Context is everything

At first, I am horrified by my black and white blue jeans.  Simply.  Horrified.  What in God's name was I thinking?  Can I blame them entirely on the 80's?  But then I see that I am feeding Tippy Jr., my niece, next to my brother, Mark, whose next to the incomparable, Leokadia.  Our mother.  Now I like those jeans.  I like my pouffy hair, and gigantic glasses.  Context indeed is everything.

Jasmina

Yesterday, the air was cold and clean, drenched in winter sunlight.  My friend Margaret Clark stood at the door greeting people.  She was dressed in hot pink.  We spoke for a few minutes about inconsequential things.  I wasn't in a hurry to go up the stairs, so stepped outside for a moment just as Janette and her son Luke showed up.  We walked back in together.  More and more people began to arrive at 775 Washington Street.  Well dressed people wearing  black; cashmere and leather and silk.  Margaret said, I've been to bar mitzvahs here, and even danced here when it was a nightclub in the early 90's. What is it today, I asked.  Primarily a photography studio, she replied.

Finally I took to the stairs, and then up a cement ramp that curved to the right.  On the landing, a slide show projected onto the large white wall.  Jasmina Anema in all her glory; dressed in gold lame with matching gold sneakers, wearing a two piece bathing suit, laughing and giggling, her long braids, her wide smile.  A six year old girl.  I stepped into the main room flooded with sunlight.  Row upon row of white chairs, and in the front of the room, a little white coffin and two large sprays of roses.  Jasmina's mother, Thea, seated in the front row on one side, on the other side, Jasmina's birth mother and family. 

Jasmina had a fought a year long, much publicized battle with a particularly virulent form of leukemia. Tragically, she lost that battle last Wednesday night.  This was her funeral.  I walked up the aisle, gave my condolences to Thea, and stepped up to the coffin.  There was Jasmina dressed as a fairy princess, the coffin lined with toys and a picture of her with President Obama.  Nothing prepares you for this.  Soon the service started.  Many people spoke, musicians played, two of Jasmina's friends from school sang Twinkle, twinkle little star.  My heart ached for Thea.

I only knew her casually through Margaret, but throughout the years, I heard all the stories, all the adventures of Thea and Jasmina; how they traveled around the world, how Jasmina knew Dutch and Mandarin, their summer house in the Catskills.  Margaret told me the story about how Thea stitched up a mermaid costume when Jasmina had to undergo a painful procedure at the hospital. When I saw them together, I was humbled, they were such a pair, mother and daughter, bonded for life.  The love was palpable. But now it was over.  At one point in the service, a man sang a song about how lonely he was going to be, and suddenly the birth mother burst into tears, inconsolable. 

I thought about how incalculably generous Thea was--- inviting the birth family.  And it was strange to see adults and children who looked so much like Jasmina, but who never really knew her.  Thea reached out to them at some point during Jasmina's illness. They bonded.  I couldn't get over Thea's courage. I thought how strange, sad and even wonderful that there were two mothers at this funeral for a little girl.  Both had, in their own way, lost their child.  But Thea was the true mother who raised her, loved her, and who, day after day, stood by Jasmina's side and never gave up.  She never spent a night alone in the hospital.

There was no religion at this funeral.  No priest.  No 23rd Psalm.  No drive to the cemetery.  Instead in a photography studio flooded with late winter sunlight, a mother and her community grieved the loss of a remarkable and beautiful little girl.  My heart is still breaking.

The Second Brother

A brief excursion into family mythology:

Because you had a very round face. Because it seemed as if you were primarily composed of circles except for baby Dracula teeth. Because you were the child who was placed in a ramshackle playpen on Thanksgiving; wearing only a diaper. Later in the evening, you were given a turkey leg. This kept you happy for a long time, but at some point you held out your fat greasy hands in supplication: Please get me out. Sometime you were ignored, and sometimes somebody--- your mother, your sister, your grandmother would pick you up and wipe you down. Because of all this--- in those days, those very early days, your nickname was Beabock: The second brother. You were thus anointed on the front porch of a house dominated by a colony of mice.

Rise brother, rise up Beabock, and accept this honor. Rise up and acknowledge that yes you are Beabock. With one tooth, shaped like a fang. Your face so round, often accompanied by drool, always happy for a walk in the wooden stroller; strung with beads across the front. I wonder, brother, if you remember the color of those beads, because I do. As your older sister, brother, I do. I do remember the color of those beads--- they were different shades of blue. But Beabock was your name. And I believe that all children should be anointed in this way. From an older sister. Finally, it seemed inevitable that you would collect beer cans from around the world in high school. Beabock Rules. Beabock: The Second Brother.

Family News

Congratulations to my beautiful sister, Lori, who is now engaged to the wonderful and handsome Paul.  

Good luck Tippy

My niece Angelina has finished school, and won't be here four nights a week.  She's been staying with me since last May.  I know I've helped her a great deal.  I made it my business to provide her with a quiet, stable home.  Every young person starting out in life deserves this.  Especially women.  The first freedom is economic after all.  Bring home your own bacon. But she has certainly brought life and light into my life as well.  I liked the fact that in the summer when I got home from teaching and she got home from school, we'd take Molly, and get an iced coffee at TAZZA on the corner.  Angie always got the iced mocha with extra chocolate syrup.  Being 30 years older, I got the plain iced coffee with skim milk.  Once she brought home a miniature lemon tart that was so bitter she threw up in the bathroom.  I honestly couldn't stop laughing.

Then of course there was the time she wrangled fifteen sponges from behind my kitchen counter.  I wrote about this in an earlier post. She was Felix and I was Oscar.  That's the Odd Couple for those of you who don't know your Neil Simon.  I hadn't cleaned out my fridge in a very, very long time.  When she asked my why, I said, "I can't deal with washing out every semi-empty jar of olive tapenade, peanut butter, jelly, spaghetti sauce, apple sauce, horseradish, salad dressing and marinated olives that's been sitting there for about a year."    So one night, with steaming hot water running into the sink and bleach, she systemically and efficiently did the job.  Of course, I joined in, but I was merely the lieutenant to her general.  This was her mission.  Almost impossible if you ask me, but she did it.

Lately we had been taking turns making dinner.  One night two weeks ago, I trudged home in the dark, from the Bronx, completely exhausted.  I walked into a bright clean kitchen and  fresh Fratelli ravioli for dinner.  Last Tuesday I made lemon chicken cutlets and mashed potatoes.  She always had Cheez-Its, Lucky Charms, milk, yogurt, and raspberries in the house.  One morning I woke up, walked into the kitchen and found her at the kitchen table eating cereal and bagging up her lunch at the same time.  She had two plastic baggies in her lap.  She was filling one with salad greens and another with tomatoes. 

I loved hearing about her bitch clients who didn't tip even though she transformed them.  The woman who came in with orange hair.  The woman with 100 foils in her hair.  She had all the gossip; the petty jealousies and the competition, the teachers she liked, and the teachers she hated. But most of all I loved watching how much she loved what she was doing.  Sometimes it was hard.  Her youth. Her vitality. Her belief in love, in marriage and happily ever after.  I truly hope I was able to mask my cynicism and even hope that some of her optimism rubbed off on me. 

The last night she was here, we ordered in Thai and split a bottle of wine and watched Untamed Hearts with Christian Slater and Marisa Tomei.   Saturday morning, I decided to get up and have breakfast with her.  When I walked in the kitchen, she said, "I'm sad Tippy."   I know how she felt.  I was sad, too.  Tippy BTW is our mutual nickname for each other.  Don't ask why.  It's one of those you-had-to-be-there things.

I know I will certainly miss her.  I ask myself; are you going to clean the house on Monday even though Angie won't be here on Tuesday?  Are you going to continue to keep the fridge clean?  The floors washed?  I think so.

Good luck, Tippy.  You will always have a home in Brooklyn.

Finally, it was never simple.

"She is allowed to love herself only if a man finds her worthy of love."

--- Annis Pratt, Archetypal Patterns in Women's Fiction.

Ads from the 1960's: saltycotton, flickr

Simplicity: It was never simple. A series of portraits of my mother to honor her upcoming birthday

1967.

A bitterly cold winter morning.  My mother has managed to feed and dress all four of us for school.  The kitchen table is littered with empty cereal bowls, a frying pan with bits of egg glued to the edges, a spoon in a half empty grape jelly jar.  Over her rayon nightgown, she throws on a coat two sizes too big for her.  It belongs to my stepfather.  It is dark gray and the sleeves hang over her hands, but she is still agile enough to slap my brother when he mouths off at her.

Then she pulls on black rubber boots with buckles, also too big for her, a splash of dark red lipstick, and runs out into the frozen morning and gets the car started.  I watch her from the kitchen window.  The exhaust rises up into the frigid air like a ghost.  She runs back in, panting from the cold, her nose red, and throws on our scarves, our hats and our gloves.  One sibling is always missing one glove.  But she has no sympathy for stragglers or miscreants.

On this particular morning, with the wind chill somewhere around fifty below, with the snow drifting up to the eaves of the roofs of the houses, and the world a wild, icy universe--- you must drive slowly and she does. Slowly. But she swears the whole time, "Sonofabitch.  Sonofabitch."  We don't say a word as she cautiously navigates through the still quiet streets.  All we hear is the crunch of snow on the tires.  Nothing else.  Except our breathing.

Suddenly the horn starts honking.  On its own.  As if it had suddenly gone insane.  As if it woke up and decided to bitch and complain.  My mother screams and hits the steering wheel, "Oh you bitch!  You stinking bitch."  There we are, the five of us, slowly moving down the streets, the horn honking, blaring--- incessantly.  It is so loud we can't hear ourselves think.  The world telescopes down to the frozen car, my mother in her nightgown, and the car horn.   We start to laugh. Cautiously at first, then full out when my mother joins. We laugh so hard it hurts. 

She pulls into the long circular drive of the parish, and drops us off.  Her lipstick is smeared from laughing so hard, a bit of it is on her teeth, and the horn is still honking.  She screams to be heard: "Get out. Get out.  Have a good day.  Come straight home."  She drives off.  I walk up the steps of the church, enter, bless myself, "nameofthefathersonholyghost," but in the distance I can still hear the horn.  And in my mind, my mother's laughter. 

ad from the 1960's: saltycotton on flickr.com

Simplicity: It was never simple. A series of portraits in honor of my mother's upcoming birthday

1964.

My mother is in her early 30's, and her youngest child is nine months old.  We are going for a walk.  She wears a tight skirt; burnt orange with kick pleats, and a snug turtleneck sweater, black high heels.  My brother is secured inside his stroller that has wooden beads strung across the front. He's gnawed and chewed on them like a small rat.  Drool leaks from the side of his mouth, and we set out in the early afternoon.  We walk along the wide avenue.  Cars pass by and men honk their horns in appreciation of my mother's derriere swinging to and fro as she pushes the stroller.  We pass houses which are variations of ours; one story ranch with contrasting trim.  Five or six or seven children with runny noses and smart mouths.  Too high tuition at the local Catholic school where the nuns are an instrument of torture.  Husbands who work at the factory.

My mother walks fast; as if escaping.  She smokes cigarettes, she chews gum. She doesn't speak.  My brother is quiet. I hold onto the stroller, helping my mother push it up a hill as we pass by the local park.  This is who we are as walk on the avenue.  It's not about where we are going, it's about how we are getting there. We don't have a car.  It is strange to be the only people out on the streets in the middle of the day, the middle of the week.  My mother walks with the knowledge that she is still a good looking woman.  Her fourth child, and she can still fill out that skirt.  Curl her blond hair, walk out in the world with two of her children, and still get noticed. 

advertising from the 1960's: saltycotton, flickr.

Simplicity: It was never simple. A series of portraits of my mother in honor of her upcoming birthday

1978.

I’m in my grandmother’s kitchen. She’s at the window, her hands clasped behind her back, the floral apron. Her hair the color of steel wool softly curls around her face. Seconds later, a car pulls up the driveway. Its my mother. I look out the window and watch her. She’s wearing blue jeans, an oatmeal colored sweater, flats, white hoop earrings and pink lipstick. She’s blond, eternally blond and by the way she walks, you can tell she loves to dance.

She enters through the side door that leads into the kitchen. She kisses me, and lights up a cigarette while her mother fixes her a cup of coffee from the tin pot on the white stove. The light pours into the window. Grandmother gets out the black cast iron skillet, and pancake batter hits the hot greased surface. I set the table, while my mother retrieves the syrup, butter and sour cream. Finally we all sit. The dishes are green and white. The napkins are white. 

This is not one moment, but many, many moments strung together until they form a much larger picture. Until it stretches beyond moments and becomes days, then weeks, then months. And now years. Always the conversation about the other Polish ladies. Always the gossip about the other family members. No one ever speaks about the village that was burned, the forced labor. But it is there. My grandmother worries about my mother, and the anxiety is palpable.

My mother passes this anxiety along to me--- the message: the world is a dangerous place. But if the pancakes are hot, then the coffee is good. And so is life. If you stay for lunch there’s ham and potato salad. And if you stay for dinner there’s meatloaf, mashed potatoes and whiskey.

Beware of the twilight. The shadows can trick you.

The darkness is back.  Twilight at 4:00 p.m.  Night falls at 5:00.  My mother said: It's the most dangerous time of day.  The shadows can trick you.  She was afraid of us on bicycles.  Out on the streets.  Oncoming cars. Careless children.  All six of us.  Our cheeks ruddy from the cold.  The kitchen windows steamed.  A pile of sweaters and socks by the back door.  Dinner time and its totally dark out.

Today, in Brooklyn, it means the streets are littered with yellow leaves. It means the light from the setting sun falls at an oblique angle.  The brownstones across the street are gilded, momentarily, against a backdrop of pure blue sky.  Coming up from the 4 train after work, its dark.  It means I drink more coffee.  Suddenly think: get out while its still light. 

I like the way the days diminish leading up to the solstice.  I like that the light becomes more and more burnished.  More oblique. I hear the sound of dry leaves underfoot, the distant echo of children.  The trees in the park are orange, yellow, red.  Somewhere, not here, a young mother admonishes her sons and daughters: Beware of the twilight.  The shadows can trick you.

Ghoulish glitter

Halloween night.  In Brooklyn.  It began with a walk to Bergen between Court and Smith to visit a new art gallery/performance space called Invisible Dog.  It used to be a factory that manufactured--- among other things--- the gag dog leash.  I interviewed the Producer/Art Director.  A French man by way of Marseilles and Paris, now in Cobble Hill.  Lucien Zayan.  The current exhibit on the main floor has several large abstract paintings, a soft sculpture that could be a mushroom except its about 100X bigger and multi-colored, a video installation playing against the far wall, and a light box sculpture.

 On the second floor Lucien showed me the artist studios.  Four thousand square feet that he configured for each artist after he found out what they needed.  On the third floor an absolutely exquisite performance space--- gorgeous b/c he kept the rawness of the room and added polish.  The walls are now pristine white with modern lighting.  But he kept the original windows, sanded down the columns and rebuilt the ceiling using recycled wood from the space.  Again, 4,000 square feet.  This is how he makes his money.  He rents this space out: weddings, exhibits, photographers, film companies.  Pretty smart.  Then does what he wants on the ground floor. 

Apres l'interview, I walked over to Smith and Pacific to Bar Tabac.  A great little French bistro that every once in  awhile features Brazilian jazz.  I've had some GOOD times there.  They have outside tables, so I could watch the spectacle of little children, their parents, and even their pets parade up and down the streets in search of treats.  I saw not one but two dogs in lobster costumes.  I saw a infant dressed up like a hot dog; the bun part of the sling holding the baby.  A family walked by dressed up in Nathan's Hot Dog Attire, the signature hats, and aprons.  A six or seven year old boy, sporting a sinister mask, was clearly enjoying his new persona.  Little girls in long silver gowns wearing tiaras.  An entire family of bumble bees.  The waitstaff all dressed up; Adam's family.  Ghoulish.  Glitter.  A great chicken cutlet and Sancerre. 

Walked up to Court, over to Atlantic to get to the heart of the Halloween celebration--- the mecca for all children, my neighborhood, State Street, Joralemon Street, and all the little streets in between.  Its like Woodstock, Disney World, street fair, and art installation; all rolled into one.  The elegant brownstones and townhouses are decorated with skeletons, ghosts, giant spiders, pumpkins, witches and monsters.  Add lights and music. The owners are in costume.  The kids are in costume.   I walked through the ghouls and goblins, coffee in hand, said hello to a few neighbors, even scammed some candy for myself.  Trick or treat!

Then home to watch the Yankees clobber the Phillies.  Perfect.

Image:  Woman who works at the dry cleaners on Hicks, sweeping the sidewalk, dressed up like a fairy.

50th birthday party celebration

My brother, Mark, and his daughter, my niece, Angelina enjoying birthday cake in Little Italy. Joey Paesano's in Little Italy has been my brother's favorite restaurant for more than a decade. It was a joy and privilege to host my family for Mark's birthday week in NYC. Many happy returns, brother.

He will always cheer me up on the morning I get home from ER

Most of the time I view FaceBook as a small town newspaper--- people who I know or used to know publishing the flotsam and jetsam of their lives. Many of my "friends" are artists and many of the posts are PR for whatever project they are working on; a new book, a workshop, a new play, a film premiere. Some of my "friends" are parents and many of their posts are about their children.

I also have several former students, and collaborators from back in the day--- we briefly catch up: living in Colorado, living in Berlin, L.A., Toronto. One "friend" a woman I knew about seven years ago is now working in Darfur for the United Nations. I like reading all this. I do. I am also "friends" with my real friends and of course with my family.

And that is an interesting concept: friends with members of your family. Not all my family on FaceBook are "friends;" some actively dislike me, haven't spoken to me in over a decade. Among those who love me, not all are on Facebook. So its a shifting subset of digital alliances--- which you could say mirrors life except the online relationship creates a permanent and accurate record. Two weeks ago, I had an emergency with my dog, Molly. It was a terrible night. No sleep. When I finally got home at 8:30 a.m., I decided to check my email and then crash for a couple of hours.

OMG. A "friend" request from my nephew, now 14. His father one of my estranged brothers. I don't know him at all. I just knew that he wanted to be my "friend" on FaceBook; a digital aunt. I was flattered, touched. I accepted his invitation and wrote: What's shaking? I found out that he's traveled to New Mexico, that his family gave him grief over his spelling, that he's smart and cool. After a couple of days, he stopped responding to my posts. And I knew that his parents blocked me. Which is their right. I'd been "de-friended."

It may be some time until I hear from him again, or I may never--- but no one can take away the happiness of being a "friend" to my digital nephew, no matter how short lived. Because it still exists. Our communication, our "friendship" still lives in cyber-space. He will always cheer me up on the morning I get home from ER. And if I may imperfectly quote Robert Frost, that makes all the difference in the world.

Summer 09: No shame

You would not expect food stamps in Brooklyn Heights. You would expect million dollar co-ops, doormen, nannies, private schools --- and you would be right. All these things exist including fey little boutiques that sell Marc Jacob's T-shirts for $200 (on sale for $140!) as well as two high end real estate offices. But co-existing in this land of splendor are people like myself; artist/writers, actor/realtor's, teacher/dancers, literary agents. And, in the midst of the recession, in the belly of the economic bell curve, trapped in the the cyclone of adjustable rate mortgages and the positively Rabelaisian greed of CEO's, I found myself living on food stamps this July and August. And what's more I enjoyed it.

But first a bit of back story:

It's not 2009, it's 1962. It's not Brooklyn, its the Midwest. And, trust me, there had been no revolution, sexual or otherwise. There were no dope smoking hippies preaching love and happiness, no Mr. Natural, Age of Aquarius. No. It's a factory town, an old Indian village, a small sea of immigrants. My father was in Viet Nam, it wasn't a war yet. My mother was at home with three small children. The checks stopped coming. Mice ruled the basement. A ham bone turned to pea soup and fed us for five days. I had bacon for breakfast, lunch and dinner. But my mother resolutely turned down food stamps.

It didn't matter that the milk had exploded in the metal container on the porch. It didn't matter that her mother told her take the bus and come for dinner, to which my mother replied, I don't have the money to take the bus. And then hang up the phone in frustration. She would not apply for food stamps. That was charity. That was the tough immigrant pride of my mother. That was the pride of her daughter, too. In the past, whenever I'd see someone pay with food stamps, which in those days looked like Monopoly money, I'd think: LOSER-- as in--- you got a incontinent beer swilling husband at home and four snotty nosed kids.

Cut to the summer of 09 and I am struggling. Serious issues of morale. But happiness as well--- my niece stays with me three or four nights a week. We drink iced coffee. She talks about her day. I talk about mine. Soon we have turned Wednesday night or Thursday night into a ritual; Trader's Joes with food stamps. They look nothing like their predecessor, now--- its a sleek little credit card. Now it doesn't scream loser, now its just another form of credit. My niece and I are delirious as we wander from aisle to aisle; tomatoes, avocados, toasted almonds, arugula, pre-cooked turkey meatballs, couscous and chicken, then a stop at the free sample station for a cup of really good hot coffee, and a bite of a macaroon with ginger ice cream, or a chicken burrito, with salsa verde. Muy bien!

I'd get the cherry soy ice cream with dark chocolate, my niece would get goat cheese. I'd always pick up beef carpaccio and she'd get raisin bran cereal and milk. We always scooped up the teriyaki frozen chicken and jasmine rice, the vegetarian pizza. Our shopping cart is now full and half the time girlfriend is on her cell to her boyfriend, but I don't care. Trader Joes in August 09 is a wonderland, better than Disney world, better than Las Vegas. The employees are always friendly--- I even asked a cashier once, Is this a good job? Are you treated well? He replied, sincerely, Yes. I am.

Paying for all this with food stamps didn't feel shameful. Nobody seemed to care. My niece and I would walk out into the twilight, onto Atlantic Avenue, the streets still thick with strollers and traffic, carrying five bags of food, happy and content. Happy about filling up the fridge and cupboards when we got home. Perhaps it was a different time for my mother--- a new immigrant, still vivid memories of the war, a young wife. But I'm 1.5. I was born here. I have a Master's Degree. There are no children at home. If food stamps are a benefit I can receive while the economy is in the toilet, I'll take it. After all this is the government that allowed rapacious banks to triple my APR.

So. No shame. None at all. Instead--- a happy memory of hot summer nights, 2009. My mom would've had fun, too, with me, with her granddaughter, getting a cup of coffee then hitting the frozen food section at Trader Joes.

Give the girl some props!

My niece Angie wields a mean mop. She single-handedly wrangled a herd of fifteen sponges from behind my kitchen sink. Give the girl some props!

This is Brooklyn

Molly's BFF, even though she weighs 10 pounds and he weighs almost 100. I wrote a post about him for The Brooklyn Heights Blog--- mostly about how he jumped out of a second story window without a scratch. So you might say that in addition to being a beautiful dog, a big dog, he is also a flying dog.

Happy Birthday to me!

I'm at work so had to find a photo on the computer. I thought pink water lilies would do quite nicely. I'm grateful for all my friends and family--- I've had incredible support from everyone; in a year when my finances have been near impossible. Here is a list of people who deserve a special shout out:

1. My sister, Lori for always sending me birthday, XMAS, and other goodies in the mail even when I cannot reciprocate.
2. My sister, Lonnie; for her wisdom and compassion. When I told her I couldn't move right or left, up or down---she said just let it go.
3. My brother Johnny who treats me to expensive dinners.
4. My friend Mars who came to my emotional rescue, and welcomes me into her mountain home.
5. My niece Angie who is taking me out to dinner tonight.
6. My cousin Debbi who always calls me on my birthday no matter what.
7. My Dad who sends me a beautiful card and one hundred dollars every year without fail.
8. Marc--- friend for 40 years, who has given me a sense of continuity and stability in my crazy life.
9. My ex-husband Peter---even though we've been divorced since 1995 always calls to wish me happy birthday.
10. Molly (nuff said)

Today I'm going to celebrate all of you!

Mountain family

Margaret "Mars" Clark, her sisters; Mary and Libby on the shores of Hunter Lake, the Catskill Mountains. Mars and husband, Marc, celebrating 20 years at the Barn. A 4th of July extravaganza with fireworks, catfish po boys, egg toss, hot dogs, roaring fire, skits, songs and other general madness and poetry.

Molly and I just returned after 4 days, and while I'm glad to be back in Brooklyn, I am grateful and blessed to be considered part of the mountain "family." Highlight: Dank singing "Rawhide," loud enough to wake the dead, at two in the morning. While I was trying to sleep, I couldn't help but smile at his vigorous rendition.

Happy 4th

On vacation until July 6th. Off to the Catskill Mountains, yahoo. Can taste the vodka tonic even now as I prepare for my morning class. Until then Happy 4th of July to all, and a happy birthday to my cousin Debbi, much beloved and respected--- the "Diplomat" of the family. Long may she reign.

For your viewing pleasure

Lori Goldi-locks, my lovely sister.