Clarence Clemons has apparently left the building. He will be sorely missed.

I have absolutely no right to be writing about Clarence Clemons - I'm not one of those die-hard E-Street Band fans from way back - I only fell in love with them in 2002 after breaking up with one of those South Shore girls who embodied everything in Bruce's songs. She used to say she had doubts about my character due to the fact I wasn't a Bruce fan. I grew up on the North Shore, where the innocent sentimentality in Bruce's music cannot be understood because people there, as far as I could see growing up, were mainly concerned with money and being assholes. They were way too materially privileged to sense the sweet, nerdy, outcast love in the E-Street Band, so they focused on the driving anthems whose lyrics I don't think they ever listened to. They understood Bruce about as well as Ronald Reagan did. I believe their fan status probably made Bruce scratch his head in wonder. But anyway, I got out of there through a pretty major personal tragedy. More than 15 years later I was sitting on my balcony on Prospect Park West, missing Anita, and started listening to Bruce. I totally fell in love. I started annoying my super hip upstairs neighbors by listening to hours and hours of Bruce and The E-Street Band, and about a month later The Rising tour arrived back at the Meadowlands for a ten night stand. I had to go. Vair, vair, funny, said my friends - you'll be the only gay person in a stadium of 30,000 middle class white people re-living their high school glory days, getting legless and mooing "Bruuuuce!" like a crowd of honky Baptists who go see a  gospel choir once every 5 years to prove they can still feel the spirit of God move them through their beer guts.

I bought a ticket through Craigslist from a lawyer in Philadelphia who had bought tickets for his whole family, who had all bailed on him. He was incredulous. This was my first glimpse of the personal, therapeutic nature of the Bruce fandom. We decided where to meet up that Sunday, and I spent the rest of the week trying to convince my Park Slope friends what a huge opportunity they were missing by not going with me. They got endless enjoyment out of this. 

So I was going alone, no problem. The only way to get out there by public transportation was by bus, so in the extremely down-to-earth spirit of the Boss, I made my way to Port Authority and got on a bus out to The Meadowlands. It was filled with people going to the show - and like any Bruce fans, they were comparing the pedigree of their fan status (which is tallied up in years of devotion + number of shows seen + an amazing capacity to remember set lists from specific shows). I was feeling pretty gay...

I get there and meet Andrew - middle aged lawyer, clearly a bit surprised to see this small lesbian with a ceasar cut as his Bruce concert mate. I was wearing clogs, if I remember right. Yes sir, I was. We tried to give each other some space, but once the music started he couldn't contain himself and started , as any responsible Bruce fan would do, to ask me what I knew about the band. I said I knew nothing. He stood right next to me, like a coach, and proceeded to explicate the show. He was very serious and sincere, and the only chance I had to laugh and stare as much as I wanted at the astounding spectacle of thousands of white guys DANCING WITH FEELING AND SOMETIMES CRYING A LITTLE BIT was when Andrew went for refreshments. That alone, my friends, that alone, is a reason to give your heart to Bruce and Clarence. They made the impossible happen, and made it piercingly, poignantly, hilarious and they could, apparently, do this anytime they wanted. After suffering the attitudes and bullshit, willful disdain and blunt brains of this slice of the population, I really could not have invented any sweeter revenge than seeing them unmasked in this way. 

And that was just what I got from watching the fans :)

Watching Bruce was even better. He is a stunning individual. There is absolutely no one like him - he makes Jon Stewart stutter, and I totally get it. Bruce (and it's never just him, right - it's the whole band) is For Real. And like a lot of great people, he has little to do with his titanic fan base. He's said as much. It's a bit surreal seeing this amazing group of friends who clearly have pierced the veil together, conducting a sort of revival for the spirits of white Americans, who are mostly participants in everything Bruce and the band reject. This became crystal clear once he started writing essays on politics and talking about the war at his shows years later. He gets booed a lot by his devotees. 

Anyway the love and beauty radiating off the stage at a Bruce show is absolutely intoxicating. Now two members of the E Street Band have died. I'm listening to "When They Built You, Brother" for the tenth time this morning and having a private wake for Bruce's dear friend and all around fascinating person Clarence Clemons. 

That Meadowlands show, the year after 9/11, tapping into the crack in the souls of East Coasters that tragedy had created, lasted 4+ hours and I'll always remember it. I've never seen anyone else light up a stadium like that - Clarence smiling at Bruce was seriously effervescent. If you ever have the chance to see Bruce with any of the various combinations of the band or solo, don't think twice. 

Like Arnold, I'm back. But not with a crazy story about secret children...

America, seriously. Being away for a while I realized my country makes me very sad. If you know me you know I'm always quick to point out the drawbacks of living in the States, but even I wasn't prepared for the deep sadness I felt coming back. You can say whatever you want about nothing exterior being able to make a person feel any particular way, but the circumstances are tragic and if it didn't impact me I'd be a very disconnected individual. Which I am not. The instant I got back to the States I was hit with an oppressive wave of racism and classism. I flew into the Atlanta airport, where it is extremely creepy that only black people work there. I don't think I saw a single white person in a service job there. Why don't any white people work there? Keep in mind this is Georgia - nothing to do with race is a coincidence. There is a high, tightness in service people's voices there. One thing I didn't experience in the airport was sexism, probably because everyone was just as beaten down as the next person. All of this amidst a constant flow of soldiers taking off for Iraq. Is your head hurting yet? Mine was.

And then I made the mistake of going to a bar to use the internet.

Let me start by describing waiter service in Europe. You walk into a place. If it's not a fancy place when you walk in you're not greeted - you're either alone in an empty room or there are people eating and drinking and you walk in and you can either sit down or wait. I'm so Yank I'll be waiting to be seated until the flesh falls away from my bones. Conditioning. So you sit or stand. Eventually someone comes out and says hello and tells you to sit down without degrading themselves in any way...it's spooky. In fact, they seem to not grovel, out of some deep conviction that they are not doormats. What's an American to do? (Celebrate European democracy). They do not fawn over you as they describe a list of specials that no one should have to recite 40 times before they get through with work. In fact, they are so cheeky as to ask you what you want without going into 27 degrees of insane conditional verbs, like "I'd love to get you something if you'd like to have something let me suggest that you might want to try our....ad nauseum. They do not tell you their name. They may even make you ask what they have - as they raise their eyes to yours - as if they're equals! Warning to middle class Americans here - they actually get paid whether you tip or not, avoiding a lifetime of performing like trained seals, whereas in the U.S., they work regardless of whether they get paid or not. In Europe they even get paid if they take a long time getting to you because you're not the only customer and they have work to do to keep the restaurant clean and running smoothly. You're expected to wait! It's like...manna from heaven. I HATE eating out in the U.S. because of the possible ruptured friendships resulting from people in my party saying things like, "God, I've been waiting like 3 minutes for my drink - it's like this guy/girl doesn't know they're working for tips." Or "They didn't even come check on us and I wanted more (free) chips. There goes their tip." I avoid eating out here like the plague because it often brings out a side of people that should really be reserved for their therapist in an effort to purge it from their character. In Spain I could enjoy a wonderful, guilt-free public dining experience and didn't even feel like I had to reassure anyone working during my meal that I wasn't a complete prick. Because they don't care if I'm a prick or not! And waiters aren't the stress receptacle they are here so people do not take out their anger on them. It's like a miracle, only it's just simple respect. Which may qualify as a miracle in my supposedly democratic nation.

But here at home? The waiter and the floor manager (not even a position in Europe unless you're into the high end places) were so subservient and concerned about my satisfaction with my iced tea and chips and salsa I wanted to pay them to make them go away. I had to reassure them many times that everything was fine and it was the greatest service I'd ever had - and even that didn't get rid of them. I wanted to write them a letter but I'm writing this instead - it's dedicated to Derek and his floor manager who I thought was going to give me a back rub when I couldn't take any more tea refills. I left him a huge tip - partly so they'd know I really appreciated their work, and partly so Derek didn't get questioned under hot, bright lights as to what he could've done to go above and beyond my expectations and hence to have gotten me to spend more money. His defense would be the huge tip. Why do I know these things? Don't ask.

Here I am back home. Back (sorry to obsess) in the land where people who speak Cervantes' language look at the floor when you walk by instead of saying hello. Don't get me wrong, it's not because people here aren't friendly - they're responding to the disgusting racism that governs our lives and is surprisingly rarely mentioned in polite company. The situation here has always been heartbreaking to me, but I'm feeling it more after having been in Spain for long enough to bond, where I was the obvious foreigner, the one out of place, the one who needed to worry about her visa status. And I did worry, because, as usual, I was breaking the law. But I wasn't worried about being brutally deported or arrested - just worried about my next visa.

Hispanic people here avoid my eyes when I go to the store. We live with, and often unconsciously support, a type of Apartheid in this country.  I speak Spanish at home. I'm fluent in Spanish but I'm white, so I have to stomach being treated as other white people are - as a racist. When I was in LA last year I rubbed my eyes as I was forced to accept that Hispanic people weren't even acknowledged in public - no eye contact on the bus, on the street, in cafes - none! I thought Texas was bad - and it is, but California, ouch. Wherever I went Hispanic people only talked amongst themselves and looked down or away when in mixed company. Clearly I'm talking about people who immigrated - not people born here. But we're working on making them slaves as well - there's a new push to not grant citizenship 'solely on the basis of being born in the U.S.' - just typing that makes some bile release from somewhere deep inside and thanks, America, it tastes like shit.

We talk about Hispanic people and immigrants as a big block instead of as individuals, we feel free to not go out of our way to say hello and break the culture barrier, and when white people are trying to be cool they come out with enlightened statements like, "We need them - after all, they take the jobs no one else will do." This is wrong. I hear so many stereotypes and assumptions about immigrants - about what they want, what they 'deserve', what role they play in our country...this situation has got to change (as well  as associating Hispanic people with illegality (a horrific wrong)). I for one would like to stand up and say that as a Caucasian American I break the law all the time in small ways, knowing I'll never have any problem. And so do you! I've overstayed any and all visas ever imposed on me, actually, because they're too restrictive. Because of my passport and my skin color, I can joke about it with friends, rather than have people look at me like I'm a criminal. But I am, technically, a criminal. If I were Mexican I'd probably be in jail or in hiding for doing the same thing.

So what? So why write about this? Because I work in yogalandia, where people are constantly plastering every blank surface with inspirational quotes, but they are ignoring the true opportunity for righting wrongs right here, right now.

Suggestions? Personally I hate suggestions...so please stop reading now if you've ever been subject to the tyranny of 'suggestions' that were actually 'commands', but many of my friends who were trained in corporate America will demand suggestions for improvement because that's the language they speak. Engage in conversations with people you are freaked out by. Take Spanish. Stand up for Mexico because we're destroying their country on purpose. Join groups that fight for black people's rights. Join groups that fight for people's rights who are not like you. If you're a man, join a feminist reading group or read up on what's going on. If you're straight, subscribe to a gay publication. Start to weave diversity into your life instead of feeling lousy about being uninformed. Make eye contact.

Postscript : It's been pointed out that all these suggestions amount to one thing that probably represents everyone instead of who I happened to mention here : working for social democracy in America. I agree. Thanks!