Roar Lions Roar

Stand up and cheer for old Columbia!

For today we raise

The Blue and White above the rest.

Our boys are fighting

And they are bound to win the fray.

We've got the team!

We've got the steam!

For this is old Columbia's day!

Well, not today...Princeton scored on the first kick-off of of the first game of the season, and the rest was history. But why would I care about if that group of 100 recently-boys won or not? I had a bottle of carrot juice, a bag full of Critical Race Theory articles, and a group of international students to keep me entertained. And if that's not good old American football, I don't know what is. 

 The Columbian army

A guy from China explained the rules to me, for the 100th time in my life. Due to the low-level of playing, I think I started to get it this time. There are four downs and they have to go 10 yards. Yes! I got to explain tail-gating to him, so at least I had something to show for being a product of a culture that holds its football dear.  Now, if someone could explain to me what the band was doing the whole time, I would feel like my expertise was complete.

Band People

But alas, no one had any idea of why some of the musicians didn't have instruments and were rolling around on the grass while the flutists and tuba players gyrated along to their rendition of...I don't know what song. Roar Lion Roar?  Speaking of Lions, Roar-y is kind of creepy. His plastic eyes look blood-shot :

Roar-y looking on with undisguised pride

Growing Roots

I'm going to stay put for a few years. From Rio, to New York, to Boston and back. California, then a private re-aquaintence with the soil of some of our United States via mini-van, road map and tent. I've spent the last few months, and the last few years, indulging my wandering soul.

Now I'm going to let some roots grow. In New York City. In Harlem.

Harlem's a good reentry. I'm not a foreigner here, but I am an outsider . I try to imagine where my place is in Harlem's story, and I find myself thinking about history a lot. The terrible and beautiful history of the world, of this country. The histories of black people and white people in the United States. Our history together. I think about these things when the man at the barber shop on the corner tips his hat to me, I think about them when a tour bus passes me down Malcom X Boulevard. I think about history all of the time now. It's a funny aspect of living in my own county.

Today, I joined a tour of Harlem for Nation Black Female Photography Day. My roommate Zoriada was the tour leader. It was a beautiful sunny day, with a sharp sun and a chill in the air. The group of more than forty meandered down the quiet streets and alley-ways of Strivers Row, examining  the dapples of trees upon well preserved brick facades. Zodi explained that these buildings were originally constructed in the late 19th century for white families, but when the developer ran out of money the bank finished the project and sold the units to black families for $8,000.  The families were characterized by their social, professional, educational aspirations, thus the name "Strivers Row".

We also visited the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, where I was struck by a photograph of a cellist in an exhibition of Gordon Parks. And finally, the tour finished with a "Great Day in Harlem"-style portrait of all of the beautiful women and men who joined the tour. As we all crowded the steps of a brownstone, the women next door cleaned her window and scowled.

I write this with Andre Tanker (one of my mentors in Trinidad!) music blasting through my window. Earlier it was Salsa, and later on it will be live jazz. On Wednesdays it's the disorganized grunts of an open mic night, and when there is no music, I can easedrop on my neighbors.

 Today was a great day in Harlem.