THENEWYORKER,OCTOBER18, 2021 17
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BACKINTIME
ANGELTRAINING
T
o many New Yorkers, it has become
axiomatic that the city is reverting
to its bad old nineteen-eighties self.
Crime is up, subway ambience is down,
the Yankees are World Series starved.
Further evidence: Curtis Sliwa, the
founder of the Guardian Angels and a
Koch-era tabloid fixture, is the Repub-
lican candidate for mayor. No one gives
him much of a shot, though he has gar-
nered slivers of media attention for shar-
ing an Upper West Side studio apart-
ment with sixteen rescue cats, and for
doffing his signature red beret at a rally
and thereby revealing a dramatic tan line
above his brow, the effect of which, the
Times said, “brought to mind a black-
and-white cookie.”
The Guardian Angels, founded in
1979, remain with us, too. The organi-
zation is a civilian crime-watch group
whose recruits became street icons for
patrolling scuzzy subway cars, intimi-
dating chain snatchers, making the oc-
casional citizen’s arrest, and irritating
the police. Some condemned them as
vigilantes. Lately, the Angels have had
a cozier relationship with both the cops
and the public, although, as Arnaldo
Salinas, the group’s longtime senior di-
rector, recently admitted, “we’ve got-
ten into our scuff les.” Membership
waxes and wanes; it’s now around three
hundred and fifty, by Salinas’s count.
The Angels still hit the streets and ride
the trains seven days a week.
On a Friday evening, six Angels as-
sembled in front of a bank on Canal
Street for a patrol of Chinatown and
its environs. Each wore the classic uni-
form of black pants, a red beret, and a
white T-shirt emblazoned with the
Guardian Angels logo: a winged ver-
sion of the creepy Masonic eye on the
back of the dollar bill. The captain
was a forty-nine-year-old woman who
goes by the name Madonna while on
duty. (Like Batman or Elena Ferrante,
Angels can be leery of sharing their
identities with the press.) Madonna
described herself as “American-born
Chinese,” with family in the neighbor-
hood; she said that she had joined up
“because of all these Asian hate crimes
here in N.Y.C.” She demonstrated an
easy sense of command, cracking jokes
as the group gathered but turning all
business once on patrol.
Angel training involves lessons in
street smarts. “If you don’t have street
smarts, that’s just sad,” Madonna said.
She elaborated. “First of all, don’t stand
with your back to the street like you’re
doing,” she told an observer, panto-
miming grabbing a shoulder from be-
hind and yanking a body down to the
sidewalk. “You’re tall,” she went on. “If
some girl wanted to mess with you,
she’d come kick you in the shins. Watch
for that.” Noted.
The rest of the patrol included Rook,
the second-in-command, a muscular
young man with an earnest air who,
during the day, works a “desk job.” He
said that he’d joined the Angels at the
beginning of the year; like Madonna,he was angry about the rise in violence
against Asian Americans. “I’ve always
loved this neighborhood,” he said. “The
fact that so many of its most vulnera-
ble denizens were coming under attack
was inconceivable to me.”
Smoker, a “retired technician” in his
fifties, had been an Angel for only “a
couple of weeks.” His reason for join-
ing: “I’ve always loved the Angels. I re-
member when the trains were messed-up
rattraps.” The origin of his Angel name
became clear when he lit a cigarette.
Madonna reminded him to take off his
beret while smoking, per regulations.
(No tan line was visible.)
Alex, the youngest, a gardener and
a student, had shoulder-length red hair.
He had been an Angel for about a year
and a half: “I felt that I wanted to do
something positive with my life.”
Before the group set off, Madonna
patted down the one fellow female
Angel, and Rook did the same for the
males. Angel rules forbid guns or knives
or anything else nasty. “No Tasers,”
Madonna said. “No pepper spray. No
brass knuckles. No nunchucks.”
The patrol walked south on Mott
Street in single file, with Madonna in
the lead, setting a pace that fell just
short of brisk. The night was muggy,
and Chinatown’s narrow streets were
alive with pedestrians and humming
dining sheds. To an untrained eye, there
were no signs of trouble, just convivi-
ality and commerce; 2021 was showing
its good side. The Angels kept moving.
Across Canal Street, Little Italy was
thronged, the second night of the Feast
of San Gennaro in full swing. Here,
too, the rivers of people were well be-
haved—even the drunks seemed mel-
low—and with a multitude of cops on
hand the squad of Angels was perhaps
superfluous. But people were glad to
see them. Maître d’s waved. Passersby
expressed gratitude. A toddler flapped
his hands up and down with glee, as if
he’d just seen a human version of the
Paw Patrol.
Others took a more nostalgic plea-
sure in the Angels’ presence. An older
man smiled and explained to his younger
female companion, “That used to be a
big deal.” A pedestrian shook his head
with a mix of admiration and amuse-
ment. “Man,” he said. “That’s old school.”
—Bruce Handythere was this beautiful angle of the sun.
I felt I could relate to every emotion.”
Medeiros hefted the bag back onto
his bike and hopped on. Along the East
River Promenade, a man who looked as
if he were heading home after a long
night shouted, “Athena has appeared!”
Medeiros stopped and removed the
headdress. “Oh, you’re just Telemachus,”
the man said. He told Medeiros that
he’d done a rap version of the Odyssey
in college, to impress a girl. He added,
“Let me take Athena’s hand. Don’t be
a vengeful goddess.”
“I won’t,” Medeiros said, riding away.
—David Rompf