[Upper East Side Buildings. Photo is mine.]

Do you know what the sounds of this city are? Screams. All those buildings are gray with sadness.

~~ Soji Shimada

As I walked down the street from Broadway, I paused to listen…

When I secured a teaching position in New York City in the very early 1990s, I was working as a temp at IBM in Endicott, NY. I did not like the job testing circuit boards very much, so I was quite pleased to be moving to the City. I shared my news with a fellow temp, expecting a “good luck” or “good for you”, but instead I saw him scowl and heard him say: “Do you know how many people were murdered in that cesspool last year?”

I walked away from him and his rude remark. But I took solace in the fact that in a few months, I would be living in the Big Apple. And, months later, I was looking south toward the WTC and the Empire State Building from my 26th floor studio. I was lucky.

I never did find out how many people were killed.

Yes, I paused to listen. The truth is that I didn’t hear any screams. But the buildings are gray and there is a certain sadness inherent in this city. It’s not new. It’s been here since the Dutch had a colony. (Some people I’ve talked to over the years held a firm belief that the WTC, Ground Zero, the Freedom Tower seemed to have a certain negative energy. Cold, malevolent. I’ve felt it myself.)

The city exerts a certain gravity that is more profound than many of the world’s densely populated centers. I’ve heard a woman crying in the building where I first lived. I’ve seen angry people on the streets, in the subways and in the parks.

Furthermore, I’ve listened. There are three different (maybe more) levels of life buried in the city’s quiet roar.

Dawn. The sun, rising over Queens, sometimes reflects off windows and makes it appear like multiple sunrises. It’s quiet. A few Uber’s picking up couples, head east to JFK or LGA. Students are heading to the nearby schools, are not loud yet. They sip lattes and gently jostle one another. It’s quiet.

In the brightness of the day, the taxis roar up and down Broadway. The school kids, loud and rough with each other (boys) or reaching a high C with their exuberance (girls). The smell of cannabis drifts along the avenues. The rap music blares too loud for my seventy-six-year-old ears.

On chilly nights in January, when the mists hang over the Hudson River and the sun sets too early, a special melancholy pervades the air. Sometimes I fear it. Sometimes I enjoy and absorb the quiet world of the dark streets and empty alleys. Cats screech. Distant dogs bark. A siren.

But what else does one expect in mid-winter? Scarves of wool, coats of down, can not hold back the river winds. The survival mechanism is to be found in the heart and the belief that spring is not far away and a new cycle of hope and joy. Love, forgiveness, warmth, laughter and a kiss or two can do wonders to hold back the shadows.

There are no screams, unless you really, really listen. But they are voices from a history that began so many yesterdays ago and extend back in time. The sounds, the voices, the humanity can, if you put your ear to the pavement, can take us back to the forests and farms of a pre-colonial Manhattan. Keep listening, and you will find yourself back to the primordial sea, from which we all were born.

I’ve heard the surf at Coney Island. I wonder how intense the quiet was on the shores of that ancient sea.

{A postscript: A few hours ago, I walked out of the 5th Avenue door of Mount Sinai Hospital after a routine endoscopy (I’m okay, thanks). We hailed a Yellow. The ‘hired’ light on the roof was not lit. He pulled up and asked Mariam where we were going. I thought he was going to pull to the corner and let the woman out. She was sitting in the backseat. Then he would take us to the west side. Mariam opened the back door. I stood back for the woman to get out. I was not a little shocked to find the seat empty! But I saw her through the window. Inside, I told Mariam about the woman as we crossed Central Park. I anticipated her comment. It was not a reflection of you, I said. You have a red parka. She didn’t show any red. Besides, I said, you were at the wrong angle for a reflection to be possible (I was a science teacher for years).

So, who was this woman? I did see her. I have an idea about this, but that’s another blog for another day.}

[Nighttime cityscape. Photo is mine.]