Brooklyn-hearted
by
Sharmin Mirman
Trinity
“To him who has had the experience no explanation is necessary, to him who has not, none is possible.” Ram Dass, Be Here Now
Just look at us! Are we precious or what?! It’s the summer of ‘70 - another carefree Brighton Beach Bay One day that stretches and yawns into sunset. We bask in the glorious freedom of our youth - of belonging. Our beach guy friends pass around guitars and joints and we sing Joni Mitchell and harmonize to Grateful Dead and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. They’re all older than we are and some of them even call this spot YD Avenue because they’re young divorcees. We have no money, no plans, no worries - just another golden day to inhale the salty sea air, slather our bikini babe bodies with baby oil, get tan and go with the flow. We are just a couple of fourteen year old first base virgin girls - semi innocents but we can hold our own with these guys.
Our best and favorite beach friend is The Bear. He’s six feet tall and even though he looks kind of rough he has a gentle aura about him - definitely more of a teddy bear than a grisly one. He is one-of-a-kind special - a wacky wiseman philosopher hippie king who wears the term “freak” like a badge of honor.His voice is low and gravelly when he sings but when he is imparting words of wisdom or quoting Jack Kerouac or Allen Ginsberg it becomes kind of nasal and cartoony. He and his friend Zeb like to make up filthy lyrics to songs like Wooly Bully by Steppenwolf and Amphetamine Annie by Canned Heat. You will judge them if I tell you the words but we think they’re funny. Zeb has wild red hair that he tries to tame with a headband that’s got an eye in the middle of his forehead. He hangs out with The Bear but he’s not cool like him. Actually he’s kind of a drag. He even tried to kiss me once and it was such a bummer! I told him to leave me alone and he said “right on!” and flashed me the peace sign. Even if I liked him that way, he’s so old - like twenty something. Ew! The Bear would never behave like that. When we’re with him we feel protected and sheltered. He's like our bodyguardian angel.
We are tentatively inching our way into the ocean because even though it’s a hot humid July day it takes a while to get used to it. The Bear comes charging into the water and, without hesitation, he flings himself under a wave and bursts up from under it right in front of us. “It is Omni delightful to see you Vaginalinks!” he says joyfully. “Give thanks to the sea! She is Omni refreshing!” Beads of water sparkle on his massive afro and it glitters in the sun like a bedazzled halo. He bends down to cup his hands and douse us with a big splash of cold water. “I love to splash vagina!”he says exuberantly, relishing our reaction with glee as we shriek with laughter. “I love to splash Vagina!” he says again and we all laugh. He beams at us and says “The ocean is holy. Can you feel it?” And we can!
Who are we in this liminal
all time - no time Other?
A divine orchestration
Leads us to a threshold
Graces us with a fleeting
deja vu glimpse through a portal
To realms forgotten
When tethered by gravity
And somatic chains
We see now
through a prism
Where life is eternal
And love is immortal
Exalted. Expansive
A soul pact promise
to reunite - to remember
And we rejoice!
And in a fleeting shift
blink of an eye
This nanosecond knowing
Vanishes like a bubble and
We’re back in our bodies and infused with a mighty intuition that distills his intention down to the purity of its essence. His affection for us is genuine and transcends his words.Wehavea bond that can’t be broken or severed with logic.
We know it sounds outrageous. How dare anyone have the audacity to behave like that with a minor, right? If our parents knew we would be forbidden to associate with him but they can never grok what we know for certain.The needle on our true north trust compass points to cherished and safe. The Magic 8 Ball says Yes. Definitely! He’s like a luckytarot card pulled from a magic deck - an oracle with no red flags and three full cups. There’s a sweetness about him - an unedited, child-like innocence that finds wonder and joy in everything. We are dialed into the same frequency -three notes in a chord - a consecrated reunion designed by a holy architect - baptized in Brighton Beach holy waterand anointed with patchouli.
Bernie
“Bernie gonna get your ass fucker! Bernie gonna get your sorry stinkass!” I didn’t know who Bernie was but the woman outside yelling like an urban town crier woke my ass up. Six floors below, on East 17th Street, she heralded the dawn of a new day with a 6:00am “Kiss my ass Motherfucker!”. By the time I rushed out of bed to look out the window, she was always gone.
There was no telling what prompted these outbursts or when she would strike. Perhaps she was possessed and driven by forces beyond her control to roam the dark, deserted streets of Flatbush, preaching her unholy gospel. Years later, when I finally saw the enigma that belonged with that voice, she wasn’t at all what I’d envisioned. There was nothing unusual or noteworthy about her appearance but as the saying goes, you can’t judge a book by its cover. She was small and lean and her plain dark skirt and simple button down sweater were decidedly unremarkable. It’s easy to overlook a remainder in favor of a flashy bestseller without ever decoding the secrets within.
Like the mild-mannered Clark Kent, she was incognito too. However, while Superman was driven to help mankind, her alter ego evidenced no heroic behavior. The Cardiganed Crusader’s predawn ranting seemed more like a self-serving vehicle to exorcize her demons. One could argue that her wide-a-wakeup call provided a valuable community service but you couldn’t set your clock by the spirit that moved her.Sometimes I’d see her darting around the neighborhood. Now and then she would slip into my lobby for a cigarette and sit quietly peering out of the large picture window with one leg dangling down off the wide ledge - her foot jerking and flapping like a fish on a hook. She’d cast furtive glances over her shoulder through the smokescreen, like someone on the lookout. Like a fugitive.
Midwood
Brooklyn beats my heart - it flows through my veins - a home that is no longer mine - home of my heart - home away from home. Memories carry me to my four story walk-up nestled at the dead end of a quiet street on Avenue I. I for Innocent - I for Illusion - I for a seemingly idyllic block with pretty private homes, weeping willow and mimosa trees and a freight train bridge that stretched over the tracks to the dead end on Avenue H. I am on the third floor - Paul is upstairs to the right - Robert is upstairs to the left and there are only three apartments at each landing.
We are quite the trio. Paul is wild and sweet and brave and looking for love in all the wrong places - always always always looking - sampling from the buffet of boys and men he goes home with and brings home and cruises on the beach and the park and the clubs - boys boys boys! Paul was ahead of his time - a proud pioneer who wrote a Gay Teachers Newsletter over a decade before Ellen came out on TV and way before we had computers or the internet. He was brave and unapologetic in his truth.
Me and Paul both had a crush on the same guy on East 16th Street. He had ocean blue eyes and the thought of seeing him when we walked down his block gave us a little thrill. Maybe it was because we shared our fantasies of what we would do with him that made me blush when he held my stare. I promised myself I wouldn’t look away and that I’d say hello but I just couldn't do it. I was too shy and he was so handsome! Paul wasn’t shy. He was a wild extrovert with an embarrassing scream laugh that turned heads but he didn’t care. He had a child-like energy and a Peter Pan never gonna grow old essence.
One night I was awakened by a blast that was so loud that it sounded like a bomb went off in the lobby of our building. Someone was screaming and in the morning I learned that it was Paul. He’d been shot for refusing to give up his wallet. For the first time in his life, his piece of shit father was proud of him because he fought off a thief and survived. That was the only time he ever showed any support for his son. Paul recovered from the gunshot but my dear friend couldn’t fight the demon that blindsided him and stole his light and his life.
I sure wish he could’ve lived to see how far we’ve come! Miles and miles and miles. He would’ve loved Queer Eye and RuPaul’s Drag Race and it would’ve been so much fun to watch them together. He’d drive us to the gay beach at Reese Park back in that crazy magical time when I could be topless and my body was rockstar and he could cruise to his heart's content. We’d hold hands and skip and then sit by the shore in our little beach chairs and watch the boys go by. Those beautiful summers feel like a dream - soaking in the sights and the sun - so free - carefree - until we weren’t.
Our friend Robert was on the cusp becoming his authentic self. Perhaps Paul was an inspiration - a role model of what it meant to be free. He was blossoming and becoming the man he dreamed he could be. He had been lonely for a long time and he was excited to be coming out and dating men. It felt so good to see him happy and trying on an identity that resonated with him.
We spent many Saturday nights together. We’d rent movies from the laundromat/video store on Avenue J (please be kind, rewind) and then walk down the street to a little neighborhood hole in the wall where we’d get a hot and delicious slice of heaven at DiFara’s Pizza. It was our little gem long before it became a New York icon.
Robert’s apartment was always a mess and he’d say “I vacuum once a year whether it needs it or not” with a knowing grin that said he was in on the joke. He had an impressive collection of porn magazines. We’d sit on his couch and look at photos of swoon worthy young men with perfect breasts and doe eyes that seemed to look right into your soul. I could understand his fascination. He’d watch me staring and, with a sly smile, he’d say “Don’t let the pages stick together”.
When he confessed that he was curious about drag and asked me if I’d help him to dress up I was thrilled. It was beautiful to see him flourishing and reveling in his authenticity. And then something unexpected happened. His mother set him up on a date with a friend’s daughter - a naive woman who, at thirty, still lived with her parents and a bed full of stuffed animals.
Although I knew that he had been lonely for a long time, I was shocked when Robert said “I’m gonna marry that girl!”. And what a heartbreaking price he paid for that marriage: shrouding himself in lies and deception. Instead of a cool curated drag wardrobe, his courage, dreams and potential were relegated to the closet and locked away.
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