All my life, I have written about race. (Well, let me not exaggerate: all of my writing life. Been about 30 years.) It is important to me because it’s important to America. Would that it weren’t — but it is. Today, I have an essay on the subject, heavily personal. To give it a whirl, go here.
I thought I would publish just one piece of mail today. It relates to the photo above this post. I included the photo in a column last week, saying, “A shot of New York, on a sparkling September morning.”
A reader writes,
Dear Jay,
May I impose upon you a memory called up by your picture and caption?
Early on Friday, September 14, 1979, I awoke from a drunken blackout in a bar in Jersey City. I had been on a two-week binge, financed with expense vouchers misappropriated from my employer. I had abandoned my family and destroyed my career, and had 13 dollars to my name.
Through the unwashed, smoke-stained windows of the gin mill, I watched commuters strolling down the hill, headed for Journal Square and the PATH trains to Manhattan. The sun was bright, the vista was “sparkling,” to use your word, and the commuters were stepping along briskly, chatting and smiling.
I was overwhelmed by the comparison between what I saw and what I was. On that “sparkling September morning,” I finally surrendered to an honest admission of my addiction and asked for help without reservation.
Your picture and caption brighten my life today, 45 years after that blessed sparkling September morning. Thank you.