Manhattan, My Muse

Usually I am a much better chameleon.

When I come back and forth on breaks from KA, I am usually adept at stepping into the “skin” and pace of my locale-of-the-moment. Almost all of my breaks take place in three places in the United States: Cincinnati, the home of my birth and youth; Westchester County, home of my dear friend Anne and workplace for over a decade; and Manhattan, home of Christy and my New York playground. In any of my 10-day to 14-day breaks I can usually be found in each place for a handful of days, adjusting to the pace and thrill of each locale, drinking in and restoring my soul from the grinding pace of KA. The restaurants are different in each stop on the itinerary, as is what I do with my early morning, late night, free time, entertainment. It’s like having three totally different vacations rolled into one. The pace with Anne in Irvington has a laidback feel—well, each place is laidback in a way, and fast-paced in a way. I would say it would be like comparing a Brahms symphony with a Bach invention and then a Handel oratorio—each of my “homes” feeds my soul in a special way, and I try and juggle all the things I hope to accomplish, and all the people with whom I try and connect.

But this year, spring break 2010, I find I am not as good at being a chameleon as I usually am. I am carrying too much baggage—the metaphorical kind since I am a whiz at whizzing back and fro from my continents and knowing what to bring and how much a suitcase weighs. But I have found that I can’t put down the baggage from KA this March. And this has nothing to do with the charms and joys of each of my locales—it has everything to do with putting behind the Jordan skin.

As I got on the plane last week anticipating my usual round of museums/restaurants/visiting/hugging/schmoozing/dozing/reading/exercising for my break, I graded exams on the plane and enjoyed that great Delta flight that leaves Jordan just past midnight and arrives at JFK just before dawn. It is a perfect flight—if you have to spend 12 hours on a flight. You pop a couple of Tylenol PMs and then sleep actually does descend even on the stubborn-flight-sleepers like me.

As with any job, there are those “prickly” feelings that creep over you as you know “inter-office” relations have become strained and the horizon looks cloudier than you would like. Usually, I hop on that plane, and I can leave those pricklies behind. But on this spring break, the pricklies have dogged me a bit. I just can’t shake some of those feelings.

But, then it has hardly been a troubled spring break. I have done the things I love—strolling through Central Park with Christy discussing the state of the educational world; enjoying lunch at a new special place with the glorious Kate; discovering a new art museum with Anne; sitting up savoring a treasured friendship; bacon; seeing a play; reading the New York Times and holding it in my hand; riding the subway—all quotidian acts really, but genuinely warming and meaningful.

When you look at history, many cultures have been aware of the difficulty of changing courses or locales. As far back as ancient Babylon, they created that fantastic and garish Gate of Ishtar, welcoming each returning soldier to pass through the Gate and by doing so, the warring troops would purge their martial impulses, and prepare them for life back in workaday Babylon. The Romans pilfered that concept and Roman towns erected Roman arches at a city gate, so that those warring Romans could do the same purging as they returned home, helping the men make the transition back to domestic life after their warring escapades. Indeed, one of the great Roman heroes, Cincinnatus was known to leave his plow in the field when the call came to defend Rome. I wonder, what was it like for Cincinnatus as he came back from war to pick up his plow?

One of my favorite paintings by American artist Winslow Homer is entitled, Veteran in a New Field, and it is a simple rendering of a Civil War soldier home from the battlefront confronting his field after his stint in the army. He has cast off his army jacket and canteen over on the side, and wields a mighty scythe trying to get back to his first job, that of farmer. You wonder how easy it was for those soldiers to come back from such carnage and resume the tasks at home. That new field offers such possibilities of life, and yet, that soldier has just come home after witnessing such harvests of death.

That makes me think of one of my favorite World War II films—The Best Years of Our Lives—and again it is about soldiers returning home and trying to play chameleon. How easy is it to pick up that old habit, those old patterns and paces? For some being a chameleon was nearly impossible…

Okay, I didn’t realize how many military allusions I had rambling around in my head about this! From Babylon to Rome to the 19th century and the Greatest Generation! And I am not even near a warfront.

And my problems are not that great. But those prickly feelings of work—you must realize, I rarely call my “job” work. I love teaching school so much that I hesitate to call it work but the pricklies are related to the politics of any workplace: people nursing grudges, scheming vindictiveness, callous backbiting, endless email threads, one-upmanship, reminders of the hierarchy, insecurities, all the strains that affect most workplaces. The portal of the United States Passport Control usually acts as a surer purging place.

Maybe it is that the spring break in the United States just isn’t that new anymore. Maybe it is because I have treated myself this year and this is my fourth time stateside this school year. Hmmmm…the first spring break it felt glorious just connecting with friends and cramming Broadway shows in as fast as I could. Last year I had a wedding to celebrate.

As I arrive into JFK from Jordan, there is that moment when I board the subway (which happens to be above-ground out by JFK airport) and finally dawn has broken on the horizon. I have flown all night, made my through immigration and passport control, grabbed the actual baggage, and secured my seat on the A train. That part of Brooklyn may not be the most gorgeous generally, but with dawn, and the hopes of a spring break, and the promise of rest, it always looks magnificent. I revel in that sunrise as the A train pushes closer to Manhattan.

And when I arrive at Christy’s townhouse on the Upper West Side, and look out her window to the right—there it is the skyline of midtown Manhattan. And on that first day, as I rediscover Asian food and book stores and the eastern time zone and bagels and banks that answer questions and pedestrians and leafy trees and church spires and my address book, there is such a purging like in the old days of Rome and Babylon.

I guess I expected to let go a little more of the KA pricklies. Every day as I was enjoying something my mind played a version of “Twister” where I would have my right hand on red and then my left foot on green.

But Manhattan and Irvington and Cincinnati do work a magic spell on me. No, it isn’t a cruise down the Nile, or a bistro in Paris, but it is a visit with Cristina checking in with her after her husband Luis’ death in January; it is discovering a familiar tour guide with Christy at the Met; it is laughing with Gary as we eat some of the best pizza available; it is sitting with Anne watching a play; it is enjoying the “violet hour” of dusk walking down Broadway, endlessly fascinated with every cornice and crevice of Manhattan.

Spring break was supposed to be a little different this year, anyway. Julianne and I had planned to bring a couple dozen of my art history students to New York and give them the Grand Tour. But that trip fell through a month ago. But that is not really the source of the pricklies.

You know—about an hour ago I passed by a church wayside pulpit and maybe the answer was right there on the clichéd message for all the passersby: Count Your Blessings, Not Your Problems. Hmmmm…

I think I will do exactly that. I will stop this blogsisode right now and take that tip.

Be back tomorrow.