Bronx

NYC Marathon: Runners Groove Into Hip-Hop Motherland

(From left) LaRue Marlow, Isaiah Seward and Andre Rainey of the BURN U Movement welcome runners to the Bronx with hip-hop beats. Photo by Alexa Mae Asperin

Upon crossing Willis Avenue Bridge, runners in the 2011 ING New York City Marathon celebrated their 20-mile victory by waving to the crowds, putting their hands in the air, and bobbing their heads to the swift sounds of hip-hop music that infiltrated the air as they invaded the Bronx.

“They’re running straight into the place where hip-hop was made,” said spectator Annie Ruiz-Martinez, 26, from Pelham Bay, Bronx. “It’s great that they’re being welcomed to the borough with this upbeat music to keep them going!”

Widely recognized as the birthplace of the hip-hop subculture, the Bronx welcomed thousands of runners from all over the world and attracted even more cheering fans hoping to give marathoners a boost on the 26.2 mile-long journey. Some passed out water bottles, others yelled tidbits of inspiration, and many extended their arms for a friendly high-five. But the BURN U Movement gave runners a taste of entertainment native to the borough they had finally reached.

“We’re getting such a positive response from the runners and the crowds,” said founder LaRue Marlow, 37, of Co-op City, Bronx. “We want to bring excitement to the runners and as soon as they pass that bridge, they hear us and get inspired to keep moving.”

Marlow, who came to the marathon with six other Movement members and has been involved in the music industry for the past 20 years, said the group’s mission to “bring unity through hip-hop culture” brought them to perform at the marathon for the first time, engaging crowds and runners with everything from rap and gospel to R&B.

“Why not encourage runners with upbeat music at a time where they’re probably needing it most,” Marlow said.

Rapper Isaiah “Saiah” Seward, 29, of Albany, NY, who performs both as a solo artist and with the Movement, was inspired to organize the group’s involvement with the marathon because of his passion of giving back to the community.

“I would never be able to get through this race,” Seward said. “So the Movement and I get to keep them going through music and remind them they can reach their goals.”

Seward, who has been performing for nearly 10 years, said entertaining runners in the Bronx was the perfect place not only because of its reputation as the hip-hop motherland, but because the location is a fundamental point for marathoners.

“At the 20-mile mark they’re probably reaching that point where they’re getting tired but people here are yelling, ‘Welcome to the Bronx!’ and we’re engaging the crowds,” Seward said. “We just want to give the runners energy and inspiration to get to the end.”

Runners are welcomed to the Bronx with signs like these and cheering crowds to boost their spirits during the ING NYC Marathon. Photo by Alexa Mae Asperin

As for involvement in future races, both Marlow and Seward agreed they would love to be part of the marathon – not by running but performing again.

“Next year I’m going to try and get a stage down here,” Marlow said. “It has been an amazing first experience and we hope we accomplished something today by showing others that there’s more to hip-hop than what you may see or hear.”

Spectator Cherise Gonzalez, 35, of Melrose, Bronx said the Movement’s beats helped her continue cheering, which she said may not be as strenuous as running, but requires just as much energy.

“It’s uplifting and helps me to help runners,” Gonzalez said. “They really get a sense of not only the Bronx but New York as a whole in that we welcome people from all over and take care of each other especially on days like today.”

Bronx man recounts demographics shift

Louis Cochi poses for a picture outside Vincent Ciccarone Park, one of his favorite neighborhood spots. Cochi has seen numerous changes in Arthur Avenue, a neighborhood in the Bronx, since coming to America in 1956. Photo by Frank Riolo

Louis Cochi sat next to his best friend, Antonio, as he enjoyed the unseasonably warm 70-degree weather on a late October afternoon.

With his thick Italian accent, the 82-year-old could go on forever about how much he loves his life and his home just off of Arthur Avenue in the Bronx.

His hair, white and uncombed, stuck straight up in the air, as if he had just rolled out of bed. He wore a gray, short-sleeved shirt complimented by nylon Adidas pants and worn-out New Balance sneakers — not exactly fashion conscious, but that doesn’t matter to Cochi. He is a simple man with simple desires and values.

As children ran around the playground, calling to one another as they played tag, Cochi quietly observed it all from his favorite bench in Vincent Ciccarone Park, between 187th and 188th streets.

“This neighborhood has changed 100 percent,” he said in broken English. “When I first came up here, it was beautiful. It was better. It was more people — more Italian people, more Jewish. Still you’ve got some, but before it was plenty.”

Arthur Avenue, though literally a road, more commonly refers to an area located in the Belmont section of the Bronx that has long been known for its predominantly Italian culture. But in the past few decades, the Italian population in Belmont has dwindled to a few blocks surrounding Arthur Avenue, while the Latino, black and Albanian populations have grown rapidly.

Cochi has lived in an apartment on Crotona Avenue, just a few blocks from Arthur Avenue, since 1956, when he came to New York from Italy to start a family with his wife who had left for America five years earlier.

“I worked in the same shop for 25 years,” he said, reminiscing about his life in America. “I was a tailor. I always used my hands, and I could do everything. I was the best in everything. And then everything changed. Everything became machines, and they said no more hands because we got to save money.”

Cochi said that at that time, everyone was like a family. But now, because the area is so ethnically diverse, he feels there is no longer that sense of community.

“Even at work … it was like a family. We were together. We were like 500 people — Italian, Jewish, Greek, everything. It was like minestrone,” he said as a smile crept onto his face. “We would eat together, get coffee together. … Everything was together and we’d enjoy life. It’s not that way anymore.”

According to the 2000 U.S. Census, people of Latino origin make up 48.4 percent of the population in the Bronx. Conversely, white people represent about 29.9 percent of the population.

Other residents and business owners have felt the change in the neighborhood as well. However, they view it as something to be accepted.

“For me to say whether I like the change of a neighborhood … who am I to say?” said Chris Borgatti, owner of Borgatti’s Ravioli and Egg Noodles. Borgatti, 53, was the third generation in his family to work at the shop, which was established in 1934 at the corner of 187th Street and Belmont Avenue. “I realize there’s been a lot of diversity in the New York area through the years. People have come here to find the same opportunities that my grandparents did. … I have no problem with that.”

Even Cochi, who never misses an opportunity to point out how much better Arthur Avenue used to be, made it clear he never judges others by their ethnicity.

“I like anyone of any nationality — even the Chinese,” he said, nodding towards a Chinese restaurant across the street. “I get along with everybody. … Everybody has a job. Everybody has children. … We are nice and peaceful.”

And despite the demographics shift, Cochi was certain in saying this will always be his home.

“Where else am I going to go?” he said with a chuckle. “I’ve got my apartment. I’ve got my wife. I shop; she cooks. I come over here with my friends. We play cards. … Better than this, it can’t come.”

As he leaned back on his bench, another man walked along the perimeter of the park and whistled to Cochi. After getting his attention, the man gestured toward Cochi to come with him.

“He wants to go to the library,” Cochi said. Grunting as he stood up, he gathered his belongings and promised to return the next day, as long as the weather remained bearable. And as he and his friend Antonio disappeared through the park gate to meet the other man, the children of a new generation continued to play tag on the playground.

Bronx morticians cope with humor

Morticians who work for the Bronx medical examiner's office say they cope with the stress of their jobs by maintaining a good sense of humor. Photo by Meredith Bennet-Smith

When Gwen Coffiel gets behind at her job in the Bronx, her supervisor reminds her she’s “not sewing pants, the stitches don’t have to be perfect.”

Coffiel works in the medical examiner’s office, and her supervisor is certainly right about the pants – part of Coffiel’s job is working in the morgue, sewing up bodies after they’ve been autopsied.

It is this sort of gallows humor that helps keep the tight-knit bunch of mortician technicians sane in their workplace, the gray, eight-story Bronx morgue building, located on the outskirts of the sprawling Jacobi Medical Center in the East Bronx. Theirs is a sense of humor that can make a decapitated head rolling over your foot sound like a punch line, or compare an autopsy examination to a sewing workshop.

But there is a central theme. When you work everyday with remains, many of which would not be out of place on a slasher film set, they stop being people and become more like objects – objects to be examined and and toe-tagged before being sent on the next leg of their journey.

The Office of the Medical Examiner autopsies about 5,000 bodies each year across its five borough branches. The number of bodies per day varies, with as few as zero or as many as 20 needing attention. The medical examiner does not examine all deaths, however – only those that are unusual, unexpected or suspicious, said Ellen Borakove, an OCME spokesperson. If it is determined the death was caused in some way by another person, it is classified a homicide and the findings are handed over to the authorities. Police then make the decision whether to open a murder investigation.

Contrary to popular public perception, a homicide and a murder are not the same thing.

“A homicide means the actions of one person caused the death of another person,” Borakove said. “Did they (mean) to do it, or was it an accident? That’s something for the courts to decide. We don’t make judgments.”

But often cases are far from black and white.

Renay Schleretch had flaming auburn hair and a penchant for horror movies when she joined the OCME out of high school. One day, a boy came in with a hatchet stuck in his skull. The father claimed he had been trying to scare his son, to teach him a lesson, and the blade had just slipped.

The blade was embedded so deeply in the boy’s skull, however, that Scheleretch said she had to use all of her strength to pry it out.

“I’m strong, but it took a couple of minutes (to remove),” she said.

The sound the metal made as it was wrenched from the bone  stuck with her for days, she said.

The City of New York offers counseling services for employees emotionally traumatized in the workplace. But Schleretech said she has never utilized them, preferring her own brand of release – her mortician’s sense of humor mixed with some very important alone time.

“Some guys will go bowling, go to bars,” Schleretch said. “I just go home, crack a beer and sit real quiet.”

Like many offices, the staff in the Bronx loves a good co-worker prank. A favorite form of veteran-rookie teasing is to wait until a new tech goes into the freezer, where all the bodies are kept, and then turn the lights off.

Eventually, you either find a way to cope or you find a different line of work, workers said.

Coffiel, who tried her hand as a former funeral director and preschool teacher before joining the OCME, said she thought about quitting on several occasions. And she’s blunt about what keeps her pulling on her scrubs again each morning – it’s a job.

During her first week with the OCME, Coffiel said she vomited every day. She and a co-worker took turns examining the body and running for the sink.

“I was like, I’m never going to eat again,” she said. “But then I got hungry.”

For former technician Hector Sotomayor, the job ultimately wasn’t enough. Sotomayor now works at a Jacobi Medical Center loading dock, within view of his old building. He said he transferred departments after waking up one day and realizing that “psyching himself out” everyday wasn’t working anymore. The OCME is not for everyone.

“You see a lot of depressing stuff,” Sotomayor said. “One time I had this kid who looked exactly like my son. I couldn’t handle it; I just started crying. (Another time) I had to assist on someone I knew. So I took wet tissue paper and put it on his face.”

On a recent afternoon, Coffiel and Schleretch sat in the medical examiner’s parking lot, swapping Marlboros and war stories. A driver casually pushing two gurneys passed not six feet from the joking pair, who never even looked up. The man loaded his maroon-swaddled charges into the back of a shabby hearse, pushed a black suitcase in after the corpses, slammed his doors and drove away.

To protest domestic abuse, a 7-mile march

Anna Castellanos, 58, of the Bronx, distributes homemade veils to demonstrators at an anti-domestic violence protest. Hundreds of women dressed in white came to Bride's March. Photo by Rachel Ohm

Anna Castellanos, 58, a seamstress and immigrant from El Salvador, stopped to readjust the white veil she wore pinned to her hair, one of 20 she made by hand.

She was was in the middle of pinning the veils to the heads of women and girls as they gathered on the steps of the Bronx County Courthouse before departing on a nearly 7-mile march through the South Bronx.

Castellanos made the veils in memory of a young Latina bride, Gladys Ricart, who was killed by her abusive former boyfriend in 2001 on the eve of her wedding to another man. They are part of the tradition in Bride’s March, an annual protest against domestic violence, for which women dress as brides to remember Ricart.

For the last three years, Castellanos has been making veils for participants as a way of remembering Ricart, and also to express the freedom she has experienced since her own break with domestic violence.

On Saturday, Castellanos, who speaks little English, listened silently as Nicole Dominguez, a young Latina woman, spoke on behalf of those affected by domestic abuse.

“I’m not a victim,” Dominguez said. “I’m a survivor.”

Meanwhile, Castellanos had given away the veils she made and began distributing index card-sized flyers with domestic violence hotline information. She carried a sign with a telephone number that read “Para ayuda llama.” For help, call.

Protesters carried dozens of signs like these at Sunday's anti-domestic violence Bride's March. Photo by Rachel Ohm

“In the Latin culture, it’s engrained in the women to be submissive to a man — to do what he says, to take care of the household, the kids. Don’t ask questions. Don’t say anything. We’re speaking out against that,” said Athena Rose, a psychologist and close friend of Castellanos who was also at the march and is herself a survivor of domestic abuse.

When she was 19, Rose was kicked in the tailbone by an abusive boyfriend and was temporarily paralyzed from the waist down. She said though domestic abuse is hard to escape, there are three stages used to identify its progression.

The first stage is known as the honeymoon phase. “Everything is beautiful, everything is wonderful and you love the person. You may see some flags, but nothing really to alert you,” she said.

This is followed by a tension-building phase in which red flags pop up more often and the abuser seems like he or she is changing. Eventually the tension building leads to a “blow-up” or big incident very traumatic for the victim.

For Castellanos, this was when her husband burned her apartment and business down.

Although they had been married 21 years at that point, Castellanos said the abuse began when they were friends living in the same apartment building, before they were intimate.

One day, he slammed a car door on her fingers.

“I said, ‘Why are you so abusive?’ and he hugged me and he said, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do it,’ ” she said. “I remember thinking, ‘This man is not for me. We do not mix well.’ ”

That day, he apologized profusely and said he loved her, something he would always do after an incident. He came home from school and knocked on her door. When he saw the bruises on her hand, he begged for forgiveness and the chance to be with her.

He bought her flowers and lingerie, and over time Castellanos developed feelings for him. Today, she refers to her ex-husband as if he no longer exists, calling him “the dead man” — a term Latina women use to refer to an abusive ex-husband. She knew the way he treated her — pulling her hair and then apologizing and saying she was beautiful — was not right, but she felt herself “between a rock and a hard place” because she loved him.

After they married, Castellanos recalls driving with her husband every day when he went to work. Once, on Valentine’s Day, he punched her teeth out in the car.

She says that after that, she lost respect for her husband. She feared him, but did not want to endanger others by involving them in the situation. Rose says that it is typical for abusers to turn violent towards people who try to help the victim.

“It’s very important to understand that if I’m the victim and you come to help me, you become a target. That fear, that intimidation, is much stronger, especially when it has been preceded by a physical encounter,” she said.

At the height of the abuse, Castellanos was trying to learn English and was taking computer classes. She describes herself as someone who worked hard and had goals for herself and her children. She always kept a list of the things she hoped to accomplish.

One day, she was at class and a male teacher was leaning over her shoulder to show her something on the computer. When her husband saw this, he beat the teacher.

After that she “had no peace” and lived in fear for her children, a boy and a girl from a previous relationship.

When Castellanos first met her ex-husband, and before they married, he kissed her 12-year-old daughter on the lips, the girl’s first kiss. Castellanos found out from her 7-year-old son, who had watched it happen.

“Mommy, Benjamin kissed Gladdy on her mouth,” she recalls her son saying.

After the fire, in which Castellanos lost everything she owned, a neighbor who worked with domestic violence victimes encouraged her to seek help. She slipped Castellanos the phone number of her agency on a index card-sized piece of paper at the laundromat — the only place where her husband would not find out.

In the same way, Castellanos and others handed out papers small enough to fold into a wallet or purse during the march on Sunday.

“You never know who might need them,” said Blanca Ramirez, a social worker also from the Bronx. “Women need to be able to be discreet.”