Prose

by Elaine Greene Weisburg

After serving seven or eight times on New York County trial juries over the years, I was called to Grand Jury duty in the late spring of 1988. This was a welcome prospect because I was free-lancing at home for a national magazine–a solitary endeavor with not enough assignments to occupy me fully.

In the county clerk’s office I was interviewed and fingerprinted and then after a few weeks was summoned to appear on June 20 for a month’s service, meeting daily from 2 till 5 p.m. On our first day I was excited to learn that evidence on one homicide would take up the entire month. It had to be a big story and indeed it was—I had seen it on page one of the tabloids.

Between 1:30 and 2:00 in the morning on April 27, Maria Barone, age 32, a wife and mother from Fairview, New Jersey, had been driving alone in East Harlem. When she ran a red light at 118th Street and First Avenue, NYPD Sgt. Jack O’Brien saw the infraction from his patrol car and moved to stop her but she sped away. A cinematic car chase ensued covering a square mile and lasting almost ten minutes. Several of the police officers who testified mentioned that Maria Barone was an unusually good driver and her pursuers became more and more numerous. By the time she was cornered under the Metro North Railroad tracks at Park Avenue and 124th Street by nine police radio cars from two precincts, she had minutes left to live. After a month of testimony from 38 witnesses on the possible culpability of six police officers, we knew how she died and who was to blame.

The job of a grand jury as set forth in our national and state constitutions is to decide one thing only: should an individual be indicted, which means charged with a serious crime. The proceedings are not open to the public and are not a trial; defense attorneys are not present. The jury consists of 23 people, a majority of whom must agree on the finding. Jurors are strongly cautioned not to talk about the case outside the jury room [thus these names have been changed]. When I asked permission to take notes, I was told that I could but I would not be allowed to remove them from the custody of the court. I decided just to listen and at this stage of my life, long after college, I learned that I remember better if I do not take notes.

I viewed my responsibility seriously but it was also major entertainment. The case absorbed me like a television police procedural or a suspense novel. I couldn’t wait for each day’s revelations. The fatal event was reconstructed one witness at a time by a very smart ADA (Assistant District Attorney)—a woman in her thirties. She was our Scheherazade, a narration builder more expert than any I had ever seen as a trial juror, leading us to an inevitable conclusion.

The Medical Examiner came first, to establish the death and the five bullets that caused it. He also testified to the presence in the victim’s body of enough cocaine and heroin in addition to methadone and Valium to have caused an overdose reaction in many people. Another expert witness testified about the condition of her car. Street witnesses described their random views of the chase and the fatal fusillade. They were bit players, some unforgettable like the passerby who added to my vocabulary. This young savvy blue-collar New Yorker described squealing brakes as the patrol cars converged on Maria’s with all their “whoopee lights” flashing. The ADA had to ask him to define whoopee lights and I have never seen this aggressive rooftop display again without thinking of their street name.

Six uniformed policemen were subject to indictment. Five had shot the victim at close range. Each recounted his part of the chase and its conclusion. All five thought Maria Barone had a gun herself and that she had fired it during the chase. All had heard one of their fellow officers shout, after Maria was ordered out of her car, “She’s reaching for it.” All thought that “it” was her gun.

Of the five I best remember one of the two Irish-Americans among the shooters, The Irish poet as I thought of him. After the shooting he had requested a medical leave from work; the others were on desk duty until the Grand Jury proceedings concluded. One of the jurors, with permission from the ADA, asked him why he couldn’t work. “Because I shot an unarmed woman,” he answered. We already knew that he had a fragmentary connection with her. He had testified that during the chase his car and Maria’s briefly stopped side by side with their windows adjacent and there was a moment’s eye contact. “She had very beautiful eyes,” he told the jury. To me this was the most personal detail of all the testimony.

A very different Irishman, Sgt. Jack O’Brien was the sixth uniformed police officer whose responsibility for a civilian death was our concern. He was not only a loose cannon but was deeply dishonest. After he started the chase, it was he who shot three times at Maria’s tires although it is a well-known violation of police department rules to fire a gun to stop a car. Only O’Brien’s partner knew he had done so. When the sergeant radioed his station that gunshots were heard, he did not say that he was the source. In the aftermath of the killing, the sergeant surreptitiously borrowed three fresh cartridges from a fellow policeman so that he could hand the departmental investigators a fully loaded gun. His cover-up failed—too many others knew what he had done.

Before we deliberated, Sgt. O’Brien was given permission to address us. He told us that his wedding had been postponed because of this occurrence and his mother had had a heart attack. He asked for our consideration. We indicted him by a large majority for tampering with evidence in an attempt to conceal his role in the killing. We did not indict the five policemen whose bullets killed Maria Barone. It was O’Brien who caused her death.

There was one other, innocent cause, a poignant detail I learned when I picked up the autopsy report that was lying on the ADA’s desk for anyone to read. What I learned never came up in testimony, wasn’t needed for a just decision, and more than anything makes my heart still ache for poor Maria Barone, who will never complete her drug rehabilitation program, never reclaim her young son being brought up in Italy by her parents.

The report describes her body and notes that her fingernails and toenails were freshly polished. This addicted woman still kept up appearances and tried to look like a lady. It also describes the clothing she was wearing. She had on blue jeans and they were unzipped. When I read that, I knew the whole story. Poor Maria, her pants were tight and she was driving with them open. But she had to get out of her car in front of a large group of men so she reached to zip them up. And the fusillade hit her.

For more than three decades Elaine Greene Weisburg was an editor-writer at House & Garden and House Beautiful. Although also a memoirist, she only dared to try poetry in an IRP class.

by Elaine Greene Weisburg

When we heard that Anna Wintour—a little known thirty-something fashion editor from London—was about to replace our beloved editor-in-chief Lou Gropp at House & Garden in the late summer of 1987, a weird kind of panic set in. We knew that our wardrobes were out of date and they suddenly mattered. Mini skirts were newly back in style, but in the easy-going culture established by our departing boss, whose values had to do with the quality of our magazine and not our personal outfits or hair styles, we were fashion laggards. Everyone agreed that we had to catch up fast, especially our hemlines.

“Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes,” said Henry David Thoreau. Yes indeed. But when I rushed into the city from the East End of Long Island on the morning of September 2nd wearing limp sportswear and scuffed white fisherman’s sandals, I was carrying hundreds of dollars worth of new stuff from the Southampton Saks Fifth Avenue: short skirt, business-style blouse, pumps with heels.

Anna has not started yet but she is there interviewing current staff in a borrowed managerial office. Lou’s secretary Louisa, a kapo type who is already a passionate Anna loyalist, says Anna wants to see me. I ask for ten minutes to organize my thoughts. Behind my locked door clothing flies around the room as I cut off hang tags, fling the country things into a file drawer, jump into my dress-for-success duds, and tease my saltwater-sticky hair into shape.

Anna in her Chanel suit and dark sunglasses is not hard to read: zero warmth. You can’t see her eyes but you can see whether she smiles. She does not. When my husband asked me what it was like, I said it was like meeting your brain surgeon. “What do you think of House & Garden,” she asks. I have been there for over 22 years but only say, “I am proud of the work we do although I sometimes find it a bit too reverential.” It doesn’t really matter what I say; it matters how frumpy she finds me at twenty years her senior in my pathetically new clothes. I later learn that she refers to people with this age handicap as “wrinklies”—typical annoying British slang like “preggers” for pregnant. Still I thought my job was secure because I was the senior writer and magazines always need writers.

A week later, Anna is installed in the corner office with its private bathroom. She is brought around to meet everyone. When she gets to my room she says she has already met me, sticks her hand out, does not smile, and comments before rushing away, “You have a window.” Uh-oh.

Now begins the week that feels like a month. Anna is in the art department reviewing the editors’ photo inventories, standing over the light tables in her dark glasses, saying “No” more than 90 percent of the time. Anna has changed the magazine name to HG. Nothing about it will be the same as the publication that under Lou Gropp—for the only time in its 85-year history—won two National Magazine Awards for excellence at the industry’s annual Oscar-type ceremony. Memos fly and meetings run throughout each day, but not for me. When one of the decorating editors asks me which meetings I have been invited to I have to answer “None.”

Mainly I am waiting now, while I try to think of ways to become visible again, pondering who can help me achieve this. I develop certain routines including a daily solitary lunch on the Grand Central Terminal balcony: chicken potpie and a scotch and soda. This is a menu I never chose before, but fatty food and alcohol are instinctively selected balms that work– a little. Nevertheless, I am beginning to have insomnia and brief private crying fits. I keep my office door closed most of the time with a radio playing and a “Knock and Enter” sign taped outside. I hear people rushing by, flurries when meetings begin and end. I am finishing stories already in the works for weeks, writing proposals to change Anna’s mind should I ever get her ear. One sweet girl stops by every day to say hello, but most of my colleagues don’t want Anna to see them with me and steer clear. Sauve qui peut.

The other wrinklie, Danielle, a beautifully educated woman who has been there a decade longer than I, is also cut out of meetings and left off the roster for the constant memos. Danielle soon decides she might as well be seen with me and suggests lunch at the Harvard Club. I have my now-usual scotch and soda but with the club’s famous rarebit. We agree that it looks bad.

I solicit the help of my litigator son. Phoning him at home in the evening I say “I may need a lawyer soon.” He says “If that’s what you think, you need one now. You don’t wait till the shit hits the fan.” He will find me one. He calls me with a firm name the next day at work, asking me first whether my phone is secure. No one ever asked me that before. When I call the firm, the operator asks whether it is about a case. No one ever asked me that before either. I quickly answer yes although I just want advice. I meet the labor lawyer and he tells me to make notes but only in private (“Don’t appear to be spoiling for a law suit”). Listen for “fresh,” “young.” Voice your suspicions that age seems to be involved and note the answers. Anna has killed one of my steady features–Mark Hampton on Decorating–which would later become a best-selling anthology, and she has assigned my shopping column to a colleague. The new lawyer says that in employment law this is called “evicting” me from my job. It’s actionable.

On September 17th Anna finally invites me into her office for a talk. I arrive with my list of hot ideas for her hot magazine but she doesn’t give me a chance to read then. She says she is sorry she has made me wait but she has finally looked my work over in past issues. She sees that I am from the previous regime and “would not fit in” (pronounced “fit tin”) with the new one. Talking fast and breathing as though in a tap-dancing climax, I say I wrote the way I did because the magazine was about splendor and authenticity. I can do what she wants too. I tell her I wrote about cockroach control for Woman’s Day and satin bed sheets for Cosmopolitan. No dice. I say “You made up your mind the minute you saw me. You don’t know that age is inside the head, not outside on the skin.” Anna says she is sorry I am taking it like this. I say “How the hell would you take it, a careerist like you?” Both of us are standing and shouting by now. She is rushing to the door to open it and get rid of me. I say, “I hope you fall on your face.” And exit. Louisa the kapo has heard the loud parts and looks at me angrily.

I have never seen Anna in person again but was glad to note, when she appeared on the Letterman show a year or so ago, that when you look at her profile with those side curtains of hair, all you can see is her nose. Which is getting bigger.

For more than three decades Elaine Greene Weisburg was an editor-writer at House & Garden and House Beautiful. Although also a memoirist, she only dared to try poetry in an IRP class.

by Charles Troob

Call me Schlemiel.

I put on my Facebook profile, “in search of a white whale.” I thought I was being poetic.

M.—man or woman, I wasn’t sure—sent a message: “I think of myself as an endangered species, a world traveler. I love the sunrise in the Bay of Biscay and the sunset in the Bay of Bengal. These days, though, I find myself in New York harbor. Meet me at the aquarium.”

I got on the F train, dreaming of sun-kissed lagoons….

One look at those enormous eyes and that pale skin, and I was hooked. Sure, sure, you shouldn’t get emotionally involved with a prisoner—but hey, M. was cute!! And the size was an unexpected turn-on.

It was a crazy time, a wild ride. I’m not proud of some of the things I did to please M., but I guess I had needs and issues that I had to work through.

Now I’m with someone much more stable. She carries a torch for me that you can see for miles.

Charles Troob: An eager member since 2010 of two wonderful study groups–Lessons in The Art of Writing, and Reading and Writing Poetry–Charles is grateful for the opportunity to share some of the results.

by Lynne Schmelter-Davis

Don’t you love the cookbooks that are as much autobiographical as culinary? The family cookbooks that describe relationships as well as recipes? Where food is simmered with love and served with caring? My family cookbook is more likely to be a pamphlet than a book. But I would like to share my childhood memories of home cooking back in the day when fast food meant your brother gobbling everything in sight and reservations were something you had about a person you didn’t like.

My mother was known as the “Turkey Lady.” This came about because she was agoraphobic and refused to leave the house for a holiday dinner. So everyone came to our house. I learned from my mother how to make a turkey with all the trimmings. For twenty people, it was necessary to buy the biggest, most monstrous piece of poultry that could be found in the supermarket freezer. The directions said to defrost the bird in cold water so our twenty-five-pound gobbler was placed in the bathtub for two days to thaw out which meant no baths or showers for us. Next, the thing was placed upside down in a huge roasting pan, sprinkled with paprika and salt, and placed in an oven. At this point, one had to be cautious. First, one had to turn on the oven. We forgot this once and after six or so hours, when the oven door was opened, there sat a pale, sprinkled, cold mass. We had cheese sandwiches for supper.

Okay…say that the oven is nicely hot. Hopefully, someone has removed that bag of giblet stuff that is packed in there because, if not, it will sort of cook with the turkey but the cooked paper is useless and the innards in the paper are worse. Now, remember, the turkey must be upside down in the pan so the breast meat will not dry out. After a few hours, the bird must be turned. I well recall the day that my father grabbed the legs, flipped the turkey in mid-air, and it jumped out of his hands and skidded across the floor. He was left holding the leg bones, one in each hand. The dog ran over to the turkey but my father was faster and he hoisted that hot bird with his bare hands and threw it back in the roaster. My mother cried. Somehow the turkey cooked the rest of the way and we ate it without legs.

While the turkey cooked it was time to make the trimmings. We always had the same sweet potato side dish. This was made by mixing a big can of Bruce’s Sweet Potatoes with a small can of Dole Crushed Pineapple (drained) and then placing the mixture by spoonfuls into paper cupcake holders in a muffin tin. On top were cut up Kraft marshmallows, (this was pre-mini-marshmallow days). The cups went into the oven to bake. At the last minute, before serving, the muffin tin went under the broiler to brown those marshmallow pieces. One time we saw flames when we opened the oven door—the marshmallows had caught fire. My mother blew and blew on the flames, causing her teeth to fly out of her mouth onto the marshmallows. I was shocked because I thought she had blown her real teeth out. I cried. So did my mother. My father grabbed the hot, sticky teeth and ran out of the kitchen, my mother following. Later they scraped off the black marshmallows and we ate the sweet potatoes. The last side dish was, of course, cranberry sauce. I liked to watch the cranberry sauce trick. My mother would open the can of Ocean Spray Cranberry Sauce on both ends and then push one end through causing a solid cylinder of sauce to fall onto the plate. There it sat, beautiful and dark red and kind of moving in a sensuous way.

My mother made one other main dish that I remember watching her do. It was my father’s favorite. He called it “feesnuggit” and she called it “petchah”. I’m sure other ethnic groups have other names for this delicacy. It is calves’ foot jelly. You have to first get a foot of a calf. You put the foot in a pot with some greens and lots and lots of garlic. You cook it for a long time until the house smells really awful. Then the foot is removed and the meat is chopped up. The meat is very sticky and hard and almost impossible to chop. Then you do some other stuff and strain it all into a pot with whole hard-boiled eggs (no kidding) and place the pot in the refrigerator. The thing will jell and look exactly like grayish-green cloudy Jell-O with a very garlicky smell. This is cut into squares and vinegar is poured over the top before serving. I never tasted this dish so I can’t comment on whether it was worth all that work. I also never came across it anywhere else so maybe she made up the whole thing.

I hope that my children will have different memories of Mom’s cooking, but I wonder.

Lynne Schmelter-Davis: I have kept a journal through my life. My mini-memoir is taken from that and every word is true. Every life is interesting but I think mine may have been funnier than most.

by Carmen Mason

My tall, handsome Abuelo, my mother’s Catalan father, Jose Sala Corriols, had jackets smelling of faint cigar residue, although he had not smoked in twenty years. He was opposed to the chemicals in dry-cleaning, and I believe that’s why he lived so long. He was dignified, suited always with vest and high-top black leather shoes he laced through hooks, not holes. Everything in moderation, Cita, he would say to me, everything in moderation. I did not listen and was secretly excessive in most sensual matters for most of my life. But how I loved him – his serious solidness, his patience, his lack of bitterness. And most of all, his overlooking of many family assaults on his – I guarantee you – fine character. How could I hold him in contempt for all the things my mother said he’d done before I was born? After all, perhaps he had been as arrogant and stubborn as she herself had been, but he’d never been that way with me.

Almost every week-end starting when I was seven or eight, he would take my sister, Melisa, and me downtown to Manhattan, that is, whenever he was living with us in Parkchester in the Bronx.( His two daughters and one son would share him during the year.) We three would go to the movies at The Little Carnegie or the Fifth Avenue Cinema where I can only remember two films from all the many we saw. One was Marcellino, Pan y Vino, a thrilling Italian film about a little farm boy who discovers a bearded and scruffy vagrant (looking like a brooding rock star) in his father’s falling-down barn filled with straw and sun-lighted rays of dust. I loved the way Marcellino would slide bread and morsels of other foods down along the dinner table into the folds of his clothes and then ask to be excused. He would slip away to the cold barn and Jesus (Marcellino doesn’t know he is JC but in time we do) would look deep into his eyes and say very serious things to him, and Jesus was filled with thanks and concern.

I wanted always to be like that Marcellino, and for years after that I would filch food from the table, pocket it and wrap it in a napkin-lined basket I kept in my bedroom. I would eat it slowly and covetously, although no one ever interrupted me or seemed interested in what I did in there. I liked to be alone in my room, move the furniture around so that when I awoke the next day I’d be surprised by all the changes, and I liked to eat those smuggled bits of food and pretend I was very, very poor.

The other film was The Fallen Idol, based I discovered years later on a story called The Basement Room by Graham Greene. (At seventeen I let out a sigh of joyful recognition while reading it for a lit class at Hunter College, recognizing it as that childhood film I had adored.) In this movie, a young boy lives in a large house peopled only by servants, as his parents are seldom there. I remember two scenes: one, where he hides a snake behind a brick in his bedroom wall and the other, when he is sleeping and his mother ( I think it’s his mother) decides to come home and wants to see him although it’s so late. She bends over his bed and her black hairpin drops on the still white pillow next to his ear and he is startled awake. I can still feel the stunning terror of that scene. I begged Abuelo many times to take me back to see it again and he did finally, right before it closed.

These movies and yes, three others, The Red Shoes, Samson and Delilah, and Bill and Coo were the all-time film greats of my early life. They were shown at the Loew’s American in Parkchester, a local theatre where the ladies’ room had a separate rose-colored powder room circled in mirrors and was almost as big as the theatre itself. Abuelo might have taken me to these, too, but I know he took us to our first 3-D movie where they handed us each a pair of cardboard -framed plastic glasses to put on. Everything became three dimensional: the letters of the stars’ names zoomed out at us and then in this now nameless cowboy and Indian movie, every stampeding horse and long-horn cow charged right for us. When the avenging Indian let out a cacophonous battle chant and threw his tomahawk, Abuelo cried out something in Spanish and lurched to the side of his seat, almost dislocating his shoulder. I grabbed his arm, laughing with joy at the child who was such a friend to me, and whispered, Abuelo, it’s the glasses! The tomahawk’s not real. It’s the glasses! That afternoon, when he treated me to my usual Good Humor orange creamsicle, he had one, and then, to my shock, bought us each another. So much for moderation.

Abuelo never insinuated himself into our lives other than to be there for us. He didn’t criticize or censor the films we saw. He was content – or so it seemed – to just be with us, listen to our chatter and excited stories, allow our silliness, lame jokes, petty squabbles. He was a seasoned man: a man expelled from Spain for publishing an anti-Catholic book who eventually came to America to marry his adored but never adoring first cousin ( she had fled from Barcelona with a jilted heart two years earlier), taught languages at Duquesne University under the chairmanship of his wife, reared three children, and become the vice-consul to Spain from Pittsburgh. He was not extravagant, avaricious or boastful. After retirement, he loved to drink a single cup of coffee for hours, read numerous newspapers in English and Spanish, razor out articles about any new building or bridge going up in the city he was living in, and walk to and from these structures to witness their weekly (often daily) progress no matter how many miles it took.

His week-ends at the movies with us were perhaps his attempt to stay connected to a world that had lost all importance once his beloved Maria died. Every night when he stayed with us I would look in on him before I went to bed. There he was with his tiny gold-framed picture of the Grandma I never knew next to a small, half-filled glass of whiskey. He would toast her and then turn out the lights. Those were the only times I saw him drink in the thirty years he was in my life.

Carmen Mason: She has been writing poems since she was six, has won poetry prizes throughout the years, has been published in small magazines and enjoys sharing her poetry at open mikes. She writes short stories and memoir, but feels her most intrinsic ‘voice’ is a poetic one.

by Alix Kane

I am a seasoned traveler: France, England, Spain, Germany, Morocco, Thailand, South Africa, Cambodia, Peru, Costa Rica – these destinations in just the last ten years. Oddly, I have had no desire to visit Israel, despite my Jewish upbringing. In fact, I judiciously avoided Israel because of pre-conceived notions that Israel would not want me. I am not a religious Jew. I was not spiritual, despite a longing to be. My deceased brother-in-law, Abraham, was an orthodox Jew and told me countless times that I could never be considered a Jew by any normal person’s standards. For him, orthodoxy was the norm. I had become, in some way, a product of his perceptions.

Nevertheless, a nagging sensation had begun in me about a year ago. Perhaps I needed to visit the Jewish homeland once in my lifetime, while I still had the energy. This is not an easy trip. Israel is about the size of New Jersey. If I was going to visit just once, I wanted to see everything that was important while I was there. This meant visiting at least six major cities, walking countless miles, and packing and unpacking every two days. My husband, who shared my indifference, was having the same feelings at about the same time. If he hadn’t, I doubt that either of us would have made this trip.

I had no sense of sweet anticipation or excitement. This was a responsibility we were fulfilling. A necessary one. We were met by our guide, Reuven Solomon. He had sent a photo to us by email, so we immediately spotted his white hair and long white beard. Oddly, Santa in Israel. He took us to our hotel in Tel Aviv and then on a tour of the old city before returning us to the hotel to rest before dinner. We were both already exhausted and the trip had barely begun.

Our first week was a pleasant surprise. Tel Aviv, Haifa, Cesearea. The ruins were spectacular. It’s difficult to imagine entire Roman cities uncovered after being buried in sand for thousands of years. The artifacts, many unblemished, were extraordinary: temples whose mosaic tile floors were as untarnished as when they were built. Some devastated by severe earthquakes, but still wondrous to see.

And then we arrived in Jerusalem, the religious heart of Israel. My husband and I renewed our wedding vows at the only part of the Western Wall where men and women are allowed to mingle. At our request months before, Reuven had arranged for a conservative rabbi to officiate. If only for this, our trip was well worth it.

We then went to the main section of the Wall. Men and women cannot be there together. There is a large section near the old temple that is reserved exclusively for men. Next to it, and separated by a wall about six feet high, is a small section for women. There were women standing on chairs to look over the wall to see their sons and grandsons becoming b’nei mitzvot. Anger boiled up inside me. Why did these women put up with being second-class citizens?

My husband was ready for something special. He anticipated a religious experience. I expected nothing. We went our separate ways. I had to push past women praying, crying, tearing their clothes, sitting on chairs in front of the great wall. As I had planned, I folded my vows and tucked the paper into one of the hundreds of tiny crevices meant to receive prayers, requests, blessings. I then leaned fully into the Wall and gave myself up to it.

And then G_d appeared and spoke to me. It absolutely shocked me that G_d was a male figure. He closely resembled Reuven with his white hair and beard. My husband and I had always referred to G_d as a she. That was my first surprise. As I put my full weight against the Wall, he spoke to me. “You will never, ever be cold again.” He spoke slowly; his voice was deep and reassuring. I waited for more, but of course it never came. That statement, spoken with such assurance, was all I was going to get. But it was enough. Anybody who knows me well knows that I hate to be cold. The word cold changed for me that day.

That evening, I related the experience to my husband. The nights in Jerusalem in late November are quite cool. Ever consistent, I was bundled in warm clothing topped with a down vest. Of course, I was cold. And yet…inside I was warm, protected. I realized then that G_d’s statement had nothing at all to do with temperature and how it affected my body. I had received his assurance that I would never be without him again, as long as I was willing to let him remain. And remain he has. My journey to Israel had led to yet another, more meaningful journey. For someone who had never been spiritual, I had suddenly and finally experienced what it was like to have G_d inside.

Alix Kane: Writing brings me great pleasure and introspection. Although I’ve been writing short memoir pieces all of my adult life, it was only through reading them aloud in Carmen and Leyla’s Memoir study group that I discovered my life experiences were interesting to others as well. 

by Carol Grant

From 1964 to 2000, I was identified by the US government as an Alien. Granted they gave my title a flourish by graciously adding “Resident“(aka legal) to that designation but I was identified by that stigma for 36 years. Compared to many other immigrants to the USA, the process by which I had attained this status was fairly uncomplicated. As a graduate of a rigorous nursing training program in Canada, mine was among the desired professions, and I was approved for admittance to the US without much hassle. In another important way, I was far from the proverbial immigrant to the USA. I had not spent years dreaming of coming to “the promised land”, was not escaping hardship or harassment and in all honesty, was not even planning to stay very long. I was young, adventurous and loved to travel. I always planned to return to Canada for my real life, but the fates intervened, and I met and married the love of my life who also had wanderlust. We have lived in the USA ever since interspersed with periods of extended travel and also experienced living in Europe on fellowships on two occasions.

People ask me why I waited for over 35 years to apply for American citizenship. I had the treasured green card which identified me as an alien; one would think that I would be as anxious as the rest of the world to have the cherished US citizenship. Well, I admit that I was and am very chauvinistic about Canada and was very reluctant to break that tie with my homeland. As I looked into the process for becoming “naturalized” I read the USA citizenship oath with shock and amazement. The opening sentence of the pledge states:

“I hereby declare on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty, of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen.”

How could I utter such archaic and drastic words? I love Canada; it is a country with wonderful resources, values and beauty and it will always be my motherland. Like many of my Canadian compatriots, I remember being very critical of American policy in those turbulent years of the 60s through the 80s. These were not the most stable or admirable years in US history. We were living through the Vietnam War morass, the assassinations of political and civil rights leaders followed by the divisive political years of Nixon and Reagan. My husband and I talked seriously about moving to Canada during these years, and he even had an interview at a Canadian university in Toronto. Many times we said to each other: “Well, if “so and so” (insert here Nixon, Reagan or Bush) gets elected, we are moving to Canada!” My husband never expressed any disappointment that I had not “converted” and seemed to understand my resistance. However, I had one problem with my alien status: I was a woman without a political voice because I was not eligible to vote in either country. Canada allows absentee voting only for members of their diplomatic corps. I was always very involved in US politics but I did not have voting rights.

I was able to apply for dual citizenship for our three children after the Canadian Government passed a law granting citizenship to children born abroad to Canadian mothers. We projected that our children might choose to go to university in Canada where the tuition is a fraction of the U.S. schools or if there was ever another Vietnam- type war, they would have options. Of course, the USA does not officially recognize the concept of “dual citizenship” so they travel with US passports. Whenever I returned from travel abroad, I had to join the long line of Non-Citizens at Immigration while my family breezed through the Fast Lane.

The years passed by and I lived my busy life as an alien who had strong bonds to both countries but felt I was an active citizen of neither one. Fast forward to pre-retirement discussions with tax accountants, investment counselors etc. and the reality of my dilemma became clear. I was informed that if I remained a Resident Alien, I could lose certain essential privileges in the future. For instance, the US Government could alter at any time the eligibility of legal aliens for Social Security, Food Stamps, Medicare, Medicaid and other benefits for which I had contributed during my working years. If I survive my husband, I would inherit our estate but when I die, our children would have to pay a much higher rate of estate taxes to the Federal Government than they would if I were an American citizen. I now have to admit that this prediction was the driving force behind my decision to finally seek US citizenship. Hardly a noble reason but being a frugal Canadian mother, I was going to look out for my family even after my death…that is, assuming any money was left.

So, the citizenship application ordeal began. Everyone assumes that the process for someone who has the precious green card (which is BLUE, by the way) will be efficient and speedy. The reality is far from that and the length of time it took for this law-abiding, hard-working Caucasian woman to become a US citizen was over three years! My application forms and photos were submitted and several months went by. I eventually received instructions that the next step would require official fingerprints to be taken at the Hartford Federal Courthouse which meant I was required to take a half-day off work. Another long wait ensued until eventually an official brown envelope arrived. The enclosed report stated that my fingerprints were not readable and that I would have to have the procedure repeated. Their next feedback was that my fingerprints could not be read even by the FBI since I had apparently worn them off! I have never been accused of being an obsessive housekeeper and I didn’t do intensive manual labor in my lifetime so how had they disappeared? Here’s a hint for all “older” thieves; no evidence can be gathered from your old fingers! So, now it became my responsibility to prove that I did not have a criminal history, and I was required to appear at the Police Stations of any town or city I had lived in during the previous 10 years! How demeaning to go to two police departments and ask them to “do a search” on me. I submitted these completed forms and again after many months, another Department of US Immigration envelope arrived. This time, the unbelievable news was that since my original application had been sent in more than two years previously, my photos were outdated and I would have to submit new ones. At this point, I was more than ready to remain a Canadian until I passed finger-printless into the next world. I was fed up dealing with stone-faced, rude bureaucrats who seemed to delight in putting up barriers to anyone who dared to join their privileged ranks. I felt great empathy for all the folks from foreign lands who sat next to me in these drab rooms also missing work while waiting hours to have their numbers called. Maybe it was their great desire to be accepted for citizenship which finally encouraged me and so I persevered.

Finally, all my paperwork was apparently in order and I was assigned a specific time and date for the dreaded interview and test. I had studied the required information about the US government and Constitution and entered the unwelcoming and intimidating waiting room apprehensively. I could not believe the starkness of this windowless room; there were rows of metal chairs, bare dirty beige walls, one closed door with a DO NOT ENTER sign and one slot into which you were instructed to slide ALL of your precious identification documents. I could only imagine how frightening it must have been for most of these non-English speaking immigrants to give up their papers after the struggles they had been through to obtain them. Fear and apprehension was palpable in the room. A few people whispered to each other nervously but most of us were unaccompanied as no relatives, friend or lawyers were allowed. We waited. We had been given a very exact appointment; mine, for example, was 10:20 am. Every 20-30 minutes, the door would open and a very stern looking official in an Immigration uniform would mutter a name. With the many nationalities represented in the room, it was often difficult for the person being called to recognize the pronunciation of her name. With great exasperation, the official would repeat the name and some poor soul would disappear into the void beyond. Lunchtime came and went with the intervals between door-openings getting longer.

Eventually, my name was called. The officer did not introduce himself, led me to his office where he handed me the “exam” and promptly made a personal phone call. I handed him my completed test which he reviewed and then without a smile or even “Congratulations”, he said: “Your date for swearing in is June 20th in Bridgeport, CT at 9 am.” I gulped as that was the exact day we were relocating to Vermont from Hartford and I didn’t know how I was going to be in two places at once. When I asked him if there were any alternative dates or locations closer to Hartford, he answered me with disdain: “Be there or you start this process over!” I stumbled out of his oppressive office and as I was leaving the courthouse, I realized that I had left my jacket behind! Not knowing his name, I had to go back into the dreaded waiting room and wait for almost an hour until he finally opened the door again to call another applicant. When he saw me approaching him, he snidely said: “Did you forget something?” As we went down the hall to his office, he muttered: “Well, this must be your lucky day because after you left, I found a cancellation for a space in Middletown next week. Do you want it?” I was elated as I worked in that city and could go to the courthouse easily from work. I guess his lunch had made him a little more humane.

The date of my citizenship ceremony happened to be June 14th, National Flag Day, and I discovered that it was to be a special event. There were about 30 other applicants dressed in their best finery and most accompanied by family members or friends with cameras. Each of us was given a small American flag to hold. There was a feeling of great anticipation and excitement in the air. I had declined offers from family members and friends to come with me as I was still bitter and exasperated by the process I had endured. It was just something I had to get through.

The judge who was going to administer the oath and welcome us as new citizens was a Greek American woman who managed to change my mood and attitude with just a few words. Those words were personal and moving. She shared with us that she was a daughter of Greek immigrants who could never have imagined that their daughter would someday be a lawyer let alone an American judge. She talked of their struggles to immigrate and their hard work after they had come to America. She did not usually officiate at these ceremonies but had requested to do so on this day as a gesture of gratitude to them. She listed the 11 different countries we applicants came from and said that after doing the group pledge of allegiance, she wanted to do something untraditional by coming down from the bench to congratulate each of us personally. We were welcome to have a family member or friend take a photo of that encounter. When I had my moment in her sun, she asked me where in Canada I was from and then told me how she loves Montreal and visits often. Unexpectedly, I was extremely moved by this ceremony and so grateful that at last as a newly minted Canadian-American I could feel pride in my adopted country.

In November 2000, I voted for my first time in Vermont where I was elated to cast my votes for Democrat Al Gore for President, Republican Jim Jeffords for Senator and an avowed Socialist Bernie Sanders for Congress.

Carol Grant enjoys life as a Canadian American in two contrasting locations, rural Vermont and New York City. The fact that the Vermont border touches Quebec, her birthplace, pleases her. As another important American election draws near, she will visit Montreal this autumn to checkout available Real Estate…just in case.

by Annette Fidler

“You can never go wrong with a little black dress,” declared my cousin Norma, the person I called for advice on what to wear to a party I had just been invited to. This wasn’t one of those dreary beer and pretzel events at House Plan, City College’s egalitarian answer to fraternities and sororities, which were banned on our campus. This was a gathering in David’s parents’ house in Great Neck for David’s fraternity brothers from Syracuse and their dates.

I had met David a few months before when he came to visit his aunt, who owned a summer camp where I worked as a counselor. David wasn’t particularly handsome or interesting, but he was a senior at Syracuse and he had singled me out of all the counselors. To a shy, unsophisticated sophomore at City College, this was big time.

Norma, six years older than I, was the family’s fashion arbiter. Tall and curvaceous, Norma wore her skirts short and her sweaters tight and tottered around on strappy high-heeled shoes. When asked what she did, she would reply, “I work in fashion,” and you can’t deny that being a receptionist and all-around go-fer at Missy Modes, a mid-level dress company located in the garment district, was indeed working “in fashion.”

“You’re in luck,” Norma continued. “Klein’s just placed a really big order this morning and Mr. Melnikoff is in a great mood. I’m sure there’ll be no problem getting you into the showroom tomorrow. And I know just the dress for you. “ “Don’t you love it?” Norma exclaimed the next day, as she pulled a black taffeta dress off the rack. “It’s our hottest number, a knock-off of a dress they’re selling at Saks for at least three times what this costs. “ Taffeta? Orange velvet trim dusted with rhinestones around the sweetheart neck? This wasn’t my idea of a simple little black dress. “Oh, don’t be so conservative. Break out a little,” said Norma, sensing my hesitation. Norma never had a problem breaking out. She had already met three of the goals she set for herself before she reached 21: finish high school, get a job, and save enough money to have her nose fixed. Moving out of her parents’ house, getting her own apartment, and marrying a man who would indulge her passion for shopping? Those goals were a little off schedule, although there was some gossip among the relatives about Norma providing Mr. Melnikoff with more than just secretarial services, and you never know where that could lead. I was disappointed when David came to pick me up on Saturday night. Not a word about how I looked. Was I over-dressed?

At the end of a long tree-lined lane, perched on a bluff overlooking the Sound, stood David’s house. Tara, I thought, noting the white columns that reached the roof. I could picture the door being opened by a dignified elderly black man who would greet us with “Good evening, Massah David”. Entering the house, I could hear music and the tinkling of ice, the buzz of conversation and someone laughing, and then a hush as David and I entered the living room. The eyes of six women dressed almost identically in pleated skirts, cashmere twin sweater sets and pearls, some sporting their boyfriends’ fraternity pins, were all on me.

I knew immediately that the little black dress was a major gaffe. It screamed in letters nine feet tall ”What are you doing here? You’re not one of us!” How was I going to get through the evening? David, oblivious to the smirks and stares, said “Hi guys, I want you to meet Annette. She’s a sophomore at City College.” From deep within one of the sofas where she was snuggled against her date, one of the women called out “Well, good for you, Annette!”

Did she mean “good for you” because you had to be smart to get into City College or “good for you” for mixing with all those lefties and taking the subway to school and living at home with your parents and not in a dorm?

I felt sick and humiliated. Even beer and pretzels at House Plan would have been better than this. At least the conversation would have been more interesting. Not this frat-boy “Syracuse is a shoo-in to beat Cornell next Saturday,” and “What do you think of Josh being suspended for cheating on his bio exam?” Where was the talk of Camus and Sartre, existentialism and Freud?

I smiled gamely through the evening, sneaking peeks at the antique grandfather clock in the hallway. Finally it was time to leave. So nice to meet you, hope to see you again, a ride back that seemed twice as long as the one out, a peck on the cheek, will call you, and David was gone.

I left the dress in a heap on the bedroom floor, burrowed deep into my down quilt and softly cried myself to sleep.

The ringing phone roused me early the next morning. “So, was I right? I bet you were the center of attention.”

“More than you can imagine, Norma,” I replied, “more than you can ever imagine.”

Annette Fidler: With thanks to the Memoir Writing Study Group, whose smiles, chuckles and laughs at The Little Black Dress encouraged me to share it with a wider audience.

by Nadine Cowen

We had come in search of a tiny denizen of Georgia’s tidal marshes. When we found the white periwinkle snails encased in their protective spiral shells, our guide asked each of us to hold one close against our throat and softly hum to it! As a lifelong city dweller quite ignorant of periwinkle personalities, I was skeptical, perhaps fearful of being duped. “Just do it,” I said to myself. After humming to what appeared to me to be an inch long dollop of whipped cream, we were asked to turn our marsh dweller upside down; a circular plug at the opposite end swung open. Then a gelatinous brown round head gracefully emerged. I was transfixed by this tiny being’s quiet presence. I had been granted an audience with one of God’s smallest creatures. It was love at first sight. I burst into tears. As I collected myself, we were instructed to tap the outside of the periwinkle’s shell after which he disappeared back into his shell, his “door” closed behind him.

Many of the other periwinkles chosen could not be coaxed out of their shells. So the tiny being I met for a moment was handed round and upon request amazingly repeated his awesome performance. Perhaps he was one of a few Southern periwinkles willing to entertain Yankees that morning. To this day I take pride in my ability to hum a snail out of its shell.

Nadine Cowen: I’m delighted the coordinators in the writing study group inspired me to capture one unforgettable moment to share. The process of my first attempt was really challenging, but the result was well worth it!

by Ivy Berchuck

Religion: or God and Florence

I hated Florence. She was everything I despaired of in myself. I was chubby, but she was fat. My hair was too curly, hers was frizzy. She bit her nails, I chewed the skin around the cuticles; but worst of all, she was the only other fifth grade girl to go to Hebrew School. I tried to keep a low profile about this, but Florence would call across the schoolyard during recess, “Itah, do you want to walk to Hebrew school together? Itah was my Yiddish name. She knew what my American name was, but she never understood that Itah was something to be uttered only behind closed doors.

“You go to Hebrew School?” the girls asked incredulously. ”What do you do that for?” To the girls, the reason for a religious education was to prepare for the bar mitzvah when you were thirteen … and only boys were bar mitzvahed. There was no way to explain to them that my parents, somewhat observant, felt that anything their boy could do, their girl could do as well. I would have preferred a less controversial way of demonstrating the principle, but I accepted the plan that I would study prayer and language and then go through the ceremony and have a bat mitzvah, a daughter of the covenant..

For most people this was unheard of in the late 1940’s, even though today an over the top celebration for a girl can be equal to any party thrown for a boy. I wanted to keep it a secret because it was so strange and hard to explain and anyway, I wasn’t sure if I really believed enough in God

I did like the study of the language, the Bible and the prayers. I could participate in the Shabbat service with my father and grandfather and I wallowed in their pride. I felt connected to the people in the synagogue and put the God thing in back of my mind.

The biggest problem was it left me no time in the afternoons to hang out with girlfriends, and it pushed me in the direction of Florence. The more Florence liked me, the worse I felt. She hooked arms with me as we walked to our lessons, and I hoped that no one in the schoolyard saw us. She was studying as hard as I was, but her parents had told her it was a sin for a girl to have a Bat Mitzvah so she was excused from the class when we learned the prayers required to conduct the service. Then I became the only girl there but it didn’t feel special … I could sense the boys smirking.

The year that my group reached the age for the ceremony, we were required to participate in every Saturday bar mitzvah service. The boy’s guests were there too, including the popular girls in the class who just stared at me knowing I wasn’t invited and would certainly not be at the party that followed. One said, “Oh I guess you can walk home with your friend Florence.” It was beyond humiliation. Now Florence had acne and anytime a pimple emerged on my forehead I would cry and see myself becoming a clone of my nemesis. She had persisted in calling me Itah through the years so I made up my mind I had to change the name. I wanted to get away from Yiddish anyway. Hebrew seemed to look to the future, not to the Holocaust past. I looked up plant names in the Hebrew-English dictionary and sure enough, ivy had a Hebrew word for it, Irit … I loved it and told my parents and the rabbi that I wanted my name changed…Florence now stopped calling me by any name, because changing your name was guess what? … another sin.

The girls in school were intrigued and asked if I was inviting friends to my bat mitzvah. I began to feel more comfortable with them. They were invited and they did come.

My dress was no longer from the chubby department and my voice rang out. My speech was about strong women in the bible and the power that girls should have in religion and in the world. I looked out at my friends and was happy that Florence was sitting with them. I was even happier that I would never have to be with her again.

A few years ago I saw her in the street when I was visiting my mother. She was still dumpy, but her hair was coifed and her suit was stylish. ”Itah, Itah” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around me. ”Do you remember what fun we had walking to Hebrew School?”

Ivy Berchuck: I have been writing short memoirs on and off all my life. Thanks to Carmen and Leyla’s writing class at IRP it is now a more consistent effort bringing me unusual pleasure and self-awareness. I now seem to be remembering more than I am forgetting