On December 8th, 2000, I traveled to New York City to remember John Lennon on
the 20th anniversary of his death.  I expected a crowd around the Imagine
memorial in Central Park, however I didn't realize the amount of people that
would also be standing outside of the Dakota- the apartment building where
Lennon lived.
At first glance, this crowd appeared sullen in remembrance of John Lennon,
however upon further inspection, I noted the souvenir photos being taken;
silly or disrespectful questions being asked of the guards.
In the early evening, about five p.m., Strawberry Fields contained a massive
amount of people.  While I searched for a friend that was possibly in the
crowd, my friend and tour guide Brad searched for David Peel.  We both
returned cold and numb, with minimal search results.  At that point, the
experience didn't mean a lot to me.  There were newscasters and onlookers.
We left.
After grabbing some experimental Lebanese food at a charming place called
Bennie's, (I was skeptical, but the food was excellent and vegetarian) Brad
guided our group to Cafe LaFortuna.  This Cafe had been John's main hangout
while in New York City.
Brad also informed me that this very cafe was the one that was recreated in
Lennon and McCartney's hypothetical meeting in the fictional "Two Of Us" tv
movie.
We sat at a back table, beside a picture signed by Yoko Ono.  I was
defrosting from the cold and ordered chocolate ice cream.  Delicious dessert.
They played Lennon music as we ate.  When retracing John's steps at the
cafe, I felt a kinship with who he had been and how he had existed.  Cafe
dwellers alike.
Upon leaving there were more Lennon fans in the front of the place.  As I was
taking a business card (and a few souvenir cards for my friends), these
middle aged fans respected the fact that we were knowledgeable about The
Beatles and who they were; how important John was and still is today.
Going back was different.  We returned to Strawberry Fields and crossed in
front of the Dakota.  This time it was hard to avoid imagining John's slain
body near the gate... or wherever it happened.  Bitterly, I followed my group
across the street.
Getting into the park had become increasingly difficult as the night moved
on.  Eventually we were swept into a surprisingly cooperative sea of kind
people and we found our way in between two song circles.  I sang.  We talked
to British men.  We were handed cards and information on how to prevent gun
violence.  Love was there, even though John might not have been.
I tried photographing a crowd but a large, drunk elderly man appeared and
grabbed my camera.  He was threatening and said "Look, I've been doing this
for twenty years.  If you want a picture, give me your camera.  I'll show you
what you need to see."  He disappeared in the crowd; I thought I'd lost all
of the pictures.  Moments later, though, he returned and handed me my camera.
The next day his photograph was published in a newspaper.
I exited the park along the fence side and a man tried reaching into my
pocket to steal my wallet.  Luckily, I had my hand there.
My faith in the goodness of people had been restored.
And lost.
I cried, and I missed John, and wondered what Yoko would think and the older
generation who claim I can never know who he was...
Walking out of the park though, I felt the conflict.  Superiority and
inferiority, love and theft, war and peace.
I lost my imagination when I clung to academia.  That day I retrieved it.
 

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