Kitty
I’m haunted by Kitty Genovese, who was murdered 41 years ago, on March 13, 1964. The New York Times reported at the time:
For more than half an hour 38 respectable, law-abiding citizens in Queens watched a killer stalk and stab a woman in three separate attacks in Kew Gardens.
The lede was slightly exaggerated but close enough to the truth to make the neighborhood notorious. You’ve probably read something about the case, and, if not, you can “Google it”. Kitty’s murder has been used as a touchstone or plot point in movies, books, teevee shows and even a famous comic book. It’s been tossed around like a football in various political debates and psychological theories. It’s easy to overlook the life of the young woman who died.
Although, I’d known about this crime since I was taught about it in high school, I, like many people, assumed that it took place in Manhattan, surrounded by high-rise apartment buildings. You really need to walk around Kew Gardens to realize how shocking it is, and surely was then, that such a crime could take place here. Kew Gardens is a neighborhood of small shops, single family houses and a scattered handful of apartment buildings that go no higher than six stories. People in the neighborhood have a “nodding” relationship with each other, if not always actual friendships.
I can imagine living in the neighborhood with Kitty, who was young, short, tomboyish, independent, tough, plucky and pretty cute, actually. I could imagine having a crush on her, and hoping to “bump into” her at the supermarket or the local bar. I can imagine the gut-wrenching hole she would leave in the neighborhood’s street scene.
Last year, being the 40th anniversary of the crime, caused many media outlets, including the Times, to revisit the old story and many of the surviving witnesses. A key part of the story was Kitty’s “roommate,” Mary Ann Zielonko, who had the grim task of identifying the body, and who faded from the original story. Emboldened, I guess, by 35 years of gay liberation and probably just sick-to-death of being white-washed from the story, Mary Ann finally came out as Kitty’s lover. It’s hard to believe that the portrait of Kitty Genovese has been so incomplete for so long. This begs many questions. Was the attack a hate crime? (The more chilling probability is that it was a completely random attack by a psycho-sexual serial killer). Did her neighbors know about her sexuality? (Could residents of Kew Gardens in 1964 wrap their brains around homosexuality?). Was this the reason no one called for help? (Could neighbors distinguish her cries from the typical bar fights at the Old Bailey?).
Forty-one years later, Kew Gardens residents understand better than most New Yorkers that we have an obligation to be our brother’s and sister’s keeper. The “Eyes” on the street will monitor lover’s spats, unaccompanied children, reckless drivers – and watch for the first sign of real trouble, often calling the police before that first sign. We’re trying to live down the Kitty Genovese experience. I don’t think it’s something we should try to forget. We should keep Kitty Genovese in our minds as we actively and consciously try to progress beyond big city alienation. It could have happened anywhere, but it did happen here.
To Insure Proper Service
Is it bad manners, bad breeding or consumer alienation in our service economy that makes your typical New York Times reader so fucking stupid?
For the second time in recent memory, the Times’ Dining and Wine section has published an article on obvious tipping etiquette. The gist of the message?
At the end of the day New York’s delivery rules are pretty basic: Watch your dog. Have your money ready. Tip well, and do it in cash.
No fucking duh. Earlier in the year, the Times wrote about a couple of websites where waitstaff complain about bad patrons and reveal (gasp!) that customers who are rude and don’t tip will get a little extra spit in their meal. Have these uppity twits never heard the term “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you?” Is it only we socialists who think that working people deserve respect and decent pay?
I’m a picky eater, so I’m a even more careful about pissing off the waitstaff. In a hectic restaurant, every deviation from the menu is a pain in the ass. I know that, but I really can’t stand “goo” (i.e. mayo, mustard, salad dressing, etc.), so in the nicest, politest way possible, I request that it be left out of my meal…and I make sure to tip generously. I actually make a point of being a regular at most places that I eat. It’s just easier. It only takes two or three meals with a pleasant request to abstain from goo and a handsome tip at the end of the meal before the waitress can predict my idiosyncrasies.
“Pineapple fried rice, salad – no dressing – right?” they ask with a smile at 9th and 46th’s Yum Yum Bangkok whenever I eat there. In fact, once I nearly broke up with my girlfriend while dining there. It took forever to get the check. When it came, the waitress was very concerned and said that the chef had noticed that I hardly touched my meal and wanted to know if anything was wrong. It was touching that they cared, and certainly preferable to a little spit. I don’t need to feel like Lord of the Manor when I eat out, and I don’t understand why anybody else does.
So, if you’re one of those twits who doesn’t know how to tip, the rules are pretty basic: Tip your waitstaff at least 20% (if the service is bad, you can tip 15%). Tip your delivery guy 20% no matter how long you’ve waited and cough up more dough if the weather sucks. Tip your bartender a buck or two for every drink; if you’re buying expensive stuff, tip more. Tip anyone who comes to your home to perform a service. Just fucking be ready to tip. Consulting with others with how large a tip you should give is fine, as long as you begin with the belief that people in the service sector deserve extra compensation. They’re not your serfs. They’re just working stiffs whose low wages are the result of the low prices you’re paying. That’s right, the lower prices are just a cheap come-on since you’re expected to make up the difference with your tip. Think that’s unfair? What about your waitress who is trying to make a living on crappy wages and tips that are subject to situations that are beyond her control? Mentally adjust the advertised price and tip accordingly.
Grave Concerns
Today’s newspaper is sure to make one consider some grave options. First, there’s Hunter S. Thompson, who, before blasting himself away on Sunday, left instructions to have his cremated remains blasted from a cannon. Second, is the far more grim news that the New York City medical examiner’s office has given up identifying the remains of 1,161 victims whose bodies could not be identified or were never recovered from the World Trade Center attack.
Many families of victims have delayed holding services, awaiting discovery of all or part of their loved ones. Others have buried partial remains only to have more parts discovered later.
This post is not meant to take anything away from those families’ grief, or from their desire to mark the lives of the ones they lost. I just don’t understand the need that people feel to have a proper funeral.
If I had a spiritual bone in my body, I would describe myself as a secular humanist, but I don’t, so I’d rather be defined by my lack of beliefs and simply call myself an atheist. As such, I just don’t feel any sense of proprietorship over my body once I’m dead. I don’t feel a need for a proper burial, and I don’t really understand why anybody else would feel the need either.
Cemeteries are pretty. I like to walk around Maple Grove Cemetery, with its well-kept lawns, shady trees, curious tombstones and squirrels, ducks and turtles. Don’t call me morbid. As I’m fond of pointing out to my friends, cemeteries were the first urban parks in the early industrial era. Civic leaders found the idea of people having picnics in cemeteries to be a little distasteful and so parks like Boston’s Public Garden and New York’s Central Park were created.
Most cemeteries aren’t even as pretty as Maple Grove. They’re less historical, less ornate; just big lawns punctuated with concrete slabs. It just seems like a terrible use of real estate, and I don’t want any part.
Consider this my Last Will and Testament. When I die, take my organs (the liver will likely be of no use to anyone, but the lungs are clean), cremate my remains and spread my ashes over the Meadow Lake (the former “Lagoon of Nations” of the World’s Fair) in Flushing Meadows.
If anyone feels the need for a physical marker to remember me (What, I ain’t memorable enough as it is?), be creative! For example, I received a fundraising call from Queens College a few weeks ago. Donors who give at least a certain amount will be memorialized with a brick near Powdermaker Hall. Now, that’s what I consider a fitting marker. Not only would it take up very little space (which is still be utilized for a worthwhile purpose), but it would support a worthy public institution that has benefitted me and in which I truly believe. Moreover, I couldn’t think of better company than the Freedom Ride martyrs Andrew Goodman, James Cheney and Michael Schwerner.