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by Olga Statz
It was the 1970’s and New York was in all its ruined, decrepit, life-threatening glory. There were piles of garbage everywhere, burnt out, gutted buildings, rent-strike signs and prostitutes casually strolling Eleventh Avenue. And in those days, pimps were pimps—they wore day-glow, double-knit polyester suits, plumed hats and unspeakable shoes, their eyes sharp and their broad-collared shirts open to their navels. In those days, rather than air-headed actresses, our celebrities were mass murderers. Who, having lived through the terror he induced, could forget Son of Sam? Columbus Avenue was blighted, and heroin addicts slept blissfully in building vestibules. It was the New York of the Blackout, the transit strike and the garbage strike. In the midst of this chaos, however, existed, for my family and me, a jewel, an oasis: St. Vincent de Paul Church, the French church of New York.
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