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THE PROBLEM WITH IMAGE by James Gillard

IN MEMORY OF 9/11

September 11, 2001 --


“Jim, they jumping out the windows man, they jumping out the windows.” Mike hung up the phone crying. I held on to the phone praying. I was in midtown Manhattan, safe, (or so I thought) while he was in Tribeca, which would later be called Ground zero, traumatized. Little did Mike know a whole nation would be traumatized. THE BUILDINGS FELL, and along with it our mystique – that’s the, “Problem with image.” A Harlem story.


The Problem with Image

As we stepped out of the Movie Theater on 14th Street & Broadway, my sister and I really couldn’t find the words to describe what we had just seen. You see we had just watched DENZEL WASHINGTON”S new movie “TRAINING DAY” and believe me it was a Denzel that you are not use to seeing. Homeboy did a complete 360. He was a corrupt cop who was the head of a narcotics division in LAPD. Talk about playing both sides against the middle and putting the knife in your brother’s back. He called it “chess not checkers” with your emotions. So there we stood, grasping for the perfect way to sum up this nouveau Denzel. I broke the silence, “that was a hard core performance by my man. “To tell you the truth he had me scared”. My sister is always pretty genuine with her observations, and she doesn’t take her critiques as serious as I do but she said “Great acting sad ending”. I couldn’t have agreed more. We rambled on about the movie until we exited the theater on 13th street.

Walking out into the street we saw the usual sites and sounds of the city. JAY Z”S new record blasted from a nearby car, a young woman on roller blades cut through the rush-hour traffic like a running back. It was 7:00pm, a FRIDAY night, early fall, and a comfortable 71 degrees. Both of us realized that we better seize this moment because our warm days were numbered. So we plotted what our next move would be. She wanted to go the village and look at some leather coats. Me, I was content to just take the walk. So we headed down Broadway and then I smelled it. At first it was subtle and smelled like nothing more than paper burning in the distance. As we continued to walk it began to smell as if it was garbage that was on fire. Instinctively I surveyed the area to see if I could spot it. Suddenly, it occurred to me what that smell was. I looked at my

sister and said, “that’s not a fire that’s the World Trade Center.” Indeed it was. The smoldering residue from that horrific day still lingered in the air. It was a humbling experience to both of us. Since that day, I hadn’t made a move past 34th Street. I purposely remained Uptown. No need for the constant reminders. We both knew the further we went downtown the closer we got to that day. An eerie silence fell over us as we trudged on.

My sister spotted a shoe store and we decided to go in. As she perused the latest styles of boots, I plopped down on a seat in the corner. Immediately, I started to think about all the lost lives, wondering if they suffered, hoping they all made last calls. I thought about those people who took that jump into eternity. A slight chill went through me. “Jim, how you like these” my sister said as she waved a pair of beige leather boots. “These are the ones I’ve been looking for”. I smiled assuredly in her direction, “Thea, those are cool, try them on”. I was glad for the diversion. My mind was starting to wander down Cortland Street. “Damn, that’s why I didn’t want to come down here” I said to myself.

A beautiful caramel sister strode past me in a pair of black high-heeled boots. She walked from one end of the store to the other testing the comfort of the boots. She wore black designer frames and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. As she walked I could feel the confidence ooze from her. I don’t know what made me think about a conversation I had a few days earlier in which a coworker and I were discussing the sleepless nights we were starting to experience. He said his nerves had really become bad. Every plane that flew overhead made his body tense. I told him “ we’re all shook, we have an emotional gash right in the center of our souls.” Time will heal it but the scars will always remain. You know it’s there when you jump at certain sounds, you know it’s there when you smell the smoke of burning wood, and you know it’s there when what was once normal seems abnormal.

I glanced at my sister; she had begun to walk from one end of the store to the other. “Boots look good, you should get them, I said”. She nodded in agreement. I spotted the young lady again, this time her boots were off and she sported a pair of nylon footies. You know the ones that are usually given out when you need a stocking to try on shoes. When she stood up, I noticed how small she looked. Her walk didn’t seem as strong and the glasses that appeared chic suddenly made her appear studious. She walked over to the salesclerk to inquire about another pair of boots. But something was missing, she seemed very unsure as she asked the clerk “can I see that black pair in a size seven, or maybe the gray in a size 8, I don’t know what do you think”. The swagger was definitely gone. “Fake height,” I thought to myself. It was kind of symbolic of New Yorkers right now. We had lost something that came to define us.

As my sister and I stepped out into the warm breeze and started to make our trek uptown I thought about Denzel’s movie again. For some reason it bothered me to see him play this wild and crazy cop. After all, this was the same cat that had played Malcolm X, the same cat that bought virtue to even the shadiest of characters. I had become so used to seeing him in these good guy roles I couldn’t see him any other way. I finally came to the conclusion that Denzel didn’t change, but my perception of him had. And herein lies the problem with image. Sometimes we get so caught up in the look or style of a person we forget who the real person is. This can prove dangerous especially when someone wants to change or has to change.

Since September 11th, New Yorkers are faced with the monumental task of re-defining themselves and putting things in perspective. I watched the young lady as she walked down 8th street empty handed. A tinge of guilt rushed through me. I had judged this sister solely by her clothes; not realizing she was much more than her clothes just as New York is more than its buildings. There’s no better time than the present to put faith in the things we can’t see than the things you can.

THE DISS

In the 1980’s Harlem was ravaged by the Crack epidemic. Drug dealers occupied every other corner uptown. Names like ALPO, RICH PORTER, and AZ became heroic figures to our youth. Harlem’s economy dwindled. The famous Harlem Brownstones were shell s of themselves. Drugs were not a stranger to Harlem. In the early 50’s heroin enveloped the black Mecca. Many of its shining stars began to ride the white horse. The landscape changed – crime, apathy, and fear became associated with the name of Harlem. Well this is the story of one man, who believed he could find power in a little piece of rock. A short man, with a loud voice which he soon would find out “signified nothing.”

The DISS

HARLEM 1991

“Here is something you can’t understand; I could just kill a man”.  Al turned the radio down, and looked directly in the man’s face and said, “Let me make this shit clear, cause obviously you ain’t hearing me.  I don’t take no fucking change, go somewhere and turn them pennies into dollars before I put my foot up your ass.” The man’s body cowered with the delivery of each word.  Al’s point had hit home.  Turning back up the radio, he watched the man meekly walk away.  Al thought to himself, “whoever made this crack shit, was brilliantly evil.”  It made men leave their families, wives became 2-dollar hoes, and friends would kill friends -- all for the love of this little rock.  He knew the man would be back, after all he was a crack head and Al had the best crack on 32nd street -- Green top. The day had been good.  He had rocked about three grand and he only had to diss two people. First the young boy who obviously forgot where he was and who he was dealing with, trying to sell red top on his corner.  Saying, “he didn’t know anybody was clocking there. When I told him to bounce the little nigger got indignant.   Talking bout, “it’s enough for all of us to get paid.”  Al liked his heart and if he didn’t have pressing matters, he would take him under his wing, but now was not the time for him to be a teacher.  “Little nigger, you better take your ass home and play with your lego’s and while you at it put a towel behind your ears cause you dripping wet, I been out here hustling before your mother and father met.”  Al could see tears in the boy’s eyes.  He knew he had broken his spirit.  But he admired the way he sucked it up and didn’t let his boys see him rattled. The second was the fool that had just stepped to him with pennies. Taking a deep swallow of his soda, Al surveyed his environment, two bodegas, one number hole, a coke spot, abandon buildings, a courtyard and the projects. Skinny Tony owned the first bodega.  He was an Italian cat who swore he was black.  Wore jewelry down to his stomach, and was always slapping five with the brothers. “What’s up my niggers”,  “What’s up my

niggers.”  At the same time, he would turn around and sell you moldy ass bread, and green meat.  He was a piece of work.  Al still couldn’t get over the way Tony dissed him when he wanted to set up shop outside the store. “I know you not selling that dope outside my door, no dope outside my door, take that shit back to the projects”.
 Al wanted to smash Tony’s face in but thought better of it.  Tony had mob connections and Al didn’t need the unnecessary drama, at least not this early in the game.  That night he made sure to smack up two crack heads in full view of everyone who was outside earlier -- strictly for redemptive purposes.  He promised himself that Tony would pay for his comment.  The number hole belonged to an older cat named Leeky Johnson.  He was a small frame man who dressed like a million bucks.  He owned seven number spots throughout Harlem, this one the smallest.  Al used to run numbers for him all through the projects.  It was Al’s first taste of hustling and he loved it.  The only problem was, Al knew he couldn’t work for anyone.  He needed to run his own business. 
The 27th street crew ran the coke spot.  It consisted of Zane, T, Rick, and Moe.  Four young wanna be’s concerned more about getting their dick wet and looking fly then really making this money.  Al thought about the winter ahead and realized he would need a spot to sell. There was no way he was sitting on this fucking corner in 20-degree weather pushing rock.  When the 27th street crew began to slip, Al would make sure they stayed down.  Last but not least was Double B grocery.  It sat on the north side of 32nd street.  This was Al’s empire.  Frankie Bass owned it.  He was a cheerful guy with a good heart, but the street prays on the weak, and Frankie learned this first hand.  He had a number of robberies, and the customers just disrespected him on the regular.  Having Al around provided a buffer.  Although he only stood about 5”9, he was built like a pit-bull with a box head, bow legs, and barreled chest.  What proved to be more deadly was Al’s acid tongue.  He could lace into you verbally; his comments challenged your manhood and your purpose.  He never had many fights; no one usually made it past the tongue-lashing.  This was Al B’s
world and green top was selling.  He instinctively ran his hands over his jeans.  By touch he could tell there was over 1,000 dollars in his right pocket, definitely too much paper to hold at one time. Simply because it was harder to count and you were more prone to get stuck up.  “The sharks are always watching”, he thought to himself.  A chill ran down his spine and he automatically ran his hands across the side of his baggy tee shirt.  There he felt the handle of the 38 revolver that rest comfortably in the crux of his back. Over time this had become his best friend.   Halfway down the block, in between the cleaners and a vacant lot stood Rell,and Lorenzo.  These were his two runners.  Al never carried the rocks, too risky.  He was the cash man.  Whenever a deal was made, Al would be paid, and then the transaction with the runners.  In this way, Al’s hands stayed clean, and the money stayed right.  Al liked Rell.  He reminded him a lot of himself, short and stocky -- not quite 16 but a killer.  He had witnessed Rell stomp out an older man twice his size for trying to grab some extra vials.  He had all the makings of a serious banger.  As for Lorenzo, he couldn’t stand the young man.  He talked too much; running his mouth like a radio and he was lazy. “Al couldn’t remember how many times he had to tell him to stop talking to every girl that walked by, “focus on this money” he would say.   After tonight he was going to cut Lorenzo loose.  Al hoped Rell had the heart to stay the course.  He could see him one day running his empire.  “What’s up brother man”, Rell shouted in Al’s direction.  “What’s up again”,
Al motioned, clapping his hands.  This was a sign that it was time to re-up.
Al looked across the street and could see Diane and Renee headed towards him.  They were two of his regular customers.  Clapping his hands he glanced back in Rell’s direction.  Rell understood that this was the last customer of the night.  “Hey Al baby, how you doing, “, Diane said smiling,
“You got something for me, cause I got something for you as she patted her pockets. 
Al stood up and walked towards her.   He still couldn’t believe how fucked up she looked.  Her face had become gaunt, and every time she smiled her mouth revealed rotten teeth.  She wore an army green trench coat that was wrapped tightly around her thin waist.  What made this so bizarre is that it was the middle of August.  “How’s the family,” Al asked. Diane walked by him headed straight towards Rell, “Fine, everybody’s fine”, at the same time placing a balled up twenty dollar bill in his lap. 
At least she kept the beautiful mane of hair; he thought to himself.  He could remember how he used to love to run his fingers through it many years ago. “Take it easy Al,” she said headed across the street.  Al looked over his shoulder and he could’ve sworn he saw Diane and Renee skipping back to the projects.  “That’s a damn shame”, he whispered to himself.  Rell walked up the block with the gait of a lion.  Head forward and shoulders back, followed by Lorenzo, who was acting as if he was a goddamn celebrity.  Smacking five and holding conversations.  This was definitely it for his ass.  Al began looking forward to the night ahead.  First he would stop at his crib in the projects, split up the cut, fire Lorenzo’s ass and make Rell his lieutenant. He would then make his way to the Bronx.  He needed to spend time with Chantel.  She felt neglected and besides she was starting to ask too many questions.  To her knowledge he still worked for sanitation.  He would let her know that job was long gone and he could care less.  He made more money hustling.  He hated that green suit-- picking up people’s garbage, shit, coming home cold, wet, and stinking.  No he couldn’t live like that.  His life was forever in the streets. Ever since that day he bought an ounce of cocaine, mixed it with baking soda and water, let it cook into rock, carved off little pieces of death with the precision of a surgeon, and finally placed it into little vials with green tops he realized his life had changed. No sanitation job or any job could give him such a rush.  He controlled lives.  Yeah, he would tell her; right after he let her feel his body next to hers.  Right after he touched the places she needed touched.  Right after she called his name in ecstasy.  If she had a problem,“fuck her”.  This wasn’t about her but him.
Al gazed towards 131st and spotted the crackhead still trying to turn his change into dollar bills.  He reflected on a childhood nursery rhyme the girls would recite at school, “trying to make a dollar out of 15 cents.  “So what’s up baby we wrapping for the night”, Rell said in a voice, which meant he could go

another 24.  “Yeah, I got to make some moves tonight but we back out here first thing in the morning”. 
Just at that moment, he noticed that Rell’s body tensed, his eyes had opened so wide he had to follow them to see where they were focused.  On his right hand side he saw the black 98 zooming by.  He wasn’t sure but he thought he saw the young brother he dissed earlier in the passenger side.  Then he saw the spark, he turned his back just in time to catch the first bullet in the shoulder.  It stung him, but he knew the damage could’ve been worse.  Out the corner of his eye he could see that Rell had pulled out his 38 and was about to rock 32nd street with thunder.  There was no doubt in his mind that Rell would inherit the kingdom.  Al’s only hope was to reach the open door of B&B grocery.  He only stood two steps from it.  Once he reached it he would re-group and come out blazing.  The only sound that could be heard was the sound of bullets crashing through the wind.  Al had made it halfway through the door and suddenly felt the fire rise in his stomach.  It was a fire that set small fires off throughout his body. He had made it through the store but his legs had given way under the inferno.  Al realized there would be no empire, and no sharing a future with Chantel.  As he lay on the grocery floor his eyes hazy with the dawning of death, he saw the strangest thing.  The crack head he had dissed earlier was digging in his pockets pulling out the money he had made.  Al smiled and muttered to himself “whoever thought of this crack shit was brilliantly evil”.   

GALLERY

COMING SOON

CHILDREN'S PLAYS

IF HARLEM COULD TALK: is a collection of scenes, monologues and sketches which reflect the African American Experience through the eyes of young people. All of the scenes deal with social issues that occur outside of school. Themes of history, identity, peer –pressure, and self esteem. Each piece is geared towards children ages 11-13. Several plays use music: recorded and live.
The staging of play is best done in simplicity with the use of limited props. The scenes occur in no particular order standing only freely or as individual pieces.