The Berlin Clusterfuck, Boston Roadtrips and Texas Goodbyes, from Xico to Forever, Notes on #RevolutionaryBerlin, among other stops
The day before we left for Berlin, I drove the teenager up to Boston to drop them off for school, just as Dad used to, years and years ago, back and forth to Cambridge. From Brooklyn to Boston and back, listening to an old tape of SPAM, a Dallas band of my high school friends.
Colin on vocals,
Trey on guitar,
Allan on bass, and Teddy on drums.
RiP Trey.
The tape is dedicated to their Mom’s.
Stories in the air, Bob Weir and our journeys.
On the road, we visited an old friend's final stop, Herman Melville's Grave site at Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx, New York, specifically in Catalpa Plot, Section 23.
We read a little for the bard who saw all the world as a whale.
"What are the Rights of Man and the Liberties of the World but Loose-Fish? What all men's minds and opinions but Loose-Fish? What is the principle of religious belief in them but a Loose-Fish? What to the ostentatious smuggling verbalists are the thoughts of thinkers but Loose-Fish? What is the great globe itself but a Loose-Fish? And what are you, reader, but a Loose-Fish and a Fast-Fish, too?"
And made our way to Boston.
Next day, off to my Mom’s in New Jersey.
She always sends me off on such adventures.
Fun to chat about our trips to Berlin, you flirting with the waiters, on our way to Berlin.
Au revoir mom, until we meet again.
Next stop Newark Airport and off.
On the way, some news, Xico is gone, said the post, referring to Xico Garcia, a high school chemistry teacher from years ago. We met in Paris and Florence. What a gem of a person. Strange to think of him now, a kind of bon vivant, a sociable and luxurious one from an affluent family, with a tormented soul. He stopped by one of my parties sophomore year, 1986. I remember everyone from the party coming to say hello to Xico, as he stepped out of his car. A grownup now, I wonder about a teacher who visited high school parties of his students. At the time, the boundary felt alluring and fun. He was aware not to drink or step very far inside. And he never touched a student, at least not to my knowledge. But a line had been crossed. He wanted to check it out, he told me. And he saw it all, underage drinking, excess, etc. A friend and teacher, mentor and confidant, his roles vacillated. But we talked a lot, about school, chemistry, science, queerness, the social ecology of Texas, of his family in Corpus Christie, on this side of the border and that. This was years before the Texas border was weaponized. It was open, a space for inquiry. When I saw Man Facing Southwest, a 1986 film that "examines the values society uses to judge those that are different" we talked about it. A quiet force, he challenged some of the blindspots and racist undertones of our private school in North Dallas. When a student came to school on Halloween dressed as a lawn man, with a lawnmower, moving the grass, an obvious riff on the undocumented laborers who worked at private homes throughout the city, to get by, Xico quietly told him he had to stop. He didn’t yell. He just said stop. And it ended. Thank you, said Mr Gonzalves to Xico. Thank you. We talked about Marquez and literature, movies and culture. When Matteo, the Italian exchange student from Novi, in Northern Italy, arrived at our house junior year, Xico became more of a fixture. He knew my parents, who welcomed his presence. Mom had moved out to go to school. Dad was out of town half the time on business, leaving Matteo, a graduate art student named Nick, and Matteo to our own devices. This usually meant TV dinner and pot we’d bought from the guys who sold cheap weed behind the Simon David Grocery Store. At first Matteo had few friends but myself. Xico was a supporter. And seemed to understand his struggle. It was hard stepping into our school’s cliquish social scene. The three of us had lunches or dinners somewhat regularly. Xico was a voice of reason and support, with constant conversations about Mexico and Texas, the peculiar relationship, and the social scene at our school. Eventually, Matteo left, making his way back to Italy. Before he went back to medical school, Xico had me run errands for his small business, Dallas Tutoring and Translating in the summer. After he left, Matteo and I stayed in touch. We met in Paris. And on one occasion, Xico joined us. The summer before senior year, I lived in Italy, studying there for the remaining months of 1991. Xico came to visit me in Florence. I showed him around for a few days. One afternoon, I suggested we explore one the most majestic sites in Florence, the Giotto Bell Tower in the Firenze Basilica of Santa Maria del Fiore and the Baptistry of St. John, one of the showpieces of Florentine Gothic architecture. With a square base of about 15 meters (49.2 feet) on each side, with corner reinforcing continuing all the way to the cantilevered horizontal crown, at 84.7 meters (278 feet) above ground, it’s a tight space to climb up, looping up into the sky. Walking up, it's easy for claustrophobia to grasp. I used to climb it regularly. Walking with Xico, who was admittedly a pudgy fellow, I heard his heavy breath. Half way up, Xico lay on the ground, a panic attack grasping him. And we wandered back down, Xico grasping the walls about him, humiliated. Later that night, we met for dinner at Harry's Bar. Xico picked up the tab. And I didn’t see him again. We talked a little more through the years. He tried to visit Matteo one more time, but they could not get the dates right. Frustrated he sent him a small handwritten note, inviting him to “Fuck off.”
And that was that. We never really know anyone. We all have our secrets. We all did, attractions and conflicts. What sticks with me are our many conversations about differences. He saw the best in people, was dismayed with their indifference, and biases. He would not tolerate it. Proud of his roots and his time in Mexico City, we talked about ways everyone can learn from each other. His insistence at openness and inquiry would become an abiding principle. Reading with Chrstine Eastus, thinking about history with Dr B, talking about difference with Xico, a new world opened for me, one that I am grateful for.
The last time, we talked was after our class reunion in 2018.
I missed seeing him.
So we chatted on facebook. He told me about the people he saw from the class, his desire to provide support for veterans. And his evening. After meeting everyone, he “got in an Uber and went the Rangers game. My medical school doctor friend, Frood, had a party there for his daughter in a suite owned by an owner of the Texas Rangers. I spoke to Middle Eastern guests about a two state Palestinian and Israeli solution. Last night, I had a Memorial service for my father at Temple Emanu-El and dined with my beloved family and friends. This is what I would have told you. My night would have been complete with a visit with you and a hug. If I would have died tonight, I would have been the happiest man on earth with one large gaping hole in my heart. Where is my friend, Ben Shepard?✌🏽
4/22/18, 7:55 AM
Love u xico
4/22/18, 10:31 AM
Xico
Love you too!!!!”
For a while there, Xico was everywhere, even visiting, news about his departure, coming as we wandered around the Gropius Bau on Friday night in Berlin.
Arriving the day before on the 15th, we encountered heavy clouds hanging over Berlin. Stark bewolk, said Caroline, looking at the snow on the ground. A chill. Trains to more trains, to Hermannplatz, past snowy streets, political graffiti, signs, flyers for shows coming up, past my favorite coffee shop, Laidak, Boddinstraße.
After finding our accommodations and napping, we walked out to find our favorite outdoor market, in our old neighborhood in Prenzlauerberg, enjoying some gluhwein, outside in the winter cold. And then to see Sonja's 'Dear Berlin' video installation at the Bethanien on Kottbusser Strasse. Ran into Emilio and Sean and Phillip, who showed us his list of shows he was going to that evening, something like a dozen. Flo told us about a queer riot in New Orleans. Emilio told us about swimming with his dad. I loved Sonja's interviews about Berlin, Annette Groschner's confessions of being kicked out of high school for writing poetry, her secret places, the toilet and currywurst stand, an accumulation of disasters, etc...My favorite piece,'The Berlin Clusterfuck' by Tracy Snelling. On the way home, we walked back down Kottbusser Strasse and stumbled into sleep.
16th
Heute der himmel uber Berlin ist blau, says Baby C, looking at the blue skies, walking out into the day, out to see the Diane Arbus show at Gropius Bau. "Presented as a labyrinthine “constellation” of photographs, the exhibition at Gropius Bau follows neither chronological nor thematic grouping," says Berliner Festspiele. Black and white images of people in the streets, everyday life, each photo a story. A picture of Jorge Luis Borges, the intellectual founder of Magic realism and its metaphor of the labyrinth, I could imagine the setting for the show, the curation a nod to our unknown selves and the roads they lead us down, without direction.
Finishing the show, a canceled drink with a friend. Regrouping, we walked through Mitte to Schmitz, to meet Nicholas for a pint. Then Frederico at 8MM onSchönhauser Allee. And out to Andreas' for a birthday, chatting, wondering what happened. Sometimes I wonder. Hopefully we can pull it back together. Everyone has their expectations and etiquette, lost in translation.
17th
Saturday, I met my buddy Johannah and strolled through the Berlin winter day to see The Clock at the Neue National Gallery. “The Clock” by Christian Marclay is a 24-hour video work that takes viewers through a century of cinematic history. Minute by minute, this montage traces the second by second of time in film. There's Rick standing in the rain, Ingrid Berman nowhere to be seen, about to catch the 5 pm train. Mesmerizing and nerve wracking, I could only trace 4: 30 to 5: 15 pm in the cinema. Wow!
We explored the Surrealism show and the exquisite permanent exhibition, talking about the ways our networks expand from Berlin to New York to Mexico City, perusing the show:
“Max Ernst to Dorothea Tanning: Networks of Surrealism
Provenances from the Ulla and Heiner Pietzsch Collection
In cooperation with the Zentralarchiv, the Neue Nationalgalerie presents Max Ernst to Dorothea Tanning: Networks of Surrealism. Provenances from the Ulla and Heiner Pietzsch Collection. One hundred years after the “First Surrealist Manifesto” (1924), this exhibition gives new insights into the ramified networks of this international art movement of the 20th century. The focus is on both the histories of the art works and on life stories of Surrealism’s central artists, dealers, and collectors. On the basis of a representative selection of paintings and sculptures by artists such as Leonora Carrington,Salvador Dalí, Max Ernst, Leonor Fini, René Magritte, Joan Miró, and Dorothea Tanning,...The exhibition not only maps out the manifold paths taken by Surrealist artworks predominantly during the 1930s and 1940s, but also sheds light on how historical circumstances, personal relationships, and social networks contributed to the spread of the international movement. In three sections, the show traces the eventful paths of the paintings and sculptures, which took them from Paris via Brussels and other European cities into exile in Mexico and the USA during the Nazi period and the Second World War. The circle of Surrealists was characterized by its complex relationships in which friendship, love, and business connections often overlapped. Thus, the circulation of works was marked by less formalized transactions. When Nazi Germany occupied France in 1940, numerous Surrealist artists along with their collectors and dealers were forced to flee. Here, too, it was helpful to have connections: many left Europe and emigrated to the USA and elsewhere; others failed to secure an exit visa and had to go into hiding in the unoccupied part of France. Some were able to take their works with them, while others had to leave them behind. This phase that was characterized by changes in location is directly reflected in the provenances of these artworks. In various ways, the biographies of the individual objects testify to friendships and business relations and in equal measure to loss, persecution, and new beginnings. Going far beyond the individual stories of the artworks, these object biographies offer deep insights into the complex networks of the Surrealist movement as well as into the great political challenges of the time.”
Berlin always comes as a surprise, with sorrows and regrets, laughter and pleasure, history and questions of reconciliation. I'm not sure what's coming next. 'Berlin is tough but sincere. Please be kind and respect one another," says the bus announcer.
Baby C and I talk all morning about history and who's living with what, Germany the 1930's, the US with our prison industrial complex, the incarceration generations, slavery, our extermination of indigenous people, the expulsion of immigrants, protesters murdered by ICE agents today. The United States' history is fundamentally shaped by the interconnected and devastating legacies of slavery and the extermination and forced removal of indigenous peoples. There's a lot to make sense of here, looking at them, looking at us, looking at masked ICE agents arresting and detaining, murdering and deporting, reflecting on ourselves, our history, and culture industry, that Adorno warned us about after the war. Fascism looms. The AFD are winning elections across Germany; our orange menace raging against difference in the USA.
I walked out to grab a bus to Kreutzberg.
There, Berlin whirled about us. Music played. The kids danced to the old disco hit, Can't Take My Eyes off You by Boys Town Gang at Kotti Cafe. There, Allessandra recalled when her living room turned into an orgy. The club world can be dangerous, she warns.
Still, we went to @blank, a club just off the Ostkreuz S Bahnhof Station. No drama at the door, dancing late, recalling heroes. Two girls and a boy spin records, beats popping about us in our favorite club, dj’s cheering the crowd, who cheered the DJ, who entertained us, smoking cigarettes, inviting us to join her, pumping her arms. We follow her, applauding when they left and more came. Two sisters, spinning still more, two boys in football jerseys following that, the crowd applauding them, as we all danced along, the way only Berliners seem to do. Sure there are other parties, other cities for dancing. But this is special.
By the time the sun rose, the winter howled. We walked into the morning, sitting out in the park, drinking a beer, a quiet, empty city, only a few street cleaners, and a dog walker. Quiet, still.
And grabbed a train home.
Went to bed at 8 am.
Up a few hours later to meet Nate for the Revolutionary Berlin tour of queer berlin:
Standing in front of the plaque for the queers persecuted during WWII and beyond, Nate traces a history of queer struggles, beginning here in the center of Berlin's rainbow neighborhood, the queer alliance between pink and red, queers and anarchists. The plaque was placed here in 1989, for those beaten to death, the 10,000 queers approximately sent to camps silenced, the first memorial for queers, for lesbians charged as anti-social. But the persecution dates further back to the very founding of the German state, 1871, with Paragraph 175 prohibiting sex between men, or with animals. Women were not included. In the years to follow, it served as a sort of code. ‘I’m born on May 17th…” someone says at a bar. The Nazi’s kept the paragraph. After the war, it survived. The war ended in May 1945. There were three weeks or so there when there was no state. Before June 1945, when the police began enforcing Paragraph 175 again, after the collapse. It was decriminalized in 1994. There are different stories about its end. The Nazi version of the law lasted until 1969, when West Germany repealed it. Some 100,000 gay people were convicted. Some survived the camps, only to be convicted anew, in both democracy and fascism. The age of consent in Germany is 14, 16 for queer people. East Germany kept paragraph 175 but used an earlier version.
Nate walks us to S Habsburgerstraße where Rosa Luxenberg met August Bebel, the head of the SPD, from 1867-1913. His book, Women and Socialism was considered essential reading. He was approached in 1897 about signing a petition to abolish Paragraph 175. Magnus Hirschfeld, the noted German-Jewish physician, sexologist, and pioneering activist, led the petition to abolish Paragraph 175. More than sign the petition, Babel called for the abolition of the unjust law. He said there were far too many homosexuality in Berlin alone, to persecute.
Our next stop was at the Memorial for Hilde Radusch, the Berlin lesbian, and noted feminist, women's rights activist, anti-Fascist resistance fighter and combative politician at Eisenacher Str. 11-14, 10777 Berlin.
On we strolled to the grocery store that was once the site of the El Dorado, the center of queer life in Berlin in the 1920’s and 1970’s.
Nate tells us about “It Is Not the Homosexual Who Is Perverse, But the Society in Which He Lives” the landmark German experimental film by Rosa von Praunheim, that ignited organizing about queer life here. Out of the toilets into the streets, said Germans, referring to the old phrase from the Gay Liberation organizing in the US. Most Germans do not have closets, said Nate. Maybe dressers. Everyone laughs. Lots of our stories are lost in translation. Those at the movie came to the El Dorado. And formed HAW Homosexuelle Aktion Westberlin, a West German gay liberation group founded in 1971, inspired by the U.S. Gay Liberation Front referring to the 1932 group Anti Fascist Action. They drafted a manifesto linking queer freedom with worker rights, etc.
Next stop, Isherwood's house at Nollendorfstraße 17 in the Schöneberg district of Berlin.
Nate spoke about the most prominent lesbian in Berlin, Audre Lorde the influential African-American poet, activist, and self-described "black, lesbian, feminist, warrior, poet," had a profound impact on Berlin's lesbian, queer, and Afro-German communities during her time in the city between 1984 and 1992. She had a lasting impact on Berlin, starting a women’s center here, where she invited conversations about intersectionality, and Afro German identity.
Nate speaks about the politics of Berlin's changing demographics, the anti-capitalist gay marches compared with Christopher Street Day, etc. The Anti-Capitalist Parade, with pro Palestine solidarity, is always a site for anti queer violence by the cops. That the police consider it a threat is a source of pride for Nate. It's good to be considered a threat.
We stop at Hotel Pension, where the first scene of Rosa von Praunheim’s film takes place. Nate refers to the epic organizing of the era, the splits between the fun faction and the political faction of HAW. Are we normal or are we queer, activists asked. Some Italians showed up in high fashion drag and debate ensued about drag in the movement.
Walking by a street in Schöneberg where organizers stopped a plan for a highway, Nate draws parallels between their moment and ours, the struggles for fair housing prices, the successful battles against highways through neighborhoods then, protests against highway planned in Berlin A100 now. Was there any AIDS activism here, I wonder, not seeing a stop for it on our tour. I suspect it was subsumed in NGOization, says Nate. The fight for healthcare and access everywhere, but maybe less in Germany. Yet, the lingering struggle against paragraph 175 would last through much of the history of the modern Germany state, not ending until 1994.
We stopped at The Dorian Grey, Berlin's biggest Lesbian café and dance hall in Berlin that operated from 1921 to 1933. Located at Bülowstraße 57.
Nate ends with a discussion of the squatting scene here, recalling the Fairy House started here in 1981, evicted in 1983, followed by two subsequent queer squats, including "Tuntenhaus" on Mainzer Straße in Berlin-Friedrichshain, that was active in 1990, was evicted in a massive police operation on November 14, 1990. The "Tuntenhaus #3" in Berlin—specifically the long-standing queer housing project in Kastanienallee 86, Prenzlauer Berg—is still active and has successfully fought off recent threats of eviction.
What does this all mean, wonders Nate. That class struggle is still central to queer struggles. It's still central to questions about how to adapt to the German state. It is still central to the Anti Capitalist Queer Marches, still seen as a threat to the state. Stonewall was a riot. Pride was a riot. Make it a riot again, Nate concludes.
The sun was going down by the time the tour ended. I met Andreas at Jannawitzbrucke for an afternoon tea party at Beateuwe. Says the promo, "BU (pronounced: Be yoU) is not only a dance club and bar, but also the cozy living room of a diverse crowd. On Sundays, we rock out in our socks on fluffy, colorful carpets – but otherwise, we tear up the dance floor in our favorite shoes to drive house beats. Our hearts beat at 90 bpm: always in harmony, mindful and united."
Inside, Andreas and I chat about it all, the city, Germany, the right wing tilt in the world.
It's a dangerous game Trump is playing, he tells me, referring to his flirtations with Greenland.
I know, I say, reminding him it's all a distraction, an invitation into the spectacle, hoping the checks and balances work, the reminders about checks and balances, in the US system, that congress will hold the line as Senator Murkowski promises will hold.
More dancing.
In 1989, when I saw the news, I would not have imagined the amount of dancing that would follow. But it's still going on, the whole room dancing to house beats, letting off a little steam, feeling a communal energy.
Back into the vortex of Berlin, hoping the USA does not fall off a cliff.
Monday the 19th
We slept in, feeling spent.
And make our way out for lunch at Felix Austria, a lovely old world place, unpacking the weekend. Every place has its walls, its lost in translation moments, Paris, London, Mexico, Tokyo, certainly Berlin. Its a good day of travel when one avoids it. But its always there. We’re always outsiders.
The friends are many here, even as they change, some arrive, others disappear.
The German etiquette around time and scheduling is a lot.
But we navigate it.
On the other hand, the universal pain everyone is feeling as we watch Trump rage, the Alternative for Deutschland gaining seats, its consuming.
NExt stop, we check out Johanah Keimeyer's fascinating show Leave Your Body Like a Shell at rk-Gallery Lichtenberg, Möllendorffstr 6.
Its a moving meditation on climate grief, bodies in time and space, frail bodies on cold hard surfaces, on burned trees, through water, finding meaning.
Out to the baths, hot and cold, naked bodies everywhere.
A bite
And the blues.
Deep in Neukölln is the Sandman, a lovely little smokey bar, where local musicians play blues tunes, long into the night, their fans dancing away...The German soul tormented enough to make sense of it all through music.
A few images from of Johanna's show
On the way
From Brooklyn to Boston and Back
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