Prose

I Remember

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by Charles Troob

I remember that I went to the Flushing Progressive School  until I was in second grade and was driven there in a station wagon with half a dozen other kids by Mrs. Conway, whose husband was a fireman. I remember that we visited his firehouse on Horace Harding Boulevard (before it became the Long Island Expressway) and I remember the pole that went up to the second floor so that the firemen could come down in a hurry— but I don’t remember Mr. Conway or the other firemen. I remember that one winter in the station wagon we all sang “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and at the end of the song—“You’ll go down in history” –I asked, “What is history?” and someone answered, “I think it’s some kind of a book” and I was puzzled because I didn’t know what it meant to go down in a book.

I remember that the Flushing Progressive School was in a house on Franklin Avenue and the littlest kids were on the ground floor while the first and second graders were on the second floor. Every day at lunchtime they came down the stairs to get their trays—colorful plastic ones, with beaded edges—and then go back upstairs to eat their lunch. I remember watching them and wondering how they managed to carry their trays upstairs without spilling stuff and being afraid that I’d never be able to do that and how grown up first graders must be. I remember that we had the same lunch each Monday, Tuesday, etc. and my mother was annoyed that on Mondays we usually had baked potato and creamed corn and why were there two starches and I remember wondering why she cared and thinking that Monday lunch was OK with me, though not as tasty as creamed chicken and noodles on Tuesday or macaroni with ground beef on Wednesday.

I remember that when I moved upstairs the first graders were on one side of the room and the second graders on the other side and we all faced front and Mrs. Caven, who was very sweet, would give lessons either to one group or to all of us. I remember that I didn’t want to interrupt her to ask to be excused and I messed my pants a few times and had to be taken to the toilet and cleaned up. I remember that I was unable to insist on what I really needed for myself until I was an adult.

I remember that we were given a reading primer and I didn’t know what “primer” meant but I read through it right away and on the back page was a numbered list called “Vocabulary.” I didn’t know that word either. After each number on the list there were a few words. I looked at this list again and again and finally figured out (eureka!) that the numbers referred to pages in the primer and each word was listed according to the page on which it first appeared. I was very pleased to make this discovery, but I still didn’t know what “vocabulary” meant or why the list was there.

I remember that I was upset when my mother wouldn’t let me go to school on Rosh Hashanah and we had an argument about it at the lunch counter at the Girard Pharmacy on Queens Boulevard. I didn’t want to miss anything at school and I knew that at home on Rosh Hashanah I would sit around and be bored.

I remember that in second grade I was excused from reading lessons and sat in another room with a girl named Barbara who also could read. I remember that we had second and third grade readers—Friends and Neighbors and Streets and Roads—to read on our own.

I remember that there was a piano and during the lunch break we sang “Santa Lucia” and “Funiculi, Funicula” and afterwards one of the teachers read Mary Poppins to us, a chapter at a time.

I remember that the second graders were once given a special privilege. We went to the third floor where Mrs. Tucker the principal lived and there was a small television and we watched the coronation of Queen Elizabeth. I remember wondering what this ceremony was about—if her name was Queen Elizabeth, didn’t she already have a crown like every other king and queen?

I remember that the Flushing Progressive School was planning to offer a third grade, but my parents told me that I was going to attend PS 196,  a beautiful new school about to open in Forest Hills. I would be very sorry not to see what happened to the scarlet runner beans I’d planted in June in the school garden, but I was glad that I would finally be going to school with children from my neighborhood. I remember thinking that PS 196 was huge and impressive, particularly the auditorium and gym, and that I liked it very much, except that the teachers were always yelling at us to get in line and keep quiet. At our age! Even kindergartners could—and did—get in line quietly. These ladies were a little nutty and mean compared to the pleasant teachers at my old school, but they taught us a lot and they were nice enough to me, so I really didn’t mind.

I remember that in my freshman year at Harvard, a Cliffie in my English class asked me if I’d gone to the Flushing Progressive School. It would be an understatement to say that I was stunned by the question. Mr. Blyth called her Miss Hutter, but I knew that her first name was Barbara—and so she had to be the Barbara I used to read with. “How on earth did you recognize me?” I asked. “Oh,” she replied, “over Thanksgiving at home I was looking at pictures of my second grade birthday party and there you were.” I remember being quite abashed that I had changed so little since second grade, and also that I had no memory of the birthday party or of ever being at Barbara’s house. I remember that despite this amazing link between us, Barbara Hutter and I had no further conversations about our childhood or anything else. I remember that Harvard was not a friendly place.

 

This was written for David Grogan’s Guided Autobiography study group.  David’s writing prompt was based on the work of Joe Brainard, an artist and writer associated with the New York School.  Brainard’s I Remember, a book-length collection of sentences and short paragraphs all beginning with these two words, is considered a contemporary classic. 

Tillie the Toiler Redux

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by Phyllis Kriegel

According to New Jersey labor laws, minors under the age of 18 were allowed to work three hours a day; maximum 18 hours a week when school was in session. At age 14, I garnered the requisite working papers and became a some-time Tillie the Toiler, snagging a job at the Kresge Five and Ten on Main Street in Hackensack, New Jersey.

The store was a kid’s paradise where a dime could get you a burger plus a mug of root beer big enough to swim in.  Such store food was deemed forbidden fruit in my family.  Gleaming show cases offered happy hunting grounds for loose fingers eager to filch a shiny bauble or snatch a small toy. But as a card-carrying worker, no more petty larceny for me; sales help was carefully monitored when coming and going.

I longed to be assigned to the book section where scores of Nancy Drews and a raft of comic books awaited my delectation. But the store manager– tall, grey haired with a luxuriant mustache–had other plans, sending me to the makeup counter where he advised, ‘Keep busy.’

Did he imagine I had special expertise in the cosmetic world and that I– barely allowed to wear a touch of lipstick– would morph into a budding Helena Rubinstein, despite my having zero smarts in the field?

As was my wont when confronted by a quandary, I scooted full bore to the local library to explore the world of women’s magazines whose mission was to show aspiring ladies how to fashion the good life.

I discovered makeup mattered! Especially the color of your lips.  Seductive ads urged ‘buy a new lipstick and get transported to the moon.’ I fastened on the Tangee brand which sought to separate the ladies from the tarts: “Look beautiful without looking artificial. Brilliant, flaming tones are passé and no longer worn by fashionable women.”

My friendly smile and trendy spiel culled from advertising come-ons worked. Sales burgeoned. In my heart of hearts, I cottoned to Chen Yu, a brand that evoked the Inscrutable East: slightly sinful, conceived as an homage to Rudolph Valentino.  My favorite was Dragon’s Blood Ruby–as if ripe plums were channeled into a tube encased by ersatz ivory adorned with Chinese motifs.

Despite a surprising offer from management to become head of the Make-up Department–did they suspect that I wore an A for Ambition underneath my Sloppy Joe sweater—I said, “thanks, but no thanks.”

My sights were set on the College Shop at Arnold Constable, a swanky New York department store, newly moved down the block from Kresge Five and Ten on Main Street, Hackensack.

 

Virginia Woolf wants us to write “For the good of the world.” I believe that to survive, you must tell stories. Phyllis Kriegel

Martinis on Christopher Street

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by Phyllis Kriegel

Moving into New York in the early 90s, l landed a dream apartment on Christopher Street, complete with beamed ceilings, bookcases galore and a working fireplace. The second story windows provided an added bonus– a perch for keeping an eye on neighborhood happenings.

My block offered a clutch of hedonistic haunts: play darts at Kettle of Fish, sing-along at the Duplex, buy bongs and booze side by side. I could purchase an adorable puppy, try on sexy underwear, meet the LGBTQ crowd at Stonewall Inn and stop at Bar 55 for cool jazz.

But it was a gustatory wasteland. A subpar Argentinian restaurant had replaced Les Deux Gamins-an intimate bistro run by two dour French men whose cigarette ashes just missed the onion soup. I yelled a joyful adios when the space was vacated, watching it morph into a Zagat-touted hotspot with tin ceilings, exposed brick walls and extremely loud rock music.

The hands-on new owner—Gabe Stulman– named his venture Joseph Leonard, in honor of his two grandfathers. As Gabe put it, “there are few things more charming and with more heart and soul…than a West Village corner.”

Never mind that the music played wasn’t Rodgers and Hart, I became a regular. Although my senior status and grey hair upped the age demographic, generational differences took a back seat. The affable staff welcomed me. In short order they knew my name, the name of my dog and what I drank. We schmoozed and traded stories, sharing must-see, must-read lists.

I loved my nirvana on the corner where I savored chance encounters with all comers–locals, tourists, art and film mavens—even an occasional bold faced name.

Meanwhile, animated by the vibes of his contented customers, Gabe launched another local eatery—cater corner to Joseph Leonard—on the corner of Waverly and Christopher, just a few doors from my building.

He called it Jeffrey’s Grocery, where he plied organic vegetables and fresh seafood, all the while filling glasses with beer and wine. But in short order he jettisoned the grocery-cum-bar concept, determined that Jeffrey’s needed a radical makeover—including a full liquor license.

The prospect of applying to the Community Board must have caused some anxiety. Board 2 was notorious for being particularly stingy with new liquor licenses. Meetings were said to be raucous, even grueling.  Applications frequently pitted neighbor against neighbor; while some insisted that that a new license on their block would ruin people’s lives.

Gabe asked me to come to an upcoming Board meeting to speak in support of his new venture. So began my maiden skirmish in NYC internecine war over booze.

On a Tuesday night midwinter: Meeting room packed. Applications argued. Passionate differences. Then my turn to speak. I detailed the way Gabe and his helpers had turned the neighborhood into a spirited community. Then I got to the nub…’I’m not getting any younger, and it seems a shame that I have to cross the street on a cold, dark night to get my martini.’ Applause followed.

If you go to Jeffrey’s and ask for a “Phyllis,” you just might get a vodka martini, straight up, with ice and olives on the side.

 

Virginia Woolf wants us to write “For the good of the world.” I believe that to survive, you must tell stories. Phyllis Kriegel

Morrocotas

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by Mireya Perez

to María Sierra Tamara

María, listen very carefully. See this belt. Here is the patrimony of the family. Feel it, see how heavy it is

It’s filled with morrocotas, solid gold coins. There is more than enough here to take care of la familia for at least five years. Here, María,  put  it on. Keep it safe, and don’t let anyone  else know what’s in it for now. When mama recovers from the childbirth, tell her, she’s a very smart woman, she’ll know what to do.

María, I rely on you. I will send word as soon as I can. I’ve arranged for the cattle to be transported with me. As soon as I’m settled in, I’ll be able to send some funds. María, let me give you la benedición.

María lowered her head to receive her father’s blessing, the weighty leather belt tight around her waist. When she looked up, Papa, silent like a cat, was gone.

 

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 Had, 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.

Ah, Youth!—Three Memoirs

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by Charles Troob
 

Ancient Greece 

In 1966 I was in a master’s program at the London School of Economics. Over the long winter break I traveled to Greece, Cyprus and Israel. The day before my departure, London friends gave me a Blue Guide to Athens. An hour into the flight from Heathrow I put down Thucydides and picked up the guide. One entry caught my eye. “There is a wonderful view over the city from the top of Mount Lycabettus. It’s recommended that one should go at sunset or sunrise.”

I was on a red-eye, arriving in Athens at 4 am. When the lane landed, I took a bus to a terminal downtown, where I checked my suitcase. Blue Guide in hand, I explored Syntagma Square, then followed the map to the foot of Lycabettus. On the steep road up I passed nondescript apartment houses–this quiet city was disappointingly dull. But the air was fresh and stars twinkled in the cloudless sky.

At the top of the hill was a lookout. Greece was hidden in the dark. I impulsively took off my clothes, and stood naked in the cool breeze. As light began to surround me, the shoreline of the Aegean came into view; then, to my amazement, the Acropolis lay right below. Piraeus, Corinth, Argos–here I was, not quite twenty-one, communing with the ancients.

The exaltation lasted an hour or two. Then I descended into modern Athens, where hardly anyone spoke English, and I felt stranded, alone, exhausted after a night without sleep.

 

Army Life 

I dropped out of grad school in 1970, and thereby relinquished my student deferment. I had a fairly high number in the draft lottery, so I thought I might be safe—but in December I received an induction notice. Along with hundreds of others I reported for my physical to Fort Hamilton, Brooklyn. When I got to final clearance—it looked like the checkout area of a supermarket—nearly everyone else had been loaded onto buses and sent off to Fort Dix and a dangerous future.

I handed my papers to the clerk—along with a letter from a psychiatrist in New Haven. When his eyes got halfway down the page he trembled slightly and called me over. In a very low voice, he said, “This letter says that you are a homosexual. Is that true?”

“Yes,” I was appreciative of his tact, amused by his discomfort.

“Have you committed homosexual acts?” He paused, gulped, continued. “Oral? Anal?”

“Yes, yes,” I said airily. To my surprise—I was very much a closet case at this time—I was enjoying myself. I hoped he’d ask for additional graphic detail—that would make the experience really perfect. But he just nervously wrote a few things on my papers, then stamped them and waved me away.

I wondered idly if this official documentation of my infamy would stay buried in Army files, or might come back to haunt me at some later time….

When I went to get my coat there was one other man in the locker area. “You’re not going?” he said.

“No. I told them I’m a homosexual.”

He laughed. “I said that too! I just thought of it when I got here. What an easy way to get out!”

“I was telling the truth,” I said. “I had a note from a shrink.”

He gave me a funny look, turned, and walked away.

 

Teleport

In 1976 I got a job in Washington DC. I returned to my New York apartment on weekends. Friday evenings I’d queue up at Union Station, waiting for Amtrak to teleport me from a world of offices, malls, and soccer moms to a hothouse of culture—and sex. A few hours later I’d emerge from Penn Station onto Eighth Avenue, assaulted by the energy of the city. I could hit the bars and sample the sleaze. I could climb a dingy warehouse stairway and applaud some crazies who were reinventing theater. New York was dangerous at that time, but hey, it was a danger to flirt with and dance around, not one to avoid. My weekends were filled with adventure and exploration—and then on Sunday night I went back through the wormhole to Dullsville-on-the-Potomac.

But somehow I was happy on Monday morning. In DC I felt myself growing and stretching.  Working for DHEW—the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare—was like grad school on steroids.   I was quickly promoted, with a choice of jobs. So I was never sure which phase of this cycle was the main narrative, and which the parenthesis.

Still, in time the ping-ponging back and forth wore me down. The double life felt like a refusal to commit to an identity. Put that way, the choice was easy—I was a New Yorker. After three years I cut the DC knot. Without a tinge of regret, I slipped away from the dream career and came home to rejoin the carnival full-time.

Or so I thought. Soon AIDS hit New York—and Reagan hit Washington. The 70s were history.

 

These three pieces were written for the IRP Writing Workshop.  Charles Troob joined this workshop when he entered the IRP in 2010.  After a few enthusiastic semesters he was invited to become one of its coordinators.  

Oh, You’re Supposed to Leave Coins!

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by Pat Fortunato

Forget about San Francisco: you can leave your heart in Rome faster than you can say Ciao, Baby!

I, however, held on to my heart, but left my underwear.

As some of you know, I am capable of losing almost anything. Gloves, of course, pens and pencils, cell phones, keys, wallets, not to mention money, checks, credit cards, address books and laundry lists, plus scarves, hats, earrings. You know, the usual.

But am I satisfied with these paltry everyday items that any idiot could lose? Not I!

Perhaps I was cursed at birth by a vindictive gypsy (or have been watching too many operas), but I do have a deep and abiding talent for losing virtually anything, any place, any time. Back in college I misplaced my senior thesis and had to rewrite it from scratch, using my barely legible notes, and didn’t get the A I thought I deserved. So young, so tragic.

But the thing that has captured my friends’ imagination—and the incident they want to hear about—is that I once lost my underwear near the Trevi Fountain.

Let me explain.

I was in Rome with my business partner, Diana, and we went shopping for tennis outfits at this really nice store near the Trevi. We had a ball (no pun intended) trying on all the skirts, shorts, and tops that the cute Italian clerk handed us through the curtains of the teeny little fitting room. He did seem to be lingering a little too long, and leaning in a little too far, but we’ll get to that later. Each of us bought a few outfits, some of which I still have today, and so, mission accomplished, we scurried off in search of gelato.

Later that day, around cocktail hour, we met up with Diana’s husband at the piano bar in the lobby of the Hassler Hotel, a very chic, very fancy Italian place at the top of the Spanish Steps.

So there we were, the three of us, lounging at the lounge, working on drinks of Campari (me) and Scotch (them). It was to be my last evening in Rome; they were staying for a few more days. As the piano quietly tinkled in the background, and elegant Italians (elegant Italians are really, really elegant) stylishly conversed over cocktails and delicious little nibbly things, I asked my friends if they thought they’d be going back to the Trevi. If so, I wondered, could they stop in that sweet little store and see if anyone had found my underwear?

I was surprised by their simultaneous loud and startled “WHAT!—which resulted in a kind of happy hour hush among the privileged patrons. There seemed, at least to me, to be total silence in the room. Even the piano player stopped, his hands poised in mid-air as he turned to stare. Remember that commercial, “When E.F. Hutton speaks . . .” and everyone stops what they’re doing to lean in and listen? That’s what happened, there in the piano bar that night in Rome. It seems that, in Italy at least, sex sells even better than financial advice. Italians are so wise.

Well, maybe it was the Compari, or that When In Rome Feeling, or maybe it was just me, accustomed practically from birth to losing things of all nations, but I didn’t think it was that big a deal.

In the shop, I had been wearing my favorite cream-colored camisole and tap pants set—silk, lace, the whole nine yards (actually, very little in the way of yardage, but very effective, lacy lingerie-wise). In my defense, your honor, I was wearing a bra and pantyhose underneath the sensuous silk set, so that when I got dressed (Remember, we were dealing with very cramped quarters and I was tired from all that shopping!), I guess I forgot to put on the cami and pants. It could happen to anyone, right? Well, maybe not.

The next day, I took off for New York, and my friends headed for the Little Shop of Panties, down by the Trevi, where the very good-looking young man who had been helping us (and perhaps himself) claimed that no, no signori,of course he had not found anything like the intimate articles being described to him by this crazy American couple.

My friends left the shop empty handed, and went to the fountain to throw in a few coins. You’re supposed to do that, you know, to ensure that you’ll return to Rome.

But you have to wonder: If tossing coins in the fountain brings you back to Rome, what happens if you leave your underwear there? Will the Italian branch of Victoria’s Secret send you a catalog and ask you to pick up your purchases at the Piazza Navona? Will you be extradited from the US and hauled back to Sunny Italy on charges of lewd and indecent behavior? Or will you return to Rome to have an encounter with the cute clerk? He’s the perfect age by now.

Whatever. But that young man knew more than what he was telling. Much more. It is my firm belief (it’s so nice to have something firm these days)—and very pleasant fantasy—that somewhere in Rome, someone, perhaps at this very minute, is riding around on a Vespa wearing my underwear. In my imagination, it’s a woman, but who knows?

Whoever it is, my loss was somebody’s gain, and one way or another, with, or more likely without, silk underwear, I will return to Rome someday. And to be perfectly realistic, me being me, it’s extremely likely that I will leave behind more than just my heart.

 

After working as writer, editor, and publisher for many years, I formed my own company in 1984, optimistically naming it Mega Books. When I retired, I started a blog called I Can’t Believe I’m Not Bitter, and now do everything I can to stay that way, including joining the IRP.
Visit the blog at: http://i-cant-believe-im-not-bitter.com/

 

Who Was That Countess At Harry’s Bar?

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by Pat Fortunato

It was me. Well, sort of . . .

My husband and I were staying in Venice in a swanky hotel, with a staff more than willing to satisfy our every whim.

Actually, I was pretty whimless, except for one thing: I wanted to go to the famous Harry’s Bar — and I wanted a good table. If you were banished to the back room, you might as well skip the whole thing.

In my mangled Italian, I conveyed this to the exceedingly cute desk clerk. (In Italy, aren’t they all?) He nodded knowingly, made the reservation, and gave us a card with a note to the effect that Mr. & Mrs. Us were honored guests of the Bauer Hotel. This was code for: Give them a good table.

And so, that night, dressed in our one “good” traveling outfit: basic black with (real) pearls for me, blue blazer, grey pants and a tie from Ferragamo for him, we strolled to Harry’s Bar. Note: in Italy, you stroll, not walk.

Lifestyles of the Rich and Trashy

Harry’s Bar looked quiet on the outside, but inside, it was a zoo. The bar was loaded with assorted Eurotrash, including one young couple who couldn’t keep their hands off each other. While I was trying to figure out how to negotiate this scene, my husband, who wasn’t impressed by this sort of environment, calmly handed the card from the hotel to the guy who looked like he was in charge, saying simply, “Prego.”

That did the trick.

We were shown to a tiny table across from the bar, probably the best in the house. But I, still a bit dazed and going into princess mode, noted that it was a very small table—which comment, rather than annoying the maitre d’ or whoever he was, made him take us more seriously. Who the hell was this picky little princess? Little did he know.

Is that Gore Vidal over there?

After being cajoled into accepting the great table and ordering the required Bellinis, I looked around and saw that all the tables were small, except for one in the corner with a group of sophisticated looking folks, one of whom bore a strong resemblance to the famous writer and curmudgeon, Gore Vidal. Could be. He lived in that part of Italy, he must eat dinner, and he too, had a good table.

Looking more closely, this guy was much younger than Gore, and seemed, well, nicer. After a while, I figured out who he was: Ken Auletta, writer for The New Yorker and author of many bestselling books, including Googled: The End of the World As We Know It.

Meanwhile, I got distracted by the couple at the bar: he now had his hand down her jeans, and . . .

. . . by the elegant gentleman who sat down to our left. Obviously a regular, and possibly a real prince with a palazzo on the canal, he told the waiter, “I’ll have something light,” without looking at the menu. How cool is that? On the other hand, considering my grasp of the Italian language, he may have said, “Who the hell are these people you sat next to me?” I worried that he would be bothered by the groping going on in front of us, but my husband reminded me that the man was Italian and was undoubtedly enjoying it.

We too, ordered light, although from the menu. A little salad and some risotto. We split an entrée, even though the portions were small, and shared dessert. The bill came to $400. Which is, to this day, the most expensive meal I’ve ever had — per bite.

It was worth every penny.

The Kid Gets in The Picture

We happened to be leaving at the same time as the Auletta party, and when we got outside, they were posing for a picture. Being the helpful little thing that I am, I asked Mr A if he would like my husband to take the photo, but Ken, as I now like to call him, said no, they came with their own paparazzi (he was kidding), and that we should get in the picture (he wasn’t kidding).

Then we all walked, or strolled, to St Mark’s Piazza, which has to be the most beautiful outdoor living room on the planet, and on the way, the woman who turned out to be Ken’s agent asked me if I was the Countess De Something Or Other.

I didn’t really hear the name, having been shocked speechless by the question—literally, because I knew that once I opened my mouth she’d know I was no Italian countess.

Miraculously, I managed to pull out something from deep within my would-be royal gut and without pausing, I said, “If you wish.“

I Should Have Said . . . Exactly What I Said!

If you wish: so tantalizing, so vague, so not exactly a lie. For me, that answer wiped out all the “I should have saids” on countless, rather than countess, occasions. On several continents.

We all said goodbye at the Piazza, air kisses and all, and my husband and I returned to the hotel, having gone to the famous Harry’s Bar, having been made royalty by Ken Auletta’s agent, and having been in a photo with him that must still exist somewhere in the universe. I only wish I knew the name of the royal personage I was mistaken for so I could look her up and see who I almost was.

But what the hell, you can’t have everything.
Even when you’re a countess.

After working as writer, editor, and publisher for many years, I formed my own company in 1984, optimistically naming it Mega Books. When I retired, I started a blog called I Can’t Believe I’m Not Bitter, and now do everything I can to stay that way, including joining the IRP.
Visit the blog at: http://i-cant-believe-im-not-bitter.com/

Entering Opera

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by Sonya Friedman

By the late ‘70s, I was well known for my subtitles for foreign films, mainly French* and Italian**, but also other languages, even Czech.*** So John Goberman, the producer of the tv music series “Live From Lincoln Center,” called me with what he thought was a normal request: “I’m doing an opera, live on TV, and want subtitles for it.”

I gulped. “How does one do titles for a LIVE opera?”.

“Oh,” he said. There was a long pause. “I thought you would know.”

“Ok,” I said, “let’s have lunch, bring your tech people, and we’ll figure it out.”

For subtitles for film you indicated the start and end points of each title by giving the lab the exact footage – i.e., 135 feet, 3 frames (these days, indicating digital time codes). But for a live performance? I had no idea.

I met with John and his team, then decided that after seeing the opera, I’d listen to it multiple times on tape while following the Italian libretto (for “Il Barbiere di Siviglia”). Then I’d sit in on the tv rehearsals to get familiar with the timing of the singing as well as with the camera shots.

My titles would be typed into a chyron – the same device that projects tv texts onscreen: names and scores for football games, for other sports events and for concerts. I would call up each title by pressing an “on” and “off” button, hopefully in synch with the singing. But I also wanted to avoid having a title go over a camera cut (a switch from one camera, one “take,” to another), because that makes the title seem to jiggle on screen. So I got a copy of the libretto that indicated every camera shot: which camera would be “on” and what it would show: i.e., camera 1, close up of Rosina; camera 4, full shot of stage; camera 3, close up of Figaro, and so on.

Timing my titles by following the camera shots, I could avoid having a line that I wrote for Rosina appearing over the face of Figaro, who was also singing at that time, now on camera.

So far nobody knew how this would work. Including me. Then the PBS executive who was enthusiastic about John’s novel experiment in presenting live opera subtitles to the tv audience, had a suggestion. The last camera rehearsal would include my rehearsing the titles, “calling” them, hopefully in synch with the singers and the camera shots.  That rehearsal was a life-saver. First of all, we learned that it could be done, and looked pretty good. Secondly, it calmed everyone’s nerves.

On broadcast night, we produced the first live tv opera with subtitles. But nobody outside the tv crew saw them. PBS was worried that we’d screw up, that the experiment would be a disaster. So that telecast did not include subtitles. PBS had arranged for me to fix the titles afterwards in the tv studio; the titles would then be added on the rebroadcast. John called me soon after to say the titles were ok; they looked fine! No need for this big fix. And sure enough, the rebroadcast went on with English titles for “The Barber of Seville,” a splendid New York City Opera production by superstar Sarah Caldwell (stage director and conductor) with the wildly popular diva Beverly Sills.

There was a big viewing audience. And then the letters poured in, thousands of them. People appreciated having subtitles, adored them, wanted them for all future opera broadcasts. PBS got the message. For our next televised opera, “Manon,” PBS widely advertised in print and on radio and tv: “You can follow the story because, for the first time ever in a live telecast, there will be subtitles on the screen.” The telecasts were the subject of a major editorial column in the New York Times, praising the introduction of opera subtitles, and my work.

I had entered the world of opera.

*French: Godard’s “Weekend,” and films by Truffaut, Clouzot, and others.
**Italian: films by De Sica, Rossellini, Fellini, Petri, Monicelli, Bolognini, and others
***Czech: Milos Forman’s “Black Peter” and “Loves of a Blonde”

In the 50’s, MGM had an enormous distribution of its films worldwide. To accommodate viewers in foreign languages, their NY office trained a couple writers in the craft of writing subtitles, narration, and dialogue. I was one of those lucky trainees, and went on to a career subtitling many foreign films by leading and upcoming directors. I am interviewed about my career in this video: https://vimeo.com/93793577

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Rossellini and Masaccio

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by Sonya Friedman

So there was Roberto Rossellini in 1973, inside Santa Maria Novella in Florence, Italy, having a full-blooded choleric fit. Before him, Masaccio’s ground-breaking portrait of Christ on the cross. Around him, a blizzard of 35mm equipment: camera, lights, crew and a dolly with a special focus-pulling device on which RR delighted in wheeling around, operating it himself during shooting. Missing? The actor who was to play a priest railing against Masaccio for portraying Christ not as the radiant Son of God but as a wretched, almost naked man dying of torture. With Masaccio’s startling foreshortened perspective.

To play the priest, RR had chosen a Dutch tour guide, not an actor at all. At this point in RR’s long career, he preferred to cast the man-on-the-street – those he found to have “authentic” faces. Although the dialogue had been written in English (the reason I was there as dialogue writer), many of the “faces” couldn’t speak English. In fact, the “authentic” lordly Prince of the Medici, was really a taxi driver, an Italian-only speaker. A disaster. The non-English speaking actors were frantically moving their lips, in order to be dubbed later – babbling numbers, “trent-otto, cinquanta tre, venti quattro….”

The Dutch guide, however, did speak excellent English. But where was he? Nowhere. As time clicked by, minute by expensive minute, RR’s blood pressure clicked upwards, bloated vessel by vessel. What to do? How to avoid the sudden death – right before my eyes! – of one of Italy’s most beloved and innovator directors?

“Roberto,” I suddenly said, “why not change the priest to a nun? And why not have me play her? I know the lines. I wrote them. And I’m here.” RR’s tense, agitated features relaxed into a wide smile. “Mia ebrea atea!” (My Hebrew atheist!)

He called loudly, gestured widely, crew members hurried, nuns arrived. I was ushered into a large room, walls and ceilings of dark wood, low lights. The nuns, some serious, others giggling, brought out a nun’s habit, removed my profane clothing, and dressed me saintly, hood to foot. I was ushered back into the holy cathedral. RR was already stationed on his focus-pulling apparatus; camera, lights and mikes were ready.

“Azione” was called, and I went into my angry spiel, shaking a furious fist at the offending painting. Afterwards, I could tell by the crew’s reaction that I’d done well. A year later, when I saw the final film in a Manhattan movie theater, the sight of myself as a Catholic nun was quite startling, as well as the fact that I’d been dubbed, still in English, by a more practiced actress’s voice.

I was a Fulbright student at Italy’s State Film School (Il Centro Sperimentale di Cinematografia) and then worked in the U.S. as a documentary filmmaker, and a sub-titler of foreign films – which is how I met Roberto Rossellini. He had been criticized for his less than-accurate dubbing. And even though he complained, “We Italians look at the eyes; you Americans watch the mouths?” – still, he hired me to write English dialogue for his new docu-fiction trilogy “The Age of the Medici.”

Dying and Remembering

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by Joy Schulman

After my 50-year anniversary high school reunion, I was exhilarated and full of emotion, as was the rest of the organizing committee, which I headed. Through our conscientiousness and hard work, we had succeeded in getting out a representative portion of our class. As the class was 50 years ago, our attendance was equally divided between African-American and Jewish classmates. The valedictorian and salutatorian were both there, as well as the cheerleaders and best dancers. And to everyone’s delight, the basketball players showed up! That basketball team, those very tall Black men, had been named the best team in the country in 1967, and had gone on to play in college and professionally. We were all very happy to see each other. The dancing and socializing went on for nearly five hours. The night before, at was originally a gathering for out-of-towners, nearly 50 people showed up. And on Sunday morning over brunch, a classmate of our own, a well-known historian, talked about Jews and Blacks in Newark’s civil rights movement.

Out of a graduating class of 480 students, 160 attended, about one third. But the percentage was actually much higher because 59 of our fellow students had died.

There was only one dead student that I had known well–Tom Flagg–and he had been a very important friend to me. I met him in Honors English when I was a sophomore. We were both odd people out—-me because I came from one of the poorer schools that fed into Weequahic High and Tom because he was Black, even though he came from a richer school. We bonded very quickly and he would mouth snide comments to me from across the room. He was very smart and very athletic, seemingly the personality traits for being outgoing and confident, but he was very reserved. I got to know why: his parents, who both had PhDs, were trailblazers. His mother was the first Black person to become principal of an integrated school in Newark, and ultimately became Assistant Superintendent. Of course they wanted their children to go to the best elementary school in Newark, and so before he went to kindergarten, some white civil rights activists bought them a house on an all white block that was zoned for that best school. Until his younger sister enrolled 2 years later, he was the only Black student, and though he did not need guards at the door, he went through some awful stuff that he learned to endure and ignore by being reserved. My friendship with Tommy extended past high school. In our 20s, when I was home from Wisconsin and he from Michigan, we went into NYC together. (I remember it was to see a Woody Allen film.) And I spoke to him on the phone around 15 years ago, when I read that his mother was giving a keynote speech at the main branch of the Newark Public library. But that was the last time; the geographical distance between us was too great.

The alumni association of my high school has a weekly newsletter that I read irregularly. Two years ago they reported Tom dead, but I had not seen it. An old friend, who had read it, called me to offer condolences because she knew I was close to Tom. Instead she shocked me.

I really had no one to commiserate with and felt terrible. I wrote a little note on his legacy page, and I also wrote on the Facebook page of my high school classmates. About 20 people responded about what a nice kid he was. But their intensity did not match mine. Besides just liking him, I learned so much from his life experience. He was very smart, very respectful, but he had heard slurs even in elementary school. White people acted nervous when they were on an elevator with him. During the 1967 riots in Newark, he was stopped numerous times by the National Guard. I think that the racism was so stark because he fit no negative stereotype. When we were graduating in 1967, 43 colleges tried to recruit him, including the Ivy Leagues. He decided on University of Michigan, saying he did not want to be in an Ivy League fish bowl. His first letter to me from there had these words. “I feel like I don’t fit in anywhere, either with the poor Black kids from Detroit or the rich white kids from the suburbs.” That was the constant of his life. Without having anyone to grieve with, Tom’s death receded to the back of my mind.

Then about 6 months after his death, his sister contacted me. Though I did not know her at all, I was so happy to hear from her. The first line of her email was “you might not remember me, but I remember you” and an offering to send me Tom’s obituary. In response I poured out my heart to her, and we became email friends. We finally met for lunch in Newark. Afterwards, she drove us to the old neighborhood, where we dwelled on every corner and remembered the classmates that used to live there.

Their well known mother was still living at age 99. But she died a few months after I met up with Tom’s sister. Her funeral service was quite a send off—-a declaration from Newark’s mayor, Ras Baraka, the attendance of past mayors and city officials, as well as many of the children of those progressive parents who had conspired to buy the Flaggs a house on that formerly all white block. The Black congregants in the beautiful old Church in Newark sang familiar spirituals.

Alma Flagg was laid to rest, and so was my mind. I forgave myself for not seeing Tom in the years before his death.

Growing up in Newark influenced by whole life. I have been involved in progressive politics, with an emphasis on anti-racist work for my whole adult life, and professionally have been an advocate as a lawyer, community organizer and union representative.