Around them sprouted things like a housing co-operative. Then new public housing. Boards came off of windows. Then a large student housing development and a brand new extended-stay hotel. And more businesses. The Plymouth-Exchange neighborhood is flourishing.
The barrels of monkeys dropped their bananas and picked up sunflowers. And broke down barriers. And ignored what anyone else would tell them. I miss the old neighborhood.
One does not spend long in the Rochester culture without noticing its rather skanky race issues - some of the nastiest I’ve seen in the Northeast, where we’re supposedly better than this. We’re not. Let’s just get that out of the way. In 1964 the city was host to some rather violent race riots and many older residents remember the aftermath well. Even more, those stories have been passed down to their children and grandchildren. 50 years later, people still talk about it. We found out all about it from our gay landlords, who weren’t faring too much better in terms of social acceptance back then. And because we were pretty poor ourselves, and being poor was almost as much of a crime as being gay or black even in the 21st century.
My first job in the city was in the now-demolished Midtown Plaza. I worked in a small deli kiosk that sold subs, sandwiches, and soup. I was hired under the table, as was everyone who worked there. My boss was called Marty. He was a hard-nosed Irish Catholic convinced that the world was out to get him. I’ve learned in life that people so convinced tend to invite that sort of trouble. He was no exception.
Now Midtown Plaza was primarily the connector between several office towers, as well as a bus terminal for local and long-distance buses. It also resembled a mall in that there were a couple of levels and stores in that sort of arrangement, but even in 2003 most of them had closed. The food court was most of what was active. The only reason anyone would come there not just passing through or employed in the area was this gorgeous 100 year old musical clock with scenes from around the world. It survived the demolition, now being kept at the regional airport.
Our kiosk was within spitting distance of that clock. It got loud sometimes, but we really didn’t mind. However one day something else got our attention over the sound of that clock. A group of dark-skinned people had circled up between our kiosk and the clock, as though the courtyard of the plaza were a schoolyard. Yup, it looked like they were about to drop the gloves.
This was the point at which Marty shows my coworker and me a revolver in his pocket, and passes us large kitchen knives. I will never forget his comment - “Looks like the monkeys are about to drop their bananas. If they approach the counter, use these.” I didn’t remain in this man’s employment much longer, especially after he suggested he would deny I ever worked for him were I ever injured on the job - a large storage rack of Snapple bottles almost toppled on me one day, and he said he would have just accused me of being a burglar in the back.
Not long after that there was a row over the radio. Elections were coming up and the mayor of Rochester, a man of color, was running for a higher position. There was also an escape from the local zoo during the middle of all of this. Add it all up, and you get the following quip: “A gorilla has escaped the Seneca Park Zoo and he’s running for county executive.” They were of course promptly fired, but it didn’t take them long to get their jobs back after an apology tour. It’s almost as though the entire thing were staged, including the firing.
Monroe County, the area surrounding the city, is ridiculously segregated. The economic barriers for escaping the city of Rochester are extremely high. This is on purpose. Some might claim that the region segregated itself - no, it did not. White people did their level best to funnel anyone poor, and especially anyone of color into the city. White flight did the rest of the job, to the point that every surrounding municipality was majority Caucasian and regularly elected Republicans. The city was the Democratic bastion and still had enough people to control regional politics, but the difference was clear just in crossing city lines. The same house on one side of the city line would be half the price as the one sitting just outside. Segregation even got so bad that the Federal government got involved in enforcing integration, and for a while - possibly even still going on - city children of color are bussed to suburban schools. The exchange program usually meant gifted musicians and artists went to the city’s one actually diverse high school. Hardly a fair exchange when almost every public elementary in the city is overwhelmingly black and/or Hispanic.
So where’s the hope in all of this? We were part of a faith community that was notably integrated for its time - a Unitarian Universalist church right in the middle of downtown. It was tiny in comparison to the borderline mega-church of the same denomination in a nearby wealthy suburb. We were also part of a neighborhood where people decided sunflowers were their symbol, and united around these things like they were some sort of magical totem. And they were, really. Around them sprouted things like a housing co-operative. Then new public housing. Boards came off of windows. Then a large student housing development and a brand new extended-stay hotel. And more businesses. The Plymouth-Exchange neighborhood is flourishing.
The barrels of monkeys dropped their bananas and picked up sunflowers. And broke down barriers. And ignored what anyone else would tell them. I miss the old neighborhood.