Amy Cooper’s 911 call and what has happened since

A black man asked a white woman to leash her dog in Central Park, according to the required rules. She rejected it. She then called the police to say that she was being threatened.

After the episode, the man in the video, Christian Cooper, an avid bird watcher, gave an interview to my colleague Sarah Maslin Nir. He told Mrs. Nir that he was in the Ramble, a semi-wild section of Central Park, when he heard Mrs. Cooper, who is unrelated to him, calling out to her dog.

After he asked she to tie the cocker spaniel, the two words exchanged. While filming on her phone, Ms. Cooper called the police.

“There is a man, African American, he has a bicycle helmet and he is filming and threatening me and my dog,” the clip shows Mrs. Cooper telling the 911 operator.

Within hours of the video being released, countless celebrities, activists, and city and state officials had stepped in. Mayor Bill de Blasio called the episode “racism, plain and simple.”

Last month, state lawmakers passed legislation that allows people “a private right of action” if they believe someone has turned to the police because of their race, gender, nationality, or other protected class.

Cooper was charged Monday with filing a false report, a misdemeanor punishable by up to one year in prison. It is scheduled to be processed on October 14. If convicted, she could be paroled or sentenced to community service or counseling instead of going to jail.

My colleague Jan Ransom wrote that the pending charge appears to be among the first that a white person in the United States has faced for unfairly calling the authorities to file a complaint about a black person.

There is no official count of New York children who have lost a parent or Covid-19 keeper. But those who are facing difficulties beyond pain. [The City]

Sandra E. Garcia of The Times writes:

The women’s faces in their portraits are often partially covered by a mask tied behind their heads, pulling braids, low bows, or locks of curls. They are dressed in uniforms that showcase their essential jobs, but their style and charisma shine through in their everyday armor.

They are black women who work in jobs that the coronavirus pandemic quickly revealed to be essential to the functioning of New York City. And all the images were drawn by Aya Brown, a 24-year-old Brooklyn artist. The drawings comprise Mrs. Brown’s intimate series of Essential Workers. Not only are women’s works represented through lines and colors, but also their style.

“My goal is to uplift and inspire black women who look like me, give them a space to see and raise awareness,” said Brown.

[[[[Read more about Aya Brown.]

Women have been the heroines of the pandemic: one in three of the jobs women do is essential, according to an analysis by the Times. And most of the women who have essential jobs are women of color.

Mrs. Brown started her series in April after a trip to the emergency room. She watched as her nurse, a black woman from the West Indies, cared for her while her doctor paused on and off, and began to think more about the other black women who went unnoticed “on the front line.”

Some subjects in the portraits said they had never considered themselves essential workers before, a mindset that Ms. Brown tries to change by putting black women at the center of her artwork. Even the materials he uses are intentional: he draws on brown paper, he said, because “black bodies don’t need to start from white.”

Chaédria LaBouvier, curator of a show at the Guggenheim Museum, said the series was not about staying out of the world of white, straight, and patriarchal art, but about the black working class saying, “I am already the center, and there is a a lot of beauty here. “

It is Wednesday, recognize your beauty.

Dear Diary:

While crossing 11th Street to visit friends in town, the Larchmont Hotel caught my eye. An SRO 50 years ago, it had been restored as a boutique hotel.

He had rented a room there while he was in graduate school. Living right in front of the elevator, I heard noises at all hours. Trailed feet. High heels clicked. Closed doors.

Two toilets and a shower served seven occupants on each floor. Five rooms opened onto the corridor, with a more spacious room at each end. I coveted the largest room with tall windows facing the street.

In my room, a double bed occupied one wall; One sink hung from another. Most nights he cooked a small meal on a hot two-burner plate.

The days are clearer now. Grilled cheese sandwiches at Joe Jr. Diner, occasional tea with a classmate. Every morning I walked to the New School library, where a stream of students returned to the same seats.

Fifty years later, my home now feels huge. Perhaps it has expanded since my husband Jerry died. Through the window, I catch a glimpse of the Taconic Range. Geese traverse the sky. However, the hotel resides within me: radio, electric plate, stacked textbooks.

The stillness of the morning unites my ranch house and the Larchmont, a silence enhanced by the noise of the refrigerators, the clicks of the oven and the passing of a snowplow.

I have been alone before.

– Cecele Kraus

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