Unsafe New York: Part Forty One

HONARABLE JUDGE OR “WILL YOU WRITE THAT IN YOUR LANGUAGE”

It was January 23, 2007, and I was getting ready to go to the Housing Court. After having adjourned twice, and now appearing for the third time before the judge who was in direct violation of procedures as well as the trust bestowed into her due to her high office of a judge, I was in trepidation. Fearing that my landlord will now bring not only his lawyer, his girlfriend, my ex-lover, but someone from a street across who saw me buy some pastry and judged my character to be untrustworthy due to my eating of that pastry, I took all my paper work with me. A seemingly simple case where I was due repairs and the landlord, action of repairs as well as civil penalties pursuant to “Order and Notice of Violation” of October 12, 2006 (!), paragraph “g”- “failure by the respondent Aziz Ackmese to correct violations lised on the inspection report and on schedule A within the periods required by paragraphs “a”, “b”, and “c” shall subject them to the contempt power of the court” turned into a case of slander of my character by the judge, her assistant, my landlord, and his lawyer (girlfriend pitched in as well: the lady spoke to me twice in 6 years), my being deprived of a right to speak in English (according to Judge Gonzalas I did not speak English and needed a translator), an outright attempt to make deals with an HP lawyer, over my head, about suspending civil penalties for my landlord and lastly verbal and psychic abuse of my person on both times of appearance in court. So, having experienced justice, I wanted to be prepared for another session of it.
The Housing Court strongly resembled a country jail house. But I did come prepared, armed with a lawyer. Not exactly a lawyer he was but versed in the knowledge of the housing court law, not better that I, I could do it all by myself, I ended up teaching him a thing or two. But, I am this stinky Russian immigrant WOMAN and he was this AMERICAN MALE and therefore, his word was valued more than mine. My assistant, a lay person from “Neighbors helping Neighbors”, an organization helping helpless tenants against corrupt judges and conniving landlords. This one should be doing his job and unlike my "friend" should not turn against me and run away, tail between his legs. The gentleman names Dagen Bayliss was supposed to meet me by the door at 9:30am. I have arrived a little later and this is why. Yet again I was attacked and harassed for the color of my skin, my race, my nationality, and lastly, but firstly, MY GENDER:
The line was tightly packed with people. To avoid stepping on the heels of the people in front of me, I gave them some space for advancement. A few minutes later, an angry threat came from behind me: Miss, move it or what. Are you just going to be standing there. The space between me and the people was not even an extent of an arm. Perhaps if I breathed into their backs, then I would be confirming? Why does a stranger feels its ok to do to a woman what it is he was going to do to me? I looked back. A short black guy was inches away from my person waving his hands to and pro. I explained to him that I was not going to step on people’s heels. “What? How dare you talk back to me?” the guy started screaming. I said to him that I not only was answering his question but also have a right to speak as I please. This last part seemed to so have stricken the guy that I could see him turn pale. He wobbled, caught his balance and looked at me with hatred, his lips twisted into a semblance of a mouth of an animal getting ready to bite into your neck:
"Who the fuck you think you are?" he hissed. “Shut the fuck up when spoken to you and don’t answer back.”
“I don’t think so,” I replied to my angry neighbor.
“I swear to God, I’m gonna hit you, yo, I’m gonna hit you right in the face if you don’t shut the fuck up. Keep moving, bitch.”
“You are an asshole yourself and I will move at my pace.”
By that time angry voices joined from the crowd, demanding that I “shut up.” The crows usually attacks by inertia, and whoever it is that it was programmed to see as a perpetrator, hated one, a non-entity. The guy got past me and squeezed into a little space I have left between me and the front person. “That’s it.” He said. Other people from behind me, followed him. I calmly retorted that at no time have I given up my place in line and was not willing to give it up. An older Jewish gent graciously gestured me to get back in. The black guy was very upset. He said: this fucking bitch has a fucking big mouth. I bet you she did not have good pounding this morning. !!!
I wasn’t sure if he referred to being f-ed by a guy or being beaten by him. In any case, why my personal life and my person became his property to dispose of in a conversation, at ease, whereas we did not know one another, I did not know. The women in the crowd happily ganged up in in this sexist bashing. The natural selection for women should be women that allow sexists to persevere. Why is it even allowed? Why is it even tolerated? It is gross violation of all human laws. These women should be beaten up to black and blue. The guy floated a few more jokes about my being a bitch, and people responded. I said:
ok, so first you prohibit me to move as I wish, then you prohibit me to speak, then you command me to act, then you use a sexist attack.
Someone in the crowd yelled out: I’m a woman too, so? I was tempted to ad “nothing if you got no brain” but kept my peace.
Someone else said: shut the fuck up. Then that person added: go back to where you came from. About three to four people happily joined in. I waited until it became calm and asked: and where is it? Where is it that I should go back? To Russia? So, as an immigrant I being told by you here, to go back? The crowd stood silent. “Yes, I am Russian. And KGB at that. “Cause all them fucking Russians are KGB, right, right?” People were quiet. I took my hat off. “And maybe I should go back as a fucking LGBT center too? MAybe I should not be, tranny as I am, acting as who I am, in public? Well?” The guy who was commanding me making my time, walk and manner of speech his, breathed angrily. But he did not say a word. Someone whispered something and I felt a wave of hate. The rest of the line went in absolute silence.
“What’s that you reading?” inquired the guard once I passed the metal detector system. He freely opened up my book and flipped through the pages. Some of my newspaper cut-outs were there, they almost fell on the floor. I waited until he finished with the book. His glance was foreboding. Why did he look at my book and why did he flip through it, without my permission, was beyond me. One thing was clear. He knew he could flaunt his authority as a guard and could do anything he wanted.
I finally got to the 4th floor, room 409. I ended up walking up the stairs due to the heavy elevator traffic. The black guy with his girlfriend cast a glance at me as I walked up the stairs and exchanged glances. The eyes of his girlfriend were glossy and docile. She kept hanging on to his sleeve, acting meek.
In court, my party and I met in the hallway. I briefly conveyed in more detail to Mr. Bayliss the content of past events and we headed for the court room. He has warned me that he would have to stay only before lunch and then head out, because he had some other cases. When I attempted to find out if there was a way to know when I would go, no one was around to ask. I went into one of the rooms and inquired from a lawyer there. I got rudely interrupted by a guard who run from behind me and almost threatened me to physically remove me. “Don’t do this again,” he barked. “What is it?” I inquired. I received a very strange look that did not reflect the guard of the Housing Court. Outside, I inquired of a sitting one: “I needed to inquire about something, why are you acting as you are in a police state?” I asked the guard. He slightly got up from his seat and made a threatening gesture at his belt. Perhaps this was an indication that he will shoot if needed. This was America, and this was a democracy, you see. Ok, I guess he can shoot me for asking a question. The clerk cast a glance and looked like he wanted to help me. I headed over for him. So, I have inquired from him when he thought I would be going. He looked up at me with the same hatred I saw in the eyes of the other guard and coldly responded that he did not know. My helper Mr. Bayliss joined me and the guard instantly became civil. He smiled and added that there was no way of knowing when we went because, you see, this procession did not happen in order. After having squirmed in his seat, the guard looked at me the look of "that's it, you"ll get it now." Needless to say that it was ensured I went the last. I have left the court about 4 something pm.
But let’s start from the beginning. After hours and hours of waiting, we have finally convened in a “conference” room. My translator was there already, translating with her heavy accent the things that I understood, speaking for me in language that has been my own since I was about 14 years old. I sat through this humiliation, and tried to stay focused on what was being said. I was asked (this is precisely what happened, I was not communicated with but was asked, like a convict is asked for the details of his testimony), very crudely and abruptly, by the HP lawyer some questions that were translated to me by the translator. Every time I attempted to speak myself, the lawyer would turn away. The judge had apparently held every person in court in fear and submission, greatly resembling the so feared by Americans tyranny of Communism and the Soviets. The sleek Chinese and Japanese females kept slithering in and out of the room, casting glances at the procedure. The lawyer kept turning around. He looked somewhat disheveled and scared. every time he would speak, he would look around. He would first look to his left, then he would look to his right. He particularly seemed to be in terror of an Asian assistant of the court, whom he avoided like the plague. She stood there while everybody was sitting and towered over others, casting haughty and proud glances to all sides. A few times her eyes have met mine and she narrowed them, as if trying to pass on to me what a despicable and audacious person I was. This all was very strange and I did not know what to attribute it to. My paranoid defendant continued and then the landlord kindly joined us. The girlfriend came in and stood real close to me. She was one inch away from my left foot. When I moved it, she looked at me and her eyes expressed hatred. What does she have to do with me? The landlord sat down and started to convey what kind of a shitty person I was, how I broke things and brought bugs, how the case for holdover started. He mentioned his other corrupt witnessess: one of whom I fucked regularly for some time and who even I considered like my older brother, and the other who was the father of a girl for whom me and this treacherous older brother made an art show, with the permision of the landlord. The lawyer that was seemingly my lawyer, listened with great pleasure to all the filfth being poured on me. He even wrote something down. The landlord did skip the ficking episode and the art show episode, the only two points of relation I had with the "witnessess". He also forgot to mention that the other "witness" broke into my apartment with him, intimidated me and harassed me and my friends ever since. He seemed to take great delight in my being such a shit. Many other people were listening, forgetting about their own work, for which the state, and The People pay them. When I attempted to ask why is it that we were discussing unrelated topics in the conference room, I got sacked. The lawyer acted a judge and attacked me a couple of times. Whom was he defending, I wondered? Did he even know what he was supposed to do or was he too busy attending to his uncured paranoia or what not? Finally, I lost my patience and raised my voice. “Why are we discussing these unrelated things,” I asked. The lawyer did not know what to say. He seemed at a loss. He looked helplessly at my translator and she shrugged her shoulders.
Then the guard came in and told us everyone had to leave for lunch. Everyone started shaking and grabbed their things and started exiting en masse, crowding at the door. The guard twirled his keys round his forefinger, a few times. We all exited. The landlord was breathing at my neck.
An hour and a half later I have returned and headed over to the conference room, where we have left because of lunch. MANDATORY LUNCH, GODDAMNIT. The people in there were very angry. They yelled at me and asked me what the hell I was doing in the conference room.
???
Perhaps I should have asked them what is it that they were doing in the conference room?
The guard came from the back and demanded to know how I dared to go in?! I explained that we have left the conference room because of lunch, without having finished our discussion, and now I was back to continue that discussion I have left off. “Leave and wait outside,” ordered the guard. I hesitated. “Leave now, I said” the guard said, taking a few steps closer to me and towering over me. At this moment the landlord entered the room and strolled over to the table. He took the same sit he had before we left and placed his things on the table. “We better get out before we get kicked out” I conveyed to him. He looked at me in surprise. Then he saw the guard. The guard’s face acquired a polite expression when facing the LandowneR. At that moment the Asian overseer got involved and commanded we left and waited outside. She put out her hand in a warning fashion: do not speak, she commanded. We both exited humbly, like two dogs with our tails between our legs. We sat in court to wait.
When some lawyer was heading for the “conference” room, my landlord got up and got a hold of him. Apparently he asked what happened and why we were not allowed back into conference room. The lawyer said that the judge now had the case. What had happened with asking either party if they wanted the case assigned to the judge at that point without completing the negotiations, never got clarified, my attempt to question the my HP lawyer was met with his befuddled face, a shrug of shoulders and a completely oblivious “I dunno”. Then he went away, chewing on what looked like his nail and looking around in fear: did anybody see him talk? What will happen now?!
The judge meanwhile enjoyed the gossip and the defense some businessman was mounting against some poor working class guy who apparently, on top of that, spoke no English. Or very little. Surprisingly, he was not given a translator though he apparently struggled in English grammar making obvious mistakes, taking his time to say one word and constantly mumbling things first in his language, to himself, and then out loud, in English. She sat and watched this person attempt to defend himself against someone who was extremely articulate, obviously of means and even taped this guy on his camera. The inequality was starring in the face. The judge allowed no time for the other party and gave 110% to the articulate and well dressed guy. I just wanted to know why my case got assigned to the judge without first consulting with us, people who were involved in it, but there were no answers, only commands and fear.
Meanwhile, the landlord got a hold of judge’s assistant and was quietly talking to him about something. The rule of “not talking in court” so fervently upheld by the clerk who would even prohibit older people asking questions about things they did not understand in English or about the procedure, was strangely silent. The landlord and the judge's assistant spoke a little. Then they exchanged a silent look and a slight nod. First, the judge’s assistant exited. Then, a few moments later, the landlord. Looking around himself like a thief in the night in the house he robs for the first time. When the landlord came back he was beaming. The judge’s assistant came into the court a few moments later; he too was looking at his sides. The clerk lowered his eyes and barked very loudly: whose cell phone was that?
When we finally appeared before the judge, same scenario that took place two past times took place today. The much commotion was happening around. People were talking about me. It was so embrassing, I was turning red all over. The judge again refused to listen to me lest I spoke through a translator. The translator began speaking in her broken English. I was forced to listen to her to make sure she does not pass things the way I did not intend for them to be passed.
Finally, the judge scheduled some time and then threw a date at me. I did not get it and could not ask. Fearful to forget and to have to face the "Russian file" incident again, I asked for permission to leave the bench and to writet things down. The judge, towering from above her bench, mockingly imitated my shaken voice and asked me: “what will you do again? Write it down in your language?” I felt offended. I just wanted to write things down. What did this have to do with anything? Why does my Russianness get to be brought up into the picture again?
“Why, your honor? I did not say that” I responded sadly. Without skipping a bit, the judge went on about the case. She said she will give me a piece of paper on which I could write things down. She did it with such a condescention! Such "s barskogo plecha"! The landlord continued pouring dirt over me and his girlfriend flashed her dark skin as a token of righteousness and rightness. She would look and me and my translator as if we were some sea-monsters and spoke quickly to the judge, in Spanish. The judge would nod occasionally and respond in Spanish. And sometimes English, but then she looked at the landlord. Finally, there was a pause. I would like to know what has happened to civil penalties of the landlord for having allowed me to drown in bugs, and for having ignored court order for two months.
Since the “judge” would not listen to me, I submitted a hand written note to her through my translator. The judge read that I was requiring to review the civil penalties. She laughed a lot at my copying down the proper form of the incrimination which stated that the landlord was in “contempt” of the court. Perhaps if the judge did not like the court procedure nor the system that is supposed to ensure justice, she should not have become a judge but should have perhaps opted for being a highway robber somewhere in the prairies: her style went well with the cowboy hat, a gun, a lasso and a horse. I could perfectly see her lasso me in and drag my bleeding body through the cactus garden...The landlord would also be on the horse, and he would be shooting in the air, the girlfriend would be in her Spanish skirts with a fan, and my translator would be a poor scared Russian guy, on a horse but watched. My lover would probably be smoking weed, AGAIN, like he does EVERYDAY non stop, and my friend would be watching in the distance, shedding silent tears in alternative reality...But this was just a step aside, to the point, I neede protectio and a guarantee. I was alone, after all, and here people were not my friends. They mocked me, my education, my people, my blood, my queer gender identity, my self, and my soul. "Gabe," I told myself, "do not forget the important things because hell, if you fall, ain't nobody who's gonna pick you up so you better stand and stand up, kid. That's how it is, you are alone, that's how it is." So, now I had witnesses and a written note, and since that note was suggested by Mr. Bayliss (since, as he smartly observed the judge did not want to listen to me), the judge had no choice but to accept it and to read it. Yes, having a MALE on your side amounted to everything. And a male who knew less than you but it did not matter. For all they knew you could kill yourself a thousand times over, learn all that there was to learn and do it well, so long as there was an orifice between your legs, ain't you were gonna make a difference.
But orrifice or not, I refused to reneg my right for listening to the case of landlord's civil penalties. I stood my ground and the right thing was going to be done, people should not learn to get away with obvious wrong choices they consciously make or a negligent behavior. Because someone like me or someone else will always have to pay. Why am I supposed to pick up anybody's tab? Hell, that's not fair. The guy knew about the order, I saw him a month later, he was there, he saw me, and yet, yet he refused to act until I dragged my sorry ass to court and made a point of not being treated like a homeless dog - chased away with sticks, stones, yells and hootings from things that were my own. I am not a dog and domestication is not expected of me, thank you very much. And I am not homeless and did take care of my obligations and now deserved that he met his. So, therefore, I am not a "homeless dog" thing and should not be treated as such.
The judge addressed my HP “attorney” who suddenly appeared out of nowhere and was now standing near by: did you discuss the civil penalties with the plaintiff? The lawyer made big eyes and said that he didn’t. He looked stunned. The judge inquired as to why he did not. The lawyer shrugged his shoulders and made a joke. the judge laughed too. Then, laughingly, the matter was dropped.
The plaintiff never knew why the civil penalties were never discussed with her...
And she did not have a voice to ask the judge. The judge did, said, and acted any which way she wanted. And so, the days of repairs were agreed upon. In between I asked the judge why is it that the girlfriend came in into the conference room and if she was allowed but was yelled at by the judge for…speaking. Then, when a few gentlemen came to join us and sat behind, the judge addressed me again and said that she did not understand me. What did I mean? She suddenly acted more aggreable. I conveyed that the girlfriend came in during our conference, into the conference room and was disturbing and listening in.
“Why did you not say anything right there and then?”asked the judge.
“Simply because, your honor, you yell and humiliate me when I address the issues, and your assistants do the same. One is not allowed to ask questions and the general procedure is conducted with utmost disrespect and disregard to the people you are supposed to assist.” I responded.
“That’s not true, I have not been in the conference room in a long time” retorted the judge…
"Yes, but your presence lingers on, your honor". The judge flashed her eyes.
”But is it allowed for a girlfriend to come into the room and listen?”I asked.
...The judge yelled again, then laughed, then she addressed the public and did everything necessary to skirt the issue.
Why was I yelled for asking a simple question and why were the significant others allowed to come in and spy on the opposing party, I did not know. Still did not know. And the judge was not going to clear this out. Soon, pursuant to her style she got to insults. She again claimed that I “did not listen, talked and wanted something.” Indeed I"wanted something." Like, repairs? Like, decency? Like, respectful tone? Like, normal attitude towards my person? Like, actual desire to help instead of to burry me? Like, actual understanding of the nature of the problem? Like, listening to me instead of shutting the hell out of me? Like, no national discrimination? Like, no racial discrimination? Like, no rubbing in my face my poverty? Like, not making fun of my accent? Like, not making fun of my style? Like, being respectful in a manner fo a judge towards the plaintiff? Like, not trying to do things over my head? Like, not trying to sell me anything? Like, not trying to make me look stupid and loose the respect of the people and myself? Like, being just doing your job? These were the things I "wanted."
Through an intermediate succession of raising her voice, shutting my translator down and finally conveying to me that today she “was kind enough to allow you to speak” the judge proceeded to assign dates for repairs. Speechless, I stood there. I kept squeezing the barrier, not to faint. I was sure if I asked for wated I would have gotten an insult. I would rather die of dehydration thant be insulted again. We finally scheduled the dates and the form was written out by her. In general, though, the judge seemed to be a lot more focused on getting through as opposed to torturing me. I suspect the abscence of the landlord's lawyer could have had something to do with it. She made a form and passed it around to sign. The lawyer of HP who did nothing for me so far and has even deprived me of the information about my own case, got to sign the sheet. He smiled and looked at his signature with great satisfaction. Then it was my turn to sign. Like a dummy, I signed. Then the turn came to my landlord and he bulked.
“Why do you, judge, put all this extra stuff in?” he demanded to know.
“What stuff?” inquired the judge.
“You know, the stuff besides the repairs, I just want to do the repairs and that’s it. Take that stuff off.”
“What stuff?” demanded to know the judge. “
Give this sheet here,” demanded the landlord. He pulled the sheet from out of her fingers. The judge meekly looked at him and gave in. The landlord was pointing to the dates of repairs and claimed them to be some “stuff that was extra.” Soon the judge’s meekness turned into surprise. “You are confusing me,” she said coquettishly.
The landlord looked up in anger. He was about to give her the lashing he used to give me.
“You know, I just want to do repairs, then you come in and put stuff in, why do you put it in – I do not know. But here is something…I will not sign it. I want my lawyer now.” The landlord's voice grew stronger and was very loud by now.
“You’ve dismissed your lawyer” said the judge peevishly.
“You take that stuff off!” demanded the landlord. His lower lip was trembling and he was making a fist. He took a few steps closer to her stand. "You hear me or what?" he asked in a controlled, low voice.
“What stuff? I have no idea what you’re talking about!” The judge made an arc over her head with her hands. The landlord looked around for his girlfriend. The girlfriend showed her dark Spanish face to the judge. The judge ignored it. The girlfriend said something in Spanish and walked away in frustration. She then showed her dark, Spanish face to the crowd. The landlord was smilling.
He then attacked the judge full force:
“You understand me, I just fix things, that’s it. For more I do not agree.”
The judge listened to him but by now the court and even my translator were bursting with laughter. The two guys behind us fought hard not to bite their lips off.
“So, you take it off, eh? is that clear?” concluded the landlord his tirade and stared at the judge, for more weight.
“Is that clear?!" now bulked the judge. "Did you just say to me “is that clear” Who do you think you are talking to?” The judge even rose from the sit. “Ok, that’s it. I don’t really have to ask you to sign. I can make it into an order. Do you understand?” The landlord was grinning stupidly and looking at the judge. A few times he cast lustful looks at me. My body tensed, damn, when are we going to be out of this place. Before that, in the conference room he addressed me as “the beautiful Dana”. Now, with his girlfriend behind trying to rally the crowd for the support of her lover, he cast glances at me that ranged from desire to absolute hatred and a trace of surprise.
The judge waited for the landlord's response but he was too busy staring at my face. I looked down. The judge caught his eye and got mad.
“Ok, I am making it into an order. Here it is. Nobody has to sign now. Case dismissed.” We all started dispersing and the landlord stormed out, only now grasping what has happened. He run around in futile fury and the translator got me out of the way and pushed me in front of judge’s assistant who sat with his eyes downcast. This was the person who tortured me and made me feel small and insignificant, a mere five twelve year old, in the "consulting" room. Guantanammo Bay room, rather. Standing there in front of him and recalling the incidents he put me through, I was forced to be coherent and to give directions to my apartment for the court’s inspector to come in to observe how the repairs were done and then we headed out.
The judge still could not understand what stuff the landlord referred to. She atttempted to relate that to me, but I was stupid Russian non-Enlgish speaker idiot. I did not know nothing.
I turned around and walked out. Loud voices behind my back conveyed to me that the affair was not over yet. Then I cast a single look back, at the people one the benches, and saw a few more miserable and tired supplicants plastered all over the benches, they, like me, were there for hours, waiting for their turn to go up and be abused, humiliated or favored and have their case either magically become wrong or right.