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I had just arrived in New York and was super excited to get out and about.  No doubt my family would be expecting an awkward selfie from me to mark my arrival and I didn’t want to disappoint. It was bright, sunny and crisp in Morningside Park, Harlem.  This time of year, almost everything under foot sounds like potato chips; leaves and sticks are dried out and dead after being frozen all winter. Heavy-footed pedestrians crush the leftover bits of nature and haphazardly kick it all back into circulation.  Trees look desperate and brown, grass is bleached and soggy, and garbage is left exposed on muddy mounds, as if a tide has just gone out but instead of shells left behind, there is a winter’s worth of junk food wrappers.  I walked through it all to the mossy stone steps that lead up a steep hill and out to the other side of the park.  The sun had found a few green buds on the trees to focus on and several purple crocuses had broken out of their soil graves and stretched up to catch some rays. I was here for the Athena Film Festival; a film festival dedicated to fierce and fearless women – in front of and behind the camera.  I cut through Morningside Park to get to the campus of Columbia University and across to Barnard College, the women’s college that hosts the festival.  I paused at the steps and looked around sheepishly.  Smiling into my hand, I snapped a quick selfie, hoping not to be seen.  I was here on my own, working the festival for a second year because I believe in it, and because I love New York.  Just in from Toronto, I had no idea I had just taken my selfie right where she died.

I noticed when I arrived at my Airbnb, which was at the edge of Morningside, on West 117th street, that there was quite a police presence in the park.  There was an actual security guard in the old gatehouse, police vans with their cherries on were parked along the edge of the road, and solar powered portable lights had been wheeled onto the path that snaked through the trees.  It’s New York.  I didn’t think anything of it.  I didn’t remember this from last year, but then again, I can’t remember if the door to my local convenience store is push or pull and I’ve been going there for 20 years.  I walked as I did last year, through the park, and across campus to work, sheepishly taking selfies in the quaint old park, embarrassed at my narcissism.  I should have been embarrassed at my insensitivity.

After grabbing a bite and doing a quick walk around campus, checking out the food trucks, and listening in on conversations at fruit stands, stop lights and diner counters, I headed into the Athena office.  There were some familiar faces on the team along with a few new ones.  I was excited to get to work.  Opening night is always a good time - with a meaningful film and a great party.  It’s often a task for me to connect with new colleagues on a short term gig but as we all headed over to the party, walking in the cold night air, we began exchanging stories about our lives, closing the gap as strangers.  It’s easy to talk about yourself but I’ve learned over the years, it’s often far more rewarding to listen.  In these women of all ages, I happily found fresh perspectives, depth of experience, and in some, a thick skin and sharp wit born out of survival and determination.  The stories came at me in accents that melodically swung from Queen’s, to Long Island, to Brooklyn; each personal experience was music to my ears, plucking a different string on the same guitar that blended our lives soulfully together in one anthemic song dedicated to the feminine spirit. The younger ladies were dangerously charming and seemed to have the bar staff under some kind of spell – a trick I haven’t been able to do for years.  Drinks flowed freely from behind the bar into their hands, and mysteriously, down my throat.  I was only being polite. A Canadian never turns down a pretty cocktail.

When my politeness ran out, and I teetered on the edge of becoming a sloppy mute, I took my cue and decided it was time for me to leave.  My usual plan for getting home had been derailed earlier in the day.  Through casual conversation, I had been advised, in no uncertain terms, to not cut through the park – at all. A cab or an Uber would be a must. The apartment I was renting was literally just on the other side of the park – a hop, skip and a few steps away.

“But I always cut through the park?” I said. “I did it every day last year?”  The desperation in my voice was slightly sad.  I just wanted to be as cool as a New Yorker and walk around freely like I belonged. I spoke like a teenager being denied the car for a night out.

“Just, don’t do it. Promise me you won’t?” Cailley urged. I pushed for more, but she didn’t say much else.  She is a gentle sort and clearly not prone to gossip or hysterics and I respect her very much for this.

“Ok,” I surrendered, thinking she just wanted the out-of-towner to be cautious.

 Throughout the day, I heard more of the same advice but with a few more bread crumbs: “Please don’t cut through the park.”, “You haven’t heard?”, “It’s been a dark time here for us.”, “Just take a cab, it’s not worth it.” And the most potent, Josie, a fiercely intelligent and wise soul - looked me straight in the eye and bluntly added, “Don’t be a cliché.”

Each time I was urged to avoid the park, I promised obediently but willfully pressed for more.  It wasn’t until I was in a smaller group that anyone dared to speak in detail. In hushed tones, Lauren, a senior at Barnard, and Jasmine, a no non-sense force from the Bronx, told me about Tessa.  We stood in the main floor office at Barnard College.  The sun poured in the long windows and I stood shuffling my feet among the swag bags and signage as they talked. It was hard to know where to look.

Tessa Majors, a young Barnard student was walking through Morningside park at approximately 5:30 pm, December 11th, 2019. As she got to the steps, three young men approached and attempted to rob her, but very quickly, things turned violent.  One of the attackers had Tessa in a choke hold while the others rifled through her pockets.  When they demanded her phone, she bit one of them and screamed for help.  One of the three assailants stabbed her several times during the escalating struggle.  Her wounds were inflicted with such force, feathers flew out of her down jacket and floated through the air.  After being abandoned, Tessa managed to crawl to the top of the stairs and call out for help. One of the stab wounds had fatally pierced her heart. She passed away later in hospital.  Tessa Majors was an 18-year-old freshman at Barnard, originally from Charlottesville Virginia.  Her alleged attackers were three young boys from the neighborhood; two fourteen year-old’s and the third, just thirteen years of age. The youngest boy was apprehended the next day.  He confessed to his involvement in the crime and named the other two boys, describing in detail how the robbery went horribly wrong. The age-old wound of class tension between Columbia University and the surrounding neighborhood of Harlem, ivy league privilege too cozy to the inter-generational poverty, sliced wide open again, as raw as a paper cut across a sunburn.

Violent crime has gone down significantly in New York City in recent years so this murder shocked and saddened the city, dredging up old fears and sending communities into mourning – for the loss of Tessa Majors as well as the lives of the three young boys that now hung in the balance.  At the time of the murder, the thirteen-year-old alleged assailant was living with his uncle, who is in poor health with diabetes, after the death of his mother, and had admittedly fallen in with the wrong crowd.  The New York Times compared the case to the Central Park jogger rape case from 30 years ago, and the wrongful conviction of five young African American men. The governor has urged 26 Division to tread lightly and prosecute with care.  I couldn’t imagine the pain and confusion this community is experiencing – a neighborhood increasingly being squeezed by gentrification while young people fight for opportunity and survival just steps away from one of the most privileged academic communities in the country; mere steps. In the 70’s, the area surrounding Columbia University that lies at the top of the stairs from Morningside Park was referred to as “up the hill” and Harlem, at the base of the steps, was referred to as “down the hill”.  The park is the steadfast and poetic link that connects these communities. The playground and tree lined paths are more than a place to spend a few moments of leisure time – they are part of a green space that whispers of hope in its winds, while fighting classism in its weeds. 

I let the story wash over me and shamefully, my immediate reaction was for my own safety, wondering why the owner of the Airbnb hadn’t warned me to not walk through the park? I was very clear to her why I had chosen her place – proximity to Barnard and the allure of the short cut through the park to get to and from work.  Me. Me. Me.

As the girls told me the story, sadness and horror choked their words and their voices remained respectfully low.  Dark times was a term I heard more than once. Barnard is a school that aims to offer a superior education to women in liberal arts with a focus on social activism, both local and global.  This had hit hard – as many students study the plight and struggles of women around the world on a daily basis, the death of one so young, so close to home, had brought so many issues to the forefront. Violence against women, with frightening global statistics, was now an immediate experience for their very own freshman class.  The painful notion that Tessa wasn’t the only victim was another heartache difficult to ignore.  The young boys had risked and lost so much as well; just children who had inherited circumstances and history that repeatedly painted them into a corner and hoped they would find their way out with often fragile and fleeting resources. For the women of Barnard, creating ‘period packs’ for girls in developing countries is an act far easier to tackle than the social and class unease at their doorstep.  To stop the spread of fear and blame, it will surely take more than a tampon.  Real leadership, open dialogue, and compassion must emerge.   

As the day progressed, the story faded to the background and the festival took precedence.  Female filmmakers, writers and producers from around the world descended on the campus. Panels, masterclasses and screenings took over rooms and theatres across the storied campus. I did my job and stopped asking questions.  At lunch, I made sure my Uber app was functioning.

By the end of the opening night party, I leaned unsteadily against the bar, listening to conversations get swallowed up by a whiskey train that echoed down a tunnel somewhere in front of me.  I felt the alcohol suddenly take control of me, like a puppet abruptly passed to a new puppeteer. This was my cue to take out my phone and order that Uber.  I slipped outside into the frigid night and sat on a patio bench, hoping the fresh air would act as a defibrillator to my fuzzy thoughts and reflexes. Yellow taxis whizzed by amidst the hurried traffic, and the lights from curious neighborhood establishments, coffee shops, vegan restaurants and college bars, danced on the cold pavement at my feet like Christmas ribbon blowing off a fan.  Chatty pedestrians, in all their cool confidence, moved past me in waves, intent on getting somewhere and having a good time along the way. 

I waited for my car and watched the activity.

The first Uber cancelled on me.  I promptly ordered another one just as my phone battery flashed red. The next Uber cancelled on me only five minutes later.  I ordered again and called this time to make sure he knew exactly where I was and to ensure that he was coming.  I felt cold.  And impatient.  I waited some more.  I looked down as my phone battery warned me again; the red battery line looking smaller still. I knew the park was behind me and I could be home in minutes if I just walked.  I swear at that moment, the moon got brighter as if to keep me alert and thinking clearly.  I stayed put. 

“There she is!” I heard Gabrielle say in her gorgeous, throaty tone as the doors of the bar behind me swung open.  “You made an Irish exit.  Well done!”.  Her laughter filled the night air like hot air in a balloon, lifting my spirits. I joked with the girls and assured them I was waiting for my ride and not the slightest bit tempted to walk.  The group dispersed into vehicles and subway stations. I stood up with only a faint 2% battery left on my phone and stepped toward my Uber that had finally arrived.  A 6-minute Uber drive around the park and I was home, safe and sound. The bright lights and hum of the generators that powered the portable lights in the park held my gaze as we circled the park.  The path was lit up like a runway – a runway that was eerily empty.  This time I felt it; the slight hopelessness and pain in the abandoned park where children had been lost.  My forehead on the cold glass of the car window was as close as I could get to this no-man’s land at night and it felt sad. 

The rest of the festival played out as it was meant to. I sat in on a powerful panel where victims of Harvey Weinstein spoke about rape and a culture of protection for powerful men in Hollywood. I listened to a master class where an accomplished writer described how she handled life in a writer’s room full of men. I escorted filmmakers to their premieres where they showed their art to hungry audiences. Film after film told stories of women fighting, sometimes succeeding and sometimes not, for political rights, reproductive rights and services for the unhoused. I heard stories of trauma recovery and motherhood on the fringe.  For days I watched and listened to the voices of so many women from different corners of the world.  But still, my mind wandered repeatedly back to the voices in the park.

Had my battery died and my Uber cancelled on me one more time, I might have headed to the park, at least taken the long way around on foot.  Chance, circumstance, and available options steer our decision making every day.  Combine that with historical inequity and lack of opportunity, and the choices we have get narrower and infinitely riskier. My circumstance could have been different that night but my privilege, my phone and credit card, saved me. That’s not an outcome I want to take lightly.

I decided to take those steps every day of the festival – but only in the light of day.  Climbing the steep steps made my calves burn and my chest heave as I fought for deep breaths. Those stairs are a challenge.  It’s a short cut yes, but not an easy climb – literally and metaphorically. I wasn’t afraid of the stairs until I was told to be and seeing the park abandoned at night, with harsh lights exposing the steps and path like an empty film set waiting for a voice to yell action, felt like a test.  I didn’t want to think of this park as falling silent. This is not my home and perhaps not my place, but I think for everyone’s sake, I hope people keep walking these difficult paths.  Without constant footprints, they will get buried by unforgiving growth and hurt.  The stairs will fall into disrepair, and before long, no one will think about who or what is on the other side of the park. 

By Carol Sloan

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