A Beautiful Life in a Vibrant Yet Vulnerable City

I was at a dingy hotel at Narita Airport, having missed my connection from Washington, DC, en route to the World Health Organization Western Pacific Regional Office (WHO/WPRO) headquarters in Manila when I got the call I’ve been dreading. My father died, just shy of his 102nd birthday. Joseph Gostin was the decorated World War II vet I wrote about in my last op-ed.¹ He was supposed to die 6 months ago, abandoned in a municipal hospital. A man who fought the Nazis but would be rejected by the Veterans Health Administration.

But then he moved to Calvary Hospital in the Bronx. At Calvary, he felt revived, reimagining his life, not thanks to state-of-the-art medical treatment, but from something more important, less tangible—simple love and tender nursing care. He formed deep relationships with nurses and doctors. (Yes, many from countries our president disvalues and would exclude.) The staff would vie to be assigned to Joe, and he adored them. His doctor, Alma Carrington, would marvel at his life spirit. My stepmother, Lil, rarely left his side, sleeping overnight in a chair next to his bed, holding his hand. He was lucid to the end.

After a massive leg infection last year, he would never walk again, even as he refused doggedly to admit it, doing leg-strengthening exercises daily. Before entering the hospital, he would try each day to do one push-up. For a decade, he never could, but he never stopped trying. It was remarkable that his joy for living overcame the sad reality that he could no longer do the one thing he loved most: walking in the city he treasured. Near the end, he told my sons, Bryn and Kieran, this story: “Yesterday I bounded through Manhattan, over the Williamsburg Bridge where I grew up, dabbling in museums, eating street food.” He paused. “Then I woke up.” Walking vigorously was the recurring dream in his last months of life.

Joseph Gostin food shopping in Flushing on 101st birthday.

I’m back in New York now for the funeral, after a fatiguing flight from Manila. I re-create his Sunday morning ritual, strolling through Kissena Park in Flushing, Queens. This morning, the park reveals volumes about the city’s pulse, diversity, and inclusiveness—a stark counterpart to national politics. I might easily be in Beijing or Changsha, although Kissena Park is gentler, more serene. The park teems with Asians of every description, from children to the very old, mostly Chinese, some Korean. Tai chi and morning exercises are the park’s themes, infused with melodic sounds of Chinese violins. I especially enjoy the park’s largest class: an eclectic mix of ethnicities (with timid, uncertain Westerners in the rear) scrupulously following the “master,” an African American woman leading with sublime grace and flexibility.

Walking toward the basketball court, African Americans play pickup at an impressive athletic level. Over the ridge is the soccer pitch, with Latinos displaying a deft touch, dribbling and weaving. Look left and watch Caribbeans and British play cricket—oh dear, he’s out, leg-before-wicket.
The most diverse pastime is American football, with a Latino, Caucasian, and African American each captaining his own multicultural team.

In tribute to my dad, I want to talk about New York City, his beloved home for a century. I couldn’t live there—dense crowds, high-rise buildings, noisy traffic. But what a city! My father was the ultimate city guide. In his mid-90s, he led our family’s 3 generations on a full-day tour from Battery Park to Grant’s Tomb. Such tours were a regular treat for our British relatives: Little Italy, Central Park, maybe Harlem. The young couldn’t keep up, as he would stride ahead of the pack. “Watch out,” he’d say, “the car’s the enemy.”

His city was built for movement: The High Line weaves through street art, poetry readings, and flower gardens. New York’s pathways attract millions of walkers, skaters, cyclers. Listen and hear every conceivable language and dialect. Watch and see multiple colors/ethnicities/gender identities, often sharing small kindnesses—a seat on the bench, directions to a museum or coffee shop. Smell and taste the best Chinese cuisine in the world near Main Street, Flushing, where Asian supermarkets, bakeries, and restaurants exude sweet aromas, with their menus exclusively in Mandarin or Cantonese. The experience can be replicated in most city neighborhoods for any cuisine imaginable: Brazilian, Italian, Lebanese, Ethiopian.

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