Poetic Journeys

Literary and Poetic Journeys: New Amsterdam - New York

Valerie G. Coddett



The name "New Amsterdam" (originally Nieuw Amsterdam)  is common to two places in two different countries. Dutch occupation played a part in both cases.

There is a New Amsterdam in Guyana, South America because the country was at one time occupied by the Dutch.  The name New Amsterdam was chosen because most of the colonists to Guyana originated from the province of Amsterdam in Holland. There was also a New Amsterdam in North America because New York City was originally a 17th century Dutch colonial settlement before it was taken over by the English and renamed New York, after the Duke of York.

                                                                 Foreword

The journeys are based on facts as I remember them. They are memories of my early childhood in New Amsterdam and my later life in New York City.

                     

                                                                  

                                                   E X C E R P T S

                    

Ways

ways in
and ways out
among continents
between seasons
between affections

i have traveled
all of them 

           -Inge Judd

                                                            ***

On vacation in Nigeria in 1982, while travelling by car with two female friends, a policeman suddenly appeared. It was during a time when many robberies were taking place, and cars were being stopped at random by the police and checked. We exited the car.

Outraged, my two Nigerian friends began objecting vehemently, and arguing in a loud manner. The policeman stood and pointed his gun at us. The more they raised objections, he raised the gun.  At that point I was so scared I started to beg for my life -  >> PLEASE   >> PLEASE  -  it was a terrifying experience with death flashing before me, I thought about my relatives in New York who would hear about my demise in some village in Nigeria. Both friends stared at me: "Stop begging him," goading the policeman on, "let him shoot us!"

The week prior, a US Nigerian athlete who returned on vacation was killed, his car stopped at random. The incident was reported in the news on TV that I had watched. There was a big hullabaloo ... no one knows for sure what happened, but I am still here, and the event seared in my memory! With a gun pointed at us, my friends, however, stood up for their right - why is the policeman stopping us - how dare he?


                                                            ***

       

                   NEW YORK CITY

            In the east of New York City

            lays its landmark Central Park.

            To the west you go for the arts

            to the east lay its wealth.

           

            This etching of stone

            like sentinels in a courtyard Beame,
               Lindsay, Koch, Dinkins, Giuliani
            and Bloomberg, Mayors

                    FLUSHING, QUEENS

We are all different as in various nationalities.

She hails from the Far East, I hail from South America.

We came off the plane, having the same vision,

to better ourselves in these United States.

On the other side of the East River

lies Flushing, a melting pot, a busy hive.

Its main street winds through a hot pot of spices;

restaurants, shops and crowds of people

giving birth to another Chinatown in its wake,

hazardous to navigate at a certain take.

Our lives in a dip-lo-ma-tic venue,

she hails from the far east, I hail from South America.

To the east of my flat, lives a diplomat.

To the west there’s another;

and another from a Consulate, a veritable stew -

masala curry, dumplings, a bitter melon brew.

Down the corridor near the elevator is

the lady from the far east. Her name is Chanel

as in the perfume; a nail salon employee

in the Korean part of town.

D is for Diplomat, she believes she is one,

catering to the immigrants dotting the landscape -

Chinese, Indians, Africans, Columbians -

all rub heads together on Main Street Flushing.

Perfumed spices adorn the air

smells intermingle with each other.

Farther along the street, the Botanical Garden

flushes the landscape to be pretty in Queens.

New York, Brooklyn, the Bronx and Staten Island

Queens and Kings - aside - the Duchess County lives.

                   

                       The Neighbor

Chanel is bold of face and haughty. Her face

painted black/blue amidst streaks of red.

Eyes almost closed, she had complained to me -

a black woman - that she was angry.

Angry at my nephew for not paying her attention.

A ruckus in the corridor, he had looked outside,

witnessed a brawl, closed the door, saying goodbye.

Her roommate, a woman, had beaten her in full view.

Minding his business, my nephew allowed them to fight.

For they had indeed met each other in a very strange way -

she had refused to get into the elevator with him one day -

not having the knowledge then that he was my nephew.

Fear had gripped her gut from entering the elevator.

She had made the decision, why complain later?

Arrogant, yet thrifty, she goes hunting for bargains.

She likes to argue and becomes more bold.

For it was in the 99 cents thrift store

that the drama would unfold.

“Stop that lady”, the manager shouted!

She, a small-boned woman, bolted through the door

to a destination; fleet of foot, fast of pace –

perhaps to the nearby #7 train - navigating a route

through the billowing crowds of people on

Main Street at the height of rush hour.

“I’ll give it to you next time; the next time around!”

She shouted to the manager from outside the door.

Enraged, he bellowed, his hands above his head.

“The tax, the tax, she refused to pay the tax!

It goes to the city, not my pocket!

And she is not a diplomat!”

The episode unfolded, and people rushed out the store

A huge crowd soon gathered outside the door.

“Good for goose, good for gander!” bellowed a customer.

“Everyone should pay tax, diplomat or not!

             Where is the Mayor."

 “Good for goose, good for gander, Mayor,” they chanted.

From a state of apoplexy, the Manager regained his footing:

“If she’s a diplomat, where is her exemption card?

I need her exemption card, she’s not a diplomat!"

               "Everyone pays tax, Mayor.”

The lady from Korea had started a revolution.

             “Everyone pays tax, Mayor.

               Everyone pays tax.”

Across the river the island of Manhattan stood.

An etching of stone like sentinels in a courtyard Beame,

Mayors Lindsay, Koch, Dinkins, Giuliani and Bloomberg.

                                                ***

Being the Mayor of New York has been described as the “second toughest job in America” after the presidency.  An ordinary mortal weighed down by burden inflicted on the city … from the 1986 preppy murder of Jennifer Levin in Central Park to the 87 people felled into hell at the 1990 burning of the Happy Land Social Club in the Bronx to the 1999 Chris Ofili Virgin Mary “dung” Art Sensation at the Brooklyn Museum - yet amidst the prevailing tensions the Big Apple vibrated - getting along with life and yielding to other matters. With Mandela arriving in New York, bestowing peace on its earth, and Van Goghs and Picassos sky-rocketing in the air; the Trump saga today, the ongoing cholesterol debate tomorrow, the mood of the city fluctuates greatly. The harried mayor, as he circled each disaster, hope hovered that he could fix it all. A human being assailed by powerful forces, one wonders why he took the job to wear the crown of Mayor of the first city on earth, New York.

                                                ***

TWO EXCERPTS FROM CHAPTER - MEMORABLE EVENTS

1.    SEARED IN MY MEMORY is the November 1, 1981 Sunday afternoon concert given by pianist Vladimir Horowitz at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York City. This 20th Century musician possessed a particularly unique technique.

       There was another worldly atmosphere in the House as Mr. Horowitz emerged. The recital began with five Scarlatti sonatas that seemed liked works of filigree as Mr. Horowitz expertly threaded the melodies together.  His imagination took flight as he conveyed the drama suggested in the wonderful ballades: Chopin's Ballade in F minor and G Minor, and Liszt's Ballade in B minor. Three exhilarating performances of Rachmaninoff Preludes ended the program. I sat there, mesmerized by his power and control of the music.

     2.     The discovery that one art form led to other art forms, and the satisfaction gained in sharing information with others, made my relationships rich and richer. Lest I forget, there were two blockbuster exhibitions at the Metropolitan Museum of Art that were soul filling experiences for me. The 1989 Velazquez exhibition proved to be a rare feast; and it was impossible for me to view the exciting 1990 exhibition - 'Mexico: Splendors of Thirty Centuries' - in one visit. It was the largest and most extensive exhibition of Mexican art ever shown in the United States, ranging from the pre-Columbian era to date. I fled the Metropolitan Museum on both occasions. The spectacle created such a sensation in my head, I felt catapulted to the edge of ascending into heaven. 

    Within the diaries of Rainer Maria Rilke, he stated that 'beauty is the involuntary gesture in which a personality distills itself.  It becomes more perfect, the more hate and fear fall away from it, the more confident the artist grows on the path that leads to his most sacred fulfillment.’

     Beauty can be overpowering. The story of a former New York Governor keeling over beauty of another kind came to mind while I was reading the novel Angels and Demons by Dan Brown. I had observed beauty and ecstasy that lay on the sculpted face of St. Teresa of Avila executed by Gian Lorenzo Bernini, and planned a visit to Rome to view his vast array of sculpture.  St. Teresa’s face is brightly lit from the ecstasy she feels in communing with God. Is her posture spiritual or sensual?

  

She wrote: “I was praying and singing when rapture came over me, so suddenly that it almost lifted me out of myself. There was no doubt because it was very obvious. That was the first time that the Lord gave me the favor of rapture. I heard these words: ‘Now I want you to speak not with men but with angels’”

An angel in human form appeared very close to her. He was not tall but very beautiful, and his face was so aflame that he looked like one of those superior angels on fire. She states:     ‘In his hands I saw a large golden spear, and at its iron tip there seemed to be a point of fire. I felt as if he plunged this into my heart several times so that it penetrated all the way to my entrails. When he drew it out he seemed to draw them out with it and left me totally inflamed with a great love for God. The pain was so severe that it made me moan several times. The sweetness of this intense pain is so extreme that there is no wanting it to end and the soul is satisfied with nothing less than God. The pain is not physical but spiritual even though the body has a share in it - in fact a large share in it.’ (One wonders how ‘bad’ boy Bernini would have sculpted the Blessed Teresa of Kolkata).

Scholar Simon Schama interprets: “. . . we stare at no other sculpture ever made. Perhaps the force of the spell comes from the realization that Bernini has used the power of art to achieve the most difficult thing in the world: the visualization of bliss.’

     

                                                ***

I PUT TOGETHER an art exhibition for Black History Month. This was a collection of historic lithographs and included works by the African-American master Elizabeth Catlett. Her featured works included "Black is Beautiful", "Harriet Tubman" - leading slaves to freedom; “Two Generations”, “Cartas”  and "Crusaders for Justice” - Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall. Also on display was the powerful lithograph “Lovers” executed by Ernie Critchlow. This work depicts a member of the Ku Klux clan grasping an African American woman in a violent embrace. My continued artistic involvement included the display of some thirty paintings from my collection below, at an exhibition organized for Caribbean Week at Queens College, New York. For one class, students were required to write an analysis of one of the paintings they had seen.

 Chief Justice Thurgood Marshall by Elizabeth Catlett - USA

Cartas - Elizabeth Catlett

Seated Nude - James Denmark - USA

Three Faces - Bernard Séjourné - Haiti

Queen Shelah - Dudley Charles - Guyana

Alexandra Nechita - Angels Glow in the Dark - USA

Aspiration - Jacob Lawrence - USA

Harriet Tubman - Elizabeth Catlett - USA

The Family - Romare Bearden  - USA

Schomburg Library - Jacob Lawrence - USA

      

                                             ***



For my father Kingsley, a teacher at Blairmont Government School, he took the Blairmont launch every day from New Amsterdam to cross the river to reach the school. One day he returned home soaking wet ... riding his bicycle. He had slipped and fallen into the Berbice river that emptied into the coastal waters of the Atlantic Ocean.


             Water

      Into the vortex

pulled, hauled, mauled

atoms, molecules, particles, quarks

flying splitting disintegrating

              Unite

Water, Water, everywhere

Liquid gold of the primordial soup.

Life running through the veins

             Bubble

Stream of essence flowing

through the faucet of the throat

            Cleanse

        Roots, weeds!

Water, Water, the magic potion

in myriad forms on the planet,

the Miracle Planet.

               Life!

               


- Valerie Coddett

                                                   

EXCERPT - NEW AMSTERDAM

The house where I lived in New Amsterdam was owned by my grandparents. It was situated on a narrow street, and the household consisted of my parents, two sisters and grandmother. At the front of the yard, red hibiscus flowers grew in abundance, while several feet away, a coconut tree strained to reach the light blue sky. Its trunk stood imposingly tall, creating a challenge to those young boys in the neighborhood who tried to climb it. They would wrap ropes around their ankles and tie them together, hold the trunk of the tree in an embrace, and literally walk their way upward to the pendulant coconuts. One slash at a branch brought the coconuts tumbling down. We drank the nutritious juice, savoring its sweet taste with infectious laughter. We also scooped out and ate with joy the soft pulp within the core. Spirits were uplifted and camaraderie soared.

Another fruit delight came from the soursop tree that stood at the other end of the yard. A strange looking fruit, its exterior was prickly, and its interior a white creamy consistency, sugary as well as tart. Juice extracted from this fruit contributed to making custard that my mother placed in a can, to be churned on ice. After many revolutions of the can, ice cream appeared; a dessert only made on special occasions. Boiled leaves from the conga pump tree provided soothing and restful sleep at night.

My cousins lived at the head of Alexander Street, one street away from our house. I would play under their house with Mae, the youngest child. A guava tree in full bloom stood near the paling, a drainage gutter system separating the paling from the roadway nearby.

“Let’s climb the guava tree!”

“No, you climb it!”  Mae responds.

“No, you climb it.”

“To disturb the nest of marabuntas?”

“Well, I don’t want a wasp stinging me above the eye!

“Then you’ll have a cat boil.”

“No, you get a cat boil only when you give something to someone and ask back for it; not by the sting from a marabunta.”

“But, did you ever get a cat boil?”

“No, a sting by a marabunta is enough; eye swollen and almost shut!”

“We can pelt the guavas down.”

“Or shake the tree.”

“Then, we’ll be covered by bites.”

“No guava today. No guavas.”

“Let’s go play a game of litty with stones.”

Rita, another playmate, lived six houses away.  Gem lived closer. Every year, both Rita and Gem celebrated their birthdays, and children in the neighborhood always looked forward to the joyous occasion. We arrived bearing those gifts that our parents could afford: yardley soap, or a can of talcum powder, hair ribbons or slides. Usually the festivity had already spread across the drawing room by the time we arrived.

Balloons bobbed and gaily colored paper streamers - pink, white or pale blue - hung from the ceiling and crisscrossed the noisy room. Delectable trays of patties and other delicious pastries were served and eaten with glee, and it was with great pleasure that we enjoyed sorrel drink, ginger beer or a glass of mauby. The question of who would have the honor of cutting the cake was always of great curiosity to us!  Lively music played. We danced, twisting our bodies or just sat listening to the music. We would sometimes take a break from our dancing and play musical chairs. It was around this time that I had the strong desire to learn to play the piano, and would practice by running my fingers down the arms of my sisters - ♫♫ - ♫♫ !

In chorus, sheep bleated - there were pets in the neighborhood - the sound coming from the yard of the Fields family next door. Goats and ducks also roamed in their yard. One could look through the window and by chance observe the birth of a lamb taking place. During floods, ducks floated on the water, a soft beauty to their grace.

Water - sugar water was comfort for pain! Accidents happened, and when we fell off our bicycles, fell down the stairs or managed to have any type of fall, a cup of sugar water would be administered. Having a bruise, a cut or a bump was proof. One wonders how many children deliberately fell in order to drink a cup of sugar water! It was decades later I learned that the solution acted as an anesthetic for pain.

Why children went to school was never quite clear, but I went along playing the game. Every day I walked to All Saints’ Anglican School, located some distance away.  On the way back from school, if there was a funeral in progress, we stopped. Death held a certain fascination for my group of friends. The body, laid out in the yard for viewing, we would peek into the coffin. One morning on my way to school, it was already hot, and Mrs. Tennessee was sitting on her veranda fanning herself. The next afternoon on my way home from school, there she was laid out in the yard for viewing, she died giving birth. Those who knew her and those who did not know her, the school children trooped into the yard to take a look. Floral wreaths stood all around, giving off a strange aroma. The body lies in the open air in the shade, but the sun is above. The resulting odor is one encountered nowhere else. It is an odor that has to be experienced.

After school, we would go home, have a snack and then go out to play hopscotch - jumping with both feet, one foot, both feet in the middle of markings made in the sand. Or we would jump over a rope and then stop afterward to buy an iced cone from the crushed ice cart vendor standing at the street corner; making sure that the topping of strawberry colored syrup that enveloped the ice did not trickle down our clothing. We created our own diversion - no television, only the radio.

The school that I attended, All Saints Anglican - perhaps the name of the school derived from the statues of saints that lined the vestibule of the church - offered protection, for New Amsterdam was a town filled with superstition, it seemed necessary for people to pay attention. 

The beauty of Guyana lies in its interior: the flora, the fauna and the sound of thunder that emanates from the magnificent Kaieteur Falls. Gold and diamonds are also a part of this natural environment, and foreigners and nationals journey into the interior to prospect for the precious minerals. A substantial amount of gold is produced in Guyana ... and it was a dream about gold that started a revolutionary event, the only one of its kind that took place in New Amsterdam.

The town of New Amsterdam was not without blemish. It had never experienced the extreme vagaries of nature, such as a monsoon or a hurricane, but a deadly eruption occurred once that cast a gloom in the air - the uproar that resulted from the killing of a child during an “obeah” [voodoo] ceremony that went terribly awry. It was said that the Dutch, during the 1763 revolt, buried gold and silver coins between the buttress roots of the silk cotton tree and then interred a slave on top to protect their secret. In a dream it was revealed to one of the killers that a human sacrifice would be  necessary in order to pinpoint exactly where the gold was buried by the Dutch who had previously owned and controlled New Amsterdam.

 

Greed and ambition are catalysts the world over, and one may set out on a boat that is propelled toward a certain destination. Lilawatti, the child of a neighbor, was chosen for the ceremony. Abducted and hypnotized, she could not be awakened. The exercise was not supposed to reach the level it did, and one is left to wonder then how can a human sacrifice be executed without a death! 

Lilawatti did not wake up. When it was discovered that she went missing, neighbors were questioned, and certain areas of the town were thoroughly searched. Days passed. The body later turned up in the most unexpected place - in the depth of an outhouse. The post mortem later revealed that she drowned.

The town was abuzz, for it was far and away the most infamous deed that had ever occurred in New Amsterdam. Important attorneys kept arriving from Georgetown, the capital city, to conduct the trial. At its conclusion, three individuals were convicted and subsequently hanged for the murder: Benfield, his sister Kate and her husband. It was headline news in the town and in the Caribbean. It was the worst of times for any child to endure - we were deathly afraid to enter an outhouse!

With her prayers, my grandmother was a soothing presence. We looked up to her although she was strict, never sparing the rod on her three grandchildren who were all girls. If one of us broke any rule, we all paid for the infraction to ensure that the lesson was properly learned.  Twice on Sundays we accompanied her to the Pilgrim Holiness Church, and every night during our prayers, we asked for blessings.

Soon I was 12 years old, and ready to attend Berbice High School. Parents became proud when their children were enrolled, for the required entry exam was extremely rigorous. The test was a barometer in the minds of the people. Every adolescent in the town therefore harbored a strong desire to attend this particular school. Mr. Pollard, the Principal, wore a stern countenance and was a firm believer in discipline. Fear overcame students whenever they spied him either in the hallway or walking along the grounds of the school.  It was as though the earth shifted slightly whenever he spoke - an impediment in his speech - the result of the asthma from which he was suffering.

Students were in awe of this great man, crowned with degrees from Oxford, Cambridge and London. The logo, inscribed on the cover of our exercise books, read: “Carpe Diem” - seize the opportunity, and opportunity waited for no one.

Mrs. Pollard, his English wife, taught Latin, one of the subjects which I found easy to learn, and that was because I did not have to speak it. The language was truly dead, although some English words, like “amatory”, derived from Latin roots. There were speech night graduation ceremonies held at the Town Hall every year, and once I participated by rendering a piano solo.

As I walked every day toward Berbice High School, the Botanical Garden stood on my left. On the edge of this park the flower beds lay, bordered by some trees in full bloom. The yellow of the flamboyant tree, the red of the ixoras, and the deeper red of the frangipani provided a burst of color. On the far side of the park were the dense bushes that provided cover for lovers at night; the marks from the stinging nettle bushes later narrating the tale.

The Guyana chestnut, sunflower, rose, tulips, marigold, hibiscus, crocus, zinnias, and bachelor’s button grew randomly, each trying to outgrow the other and dominate the many yards around the town of New Amsterdam. Along the Esplanade Road, white lilies floated in the ponds, their flat leaves spread out like plates awaiting manna from heaven. The sun shone brightly most of the time; it was never humid, thanks to the northeast trade winds. No need to hear weather reports, in the morning one glance at the heavens decided the course the day would follow. It either rained or the sun shone in abundance.

"Literary and Poetic Journeys: New York - New Amsterdam" is earmarked for publication by
2015 -  vgcoddett@gmail.com