A Crisis of Privilege

Reflections in the Time of COVID-19

In the summer of 1967, I bought corned beef sandwiches at The Pastrami King on Queens Boulevard — in the shadow of the West Side Tennis Club, a few miles from the Elks Club at which my pregnant mother abandoned a Washington’s Birthday dance to bring me into the world. The man who made my sandwiches had a number tattooed on his forearm. He was not in a grainy, black and white video or an encyclopedia. He stood a few feet from me, a nondescript fellow about the same age as my parents.

I had a long talk with my father when I returned to the car. We drove home listening to WINS and heard reports of the ongoing race riots in Newark and the war in Vietnam. Though I lacked the necessary self-awareness, I should have known then that mine was a life of privilege. Whatever tragedies and challenges I’ve endured will never engender much sympathy on a larger societal scale, nor should they. My blessings have been abundant.

Born in 1959, however, I’m currently navigating an eighth decade. Through the simple act of getting up each morning, I’ve collected experiences positive and negative, great and small.

I learned how to tie my shoes watching Frank Gifford demonstrate that art for Captain Kangaroo. At age 4 or 5, I first saw Willie Mays outrun his hat, a well-struck baseball, and our memories of all previous centerfielders as he brushed lightly against the chain link fence in Candlestick Park cradling a base hit denied. I was mesmerized by Oscar Robertson, Pete Maravich and Julius Erving. I watched Sonny Liston lose a battle with Muhammad Ali and Bob Beamon win a battle with gravity. I saw a miracle in Flushing.

Before I could read, my next door neighbor lost his life in a freak accident while playing with the kids on the block. I was too young for it to truly sink in, but the event hung over our neighborhood forever. I have slightly clearer memories of waking to the news of a relative’s passing; the first death to register with me personally. A few days into a new school year, I was scooped out of bed and taken on a race against time and raging infection. A late night surgery at Mercy Hospital removed a burst appendix. A full month of recuperation cured me of peritonitis and dropped me back in the first grade no worse for wear.