#midwood

'Statuesque' by Frank Frazetta.

If you aren't looking at what just happened in Midwood, you’re ignoring the moment pro-Palestinian "activism" turned into residential warfare. This wasn't a march on a government building but a siege on a Jewish neighborhood.

Quick recap for those unaware:

Park East Synagogue (May 5): The "warning shot". Under the pretext of protesting a real estate event on the Upper East Side, the crowd turned into a mob. They breached police barriers with such force that an NYPD officer was hospitalized with a severe leg injury.

Midwood (May 11): The "invasion." This moved from the sidewalk to the sanctuary of people's homes. While "protesting" the Young Israel synagogue, the mob spilled onto private porches. We watched an elderly man shoved to the ground, his head hitting a tree. Screaming "Death to…" and "Fuck Israel" at families watching from their balconies is nothing short of terrorizing a demographic.

When you wave Hezbollah flags and Hamas target symbols (the red triangle) while screaming "Death to the IDF" into the windows of private family homes, you aren't "petitioning for peace." You are terrorizing people where they sleep.

So why did I say 'History is Repeating'? If you guessed Nazi Germany, you went too far back.

Forty years ago, this was the manual of the White Supremacist. In the 70s and 80s, mobs in Boston and Marquette Park marched through neighborhoods with intimidating symbols to tell Black families "You aren't safe here".

Seeing People of Color within these pro-Palestinian crowds using those same tactics today is a tragic, hollow irony.

It is the worst kind of racism, a "reboot" of the very oppression their parents and grandparents fought to dismantle. When the former underdog adopts the tools of the supremacist, the moral high ground is dead. You aren't "dismantling a system", you’re just the new face of an old, ugly hate.

But this isn't about calling a specific group out, this is about the pro-Palestinian movement as a whole. If we decide that residential neighborhoods are "fair game" for this level of intimidation, no one is safe. Not your street, not your home, not your family. Bigotry and racism won't disappear once Jews are gone, it'll only find a new target.

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What if Jax (FTM) and Pomni (MTF) were married and decided to have a family consisting of three children? What if, instead of being set in the digital circus, they lived in a real-life setting during the early 90s? What if their relationship reaches a point of turmoil, affecting the life of their youngest child forever?

Set in Midwood, Brooklyn, NYC, a Brooklyn Technical High School Student named Andre has grown disillusioned with his mentally ill father, Jax while his mother toils away at an accounting firm to keep the family afloat. Alone, distraught, and tangled within an urban jungle, Andre struggles to make sense of a world that feels increasingly distant

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_____________June 20th 1993_______________

The sun had overcast its dreary glow upon Midwood, seeping through the blackened rim of the rustic glass panel in my window. Reluctantly, I averted my gaze towards my left, determined to keep the light from striking my face. It had been three days since eighth grade had ended. The remembrance of the last day of middle school and the next big step had awakened within me the prospect of enthusiasm. Sooner or later, those feelings grew lax, all washed over me, returning me to a much more laid-back mood, subsisting on boredom and defiance. For the last fifteen minutes, I was lying on my bed, counting the luminescent vinyl stars I’d secured on my bedroom ceiling, much to my mother’s chagrin. I lazily twirl a strand of golden hair and uncurl it from my index finger, discerning a way to entertain myself. There were my Creem magazines stacked in a pile on top of my dresser, my vinyl records haphazardly thrown in a crate, and a book describing “The World’s Greatest Buildings" that I still haven't had the time to browse. An involuntary sigh heaved my chest, a physical command from my body to put my brain to use. Ultimately, I fight the urge to stay stuck in bed, and I walk over to the bathroom to brush my teeth. This was the summer before I would start high school, but not any regular high school around Bensonhurst. I remember the renowned day when I got my SHSAT score from the NYC Department of Education. My sister Maria, and my mother were bouncing off their seats in enthusiasm. Carefully, I tore the cardstock and pulled the paper inside. The letter said that I received a score of 530 and told me I got into Brooklyn Tech, Staten Island Tech, and Bronx Science. They were prouder than I’d ever seen them beaming in that quiet, overflowing way that made the house feel warmer, as if my score had cracked open a window to a future none of us had dared to picture too clearly. Their eyes lingered on me like they were seeing not just who I was, but every version of who I could become, all of it suddenly real and reachable. After a long, meandering family debate at the kitchen table, punctuated by my mother’s practical concerns and Maria’s dramatic opinions, ie: “It's near Park Slope, so Andre and Bishop are gonna have a lot of fun”, we settled on Brooklyn Tech. Before admitted students day, my mother stood behind me, fussing with my collar in the bathroom mirror, apprising me that I was becoming a man and that with my age came new and challenging opportunities. Her voice had that mix of pride and nerves she always tried to hide, the kind that made my body erect and my conduct streamlined and robust. The school, not to mention, was huge like an army base, a towering brick, caged windows glinting like it was sizing me up. My sister Maria is staying home for the summer after her junior year at Stonybrook. It was unlike the past few summers, when she continued to stay in the affluent suburbs of Long Island. As a pre-medical student, she would begin to prepare for the MCAT. Her goal after university was to get accepted into NYU Grossman Medical School, and after she receives her MD, she wants to be a pediatrician. Often she would volunteer as an EMT in her school's hospital so she could get clinical experience. She also would research a certain polka-dotted cancer cell, I cannot remember the name of. I was just happy that she was home because my older brother Jesse was barely there, and my mother too, because she was busy at work.

My father, on the other hand…he was his own specific category of unkempt fur and the miasma of Marlboro's emitted from his room.

My sister Maria would be coming out shortly after buying food at Pommegranate Supermarket. I specifically required her to buy pierogis because my mother forgot to get me them last week. I head downstairs to the kitchen, a grand table with fine Italian lace wrapped around each corner. All of Maria’s medical notes are laid out haphazardly with eraser crumbs dusting the middle of the table. There were diagrams of the nervous system, lymphatic system, chemical models of the physical medicine, and some physics exercises laid out. Sometimes, if I couldn't sleep, I would go down to stretch and drink some water. Overlooking the dinner table, I would see her studying, reading a hardcover textbook, flipping paper pulp pages, writing dutifully (like she always did) in a beat-up composition notebook. I pray for her sometimes cuz god knows how much stress and time she pours into her work, trying to build herself a better future, trying to make a better future for herself. Just like that, she is back. I see the box of Pierogies laden in plastic wrap and a bag of Wethers caramel coffee candy, the same candy that used to be served to kids outside of my mom’s office at Barclays. Maria cleared her throat and adjusted her hair.

“Is Papa awake yet?”

“...I don’t know,” I answered

Maria muttered something along the lines of

“Fancying that morning smoke probably,” and her face scrunched up.

How are you anyway, Andre?

“I’m fine, just woke up. Thank you for the pierogis.”

“You're welcome! Seinfeld's playing on channel four, wanna watch?”

“Sure!”

I open the packet with the pierogis, lay it on a fine china plate and put it in the microwave.

On the boxy TV, I see Kramer and Jerry with the former holding a silk shirt akin to the intricately laced blouses in my closet. Even though I have an affliction torwards that type of fashion, the way he was holding it looked kind of amusing.

“This is gonna be a new look for the 90s. You’re gonna be the first pirate!” Kramer said

“I don’t wanna be a pirate!” Jerry exclaimed. Maria and I giggled as the whole scene was very silly.

All of a sudden I hear Jesse’s clomping loudly, slamming the patio door and entering inside of the house. Upon sight we saw that his flannel shirt has a beer stain and he is carrying a damp paper brown bag.

Maria retorts in revulsion, “And where the hell were you?”

Jesse smirks and straightforwadly replies with, “Ah, I was at the ‘New Order’ concert at CBGB’s.” He threw the paper bag on the dining table as if he was a wind current and turned his head to us.

Don’t worry though I crashed at a friend's place at Bowery.”

Maria sighed. “Mother was dialing you nonstop last night and even papa was slightly concerned.”

“ Well at least I go out and I live a little unlike you consumed in your books.”

Jesse flipped through Maria’s papers sneeringly and sat down on an old wooden chair.

“At least I’m not the one going to community college,” Maria scoffed.

“Ah, you're so funny, sis. Just so you remember, I’ll probably get a good job before you do, even with your extended years of ‘higher education’.”

Maria was about to say something, but she pursed her lips, glowering, as soon as she had finished, averting her head. Jesse had an upright, condescending grin, characteristic of our father, and nudged the bag towards us.

“Anyways, I got y’all a little surprise!”

Inside there were 3 Katz’s sandwiches: One corned beef reuben, with shining gleaming red meat; pastrami with mustard, thin brown meat piled on top of each other like layers of sedimentary rock; And turkey on rye, smaller in size, with thin blank strips of meat coating the insides.

“Ooh,” I exclaimed

“Yeah, take whatever you want, it's on the house”

Maria took the turkey on rye, Jesse took the corned beef reuben, and I took the pastrami with mustard.”

“Oh, Seinfeld is on!” Jesse remarked