Your opinion is not allowed here -- it's not my view of the world -- it's not relevant to my needs -- it takes time from hearing myself talk -- it makes me question my life -- so without your opinion I feel really, really good! I entered the park with my camera, thinking about the life around me, hoping to capture on film something relevant to my life, a portrait of New York, a sign of my times, a biography of a complete stranger, a self-portrait painted with the life around me. I circle the park looking hard at the faces that surround me. Their eyes follow every movement in the park, yet few glances fall on me. I feel invisible but part of the action, both observer and participant in this moment. People are scattered in ones, threes, groups of many, doing only what is pleasing to the soul. Each small world unfolds in a burst of motion, filling the park space as one unified action. A poet's arms move to verse, kids fly by on skate-boards, lips touch in stolen moments, songs from straining voices and guitars fill the air, creating an accidental harmony of sights and sounds. In this one-ring circus of tragedy and comedy, jugglers, comedians, and acrobats mirror the virtues and vices of us all. I watch one performer tell a story, his face changes shape from saint to sinner, outshining all other life around him, imprinting upon my own face the grin and grimace of life in New York. I am drawn to these crowds of people squeezed onto this small tree-lined reserve made for escape from the stone cold city. I watch people assessing their own lives as they study the endless parade of other lives. In this serene setting they can at last pardon each other for being human. But, in the distance, breaking the pale sky, a deathly grin diverts my eyes; the severed head of a fetus sways into view. Printed on a large square placard is this favored insignia of the Religious Right. I recognize it from the anti-abortion protests I have seen in the media and on the street. It is like the battle cry of some ancient warrior clan, instilling fear by displaying the heads of their enemy. This is the banner of a religious war, a forewarning of the wrath of God as well as a reminder of the ravages of sin. I see the word ABORTION written big and bold. Like a hymn of sorrow and shame, it floats unheard over the heads of the everyday crowds strolling in the blissful park. I now watch and wait as a swell of tension courses over the crowd. The hands that hold this placard belongs to a young, white male, cleaner cut than most of the people around him: neighborhood kids, drug dealers, street people, and even myself. He is here with his arms around this ugly sign, not enjoying the sights of the city with his lover, wife, or children. He seems calm in the face of the enemy, displaying his photographic evidence to surprised and annoyed looks, campaigning to a hostile constituency. Yet he seems content to go on, thrusting his gruesome editorial into a game of Frisbee or in the path of strolling mothers forced to pull their children from view. This big square placard lures every set of eyes with morbid interest, hiding the arms and legs that carry it and any clear sense of reason. It is a random shooting into the crowd, hit or miss, lucky to get one religious convert for every ten thousand victims. When the smoke clears, no communication is gained, only anger with a palpable distaste for anything religious. I am following, recording my own reaction as I photograph others', when I notice another poster held by two people, a man and a woman. They aren't clean cut or young but seem pummeled by life, more like the ilk of the park, fatigued in their quest to fulfill some need they cannot find elsewhere. They appear as better examples of the wrath of God than the poster they carry, a living testimonial to what bad living or the hard road can leave on your body. Having tasted the ruthless whip of righteousness, their words have a sharper bite than the usual overly polished member of the Right-to-Life Party. I find myself staring at this wearied, disheveled Christian, wondering why she is here and not fighting other battles that would win her better clothes or money or health. I start taking pictures. People are framed in the viewfinder: Fingers gesture, "You are wrong. I am right," arms tighten around puffed-up chests as if to keep words from leaping forward at the wrong moment. Many different opinions, many different voices clutter the air. The young abortion activist spreads the word about killing babies to the throngs of his peers scattered in the park. The older couple debates good and evil, trailing behind him. Their presence grows from one of the wandering bodies orbiting the perimeter of the park to the center of attraction, pulling in angry voices and rude comments. I am hearing moral tenets exchanged with insults. There is no real discussion, no intelligent statement. I am perplexed, frozen, listening for some trace of an open heart. From behind me, a voice mimics my feelings, "IGNORE THEM AND THEY WILL LEAVE!" With a self-proclaimed Scriptural impunity, anti-abortionists impose their will by force and become an adversary instead of an emissary of peace and good will. On their holy crusade, they expose children to violence worse than some of the books and television they wish to censor. The young anti-abortionist argues his best spiritual angles, but the faces around him respond with smirks and wisecracks. "ABORTION IS KILLING BABIES," he says with confidence in his piety. Just then, a wad of mustard wrapped in a napkin hits the picture of the dismembered fetus, spraying a few people, me and my camera. As I look around, I see some people move away, repelled by this childish act, checking their clothing for stains. The smell of the mustard stings my nostrils; a signal that the first shot has been fired. Here is a chance to fight blind zeal with overwhelming logic and reason, to fight the "good fight" for freedom of choice. Instead, only harsh words, misplaced anger, childish cruelty are offered. I wipe away some mustard from the lens of my camera. Enraged, I am moved to express my disgust at this sad display of ignorance and stupidity, but instead of a shout, I expel only a quiet sigh of exasperation. I glance at the poster. This new orange stain on the face of the fetus makes it even more repulsive, resembling too closely the fluids and tissues in the picture. As the young man attempts to clean the poster, a forearm thwarts his efforts, jarring him slightly off balance. "GET OUT OF HERE!" he is told. "HEY! WATCH IT!" he says. Still keeping a Christian stance, he jabs back at his aggressor, "YOU PROBABLY ARE A BABY KILLER!" He begins to drift away through a hole in the crowd. I think he must be tired of all this, ready to return back to a comfortable chair at home reading the Bible or just watching some television, escaping from the Holy War for a brief moment. I catch his profile and there on his face is a smile, a self-satisfied grin, a transcendent moment. I see the truth, the substance that fuels his actions - playing his part, being in character, on trial by his oppressors. He has run the gauntlet of sin and temptation, fulfilling his chosen role as martyr, saint, avatar. The space around me is being filled with more and more bodies once active, now at rest, lured by the titillating scent of conflict. Bicycle riders, dog walkers and lovers on a stroll change their destination to view this spectacle of gritting teeth and arched backs. I find myself part of a large audience listening to the older Christian woman sermonizing over the edge of her big square poster. Two young women are now her targets, defending their right to be young and free. In a stylish lament of youth, I hear, "I CAN DO WHAT I WANT." "YOU'RE LIVING A LIFE OF SIN," says the old woman. Words fly back and forth. Teeth are gritted. Voices break the notes of anger and tension. "IT'S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS!" replies a girl in her teens. The warnings keep coming, broken only by a remark of undue cruelty: "YOU ARE REALLY UGLY!" Then, pointing to the picture of the fetus, says: "YOU LOOK JUST LIKE THAT UGLY FACE!" This was an unkind cut but true. The life of this abortion activist was spelled out on her face; scars detailed chapters of difficult times, of some terrible accident or disease. I am transfixed on this religious right-winger, dismayed at her likeness to this disfigured image, an image that represents her own struggle. Has she become the thing she hates or fears? Or has she been following the reflection of her own life? I look at the teenage girl, expecting some show of remorse, a look of embarrassment at her callousness, but I see nothing. Does she not see the possibilities life holds - that the old woman's fate could eventually be hers? ~ In another corner of the park, trees hang over excited forms, moving to a rhythm of celebration. New York style rebels sing pop songs of the sixties, bellowing raspy notes of bliss to anyone who will listen. The hopeful notes cross the park, voices reaching for grandeur, proving skill only gets in the way when it feels so good. The smell of marijuana combines with a utopian air, rendering powerless the problems of the world. Followed by the mass of hecklers, the young abortion activist drifts around the park, now reaching the sanctum of musicians. The young Christian carries his burden of the large placard as hands reach to touch this symbol of death and life, revulsion and devotion. I glance at the word ABORTION and see it engulfed by the surging crowd. The debate is dead; the real issue lost to heightened emotions over religion, territorial rights. Abruptly, the guitars and drums are left aside, the same figures once mesmerized with song fall into the ranks of the self-righteous, cursing and chastising this twenty-something activist for his Christ-like mission. Up in his face, the shouts turn to shoves. A man shouts: "GET OUT OF OUR PARK!" his finger emphasizing his level of rage, "GET OUT OF OUR PARK!" with the agony of an animal threatened in its lair. A cool-headed singer holds back a guitar player who now grips his 6-string more like a weapon aimed against the religious right. Finally, they are on the his turf and his terms. Others are shouting and pointing, drawing in new people hungry for real drama. As I squeeze through narrow channels between shoulders and arms, taking some shots with my camera, I am pushed out to the perimeter of the crowd by some reverse force repelling me from the epicenter of the struggle, letting others enter. A sudden surge of motion in the crowd raises this conflict to nearly a riot. I see a woman pulling the poster from the young Christian, ripping and tearing at the face of death; a struggle over pain - mine is greater than yours, my cuts are deeper, my life has the greater loss. The young activist is shoved and tousled, but sustains a defense without striking back. His female assailant shouts and pulls and kicks and fights to rip up his sign. Only inches away, people watch and listen. All eyes fix on flailing arms. Tight jaws garble bitter words. Increasing tiers of onlookers stretch their necks, stand on pointed toes, stuck in this moment, waiting to see what will happen next. But the scuffle ends in a second and tensions are spent by the short-lived eruption. The young abortion activist walks quietly away, examining the dangling corner of his poster. This Christian has met the lions - and survived! ~ Newscasts, headlines run through my mind. I recall 1991. The police cleared Tompkins Square Park by force. Orders of the mayor! A hard blue broom scraped across the park, clearing the neighborhood of the ne'er-do-well caste, the flotsam of the 1980's excess generation. The poor, the homeless, the luckless souls of New York City were swept away along with the suspected drug dealers and thieves, an indiscriminate act that favored the landed gentry. Today in the park, imprisoned by anger, the oppressed have become the oppressors. Again, those struggling against the majority were removed from the park. With undue aggression, the angry mob removed the anti-abortionists who were confident in their self-righteous acts. They refused to let words be free, to let religious fanaticism be just another extreme in a city of extremes. A calm breeze cuts the crowd into smaller groups. The action has ceased. Everyone stands around, eyes made more at ease, relaying their version of what just happened to a friend or a friendly passerby. As I walk away, the police arrive. The assaulted young Christian makes a plea for justice "THE MAN, THERE! I WANT TO PRESS CHARGES! HE HIT ME!" The police only say he must leave the park. "HE'S WALKING AWAY!" the man continues. The police ignore his pleas and tell him again to leave the park. Their voices are covered by shouts and howls from the multitude of red faces gathered around them. Those passing by the last moments of this drama stop to add their voice to the din of accusations and slurs. Spitting out demands for him to leave, their voices erupt from bulging veins, stiff arms waving a warning to go. He does so, yielding to the overpowering malevolence. I am moved to intercede, naively thinking that truth and justice have a place in this drama. I tell my story to a policeman, "HE IS RIGHT, I SAW THAT GUY SHOVE HIM---THAT GUY STARTED IT," pointing to that person now walking quickly away. The policeman responds, "OH YEAH -- OKAY -- THANKS." My own words drift into nothingness as I walk away, less surprised at his response than at my stupidity. I realize a bargain has been struck; the rights of the individual forfeited by the promise of a riot. Justice is bruised, but the day ends without swinging nightsticks, broken bodies, clenched fists in handcuffs. I follow the assailant, coming up behind him, I shout, "FASCIST! FASCIST!" The man turns around. I continue, "FASCIST! FASCIST!" Pointing a self-righteous finger at him, I say, "THAT IS THE MOST FASCISTIC THING I HAVE EVER SEEN IN THIS PARK!" "YOU GOT A PROBLEM?" he shouts back and then shoves his elbows into mine. "DO YOU WANNA FIGHT ME?" I say, unsure if I am challenging him or incredulous at his new target. But nothing happens. Eye to eye, elbow to elbow, we both look at the camera in my right hand. Yes, my camera! I am reminded that I have strayed from my goal, lost in the skirmish between saint and sinner. I realize I have taken few pictures, documenting very little of the day's events. I detach my arms and relax my brow as our line of sight moves to more dark blue uniforms, badges. Reason sounds the bell and my rival flees. I leave the park and walk to the subway. My thoughts fly ahead of my steps, fueled by my outrage over the senseless conflict I witnessed today, a loss of heart by the citizens of New York and a careless, unproductive act of civil dissent. I stood at the foot of the Tower of Babel and heard the din of angry voices shouting nothing but: YOUR OPINION IS NOT ALLOWED HERE... ~ When government representation seems commensurate with campaign contributions, news and opinions unfavorable to the corporate-owned media are filtered or suppressed, and chanting in unison on the street seems more like a rite of passage than a productive effort to petition the government, frustration and disillusionment become the state of the union. (This lack of political voice certainly accounts for the poor showing of Americans at the voting booth each election year.) It becomes easy to be cynical, reject it all, let the cards fall where they may, maybe move far across the water or further into the woods. If it was ever possible to hide from war, crime, and pollution, it now seems doubtful. Is there a place on earth where eventually the grave problems of the world would not wash up on your doorstep in the morning? Worse is the risk we take detaching socially or psychologically from the rest of the world. To discontinue a dialogue with the human race is to risk the fate of stagnating waters, removed from the vital stream that brings joy, understanding, and peace. The issues of 1997 call us to take a stand. Many political groups and individuals are moved to an act of civil disobedience. Most are for legitimate reasons, but it is easy to develop a myopic political vision. As I witnessed in the park, it is easy to forget the rights of others when confronted with issues that cut deep into the core of our lives. Issues over abortion, racism, sexual preferences, wages and working conditions easily raise tempers but not necessarily the intellect, unless presented in a truly edifying manner. It is easy to become self-righteous, turning the opposition into a faceless demon, an inhuman set of obstacles merely to be overcome like a set of paper targets at a country fair game booth. Life then becomes a ceaseless struggle for position, eventually strangling the spirit and stripping the soul of compassion. And censoring everything that contradicts our way of thinking will only lead to a neurotic, reactionary mentality that concentrates more on filtering the coffee grounds than improving the quality of the coffee. (Political Correctness fits this picture.) True democracy cannot be sustained if the tactics used to protect our rights and freedoms also restrict those of others. There are many social and political issues of 1997 that deserve immediate attention, but, with all shouting aloud, can any single voice be heard? The solution, therefore, may be as simple as conversation and needs only the willingness to exchange ideas. Understanding is gained from that exchange, understanding about the relationship between war and business and civil rights and the corrupting power of money and joblessness and homelessness and all the rest that makes us ill. There is hope in the belief that the issues are not many but few. The problems of the world could be distilled into a simpler form, an extraction from the more complex political or economic theories, a realization that we all want and need the same thing: decent housing, livable wages and economic freedom, the right to pursue happiness. This understanding could shrink the world and its conflicts, bringing them down to a common problem and thus a common cause. So, I believe we can all be heard and the issues addressed. It just takes everyone to listen hard and gather good information. Find our common ground and join forces in the fight. Present our platform in a truly edifying manner. Open our minds and hearts and listen hard for a resolution. But needed most of all is unified action on any and all the issues. The outcome would be a thousand-fold compared to the hundreds of fragmented voices competing for attention. The forces of Fascism, Racism, and Greed could not bear the strain. by Angelo Moscarello
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