Miss Murphy and Jackie Robinson

by Dick Kossoff

It was April 1947 and I had won a contest sponsored by Durex Razor Blades. The challenge was to write a short essay on your favorite baseball player. I picked Pee Wee Reese of the Brooklyn Dodgers, which was not surprising because at 12 years old my friends and I were avid Dodger fans. They were like a religion. We ate and breathed their successes and failures!

The prize was a ticket for the 1947 Dodgers opening game, which featured Jackie Robinson’s major league debut. One problem–the game day was on a Tuesday, a school day. In order to go I needed permission from the P.S. 199 Principal, Miss Lillian Murphy. She was a strict by “by the book” lady who rarely allowed such midweek excursions. My friends assured me that she would never let me go to a baseball game on a Tuesday.  I agreed and told my parents that it was hopeless to even try. My dad disagreed and said, “Sometimes our perceptions of possible outcomes of important issues are wrong; you have to take the chance of losing. You may be surprised.” In today’s vernacular he was saying “to win it you have to be in it.”

So with great trepidation I asked my teacher Miss Moran if she would request Miss Murphy’s permission for me to attend the game. She gave me a note on a small yellow slip of paper indicating that I possessed good scholastic ability and character. I went to Miss Murphy’s office and was ushered in. She was a large woman with a permanent scowl on her face.

“Richard, I understand that you want to go a Dodger game next Tuesday,” she bellowed. I was almost speechless, and was on the verge of bolting from the room. “Yes Miss Murphy,” I whispered. “Ordinarily,” she said, “that is not acceptable, but I am going to allow it this time since you exhibited great prowess in entering this competition and writing a winning essay. ” I was flabbergasted! She smiled for the first time and said “Who’s pitching?” “Joe Hatten for the Dodgers and Johnny Sain for Boston,” I quickly replied. She responded, “It’s going to be a tough game. Sain is one of the best pitchers in baseball and has a wicked curveball.” OMG I said to myself, she’s a baseball fan!

“Richard, I want you to realize that this is no ordinary game–it is a milestone, as Jackie Robinson, a Negro, will break baseball’s color barrier. It is a great social experiment that could have a major impact on our country for years to come. I want you to write an account of what you experienced. Don’t tell me about the details of the game–I can read that in the newspaper. Describe the attitude of the fans. How did they react? Did many boo or disparage Jackie? How did the players react towards him? Note in particular actions of players from the South whom you can identify from the program. I want you to approach this as a sociological event even more than as a ball game.”

I heartily agreed and when I returned to my room and reported the result to my class I received a standing ovation for “doing the impossible.” My dad was right; if you want to win, you have to take a chance even when the outcome seems bleak.

I went to Ebbets Field that day with a thermos of cocoa and a chicken fat sandwich. I sat in the reserved seats behind third base and proudly took out my yellow pad and fountain pen. “What are you writing about?” the woman next to me asked. “I’m writing an article about Jackie Robinson,” I proudly answered. The stadium was packed with a large representation of blacks. Jackie had a mediocre day, going one for four. But that didn’t matter. Every time he went to bat he received a huge ovation from black and white fans alike. In a city where the Dodgers were so important, Jackie was “our guy” and everyone was in his corner. It was my first experience with racial harmony.

When I arrived home I sat down with my sister Janice, a wonderful writer, and crafted the essay. Two days later I sent it to Miss Murphy. She responded with a note:  “That was a creditable job, Richard. Thank you.” At the week’s assembly she asked me to read it aloud. Even the girls who had no interest in baseball listened intensely. She also sent it to the Brooklyn Eagle, which actually printed excerpts. My story was picked up by other national newspapers. I was asked to speak to the employees of Abraham and Straus department stores, local churches and public schools. This skinny, freckled 12 year old had inadvertently become a sought after personality!

I learned several lessons from that experience that served me well for the rest of my life:

–That to “win it “ you have to be in it, i.e. be ready to take a chance on issues you perceive as not winnable.

–That our parents were usually much smarter than we gave them credit for.

–That Jackie Robinson’s determination to win against all odds became a bellwether for my own life challenges.

Thank you, Miss Murphy!

Dick Kossoff was an avid Dodger fan. The success of this article energized him to continue writing, first as editor of the James Madison High School paper and later for the Cornell Sun. At a function for the late Jackie Robinson he met his wife, Rachel Robinson, who remembered the article and thanked him. This made his day!

A Metaphysics of On-Street Parking in Lower Manhattan

by Mary Padilla

Having joined the IRP last semester, I have found that this has required me to up my game. And in no aspect is this more evident than in the matter of finding the requisite on-street parking following my commute. While defaulting to paid parking is theoretically an option, to do so would be to forgo the essence of the experience. For, properly construed, the discipline of on-street parking, I have learned, is not only paradigmatic of the intellectual enterprise with which I am now engaged, but in some sense transcends it.

Unlike its suburban counterpart, which might be likened to shooting fish in a barrel, finding parking in the West Village operates on a higher plane, involving a more refined and nuanced form of metacognition, situated somewhere between Eastern thought and the creative process. For an empty parking space cannot be willed into being, invoked by desire, or called forth by an appeal of any sort, however sincere. One can encounter it, rather, only through forfeiture of agency. It requires a searching of a particular type, one that involves the use of a species of open awareness. It is necessary to employ a form of alertness that permits you not to miss the thing that is sought by going by too quickly, intently focused on the pursuit of…that very thing.

And if a space should present itself, it would not be because of anything you could do…or do right…or not do…or not do wrong. It would just be – there – just so…or else it simply would not. It would in fact materialize more as the result of trying not to try than as the effect of trying. Only then would it present itself, so clearly what was wanted – was needed, even. It could be gained only when not looked for directly, but only by indirection, lest it be driven away by the bright glare of focused attention. For it would reveal itself only to a more drifting mode of surveillance, a contemplative state of ungrasping to be attained through a willingness merely to set up the proper conditions…and then to wait.

And if then nothing came, that void where the space should be would constitute its own statement. For on-street parking is a gift. It is not a right, or something to which we can in any sense be entitled. If it should appear, then we can only be grateful for something that we can in no way deserve. And if it does not, we need to find a way to be comfortable with this reminder that the point is the process, the exercise of seeking that which cannot be sought, but only found.

Since starting at the IRP last year, Mary has discovered that for her a major part of the experience is the drive down from northern Westchester. Approached in the proper spirit, it provides extensive time for thinking, as well as the opportunity to practice classical voice. Now that she no longer has an 8:30 study group, as she did in the first semester, she no longer even has to leave home before dawn.

Breakfast

by Charles Troob

For Richard Hogan, 1936-2017

He filled the kettle
ground the beans
found a chunk of butter
in a corner of the fridge

selected a scarf
from the stack heaped on a closet hook
swirled it around his neck

chose a jacket to go with the scarf
and the shirt and the boots
and the ratty jeans

checked the mirror
made a few adjustments
added another scarf
said “O-la”
sailed out the door

then crossed the street
to charm the women at La Bergamote—

returning with fresh rolls…

and perhaps a croissant

Charles Troob adds: My dear friend Richard Hogan encouraged everyone to be creative. He loved my writng, and always asked me to read it aloud to him.

Giving is Getting

by Howard Seeman

So, here my dear daughter:
I give you this little money now for xmas.
But look what I get?
More Jaimelyn!
I got more Jaimelyn each time I gave you the bottle,
Or a tickle.
Or baby food making believe the spoon was an airplane into your mouth.
Telling you things that felt awesome to you,
or giving you the how to do quadratic equations.

As you grew into no-more-little-Jaimelyn.
Look what I got: big Jaimelyn.

Yup: giving is getting.
Here, with this letter to you: I do it again:
As I send it, I imagine your smile.
Ah, I Get !

Yup, giving is getting.
That is what you do up on stage: performing is giving-is-getting,
or listening to Andrew is
giving-is-getting.

And giving gets more getting than trying to get.

Here, in this little poem, pulling up more of me to do this giving to you,
I get: more me.
Ah, again: giving is getting.

I can feel you get this.
So glad you get it; this gives me a lot of GOT that you get it.
Now I get, you get, we get: we get GOT together!
A-fast-hugging-each-other-got.
Wow, what a wide got we got from such short little giving.

See? I’m right:
Giving is getting.

Howard Seeman, Ph.D., Professor Emeritus, CUNY; Certified Life-Coach. Author of collected poems: “Unlike Almost Everything Else in the Universe” and Memoirs: “You/Me: Getting Under Limbo Bars”. In private practice at: [email protected]

Message

by Carol Schoen

The girl walked into the overgrown
meadow, wheat-colored grass
concealing secrets.
And then she saw it:

sunshine spewing radiance
from the sign: Cornell Dubilier —
a whiff of college,
of great French artisans.

There is no value in explaining
that it is a company that makes
electronic capacitors —
the child knew she had found
a magical kingdom hidden right there
in the middle of New Jersey.

Carol Schoen wrote her first poems for Sarah White’s study group and has been chugging along happily ever since.

Hare Krishna

by Carol Schoen

Twice exiled, not yet at home
in the park, the tree
remembers the dappled light
of India

remembers the prayers
the marigolds
orange and red
garlands strewn
among the fallen leaves

home now almost forgotten
in an almost forgotten park
but the faithful found it
prayers send from here
the hare krishna tree
a small sign pasted crooked

for fifty years
the hare krishna tree
they come here to pray

Carol Schoen wrote her first poems for Sarah White’s study group and has been chugging along happily ever since.

Cemetery

by Carol Schoen

The cemetery cowers
in a corner of the office
park. Bought long ago
by immigrants uncertain
of eternity
it holds many neighbors,
my parents, the family doctor,
my aunt and her demented
husband, a teenage friend
whose presence always shocks me.

I check to see if the lawn
has been mowed, if the dead
juniper bush has been replaced.
A hole in the ground announces
a coming funeral. I do not
recognize the name. Finally
I go to my parents and stare
down at their gravestone, blankly.

Carol Schoen wrote her first poems for Sarah White’s study group and has been chugging along happily ever since.

Angel headed hipster

by Carol Schoen

Calm down, Allen, the angel headed hipsters
are sleeping it off. The pot’s
all gone. Your momma’s
safe in that big sanitarium
in the sky and the Beat world blew
off in a puff of smoke. A century
of time disappeared in a cyber minute.
Right now, right here, there’s just you
and me, two Jews trying to figure out
where we fit in a techie’s algorithm.
Here, I offer you, not the clutch
of love but a little of that mother
you hated, loved and wanted.
Come to this clean, middle-class bed
and I will cuddle you and you will remember.

Carol Schoen wrote her first poems for Sarah White’s study group and has been chugging along happily ever since.

The Year the Government Changed

by Mireya Perez

Conservatives hunted Liberals
don Pablo hides to safe passage
on a steamer to Havana
……………………………….la casa en Sincelejo
……………………………….oak-guarded
troops trample……………..cobblestoned streets
………………………………dona Eloida reposes
………………………………newborn sleep
………….solos …………….niños, muchachas
………………………………eleven-year old María
………….solos
………….hoof hoofs en la plaza
………………………………“Rapidó, rapidó, por aqui”
………………………………María directs the retreat
………………………………through mango grove
………………………………papayas and chickens
………………………………past the tamarind tree
………………………………flings Spanish bedspread
………………………………to cushion hoist
………………………………of mama, niños
………………………………al patio de don Eusebio
While in front a brave oak groans
smashed refuge

 

 

Mireya Perez-Bustillo, born in Colombia and raised in New York, writes poetry and fiction in Spanish and English. In her work she searches for that “other voice” breaking through entrapment and oppression, the fragile markers to unearth more hidden voices. Her work appears in Revista del Hada, Caribbean Review, Americas Review, Diosas en Bronce: Anthology of Colombian Women Writers, Vibe Viva, IRP Voices, among others. Her novel, Back to El Dorado, is forthcoming.

 

 

Ancahuita *

by Mireya Perez

…………In 1960 “the butterflies,” the political
…………activists Mirabal sisters from the
…………Dominican Republic, were assassinated by
…………the order of Trujillo, “el jefe”.
…………Only Dedé survived.

Huita, huita niña
bark to plump blood
trumpet blooms borageous
to still pain of living
butterfly, Dedé
Ancahuita guards butterflies
gone Mate, Minerva, Patria
the broken bodies, the black car,
el jefe’s ire
las mariposas now one
Dedé to tell in Ancahuita refuge
Huita, huita, huita

* A common tree in the Dominican Republic, often used to mark a location

 

 

Mireya Perez-Bustillo, born in Colombia and raised in New York, writes poetry and fiction in Spanish and English. In her work she searches for that “other voice” breaking through entrapment and oppression, the fragile markers to unearth more hidden voices. Her work appears in Revista del Hada, Caribbean Review, Americas Review, Diosas en Bronce: Anthology of Colombian Women Writers, Vibe Viva, IRP Voices, among others. Her novel, Back to El Dorado, is forthcoming.