As I careened the car around in a tight U-turn in the middle of Main Street, safely of course, clearly aware that there was plenty of time and space to do this, he said, for the first time:
“I had no idea you are such a scofflaw”, with a laugh both a bit terrified and intrigued. I suppose that was the beginning of our many adventures, not all involving breaking the law.
A sunny Fall day in Western New York was the setting, Rochester specifically, a white-collar city developed around Eastman Kodak and later IBM, industrial giants who invested in civic culture and beauty, and grew up a little jewel of a city. Built along the Genesee River, with river walks and bridges and parks full of flowers, Eastman hid his smoke-belching factories on the outskirts. George Eastman built his legacy along this river, too, upstream from the city center. He built a red-brick classic campus, reminiscent of the Ivies, for the Eastman School of Music and the University of Rochester. A beautifully landscaped, pristine-looking college with world class schools of Medicine and Engineering, where families and students ate picnics and played frisbee while watching the U.of R. crew team compete along the Genesee, which runs parallel to the Main Street of campus.
That was our final destination, our reason for being in Rochester on our first driving date out of our own city, Buffalo, a distinctly more blue-collar and industrial town. Our beloved Buffalo, formerly the Queen City of the Great Lakes, home of more millionaires in 1900 than all but three other U.S. cities. Designed by the legendary Fredrick Law Olmsted around a system of elegant parkways and intricately landscaped parks, our city was now struggling to maintain the best of her heritage after the breaking of her backbone, first by the opening of the Saint Lawrence Seaway, bypassing Niagara Falls which formerly blocked passage to the East Coast, and then by the fall of Bethlehem Steel.
So in this more prosperous city, at the University of Rochester, we were going to see my daughter’s dance performance at the end of her Junior year of college. I wanted to expand and deepen our intimacy by revealing and sharing with each other the important parts of our lives. I was aware of feeling vulnerable and nervous. Sharing my love of travel and adventure, and sharing my adored daughter’s life was offering a tender and important part of myself, saying, “Do you understand? Can you appreciate and resonate with this about me? Can our relationship grow this way?”
And he, in the passenger seat on this particular adventure, was undoubtedly assessing our future, too, silently saying: “So this is who you are. I love your sense of exploration, trying to find the Art Gallery, the Ethiopian restaurant, then somewhere to park in this over-crowded campus on performance night. But… I don’t know about this scofflaw part of you. First, a sudden U-turn on a busy Friday afternoon on Main Street, and then, parking illegally, flagrantly, so we would be near the Auditorium. What other blasphemous things are you willing to do? What other, perhaps dangerously illegal, things have you lurking in your past?”
But you, too, my Darling, were revealing ways in which you are willing to be a scofflaw. I watched in silent amusement as you politely and somewhat sadly pointed out to the woman at the ticket desk of the Art Museum that we were there late in the day and could not take full advantage of the museum. I quietly chuckled as you skillfully got her to feel sorry for you and to offer to let us in for free! In later adventures, you further explained, without a blink, that when we wanted some favor from a gatekeeper, meaning we wanted to blast through the official rules: “if it’s a woman, I’ll do the talking; if it’s a man, you talk to him.”
In this way the scofflaw adventures of Dr. S and Dr. A began.
And you, my Dear, with your proper New England sensibilities would be horrified, or at least incredulous, that I would be conceptualizing our first out-of-town date this way.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Friday, September 9, 2011
BOY STUFF by John Ellis
Johnny. They called me Johnny. Johnny. The J for Jacob Cohen, owner of a dry goods store in Ofallin, Illinois where my dad said they had curfews for blacks. Jacob was too Jewish for my Southern California transplant parents. They didn’t want me riddled with an old Jewish Man name. So it was John. Very Southern California. The ‘ny’ was a familiar addition, everyone called me Johnny. Like a nice Italian boy from the Bronx. Johnny, the cute, smiling kid with the hair Dippity Dooed to the side and that sharp part, diagonally grazing my scalp revealing the white road to nowhere. Johnny liked his jump suit, a cotton leiderhausen, navy blue with buttons. Worn with a simple white T and brown saddle shoes with white athletic socks. This was my uniform. And I wore it well past the age when it still fit. Little Johnny squeezed into his uniform, to do his job well.
We had a fort on Gayle Street. The sacred sanctuary of boys… and our street was a cul-de-sac of budding testosterone, almost all boys. The Ellis Boys, 2. Right across the street The Byars had 3. The Hydes had 3. All boys. The Miquelons had 2, and Cheryl, the one girl in the mix who I married in a performance, walking down our hallway, the proverbial aisle, as my brother serenaded ‘Here Comes the Bride” on our Acrosonic--Cheryl the first chap lipped girl I kissed at age 6, she was for Barbies. But the boys, we had our sports, our fights, our ping pong paddles, and our fort. Conrad Byars, the oldest and One Adam 12 handsome, a hairy 13, kept Playboys in the Fort. In a metal box that we kept under the floor in a hole we dug. Playboys. He’d lock himself in the fort, which sat in our sideyard, and flip through the pages. What was so interesting? ‘Was Conrad an avid reader?’ Johnny wondered.
The fort was our sanctuary, our special meeting place. We played Black Jack for money here. We lit incense and candles. We convened in the dark cool shack, made of boards we found at the Riverbed and dragged home. My parents, older and more relaxed, allowed our house to be the one with the ugly fort, our yard the football, baseball and Smear the Queer field. Dad proffered the used carpet samples, an array of shags and flokati and low piles patchworked into our wall-to-wall haven. Each time it rained, the must and wet ruined, and dad managed to save the day.
The fort was inclusive. The street – another story. This was the land of Baseball Coach dads who worked in Aerospace. Football Scholarship pops, who thanks to a knee injury, now sold mortgages. Jacob Cohen wouldn’t do well dovening on Gayle Street. You had to play sports. Well. Each season was a different sport, parallel to the professional sport seasons. We played baseball during baseball season. But we couldn’t play baseball when Mr. Scotteline’s shiny red Corvette was parked on the street. He scared us. The Byars' garage door would have to serve as backstop as we carefully woofle balled a pick up game.
Football season-Conrad Byars would throw a spiral as high as he could in the air… and if you could catch it, you could play.
Sports ruled the street. Jeff Byars' parents denied a Mentally Gifted Program so he could stay in the local elementary because they had better after school sports program.
Sports was in the blood stream. Parents bowled for money and trips to Vegas. Danced with each other at Baseball League fundraisers. The Gayle Street Gang as we families called ourselves, attended baseball games at the Big A, Anaheim Stadium, as a troop. and even had our name announced by the game’s announcer. But that’s not my defining moment. No.
It’s a hot Summer Day. We swam in the community pool about 100 yards from our Cherrywood Lane home with walls of geraniums in terra cotta pots on the wall outside the kitchen window. My dad was asleep. Or at work. My mom at work. Clark Reid and I went for a swim. We’d stand in the shallow end legs akimbo. Here we’d swim underneath each others legs, upside down and blow bubbles. It was our innocent choreography. Boy stuff. Like wrestling is a safe way for straight men to touch each other all over, over and over again.
We get home to my air conditioned country kitchen. Sitting on the plastic covered yellow and orange striped couch we’re cool and our wet bathing suits slip a little. Side by side, we sit and pull out our penises. I’m still a boy, like 11-12. Clark 14, has ‘changed’. Larger, hairier and hornier.
We had a fort on Gayle Street. The sacred sanctuary of boys… and our street was a cul-de-sac of budding testosterone, almost all boys. The Ellis Boys, 2. Right across the street The Byars had 3. The Hydes had 3. All boys. The Miquelons had 2, and Cheryl, the one girl in the mix who I married in a performance, walking down our hallway, the proverbial aisle, as my brother serenaded ‘Here Comes the Bride” on our Acrosonic--Cheryl the first chap lipped girl I kissed at age 6, she was for Barbies. But the boys, we had our sports, our fights, our ping pong paddles, and our fort. Conrad Byars, the oldest and One Adam 12 handsome, a hairy 13, kept Playboys in the Fort. In a metal box that we kept under the floor in a hole we dug. Playboys. He’d lock himself in the fort, which sat in our sideyard, and flip through the pages. What was so interesting? ‘Was Conrad an avid reader?’ Johnny wondered.
The fort was our sanctuary, our special meeting place. We played Black Jack for money here. We lit incense and candles. We convened in the dark cool shack, made of boards we found at the Riverbed and dragged home. My parents, older and more relaxed, allowed our house to be the one with the ugly fort, our yard the football, baseball and Smear the Queer field. Dad proffered the used carpet samples, an array of shags and flokati and low piles patchworked into our wall-to-wall haven. Each time it rained, the must and wet ruined, and dad managed to save the day.
The fort was inclusive. The street – another story. This was the land of Baseball Coach dads who worked in Aerospace. Football Scholarship pops, who thanks to a knee injury, now sold mortgages. Jacob Cohen wouldn’t do well dovening on Gayle Street. You had to play sports. Well. Each season was a different sport, parallel to the professional sport seasons. We played baseball during baseball season. But we couldn’t play baseball when Mr. Scotteline’s shiny red Corvette was parked on the street. He scared us. The Byars' garage door would have to serve as backstop as we carefully woofle balled a pick up game.
Football season-Conrad Byars would throw a spiral as high as he could in the air… and if you could catch it, you could play.
Sports ruled the street. Jeff Byars' parents denied a Mentally Gifted Program so he could stay in the local elementary because they had better after school sports program.
Sports was in the blood stream. Parents bowled for money and trips to Vegas. Danced with each other at Baseball League fundraisers. The Gayle Street Gang as we families called ourselves, attended baseball games at the Big A, Anaheim Stadium, as a troop. and even had our name announced by the game’s announcer. But that’s not my defining moment. No.
It’s a hot Summer Day. We swam in the community pool about 100 yards from our Cherrywood Lane home with walls of geraniums in terra cotta pots on the wall outside the kitchen window. My dad was asleep. Or at work. My mom at work. Clark Reid and I went for a swim. We’d stand in the shallow end legs akimbo. Here we’d swim underneath each others legs, upside down and blow bubbles. It was our innocent choreography. Boy stuff. Like wrestling is a safe way for straight men to touch each other all over, over and over again.
We get home to my air conditioned country kitchen. Sitting on the plastic covered yellow and orange striped couch we’re cool and our wet bathing suits slip a little. Side by side, we sit and pull out our penises. I’m still a boy, like 11-12. Clark 14, has ‘changed’. Larger, hairier and hornier.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
BLASPHEMY by Kat McCormick
It was a blasphemy I suppose, but then it really isn’t for me to judge. All I know is that my step-father Charlie went for his usual walk that cool October morning. When he returned home, he seemed upset, my mother told me. He sat down at his desk decorated with plaques, medals, and jet aircraft models perched on pedestals. He wrote something, then he drove his golf cart onto the Arizona golf course behind his house, put the Glock in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
There are moments in life when everything changes.
Many years ago, my husband Barry and I drove to a golf course so that he could pick up a score card. While he went into the pro shop, I picked up my writer’s notebook to observe and write about whatever came my way. As luck would have it, Barry parked in front of a bush that was covered with beautiful Monarch butterflies in their finest stained glass attire sunning themselves, feeding, and perhaps chatting each other up. I got out of the car to get a closer look; and it wasn’t long before I noticed a stick that seemed to be moving with the breeze, getting closer and closer to one of the butterflies.
Suddenly two arms appeared from what I then realized was a praying mantis, and with two tiny hands, it grabbed each of the butterfly’s wings. I wanted to look away, but forced myself to watch as the hideous praying mantis begin to devour the beautiful and delicate fairy princess—I mean, butterfly.
The praying mantis was grotesque—like something from another planet. He had huge fly-like eyes, and he continued to eat—he was actually munching—as the butterfly struggled. At one point, he turned his head 45 degrees and looked directly at me—munching away with a satisfied look on his alien face. I felt like he was jeering me—“do you want a piece of me?” And I have to admit that when he first revealed his true identity, I fought the urge to save the butterfly. What changed my mind was strange because suddenly the prime directive from Star Trek popped into my mind. The prime directive basically says that we shouldn’t interfere in other cultures.
This was a moment that changed my life. I can point to it and say it has something to do with the beauty of life, the miracle tucked inside a single moment—and the cruelty, unfairness, and fear that we must deal with every single day of our lives.
I picked up the pair of butterfly wings that fluttered to the ground after the praying mantis dropped them. They are forever preserved in a ziplock bag which I keep on my writing desk as a reminder that everything can change in a single moment.
There are moments in life when everything changes.
Many years ago, my husband Barry and I drove to a golf course so that he could pick up a score card. While he went into the pro shop, I picked up my writer’s notebook to observe and write about whatever came my way. As luck would have it, Barry parked in front of a bush that was covered with beautiful Monarch butterflies in their finest stained glass attire sunning themselves, feeding, and perhaps chatting each other up. I got out of the car to get a closer look; and it wasn’t long before I noticed a stick that seemed to be moving with the breeze, getting closer and closer to one of the butterflies.
Suddenly two arms appeared from what I then realized was a praying mantis, and with two tiny hands, it grabbed each of the butterfly’s wings. I wanted to look away, but forced myself to watch as the hideous praying mantis begin to devour the beautiful and delicate fairy princess—I mean, butterfly.
The praying mantis was grotesque—like something from another planet. He had huge fly-like eyes, and he continued to eat—he was actually munching—as the butterfly struggled. At one point, he turned his head 45 degrees and looked directly at me—munching away with a satisfied look on his alien face. I felt like he was jeering me—“do you want a piece of me?” And I have to admit that when he first revealed his true identity, I fought the urge to save the butterfly. What changed my mind was strange because suddenly the prime directive from Star Trek popped into my mind. The prime directive basically says that we shouldn’t interfere in other cultures.
This was a moment that changed my life. I can point to it and say it has something to do with the beauty of life, the miracle tucked inside a single moment—and the cruelty, unfairness, and fear that we must deal with every single day of our lives.
I picked up the pair of butterfly wings that fluttered to the ground after the praying mantis dropped them. They are forever preserved in a ziplock bag which I keep on my writing desk as a reminder that everything can change in a single moment.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
ACROSS THE COUNTRY IN DARK GREEN SHORTS by Bobbi Safire
It was the summer of my 16th year. The train snaked for what seemed like endless miles with its soothing clickety- clack, clickety- clack. At each station stop heading west, groups of naïve, but prepared 16 year old girls would climb the metal ladders waving back to family, throwing kisses. Formidable size foot lockers were being heaved into the baggage car by dads, brothers and anyone else who chose to take the challenge of the heave. The mood was upbeat, filled with the newness of life.
Our “roomette” was a winner. The bunks fit flatly and securely into the wall of the train car patiently awaiting their release later that evening. On each side was an open but ample area for personal belongings. My buddy, Nan Futeronsky and I lucked out because most of the scouts were occupying berths, one on top of the other, for the journey across country. Some from hometowns like Freehold, New Jersey or Danbury, Connecticut or Wilmington, Delaware were represented. Scranton, Pennsylvania was our bid to fame, home of coal mines and column dumps.
At mealtimes we traipsed and plodded from one car to another toward our destination, the dining car. It was set in what seemed an enormous, bare freight car housing long tables and benches. How they served up all that food is still a mystery to me. We called it the cattle car. Hundreds of girls, with butterflies in their stomachs, scoffing down their dinners, were traveling cross country in dark green shorts, white shirts, lariats around their necks, comfortable shoes, and of course that special wool, green, beret with the girl scout insignia front and center. This was living the good life. Yes, we were on our way to Girl Scout Roundup in Farragut, Idaho.
The frenzied confidence in all of us was evident. Why not? Our training and preparation in primitive camping skills -- such as lashing, tying knots, building camp fires, hanging caches in trees, pitching tents and eating s’mores -- was universal. One particular event will remain permanent always in my mind’s eye. That moment 950 green and white future leaders of the world were released on Yellowstone National Park.
Our “roomette” was a winner. The bunks fit flatly and securely into the wall of the train car patiently awaiting their release later that evening. On each side was an open but ample area for personal belongings. My buddy, Nan Futeronsky and I lucked out because most of the scouts were occupying berths, one on top of the other, for the journey across country. Some from hometowns like Freehold, New Jersey or Danbury, Connecticut or Wilmington, Delaware were represented. Scranton, Pennsylvania was our bid to fame, home of coal mines and column dumps.
At mealtimes we traipsed and plodded from one car to another toward our destination, the dining car. It was set in what seemed an enormous, bare freight car housing long tables and benches. How they served up all that food is still a mystery to me. We called it the cattle car. Hundreds of girls, with butterflies in their stomachs, scoffing down their dinners, were traveling cross country in dark green shorts, white shirts, lariats around their necks, comfortable shoes, and of course that special wool, green, beret with the girl scout insignia front and center. This was living the good life. Yes, we were on our way to Girl Scout Roundup in Farragut, Idaho.
The frenzied confidence in all of us was evident. Why not? Our training and preparation in primitive camping skills -- such as lashing, tying knots, building camp fires, hanging caches in trees, pitching tents and eating s’mores -- was universal. One particular event will remain permanent always in my mind’s eye. That moment 950 green and white future leaders of the world were released on Yellowstone National Park.
Monday, September 5, 2011
I ALWAYS KNEW by Susan LaFever
I’m telling my story at a horn workshop. I’ve been placed in a group of six similarly-aged women and we attend small-group classes as a unit. We’ve played sextets together, we’ve played solos for each other, we’ve talked about creative horn playing in class. Now we’re sharing our histories.
You might consider us losers. None of us is famous, but some of us play better than others, some of us play better than the instructors. What was it in our past that had prevented our advancing, whatever that is, as far as we had wanted?
Yes, there is a system for producing players; although the figure even for Juilliard grads finding full-time orchestral work is only 5%. What chance did someone outside the system have? I guess you might say none.
I start talking in a low shaky voice. I always knew I was a musician. Even as a toddler I was always singing in the car. (In those days, we didn’t have car seats; the kids just rode in the back seat.) From the age of four I knew I was going to be a professional musician when I was introduced to the violin in a Suzuki class.
I remember standing impatiently as the instructors, one American man and one Japanese man, seemed to talk forever about the proper way to hold and care for your instrument. I just wanted to get my hands on it. When we were finally told to get our instruments, I ran over to the case and opened it to see my little brown violin. I was so eager to absorb everything that I was able to stand still for the lesson, ignoring the burning and growing itch on my leg (something that I’m not able to do now)!
In Suzuki instruction, the parents learn along with the children so they can guide and participate in the practice at home. I remember my mother’s frustration trying to tune our instruments. She couldn’t seem to find the pitch even though I could hear it. The practice sessions were sometimes frustrating as well. Fortunately, we had vinyl discs with the music to play along with that we put on the stereo, a huge cabinet console with built-in speakers that was a piece of furniture that took up a third of one wall.
One day, as we were struggling to learn a new piece, I told Mom I needed to use the bathroom. Figuring I was trying to get out of practicing, she wouldn’t let me go. Finally, there was nothing I could do; a stream of urine came bursting out of me with surprising strength. I can still hear how it sounded as it hit the green carpet in the living room with such force. As I was embarrassedly running to the bathroom, Mom yelled, “You did that on purpose!”
My parents never “got” me. Despite my talent and diligence in music, they had other plans for me. In high school, I would get up at 6am, after several “prompts” from Mom, which involved blinding me by turning on the ceiling light, and calling out to me every few minutes until I finally got up. I practiced the horn for an hour, ate breakfast and went to school, then practiced the horn for another hour after school followed by an hour of piano practice.
I loved practicing and loved my teachers. One day in third grade, I was made to stay after school, probably for talking out of turn. I remember sobbing loudly as my head was down on the desk where I was told to put it for my punishment, but not because I was staying behind; it was because I was going to miss my piano lesson.
My parents being strict and religious, apparently thought music was a good thing to keep me out of trouble before college, but never felt it could be a profession. To bolster their belief, they asked my horn teacher if you can make a living playing the horn. He himself, although principal horn of the local community orchestra, made his living teaching privately. I think they knew the answer would be a qualified no.
I was always a little confused about what love was. It seemed my parents were always thwarting my plans, telling me they knew better and that I would ultimately be happy that I listened to them. I never understood what was wrong with my plans for my own life since they didn’t involve drugs, alcohol or sex. I just wanted to be a musician.
You might consider us losers. None of us is famous, but some of us play better than others, some of us play better than the instructors. What was it in our past that had prevented our advancing, whatever that is, as far as we had wanted?
Yes, there is a system for producing players; although the figure even for Juilliard grads finding full-time orchestral work is only 5%. What chance did someone outside the system have? I guess you might say none.
I start talking in a low shaky voice. I always knew I was a musician. Even as a toddler I was always singing in the car. (In those days, we didn’t have car seats; the kids just rode in the back seat.) From the age of four I knew I was going to be a professional musician when I was introduced to the violin in a Suzuki class.
I remember standing impatiently as the instructors, one American man and one Japanese man, seemed to talk forever about the proper way to hold and care for your instrument. I just wanted to get my hands on it. When we were finally told to get our instruments, I ran over to the case and opened it to see my little brown violin. I was so eager to absorb everything that I was able to stand still for the lesson, ignoring the burning and growing itch on my leg (something that I’m not able to do now)!
In Suzuki instruction, the parents learn along with the children so they can guide and participate in the practice at home. I remember my mother’s frustration trying to tune our instruments. She couldn’t seem to find the pitch even though I could hear it. The practice sessions were sometimes frustrating as well. Fortunately, we had vinyl discs with the music to play along with that we put on the stereo, a huge cabinet console with built-in speakers that was a piece of furniture that took up a third of one wall.
One day, as we were struggling to learn a new piece, I told Mom I needed to use the bathroom. Figuring I was trying to get out of practicing, she wouldn’t let me go. Finally, there was nothing I could do; a stream of urine came bursting out of me with surprising strength. I can still hear how it sounded as it hit the green carpet in the living room with such force. As I was embarrassedly running to the bathroom, Mom yelled, “You did that on purpose!”
My parents never “got” me. Despite my talent and diligence in music, they had other plans for me. In high school, I would get up at 6am, after several “prompts” from Mom, which involved blinding me by turning on the ceiling light, and calling out to me every few minutes until I finally got up. I practiced the horn for an hour, ate breakfast and went to school, then practiced the horn for another hour after school followed by an hour of piano practice.
I loved practicing and loved my teachers. One day in third grade, I was made to stay after school, probably for talking out of turn. I remember sobbing loudly as my head was down on the desk where I was told to put it for my punishment, but not because I was staying behind; it was because I was going to miss my piano lesson.
My parents being strict and religious, apparently thought music was a good thing to keep me out of trouble before college, but never felt it could be a profession. To bolster their belief, they asked my horn teacher if you can make a living playing the horn. He himself, although principal horn of the local community orchestra, made his living teaching privately. I think they knew the answer would be a qualified no.
I was always a little confused about what love was. It seemed my parents were always thwarting my plans, telling me they knew better and that I would ultimately be happy that I listened to them. I never understood what was wrong with my plans for my own life since they didn’t involve drugs, alcohol or sex. I just wanted to be a musician.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
THE LIFE I WAS IMAGINING by Todd Greenwood
You could sit sprawled across the wooden floor of your apartment on Charles Street in the West Village, garbage trucks clanging and crushing their way down the street, with the map of the Indian subcontinent laid out in front of you. A copy of the Lonely Planet Guide to India with two smiling turbaned men in Rajasthani splendor guarding the door to the mystery that lay behind the golden bejeweled entrance to a mystery world. And there next to the map is a schedule of trains, and list of cities and places to be seen.
I had won the Priskell Travel Fellowship, a stipend of money that would allow me to study Open Air Marketplaces – and the world was my oyster. Anywhere in the world, any place on the planet where the agora had created its own organic form. To study and construct how the order of commerce, the simple and unplanned could be seen through the eyes of the designer, the architect. There was something to be learned by wandering in places that never saw the hand of an urban planner; places never needed to be mapped and plotted and defined.
Lying prone over the subcontinent it looked simple, easy, and knowable. It was December and the wedding was going to be in April. I had decreed. We had planned. I wasn’t going to let up this opportunity and Ruth wanted me to go, to take this opportunity and let me explore what there was in a place that the two of us could only imagine. Two mustachioed smiling men of Hindu mystery guarding an ancient door.
But as excited as I was by the prospect of flying to Bombay, and taking the train wherever the spirit moved me, I couldn’t help but think about the fact that this voyage would be the last of my life as a single man. At 24 years of age, I would be going to India, a place where I knew only one person – my Industrial Design teacher from Pratt - who would be staying with his mother and father while I was in Bombay. But from there, I would be on my own. The names of the map were mysterious, and alluring. Places that I knew little about. I could hardly even know what to expect in a place called Goa. Places in the South that eluded pronunciation. Places with names so long that I was sure they couldn’t be correct, or that they came along with some simple and shorter nickname that the cartographers were too proper to include.
I looked at the map and thought about the fact that we had sent out the invitations, found the synagogue, found a caterer who was Kosher enough for Ruth’s mom and dad to agree to (if they were going to pay)… but cool enough to be more than the "chicken or flanken" choices of the too many perfumed Leonard’s of Great Neck Affairs that I would die before submitting to. It was set: flowers, invitations, and an auspicious date: 4/8/84.
It was December and the wedding was April. Four months and I had enough money for just about that amount of time -- backpack, youth hostels and 30 rupees to the dollar. The only problem was that as I looked at the map, it dawned on me that the distances were huge. There was no way that I would be able to circle and explore the entire continent from the disputed and communist-controlled lands of Assam to the shores of Trivandrum in just four months.
The greatest trust: The moment of standing at the Pan Am counter, in Kennedy, with a suitcase that could be strapped to my back. My fiancée, the woman who I loved so dearly, an adventure that I had wanted so much. An adventure that I would have dreamed my whole life for. All those lists that I had on my wall as a child – the fifty things I would do in my lifetime. List of travel adventures, of jumping from airplanes, of taking a submarine across the ocean. Dreams fueled by Jules Verne and Popular Science magazine.
And I had managed to convince the committee sitting somewhere above Willoughby Street at the office of Pratt that here was a young man with a crazy notion: open air market places, organic design, the architecture of the unplanned. Let me have five thousand dollars and let him explore the unseen world.
I stood at the International Departure Lounge, surrounded by people who held their cigarettes in new ways, walked in curious arrangements, wore on their faces the signs and markings of places airports away, lands beyond. My sweet fiancée stood there telling me that I should have this adventure. Give this to myself, allow myself to experience what I had planned to do. She wanted it for me. But I wanted to hold on.
A month went by in which every day I smelled more like turmeric. A month went by in which the sounds of goats crunching on tin cans and honking rickshaws awoke me. A month went by in which my sandals became more deeply caked with the dust of the streets of Goa, Pune, and Bangalore. In which I sat transfixed by temples melting into the sea and lingams buried within the dark sanctums of places that I felt I should see, but were beyond my vision.
A month went by and I was sitting on a beach in Sri Lanka, in a small town south of Columbo - a place where the empty shells of buildings stood eviscerated by the ire of the Tamils. But this place was different. It was relaxing, peaceful -- so different than the cacophony of India or the sorrow of Columbo. There was a bar, and a bar tender and there was just one cassette tape that was pumping across the beach on endless repeat. I recognized the voices, seemed to know the singers.
"Hi, Hi, hi, hi, hi, Hi, hi, I want take you home. Hi, hi, hi, hi, hi. Ooooo."
The Talking Heads. And the voice of David Byrne was of a deep unsavory guttural – a lurid devilish seducer, a dance of sexual invitation at the feet of imagined gyrating beauty.
I sat under a baobab tree – a tree with huge arms that swept and protected the beach for centuries. This was one of the most beautiful places I had ever been in the month on the road. The food was good. The air was clear and there was a freedom and clarity. A place of repose -- for the tranquility of India is the biggest myth of all. Maybe tranquility within – but certainly chaos without.
I sat under the tree and I cried. The pain was too great. I could not wait a moment longer and I knew that at that moment there was a decision that I could no longer put off. Each day, I had asked myself the question. Each day I felt the longing and I thought of the woman that I loved and the comfort of sleeping in our three quarter mattress atop the wooden loft, down the block from the Korean Grocer and the corner sushi and little place that we went for Gai Yang chicken after work.
My adventure… I sat under to Baobab tree, picked up my bag, and called Indian Airlines. I told them that I needed to be home on the next plane. Get me home in 24 hours. Someone at home had died.
I had won the Priskell Travel Fellowship, a stipend of money that would allow me to study Open Air Marketplaces – and the world was my oyster. Anywhere in the world, any place on the planet where the agora had created its own organic form. To study and construct how the order of commerce, the simple and unplanned could be seen through the eyes of the designer, the architect. There was something to be learned by wandering in places that never saw the hand of an urban planner; places never needed to be mapped and plotted and defined.
Lying prone over the subcontinent it looked simple, easy, and knowable. It was December and the wedding was going to be in April. I had decreed. We had planned. I wasn’t going to let up this opportunity and Ruth wanted me to go, to take this opportunity and let me explore what there was in a place that the two of us could only imagine. Two mustachioed smiling men of Hindu mystery guarding an ancient door.
But as excited as I was by the prospect of flying to Bombay, and taking the train wherever the spirit moved me, I couldn’t help but think about the fact that this voyage would be the last of my life as a single man. At 24 years of age, I would be going to India, a place where I knew only one person – my Industrial Design teacher from Pratt - who would be staying with his mother and father while I was in Bombay. But from there, I would be on my own. The names of the map were mysterious, and alluring. Places that I knew little about. I could hardly even know what to expect in a place called Goa. Places in the South that eluded pronunciation. Places with names so long that I was sure they couldn’t be correct, or that they came along with some simple and shorter nickname that the cartographers were too proper to include.
I looked at the map and thought about the fact that we had sent out the invitations, found the synagogue, found a caterer who was Kosher enough for Ruth’s mom and dad to agree to (if they were going to pay)… but cool enough to be more than the "chicken or flanken" choices of the too many perfumed Leonard’s of Great Neck Affairs that I would die before submitting to. It was set: flowers, invitations, and an auspicious date: 4/8/84.
It was December and the wedding was April. Four months and I had enough money for just about that amount of time -- backpack, youth hostels and 30 rupees to the dollar. The only problem was that as I looked at the map, it dawned on me that the distances were huge. There was no way that I would be able to circle and explore the entire continent from the disputed and communist-controlled lands of Assam to the shores of Trivandrum in just four months.
The greatest trust: The moment of standing at the Pan Am counter, in Kennedy, with a suitcase that could be strapped to my back. My fiancée, the woman who I loved so dearly, an adventure that I had wanted so much. An adventure that I would have dreamed my whole life for. All those lists that I had on my wall as a child – the fifty things I would do in my lifetime. List of travel adventures, of jumping from airplanes, of taking a submarine across the ocean. Dreams fueled by Jules Verne and Popular Science magazine.
And I had managed to convince the committee sitting somewhere above Willoughby Street at the office of Pratt that here was a young man with a crazy notion: open air market places, organic design, the architecture of the unplanned. Let me have five thousand dollars and let him explore the unseen world.
I stood at the International Departure Lounge, surrounded by people who held their cigarettes in new ways, walked in curious arrangements, wore on their faces the signs and markings of places airports away, lands beyond. My sweet fiancée stood there telling me that I should have this adventure. Give this to myself, allow myself to experience what I had planned to do. She wanted it for me. But I wanted to hold on.
A month went by in which every day I smelled more like turmeric. A month went by in which the sounds of goats crunching on tin cans and honking rickshaws awoke me. A month went by in which my sandals became more deeply caked with the dust of the streets of Goa, Pune, and Bangalore. In which I sat transfixed by temples melting into the sea and lingams buried within the dark sanctums of places that I felt I should see, but were beyond my vision.
A month went by and I was sitting on a beach in Sri Lanka, in a small town south of Columbo - a place where the empty shells of buildings stood eviscerated by the ire of the Tamils. But this place was different. It was relaxing, peaceful -- so different than the cacophony of India or the sorrow of Columbo. There was a bar, and a bar tender and there was just one cassette tape that was pumping across the beach on endless repeat. I recognized the voices, seemed to know the singers.
"Hi, Hi, hi, hi, hi, Hi, hi, I want take you home. Hi, hi, hi, hi, hi. Ooooo."
The Talking Heads. And the voice of David Byrne was of a deep unsavory guttural – a lurid devilish seducer, a dance of sexual invitation at the feet of imagined gyrating beauty.
I sat under a baobab tree – a tree with huge arms that swept and protected the beach for centuries. This was one of the most beautiful places I had ever been in the month on the road. The food was good. The air was clear and there was a freedom and clarity. A place of repose -- for the tranquility of India is the biggest myth of all. Maybe tranquility within – but certainly chaos without.
I sat under the tree and I cried. The pain was too great. I could not wait a moment longer and I knew that at that moment there was a decision that I could no longer put off. Each day, I had asked myself the question. Each day I felt the longing and I thought of the woman that I loved and the comfort of sleeping in our three quarter mattress atop the wooden loft, down the block from the Korean Grocer and the corner sushi and little place that we went for Gai Yang chicken after work.
My adventure… I sat under to Baobab tree, picked up my bag, and called Indian Airlines. I told them that I needed to be home on the next plane. Get me home in 24 hours. Someone at home had died.
Friday, September 2, 2011
ME & JULIAN by Rio Morales
I got Julian’s twelfth birthday party invitation in the mail. Parisi Speed School: I hate sports. Saturday, October 10th: I was going to go bowling with my mom. 4-7:30: three and a half hours of sports. I hate sports.
I’d put up with Julian’s birthdays in the past, whether it was a Wayfinder foam-sword-capture the flag-outdoors-buggy adventure, or a baseball/basketball/skateboarding party at his house which involved sports and only sports. The people at these parties were mostly his other friends, which meant Day School kids, all of which could throw a perfect three-pointer and hit a home-run or land a kickflip. I suppose I liked running and catching and kicking, but these kids, who were my friend’s friends, were so good and so terrifying and so condescending about it that I’d spend the party inside his living room watching two of them play Tony Hawk Pro Skater 4, which I was also terrible at. I figured a Parisi Speed School Party meant throwing and batting and running, my question answered by the football and basketball stickers around the border of the invitation.
The past summer had been hard on my relationship with Julian. We’d hung out less, and when we did we played Tony Hawk and he would win, and to make me feel better he’d play me the Jay-Z CD Artie made him then teach me a new curse word he’d learned from Zach. We no longer traded pokemon cards or built towers or reminisced on our trips to the Statue of Liberty or Niagara Falls or the State Capitol Building.
Eventually we stopped hanging out, eventually I stopped hearing about him or his family, eventually my Mom and Ellen lost their friendship, too. Eventually I saw him on the first day of seventh grade, wearing a hat with some obscure logo on it, too big for his head, too big for the little kid I’d known. And eventually I got an envelope from him for his birthday party at Parisi Speed School, but I wondered if he even knew his mom had sent it to me.
I’d put up with Julian’s birthdays in the past, whether it was a Wayfinder foam-sword-capture the flag-outdoors-buggy adventure, or a baseball/basketball/skateboarding party at his house which involved sports and only sports. The people at these parties were mostly his other friends, which meant Day School kids, all of which could throw a perfect three-pointer and hit a home-run or land a kickflip. I suppose I liked running and catching and kicking, but these kids, who were my friend’s friends, were so good and so terrifying and so condescending about it that I’d spend the party inside his living room watching two of them play Tony Hawk Pro Skater 4, which I was also terrible at. I figured a Parisi Speed School Party meant throwing and batting and running, my question answered by the football and basketball stickers around the border of the invitation.
The past summer had been hard on my relationship with Julian. We’d hung out less, and when we did we played Tony Hawk and he would win, and to make me feel better he’d play me the Jay-Z CD Artie made him then teach me a new curse word he’d learned from Zach. We no longer traded pokemon cards or built towers or reminisced on our trips to the Statue of Liberty or Niagara Falls or the State Capitol Building.
Eventually we stopped hanging out, eventually I stopped hearing about him or his family, eventually my Mom and Ellen lost their friendship, too. Eventually I saw him on the first day of seventh grade, wearing a hat with some obscure logo on it, too big for his head, too big for the little kid I’d known. And eventually I got an envelope from him for his birthday party at Parisi Speed School, but I wondered if he even knew his mom had sent it to me.
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