Bellevue Hospital, Between the Layers
he entryways of the remodeled Bellevue Hospital come at incoming patients and visitors in layers akin to the human body: the new glass-and-metal facade presents the first layer before encountering a marble and stone arch around the tunnel leading to elevators, an photo gallery, and eventually, the emergency room. The first layer hosts visitors communicating on their cell phones and security guards, with gateways color-coded like the subways we New Yorkers live with daily. As one walks directly into the tunnel and into the emergency room, we are reminded that it’s an established hospital, full of the aches, rumbles, and off-white walls we trust will be there anytime we visit the hospital.
In there, children cry for their mothers, the elderly wheeze in an unsettling tempo, and grown boys brace the responsibilities of manhood.
Where people often mistake manhood is in places like the hospital. We still ask men not to emote, and treat illness as a sign of debilitating (and ignorable) weakness, whether the person injured is a stranger or a loved one. The perception of what men do in those situations and the actions that make a real man in these situations
