As I got closer I could see blood spilled onto the streets and a young Latino male laying beneath a police car. He had to be in his late 20s, early 30s. From the way the cops were acting, he was already dead. Then, when I saw rescue workers cover him up under a white sheet and carry him away, I knew he was dead. It’s one thing to see that kind of a thing on Law & Order. It’s quite another to see it for yourself. It was hard to know if the blood was from gun shot wounds or a knife.

Then I read the following chilling account in The New York Times:

One Dead After Attack on Transit Worker
By AL BAKER

A New York City Transit worker walking home after a late shift, three muggers armed with a curved knife and a bystander who somehow got caught in the middle: they all converged on a dark and rainy street in Upper Manhattan late Thursday in a blood-soaked frenzy that left the bystander stabbed to death and two others — including the transit worker — hospitalized.

Hours after the midnight attack on West 139th Street and St. Nicholas Avenue, detectives were still trying to sift through the details of the deadly encounter.

As the day wore on, it appeared that the bystander, Flonarza M. Byas, got involved either as a good Samaritan trying to help the struggling transit worker, Maurice Parks, or inadvertently collided with the mugging. Earlier theories — that he might have been one of the assailants or that he might have jumped in to prey on the conductor once the muggers knocked him down — were being discounted.

One thing was clear: As of late Friday, investigators said it appeared that the subway motorman was a victim who decided to fight back — just as officials said he did when he was mugged in the city in 1994.

This time, Mr. Parks was attacked from behind, hit on the side of the head and knocked to the ground after he emerged from the subterranean subway tunnels at West 135th Street and walked about three blocks, the police said. Once down, the assailants started beating Mr. Parks and took a denim bag he had packed with clothes and papers. The muggers — detectives believe there were three men in all — pulled a knife and Mr. Parks pulled one too, the police said.

The conductor apparently carried the blade for just this reason, so he could defend himself, one law enforcement official said. But who stabbed whom first in this case is an open question.

When the blades were wielded, the tally of wounds was long: Mr. Parks, 39, of Manhattan, was stabbed in the abdomen and slashed in the hands; Mr. Byas, 28, was stabbed in the chest, back and leg; and Hector Cruz, 21, was stabbed twice in the abdomen, the police said.

The official said that investigators believe Mr. Parks was stabbed by Mr. Cruz and that he — in turn — stabbed Mr. Cruz and Mr. Byas. The police said they believed Mr. Byas was homeless and said he had received a summons an hour before the attack for trespassing in a nearby park. But Mr. Byas’s fiancé and his brother each insisted he had been employed as an accountant and was not homeless.

“He was a really good person, a person I really loved a lot,” said Stephanie C. Diaz, 22, who said she and Mr. Byas were engaged to be married last year. “We had a lot of plans for us; it’s just hard to see that go away.”

One official said Mr. Byas “wandered into the middle of it, unbeknownst to the victim, Parks.” The official, who spoke on the condition of anonymity because the investigation is continuing, said that Mr. Parks appeared to believe Mr. Byas was an assailant so he stabbed him. “That is what it looks like,” the official said.

Another official said another possibility is that Mr. Byas might have mistook Mr. Parks for a criminal.

“It’s possible he thought Parks was the aggressor,” the second official said of Mr. Byas. “He probably stepped in to help, but it might have been difficult to tell who was the aggressor and who was the victim, Parks or the others.” The official, who also spoke on the condition of anonymity, added of Mr. Byas: “He could have been stabbed by both of them, for all we know.”

In the chaos, 911 calls were made. When uniformed police officers from the 26th Precinct arrived on the street in the Hamilton Heights neighborhood they were flagged down by Mr. Cruz, who was bleeding, and Leandro Ventura, 15, who initially characterized themselves as victims. Mr. Parks and Mr. Byas were lying on the ground next to one another less than a block away to the west. Mr. Parks identified Mr. Ventura as one of his assailants, the police said, and the three wounded men were taken by ambulance to Harlem Hospital Center, where Mr. Byas pronounced dead at 12:46 a.m.

Mr. Ventura, meanwhile, was taken into custody and interviewed at the precinct station house, the police said. He was later charged with first-degree robbery, even though his relatives said he was being wrongly accused.

“He implicates himself in robbing, but tries to put himself away from the stabbing,” the first official said of Mr. Ventura, adding that investigators believe Mr. Cruz was wielding the knife.

Two knives were recovered as evidence — the folding knife with a curved blade and a straight knife that Mr. Parks is believed to have pulled from his pocket. Detectives were seeking a third assailant whom the responding officers initially saw, but who is believed to have fled. They were checking video cameras of nearby stores.

As for Mr. Parks, a conductor who became a transit worker in 1997, he was recovering after surgery on Friday, his mother and a spokesman for his union said.

Officials said it was not likely he would be charged criminally.

In New York, it is legal for someone to carry a knife provided the state penal law does not define it as illegal, such as a switchblade or a gravity knife, for example, according to prosecutors and criminal defense attorneys. Many objects — such as a legal knife or a baseball bat — can be classified as a “dangerous instrument” if they are used in a crime, the analysts said.

“It’s a common question in criminal cases, whether what someone had in their possession fits the definition of these few illegal knives, or whether they knew that the knife was illegal,” said Thomas M. O’Brien, an attorney with the special litigation unit of the city’s Legal Aid Society, who said he could not comment on the case in Manhattan. “Just having an ordinary knife is not a crime.”

At Mr. Parks’s bedside was Roger Toussaint, the president of the Transport Workers Union, Local 100, said the union spokesman, Jesse Derris. Transit workers were seen on Friday coming and going from the hospital at Lenox Avenue and 135th Street.

And Mr. Parks’ mother, Mona Parks, 57, who lives in the Bronx, spoke outside the hospital, saying she was upset that her son had been so seriously hurt, but relieved he had survived. She said she had spoken to him and that he whispered that he wanted some water as he slowly regained consciousness after surgery.

“I’m glad he did what he did, otherwise he’d be dead,” said Ms. Parks. Mr. Derris said Mr. Parks, “works vacation relief, meaning he covers different lines on the numbered trains when people are on vacation.” He works nights, Mr. Derris said, and got off work at about 11:23 p.m. on Thursday.

Ms. Parks and a martial arts instructor, Little John Davis, said Mr. Parks was a dedicated student of martial arts and was physically fit. “I’m sad that it happened,” Mr. Davis said. “But it’s good that somebody had some training to be able to take care of themselves.”

Ms. Parks said her son is not reckless and that his heroics were borne of necessity.

“If he had an opportunity to run he would’ve run, but there were four of them,” she said, apparently mistakenly including Mr. Byas in the group of assailants. At Mr. Ventura’s home at West 141st Street, the teenager’s older brother defended him. George A. Ventura, 21, said his brother was walking home from playing basketball in St. Nicholas Park when he saw the altercation and stopped to help one of the stabbed men who was screaming for help. Mr. Ventura said his brother flagged down a police car.

“I know he had nothing to do with it,” said Mr. Ventura, who said his brother is a student at Washington Irving High School. “I know his friends, I’ve never seen my brother hanging with older dudes in my life.” He added: “He’s a good kid, he’s not a troubled dude, he always listens.”

George Ventura said that the police called the family home after the incident and that when he and his mother, Yolanda Escoto, went to the precinct, officers said the teenager was a witness. It was not until Friday morning that the family learned he was a suspect, said George Ventura.

The teenager’s lawyer, Ismael Gonzalez, said, “He’s going to plead not guilty to the charges.”

Relatives of Mr. Cruz also came to visit him at the hospital. “He’s a good kid,” said his sister, who declined to provide her name. “He was hanging out with the wrong people.”

Anybody who knows me knows I HATE rats, but they are all around this lovely city. I’ve seen big rats in Arkansas, Louisiana and Missouri. The rural ones seem to keep their distance. There’s nothing like a New York City rat. Their presence paralyze me. Walking along the sidewalks on trash night I often opt to take the streets because it’s not uncommon to see three or four digging through the trash. The sound of rustling plastic means take the street or even cross the street. I seem to be a magnet for their presence.

I’ve seen them in my building, (Not my apartment but in the hallways). Look in the subway tracks for about five minutes and one will scurry along.

But when the woman screamed, she might as well have said “A rat!” The vibe from the scream said it for her though. Within seconds, a gigantic, at least foot long gray rat, was exactly where I had been sitting. He didn’t flinch that humans were around.

As I crossed the street I saw the screamer.

“You know, I was just saying to myself ‘I sure hope there aren’t any rats around here.’ No sooner than I said that I see this big thing.”

“I’m glad you saw it and said something. I see them all the time in New York,” I added. “So much for my little break.”

Rowena,

You absolutely blew me away for my birthday with your generosity. In fact, you made the day. I figured I would just sit around, goof off on the Internet, take a few phone calls and eat Hagen Daaz. ( Caramel)

But the fried rice you made and
The birthday cake (carrot).
The Thai lunch you purchased.
The movie you treated me to. (The Borne Ultimatum)
The walk through Barnes & Noble.
The stroll around the Upper West Side.
All made a beautiful crescendo on this, my 41st birthday.

Much love,
–
Samuel

PS: I’m gonna have a little slice tonight – just to make sure it’s okay when you have your slice tomorrow.

Between 8 and 10, the spectacular light show made the stage look like a scene from from another galaxy or dimension. And as if to reward those who stayed until the very end, in the last hour, one singer after another featured on “In Between,” van Dyk’s newest disk, appeared and sang, or should I say, appeared with mikes in hand while their gigantic images were featured on scenes in the background. A definite high point was “New York City,” featuring Ashley Tomberlin. The low point was never anything about the show, but the imbeciles near the front of the stage where I was. Drunk, pushing, shoving and fighting over their spots, they behaved abominably – all overcome by van Dyk’s supreme artistry.

By Clive Thompson
New York Magazine

Last winter, the New York City Department of Health released figures that told a surprising story: New Yorkers are living longer than ever, and longer than most people in the country. A New Yorker born in 2004 can now expect to live 78.6 years, nine months longer than the average American will. What’s more, our life expectancy is increasing at a rate faster than that of most of the rest of the country. Since 1990, the average American has added only about two and a half years to his life, while we in New York have added 6.2 years to ours. In the year 2004 alone, our life expectancy shot up by five months—a stunning leap, because American life spans normally increase by only a month or two each year. When these figures came out, urban-health experts were impressed and slightly dazed. It turns out the conventional wisdom is wrong: The city, it seems, won’t kill you. Quite the opposite. Not only are we the safest big city in America, but we are, by this measure at least, the healthiest.

The “average life expectancy” of a city is a statistically curious number. It’s not really a prediction about how long you’re going to live. It’s an average of how long everyone here lives—and thus it forms a good barometer of the overall health of the city. In particular, a city’s average life span is sensitive to the rates at which people die too young. Since the average New York life expectancy is now 78.6 years, anytime someone dies younger than that, it drags the city’s overall average down slightly.

The math works like this. Imagine that one man dies of AIDS at age 25. Since he was statistically supposed to live to 78.6 years, he’s died about 50 years too early, so he shaves 50 years off the city’s overall pool of life. If one Wall Street guy collapses of a heart attack at age 65, he shaves only ten years off. You’d have to have five Wall Streeters die at that age to equal the impact of one AIDS victim. By the same logic, one infant’s dying during childbirth—77.8 years too early—is equal to ten people’s succumbing to lung cancer at age 70. It is a very weird form of horse trading. The more you’re able to prevent young people—folks in their twenties and thirties—from dying, the more rapidly you boost a city’s overall life expectancy.

And this is precisely what the city has done, through a combination of smart public policy and sheer luck. All the boons of the nineties—the aggressive policing, the dramatic drop in crime, the renaissance of the city’s parks and street life, the freakish infusion of boom-time wealth—played a part. Take the miraculous evaporation of the homicide rate. In 1990, a stunning 2,272 New Yorkers were murdered; in 2005, that number dropped to 579. Since a majority of those being killed were younger men, the reduced murder rate alone added tens of thousands of years to New York’s life-expectancy pool. Another big drop was in HIV mortality rates. In 1994, deaths from AIDS peaked at over 7,100, but the arrival of better drugs and health care began to whittle that number by 80 percent—so in 2005, only 1,419 died of AIDS. Again, the majority of the lives saved here were those of younger men, resulting in a disproportionately big upward leap in our city’s life span. In 1989, the infant-mortality rate was 13.3 babies per 1,000, and by 2004, it had been halved, to 6.1, both because medical treatment improved and because alcohol and drug addictions eased. To top it off, drug-related deaths, another arena with disproportionately younger victims, tapered off, too.

Homicide, AIDS, and drugs are characteristically New York ways to die young, of course, so it’s no surprise that when we sharply decreased the fatalities they caused, we caught up with the rest of the country. But here’s the thing: It’s not just that we’ve conquered these urban blights. Cancer and cardiac arrest are down, too. The number of people in the city dying from heart disease has dropped by a third in the last twenty years, and cancer rates have slid by nearly a fifth. And again in these cases, New York is getting healthier faster than the rest of the U.S.

In essence, there is a health gap emerging between our massive metropolis and the rest of the country—some X factor that’s improving our health in subtle, everyday ways. In fact, a back-of-the-envelope calculation shows that once you take out those uniquely New York ways to die—AIDS, homicide, etc.—we’ve still added at least 200,000 extra years onto the city’s life-expectancy tables since 1980, making crucial advances in the same health areas the rest of the country struggles with. Like many New Yorkers, I’d moved here with some trepidation—always figuring that the stress, pollution, and 60-hour workweeks would knock about five years off my life. I was wrong—precisely wrong. But where, exactly, is our excess life coming from?

for the rest go to http://nymag.com/news/features/35815/

She arrived to New York from New Orleans where all her things were in storage at a friend’s place. A few weeks later Hurricane Katrina destroyed almost every remnant from her childhood except for a box of journals. We were in our first nonfiction workshop together and decided to go hear Toni Morrison read in New York at a Katrina awareness event. As we had breakfast we compared notes on our lives we kept saying “You too? Me too?”

Mystics would say we have a similar soul history and yet we couldn’t be more different.

I’m black. She’s Pinay. (You’ll have to look that one up.)

We both have mental illness in our immediate families.

She fled medical sales. I fled journalism.

At separate times and without knowing each other;
We both did UNO’s study abroad program in Madrid under the same professor.

I laugh loud. She laughs louder and then claps.

We struggled with whether writing nonfiction is cultural treason.

We go to the same church on Sundays and eat Asian afterward.

We go walking through Chinatown and then poke around a bit.

Fittingly we both ended our time in the same nonfiction workshop again where we had a wonderful experience with the professor. Last night after our last event, we walked down Broadway to 120th. She turned right and I kept walking. It’s a path we take regularly to rehash events from the day.

Since the fall of 2005 until now, time I have bonded with a lovely woman by the name of Rowena Cruz in ways I can’t even document. She went from being a wallflower barely speaking up for herself to rolling her neck with the sassiness of a snake. “You think I’m gonna…..” You ought to see it.

When my mother met Rowena she said: “She’s so cute. If I was as cute as she is I’d be out dancing and snapping my fingers every night.”

Dance, Rowena, dance.

The trains were slightly crowded when two women in traditional Middle Eastern garb got on with two small children, a young girl still in a stroller and a boy who couldn’t have been more than three or four years old. The kids were giggling and having a good old time.

Suddenly the little boy, who was just an adorable kid but on a black cloth mask with pointed corners. All we could see were his eyes sitting right across from us. Other people on the train started to stare at him. It was obviously a kid’s mask and game when Gun leaned over and whispered: “What do we have here a little terrorist in the making?”

It was one of those moments I wanted to laugh so badly my eyes started to water and I felt ready to explode. Laughing hard would have been rude. That made it even funnier, so I fought it back even more. Gun said exactly what I and anybody else looking at this little boy thought. I haven’t wanted to laugh that hard in years.

Had that little boy in that mask shown up at an average American elementary school they would have sent him home for sure.

First of all, I love the poetry of Emily Dickinson whom I discovered when I was in high school.

Then there was a curly headed girl named Emily I met at the Missouri Botanical Garden between the summer of my junior and senior years at Southwest High School in St. Louis in 1983. We participated in an outdoor leadership program called ECO-ACT. She attended the prosperous Clayton High School and was the single most liberated, free thinking teenager I had ever met.

There was Emily a student I taught at DePauw University in Greencastle, Indiana. She grew up in Amish country, which I didn’t know Indiana even had at the time. This Emily wrote a fearless story for the student newspaper about students getting drunk on a back country road in Putnam County. People were furious at her. She didn’t flinch. And when she made the leap to broadcast journalism, interning at NBC’s Today Show, she let me stay at her posh apartment for three weeks long after she had vacated. It was my first time living on the Upper West Side and my longest stint in the city. That period helped me become a denizen of uptown Manhattan and subsequently the Columbia University area.

And last summer I got to hang out with Emily, the daughter of a colleague from The Salt Lake Tribune. From the time that Emily was in junior high school in Layton, Utah all the way through her marriage to a guy who is destined for greatness in corporate America, she has called me “Uncle Samuel.” No one had ever called me that. It’s not likely that my sister will ever have children.

Now I want to introduce to you my newest; Emily Raboteau is the author of “The Professor’s Daughter,” and an assistant professor of English at City College of New York. The novel, loosely based on her life, is about a biracial young woman who happens to be the daughter of a Princeton professor. I’m a member of something called Our Word, a group which supports writers of color in Columbia’s MFA program. Our Word also allows us to meet one-on-one with published writers. It’s one of the rare times we get writers of color to give us a close reading and comment on our work. A few days ago I was scheduled to meet Emily at Max’s Cafe on Amersterdam, a popular hang out for Columbia students.

Because I had only seen her picture in the book, when I got there at about 11:40 a.m., I wasn’t sure she was there. I looked all around. I noticed a very petite white woman sitting outside on the patio. I surely didn’t want to approach some random white woman with some story about meeting a writer. Who would believe that? The woman on the patio looked like she could pass for a grad student.

Frantic that my hour was diminishing, I went outside and called Rowena, the Our Word coordinator, to make sure I was at the right restaraunt. As I stood outside, I looked over again and saw this tiny woman sitting in the corner. She reminded me of my mother’s neighbors in St. Louis. They are from New Orleans and for the longest time I thought they were white. If you’d just seen their skin under a light and didn’t have the chance to see their faces, you would have thought so, too.

“I know she’s there,” Rowena assured me on the phone.

The woman whom I had been eyeballing had strolled down the street. Couldn’t have been her. Five minutes later, she shows up at my table and asked me if I am Samuel.

We laughed and talked about not being sure who was whom. For the next 45 minutes she critiqued two of my short stories “Fassie’s Tale,” and “The Lancome Lad,” and had the most affirming things to say them both. Affirming things is an understatement. She was highly complimentary about my work, in a way I rarely experienced within the MFA program. As a nonfiction writer, writing fiction feels a little like walking on a high wire without a net. If I fall the splat will be grand. She was the second visiting writer to really enjoy these pieces because they are about boundaries, sexuality, race and religion. We talked about everything from James Baldwin to hypocrites in churches. The time zipped by. She told me to attend the Callaloo Writing Workshop in Texas, a place where writers of color get a lot of nurturing from published writers and that I should submit my work to their literary journal. I will indeed.

A few days later during a question and answer session that I led with Emily in front of a group of MFA students, she said that for every published piece she had in literary journals, she had hundreds and hundreds of pieces rejected. Hundreds. Ignore the rules about not submitting things simultaneously to literary journals or else it would “take years from your life,” she told us. She was brutal about how disgruntled she was with the first few book covers and the way the marketing division at Picador targeted blacks for her book. In the end, black women were her biggest readers, something which surprised her.

I thought she was a fearless funny woman because of her wonderous, bold prose and the relentlessness in the voice. But I knew she was a real spitfire when she opened her question and answer session with a comment about lesbian haircuts and nipples. (An insider Our Word joke that would take up too much space to rehash.)

I have yet to meet an Emily I didn’t like.