NYC24: Gay immigrants find safe space in New York
NYC24.com: Gay Immigrants Find Safe Space in New York March 2008, multimedia story
After 9/11, U.S. priorities shifted from providing a safe space for others to protecting its own citizens. Today, immigrants fleeing persecution are applying for asylum in fewer numbers as deportation rates are increasing.
Dane Solomon is No Longer Afraid
By Lisa Biagiotti & Channtal Fleischfresser
In 1997, Dane Solomon went to the movies alone in Georgetown, Guyana, as he always did. At 11 p.m., he crossed the street to catch a bus home when two men asked him to spare some change. When Solomon declined, they punched him in the stomach.
“This faggot came onto us,” the men told arriving policemen, Solomon remembers. In Guyana, only four types of people walk alone at night: policemen, thieves, prostitutes and “anti-men” (homosexuals). Solomon spent a sleepless night in the corner of a crowded jail cell.
Seven years ago, he fled this life, leaving his native country and family, never to return. In the years since, he suffered a stroke, beat brain cancer, and coped with HIV, poverty and the uncertainty of being undocumented in New York.
On Feb. 20, 2008, Solomon, 36, walked out of the immigration office in Lyndhurst, N.J., completing a one-year asylum application process. Weeping, he flipped open his white cell phone and called his mother, Claudette, in Guyana.
“I feel liberated,” Solomon said. “The day in which I received asylum, I called up friends of mine and said, ‘I’m as legal as Barack Obama.’”
But Solomon is not typical of those seeking asylum.
After the attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, United States priorities shifted from providing a safe space for others to protecting its own citizens. Today, immigrants fleeing persecution are applying for asylum in fewer numbers as deportation rates are increasing. Heightened immigration controls have made it harder for immigrants to obtain visas, and many who are eligible do not apply for asylum because they fear being deported if their application is rejected.
The number of people who voluntarily applied for asylum decreased by 48 percent between 2001 and 2007. During the same period, the number of people deported increased by two and a half times. [Chart]
“In many cases, immigrants won’t apply affirmatively because they don’t want to be placed on immigration’s radar,” said Jonathan Eoloff, an attorney for the National Immigrant Justice Center, an organization focusing on gay asylum in Chicago, Ill.
The drop in asylum applications does not necessarily correlate to rising deportation numbers, but it underscores the apprehension among immigrants to voluntarily present themselves to immigration authorities. An unintended consequence of expanded homeland security measures is that many in need of asylum have been discouraged from applying.
Despite the risk of deportation, Solomon felt he could not return to his native Guyana for fear of further persecution. Unlike many immigrants who find refuge in the safe haven the U.S. provides—albeit illegally—Solomon decided to file a petition for asylum to obtain legal residency.
“I lived in constant fear that I would not be able to put up this facade,” Solomon said. “Knowing who you are inside and pretending to be somebody else takes everything from you.”
At age 16, Solomon left his home in rural Linden, Guyana after years of emotional and physical abuse. He worked his way through the University of Guyana and served in Georgetown’s city police force.
Pressured to prove his masculinity to fellow police officers, Solomon had a one-night stand with a woman. His son, Dane, Jr., is now 14-years-old and lives with Solomon’s mother. Solomon left the force after two years, joining the Red Cross and then the United Nations as a health educator in Guyana. On a U.N. visit to the U.S. in 2001 he participated in his first Gay Pride Parade.
“I saw the freedom of people to express themselves for who they are,” Solomon said. “All I wanted to do was love somebody freely and be loved.” Solomon decided to overstay his visa in the U.S.
In 1994 former Attorney General Janet Reno expanded asylum law to include immigrants who could prove government persecution based on sexual preference. Asylum applications must be filed within one year of entry into the U.S. Immigrants must prove persecution in their home country on the basis of race, religion, nationality, political opinion, or membership in a particular social group—gay asylum cases fall under this category, according to Victoria Neilson, the legal director of Immigration Equality, a national organization that works to end immigration discrimination.
“People don’t know it’s an option. It’s very hard for people to learn about it, and learn about it in time,” said Rachel Tiven, executive director of Immigration Equality, which screens selectively and accepts only one in seven prospective asylum petitioners. “The number one reason we turn away cases is because they’re beyond the one-year filing deadline.”
A year after arriving in the U.S., Solomon suffered a stroke, which left him paralyzed, unable to speak and walk for seven months. But Solomon chose to apply despite missing the filing deadline. According to Immigration Equality, Solomon’s circumstances were exceptional and he received a waiver for the application deadline.
“I did not have an identity for years,” said Solomon. “My entire life was a lie.” Now, he can run out of his apartment and kiss his boyfriend on the street. As he searches for a job, he can confidently negotiate his salary. And he looks forward to bringing Dane, Jr. to the U.S. after seven years apart.
“This is the start of my American Dream,” Solomon said. “I can make a better life, not just for myself, but for my son.”
NYC24: People Die, Stuff Lives
This story was cross-published by the Queens Tribune.
Objects take on a life of their own after their owner’s death, finding their way into hipster living rooms, immigrant kitchens and even to the developing world.
NYC24.com: People Die, Stuff Lives
By Lisa Biagiotti and Kenan Davis
As his finger smoothed across the plastic sleeve of a 1764 shilling, the silver finish flickered in the white florescent light. Nick DiMola figured the coin was handed down to him - not by will or promise, but because he was the last person to see value in it.
DiMola, owner of DiMola Bros. Rubbish Removal, cleans out an average of 15 homes a month, often in the wake of death. And unless he salvages these remnants, they are headed directly to the dumpster, to be forgotten forever.
In a warehouse in Ridgewood, Queens, DiMola has curated a personal museum of other people’s junk. Decal signs, gold teeth, receipts from the 1930s, crutches, wedding portraits and a menagerie of pre-1970 memorabilia blanket every surface of his office.
“You’re looking back in history when you find a piece of garbage,” said thirty-eight-year-old DiMola, flipping the coin from side to side. “Every job I go on I find something interesting, it could be a coin, a stamp, it could be anything.”
DiMola ranks last in the hierarchy of people and businesses designated to sort out the physical property of the dead. An object takes on a life of its own after an owner’s death, finding its way into hipster living rooms, immigrant kitchens and even to the developing world.
“Stuff has lives—I do believe that things are not inanimate and that they have history and that history is to be honored,” said Kristin P. Bergfeld of Bergfeld’s Estate Clearance. “To throw away something that someone else can use, to me, is just distasteful. There are too many people who need a bookshelf or a pair of boots.”
For more than 20 years, Bergfeld has worked with grieving families to orchestrate the transfer of belongings to new homes. She has found creative solutions to re-purpose and reuse stuff, directing the flow of contents to auction blocks, thrift shops and religious community centers.
GOING ONCE, GOING TWICE…SOLD!
“New York City doesn’t lend itself to garage sales, it usually involves a third party,” said Max Drazen of Tepper Galleries, the oldest auction house in the city. Death presents a major source of inventory for Tepper’s 25 general auctions a year, which display more than 1,000 items with price tags ranging from $5 to $500,000.
The items that cannot sell at auction usually find their way to thrift store shelves.
There are approximately 25,000 thrift stores and consignment shops across the country, said Adele Meyer, executive director of National Association of Resale and Thrift Shops. In New York City, Housing Works, a charity dedicated to fighting AIDS and homelessness, has opened three new shops in the last three years.
In Long Island City, 47,000 black plastic garbage bags pile up at Housing Works’ 10,000 square-foot processing and distribution center. The facility sends an average of 25,000 articles of clothing, shoes and accessories to its seven thrift shops per month, according to operations director Erica Hudson.
“The environment has a lot to do with it and I think people like the idea of reuse,” said Keith Mancuso, Housing Works’ director of business marketing. “It’s definitely had a resurgence. It’s becoming more mainstream, especially in New York.”
But while thrift stores accept almost everything, some items are not fit for resale. The warehouses of rag companies like Trans-Americas Trading Company, a textile-recycling factory in Clifton, N.J., mark the next stop for unwanted garments.
Eric Stubin, president, said that 45 percent of the second-hand clothing he purchases from thrift stores is usable. He ships about 6 million pounds a year to developing regions like sub-Saharan Africa and converts the remaining rags—70,000 pounds per day—into materials for the wiper and fiber industries.
“Donate to charities first, recycle as a second option, but don’t throw it away,” Stubin said. “We are a final alternative before the landfill.”
FINAL RESTING PLACE
But sometimes the garbage is the only option. And that means these items are headed directly to the dumpster, unless DiMola salvages the discarded artifacts.
DiMola stores taped up boxes in the mezzanine of his of warehouse. He can tell by the newspaper stuffing what year the box was packed. He unwraps items carefully, sometimes pausing to read the news in the decades-old paper.
“In the garbage business, everyday is Christmas,” said DiMola, who sat looking at a tarnished 1910 sousaphone, boxing gloves and a fedora hanging from a shelf. “The family don’t want to bring a lot of the old stuff back because they don’t appreciate it.”
The stuff he doesn’t want or can’t give away to family and friends - usually vintage kitchenware - he sells on eBay, netting approximately $1,500 a month.
But for the rest, even Nick DiMola must take it to the landfill.
“It was going in the garbage in the beginning, and I was trying to save it, but you can only save so much,” DiMola said. “I think I do a pretty good job saving what I could.”
NYC24: AcroYoga Flies Off the Mat and Into the Air
NYC24.com: AcroYoga Flies Off the Mat and Into the Air February 2008, multimedia story
From clowns and trapeze artists to business analysts and advertising executives, AcroYoga is attracting more practitioners with its playful and therapeutic atmosphere. AcroYoga blends partner yoga, acrobatics and Thai massage.
Friday Night Turned Upside Down
By Lisa Biagiotti, Philip Caulfield, Kenan Davis & Lizzie Stark
Hanging upside down, balancing in midair, acrobatic poses and massaging strangers are all part of Jake Brenner’s Friday night plans. He’s not a bat, a circus performer or a masseuse, he’s an AcroYogi.
For the past six months, Brenner, 27, has spent Friday evenings with a growing community of more than 25 regular practitioners who use their bodies to “fly” at Om Factory, a holistic wellness and yoga center in the Fashion District.
“It’s about meeting a bunch of people, trying new things and playing safe and responsibly,” said Brenner, a marketing director.
From clowns and trapeze artists to business analysts and advertising executives, AcroYoga is attracting more practitioners with its playful and therapeutic atmosphere. AcroYoga blends partner yoga, acrobatics and Thai massage.
“This is my second time ever,” said Jules Bertrand, 38, an advertising executive who came to one Friday night session with a friend. “I think everybody is talking to everybody and the classes are getting bigger. It’s so much fun — it’s flying.”
Unlike regular yoga classes that focus on one breath and one body, AcroYoga takes the practice off the mat and into the air in what looks like a highly skilled Romper Room party.
“It ignites the child in us because we are present,” said Jenny Sauer-Klein, a co-founder of AcroYoga who lives in San Francisco. “To physically be lifted in the air is a sensation we haven’t had since we were children. It automatically makes people smile.”
Along with the child-like giddiness comes fear because the flier is often positioned upside down on someone else’s feet. Safety and support are priority in the classes, where the operative word is “down” — a signal for the base to ease the flier to the floor.
’s about helping out people when it’s their first time,” Brenner said. “Because when you see it, it’s very intimidating, and for everyone to feel so supportive and so confident, it makes you feel like you can do it.”
New York has the second largest AcroYoga community in the world, topped only by the activity’s birthplace, San Francisco. Om Factory is the only New York location with a regular AcroYoga schedule, offering three classes a week. But Adi Carter, who was recently certified as an AcroYoga instructor, plans to start a class in Brooklyn.
Jason Nemer and Sauer-Klein created AcroYoga in 2004. They have certified 70 AcroYoga instructors worldwide, but plan to cap certification at 108 after the 2008 teacher training. In order to become a certified AcroYoga instructor, applicants must already be certified to teach yoga, and must have expertise in massage or acrobatics in order to qualify for the 16-day teacher training.
“We really think of AcroYoga teachers as a family,” said Sauer-Klein, 29. “We really want to cultivate individual relationships.”
While some traditional yoga instructors are interested in AcroYoga, some question whether this acrobatic-styled activity is authentically yoga.
“It sounds like something you would do at Equinox or at the sports complex on the West Side Piers,” said Patricia Perez, 38, owner of Shiva Yoga Shala on the Lower East Side.
Sauer-Klein doesn’t believe AcroYoga is a substitute for a solo personal practice, but rather an opportunity for deeper self reflection and a way to relate to other people.
Erik Cummings, 35, who teaches Bikram yoga — yoga practiced in a room heated to over 100 degrees — said he would try AcroYoga. “I do other types of yoga and it’s good to mix it up and see what other people think and try different styles,” he said. “If it makes people happy, who cares?”
And on Friday night, AcroYogis trickle out of Om Factory headed for another flying and Thai massage session in an apartment uptown.
Queens Tribune: Living The Hip-Hop Life In Corona
Living The Hip-Hop Life In Corona
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Inside All the Right’s Corona location.
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At first glance, a high-end urban lifestyle boutique seems out of place above the Kennedy Fried Chicken on Junction Boulevard in Corona.
The wafting odor of fried chicken and the high-pitched sounds of electronic toys of the Chinese wholesaler next door could easily distract from what’s in between: a minimalist 10-foot-wide brick wall painted black.
Two brass-potted shrubs flank the glass entrance, and except for a black-and-white flag on the building’s second floor, All the Right boutique is almost invisible.
Owner George Landin said All the Right has transitioned from a record store with a recording studio and barber shop to a high-end apparel boutique in accordance with hip-hop’s four elements: DJ (disc jockey), MC (Master of Ceremonies), B-boy (break dancer), and graffiti.
Since 1998, All the Right has been a fixture in this working-class, mostly Latino neighborhood, attracting local rappers and graffiti artists and generating buzz by word of mouth as far away as Japan. Landin, who grew up in Corona, is now in the process of expanding All the Right’s vision and vibe to Los Angeles where he is scheduled to open another store in late February.
“I’m 36 years old, I’ve seen it, I lived it, I went to the clubs, I was a DJ, it’s natural,” said Landin, who sported a midnight blue oversized leather jacket, baggy Levi’s jeans, Air Jordan sneakers and a black baseball cap. “My whole movement, my whole life is hip-hop.”
His wedding band’s three diamonds flashed as he spoke with his hands about cherry picking limited items of exclusive men’s and women’s apparel and sneakers. His loyal customers often climb the narrow staircase to check whether the new shipments have arrived, or to pick up graffiti supplies from Japan and Germany and pre-released hip hop albums.
According to Landin, the hip-hop lifestyle component isn’t part of some corporate branding strategy. At a time when clothing stores emphasize lifestyle and the shoppers’ experience, All the Right has always embodied the way Landin lives.
“[It] comes from here,” Landin said, patting his chest. “I do it out of love; I don’t do it because it’s hot.”
Ulises Rivera, 20, of Corona, stopped by to hang out for three hours before work at the T-Mobile store on Junction Boulevard. Rivera has been a customer throughout All the Right’s phases – hair cuts, vinyl records, and now, clothes and sneakers.
“George looks out for people, it’s not just a sale,” said Rivera. “It’s like your father’s barber shop, with more of an ambiance; it’s more than just a place to shop.”
And to Landin, All the Right goes beyond being an offbeat shop ahead of the fashion curve. It’s part of his “hood” – an often overlooked place where rappers from Corona influenced and shaped hip-hop.
“This is like headquarters to certain people, we chill,” said Landin, whose friends and customers stop by to listen to music, strike up conversations on upcoming rap albums and little-known fashion lines, or create pieces on the store’s outdoor graffiti wall or ceiling tiles.
“This ‘hood has a mixture of everything – good, bad, ugly,” said Landin. “A little bit of everybody, somewhere, somehow.”
But with the boutique’s high ticket items like a $1,300 custom-made, chrome, low-rider bike, $500 Nike sneakers made out of tennis ball material, and designer denim that costs up to $400, who shops here?
“This is an exclusive shop in Queens,” said Che Williams, 30, of Flushing, and founder of Rotten Apple Wear urban street apparel. “You usually have to go down to SoHo. That’s why [Landin] gets all my money here.”
Johnny Castellanos, 20, said he drives an hour and 40 minutes every two weeks from Brentwood, L.I. to shop at All the Right.
“I wear anything that goes with my sneakers,” said Castellanos, who said he owns about 70 pairs. “I have to leave with something every time.” He purchased jeans and a black, turquoise and purple sweatsuit, which matched his Air Jordan sneakers.
After almost 10 years in business, All the Right is planning to elevate its exclusive urban vibe out in L.A., where a still-unnamed 2,000 square-foot-store near Rodeo Drive would sell home accessories, apparel for men and women, vintage eyewear, and random vintage items like an old sewing machine, according Landin’s partner, who goes by the name Moonshine.
Landin and Moonshine said the West Coast store would represent the same All the Right customer – the hardcore graffiti artist and skater, but more refined and grown up.
“[Our L.A. customer] still likes the cool T-shirts but now he wants a cool lamp for his living room. He now owns an apartment,” said Moonshine. “You have to be able to connect to your customer; we connect because we live the same lifestyle.”
And for Landin that means keeping All the Right rooted in his hometown of Corona with no plans to open another store in the five boroughs.
“I try to show people it’s not only Manhattan, Uptown or Brooklyn,” said Landin. “Why go that far when I’m here?”
All the Right is located at 35-61 Junction Blvd. in Corona. Call (718) 899-7685.
Queens Tribune: All it takes is a dollar and a wall
Outdoor handball courts empty out during colder months when hands begin to sting from slapping the ball. But serious handball players take the sport indoors and train at the Elks Lodge on Queens Boulevard, as part of a new Elks Fraternity membership initiative.
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Handball hopefuls get a game in at CC Moore Homestead Park.
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It’s easy to find a ball and a wall in Elmhurst.
On any mild day at CC Moore Homestead Park on Broadway and 45th Avenue, teenagers play handball, smoke cigarettes and hang out. Because of limited park space, handball is a popular recreational sport in the neighborhood. Outdoor handball courts empty out during colder months when hands begin to sting from slapping the ball.
But serious handball players take the sport indoors and train at the Elks Lodge on Queens Boulevard, as part of a new Elks’ membership initiative. These players credit handball with keeping them out of trouble, and several players have become nationally ranked by the United States Handball Association (USHA), in Tuscon, Ariz., where officials recognize Elmhurst players by their first names.
“I have a lot of friends who messed up their lives with drugs,” said Victor LoPierre, 22, a nationally ranked player and senior at Queens College. “Handball kept me away from that because I was busy playing. [It’s about] using handball as a tool to get more people focused on their lives.”
This motivated breed of Elmhurst handball players has another thing in common – they were all coached by Michael Watson.
Watson, 42, a former professional handball player, has voluntarily coached players on public courts for the past 15 years. He said he has traveled with his players to tournaments in Toledo, Ohio and as far away as Venice Beach, Calif.
“When I hit about 28, 29 [years old], I would go around the park, and nobody would play with the kids,” said Watson, a computer consultant who lives in Maspeth. “In the previous generation there was a disconnect, [experienced players] stopped playing with younger guys.”
But Watson said someone needed to teach young people the proper techniques of the game. He currently works with about 30 to 35 handball players, and approximately six to 10 closely several days a week.
“I always tried to pick the kids who are going to school, working, and are decent, well-mannered,” said Watson. “Every kid that I’ve touched has been a national champion at the junior level.”
There are three different types of handball games depending on the how many walls are in play – one-wall, three-wall and four-wall. While in New York, handball is predominantly played on concrete, one-wall courts with “big blue” balls, the rest of the country (and collegiate tournaments) tend to play on indoor four-wall courts with smaller ace balls.
LoPierre, of Forest Hills, was coached by Watson and has traveled all over the country and to Europe to play. In November, LoPierre placed third at the Italian handball tournament in Nizza Monferrato.
The sport is gaining international appeal, with Italian and Basque handball federations inviting U.S. players to compete. On the national level, the USHA said collegiate handball is the fastest growing tournament with 35 to 40 different colleges slotting up to 30 players in competition.
Some of Watson’s players have leveraged their handball skills into college financial aid packages.
“Ever since I found out I could get a [college] scholarship or some help, I started to fulfill my dreams, both academically and physically,” said Jonathan Iglesias, 21, a senior at the renowned handball college, Lake Forest College in Illinois.
“Everything I learned through handball I can transition to any part of my life,” said Iglesias, of Elmhurst. “[I see] how you can use handball to network, get into a good school and grow as a person.”
Now, these handball players are joining the Elks Lodge and focusing on giving back to the community. Coach Watson, an Elks officer, said he has recruited about 16 to 20 members – all handball players – to become junior members of the Elk’s Antlers under-21 program. They play handball on the indoor court, but also visit veterans’ hospitals and engage the community.
“It is almost a perfect situation because [the Elks are] in the neighborhood,” said Watson regarding the effort to boost the fraternity’s membership, which once swelled at over 5,000 members. Since then, the Elks have sold their historic, landmark building and rent the adjacent gymnasium facility. Membership has dwindled to 350, with the average age around 65.
“Only the youth can recapture the excitement of what the Elks was all about,” said Innunzio Russo, exalted Elks ruler.
But on another semi-warm day, kids crowd in Broadway Park and play street handball with cigarettes dangling from their mouths, whacking at the big, blue ball – it’s all part of the urban culture here.
“Anybody can play,” said LoPierre, an Elks member. “That’s what’s so great about [handball]. You can buy a ball for a dollar at the store and go play.”
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