Digging into the Past of Coney Island
Our friendship was the only thing that seemed real to me. It seeped through the cracks between the boards at our feet, and around the mesh wire fence which contained Luna Park. The boardwalk was the tangible manifestation of our friendship. On the other side of the fence, the park lived on, clawing at its cage, trying to spill out into my world. But I hung on, not wanting the park’s history and memories to replace mine. I feared that knowing more about Luna Park and the boardwalk would take them away from me. Others do not see the beach in the same way I do. My view of it depends on my memories. Someone else may see it as a place of sorrow and heartbreak. For me, the beach symbolizes something larger. For Mark Doty, a row of mackerel being sold symbolizes a sense of community. In “Souls on Ice,” he describes how something as mundane as fish can stand for something so much more important to him. No one else sees the fish in the same manner as he does; he relies on his own memories to form connections that no other person would see. Knowing the history of a place means relying on other people’s memories. Once you know a place’s past, it is impossible to see it as just a place anymore. It becomes so much more – a graveyard of memories.
There is only one part of the park that is separate from everything, out of the reach of the clutches of its past. “Wonder Wheel,” declares the center of the giant Ferris wheel in red lettering. The seats on the wheel, alternating yellow and red, look like cups with umbrellas over them. The wheel towers over the boardwalk like a guardian. It is not only a ride – it is a landmark, a symbol of strength. Like the world around it, it never stops turning.
Similar to the wheel, I want to be above history, beyond its reach. If I let the tendrils of the past into my mind, I might lose the fairy-tale image I have of Brighton Beach. Is it important to know the history of a place? Or can I rely on my own mind to tell me what to think of it? In “The Loss of the Creature,” Walker Percy believes that the only way to truly view a place is through our own eyes. He claims that once something is discovered and made into an attraction, then “to no one else is it ever as beautiful” (93). He points out that in order to see the unaltered, pure beauty of a place, one must “discover” it. Knowing its history gets in the way, and builds up expectations. When we enter a place with preconceived notions, we are deprived of its “discovery.” Visiting the Grand Canyon after seeing countless postcards of it does not allow us to truly experience the canyon.
I want to truly experience the beach, to free my mind of preconceived notions that are associated with it. I fear that by finding out about the its past, I risk losing my ability to see the beach as something beautiful that belongs to every person who sets foot on it. Yet by shutting myself out of the boardwalk’s past, I am creating a preconceived notion for myself. Every time I come to Coney Island, I expect to see a place of carefree happiness and friendship. Am I preventing myself from discovering the true beauty of the beach by alienating myself from its history?
The first time I saw Coney Island was after an hour’s trek with my mother. We had just moved to America, and were taking in the sites for the first time. Everything was amazing, spectacular, different. After eight years, I have grown accustomed to the beach. My first memories of it were replaced by others. The feelings I used to associate with the boardwalk changed and shifted over time, creating layers on top of layers. As Mark Doty notes, “another day, another time in my life, the mackerel might have been a metaphor for something else” (27). The mindset of a person influences the way in which we see things. Yet it seems as though I had felt the way I do about the boardwalk forever. My associations with Brighton Beach are like glass – glass is solid, yet over long periods of time, it flows in the direction of gravity, acting like a liquid. Matthew Goulish comments on this phenomenon in his essay “Criticism.” He argues that “one cannot conclusively define glass without the inclusion of time” (41). By categorizing glass as a solid, we are stripping away its other aspects, such as its liquid-like qualities. Likewise, by being locked into a single mindset regarding Brighton Beach, I am stripping my memories of their own liquid-like qualities. I am so content with my current view of the beach as a symbol of friendship, that I do not allow my mind to drip into another association.
Even the Wonder Wheel, with its height and grandeur, does not comfort me anymore. I had thought it to be so far away from everything, so separate from the rest of the beach and the rest of the world, that it was above history, untouched and untainted by it. One Friday, the three of us decided to ride the wheel. After standing and admiring it for so long, we mustered up enough courage to get on for a spin. We were not afraid of the height and the ride, but rather what we would gain from it – the unfamiliar feeling of being above the world.
As the wheel spun with us inside an umbrella-topped teacup, the image of being cut loose from history was shattered. Suddenly, the wheel didn’t seem quite as tall or majestic. It revolved slowly, giving us a view of a demolished site (remains of the Thunderbird rollercoaster, torn down only six years ago) and, if we turned in our seats and craned our necks uncomfortably, the rest of the park. I had expected the ride to be exhilarating, thinking that somehow the wheel and my friends and I would all take off and fly off into the sky like I flew when I came here from Israel. I remember patches of lands, all different colors, like a quilt. I felt like someone had spread out the land under my feet just for me. In the evening, tiny lights flickered among clusters of different shades of darkness. I did not need to worry about the ground – it was far away, detached from me. Looking up at the Ferris wheel in Luna Park, I imagined this to be the view I would see from it. Finally riding the wheel filled me with disappointment. The wheel is a part of the boardwalk, it is a part of Coney Island. There is no magic in its gears – its history is as real as that of the rest of the park, and I cannot escape from it. Its past is built into everything, a part of every nut and bolt that makes the wheel rotate so steadily.
Despite the ultimate disappointment, there is something about Ferris wheels that draws people in. For many years, people took the wheels as a challenge and a competition – everyone wanted to create the biggest, most Herculean Ferris wheel. In 1893, the Colombian Exposition in Chicago introduced the Ferris wheel for the first time. It was built by bridge-maker George Ferris to rival the Eiffel tower, though it came to be only about a quarter of the tower’s size (Thiers). The Wonder Wheel on boardwalk was a result of a man’s fascination with Ferris wheels. In 1897, a man by the name of George C. Tilyou attempted to buy the wheel that had been on display at the Columbian Exposition. When he found that he could not, he had one designed just for him (George Tilyou). Perhaps Tilyou, Ferris, and the others who have been captivated by Ferris wheels over the years all share my perspective – are they all trying to soar into the sky, to detach from history and fly above it all? My friends and I did not fly away. We did not leave the past behind. Yet for me, with the disappointment came acceptance of the constantly changing associations that we create. By looking to the past, I was able to move on into the future.
Years passed. One of the friends moved away, taking with her a part of me which to this day has not been replaced. Fridays became just another day. I want to remember those Fridays as good, carefree days. I want to remember only that which I choose, to create and alter my own history. Why? Because I am afraid. I am too terrified to look back to reality, and instead hide in my own version of it.
In between the grains of sand and the cracks in the boards, did I lose the truth? Did I forget the way Leona would go home with tears in her eyes every evening after our walks; that I neglected and overlooked her, which has forever put a strain on our friendship? Did I forget Irina, and the aloof way she acted, as though she knew what was best for everyone; the way I followed her like a puppy; that she moved away later, and nothing was ever the same again?
And me. Did I forget myself?
Buried under a faÃ?¯Ã?¿Ã?½ade of happiness and friendship are tears that I have been longing to shed. I needed to be reassured that even the Wonder Wheel has a history. Discovering it allowed me to see the beach from a different perspective, and realize that whether I like it or not, the past is always there; the only thing that changes is the way we look at it. Goulish puts it best when he says: “We could not look at [rain] directly, but rather at what it reminds us of – childhood, violence, love, tears” (43). Only I can see Brighton Beach through my eyes. My perception of it may change all the time, but I need to learn to welcome this change, and accept is as a part of growing and moving on.
Coney Island smells of cold memories. It is a place of solitude; at night, it is cold and lonely. Yet it is also joy, laughter, sunny days, and burning sand. It is bitter tears of betrayal and regrets, and sweet tears of mirth. It is seagulls and seashells. And it is a Wonder Wheel that never flies off, tempting as it may be.
Works Cited:
Doty, Mark. “Souls on Ice.” The Advanced College Essay. 7th ed. Eds. Kathleen J. Garber, Pat C. Hoy, and William M. Morgan. New York: McGraw Hill, 2005. 26-30.
“Ferris Wheel.” January 2006. Wikipedia. .
“George Tilyou.” The American Experience. 2000. PBS Online. 7 May 2006 .
Goulish, Matther. “Criticism.” The Advanced College Essay. 7th ed. Eds. Kathleen J. Garber, Pat C. Hoy, and William M. Morgan. New York: McGraw Hill, 2005. 40-43.
Percy, Walker. “The loss of the Creature.” The Advanced College Essay. 7th ed. Eds. Kathleen J. Garber, Pat C. Hoy, and William M. Morgan. New York: McGraw Hill, 2005. 93-104.
Thiers, Genevieve. “Ferris Wheel History.” Essortment. 2002. Pagewise. 07 May 2006 .
