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1) Queens Memory Podcast, stories from Queens’ diverse Asian American communities in their own voices, NEH
"The award-winning Queens Memory Podcast brings you a new 10-episode season, “Our Major Minor Voices,” featuring stories from Queens’ diverse Asian American communities in their own voices. The season includes eight bilingual episodes in some of the most widely spoken Asian languages in Queens: Bangla, Hindi, Korean, Mandarin, Nepali, Tagalog, Tibetan, and Urdu. Each week between April 11th and June 6th, a new episode will premiere at live listening events happening around the borough. Scroll down to access episodes!
In 2017, the Queens Memory team began exploring how podcasting could help us participate in contemporary local and global conversations through the lens of personal narrative. We know that an individual’s lived experience is an affective, undeniable way into the truth of complex social issues. Our first season drew entirely from our existing oral history interviews with people who settled in Queens from all over the world. Our second season recorded new interviews with Queens residents and highlighted sound and video contributions to our COVID-19 Project as the pandemic unfolded. Each ten-episode season is an enormous education in storytelling, production techniques, and distribution."
In this season of the Queens Memory podcast, “Our Major Minor Voices,” we feature stories from our neighbors of Asian descent in Queens, New York. One in four residents of the borough identifies as Asian-American. That’s more than 650,000 people with roots stretching back to Asia.
The stories in the third season of the podcast, “Our Major Minor Voices,” document the experiences of our borough’s rich and diverse Asian communities in their own voices.
Each episode features stories about identity and belonging from this broad array of people who have made valuable contributions through their cultural traditions, belief systems, and linguistic diversity. Bookended by the season introduction and finale, the series includes eight bilingual episodes representing the most widely spoken Asian languages in Queens: Bangla, Hindi, Korean, Mandarin, Nepali, Tagalog, Tibetan, and Urdu.
Since the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, these communities have been in turmoil. Already grappling with longstanding issues such as income inequality, immigration barriers, and racial stereotyping, Asian Americans now faced concerns for their personal health and public safety.
In this unique moment, we aim to document the stories of these vital communities and capture snapshots of our ever-changing neighborhoods as they are now.
Season Three’s production team includes Melody Cao, Anna Williams, Natalie Milbrodt, Jiefei Yuan, Cory Choy, Meral Agish,Tenzin Choklay, Indranil Choudhury, Shradha Ghale, Peter Gill, Stella Gu, Syma Mohammed, Trisha Mukherjee, Heidi Shin, Rosalind Tordesillas, with music by Elias Ravin. This podcast has been made possible in part by the National Endowment for the Humanities: Democracy demands wisdom.
The views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this episode are those of its creators and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of National Endowment for the Humanities, Queens Public Library, the City University of New York, or their employees.
Season 3: Episode 1 – We Call It HomeSeason 3: Episode 2 – Halmoni’s KimcheeSeason 3: Episode 2 – 할머니의 김치
Season 3: Episode 3 – I Thought I’d Won
Season 3: Episode 3 – ‘जितेर नि हारै पाएँ’ (नेपाली भाषामा)
Season 3: Episode 4 – What Gets Lost in TranslationSeason 3: Episode 4 – ترجمے میں کیا کھو جاتا ہے
"The Friends of the Old Croton Aqueduct strive to educate the public about the extraordinary history of water in New York City. For more articles and information, please check our EDUCATION section.
The Croton Water Supply System was named to the American Society for Civil Engineering’s Historic Civil Engineering Landmark Program. Read more HERE.
More articles of interest to history buffs can be found in our NEWSLETTERS.
The following text is from our Map/Guide
An Urgent Need for Water
The Aqueduct was built in response to the fires and epidemics that repeatedly devastated New York City, owing in part to its inadequate water supply and contaminated wells.
Major David B. Douglass, the project's first chief engineer, planned the route and structures and established the project's hydraulic principles. He was succeeded in 1836 by John B. Jervis, who achieved the final design of the Aqueduct and its major structures and led the complex construction effort. Work began in 1837, carried out largely by Irish immigrant labor.
For most of its length, the Aqueduct is a horseshoe-shaped brick tunnel 8.5 feet high by 7.5 feet wide, set on a stone foundation and protected with an earthen cover and stone facing at embankment walls. Designed on principles dating from Roman times, the gravity-fed tube, dropping gently 13 inches per mile, challenged its builders to maintain this steady gradient through a varied terrain.
To do so the Aqueduct was cut into hillsides, set level on the ground, tunneled through rock, and carried over valleys and streams on massive stone and earth embankments and – at Sing Sing Kill, the Nepperhan (Saw Mill) River, and the Harlem River - across arched bridges. Typically it is partly buried, with a telltale mound encasing it. As one learns to read the "clues." an understanding of how the tunnel engages the landscape deepens the trail experience.
Croton water first entered the Aqueduct at 5 am on June 22, 1842 (followed by a dauntless crew in a small boat, the Croton Maid) and emerged at the Harlem River 22 hours later. The water eventually filled two above-ground reservoirs – on the present sites of the Great Lawn in Central Park and the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue – to great civic rejoicing.
Print from Friends of the Old Croton Aqueduct - read more there about the celebration.
The trail is virtually as old as the Aqueduct. It was created for reasons of security - to prevent local opponents of this massive, intrusive construction from attempting to sabotage the water supply - and to facilitate workers' access to the water conduit. It was not for intended for recreational purposes, though it quickly started being used that way.
Maintenance
During the active days of the Aqueduct, overseers in charge of patrolling and maintaining specific sections of this infrastructure vital to New York City were provided with houses on or near the section of the tunnel for which they were responsible. (See more about maintaining the Aqueduct HERE)
The only one of these houses that survives in its original location is the classic, brick Italianate-designed structure on the trail at Walnut Street in Dobbs Ferry. The Keeper's House was built in 1857, and was the home of James Bremner, the principal superintendent of the Aqueduct, north of New York City. The house is a contributing feature of the aqueduct trail, which was designated a National Historic Landmark in 1992. (Read more about the Keeper's House and how The Friends of the Old Croton Aqueduct rescued it HERE)
The Aqueduct in the 20th Century
Until 1955 the Old Croton Aqueduct brought water to New York City. (The northernmost portion reopened in 1987 and continues to supply water to the town of Ossining.) Though the Aqueduct was built to meet the city's needs for 100 years, the supply was soon insufficient due to the spiraling population growth to which it contributed. The New Croton Aqueduct, triple the size and much deeper underground, lies a few miles to the east. Built under Chief Engineer B. S. Church, it began service in 1890 and remains in service today. It has no walking trail.
In 1968, New York State purchased from the city the land and structures that constituted the Weschester County section of the Old Croton Aqueduct, between Croton Gorge Park and the Yonkers-New York City line. This 26.2-mile portion of the total 41-mile Aqueduct route became the Old Croton Aqueduct State Historic Park, a recreational and cultural resource that appeals to a wide range of visitors. Tree-lined and grassy, traversing local villages and varied landscapes, the trail offers the pleasures of nature and glimpses of historic and architectural treasures along the way. Twenty-two miles are a designated part of the Hudson River Valley Greenway Trail, and sections are being incorporated into Westchester County's RiverWalk.
While the state park designation ends at the New York City line, the Aqueduct continues for four or five miles through the Bronx. There its green corridor, managed by New York Parks & Recreation, follows a southward route through Van Cortlandt Park, past the east edge of Jerome Park Reservoir and along Aqueduct and University avenues to the famed High Bridge, which carried water in iron pipes cross the Harlem River to Manhattan to serve a growing population.
A fuller history of the Aqueduct can be found a the Ossining Heritage Area and Keeper's House visitor centers and in "Water for Gotham: A History" by Gerard Koeppel, 2000, Princeton University Press. An archive of Aqueduct material, donated by William Lee Frost to Croton-on-Hudson's Historical Reference Room (Municipal Building), may also be consulted; call 914-271-4574."
For more info in Aqueduct History, check out these links:
A short bibliography compiled by Tom Tarnowsky
NYC DEP's Flickr zccount about NYC Water
John Bloomfield Jervis Papers at the Jervis Public Library
Croton Aqueduct History from the Southeast Museum
Croton Aqueduct History - NY Historical Society
Forgotten New York Street Scenes (Old Croton Aqueduct)
Library of Congress images of the Aqueduct (Note: type "Croton aqueduct" into the search field at top left.)
New York Almanack
History, Natural History & the Arts
On this episode of Empire State Engagements, a conversation with Shayla Colon of the Albany Times Union on her series of articles “Two Sides of Pearl Street,” on how historical trends and urban policies have shaped contemporary life on one Albany thoroughfare.
We discussed Pearl Street’s heyday as a vibrant shopping district, its importance as a center for working-class immigrants and African American migrants from the Great Migration. She also described how the visions of Governor Rockefeller and Mayor Corning, urban renewal projects like the Empire State Plaza and the South Mall Arterial, and policies such as redlining, led to disruption and disinvestment and led to significant differences between North and South Pearl Street that influence the day to day experiences of contemporary residents. Read more »
Erastus Corning & His Ironworks
Erastus Corning (1794-1872) got his business started in Troy and made the bulk of his fortune in railroads, including the production of iron tracks and hook-headed railroad spikes. Corning and his partner, John Flack Winslow, received the contract to make the deck and skirt armor for the USS Monitor and at least eight additional monitor class ironclad warships.
Born in Connecticut, Corning began his business career working in a relative’s hardware shop. Read more »
Revolutionary Soldier John Nicholas Bleecker Marker Dedication
The John Nicholas Bleecker was born in August 1739, the son of Albany businessman Nicholas Bleecker, Jr. and his wife, Margarita Roseboom Bleecker.
When the American Revolution began in 1775, Bleecker was elected to represent the second ward on the Albany Committee of Safety, Protection and Correspondence. Read more »
New George Washington Exhibit at Washington’s Headquarters in Newburgh
The New York State Office of Parks, Recreation and Historic Preservation and the Palisades Interstate Park Commission has announced the opening of “George Washington: Perspectives on His Life and Legacy Offers Picture of Revolutionary War General and First President,” a new, nearly completely digital exhibit at Washington’s Headquarters State Historic Site in Newburgh. Read more »
Ken Burns' Benjamin Franklin Documentary with Producer David Schmidt
In this episode of the Ben Franklin’s World Podcast, David Schmidt, a senior producer at Florentine Films and a senior producer on Ken Burn’s Benjamin Franklin, joins Liz to investigate documentary filmmaking and the life of Benjamin Franklin. Read more »
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FOLD
"You could tell something more than springtime was brewing at Columbia by the crowds around the local Chock Full, jumping and gesturing with more than coffee in their veins. You could sense insurrection in the squads of police surrounding the campus like a Navy picket fence. You could see rebellion in the eyes peering from windows where they didn’t belong. And you knew it was revolution for sure, from the trash.
Don’t underestimate the relationship between litter and liberty at Columbia. Until last Thursday, April 23, the university was a clean dorm, where students paid rent, kept the house rules, and took exams. Then the rebels arrived, in an uneasy coalition of hip, black, and leftist militants. They wanted to make Columbia more like home. So they ransacked files, shoved furniture around, plastered walls with paint and placards. They scrawled on blackboards and doodled on desks. They raided the administration’s offices (the psychological equivalent of robbing your mother’s purse) and they claim to have found cigars, sherry, and a dirty book (the psychological equivalent of finding condoms in your father’s wallet).
Of course this is a simplification. There were issues involved in the insurrection which paralyzed Columbia this past week. Like the gymnasium in Morningside Park, or the university’s ties to the Institute for Defense Analysis. But beyond these specifics, the radicals were trying to capture the imagination of their campus by giving vent to some of its unique frustrations. In short, they had raised the crucial question of who was to control Columbia? Four buildings had been “liberated” and occupied by students. The traditional quietism that had been the pride of straight Columbia was giving way to a mood of cautious confrontation. The groovy revolution — one part dogma to four parts joy — had been declared.
- by DON MCNEILLOriginally published May 2, 1968
The rebels totaled upward of 900 during peak hours. They were ensconsed behind sofa-barricades. You entered Fayerweather Hall through a ground floor window. Inside, you saw blackboards filled with “strike bulletins,” a kitchen stocked with sandwiches and cauldrons of spaghetti, and a lounge filled with squatters. There was some pot and a little petting in the corridors. But on Friday, the rebellion had the air of a college bar at 2 a.m. In nearby Avery Hall, the top two floors were occupied by architecture students, unaffiliated with SDS, but sympathetic to their demands. They sat at their drawing boards, creating plans for a humanistic city and taping their finished designs across the windows. In Low Library, the strike steering committee and visiting radicals occupied the offices of President Grayson Kirk. On the other side of the campus, the mathematics building was seized late Friday afternoon. The rebels set about festooning walls and making sandwiches. Jimi Hendrix blared from a phonograph. Mao mixed with Montesquieu, “The Wretched of the Earth” mingled with “Valley of the Dolls.”
It was a most eclectic uprising, and a most forensic one as well. The debates on and around the campus were endless. Outside Ferris Booth Hall, two policemen in high boots took on a phalanx of SDS supporters. Near Low Library, a leftist in a lumberjack shirt met a rightist in a London Fog. “You’ve got to keep your people away from here. We don’t want any violence,” said the leftist. “We have been using the utmost restraint,” answered his adversary. “But,” insisted the lumberjack shirt, letting his round glasses slide down his nose, “this gentleman here says he was shoved.”
In its early stages, at least, it was a convivial affair, a spring carnival without a queen. One student, who manned a tree outside Hamilton Hall, had the right idea when he shouted for all to hear: “This is a liberated tree. And I won’t come down until my demands have been met.”
- by PETE HAMILLOriginally published May 16, 1968
SPINDLE
Ray Brown stood in the lobby of Hamilton Hall, reading a statement to the press. His followers stood around him, all black and angry. It was 7.30 p.m. Sunday, and the press had been escorted across a barricade of tabletops to stand in the lobby while Brown read his group’s demands. By now, there were dozens of committees and coalitions on the campus, and students could choose from five colors of armbands to express their sympathies (red indicated pro-strike militancy, green meant peace with amnesty, pale blue meant an end to demonstrations, white stood for faculty, and black indicated support for force.)
But no faction worried Columbia’s administrator’s more than the blacks. They had become a political entity at 5 a.m. Wednesday morning when 300 white radicals filed dutifully from Hamilton Hall at the request of the blacks. From that moment, the deserted building became Malcolm X University christened by a sign over the main door. In the lobby were two huge posters of Stokely Carmichael and Malcolm X. That was all whited were allowed to see of Hamilton Hall. The blacks insisted on holding out alone, but by joining the demands of the people in Harlem and the kids in Low, they added immeasurable power to the student coalition. This is easier explained by considering the University’s alternatives. To discharge the students from Hamilton meant risking charges of racism, and that meant turning Morningside Park into a rather vulnerable DMZ. To eject only the whites would leave the University with the blame for arbitrarily deciding who was to be clubbed and who spared.
In short, the blacks made the Administration think twice. And Ray Brown knew it. He read his statement to the press, and after it was over, looked down at those of us taking notes and muttered, “Clear the hall.” We left.
- Originally published September 5, 1968
There was a second factor in the stalemate and its protraction. The issue of university control raised by the radicals had stirred some of the more vocal faculty members into action. They arrived in force on Friday night, when it became known that police were preparing to move. When the administration issued a one hour ultimatum to the strikers early Saturday morning, concerned faculty members formed an ad hoc committee and placed themselves between the students and the police. This line was defied only once — at 3 a.m. Saturday by two dozen plainclothesmen. A young French instructor was led away with a bleeding head. The administration backed down, again licked its wounds, and waited. It played for time, and allowed the more militant faculty members to expend their energies on futile negotiations. All weekend, the campus radio station, WKCR, broadcast offers for settlement and their eventual rejection. While the Board of Trustees voted to suspend construction of the gymnasium pending further study, they made it clear that their decision was taken at the Mayor’s request, and that they were not acceding to any of the striker’s demands. Over the weekend, factions multiplied and confusion grew on campus. This too played into the administration’s hands. Vice-president David B. Truman blamed the violence, the inconvenience, and the intransigence on the demonstrators. When a line of conservative students formed around Low Library to prevent food from being brought to the protesters, the administration ordered food for the anti-picket line at the school’s expense.
Finally, it called the first formal faculty meeting in anyone’s memory for Sunday morning. But it made certain that only assistant, associate, and full professors were present. With this qualification, the administration assured itself a resolution that would seem to signify faculty support. Alone and unofficial, the ad hoc committee persisted in its demands, never quite grasping its impotence until late Monday night, when word began to reach the campus that the cops would move.
- Originally published September 5, 1963
MUTILATE
At 2.30 Tuesday morning 100 policemen poured on campus. The students were warned of the impending assault when the University cut off telephone lines in all occupied buildings. One by one, the liberated houses voted to respond non-violently.
While plainclothesmen were being transported up Amsterdam Avenue in city buses marked “special,” the uniformed force moved first on Hamilton Hall. The students there marched quietly from their sanctuary after police reached them via the school’s tunnels. There were no visible injuries as they boarded a bus to be led away, and this tranquil surrender spurred rumors that a mutual cooperation pact of sorts had been negotiated between police and black demonstrators.
Things were certainly different in the other buildings. Outside Low Memorial Library, police rushed a crowd of students, clubbing some with blackjacks and pulling others by the hair. “There’s gonna be a lot of bald heads tonight,” one student said.
Uniformed police were soon joined by plainclothesmen, identifiable only by the tiny orange buttons in their lapels. Many were dressed to resemble students. Some carried books, others wore Coptic crosses around their necks. You couldn’t tell, until they started to operate, that they were cops.
- by LETICIA KENTOriginally published May 2, 1968
At Mathematics Hall, police broke through the ground floor window and smashed the barricade at the front door. Students who agreed to surrender peacefully were allowed to do so with little interference. They walked between rows of police, through Low Plaza, and into vans that lined College Walk. In the glare of the floodlights which normally light that part of the campus at night, it looked like a bizarre pogrom. Platoons of prisoners appeared, waving their hands in victory signs and singing “We Shall Overcome.” A large crowd of sympathizers were separated from the prisoners by a line of police, but their shouts of “Kirk Must Go” rocked the campus. Police estimated that at least 628 students were jailed, 100 of them women. Officials at nearby Saint Luke’s Hospital reported that 74 students were admitted for treatment. This figure did not include those who were more seriously injured, since these were removed to Knickerbocker Hospital by ambulance. Three faculty members were reportedly hurt.
Many of the injuries occurred among those students who refused to leave the buildings. Police entered Fayerweather and Mathematics Halls and dragged limp students down the stairs. The sound of thumping bodies was plainly audible at times (demonstrators had waxed the floors to hamper police). Many emerged in masks of vaseline applied to ward off the effects of Mace. Police made no attempt to gas the demonstrators. But some of those who had barricaded themselves in classrooms reported that teams of police freely pummeled them. A line heard by more than one protester, as the police moved to dislodge groups linking arms, was “Up against the wall, motherfuckers.”
There was no example of incredible police brutality visible at Columbia on Tuesday morning. It was all credible brutality. Plainclothesmen occasionally kicked limp demonstrators, often with quick jabs in the stomach. I saw students pulled away by the hair, scraped against broken glass, and when they proved difficult to carry, beaten repeatedly. Outside Mathematics Hall, a male student in a leather jacket was thrown to the ground when he refused to walk and beaten by a half dozen officers while plainclothesmen kept reporters at a distance. When he was finally led away, his jacket and shirt had been ripped from his back.
- Originally published July 3, 1969
The lounge at Philosophy Hall, which had been used by the ad hoc faculty committee as an informal senate, became a field hospital. Badly injured students lay on beds and sofas while stunned faculty members passed coffee, took statements, and supplied bandages. The most violent incidents had occurred nearby, in Fayerweather Hall, where many students who refused to leave were dragged away bleeding from the face and scalp. Medical aides who had moved the injured to a nearby lawn trailed the police searching for bleeding heads. “Don’t take him, he’s bleeding,” you heard them shout. Or: “Pick her up, stop dragging her.”
The cries of the injured echoed off the surrounding buildings and the small quad looked like a battlefield. Those who were awaiting arrest formed an impromptu line. Facing the police, they sang a new verse to an old song:
“Harlem shall awake,
Harlem shall awake,
Harlem shall awake someday … ”
Though two of Mayor Lindsay’s top aides, Sid Davidoff and Barry Gottehrer, had been present throughout the night, neither was seen to make any restraining move toward the police. Commissioner Leary congratulated his men. And University President Grayson Kirk regretted that even such minimal violence was necessary.
- Originally published November 27, 1969
By dawn, the rebellion had ended. Police cleared the campus of remaining protesters by charging, nightsticks swinging, into a large crowd which had gathered around the sundial. Now, the cops stood in a vast line across Low Library Plaza. Their boots and helmets gleamed in the floodlights. Later in the morning, a reporter from WKCR would encounter some of these arresting officers at the Tombs, where the prisoners were being held. He would hear them singing “We Shall Overcome,” and shouting, “victory.”
At present, it is difficult to measure the immediate effects Tuesday’s police intervention will have on the university. Most students are too stunned to consider the future. On Tuesday morning they stood in small knots along Broadway, stepping around the horse manure and watching the remaining policemen leave. Their campus lay scarred and littered. Walks were inundated with newspapers, beer cans, broken glass, blankets, and even discarded shoes. Flower-beds had been trampled and hedges mowed down in some places. Windows were broken in at least three buildings and whole classrooms had been demolished.
It would take a while to make Columbia beautiful again. That, most students agreed. And some insisted that it would take much longer before the university would seem a plausible place to teach or study in again. The revolution had begun and ended in trash, and that litter would persist to haunt Columbia, and especially its president, Grayson Kirk."
"Imagine what it would be like to be at your job, minding your own business, when the authorities come and take you into custody under the pretense that you had been a witness to a crime. You are confused, because to your knowledge, you witnessed no crime, but when you ask what is going on, no one tells you anything, but they handcuff you, and take you away. Your friends and coworkers protest, but it falls on deaf ears. You are not allowed to contact your wife and children in Williamsburg, or obtain the advice of a lawyer. Once in custody, you are not taken to the local jail, but soon find yourself on the road, headed south. Days later, you arrive in Baltimore, Md., by which time you have been informed that you are an escaped slave, and you are being returned into slavery, where you belong. Your captors are slave catchers.
The only problem is that you were a free man in Brooklyn, and didn’t even have the same name as the person they are looking for. No matter, because no one believes you anyway, and the protests of a Negro man don’t mean anything; one slave is as good as any other. This is a true story, and it happened to Williamsburg resident James Hamlet in 1850. Under the protection of the Fugitive Slave Act, Hamlet was legally kidnapped and taken out of state to Maryland. The slave catchers said he was an escapee named James Williams, who belonged to a woman named Mary Brown of Baltimore. Williams had successfully escaped north two years before, and was thought to be in New York City somewhere. Mary Brown’s son said that while he was on a trip to New York, he saw Williams and notified the slave catchers, who arrested James Hamlet at his job as a porter in lower Manhattan.
James Hamlet could prove that he was not James Williams, but under the new Fugitive Slave Act, his testimony was forbidden. He had no rights whatsoever to defend or prove himself in any way. As far as the law was concerned, he was property, and had no right to even prove that he was not. This case could have had a tragic ending, except for one thing: James Hamlet had friends in Brooklyn who would not be satisfied until he was back in Williamsburg in the arms of his family.
The national anti-slavery press took up the story in great detail for many weeks. Abolitionists in both Brooklyn and Manhattan raised funds to buy Hamlet back, raising $800. His story was printed in a pamphlet, the e-mail blast of its day, with copies handed out in the streets of both cities, making people aware of the case, and urging them to not only contribute to buying Mr. Hamlet’s freedom, but to protest the Fugitive Slave Act as well as the institution of slavery. Interestingly, the Brooklyn Eagle never wrote a word about it, even though it was a big story and had a Brooklyn connection.
Meanwhile, in Baltimore, James Hamlet was put on the auction block to be sold into slavery. In an interview he gave later, he said that potential buyers had been cautioned that they would do well to not buy him, as he was a New Yorker and they would lose their money. Meanwhile, the money raised was rushed down to Baltimore, and James Hamlet was set free. Upon arriving back in New York he was hailed as a hero. Between 4,000 and 5,000 people came out to see him at City Hall Park in Manhattan. In Brooklyn, two separate celebrations were held at two different black churches, one in Williamsburg and the other Downtown, where many black Brooklynites lived.
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