Poughkeepsie Transformed

Friday Dec 4th: The Celebration of Lights

You know, so many people get down on Main St. Poughkeepsie. It’s dirty. It’s dangerous. It’s not for me. Even Rocky (from my first interview), who’s lived here his whole life said there were parts of Main St. he just wouldn’t go down after dark. And I know he has a point. I’m not going to pretend that Poughkeepsie’s perfect or that it doesn’t have it’s dangers, but for one night, at least, at the Celebration of Lights, Main St. Poughkeepsie was transformed.

I parked down past the civic center and walked up Main St. and already I’m happy I came. I’m by myself, but it’s impossible to be alone tonight. There are people everywhere breathing in a cool December night. Poughkeepsie is transformed. There are Christmas wreaths and lights, Alex’s is open six o’ clock at night and big groups are waiting for the crosswalks. I watch a father and his two daughters cross towards my side of the street, all smiles. There are so many families of every description.

I turn around and jump a bit to see a six foot tall walking Dunkin’ Donuts cup holding a tray of what must be his children, mini-cups of coco sold at a dollar a pop.

I walk down the street losing myself in the sights. Vendors wheel around shopping carts loaded with glowing, blinking and bizarre merchandise. Swords, light sabers, cat ears, hats, and shirts. I see one vendor lean in to tell a father, “for you I can do three for $20.” The kids look up at their father with hope. Kids everywhere are glowing like the Vegas strip. One kid swings his sword so hard it flies out of his hand into a path of pedestrians. His eyes are a mile wide. “Mom! Mom!”

I smile and walk on. I see a split in the crowd were Nestor Madalengoitia is taking pictures of people in front of his latest art installation. It's a huge 8’ x 8’ bas-relief bust of the late John Flowers in a Santa hat. “I did it with a chainsaw,” Nestor explains. Then he turns to me. “Hey Dan, come here and I take the picture.” he poses me in front of the bust and lines up the shot.

There are other friends there too. I see Susan and her husband Chris and we chat. I can hear the bands starting in the distance, pipes and drums marching toward us, but I can’t see them yet. I get closer to the street. The giant styrofoam cup is scurrying to make way for the parade. Peeking over the crowd are two puppets at least ten feet tall.

There are pipers led by none other than Old Saint Nick, then a dance troop and beauty queens, people on the floats throw candy to expectant children, then there’s a dance troop booming pop hits out of their amazing sound system, then come the boy-scouts with a band composed entirely of drums and xylophones, their troop leader marching in front, back straight and grinning from ear to ear playing Christmas tunes in perfect time.

Next come a group of bicyclists. “That’s sPOKe” says Susan, “they’re a group that does bicycle tours of Poughkeepsie.” I tell Susan about how I should probably bike to work since I only live a mile away, but I don’t. Maybe I’ll get in touch with sPOKe though. Sounds pretty cool.  

As the last of the parade moves on down Main St. the crowd presses in to see the tree lighting. Our outgoing mayor, John C. Tkazyik, gets up to let us know about all the important people in the crowd, Molinaro and Serino and so on, but I know the important people are standing all around me.

Tkazyik introduces a singer. She encourages the crowd to join her in singing “Oh Holy Night”. I join in and realize, to my surprise, that I’m not alone. People all around me are singing along.

Tkazyik takes the stage again and gets the crowd riled up for a count-down. “Five, four, three, two, ONE!” The tree comes alive with multicolored lights.

Some people stand around and chat, others start toward their cars, but others are going my way, following the parade to its final destination, the next tree lighting in Dongan Place across the street from Caffe Aurora and Noah’s Ark.

The walk down Main is amazing if for no other reason than there being so many people. They’re walking in groups big and small, laughing and talking. I wish Main St. was like this more often.

We pass the parade acts as we walk along. This small brass band I didn’t notice before catches my ear.  They’re playing Christmas carols like everyone else, but they have real soul, swinging the classics on clarinet, tuba, trombone and trumpet. “Hey, does your band have a name?” I ask between songs, “yea, we’re called The Saints of Swing” says the trumpeter. He’s keen to let me know I can look them up online.

As they start up their next song I notice the sPOKe riders are playing along on their bike bells. What a night.

I arrive at Dongan Place and pretty soon the acts I’d seen up on Main St. start making their way down. It’s all the same as on Main St. except this time I really notice the Saints of Swing. It’s funny how some things you don’t see unless you’re looking for them.

With the parade finished I join the crowd gathering around the second and final tree. The woman on stage sings “Silent Night” and I stop taking pictures to listen.

I reflect that it wasn’t a silent night. There were people talking, laughing, live bands and screaming motorcycle engines, there were songs sung and songs played, kids screaming for their lost swords and vendors shouting their wares. It wasn’t silent, but the next line is maybe more accurate, it was a holy night. It felt holy, seeing Poughkeepsie gathered together, silent for the moment, listening to one singer, breathing in the night.

The song ends and the countdown begins. And “THREE. TWO. ONE!” the tree lights up. Everyone cheers and fireworks explode high above the Hudson. The night fills again with conversation and the fireworks continue their dance on the horizon.

I begin my walk back to the car, turning my head from time to time to catch the next firework on the horizon. College kids hang out on a porch watching the show, no worries, just enjoying Poughkeepsie on it’s special night. A cold breeze picks up and I find myself humming a tune “It’s starting to feel a lot like Christmas…”

Thirty Two Thousand Cities

There was another interview after Ted and Rocky, and I'd like to come back to that, but first I gotta tell you about Willie. I didn't interview him per se, he's someone I met at work. 

So the office manager says someone's here to make an appointment and I come out to the lobby and meet Willie. We're standing next to the newly erected Christmas tree. Willie's wearing a blue baseball cap with yellow lining that reads NYC parks and rec. He looks to be about 60, but the main thing you notice about Willie is how fast he talks.

He says he likes to help people and he knows this Mexican lady who doesn't speak any English but he does so that's why he's here to set up an appointment for her. It's really nice of him to help, I say, but I speak Spanish so she can come in herself. I give him some of our cards so he can share them with any immigrants he might know. He's happy about that, but he's not done talking.

Willie tells me, apropos of nothing, that he was a transit cop for years in NYC working in the Bronx (so that's where that accent's from). He got shot a couple of times and stabbed once on the job. He shows me the scars on his wrist where he was shot and says he got stabbed in the leg. Luckily, he doesn't show me that scar. Now he's retired and he moved up here. He's bored so he volunteers at the Lunch Box (that's the soup kitchen in the Family Partnership on N. Hamilton).

Willie tells me he wants to move back to NYC. Poughkeepsie's boring, he tells me, there's nothing to do in Poughkeepsie. That's not my experience at all so I say, there's plenty to do in Poughkeepsie. Like what? he asks. Depends, I say, I really like outdoor activities so for me I like to take hikes in the wooded trails behind Vassar farm. I was going to mention the Walkway Over the Hudson and the Morse Home too, but he stops me. He doesn't know where Vassar Farm is. Right across the street from Vassar, I tell him. Vassar hospital? No Vassar College. He was not aware of Vassar College's existence, let alone what's across from it.

He says it doesn't matter, Poughkeepsie's still boring. I press the issue. What do you like to do? I ask. He twists up an eyebrow like a question mark. Do you dance? Do you like theater? Good food? What are you into? No, I don't like none of that stuff, he says, you know how people are into bowling or baseball or whatever? All that stuff's stupid.

And that's when it hits me. The issue isn't Poughkeepsie. There are places to go dancing, places to see shows, amazing restaurants, art exhibits, places to go hiking, a music scene, cool bars and who knows what else that I haven't discovered yet. The problem is that even though Willie walks the same streets as me, he doesn't see the same city.

Everybody has a world inside their heads. The same city can be entirely different from each set of eyes. For Willie, Poughkeepsie is boring. For me, I don't have enough hours in the day to do everything I want to do here. But I wonder, how many people are there living their lives in Poughkeepsie, maybe who were born and raised here, who have no idea about the city around them, who don't take advantage of the parks and other public spaces, who don't have enough money to enjoy the restaurant or bars, and who just don't see this place like I do. With each of these interviews I see a different Poughkeepsie, a different city in every head.

I'm happy that Willie's helping people and I hope that one day he will find the city that I live and work in. My Poughkeepsie.