Decency or Discrimination?

I’m appalled. But before I go any further, I must immediately set the preface.

Tonight, on this sixth day of January, I was at a “Three Kings and a Bunch O’Queens” Party, as it is Three Kings Day. The party was on 123rd and Broadway, in a lovely apartment on the 19th story; overlooking the above ground 1 train, Grant’s Tomb, and the GWB. It was a splendid soiree with food and friends, Christmased to the T and rife with bibulosity. I must admit that it was a great way to end the official holiday season. With the Three Kings Parade taking place not far from where we were celebrating, facing their out barrier though overcome by generosity and human decency, as I walked home, I was suddenly faced with my own.

The party died down and there was but five of us left. Throughout the evening conversations ranged the gamut, cameos to cock, concluding with a political bomb. I devoured it. Like waves to a wind swept beach; it was a delicious fuel. The conversation went round and round: race and ethnicity, Americanism and creed. There was perhaps a bit of fire running through my veins, though kept confined and subdued.

I left with the Tony. We both had the same direction to walk, and so we did. As we walked east on 123rd street, languidly making our way to the edge of the precipice—well, not really, but the image is fabulous— on 123rd, we both lost our footing, grabbing for each other, screaming, laughing, as we skated across the iced sidewalk! It was riotous. We both almost hit the fucking ground. We reclaimed out footing and laughed even more. I saw an elderly gentleman with a dog ahead of us, who had reached the peak of the cliff from the other side. I asked, “Is it icy down there?” He quipped, “Oh yes, very icy.”

We laughed even harder.

So T and I backtracked through the building compound grounds, up further north getting on to Amsterdam at about at what would be 124th St. (Non-natives should note that 124th begins just before Morningside where 124th stems from 125th St.) We made our way, reflecting on the eve’s tales, and split ways once we reached 1-2-5; Tony furthered north, I was eastbound.

I was feeling all giddy and needed to laugh so I called my west coast partner in crime, Margaux, to catch up. I had about a twelve-minute walk ahead of me: a block to 124th, angling down, across Morningside, over the Manhattan Ave, St. Nicholas intersection, turning south to cut toward 118th and Adam Clayton Powell—7th Ave.

Now for the juice...

One of Harlem’s police precincts is on St. Nick between 124 and 123, just above Harriet Tubman Square. The building is a fortress, a tribute to Soviet-style architecture. On the eastern side of the street, it takes up almost the whole block, and is indeed one of the creepiest parts of St. Nick. There are no lights on that side of the street, and the building has odd alcoves and alleyways. The only comfort is the line-up of cruisers and patty-wagons, making the walk ridged, between the fortress and the cars. Never is there a personal police presence; unless someone is being dragged in with cuffs on.

As I walked, brightly and briskly, chatting and laughing away with Marg, I was forced to cut through a posse of police, gathered outside discussing I’m sure the most sagacious of subjects. I cut through them, as any New Yorker with a direction would have. Once through, still on the phone, I heard, “Get off your iPhone.”

I was shocked without really realizing it yet.

I was maybe three or four strides from their pack, quickly turned back and said, “What?!?” “Get off your phone, that’s how you get robbed,” was his retort.

I was aghast, two-fold frankly.

I turned back:
“First off it’s a BlackBerry. And second, I live down the block and I walk this route every day, and you guys are never out here. Please spare me your concern.”

I kept walking. Margaux was shocked, in hysteria as she realized whom I was talking to. It wasn’t until I was passing Ms. Tubman’s sculpture that I realized what I really did say, and more poignantly—to whom!

I never heard them sally back, nor did they rush to surround me. As I unleashed my shock and awe on Marg, I just really couldn’t believe it. Here I’d been talking about our soon to be President and the hopes we all had that racial profiling would end, and there I was being a victim of it. Or was I? Is that too dramatic an interpretation? Were they just doing their job, fulfilling their duty as officers of the law?

Can a gay white boy not live in Harlem? Much less, talk on his phone whilst walking home at 10:00pm? Fuck that shit.

I’ve read some constituent mail at my job, and Christ, I can only imagine what some of them might have to say about the situation I was thrown in to tonight. I just may have to write to this police station to brief them. Brief them on not only the neighborhood’s demographics, but also about what is happening on Manhattan Island writ large. Not to mention the gall of their sentiment.

I mean come on. I’m fully aware that gays are the most outwardly discriminated against minority in the United States, but really? In New York? Just because I was on the phone, walking briskly, clad in a scarf and warm wool winter coat, and white—presumably gay, if they’re that savvy—I deserved to be belittled by such a novice warning?

Am I wrong to be this shocked, so appalled by the 5-0’s behavior? Maybe I just need to breathe and sleep it off.

We’ll see how I feel when I wake.