Standing at my desk, with fifty three pairs of expectant eyes focused on me to hear the answer to a challenge question posed by my first grade teacher, I found my voice stuck – stuck amidst the vocal chords. The harder it tried to come out, the more it got stuck. My abs constricted as if to push the voice out, the throat stretched itself to ease the passageway, the tongue and the lips did their usual synchronized movement to articulate the first sounds of the answer. But no air was coming out … as if the lungs had spontaneously called a strike.
Seeing the slowing rising eyebrows of my teacher and imagining the reactions of my classmates, I was sinking rapidly into a deep hole of embarrassment. As soon as I distracted myself from the act of speaking, the syllables began to flow out in staccato: “The Univvv … ”. With a glimmer of renewed hope, all of my gazillion brain cells were back to attending to my voice. Like a child slamming the door when paid too much attention, my voice retracted back into its chambers. The entire uncoordinated attempt to pry it out resumed – abs, throat, tongue, lips; it wasn’t clear which of them were helping . At that point, I lowered myself onto the seat. With arms resting on the desk in the front, eyes staring at the knots in the grains of the wooden desk, I was completely oblivious of what transpired in the rest of the class.
After the class, a couple of my friends came by and inquired casually. They even invented stories about people born with a terrible stuttering disability and reassured me that mine was of a milder kind. Conveniently, I accepted the interpretation of it being a disability and refocused my intellect in devising many tricks to minimize its social impact. Friends and family alike made adjustments so as to avoid putting me in uncomfortable situations. For countless errands that involved talking to strangers, my little brother would be dispatched instead of me. In spite of being a class topper, the privilege of addressing student assemblies was offered to other students. Whenever I struggled with a word, my friends completed it to avoid more embarrassment for me. When a new student would make fun of me, my fast friends would show him his place. Getting comfortable with this special attention, I almost began to feel good about my stuttering.
Fast forward to the mid-term assessments in the eighth grade theatre class. It was my turn to go to the stage and act out a dialog between two historic characters. As I walked towards the stage, the corners of my eyes saw classmates disengaging; I even imagined them talking in a hush-hush voice. Climbing steps of the stage, I recalled a much-celebrated argument between an 18th century emperor and his chief minister. I pictured ornate palatial chambers and immersed myself into the emotions of the characters. I presented the back and forth argument in two different voices – with a fluency and tempo that was unparalleled in my speaking stints. It ended with an applause that sounded like thunder that brings rain to barren lands. As I basked in the glory of the performance, a gut-wrenching thought grew more intense … it wasn’t a disability!
What was it then? Why me? Was my mind playing games? If so, I would sure show it its place! Easier said than done, I discovered in the journey that followed. Through therapies and quackery, through proud moments and dismal disappointments, through determination and self-pity, I came to realize that my voice was very much intact, but my mind was worse than a drunken monkey. My voice found a new life, loud and clear, loaded with emotions. It found expression through speeches at Princeton Toastmasters and story-telling clubs. Taming my monkey mind became the new goal for me. There began a conquest that is sure to last multiple life-times!
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
MOMENTUM by Judy Coppel
We lived in our marriage for seventeen years. We seesawed from the high of blissful exploration and sexuality that began our life together into the balancing act that dominated the middle years.
Those years began with so much promise. And then, President Kennedy was assassinated, Vietnam raged, my husband who was in the Air Force, stationed in Charleston, South Carolina, was never deployed overseas. We were, in fact, living in Charleston when our first child was born. She had a full head of silky black hair and long black lashes that caressed her cheeks while she slept. There was no denying her Mediterranean heritage, a distinct contrast to the soft white down that covered the heads of most other infants in the nursery.
When AnnMargaret was just four months old, her father was discharged and we moved back to Miami to begin our real life together. Ours was a very traditional marriage. He worked. I stayed home to raise our daughter and the other children we wanted. He struggled to find meaningful work, but somehow we slogged on. Finally, through a family friend he got a referral to work in an insurance agency, and found the niche he had been looking for.
The birth of our first child had been so easy we had no reason to anticipate problems with any future children. I teetered between happiness and depression as the next five pregnancies ended in miscarriage. Finally, I was able to carry a second child to term, only to learn a week before her birth that she would not be born alive. I had joyfully prepared the nursery for her arrival…instead I came home with empty arms and a heavy heart. Shortly thereafter we moved into our new four bedroom home, purchased with the expectation of more children.
Believing we wouldn’t have another biological child the decision was made to adopt. On the day the agency called to tell me our application for adoption had been accepted, I learned I was pregnant again. The pregnancy was fraught with problems and misgivings. As we drove to the hospital for the birth of our third child we decided that if the baby was a girl her name would be Joy. And, indeed, she has lived up to her name. When Joy was just nine months old, to my surprise, I learned I was pregnant again. Not surprisingly, considering my history, the obstetrician strongly recommended a tubal ligation after the birth of our son, Marc. Our family was complete.
My husband was a good man, I was a good woman, but we were beginning to lose our balance. The world outside came into our home every evening by way of national news. There were more assassinations, Watergate, Woodstock, Hippies, free love, and the Women’s Movement. I celebrated my thirtieth birthday by going to hear Gloria Steinem speak and purchased her newest book which she autographed. We were feeling the pull of earth’s gravity and were fearful we would never soar again. We were weighted down by financial issues, children, and the awakening realization that we had limited our potentials, our possibilities, by our choices: each other.
We spent long evenings into early mornings talking endlessly about our issues, how to make our marriage work, how to make it better. I tried going back to school, he sabotaged my efforts. I tried enlarging our circle of friends, he refused to participate. He started to abuse substances, proposed an open marriage. Nothing was working.
One evening the children begged to attend a carnival sponsored by the elementary school they attended. Finally, their father was persuaded to go with us. Our son was very excited about a two-person ride, (with a name like Seesaw or Rocket) and asked his father to go on the ride with him. Sadly, he sullenly refused. Seeing the disappointment on my then seven year old son’s face, I offered to go on the ride with him. The object of the ride was to use the weight of your body and holding onto the metal bar create enough momentum to propel the cage up and over the top. We stepped into the cage and rocked back and forth until our momentum carried us over the top as we loosed the pull of earth’s gravity. I looked down on my husband and the father of my children, knowing as we went over the top that we were leaving him behind and soaring into a new life.
Those years began with so much promise. And then, President Kennedy was assassinated, Vietnam raged, my husband who was in the Air Force, stationed in Charleston, South Carolina, was never deployed overseas. We were, in fact, living in Charleston when our first child was born. She had a full head of silky black hair and long black lashes that caressed her cheeks while she slept. There was no denying her Mediterranean heritage, a distinct contrast to the soft white down that covered the heads of most other infants in the nursery.
When AnnMargaret was just four months old, her father was discharged and we moved back to Miami to begin our real life together. Ours was a very traditional marriage. He worked. I stayed home to raise our daughter and the other children we wanted. He struggled to find meaningful work, but somehow we slogged on. Finally, through a family friend he got a referral to work in an insurance agency, and found the niche he had been looking for.
The birth of our first child had been so easy we had no reason to anticipate problems with any future children. I teetered between happiness and depression as the next five pregnancies ended in miscarriage. Finally, I was able to carry a second child to term, only to learn a week before her birth that she would not be born alive. I had joyfully prepared the nursery for her arrival…instead I came home with empty arms and a heavy heart. Shortly thereafter we moved into our new four bedroom home, purchased with the expectation of more children.
Believing we wouldn’t have another biological child the decision was made to adopt. On the day the agency called to tell me our application for adoption had been accepted, I learned I was pregnant again. The pregnancy was fraught with problems and misgivings. As we drove to the hospital for the birth of our third child we decided that if the baby was a girl her name would be Joy. And, indeed, she has lived up to her name. When Joy was just nine months old, to my surprise, I learned I was pregnant again. Not surprisingly, considering my history, the obstetrician strongly recommended a tubal ligation after the birth of our son, Marc. Our family was complete.
My husband was a good man, I was a good woman, but we were beginning to lose our balance. The world outside came into our home every evening by way of national news. There were more assassinations, Watergate, Woodstock, Hippies, free love, and the Women’s Movement. I celebrated my thirtieth birthday by going to hear Gloria Steinem speak and purchased her newest book which she autographed. We were feeling the pull of earth’s gravity and were fearful we would never soar again. We were weighted down by financial issues, children, and the awakening realization that we had limited our potentials, our possibilities, by our choices: each other.
We spent long evenings into early mornings talking endlessly about our issues, how to make our marriage work, how to make it better. I tried going back to school, he sabotaged my efforts. I tried enlarging our circle of friends, he refused to participate. He started to abuse substances, proposed an open marriage. Nothing was working.
One evening the children begged to attend a carnival sponsored by the elementary school they attended. Finally, their father was persuaded to go with us. Our son was very excited about a two-person ride, (with a name like Seesaw or Rocket) and asked his father to go on the ride with him. Sadly, he sullenly refused. Seeing the disappointment on my then seven year old son’s face, I offered to go on the ride with him. The object of the ride was to use the weight of your body and holding onto the metal bar create enough momentum to propel the cage up and over the top. We stepped into the cage and rocked back and forth until our momentum carried us over the top as we loosed the pull of earth’s gravity. I looked down on my husband and the father of my children, knowing as we went over the top that we were leaving him behind and soaring into a new life.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
FIRST OUT-OF-TOWN DATE by Susan Alessi
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.
“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.
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.
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