The Death of New York

Dystopian view of New York City

I visit my hometown a year after 9/11 and find it dusty, deflated and more ascared than ever. Paranoia and para-military security guards are everywhere while humor and spunk are nowhere to be found. I search for New York but it is gone. It is gone because New Yorkers are gone. The city has been stolen from the great people who forged it into the greatest metropolis ever known. But, it isn’t planes flying into unloved skyscrapers that displaces those giants who created the Chrysler Building, the Empire State Building, Central Park, the Metropolitan Opera, Yankee Stadium, Coney Island, the Bronx Zoo, Wall Street, Broadway, the Brooklyn Bridge and Green-Wood Cemetery. No. Their city has been stolen from them by a Left-Right political pincer movement like the one that dumped my insane Aunt Rosa into Times Square. 

Abandoned factory interior
New York City families were forged here.

Here is how that pincer worked – the Left flooded New York with Chinese and Hispanics who became permanent wards of the state and thus Democrat voters while the Right welcomed them as cheap labor. In the 1960s, the factory owners tried to pay their White union-workers coolie and peon wages. The Whites resisted, the factories closed and neighborhoods died. The imported Chinese and Hispanics poured into those formerly union factories that had reopened as sweatshops and they worked there for coolie and peon wages. Simple. Clever. Lethal. Just as predicted to me on the stoop.

Boy Outa Brooklyn a murder-memoir by Jack Antonio 
Image: the smiling face of Steeplechase Park in Coney Island, Brooklyn
Available as a paperback and eBook
And as an eBook here

Reluctant Coalburner

Cartoon of different Black female hair types
The Sista Sistahood

I dated a Black usher in the supermarket-basement theater. Or, she dated me. I’d never chased Black women. Tell the truth, they’d always been well-nigh invisible to me. Even as a small child, my only thought was that they all had very skinny legs and big feet. I never even looked up into their faces. I had crossed swords with a few militant Black chicks in college but they’d made little impression. Black girls just weren’t on my radar. I think Sandra sensed this, sensed that I wasn’t a phony White liberal pretending to be color-blind while actually obsessed with adding a Black notch to his bedstead. Hell, I didn’t even own a bed. 

Angela Davis African-American revolutionary
Angela Davis – every White man’s wet dream but mine.

It was undeniable that with our matching Afros, Sandra and I made a cute counter-culture couple. She enjoyed showing off her hippie boyfriend to her Black girlfriends and I enjoyed the envious stares I caught from White dudes who assumed I must be one whole heckuva lotta man to have an Angela Davis look-a-like on my arm. I tried not to notice the hate-filled stares I got from Black dudes. 

Boy Outa Brooklyn a murder memoir by Jack Antonio 
Image: the smiling face of Steeplechase Park in Coney Island, Brooklyn
Available as a paperback and eBook
And as an eBook here