Author Archives: Paul Steven Stone

Why The Cambridge Residents Alliance STILL Matters

Almost a year has passed since my essay, “Why The Cambridge Residents Alliance Matters,”  appeared on these pages, and though much has changed in that time, much has also remained the same.

NOBODY GOES ANYWHERE!

NOBODY GOES ANYWHERE!

At the time of my original article it appeared as though the powers that be—our city council, our planning board and our Community Development Department—were rushing feverishly towards recommendations and decisions that would further gentrify Cambridge and, by spiking the already unaffordable cost of housing in our city, force out additional families and dismantle our precious but fragile diversity. Decisions that would forever change the face, the personality and character of Central Square and its adjoining neighborhoods. Decisions that would have served a gilded circle of developers, business interests and affluent renters at the expense of the city’s current residents.

Fortunately, there is a new awareness throughout our city that we have been navigating dangerous waters, that we have been traveling much too close to the perilous rocks of gentrification and ill-considered over-development. That rising awareness can be seen in the growing numbers of Cambridge residents who have tuned into city politics, either by joining our organization or by expressing their views and concerns through their votes. And consequently the makeup of this year’s city council has changed in a precedent-setting election that saw incumbents challenged as they never had been before, and new voices of reason brought on; voices that are questioning the council’s automatic green-lighting of almost every up-zoning request; voices that are calling for realistic traffic studies and the development of an honest citywide master plan.

But, as I said before, much has changed and much has remained the same. The same people who bobble-headed “Yes!” to almost every development proposal that came before the Ordnance Committee still make up a majority on the city council. The same Community Development Department whose biased and pre-determined pursuit of apartment towers for Central Square are still advocating for their C2 Advisory Committee recommendations as if those zoning changes represent the will of the people. The same rubber-stamping Zoning Board members who seemingly spend little time questioning the impact of their approvals—Alewife’s almost-terminal traffic congestion being a prime example—are still sitting at their table waiting to approve whatever the CDD puts before them.

Which is why we cannot afford to rest on our laurels. And why it’s increasingly important that neighborhood groups and concerned citizens stay involved. Make no mistake, the folks who put themselves on the line to support the massive rezoning of Central Square are not going to step aside willingly. There’s far too much at stake. From all I’ve been able to see, the C2 advisory process was set up to provide cover to a massive up-zoning of Central Square that will benefit MIT most directly, and a whole host of varied business interests. A lot of money is at stake. Money that will go into developers’ pockets, money that will lubricate the wheels and avarice of business interests and, yes, money that will also go into the city’s coffers and prove what great managers we have running our city.

As we state on our CambridgeResidentsAlliance.org web site…”The Cambridge Residents Alliance represents individuals and neighborhood organizations committed to preserving and promoting a livable, affordable and diverse Cambridge community.” We owe no allegiance to future populations whose interests must be served at the expense of our current families and economically disadvantaged residents.

We are also concerned about the choking of travel on our streets, buses and trains through over-development that is erroneously termed “Smart Development” because it happens to take place near a transit line that is maxed out and gasping for relief.

We also believe you can’t place a value on sunlight, sky views, shadow-free streets or open spaces. But we also know the price we’re being asked to pay when those intangible treasures are whittled away by policies and recommendations wholly unsuited to a city already choking on its density.

And lastly, like those activists who stopped the Inner Belt highway in its tracks all those years ago, we will not be silenced by those who propose development at all costs, who will not learn from the lessons of the past, and who refuse to honestly study the impacts of their proposals. Cambridge is a city of people from diverse backgrounds, economic levels, ethnicities and visions. Rather than put any of those parties at risk by serving the vision of taxes-hungry city managers or profit-hungry developers we’re calling for an unbiased citywide study of development and growth issues from which we can fashion a sensible approach to creating a future we all can share.

For all these reason, and more—much more!—the Cambridge Residents Alliance is STILL of critical importance to the future of our city.

Now more than ever!

 

Paul Steven Stone is a member of The Cambridge Residents Alliance, but is solely expressing personal opinions in the above essay, and not the official views of the Cambridge Residents Alliance.

A Story For Today: 2 Degrees and Counting…

Pretty White Gloves

He sits on a folded-over cardboard box, slightly off-balance and without any visible sign of support other than the granite wall of the bank behind him and the few coins in the paper cup he shakes at each passerby.       major

Does he realize it is 4 degrees above zero, or minus 25 degrees if you factor in the wind that blows through the city and his bones with little concern for statistics? Does he notice the thick cumulous lifeforms that escape from his mouth in shapes that shift and evanesce like the opportunities that once populated his life?

Can he even distinguish the usual numbing effect of the cheap alcohol from the cruel and indifferent carress of this biting alien chill?

Too many questions, he would tell you, if he cared to say anything. But his tongue sits in silence behind crusted chapped lips and chattering teeth while half-shut eyes follow pedestrians fleeing from the bitter cold and his outstretched cup.

His gaze falls upon the hand holding the cup as if it were some foreign element in his personal inventory. Surprised at first to find it uncovered and exposed, especially in weather this frigid, he now recalls that someone at the shelter had stolen his gloves and left in their place the only option he still has in much abundance.

Acquiescence.

Examining the hand, and the exposed fingers encircling the Seven-Eleven coffee cup, he smiles in amused perplexity, murmuring to himself, “White gloves.”

Lifting his hand for closer inspection, he adds, “Pretty white gloves.”

An image of his daughter . . . Elissa, he thinks her name was . Yes, Elissa!, he recalls. An image of Elissa rises up in his mind, from a photograph taken when she was ten and beautifully adorned in a new Easter outfit: black shoes, frilly lavender dress and hat and, yes, pretty white gloves. The photo once sat on a table in his living room, but he couldn’t tell you what happened to it, nor to the table or the living room, for that matter. They were just gone. Swept away in the same tide that pulled out all the moorings from his life, and everything else that had been tethered to them.

The last time he’d seen Elissa she was crying, though he no longer remembers why. Must have been something he’d done or said; that much he knows.

“Pretty white gloves,” he repeats, staring at his hand.

He recalls the white gloves from his Marine dress uniform. At most he wore them five times: at his graduation from officer’s training school, at an armed services ball in Trenton, New Jersey, and for three military funerals. There was never a need for dress gloves in Viet Nam. They would have never stayed white anyway; not with all the blood that stained his hands.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see a policeman walking towards him and instinctively hides his cup, some vestige of half-remembered pride causing him to avert his gaze from the man’s eyes at the same time.

“We need to get you inside, buddy,” the officer says. “You’ll die of cold, you stay out here.”

Moments later, a second police officer, this one a woman, steps up to join them.

“That’s the Major,” she tells her colleague. To the seated figure she offers a smile.

“You coming with us, Major?”

“Go away,” he answers, looking up as he leans further against the cold granite wall. “Don’t need you. Don’t need no one.”

“Can’t leave you out here,” the first officer says. “We’ve got orders to bring you and everyone else in.”

“Leave me alone!” the seated man shouts, gesturing with his hands as if he could push them both away.

“Oh shit,” the female officer says under her billowing breath. To her partner she whispers, “His hands. Look at his hands.”

Quickly recognizing the waxy whiteness for what it is, the officer shrugs, “Guess we’re a little late.”

To the man on the sidewalk, he offers, “That’s frost bite, buddy.”

“No,” the seated man protests. He holds up both hands, numb and strange as they now feel and offers a knowing smile of explanation.

Just like the marine officer he once was, just like the sweet innocent daughter he once knew, just llike the young man grown suddenly old on a frozen sidewalk, his hands are beautiful and special in a way these strangers will never understand.

“White gloves,”he insists proudly.

“Pretty white gloves.”

This story comes to mind on days like today when the temperature drops precipitously and an unknown number of the homeless are put through nature’s own meat grinder. On days like today we need to find some way to help those far less fortunate than ourselves. As they say, there but for fortune…     

 

 

 

On This Island In Space

I believe we have much to be hopeful about as we celebrate Earth Day, 2020, though on the surface of things it may appear otherwise.earth

I believe more and more of us are learning to look beyond the surface of things, however, and what we see is more meaningful to the life of our global community than today’s news, tonight’s sports scores or tomorrow’s weather.

I believe we have been brought here—to this lifetime, this moment in time, this island in space—to accomplish something. Each of us on our own separate mission that somehow relates, through the unfathomable meshing of the Universe’s gears, to the greater purposes of life.

I believe we are singers in a chorus whose combined song has the power to lift darkness from the face of the land, if we would only awaken to the true song within each of us.

I believe we are all journeying on the same road, leading up the same mountain, to the same summit. The only difference is some of us have been traveling longer and have learned to avoid obstacles that delay and ensnare travelers with less experience.

I believe suffering and pain have purpose in our lives, often forcing us to grow into stronger, better human beings and to explore horizons that would never have called to us otherwise. I have seen parents who have lost children find meaning in their lives by dedicating themselves to protecting and enriching the lives of other people’s children. I have seen victims use their victimhood to alert and save others from the same tragedies. Such is the serendipitous alchemy of disaster and despair.

I believe the greatest obstacles to happiness are those inner demons that keep us isolated from each other, whether they be hunger or avarice, fear of our neighbors, envy or rank malice. Once we allow ourselves to separate from the rest of mankind, we act like creatures deafened by the volume of our own petty desires. No longer able to hear the cries of others. No longer affected by the tides of calamity or misery that uproot those around us.

I believe we live in a world where noise and movement too easily overwhelm thoughtfulness and purpose. From the earliest age we are taught to fill the spaces in our lives with sound, activity or moving images, as if a quiet home or a quiet mind were unwelcome oddities. As we progress on our life’s journey, I believe we will learn to welcome these spaces rather than fill them, to drink from them rather than run from them, to make room for them in our lives as we would any healing or sustaining nourishment.

I believe we are learning to overcome superficial differences between ourselves and others, no longer allowing diversity to automatically breed fear and distrust. I can’t say if we’ve become more tolerant because the global media web has shrunken our planet, or because fear, lies and ignorance inevitably shrivel under the constant glare of media attention. Whatever the reason, the veils and superstitions that have fueled intolerance across millennia, sending countless soldiers off to countless wars, are now being lifted. The arc of the universe, I believe, is bending towards justice and brotherhood as more and more travelers make their way up the mountain.

I believe we have been brought here—to this lifetime, this moment in time, this island in space—to accomplish something. Each of us on our own separate mission that somehow relates, through the unfathomable meshing of the Universe’s gears, to the greater purposes of life.

I believe one of the reasons I am here—in this lifetime, on this island in space—is to open my heart and reveal what I find through my writing.

And I believe this was written for you.

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I came across this essay written over ten years ago and felt its message was not only timeless but also impeccably timed for today in light of the singular combination of suffering, dislocation and privation brought about by the global pandemic. Not to mention our own government’s stagnation and loss of direction. It’s message of hope is no less strident or believable in light of these events, but perhaps more urgently needed. And so, dear friends, I am sharing it, once again, with you.

Glimpses of the Heart

Somewhere long ago, he hid his heart on the moon.

And afterwards, through the years, he watched it come and go in phases. Sometimes full, more often waxing or waning. But always more distant than he could understand.moon

Those who weren’t close to him—acquaintances, colleagues, even friends—could never see the true image of his emotions. To them he offered the idea instead of the reality, like a photo cleverly hung to mask the moon’s disappearance. To them the lunar sky always seemed full even if clouds sometimes passed overhead to filter the light.

But for those he loved, for whom pretense was too heavy a cloak to wear, he let the waxing and the waning of his feelings serve as a true source of illumination. They could never understand—as he couldn’t himself— this painful rising and falling of light and love, why sometimes the moon was full and other times it was only a sliver in the night sky.

If he had the wisdom to see through space he’d know that he’d hidden his heart on the moon as a legacy to his father. And that within the crater where his strongbox was hidden lay another heart that had once significantly lightened and darkened his world. He’d know he’d been taught the mechanics of love as though an automatic switch regularly turned love on and off to keep it from overheating. He’d know that the heart learns its lessons from pain, passing them intact from one generation to the next. And that one day if the cycle isn’t broken the moon will grow dark and heavy, over-populated with hidden hearts.

Somewhere long ago he hid his heart on the moon. Near where his father and his father’s father had once hidden theirs.

And one day if he doesn’t make the journey to retrieve his hidden self, his children will go off to hide their own treasures where darkness falls in a consistent ritual.

On a cold barren planet.

A million miles away.

Casting My Votes for Cambridge City Council

Who I’m Voting For On Tuesday…

First, to save time and energy, let me present my ABH voting list (Anybody But Him/Her) and simply remark I believe it’s time we take down the curtains and remove the old furniture from the council chamber. In other words, it’s time to let in some light and create space for new faces and new ideas.city hall

My Anybody But Him/Her list starts with the usual cast of suspects, the council members that have spent much too much time on the starting team without scoring any points. In other words, to someone like myself who’s gravely concerned with Cambridge’s lemming-like run off the development cliff, these folks repeatedly vote yes to practically any up-zoning petition that comes their way. They give lip service to caring about families and the economically disadvantaged, but they don’t care enough to question whether they’re actually contributing to the roaring fires of gentrification that are driving out those on the middle and lower runs of Cambridge’s economic ladder. Misters Maher, Reeves, Cheung and Toomey, as well as Ms. Denise Simmons, all deserve our thanks for their many contributions, but also a long, perhaps permanent, vacation from the City Council, in my humble estimation. Sorry, but there it is.

Which means I do support the re-election of two current council members, Minka vanBeuzekom and Craig Kelley, both of whom have shown the courage of their convictions many times in council chambers, Minka’s most valiantly when she stood up to the bullying of fellow council members to vote No on the MIT 26-acre Grand Giveaway.

So, the question now arises, who amongst the crowded field of new candidates most deserves our single-digit numbered votes? First I would have to list Dennis Carlone who has already scored three endorsements (including one from the Cambridge Residents Alliance, of which I am a member) as the only candidate with a background in urban planning. Given the mad scramble to build 14-16-and 18-story apartment towers in Central Square, Dennis’ background and convictions would bring a critical contribution to any discussion about the future of our city. After Dennis come the following, though not in any prescribed order: Kristen von Hoffman, James Williamson, Gary Mello and Nadeem Mazen, all of whom appear worthy of our votes. I apologize for most likely missing other worthy candidates, but there are just too many for me to juggle without dropping a few on the floor. Alone among the crowded field, I believe only Dennis Carlone and Gary Mello have made a point of rejecting donations from developers, a critical decision when some of your most important upcoming council votes will most likely concern those very same developers. Also, it should be mentioned that Dennis Benzan, alone among many, seemed to be the Golden Child in raising money for his campaign. Good thing or bad thing? You decide. Only If Dennis had any more signs around the city we might consider re-christening Cambridge as Benzanville.

Anyway, in two days you, I and our fellow citizens will either make history or fall into the trap of sending the same old faces back to clean up the mess they’ve been making for the last four, twelve or 24 years.

I don’t know about you, but that’s a mistake I’ve made for the last time.