Thursday, 17 February 2005 | Community

I've only been to a town meeting once before, when I was living in Raleigh. The gathering was quiet and subdued, not at all like the heated town meeting in Footloose (which was a little disappointing, admittedly). It was pretty fascinating, though, to witness decisions being realized, and to see concerned citizens assembling for a cause, rather than simply airing their grievances during commercial breaks.

The meeting was small enough that it made you feel as if you mattered as a member of the community, and not only that, but that you could actually make an impact. It was enough to make me feel like an optimist for a whole thirty minutes.

Last night I went to my second community meeting, this time in Manhattan; it was (surprisingly) about the same size as the Raleigh assembly. I'm terrible at this, but if I had to guess, there were fifty people present, the majority of whom were cyclists, and a few from the disabled community. They were there—we were there—to discuss the bumps on the Williamsburg Bridge, the ones that, a year-and-a-half ago, flung me from my bike and caused my bones to snap like a Kit-Kat.

The meeting was held in the basement of a building, in a room with cinder block walls and fluorescent lighting. Folding chairs and tables, just like the fellowship hall of a country church, and no microphones anywhere. I had to strain to hear the discussion (oddly, it made me squint), especially during the beginning, when an obnoxious group of talkers were echoing in the hallway. (A few people turned to glare at them, but no one said anything.)

Naturally, the lady from the Department of Transportation was the sole defender of the bumps. I might've even felt a little sorry for her, being so outnumbered, if she showed even a hint of embarrassment about the DOT's position. Instead, she said her scripted lines without a trace of emotion, and nonchalantly sipped her bottle of water while people directed passion and logic her way. She annoyed me, certainly because I was personally affected by the bumps on the bridge, but also because she tried to write bike riders off as careless, and by extension, deserving. (I know I don't fit her profile, and I couldn't have been the only one.)

One man in a wheelchair offered to let the DOT lady borrow his chair and go for a ride over the bumps herself. In fact, he insisted on it. "We have a date on Friday!" he called across the room.

Due to other plans, I had to leave before the meeting ended, or before I could contribute to the discussion. (Normally I would avoid doing such a thing, but I felt compelled enough in this case to at least consider it.) But I was told the meeting had a good finish, that the bumps will likely be replaced with something more bike-friendly, and that it helped that the people who actually use the bridge were in attendance, even if not all of them spoke. The whole event, from our distorted perspective in an East Village basement, made Manhattan seem abnormally (refreshingly) small and malleable.