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| Broome Street and West Broadway - photo courtesy of NoelG |
The following article I wrote and
posted on Dec. 8, 2005 to commemorate John Lennon’s death. Now, I’m reposting it here to observe his 72nd
birthday:
It was a night similar to the above photograph—Christmas lights adorned some parts of the streets; there were steam
coming out of manholes; some buildings’ were gaily lit; and giant billboards
featured beautiful women promoting newest trends.
It was nippy outside when I stepped
out of my Tai-Chi training center on Sixth Avenue and 43rd Street near Bryant
Park. It was really late. The school had a special demonstration conducted by a
master from the West Coast that featured some of his students. I was compelled
to sit through the entire presentation; amazed by their disciplined forms and
techniques. After which was the courtesy chit-chat with the visitors.
As I headed towards a bus stop on 42nd
Street, a man came out of a Blarney Stone bar shouting, “He got shot! He got
shot!” A couple of other patrons trailed after him; their faces seemed aghast
from the breaking news broadcast that interrupted a football game on
television.
I dismissed the commotion and kept
walking towards the bus stop thinking the victim might be a Mafia kingpin or
some Washington figurehead.
It was a slow night for buses. I must
have been standing there for a good twenty minutes when a young couple walked
over to wait for the same bus. The guy turned to me and asked if I heard the
latest development—that he lost too much blood to survive. When they told
me who it was, my knees weakened; I just sat on the cold curb. The couple knew
how grief-stricken I was.
"Damn, Lennon is dead," I
whispered to no one.
I grew up in a household of diverse music.
My father favored Gene Krupa, Benny Goodman, Cab Calloway, and Xavier Cougat, George and Ira Gershwin, Irving Berlin, to name a few; my mother adored Rogers and Hammerstein, Andrews Sisters, Fred Astaire, and some popular local classics; my eldest sister loved Pat Boone, Paul Anka, Doris Day, Patsy
Cline, Johnny Mathis and Nat King Cole; my brothers would rock to Bill Hailey,
Fats Domino, The Platters, Chubby Checker, Little Anthony and the Imperials and
of course, the king -- Elvis. But when the Beatles came along, I immediately declared
possession. For the first time in my life, I have music to call my very own.
So, when Lennon died that night it
felt as if all music died as well.
He was my idol. I was always amazed by
his quick wit, as well as by his courage to speak his mind. When the White
House took him on as a nemesis, he fought back just as fiercely. But most
important, I was in awe of his words and music. He was to me the finest
wordsmith.
The first time I saw him in person was
in Manila in a motorcade from Manila International Airport to Manila Yacth Club. They were to stay aboard the luxurious yacth owned by the Elizaldes.
Lennon was seated at the back of a white Cadillac -- George on his left
and Paul on his right, while Ringo up front next to the driver. When he noticed me and some friends running towards
their car from a distance, he must have asked the driver to slow down a bit to
allow us to catch up. He then bent forward and waved at us with a big smile on
his face. When we all dropped on the grass as if struck by an invisible force
of his gesture, they all laughed—amused by our antics. The white Cadillac then
picked up speed, made a u-turn and headed towards the yatch club.
I would run into him many times
since that afternoon; usually around Manhattan's Upper West Side. On a couple of times
inside a café in the 70s between Columbus Avenue and Central Park West. I
would always greet him with, “Hi John!” And just like an old friend he would
say hello back while meeting my eyes. That would be it. No small talk,
autograph requests or pictures to take. He was considered a neighbor and that
was it.
He was always with his baby pushing
his stroller. Inside the café, after giving the baby his bottle or letting him
nap, he would lose himself in a book while he sipped his cup of tea or coffee.
No one bothered him. Almost all of New York granted him that kind of respect;
treating him as an ordinary citizen just out to enjoy the day with the baby.
Always, the locals would greet him either with a quick hello or a simple knod
of acknowledgement, which he would reciprocate in kind.
Wikipedia’s profile of him claims,
“When asked once in the 1960s how he expected to die, Lennon's offhand answer
was ‘I'll probably be popped off by some loony.’ In retrospect, although he
might have meant it as a joke and did not expect it to happen, the comment
turned out to be chillingly accurate. Another chillingly accurate comment was
made in his last interview, where he mentioned that he often felt that somebody
is stalking him: first it was federal agents in the 1970s trying to deport him
and later the obsessed fan in 1980.”
New York has a handful of celebrities
as its residents, but none compared to John Lennon in terms of integrity,
madness, brilliance and influence. But most striking was his deep longing for
peace for all of mankind.
10/09/1940 – 12/08/1980
photo by Bob Gruen - greatmodernpictures.com
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Please note:
I very much appreciate my articles and
photos appearing on fellow bloggers' sites, popular broadsheets, and local
broadcast news segments, but I would appreciate even more a request for
permission first.
Thank you!
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