We Are The City of The Underdog

What does it mean to be from Asbury Park? That's not a question that can be answered so easily. My city by the sea will always be different from someone else's. My sunrises may bring me happiness and peace and to another could be disappointment of another day in beautifully lit darkness and despair. Sometimes it can feel like living in a couple different cities all at once. The quadrants, often defined by their activity in numerical blocks, all house completely different neighborhoods within each other. Retirees, artists, writers, millennials, struggling families, the purposely perpetually single, the couple just starting out... Straight, gay, vegan, hipster, straight-edge, outcast, socially awkward, average, recovering, rediscovering, working hard and hardly working live here, together, in this treasure chest of grit, glory and free form expression.

There are things that a person who doesn't live in Asbury Park will miss. The small details often get lost when just visiting for the weekend or for the night. The details of the well worn but still oiled machine, the intricacies that no matter how many times you visit, go undetected. There's a magic and stillness to it's awakening each morning, a perfectly painted sky, and richly colored light that seeps into the city like a warm kiss from a loved one, welcoming in a new day. That same magic and stillness will sweep the city in the evening, it's golden cotton candy tones providing a punctually placed backdrop to another evening's play. But it's those sparkling span of hours in which the routines of those that keep Asbury Park afloat day in and day out, not just in season and humming to it's very own tune, you will find the tried and true heartbeat of the city. From those who will dress the boardwalk in it's finest fixtures for impending visitors, to those taking a midday break from their artistry to walk a four legged friend, is when this pentameter can be heard loudest. 

The face of Asbury Park is ever changing. The redevelopment that has hit the business district and boardwalk is taking it's time to seep into other sections but the spirit that has kept it alive during it's darkest time refuses to give in. We are the city of the underdog, littered with social heroes and misfits, labels and classifications. We are the ones who have seen her through the best and worst times. I encourage those who live here to not forget this spirit, revisit the allure that has kept you here within the city walls and to use that energy to push Asbury Park forward.

With all of that being said... It's not a secret that Bruce Springsteen's name has become synonymous with Asbury Park. Everyone has a story, a memory and a connection to this home town hero. But well before Bruce and well after him, will be more treasured entertainers, singers, artists, entrepreneurs, writers, athletes, pioneers and producers that will continue to inspire the world from a dizzied and dazzled city nestled by the sea. Asbury Park will always house hidden gems, like sea glass tossed among stones and bits of broken sea shells, special to those who know how to find it. Who will you be? What will your story be? How will your light shine? What will you tell the world when it asks what it means to be from the multifaceted, history rich and resilient city simply known as Asbury Park?

With a "Z..."

This evening, I found myself chasing sunset around Asbury Park and where this is obviously not out of the norm' for me, I did find myself in what started out as peculiar situation. 

I often pass this tree and wonder about the things that it has witnessed. From the streets' quarrels and the over flow from The Saint, it has this "A Tree Grows In" appeal. For some reason, I decided that tonight would be the night that I would pull over for it's pic. Tonight, of all nights, under a cotton candy coated sky; the air more that of September than late July. 

To pause for a moment, I must tell you that what I love about Asbury Park is its hot pockets... Those sections of air that are so tense in the weirdest of social ways. Whether it's the pretentious, touristy sections of Cookman Avenue --hipsters, retirees and the artsy co-mingle-- or the troubled sections plagued by paused progression... It's an unmistakable tightness that grabs at the oxygen in your personal air supply. Somewhere at the cross section of I-forgot-my-loafers-and-full-sleeve-tattoo and Dear-God-Please-don't-let-me-break-down-here, I find the true tales appear.  

I leave my car running, my phone on the front seat; my sandals being met with trash and broken glass. I try to line up my shot as I see a shadow emerge from the corner of my eye. He saunters slow, tugging at his exposed boxers, wiping his mouth of Summer sweat. I notice but I don't budge. He asks what's my name and why am I there. I politely respond that my name isn't necessary and I'm here just to take a pic of the tree. 

In an effort to make the situation less tense, I take my camera down. He repeats himself and says, "what can I call you if I can't call you by your name?" I reply, "Fins," surprising even myself at the randomness of my reply. A barrel laugh bubbles out of his tank top and he asks, "Fins?" Somehow, I still decide to hold my ground and I ask, "so what do they call you at the dinner table?" A smile comes across his face, his tongue slowly lining the corners of his mouth before he replies, "Bills. With a 'Z.'"

Over the next 20 minutes or so, Billz and I would talk about his Asbury Park. Billz would illustrate the troubles of the people trapped in the economic complexities of the West Side, where families of generations are trapped between the law and the law of the streets. To Billz, the root of the problem is one that has plagued the city for years: communication. Raising his worn, callused hand to the setting sun's sky, he wants me to know that the true families of Asbury Park are not the ones serving the news outlets with their daily feed; that they are the ones caught by circumstance. 

I can't say that Billz had said anything that I hadn't already heard... However, it was his articulation that surprised me. Driven by the capacity of the burden of his city's struggle, a city of that divided, he wanted to me to take with me the "blessing of home." Despite the strife, despite the headlines, this is and was home. Not for one but for all. And it was here, under this tree, did I leave a fist bump and handshake with a man who just wanted to be heard.

But before getting back into my car and him back to roaming, we agreed on one thing: it was "Fins." ...with a "Z."  

Good night, my beloved city by the sea.