Fall 2021

The Stranger

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by Ron Russo

Mimi and I were having dinner at a restaurant called Luigino’s. The place came highly recommended by a number of friends. Twice before we’d made a date to eat here, and twice we had to cancel our plans. We were two years out of college and going out to a nice dinner was still a treat.

The waiter took our drink order – Scotch and water for each – and we scanned the menu. I looked up to see a man, laden with shopping bags, being ushered to a table. We made quick eye contact, then I turned my attention back to the menu. Mimi asked what I was going to order, and I suggested that we split an antipasto then each order a main course. My choice was veal scallopini; for Mimi, the grilled veal chop.

The man who’d just entered the restaurant was fussing with his shopping bags, trying to get them in place; they kept falling off the chair. The noise attracted me and once more I looked in his direction. We made eye contact once again and he nodded at me. I nodded back. “Who are you nodding to?” Mimi asked.

“Just some guy who looks like he bought out an entire store. He must have money; the shopping bags are from Alley’s.” Alley’s was an expensive clothing store in Bensonhurst which catered to – – how shall I say this – – a clientele that favored shiny suits in flashy colors. Brooks Brothers it was not.

“Well don’t stare at him,” Mimi said.

We ordered our dinner and a bottle of wine. I couldn’t help sneaking an occasional peek at this bundle-of-energy man. He was in constant motion, fussing the shopping bags, fixing his tie, checking his cuff links, moving his chair farther in or farther out. On one of my peeks we made contact yet again, and he nodded and said “hello.” I returned his greeting then turned my attention back to Mimi. “I knew you’d say hello to this guy. You always attract the crazies.”

The stranger stared at the platter of antipasto as it passed him, on its way to our table: a bounty of cheeses, cured meats and stuffed mushrooms. As I put a forkful into my mouth I once again noticed the man staring. This time he said, “Excuse me, can I axe you a question?” Mimi sighed quietly. “Sure,” I replied.

“Have you kids been here before?”

“No, first time.”

“Cauz if you wuz here before you woulda ordered the clams casino.  They’re the best.”

“Next time I will, thank you” I said. Mimi and I continued to eat and chat.  A few minutes later the waiter was heading to our table with a large platter.  He was bringing the main course before we’ had even finished with the appetizer. “Poor service”, I thought; but it turned out to be a dozen clams casino. 

“Compliments of the gentleman at that table,” the waiter said, pointing.

I raised my glass in a salute and said “Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome. I hope you and your pretty friend like clams.” This, of course, got Mimi’s attention. She turned, raised her glass and thanked him also. “Salud,” he said.

“That was nice of him,” Mimi said. “I wonder why he’s eating alone?”

The clams casino were indeed delicious, and unusual in that they had slivers of prosciutto mixed into the breading. “Should we send over a drink, Mimi?”

“No, that’ll encourage him even more.”

We turned our attention to the main courses that were arriving and got lost in conversation. As we were finishing our meals, I sneaked another glance at the stranger. His table was filled with plates, which seemed largely untouched. He said, “Look at all this leftover food. It’s a sin. That’s why I hate to eat alone. It’s better when you share a meal.”

I couldn’t help myself.  “Would you like to join us?” I asked.

“I don’t wanna break in on your date,” he said.

 “No, really, it’s not a date, we’re friends. Join us.”

He summoned the waiter who pulled a table up to ours and started transferring the many dishes. “What’s your name? I’m Frankie Gagliardi,” the stranger said and I introduced myself and Mimi. Frankie was probably in his early fifties, thinning hair slicked back, well-fitted shiny suit. “Ya know, the name I go by is Frankie ol’ Pal. That’s because they say I’m everybody’s pal. Too friendly.”

Frankie ol’ Pal? Sounded like a gang nickname. But he was right about being friendly. For the next two hours he talked about himself, politics, family, food – but he also asked about us. By this point he’d ordered, and we’d finished, another bottle of wine. When we told him we lived in Bensonhurst, he was surprised. “Youz ain’t Italian, are you?”

 “Sure are. Mimi was born in Sicily, even.” Now he took Mimi’s hand and kissed it. “I swear, I thought you kids were real Americans, you know how they say, WASPs. I bet you went to college you’re smart, and speak so good. Let’s have a toast. You ever have Grand Marnier?” he asked, pronouncing it “Grand Man-yay”. We hadn’t. Once again the waiter was summoned and Frankie said, “Bring these kids some Grand Man-yay.  Bring the bottle.”

We drank a few rounds then suddenly Frankie looked at his watch and said “I gotta go, I still got some business tonight. My work never ends. But listen:  every Fourth of July I throw a block party on President Street. We have fireworks better than Macy’s. You kids come this year, promise?” Then he put his hand in his pocket, withdrew a business card and handed it to me. “If you ever need work, I could always use a smart young guy like you. I won’t forget.” In a flash, he and his shopping bags were out the door.

Mimi was quite drunk, and I was feeling no pain either. We called for the check and the waiter said, “Already taken care of.” We were delighted, though not surprised.

Next day Mimi was so hungover she took a sick day. I felt fairly wretched myself but made it through the workday. That night I called Mimi.  “Quite an evening we had. I think I got recruited for the Mafia. And I think it’s a better deal than working for the phone company. I’m gonna call him”, I said, only half-joking.

“Don’t be an idiot, Ronnie, you don’t fool around with stuff like this.” Of course, she was right.

Twenty odd years later, one June, I was in downtown Brooklyn and found myself walking along President Street. I saw a group of teenagers hanging out and I asked, “Do they still have the Fourth of July block party?  With fireworks?” They nodded yes. “And does Frankie Gagliardi still live here?” Now they stared at me with interest.

“You mean Frankie ol’ Pal? No, he died a few years ago. Who wants to know?”

“Just an old friend,” I replied, and began walking to the subway, thinking ….

Ron Russo has been taking writing study groups at LP2 for many years. They provide the inspiration for him to put fingers to keyboard.

Rice Balls

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by Ron Russo

It’s New Year’s Eve, early in the morning, and my father is already up, showered and dressed. He’s surveying the kitchen like a general, getting supplies out of the refrigerator and pantry, neatly arranging them. Today is one of many in which my father excels in the kitchen. But perhaps today is the greatest of them all. Today Charlie Russo is making rice balls.

Rice balls are known as “arancini” to Italians, meaning “little oranges.”  That’s how they’re shaped, and thus they were named. People in Dad’s neighborhood eagerly await this day, for tonight there’ll be a party at one of their homes and my father will attend, bearing a huge tray of these scrumptious treats.

My mother awakens soon, grabs a cup of coffee and does her own surveying. “Try not to use every god-damned pot and pan,” she warns. My father takes no heed; he hears this every year, nods his head, then moves forward using every pot and pan imaginable.

Making rice balls is an all-day process. “It takes as much work to make ten as it does to make sixty,” Dad’s often said. Sixty is the approximate goal every year. He starts by boiling the rice – three pounds of it – then draining it, slightly-undercooked. Quickly he adds a huge amount of butter and a very generous mountain of grated Parmigiano cheese. He mixes it all vigorously then starts preparing the filling, which is a simple ragu – – a meaty sauce which contains onion, garlic, ground beef and a hint of tomato sauce that is simmered till it’s thick and fragrant. While the ragu is cooking, dad occasionally stirs the rice so that it doesn’t stick. When it’s lukewarm, he adds about a dozen egg yolks. Once the ragu is ready, he pulls out the ice-cream scoop, digs it into the rice, and makes a half-ball. With a small teaspoon he forms a well in the center and fills it with ragu. Then, with his hands he molds a top half, and the first rice ball is ready for frying. This is done in olive oil. First it’s rolled into the saved egg whites, then breaded; finally getting lowered into the sizzling oil and fried till the coating is crisp.  One down, fifty-nine more to fry.

When in my forties I decided to make a batch of rice balls. I enjoyed cooking, and figured I’d invite some friends over to eat them. I tried to get the recipe from my father but it was painful for him to try and note measurements. “Use only imported Parmigiano,” he warned, but when I asked “How much?” I got “You know. Taste along the way, stop when it tastes right.” I used instinct and would have done fine if I’d remembered the eggs. Without them, the rice balls fell apart when I tried to fry them. So I got a tasty mountain of savory fried rice. It wasn’t bad, but still . . . . 

A few years later my father died, and about a month after his funeral I got an irrepressible yen for Dad’s rice balls. It was Christmas season, just the right time of year. I had finally wangled a recipe, with measurements, from Dad after my first failure. I was ready to go.

I set up the necessary pots, pans and bowls. I made sure that I had the eggs separated and ready; I’d lined up the ingredients for the ragu; I took the imported Parmigiano out of the fridge. I was going the full route: three pounds of rice to make approximately sixty arancini.

I worked very slowly and deliberately; I had no other plans for that day.  Shaping the balls was trickier than I’d figured, and I created a few unidentifiable geometric shapes before I got the hang of it. Needless to say my father was on my mind as I was working. I’m neither religious nor superstitious, but I found myself talking to him, in my head. “Let me get this right, Dad. Let these rice balls taste like yours.”

That night I had my brother to dinner. He was never a chatty sort, nor ebullient with praise, but he took his first bite of my rice ball and his eyes popped. “God, Ron. These taste just like Dad’s!” He couldn’t have said anything better. This coming New Year’s Eve I plan on making rice balls once again. In this time of social distancing, I don’t know with whom I’ll share them. But even if I just eat a few, and freeze the rest, it will be worth the effort. Because to hear my father’s voice once again, as I undoubtedly shall, will make it all worthwhile.

  

Ron Russo has been taking writing study groups at LP2 for many years. They provide the inspiration for him to put fingers to keyboard.

Betrayal

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by Ira Rubin

The hostess, nationally syndicated Hollywood reporter, Myra Klotchman, welcomed the audience to her weekly television show, “Do You Want To Hear A Secret?,” in which ordinary people reveal startling secrets about their lives in return for a weekday meal at a local Chinese take-out. The first guest was Amanda Lamar – not her true name – a 22-year-old woman studying to be a professional beauty consultant, vulgarly called a hairdresser, from Hackensack, New Jersey.

After exchanging small talk with Amanda, Myra cut to the chase.

Myra: Tell us, dear, what secret could a sweet young woman like you possibly have?

Amanda: Oh it’s horrible, Myra. I may never recover from the embarrassment.

Myra: About something you did?

Amanda: No, it was my fiancé, Jerome. How could he do this to me?

Myra: Oh my God; don’t tell us you found him with another woman?

Amanda: No, Myra, he didn’t cheat on me with a woman.

Myra: (gasping): You mean it was with a man?

Amanda: No he didn’t cheat on me with anyone. It would have been less humiliating if he had. I walked in unexpectedly on him last week and I couldn’t believe what I saw: he was admiring himself in the mirror dressed in my new wedding gown.

Myra: That bastard; how shocking that must have been for you.

Amanda:  Absolutely; I hadn’t even tried it on yet, and now I just can’t.

Myra: Because you’re too embarrassed?

Amanda: No, because it’s stretched out of shape. And that’s not the worst part.  I can live with his cross-dressing. What I can’t accept is he looked better in the gown than I did.

Myra:  Poor dear; that truly is a problem. How will you cope?

Amanda:  What choice do I have? It’s too late to find a new gown.  Tomorrow I’m going to shop for a tuxedo I can wear at the wedding.

Myra:  How inspiring! Audience, give this courageous woman a hand for facing up to and overcoming her potentially crushing secret. And now a word from our sponsor, Fantasy Vacations, the perfect place to design your ideal getaway or honeymoon. 

Ira Rubin has been a member of LP2 for the past four years during which he was a continuing participant in the writing class study group which provided valuable feedback on a draft of this piece.

 

 

The Book of Leonard

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by Ira Rubin

The other day I read with interest an article in the New York Times about a newly discovered biblical scroll, dubbed by scholars as the Book of Leonard.

The book tells of Leonard, a shepherd overwhelmed by misfortune: his camel was flatulent, his wife wanted to move to Babylon, and he was starting to lose his hair. In despair, he cried out to the Lord, “Most Holy, please come to my aid.” There was a thunderous crack, lightning flashed, and a cone of swirling winds appeared.

Hesitantly, Leonard began to speak, “Lord, the one true God, King of the Universe.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” interrupted a powerful voice from within the whirlwind. “What do you want?”

Leonard sobbed, “Lord, who hath all power, have pity on me.” He followed with his list of problems, adding for good measure his unhappiness about not being selected for the main role in the village’s annual Purim play, and begged the Lord for relief. 

The Lord answered, “What’s in it for me?”

Leonard responded by offering to sacrifice three sheep to the Lord on the following Sabbath. [According to the Times article, some scholars believe Leonard missed a critical opportunity here. In their view, the Lord was not asking for a sacrifice, but for a part in the Purim play. As proof, they note the Lord’s penchant for casting Himself in a starring role in most Biblical stories.]  

“Here’s the thing, Leo,” the Lord replied, “a lot of people have been sacrificing animals to me lately, and I’m starting to get a bit flabby. Instead of slaughtering the few healthy sheep you have left, I’d like you to do something else. All your people talk with a lisp. For example, the word is “has”, not “hath”. I’m embarrassed to tell you this, Len, but some of your neighbors are saying the lisp is a sign you’re the kind of men who like to have sex with other men. Personally, I couldn’t care less, but it makes it harder for Me to get converts, especially when you call yourselves My Chosen People.”

Leonard wasn’t sure how to respond. What’s a lisp, he thought, and why would men want to have sex with other men when there were plenty of sheep around?  Even so, he was desperate and agreed to the terms of the deal.

The same afternoon, Leonard gathered his family together to tell them his plan. He would wander the world in search of someone who knew what a lisp was and how to correct it. The family members listened calmly until told they would have to cancel their annual trip to the bazaar. At that point, they had a gerstenboomer (roughly translated as a hissy fit). His children refused to talk to him and his wife served him only yogurt at meals, which was not only monotonous, but gave him stomach cramps because he was lactose intolerant (or milkshugenah, as it was then called).

Leonard traveled far and wide before he came upon a people in the southern most part of the land whose speech included a sibilant ‘s’. At first, everyone scorned him for his lisp, but he kept up his pursuit until one woman agreed to teach him to speak as her people did in return for an expense-paid vacation at the Desert Sea Spa.

When his instruction was completed, Leonard returned home and called out once again to God in a strong Southern drawl. “Lawd, ah am back and speakin’ fine. Y’all c’mon down and listen to this good old boy’s sweet, sonorous, sibilant sounds.”

As before, thunder roared, lightning struck, and a whirlwind appeared. “Oh, it’s you, Leonard. What do you want?”

“I have fulfilled your request, Your Magnificence. Listen to my speech.  My lisp has disappeared, and I seek my promised reward.”

“I don’t remember, Leo.  Did we have an agreement?”

“Yes, Lord. You agreed to relieve me of some of my burdens if I corrected my lisp and taught my people to do the same.”

“Sorry, Len; I still don’t remember.  Look, I’m a little busy right now. The angels and I are debating the best way to stage the next extinction event.”

“What’s an extinction event, Lord?”

“It’s some type of disaster in which I wipe out most of the life on earth.”

“Why would you do that, Your Beneficence?”

“Same reason as always – boredom.”

“How will you extinguish us, Merciful One?”

“Good question, Lennie. We can’t decide between fire and flood. Any ideas?”

Seeing a chance to win the Lord’s favor, Leonard answered thoughtfully. “Well, fire would be quicker, but it’s harder to control and you still might need a flood to put it out. Worse, hot air rises. That may make heaven almost as hot as hell. All in all, I think a flood is the way to go.”

“Makes sense to me, Leon. Any thought about how to save some animals from drowning, so I don’t have to start all over?”

“Why not get someone to build a large boat to house a male and female of every species like you did with Noah; that worked out well, didn’t it?”

“I’m afraid the Holy Scriptures don’t tell the whole story, Len. I had to edit out some events to improve narrative flow. The carpenters picketed the building site because Noah wasn’t a dues-paying member of their guild, and the sanitary conditions aboard the ark were nauseating.”

Leonard was about to suggest that the next ark include a bunch of litter boxes in odd sizes, but the Lord spoke first. “Uh oh, time to go. I have a meeting with Papyrus Press. They want to publish a follow-up to the Bible in which I answer those people who question my actions. I’m going to call it, Because I Can.”

Leonard waited for the Lord to return, but He never did. Eventually, the forlorn shepherd gave up, went home and opened a shop selling umbrellas and rainwear.

The Times article states that scholars agree that the Book of Leonard is a parable, but are uncertain about its moral. Does the story caution about the ambiguity of God’s will, the foolishness of questioning your fate, or the harmful consequences of poor diction? Personally, I am most persuaded by Rabbi Mordechai Horowitz’s more pragmatic interpretation: “Never do work for someone else without a signed contract.”

Ira Rubin has been a member of LP2 for four years during which time he has greatly enjoyed and benefited from participating in an on-going writing study group.

 

 

JFK Comes Home to the Garment District

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by Sara Petitt

 The industry that I was part of for so many years has disappeared along with the wooly mammoth and the Tasmanian tiger. From the years after WW 2 until the 1990’s the garment district and textile manufacturers’ buildings lined the streets from 34th Street to 42nd Street on 7th Avenue.

During John Kennedy’s bid for the Presidency, he came to give a speech on a platform hastily built on 7th Avenue. It was October 27th, 1960 and the sun was shining when Kennedy mounted the platform. Workers from the nearby office buildings flooded the streets while hundreds looked down from open windows. I was packed in the crowd with other textile artists from my company. 

He started with an off the cuff joke given in his Boston accent, “I have returned to my people” which was followed by uproarious laughter from the crowd of mainly natives of Brooklyn and the Bronx. We all heartily cheered this handsome aristocratic looking man so alien to our neighborhood. 

When he finished his speech the cheering crowds threw swatches of fabric from the windows instead of the usual ticker tape. Then the frenzy really started. All eyes left Kennedy and flew upwards towards the cascading remnants of fabric. Voices around me shouted, “Look, look, Lowenstein is using Periwinkle Blue…do we have any in our line?” “Over there Cone Hall Marx is using olive green!!” Then the crowd dispersed and we all ran back to our offices not to discuss politics, but to repaint designs in the array of colors that floated from the sky that sunny day.

 

Although Sara Petitt taught design for 30 years at the college level, she always loved to write and often integrated writing into her artwork. 

 

Happy Writing?

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by Mary Padilla

Attaching an emotion to writing – specifying one in advance – seems unlikely to succeed. How could you know what will pop up when it’s all about spontaneity?  Each thing leads to the next; if it’s working, it’s unpredictable. If we could anticipate it, we wouldn’t need to do it – or want to. What makes it interesting is finding out where it wants to go on its own. Such things are not subject to free will. Perhaps nothing is, but surely not such things. Let the pencil go where it wants and follow where it leads. If we’re leading it, it’s lemmings for sure. How can we know what we think until we see what we write?  

Art that can be planned is not worth doing. We need it to surprise us, as it always will if it comes from what we don’t know that we know. That way we’ll never be bored, nor will the reader. To be happy is to be engaged, to be interested in what’s coming next, and to want to be around to find out. This is why we show up – because we want to. And wanting something is necessary but not sufficient for being happy. We need to care about something enough to want it. Whether we get it or not is much less important, neither necessary nor sufficient. 

Not trying allows it to happen of itself, if we’re not invested in making it materialize. It’s not some product we’re after, but the experience of having it pass through us freely and without interference, not needing or wanting for it to be examined or perfected. Being unexpected, it will be original – there is no other choice.

If we’re happy writing, then we’re not thinking about whether or not we’re happy.  If we’re wondering whether we’re happy, we probably aren’t. If we’re happy to be happy, that’s about all it takes. It doesn’t matter what it is we’re happy about. And if we’re not happy in this moment, that doesn’t mean that we won’t be in the next one.  It’s just not predictable. These things can come and go without our knowledge or consent, but they’re not entirely beyond reach. Just keep writing.  And then comes the most important part: knowing when to stop. When whatever we add makes it worse, it’s complete – before we start to over-think and over-write, just STOP.  

Since joining the LP2 several years ago, Mary has been trying new things, like essay writing.

 

 

 

Making It Out in Time

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by Mary Padilla

Really believing that you might be lost in the woods when the sun is going down is frightening. When you’re unsure of the trail as it becomes rapidly more difficult to discern the way, you realize that the chance of emerging before darkness is becoming exponentially less likely by the minute. Not only does it get much colder in the mountains after sundown, but that’s when the bears come out. And there’s no metal campground strongbox in the middle of the woods in which to stow your food overnight. It’s all in your backpack, and you’d better not discard it if you might be lost out there for a while. But those sealed packets won’t seriously stand in the way of detection by an animal whose sense of smell is as keen as its sight is poor. And bears are always hungry. Your rapidly increasing anxiety bodes no good. Whatever chance you have of getting out to safety soon depends on calmly attending to clues: Which way is the stream flowing so you can follow it out and down? Does the waning light making its way through the canopy line up with the moss on the trees as a compass? Can you spot any trail blazes on their trunks or the boulders? The birds are falling silent now as it darkens, so there could be a gradient of noises from civilization audible over the increasingly loud and rapid beating of your heart. Was that the sound of other hikers, or road noise…or something else? Can you recognize any landmarks you passed on the way in before it gets too dark to see any more? Is that the boulder that was next to the trailhead up ahead…or could it be the profile of an unmoving large animal?

Since joining the LP2 several years ago, Mary has been trying new things, like essay writing.

 

 

I Remember

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by Lale Odekon

I remember my four years old feet sinking into the warm, soft sand, my toes disappearing in it. I remember the cool waves and how they sent shivers up my spine as I ventured in over the pebbles and small fragments of sea- shells crunching under my feet…how the lapping waves caressed the moss-splotched rocks and left them glistening under the mid-summer sun. I remember running into the seaside hotel with bare feet over the carpets, leaving flecks of sand in my trail and how the tall spacious hallways felt so cool even in the  blistering heat outside….I remember the smell of toast wafting from the nearby kitchen on our way to breakfast on the terrace where tables were set up with white tablecloths and kind waiters would smear jam on tall narrow mouthed water bottles to attract the many bees so we would not get stung…I remember behind the hotel the cool reddish soiled patch surrounded by tall pine trees which was our playground where we the children played all sorts of pretend games and collected and exchanged pine cones and nuts…our fingers would  get all black and sticky.

The afternoons would be languid …. at the gate, on a large tray of block ice an old man would sell shelled almonds and fresh walnuts…. I remember one afternoon when my mother, as was her custom, dressed me in a nice white linen dress to welcome my father when he returned from work. I remember the older children deciding to go cherry picking on the grounds and asking me to come along. I felt so proud to be included as I hopped along among the purplish wisterias on my way to cherry picking…I helped them by holding my skirt up to catch the cherries they were throwing from above the trees. Then we shared them. I remember my mother’s fury when she laid eyes on me.

I remember the Maître D’, Anton, a roundish, jolly man who on most days would take the time to construct a stork for me out of metallic paper found in cigarette packs at the time…I loved them and collected all.

I remember the sadness when summer was over, and we returned to our apartment in the city. We always enjoyed the remaining sunny, and warm days by spending time in the balcony facing the back of the building overlooking the rose garden…I remember the roar I heard during lunch on the balcony on one such September day. A commotion followed with rowdy crowds looting stores and pots and pans and yards of jewel-colored fabrics being dragged through the streets and my friend Aline Melikian’s piano being thrown out from their third-floor apartment across the street…I remember the stillness and the sorrow that engulfed us afterwards.

I remember my first day of school…black pinafores…heavy school bags, a high-ceilinged old building with creaky floors, a stove in the center for heating…and an angry looking, old and not a very attractive teacher. In art class she had us color- a favorite activity of mine. A little while later I was bolted out of my pleasant immersion by an acute burning pain in my right ear…I look up and the teacher lets go of my burning ear…My crime? I was softly singing to myself as I colored…Then there was the time when at the end of the day we were all released into the courtyard running around and jostling…gradually the crowd thinned as each kid got picked up by an adult until I was the only one sitting on a bank, clutching my red bag…the air got chilly and the sky turned darker…and my mother finally showed up…no apology…just a misunderstanding between her and my grandfather as to who had to pick me up. 

The last day of the fifth grade we were to go to school wearing nice clothes. One was picked for me and was ready in my closet. I woke up early to a bright and sunny May day, happily anticipating putting on my new dress and having a good time with friends before we all dispersed for the summer and then later to different middle schools of our parents’ choice. I remember my father, still in his pajamas, dashing out of my parents’ room, the small red Grundig transistor radio attached to his ear and screaming, “coup, coup.” Then other radios were turned on, phone calls were made to friends and family…stealth look onto the avenue in front of our building…soldiers marching up and down…the radio blaring that there will be a curfew until otherwise announced.

In the all girls’ British middle school situated in an old dark building on a steep cobbled street in Beyoglu district of Istanbul, I remember the marble staircase and the creaking floors and the unhappy, stern British teachers all single and in their 30’s and 40’s…rules were plentiful…we wore  frumpy uniforms and a cap with a Latin inscription…we were the laughing stock of the boys and girls of the German High School a few blocks down the street who had no restrictions on their attire…we had to pray at lunch for ”what we had received,” which was nothing to speak of and on Monday morning assembly we had to cheer ”hip, hip hurray for the Queen!”  Worst of all we were forbidden to speak Turkish. If caught speaking in our native language we were given a key which we had to get rid of by spotting another twelve-year old classmate with the same infraction and pass the key. Whoever ended with the key at the end of the school day had to show up for Saturday detention and write pages of “I will speak only English” until their fingers cramped. I remember organizing a secret soccer game in the gallery of the assembly hall and getting caught when the ball hit a window.

I remember in the Spring of that year my father announced that we were going to a new restaurant on the Bosphorus. Its owner was Anton, the former Maître D’ of the now defunct summer resort of my early childhood. The resort’s former employees had all dispersed to other hotels in Istanbul and some had returned to their ancestral home, Greece. Which outfit to wear? How to style my hair? It was bad enough to be seen by anyone while out with parents but at least I could be absolutely cool if caught. Finally pleased with myself, I joined everyone in the car and we drove to Anton’s restaurant. After warm greeting and hugs all around we got settled and delicious dishes started arriving one after the other…at last Anton reappeared with a plate on which stood his signature stork made out of metallic paper…my cool and composure went out of the window…misty eyes and hugs…more hugs around the table…we mourned and rejoiced for the wonderful summers we all had shared.

I was born and raised in Istanbul, Turkey. I trained and practiced as an anesthesiologist in the US. When I retired a few years ago I joined IRP/LP2 and have been having the time of my life since.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Headwrap

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by Judith Meyerowitz

As a very small child, Jasmine had watched her grandmother fold the piece of cloth into a rectilinear shape and knot it on top of her head. It looked like a crown. It was very old. She loved to hear the story again and again of how it had been passed down from generation to generation. However, she never saw her mother wear it. When she asked her why, she would firmly say, “We are in America. Not Africa! We are in the North. Not the South!”

As she entered her teenage years, Jasmine was increasingly drawn to the beauty of the headwrap and curious about how it was made. Threads of multiple colors intertwined to create the traditional design. Her eyes followed with wonder the thin black and green cone shapes which rose into the gold and red sky. She thought about the weaving process.

She had watched with fascination on YouTube, men working the loom. The threads of different colors wrapped around their toes, the red brown soil and sweat of Africa mixed in with the colors.

She couldn’t figure out the spacing of the design. It was as if the weavers’ bodies knew where to place the threads, as if their feet danced the rhythm of mathematics. It was a striking piece of Kente cloth from Ghana.

Jasmine’s family was part of the Great Migration. Her great-grandparents had journeyed from Mississippi to Chicago following WW1, while the headwrap had journeyed from Africa to the South with slavery. It had gone from expressing African identity to symbolizing white power and enslavement.

She had seen the headwrap taken over once again by white America in the form of “Black Mammy” in old pancake ads and on servants in old movies. She felt demeaned not only as an African American but as a young African American woman.

She struggled with her own thoughts while also trying to understand her mother’s discomfort. She was in America and the North but how she saw herself was bound to the history and diaspora of her people. She had recently seen an exhibition on representing the Black model at a local art gallery. The theme was portrayed over time and between continents- Europe and America. She read the introduction: the purpose was to “explore aesthetic, political, social, and racial issues”. Beautiful and strong women looked out at her from the walls in headwraps.

Jasmine had never worn the headwrap. She went to the mirror and as if part of her body memory, her grandmother’s movements came back to her. She completed the crowning knot and got on the “L” that would bring Jasmine to her first class at the University of Chicago.

Judith has taken several writing and poetry study groups since joining. She thanks Voices and particularly the members of the Flash Fiction writing workshop for which this piece was written.

Knight of the Homeless

by

by Judith Meyerowitz

Four men ages forty-eight to eighty-three enter the night together. They are a band of brothers, related not by blood but by experience and homelessness. Banished from the kingdom, three huddle together while another lies down nearby. Having no home, they seek a safe dry place and sleep outside the city walls.

The four pass around a cheap flask and the moon reflects off the surface, a swig of whiskey their remaining comfort.

They recognize a young man from the streets, as much outcast as they from the towers of granite.

He is yelling crazily and brandishing a pipe:

“This is my land. Get out of my country. “

The metal object glistens in the moonlight. He raises it above and crashes it down on their heads.  

The four fall through the night.

Never to awaken

Suddenly out of the dark, an odd figure emerges cloaked in silver armor. All are blinded by the shimmering silverlight as if a mirage.  

He wears a chain mail necklace made from soda can tabs, tin plates show through beneath. He draws his sword— an umbrella with metallic spokes poking through. He wears his helmet— a shoebox adorned with foil and pieces of colored glass.

An urban knight on a quest for justice, his mission to avenge the deaths upon the Bowery. He rides through the streets of lower Manhattan on his bicycle, shielded by a garbage can lid, sweeping by the powerless who alone can visualize him.

They cheer as he chases the devil dressed in black, still holding the pipe with the blood of brothers and slays him under a full moon.

This work was developed for the Writing Workshop study group in the fall of 2019 and Judith thanks the coordinator and its members. The work is in memory of the four homeless men murdered as they slept on the Bowery in October of that year.