Fifteen years ago, it was a cold night in an apartment in
Prospect Heights, Brooklyn where maybe two dozen people gathered for a Burns
Night party. Burns Night is January 25 and celebrates the birthday of Robert Burns,
the Scottish poet who lived in the late 1700s.
Several of us had brought our volumes of Robert Burns’
poetry, and at any point during the party, a partygoer would shout “Poem!” and
silence the festivities for a reading of Burns poem.
The host had traveled to a meat distributor in New Jersey to
obtain authentic haggis,
a traditional Scottish dish comprised of a sheep’s offal and other ingredients
served inside an animal’s stomach. A central ritual of the Burns Night party
consisted of our host cutting open the haggis while someone read the Burns poem
‘Address to a Haggis.’
These Burns Night parties were a testament to the greatness
of New York City and to the promise and meaning of Brooklyn to so many people. These
were eclectic gatherings that showed the power of art to transcend time and
place. Here were people of a variety of ethnic backgrounds celebrating a
Scottish poet. The host, Roger, is a Peruvian Jew who grew up in Detroit. There
was at least one real Scotsman at these parties, or at least he looked the
party with a kilt. Maybe none of us had a drop of Scottish blood. Who cares? The
power of Burns’ poetry transcends.
Among the guests at Roger’s parties were his frequent music
collaborator Scott and Scott’s wife Diane. I once got to dog sit for Scott and
Diane’s amazing dog Connolly (full name: Satchel Connolly X) – I picked up
their house keys at a local diner where they knew the owners, walked their dog
and explored Prospect Heights, which was a real neighborhood.
They were among the most active voices opposing the AtlanticYards Project, a corrupt boondoggle that forced people out of
their homes and businesses to construct luxury housing and a sports stadium.
That fight was lost and the BarclaysCenter now sits on what used to be the part of the vibrant and
eclectic Prospect Heights neighborhood. To this day I have not set foot inside
the Barclays Center.
Roger returned to Detroit and Scottleft Brooklyn and ended up in New Orleans. Diane remained in
Brooklyn for a while after their breakup but she later moved to Westchester.
All these people are doing well. Roger continues to write brilliantly, Scott
has had his photos exhibited and Diane is a Fordham professor who recently publisheda book.
Those parties and those three people in particular
represented Brooklyn to me like nothing else. They had each had come to New
York and conquered it on their own, leaving great music and art in their wake. When
those three people left Brooklyn, it was a sure sign that the things that made
Brooklyn special were gone forever. If the people who embodied the spirit of
Brooklyn more than anyone I knew were had left, then Brooklyn had outlived its
usefulness.
That’s not to say there is nothing good about Brooklyn. I
still go to Coney Island and Prospect Park and there are still music venues in
Brooklyn worth your while. But for the most part when I think of Brooklyn I
think of overpriced real estate and the hordes of well-off people who are
driving up the price of everything.
But people who attended Roger’s Burns Night
parties years ago have not forgotten them. A friend recently spent Burns Night
at Peter Luger’s Steak House and recited some Burns poems to his family and
friends. Diane mentioned Burns night in a school lesson about ethnic foods and
culture; sadly her students had not heard of Burns Night.
Roger posted his memories of Burns Night online, noting how
he first came across a reading of Burns poetry inside a pub in New Jersey, and
woke up the next day in New York determined to be one of the people who would recite
Burns poetry.
I stayed up late with my volume of Burns poetry, and read The Bonnie Wee Thing
to my wife while holding her hand. It was not the happening party of years ago,
but I could not go to bed on Burns Night without reading a Burns poem.
The Burns Night parties in Brooklyn of long ago are gone,
but as long as I live I will keep them alive in spirit, and I am not alone.
Aye.
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