#Woodlawn Cemetery

[wandering-cemeteries]

Woodlawn Cemetery.

The Bronx, New York. Nov, 2014

[wanderingnewyork]

Autumn_leaves🍁 at #Woodlawn_Cemetery, #the_Bronx.

[curatorsday]

Sunday, October 15, 2023

I volunteered as a docent for the Woodlawn Cemetery Ghost Walk this afternoon.

[gemishstudios]

Hi I’m here to be insane about lesbians and also be on tumblr for the first time in about a month (my ex got me into it, I kept up with their blog relentlessly, blah blah I needed space so I deleted the app) anyway!

Memorial to a Marriage by Patricia Cronin is a larger than life marble statue depicting Cronin and her wife, Deborah Kass, laying together, as if sleeping. It was completed in 2002 and made to represent the plight of gay couples being unable to marry in the United States at that time. The original marble is on permanent display at Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, Glasgow, Scotland, and a bronze casting takes its place at Woodlawn cemetery in the Bronx.

I had the honor to visit this memorial.

It was hard to find out where it was beforehand. Any website that mentions it just has that it’s at Woodlawn cemetery and their website doesn’t have a map. You can’t look it up by the person because Cronin and Kass are not dead. I emailed the cemetery and someone at the main office gave me and my family very detailed instructions on how to get there.

It had just recently rained, the grass was wet and there were leaves flying around. Bugs were everywhere. But it was one hundred and ten percent worth it.

It’s tucked away, next to a bit of an elevated grass land and some larger mausoleums. It’s surrounded by some ground cover plants and when I got there there were some pride flags that must’ve been left recently.

I cried. I’m not the kind of person who cries at memorials and I cried. I kept walking in circles around it, trying to scrape the water and gunk out of the areas where it had pooled; near their stomachs, by their hands and feet.

It’s extremely intricate, every curl in their hair and every crease of skin, every fold of the blanket laying over them.

You can see the dip of Kass’ side and where her lower back dimples in, you can see where Cronin’s arm around her has moved the skin on her back.

Their fingernails are each carved and everything is so perfect and beautiful. They’re laying there, in love and eternal rest, peaceful and undisturbed. It truly was a sight to behold. I cannot recommend it enough.

[lost-in-woodlawn]

1924 ad in the N.V.A. benefit annual (N.V.A. - National Vaudeville Artists.)

Alice Graham's animal act was so extraordinary to Gypsy Rose Lee and her actress sister June Havoc (who as "Baby June" was on the same vaudeville circuit as Lady Alice at one time) that they both mentioned Alice in their autobiographies!

Mr. and Mrs. Graham rest together in Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx.

[bookboost]

Nestled in the heart of the Bronx, New York, lies a historic burial ground that not only houses the remains of countless souls but also echoes with tales of the…

[graveyardrabbit]

Woodlawn Memorial Park, Colma

[wintercedar]

Some infrared stuff I forgot to upload.

[ausetkmt]

Lynching victim Rubin Stacy’s story being told by his family in film screening at NSU

Anne Naves knew something bad had happened to her uncle when her male relatives came home from fishing, each wearing a pall of silence. Dad wasn’t cracking jokes like usual. Grandfather looked grave. And her uncle, Rubin Stacy, hadn’t come back. The next day, someone from the funeral home said a body had been dropped off.

Naves, 8 years old at the time, only discovered the full gruesome truth about her uncle years later. On July 19, 1935, acting on an unproven accusation from a white woman, a masked lynch mob strung up Stacy under a Fort Lauderdale tree, hanged him and shot him 17 times as spectators gawked and children laughed.

The brutality and silence of Stacy’s lynching is revisited in the new documentary, “Rubin,” which will screen on Tuesday, Oct. 3, at Nova Southeastern University. In the hourlong film, the farmhand’s death is recounted through the eyes of his surviving descendants, but mainly through Naves, who was the last living eyewitness to the trauma — and to the secrecy — that followed.

The film, the first to be made by relatives of Stacy’s family, also chronicles the history of lynchings in America, used as a tool of punishment and to foster silence.

“I think (my family) knew that, without telling us (kids) what really happened, they would save us a lot of trauma,” Naves says in the documentary. “The neighbors and our church members respected our silence, too, because they knew that if it could happen to our family, it could happen to theirs.”

For “Rubin” director Tenille Brown, who is a cousin of Rubin Stacy, the film has in recent weeks also morphed into something else: a posthumous tribute to Naves. After filming her interviews for the documentary, she died on Sept. 18 at age 96, leaving behind a strong legacy: She was a Broward County educator for 25 years, teaching at Pines Middle and other schools.

“The biggest piece of the film was Anne,” Brown says in an interview with the South Florida Sun Sentinel. “Without her, there’s no story. She’s the driving force. She was ready to talk. She told me to record her. She really pushed me when I didn’t feel confident and said, ‘Record me anyway. Just go.’ ”

The rest of America witnessed the cruelty of Stacy’s lynching long before Naves did. A series of photos immortalize the moment when a white crowd gathered around Stacy’s body hanging from a tree. These images ran in newspapers nationwide, were published by the NAACP, Life magazine and National Geographic, and are now archived in the Library of Congress.

It was a tale of Jim Crow-era racism that Fort Lauderdale would’ve rather forgotten — the brother of a corrupt Broward County sheriff participated in the lynching — but city officials have made strides in recent years to acknowledge the tragedy by placing memorial markers around Fort Lauderdale. One is on Davie Boulevard and Southwest 31st Avenue, also known as Martin Luther King Jr. Avenue, near where Stacy took his last breath. There’s another on the 800 block of Northwest Second Street, where he lived, and a third at Woodlawn Cemetery, his final resting place. In February 2022, a section of Davie Boulevard was renamed Rubin Stacy Memorial Boulevard.

“I’m glad they acknowledged it,” says Brown, of Pompano Beach. “These stories make some people in the state uncomfortable, but if they are based on fact, we need to tell the truth. You can’t turn your head. These are things you can’t ignore.”

For Brown, it was these memorials — and Naves’ willingness to break her silence — that motivated her to reconstruct Stacy’s story. To do so, she also interviewed Ken Cutler, Parkland commissioner and historian, and Tameka Bradley Hobbs, library regional manager of Fort Lauderdale’s African American Research Library and Cultural Center.

“My family didn’t want to talk about it out of fear for years,” Brown says. “There was shame. There’s an element of hurt, and you can hear that emotion in Anne’s voice. Now it feels freeing. This is a story that was suppressed for years and by sharing it, this is how we overcome.”

Michael Anderson, a producer for “Rubin,” says the film also tackles what too many school textbooks don’t stress enough: the history of Black lynchings.

“For Black youth to know their stories, they have to know the history of lynchings,” Anderson says. “They still don’t know how lynchings were used as a weapon to keep a community quiet. That’s exactly what it did to Rubin Stacy’s family.”

IF YOU GO

WHAT: “Rubin”

WHEN: 7 p.m. Tuesday, Oct. 3

WHERE: NSU’s Rose & Alfred Miniaci Performing Arts Center, 3100 Ray Ferrero Jr. Blvd., Davie

COST: Free, but tickets must be presented for entry

INFORMATION: 954-462-0222; MiniaciPAC.com

[art-that-fucks-you-up-tournament]

SET SIXTEEN - ROUND ONE - MATCH THREE

"Memorial to a Marriage" (2002 - Patricia Cronin) / “The Island” (2009 - Walton Ford)

MEMORIAL TO A MARRIAGE: This is a very skilled piece, and there are all these little details, like the blanket over the couple, and the way their feet touch.  And it's the artist and her (now) wife - made in a time when they couldn't marry.  As a lesbian I can acknowledge that marriage is not the 'end all, be all' of gay rights, but this makes me feel a lot of things and I could stare at it for hours. (@beelzeblogging)

THE ISLAND: I first saw this in a museum when I was 12 and it completely wrecked my brain. Art about extinction has a major pull to me and this is probably the genesis of that. At the time as a pre-teen I was both horrified and allured by this work and its violence and vulgarity, but also the delicate beauty inherent to the thylacine. There's a sort of latticework to all of the spindly interlacing limbs and tails. I think this is a piece of art that wears its meaning on its sleeve but it communicates the horror and tragedy of human-driven extinction in such a potent and wordless way that it doesn't feel heavy handed to me. This topic makes me feel guilt and despair, the intensity of wish makes me feel like I'm being crushed within machinery, and this is sort of an organic crushing machine, which I think exemplifies that feeling. I think about this painting all of the time and I love it very much. (@catboyclarity)

("Memorial to a Marriage" is a mortuary sculpture made of carrera marble measuring 27 x 42 x 84 inches (69 x 107 x 213 cm) and weights three tons. It is located Woodlawn Cemetery, Brooklyn. Artist Patricia Cronin modeled the sculpture after herself and her wife Deborah Kass before same sex marriage was legal in the United States. It has been exhibited in over 50 locations and there are bronze versions in permanent collections of various museums, including the National Portrait Gallery.

"The Island" is a watercolour triptych by Walton Ford. Panel 1 measures 95 ½ in. x 36 in. (242.6 cm x 91.4 cm), panel 2: 95 ½ in. x 60 in. (242.6 cm x 152.4 cm), and panel 3: 95 ½ in. x 36 in. (242.6 cm x 91.4 cm). It is held by the Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art.)

[blurredcolour]

In My Blood | Epilogue

In My Blood Masterlist

Curtis "Curt" Biddick x SOE!Female Reader

The war has been over for months. It has been even longer since you bade Curt a tearful farewell on the tarmac at St. Mawgan. So why are you standing in his neighbourhood, on his street?

Warnings: MAJOR canon divergence, Language, Cold, Angst, Death, Grief, Displacement, Fluff, Holidays, Family, Tearful Reunion, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes- 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: This story contains revisionist history, read at your own risk. Reader is half-Belgian, half-English and has been given an extensive backstory and family tree. While they have been given the codename of "Marie," no physical descriptions or Y/N are used.

Italics used for non-English words and to indicate dialogue spoken in a language other than English.

This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 2815

-------------------------

December 21, 1945

Snowflakes were idly wending their way to the ground on the treelined streets of the Woodlawn Heights neighbourhood of The Bronx, their path as slow and aimless as yours. Children who had been playing outside in the first flurries of the year, school dismissed early for the holidays, were gradually called inside for dinner, taking their laughter and seasonal excitement with them.

You were honestly not quite sure what you were doing here in this remarkably tranquil slice of New York, bordered by a park, and perhaps more ominously a cemetery. Why you had strayed so far afield from your rented flat on the Upper East Side, from your office at Lloyd’s America. Yet as your glove-clad fingers traced over the tattered edges of the worn envelope in the pocket of your fashionable winter coat, you knew exactly what had brought you here. To this tiny corner of the world that had birthed and shaped perhaps the only good thing that had come to you in the last six years. That you had so painfully set free.

It had been a long seventeen months of imparting your wisdom to the next generation of SOE agents at the schools that had once shaped your talents. Frustrated to have been relegated behind the lines and yet it had been rewarding all the same to remain involved courtesy of Smythe’s assistance. Focused as you were on the ultimate defeat of Hitler and his pathetic Reich, it still would have been false to claim that Curt had not taken up permanent residence in the back of your mind – a source of worry, of concern, but of hope.

And so when the office closed at three for the holidays, everyone rushing home to their families, you surrendered at last that gnawing curiosity about the street address scrawled on the envelope you had carried with you since that rainy day on the tarmac in late November 1943.

“You look pretty lost there, gorgeous.” That unforgettable voice cut through the gathering twilight as the streetlights began to flicker on, and you could not help your short laugh of surprise as your heart lurched, looking down sheepishly at being so easily spotted.

Clearly you had spent too long in the classroom, in civilian life. Had lost your edge as a field agent. Or perhaps a part of you had been so convinced you would never get a chance to see him again that you had failed to even consider the possibility of running into him by coming here.

“Pretty sure Belgium is…” there was a pause as he angled his body before pointing to what must be the northeast “…that way.”

Risking a small glance up at him, your eyes sank again quickly as your throat spasmed at just a glimpse of him. Dragging the toe of your boot through the accumulated dusting of snow on the sidewalk, you cleared your throat painfully to force out “turns out the home I fought for isn’t there anymore…”

Certainly, you had not expected things to snap back to normal with the Nazi surrender – you had seen firsthand a great deal of the damage of the invasion and occupation. Yet you had been utterly unprepared for what greeted you upon your return to Brussels that August. The scars of liberation were even deeper than those left by the occupiers. Yes, Europe had been freed, but the cost had been steep. The house you had grown up in flattened, the factories you were supposed to have inherited seized by the government, and the second house in Wallonia taken over by another family. People you had known for years treated you as a coward, as someone who had fled in fear with the King and his court, living in comfort abroad while they had suffered under the heel of the Nazi jackboot. And it would have been against the Official Secrets Act to correct them. Thanking your father for his foresight to move the majority of his fortune to Swiss banks, you had ensured a fitting burial for your parents and had hired a lawyer to sort through the property battles that would surely drag on for years to come.

Returning to England in September, you had learned the Dowager Marchioness had died in your brief absence and left the majority of her estate to you – to your bewilderment and the Marquess’s ire. Ensuring that your cousin Philomena had received the tiara she had always coveted, you had packed up the rest of your newly inherited items and had turned your eyes to the ‘new world.’ To an entirely new life in a new place that had nothing to do with war or societal expectation. Lloyd’s of London had a branch in New York and had been eager to hire you with your multiple languages and exemplary war service with the ATS. You had been on a boat by the first week of November.

Exhaling heavily at the weight of all that had transpired, you watched the tips of Curt’s shoes came into view as he stepped closer.

His finger hooked beneath your chin and gently lifted your eyes up to meet his, softened to a sky blue by empathy. “I’m sorry.” He spoke gently, his breath visible in the crisp air.

You blinked rapidly as his face threatened to blur behind tears “Me too.”

Whether your regret stemmed from the way you had parted or the fact that your life was forever changed, you did not elaborate. Most likely, it was both. His fingers unfurled beneath your chin to cup your cheek fully as he frowned, a shiver trembling through you at the warmth in his palm.

“You’re cold.” He muttered, shuffling closer.

You sniffed softly. “Not as cold as the mountains.” You finished with a rueful laugh, a crooked smile unfurled on his features.

“Don’t think I’ll ever be that cold again.”

As you laughed more freely, you realized he was not even wearing a proper coat, clad only in a sweater, really, a bottle of milk clutched in his free hand. “You need to get inside, you’re not even in a jacket.” You chided.

“Come with me, have some dinner. The family would love to meet you.” His offer was spoken casually but his eyes betrayed a fragile hopefulness.

A riot of butterflies fluttered to life in your abdomen, but you inhaled quickly, needing to make something clear before you accepted his invitation.

“I can’t…” his face fell, and you rushed to finish the statement, quickly cupping his cheeks, slightly annoyed at the barrier of your gloves, “tell them who I am, what I did…it would be treason.”

He exhaled slowly, gaze ricocheting across your face rapidly. “So that’s not a ‘no.’”

Sinking your teeth into your lower lip, you shook your head firmly. “It’s a ‘yes, I’d love to,’ but we just need to think of an explanation of how we know one another. How we met.”

As you spoke, you were acutely aware of the way his eyes came to settle on your mouth, his own lips parting slightly, making your pulse increase markedly.

“First, just let me…” His eyes flicked up to yours before sliding back down to your lips and you leaned in unconsciously, meeting him halfway for a firm kiss, sliding your arms around him tightly to help warm him.

Curt’s arms encircled you tightly, pulling you close in turn, the milk bottle digging into your shoulder blade slightly as he entrapped you. You would have verbally assured him you had no intent of going anywhere this time, yet he was also doing a very thorough job of keeping your mouth occupied, rendering you silent save for soft exhales of delight. Pulling back only to satiate the need for oxygen, visible puffs of air accumulated in the minimal space between you.

“Cannot think when you do that.” You complained teasingly and he smirked broadly with a dangerous glint to his eyes.

“Shame.” He replied without an ounce of remorse, followed by a kiss that tasted of fierce possessiveness, his tongue sliding along yours, making your fingers curl into the knit of his sweater as you grew dizzy.

There was something achingly familiar, comforting, and yet refreshing to be in his arms again. It did not feel like you were trying to seek out some obliterated past, but rather picking up an extraordinary novel in progress, set down a while ago, with new and incredible pages yet to discover. Lungs burning, you reluctantly broke the seal of your lips, biting the inside of your cheek to tame the absurd grin that wanted to crack your face wide open as he buried his chilled cheeks in the warmth of your collar. Quickly unbuttoning your jacket, you coaxed him closer to share more body heat as the sun had since fully set.

“What brought you to New York, anyway?” He murmured, lips brushing against your neck as he spoke, making swallow tightly before you could reply.

“This man I met told me it was a pretty great place to live, so I got a job here.”

You could feel the huff of his laugh, the curl of his grin. “Sounds like a smart fella.”

“Mmmm humble, too.” You chuckled.

The sound of a window scraping up in its frame from the red brick apartment building above you reverberated through the otherwise silent street, the exasperated voice of a woman echoing down.

“Curtis Rundle, I sent you for milk twenty minutes ago what is…oh!” Her annoyance at Curt turned to an exclamation of surprise as the pair of you turned to look up at her where she leaned out the second story window.

“Can you set another place, ma? My Belgian princess finally found her way home.” Curt grinned and gave you a tight squeeze at your sharp inhale as he continued to deliberately mistitle you.

It took all your strength not to laugh brightly when two more feminine faces bearing his same charmingly blunt features popped out the window as well.

“I would hate to impose…” You called up, suddenly recalling your manners.

“Nonsense! There’s plenty of food, please come in. Curtis bring the lady inside before she freezes to death.” The last was delivered a lot more sharply and much more like an order from a general, making you chuckle under your breath even as Curt seized your hand to drag you inside.

Following him up the concrete stairs, Curt burst into the warm apartment with you in tow, a flurry of activity within as the three women were adding another chair and place setting to the simple but obviously loved wooden dining table. Curt handed off the bottle of milk to one of his sisters, whether it was Ann or Charlotte, they did not stop long enough to make an introduction, before he took your coat to hang it up once you had slid the gloves into the pocket. You wished you had changed after work, dressed in a chic black office dress with a brooch to impress, utterly out of place amongst their handmade and mended, cheery fabrics.

But then Delphia emerged from the kitchen and smiled at you warmly.

“Aren’t you just the prettiest thing, what a lovely couple you two make.”

Shaking her hand warmly, you introduced yourself quickly. “Thank you so very much for the last-minute invitation, I do apologize I have arrived empty-handed. Please allow me to return the favour one day?”

“Only if you insist, now come sit, lets get some warm food into you.” She guided you to the table, introducing her daughters who sat opposite you, putting faces to names whispered back in the mountain village of Esterri D’Aneu.

“So what did you do during the war?” Charlotte launched right into it, earning a look of admonishment from her elder sister but only reminding you of her brother.

“Well, I was living in England at the time, so I volunteered with the Auxiliary Territorial Service.” You provided your standard answer. Your sanitized, cover answer.

“Like Princess Elizabeth.” Ann nodded eagerly and you nodded in confirmation.

“Yes, actually we had similar roles, both of us worked as drivers. Though I am not, despite your brother’s insistence, a princess.”

“She is nobility though, don’t let her fool you.” Curt chided as he began to fill the table with dishes of food under his mother’s watchful eye.

Shooting him a look, the damage was already done, and you were forced to launch into the convoluted explanation of your lineage, neither of his sister’s any clearer on where you stood by the time his mother sat down to say grace. Insisting on serving you first, your mouth was full of food when the dreaded question, the one that Curt and his insistent kisses had left you utterly unprepared to answer, arose.

“How did you two meet?”

It was Charlotte again, scooping a heap of potatoes onto her plate as her eyes flicked between the pair of you, seated side-by-side, eagerly.

You were in the midst of wracking your brain for something to say when Curt started speaking.

“This gorgeous woman here helped me get back,” his hand landed gently on your knee under the table, squeezing reassuringly as your grip on your fork grew painfully tight, “to base one night in July after I got a little lost after some fun at the pub. One look at her behind the wheel and I was lost.”

Ducking your head slightly under such praise, and to hide your exhale of relief, you stealthily slid your hand over his where it still lay on your thigh, squeezing in gratitude as Charlotte was exclaiming how utterly romantic it was before somehow relating it to the story of how she met her Randolph. More than happy to take the bait, you leaned forward, asking just the right questions to send her into the whole tale of their love affair, taking the heat off you and Curt.

Sitting back, eating a homecooked meal, laughing quietly as Ann and Curt teased Charlotte mercilessly with Delphia watching on fondly, you were suddenly struck by how utterly warm you felt inside and out. Ann’s soft repetition of your voice jarred you back to the present and you thanked her softly as she took your empty plate to the kitchen, Delphia and Charlotte already in there fixing dessert, Curt’s fingers lacing through yours.

“What’s going through that scarily gorgeous head of yours?” He leaned in to utter just for you to hear and you swallowed thickly, glancing around before looking to him softly.

“You…this place…your family…” you began hesitantly, “feels an awful lot like home.” You finished in a soft whisper.

A slow grin stretched across his face, growing to an utterly blinding intensity that had your teeth sinking into your lower lip.

“Careful gorgeous, you’re gonna get yourself kissed in front of my whole family and then neither of us will hear the end of it.” There was a dangerously raspy edge to his voice that had you pressing your lips together tightly, trying your best to behave as bowls of sticky toffee pudding were set out in front of you.

“Where are you spending the holidays?” Delphia asked warmly as she and the girls settled back into their chairs, everyone digging into the delicious dessert.

“Oh I don’t have any plans, honestly, just another weekend for me really.”

“You must spend it with us then!” Charlotte cried out, looking appalled at the idea of you spending the next few days alone.

“Yes, please, we would love to have you.” Delphia smiled warmly.

“This year and every year after that if you’d like.” Curt’s easy statement could have been mistaken for warm hospitality and yet…

Turning sharply to him to face him, a collective gasp sounding from his sisters across the table, he nodded earnestly.

“If we feel like home, better make it official and marry me already.” As usual, his words were brash and playful, but there was something tender and fragile in his gaze as he lay himself out there completely.

Setting your spoon down, you swallowed incredulously. “That is certainly one way to propose. Now you’re the one getting yourself kissed in front of your whole family.”

Grasping his face, you pulled him close to kiss him firmly, earning hoots of triumph from Charlotte and more lady-like exclamations of delight from Ann and Delphia. You did not linger too long, more than aware of your audience, desperately trying not to giggle at the rather disorientated way he stared back at you.

“Wait…” He breathed eventually. “…that a yes?”

“Yes!” You declared with a peal of laughter, grinning against his lips as he pulled you close for a triumphant kiss of his own.

“Not letting you go ever again.” Curt muttered against your lips.

“Not going anywhere.” You assured him firmly.

-------------------------

In My Blood Masterlist

Tag list: @precious-little-scoundrel, @luminouslywriting, @polikabra, @beingalive1

[wandering-cemeteries]

Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx, New York.

[wanderingnewyork]

#Woodlawn_Cemetery, #the_Bronx.

[curatorsday]

Sunday, December 17, 2023 - The Festival of Winter Walks

We had a nice walk in Woodlawn Cemetery. It would have been lovely with a little snow.

Happy The Festival of Winter Walks!

[shardofdark]

woodlawn cemetery

03/17/24

shot on digital.

[cwnerd12]

#31DaysofGraves Day 15: Cross

Tom Mitchell, the Gypsy King

(YES I know that in Europe the preferred term is "Roma/Romani" but for the American immigrant community the preferred term is still "Gypsy")

Woodlawn Cemetery, Tampa, Florida