OutTakes: George Denis Patrick Carlin!
What are you doin’ on my street in New York, man?
by Edd Merritt,
November 3, 2011, page 14.....

But I’ll take New York
I’ll make it happen
Blow out the candles
tear off the wrappin’
And I know someday
they’ll have to name a street after me
right next door to old Franklin D

-Tom Waits –“ I’ll Take New York”

George Denis Patrick Carlin!
What are you doin’ on my street in New York, man?

Well, you’re not really doing anything now, because you’ve been dead for several years. But, I opened last Wednesday’s New York Times only to discover that some folks are trying to name 121st Street – our old block – Carlin Boulevard. Apparently, though, the local Catholic Church failed to sympathize with some of your – was it small-c catholic humor or large-C Catholic humor? Probably the latter. The headline says that “Resistance to ‘Carlin Street’ Emerges at His Old Church. Was It Something He Said?” Was it the fact that he referred to it as “Our Lady of Great Agony?” Shame on you, George.
But there you stand, 1974, in the middle of my street, next door to my building, hands on hips looking as though you owned the asphalt.
Hell, man, in a couple of years I’d feel that ownership and wonder, where, indeed, are the Carlins of yesteryear? Swimming with Yossarian, no doubt.
Our neighborhood was “White Harlem” you said, and it took me back to my graduate school days when we inhabited a building with a raft of people from a variety of cultures. We shared a short hallway with Scandinavian musicians from the plains of North Dakota and cornfields of Iowa. Our kids played daily with their pals from Kabul, Afghanistan – or “Assghanistan” as my then three-year old son mispronounced it. We shared menus with their parents, Habiba and Obi. I often wonder whether they returned to their war-torn country or stayed here – whether they are still alive and, if so, what they think and believe about the culture into which they were born and the one into which they moved. Down the hall, Billy’s parents were a mixed-race couple from Jamaica. His mom, Lileith, sang sentences rather than speaking them. I would often miss her message, listening instead, to the melody.
Our door monitor was Afro-American and had news, views and insight into everything that occurred in the building as well as around the block. The minute one came through the door and passed her desk, he’d immediately get “news of the world” as she saw it.
According to a classmate of Carlin’s, he was the “surreptitious godfather of the neighborhood,” using it to promote his place with other kids. He says he liked the name because it sounded bad. When others would ask him where he lived, he’d respond, “White Harlem.” And they would all say, “ooohh, uumm.” We don’t mess with this guy. Irish Catholic or not, he was from HARLEM.
By the time we arrived on “Carlin Boulevard” he had left, and the person we knew from his building appeared regularly as one of the kids on “Sesame Street.”
The neighborhood, however, was still a stew of places and cultures that few of us considered or appreciated at the time. My introduction to Carlin’s Corpus Christi Church happened early on. I made the mistake of parking my car on the side of the street without the “no parking between 11 a.m. and 2 p.m.” signs, not knowing that those with street smarts would find a space on the “no-parking” side, then move across the street, double parking the rest of us in during restricted hours. Offices at Columbia University and classes at Teachers College would clear for five minutes at 10:45 a.m. and again at 2 p.m. daily. Heaven help you if you needed to get your car out in between times.
Well, I did once, and heaven did help me. I was late for a meeting on Staten Island, double-parked in, and my only egress was to hop my car over the curb at Corpus Christi, drive under the steeple’s shadow, down the sidewalk to Broadway. Talk about anxious as I moseyed down a Manhattan sidewalk in my Volvo, dodging pedestrians as though I were maneuvering through an Italian piazza at lunchtime.
Our building, Bancroft Hall, was the scene of some excellent learning opportunities – not because it was connected to Columbia, but because of its clientele and its place in 1970s New York with the climate of both anti-war sentiment and a growing understanding of the nuances that made Harlem not simply a cluster of Black neighborhoods but a mix of cultures that often changed block to block. It had Cuban/Chinese restaurants, the Julliard School of Music and Zabar’s Delicatessen not far down Broadway. It had our young friend Ingrid stepping into the elevator in our building, looking at one of our neighbors and remarking to her father, “Gee, daddy, he’s dirty.” “No,” her father replied. “That’s the natural color of his skin. He is from Africa.” The man smiled, Ingrid looked quizzical, and the elevator ascended; her learning had begun.
Vermont is currently undergoing cultural change that is probably unlike any it has seen in several centuries. Hopefully, Charlotte will not remain an exception. As I reflect back on Carlin Boulevard, I’m reminded of the ease with which we all mixed – in the hallways of our buildings, in the playgrounds, on the street, in our baby-sitting co-op. We came together intent on learning from one another, not intending to push our beliefs onto others. There is a difference between those expectations and much of what is happening in the world today. As my professor across the boulevard preached, learning comes from many sources. Schooling is but a part of it – the key is to light the spark. The brain will respond as our modern-day researchers are discovering. Training and education differ dramatically. And I can honestly say that failure may produce gain.
Right, George?