By Raanan Geberer
(originally published in "Mr. Beller's Neighborhood"
For seven years, I worked at Energy Saver’s News, a trade magazine that reported on commercial and industrial energy conservation. Six of those years were at the old Fairchild Publications building on East 12th Street near Fifth Avenue. It was a great neighborhood to work in: We were near both Stromboli Pizza and Ray’s Pizza, Cinema Village, the Jefferson Market Library and the Cedar Tavern. If I was willing to take off a little extra time from lunch, I could even walk to the East Village, to St. Marks Place.
We also had a pretty colorful crew of creative people at work, almost all of us in our early or mid-thirties. So many of us had played in rock bands that we once, just for the hell of it, had a rock band of our own. One of our statisticians had dropped out of Yale Medical School. At the other end of the spectrum, two of our reporters had previously been a truck driver and a security guard, respectively. One guy, who didn’t work too hard but was always cracking everybody up, later became a well-known TV comedy writer. The magazine’s founding editor, who left a few months after I came, was just beginning to write a series of best-selling novels about his Vietnam War experiences.
The work was pretty dull – “such and such hospital in Tempe, Arizona saved $30,000 a year by installing new Trane chillers” – but we felt good about the fact that we were encouraging people to save energy and help the environment. And during lulls in the work, we had a great time playing word games in the office.
Because there were so many different magazines in the same building with their own staff (including many attractive women), you felt like you were part of the same family – well, sometimes. I remember one of the few times we tried to cooperate with one of the other Fairchild magazines. Our editor, Robbie, went upstairs to the Supermarket Times editor, told her that we had a great story about energy conservation in supermarkets, and asked if she would like to print it, too. She just looked at him and said, “Well, we only print stories about supermarkets!”
The magazine had been founded in the 1970s at the height of the energy crisis, but by the time I came, the energy crisis was over. The first sign of trouble came about four years after I started working there. We always had several reporters in “bureaus” – one person in Washington, D.C.; one in Houston, one in San Francisco, one in Pittsburgh and one in Chicago. One day, after rumors about less and less advertising, the head of our publishing group, whom we rarely saw, gave us an ultimatum: Cut the staff in half! The bureau reporters, except for the one in Washington who followed government legislation, had to go. “I told them not to do any work for these last two weeks,” our editor, Robbie, confided in me.
About a year later, the group publisher retired. Fairchild, which was busy cultivating a high-fashion image with Women’s Wear Daily, W, and Home Furnishings, didn’t know what to do with us and the other technical magazines. So they arranged that we would get transferred to another publishing group within the Capital Cities-ABC group, Milltown Publishing, located in Newton, Mass. Milltown was best known for its automotive publications, and our new publisher, Harry Cuddy, was a hard-drinking, tough-talking, rugby-playing guy whose main claim to fame was having once been a successful used car dealer. They also took us out of the Fairchild Building and gave us a cramped space in an anonymous, soul-less building in the Midtown business district.
The first sign of change came over a minor matter – Harry, who traveled back and forth from New York to Newton, decided that all our folios at the top of the pages would have to be the same color, rather than red for heating and air conditioning, yellow for lighting, blue for oil and gas pricing, and so forth. Then he started having arguments with Bob DiGerolimo, our longtime ad manager, and we heard Harry calling Bob a “fucking moron.” Soon, Harry was out of there. But the most alarming trend was that whenever one of the editorial staff left, he was replaced by a new employee – but in Newton. Harry even talked about “getting a new core group together in Newton.” Larry, our equally tough-talking technology editor, confided in me, “You know, this newspaper does a lot to help the environment, but Milltown couldn’t give a rat’s ass!”
Then, one day, I heard Robbie yelling from Harry’s office, “Do you mean you’re firing me?” Harry brought the Washington, D.C. staffer to Newton to make her the editor. Larry went back to the Midwest, and I was alone in the New York office. It was just a matter of time before they laid me off and shut down the office completely. When Harry came into my room with a personnel official, I knew why. Harry was polite, for a change, and explained that this had nothing to do with my work, which he actually thought was good. Because I had been at Energy Saver’s News for so long, Milltown gave me 18 months severance pay, which was nice. Maybe they should have given me the opportunity to work in Newton, but the whole thing happened so fast, I couldn’t think that quickly. I called Robbie. “Kick Harry for me!” he said.
Milltown had the magazine for two or three years, then sold it to another publishing group, which changed its name and moved it to another part of the country. That magazine was sold twice more after that, moved offices at least one more time, and changed its named yet again.
I looked at it recently on the Web – there’s no trace of the old Energy Saver’s News. Even the type of news they cover is different. If I called them and told them about all the fun we had in Greenwich Village, they would probably be at a loss for words.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Friday, October 8, 2010
Why So Many Young People Hate Israel, and How To Fix This Situation
By Raanan Geberer
In a recent, excellent article in Dissent, Mitchell Cohen distinguishes that “the Left that Learns” from the past and “the Left that doesn’t learn.” Specifically, he’s talking about Israel, and distinguishes between those who are critical of Israel but seek to be fair and those for whom anti-Zionist rhetoric strays uncomfortably close to anti-Semitism. Before we go any further, I will say that I, as a member of J Street and a longtime reader of Tikkun, consider myself a member of the former camp.
Cohen says those who “don’t learn” – from historical incidents such as the Russian “Doctors’ Plot,” where anti-Zionism was used as a stand-in for anti-Semitism – subscribe to certain beliefs, attitude and behaviors, such as:
1) Zionism is an alien implant into the Middle East, created by imperialism. The age-old Jewish religious attachment to the Land of Israel is either ignored or ridiculed.
2) The very existence of Israel is un-democratic and discriminatory.
3) Israel’s misdeeds should be criticized ad infinitum, but other injustices, such as Darfur, can be summed up in one perfunctory sentences.
4) Any problem between the Arabs and Israel can be blamed on Israel exclusively. Even the existence of Hamas can be blamed on Israel.
As good as the article is, however, there are several points I believe it overlooks. For example, let’s take a look at some of the most prominent groups that I would consider hardline anti-Israel: the International Solidarity Movement, Jews Against the Occupation and International ANSWER. A great part of the membership of these organizations, if not the majority, consists of college students and other “twenty-somethings” and “thirty-somethings.”
And when these young people read about Israel on web sites or in newspapers, or see newscasts from Israel on TV, what do they see?
I’ll tell you what they DON’T see. They don’t see hordes of refugees trying to escape the British blockade because they have such a strong desire to live in a land of their own. They don’t see immigrants from almost every nation in Europe and Asia streaming into Haifa harbor and Israeli officials trying heroically to unite these diverse people into one nation. They don’t see muscular, suntanned kibbutzniks redeeming swamps and growing crops in places where nothing has grown for thousands of years.
They don’t see upbeat young people hitchhiking all over the country. They don’t see an army so egalitarian that the private sits down at lunch with the general. They don’t see plucky scientists thinking up plans to irrigate the desert and create homes for thousands of more people. And they don’t see novelists, poets and playwrights creating a new literature in a language that had been proclaimed dead for thousands of years.
No, those are the images of Israel that our parents, our grandparents knew. They were already dated when I came of age in the ‘70s, and they are totally remote to these young people now.
When these young people turn on the TV or the computer and see images of Israel, they see images of arrogant soldiers harassing civilians at checkpoints, bombing and strafing entire communities, demolishing houses, blockading cities into poverty, breaking up peaceful demonstrations, and firing tear gas and rubber bullets into crowds. They see Palestinian prisoners have been in prison for months without having been charged. And these are the ONLY images they see.
While it’s true that these young people lack a historical perspective, fewer and fewer young people in general have such a perspective. The numbers of history or political science majors is way, way down from what it was 20 or 30 years ago. Survey after survey, news article after news article, show that an alarming percentage of young Americans lack a basic knowledge of American history. And if this is how they react to American history, the chances are that they know even less about Middle Eastern history. No, all they have to go by are those images they see on TV or on the web.
If Israel negotiates honestly with the Palestinians as an equal rather than from a position of arrogance, puts through a meaningful settlement freeze and stands up to the right-wing settlers, if its soldiers are taught to be courteous when dealing with Palestinian civilians, if Israel stops violating international law when dealing with the Palestinians in the territories, if Israel minimizes the number of checkpoints and lifts the Gaza blockade, if Israel accepts the international consensus of a “two-state solution” using land for peace, then the “hate-Israel” chorus coming from college campuses will be diminished to one or two notes.
This, I guarantee you. There will always be some people who insist that Israel has no right to exist, but if Israel learns to respect human rights and the international consensus, those people will be as irrelevant as the Flat Earth Society.
In a recent, excellent article in Dissent, Mitchell Cohen distinguishes that “the Left that Learns” from the past and “the Left that doesn’t learn.” Specifically, he’s talking about Israel, and distinguishes between those who are critical of Israel but seek to be fair and those for whom anti-Zionist rhetoric strays uncomfortably close to anti-Semitism. Before we go any further, I will say that I, as a member of J Street and a longtime reader of Tikkun, consider myself a member of the former camp.
Cohen says those who “don’t learn” – from historical incidents such as the Russian “Doctors’ Plot,” where anti-Zionism was used as a stand-in for anti-Semitism – subscribe to certain beliefs, attitude and behaviors, such as:
1) Zionism is an alien implant into the Middle East, created by imperialism. The age-old Jewish religious attachment to the Land of Israel is either ignored or ridiculed.
2) The very existence of Israel is un-democratic and discriminatory.
3) Israel’s misdeeds should be criticized ad infinitum, but other injustices, such as Darfur, can be summed up in one perfunctory sentences.
4) Any problem between the Arabs and Israel can be blamed on Israel exclusively. Even the existence of Hamas can be blamed on Israel.
As good as the article is, however, there are several points I believe it overlooks. For example, let’s take a look at some of the most prominent groups that I would consider hardline anti-Israel: the International Solidarity Movement, Jews Against the Occupation and International ANSWER. A great part of the membership of these organizations, if not the majority, consists of college students and other “twenty-somethings” and “thirty-somethings.”
And when these young people read about Israel on web sites or in newspapers, or see newscasts from Israel on TV, what do they see?
I’ll tell you what they DON’T see. They don’t see hordes of refugees trying to escape the British blockade because they have such a strong desire to live in a land of their own. They don’t see immigrants from almost every nation in Europe and Asia streaming into Haifa harbor and Israeli officials trying heroically to unite these diverse people into one nation. They don’t see muscular, suntanned kibbutzniks redeeming swamps and growing crops in places where nothing has grown for thousands of years.
They don’t see upbeat young people hitchhiking all over the country. They don’t see an army so egalitarian that the private sits down at lunch with the general. They don’t see plucky scientists thinking up plans to irrigate the desert and create homes for thousands of more people. And they don’t see novelists, poets and playwrights creating a new literature in a language that had been proclaimed dead for thousands of years.
No, those are the images of Israel that our parents, our grandparents knew. They were already dated when I came of age in the ‘70s, and they are totally remote to these young people now.
When these young people turn on the TV or the computer and see images of Israel, they see images of arrogant soldiers harassing civilians at checkpoints, bombing and strafing entire communities, demolishing houses, blockading cities into poverty, breaking up peaceful demonstrations, and firing tear gas and rubber bullets into crowds. They see Palestinian prisoners have been in prison for months without having been charged. And these are the ONLY images they see.
While it’s true that these young people lack a historical perspective, fewer and fewer young people in general have such a perspective. The numbers of history or political science majors is way, way down from what it was 20 or 30 years ago. Survey after survey, news article after news article, show that an alarming percentage of young Americans lack a basic knowledge of American history. And if this is how they react to American history, the chances are that they know even less about Middle Eastern history. No, all they have to go by are those images they see on TV or on the web.
If Israel negotiates honestly with the Palestinians as an equal rather than from a position of arrogance, puts through a meaningful settlement freeze and stands up to the right-wing settlers, if its soldiers are taught to be courteous when dealing with Palestinian civilians, if Israel stops violating international law when dealing with the Palestinians in the territories, if Israel minimizes the number of checkpoints and lifts the Gaza blockade, if Israel accepts the international consensus of a “two-state solution” using land for peace, then the “hate-Israel” chorus coming from college campuses will be diminished to one or two notes.
This, I guarantee you. There will always be some people who insist that Israel has no right to exist, but if Israel learns to respect human rights and the international consensus, those people will be as irrelevant as the Flat Earth Society.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Hostility to Public Employees: Based on Jealousy
By Raanan Geberer
Originally published in Brooklyn Daily Eagle
BROOKLYN — In times of austerity, officials — especially Republicans — seem to target public employees, especially state and municipal workers. They propose layoffs and hiring freezes without regard for what those workers and their families might think.
They express outrage over these workers’ “huge” raises, seemingly automatic promotions and “Cadillac” health plans. Their attitude is summed up by a remark I once heard a Republican candidate for lieutenant governor say at a press conference: “When we were in office, such and such number of jobs were created — and by jobs, I mean productive jobs, private-sector jobs.”
This attitude has filtered down to the people at large. Friends of public employees often ask them, in jest, whether they really work. City and state workers are thought to be immune to being fired, especially if they’ve been there for awhile.
When real abuses exist, such as a few years ago, when it was brought to people’s attention that subway conductors on “layup” for two or three hours between trains were still paid for those hours, critics jump all over them. They find in these incidents an excuse to criticize all public employees — and especially public employee unions — by default.
I’ve had two stints as a public employee, one as an assistant manager in the Section 8 housing program for several years and one as a census interviewer for about a month, and from my standpoint, public employees are very productive. Without the census, federal resources wouldn’t get to the right people. Without the Section 8 housing program, many people couldn’t afford their apartments. And by the way, there were several people at Section 8 who were fired due to poor performance, disproving an old canard. Furthermore, let’s look at some other public employees. Without bridge and tunnel employees, it wouldn’t be safe to cross over the George Washington Bridge or go through the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel. Without police officers, no place would be safe. Without Health Department inspections, thousands of people would die from eating tainted food. And without police officers, no one would be safe, although most of those who slam civil servants make an exception for police officers, firefighters and sanitation people.
Much of the anger at public employees focuses on teachers, who supposedly aren’t getting the “results,” making A students out of D students, as if such a thing could be accomplished overnight. There are some people such as myself, who could read, write and do simple math by age 5 or 6 (I learned to read by asking my mother what was written on the sides of the freight cars that we saw going by at a nearby railroad yard). But for the great majority of people, their first exposure to the three Rs came in the classroom.
Perhaps what really ticks people off about civil servants is JEALOUSY! Deep down inside, most people would like to have the regularly scheduled raises, number of days off, health coverage, pensions, etc., that city and state workers have. At one time, most employees of big companies such as GM, GE and IBM had very similar benefits, but then the corporations began chipping away at them. Rather than attacking public employees, I think, politicians should try to create a climate where ALL workers — public and private — will have the security that public workers now enjoy.
Originally published in Brooklyn Daily Eagle
BROOKLYN — In times of austerity, officials — especially Republicans — seem to target public employees, especially state and municipal workers. They propose layoffs and hiring freezes without regard for what those workers and their families might think.
They express outrage over these workers’ “huge” raises, seemingly automatic promotions and “Cadillac” health plans. Their attitude is summed up by a remark I once heard a Republican candidate for lieutenant governor say at a press conference: “When we were in office, such and such number of jobs were created — and by jobs, I mean productive jobs, private-sector jobs.”
This attitude has filtered down to the people at large. Friends of public employees often ask them, in jest, whether they really work. City and state workers are thought to be immune to being fired, especially if they’ve been there for awhile.
When real abuses exist, such as a few years ago, when it was brought to people’s attention that subway conductors on “layup” for two or three hours between trains were still paid for those hours, critics jump all over them. They find in these incidents an excuse to criticize all public employees — and especially public employee unions — by default.
I’ve had two stints as a public employee, one as an assistant manager in the Section 8 housing program for several years and one as a census interviewer for about a month, and from my standpoint, public employees are very productive. Without the census, federal resources wouldn’t get to the right people. Without the Section 8 housing program, many people couldn’t afford their apartments. And by the way, there were several people at Section 8 who were fired due to poor performance, disproving an old canard. Furthermore, let’s look at some other public employees. Without bridge and tunnel employees, it wouldn’t be safe to cross over the George Washington Bridge or go through the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel. Without police officers, no place would be safe. Without Health Department inspections, thousands of people would die from eating tainted food. And without police officers, no one would be safe, although most of those who slam civil servants make an exception for police officers, firefighters and sanitation people.
Much of the anger at public employees focuses on teachers, who supposedly aren’t getting the “results,” making A students out of D students, as if such a thing could be accomplished overnight. There are some people such as myself, who could read, write and do simple math by age 5 or 6 (I learned to read by asking my mother what was written on the sides of the freight cars that we saw going by at a nearby railroad yard). But for the great majority of people, their first exposure to the three Rs came in the classroom.
Perhaps what really ticks people off about civil servants is JEALOUSY! Deep down inside, most people would like to have the regularly scheduled raises, number of days off, health coverage, pensions, etc., that city and state workers have. At one time, most employees of big companies such as GM, GE and IBM had very similar benefits, but then the corporations began chipping away at them. Rather than attacking public employees, I think, politicians should try to create a climate where ALL workers — public and private — will have the security that public workers now enjoy.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Night Pharmacies: Are We Going Back to the Bad Old Days?
By Raanan Geberer
Brooklyn Daily Eagle
BROOKLYN – Last weekend, on the way back home from somewhere at night, I decided to drop a prescription off at my local chain drugstore (which shall go nameless). I had done so a hundred times—since they opened, the pharmacy department itself has been open all night.
This time, however, when I entered the store, I saw a locked gate at the pharmacy department. And when I asked the clerk behind the counter, he directed me to a sign saying, “As of August 6, the pharmacy will be open from 8 a.m. to 10 p.m. on weekdays; on weekends it will be open from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m.”
This may not be a big deal for the average person, but it presents a problem for someone who takes five or six prescription medications regularly. Thank God my asthma hasn’t been serious for the last 12 years, but what if it was and getting the prescription quickly was the only alternative to going to the emergency room? Or what if I had just gotten out of the hospital and needed to fill a prescription right away?
I was in both of these situations in the early 1990s when I lived in the Kings Highway area and my asthma was still serious. In the case when I was let out of the emergency room and desperately needed to get a prescription filled to make sure I didn’t have another attack, I had to spend a lot of money on a cab to the nearest all-night pharmacy, in Kings Plaza.
At the time, I remember, there were one or two others well-known all-night drugstores. I remember the Neergard Pharmacy in Park Slope and a well-known one on the Upper East Side of Manhattan (where a physician friend of mine sent me, with a prescription, when I had an attack in Manhattan). There weren’t very many others.
I understand how large drug chains might want to cut back in this economy. I also know that they are leaving some outlets open with all-night pharmacy sections. But these may not be enough.
No one wants to go back to the days when every person with a serious illness had to memorize the names and locations of those few pharmacies where one can go to in the middle of the night in case of an emergency.
Brooklyn Daily Eagle
BROOKLYN – Last weekend, on the way back home from somewhere at night, I decided to drop a prescription off at my local chain drugstore (which shall go nameless). I had done so a hundred times—since they opened, the pharmacy department itself has been open all night.
This time, however, when I entered the store, I saw a locked gate at the pharmacy department. And when I asked the clerk behind the counter, he directed me to a sign saying, “As of August 6, the pharmacy will be open from 8 a.m. to 10 p.m. on weekdays; on weekends it will be open from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m.”
This may not be a big deal for the average person, but it presents a problem for someone who takes five or six prescription medications regularly. Thank God my asthma hasn’t been serious for the last 12 years, but what if it was and getting the prescription quickly was the only alternative to going to the emergency room? Or what if I had just gotten out of the hospital and needed to fill a prescription right away?
I was in both of these situations in the early 1990s when I lived in the Kings Highway area and my asthma was still serious. In the case when I was let out of the emergency room and desperately needed to get a prescription filled to make sure I didn’t have another attack, I had to spend a lot of money on a cab to the nearest all-night pharmacy, in Kings Plaza.
At the time, I remember, there were one or two others well-known all-night drugstores. I remember the Neergard Pharmacy in Park Slope and a well-known one on the Upper East Side of Manhattan (where a physician friend of mine sent me, with a prescription, when I had an attack in Manhattan). There weren’t very many others.
I understand how large drug chains might want to cut back in this economy. I also know that they are leaving some outlets open with all-night pharmacy sections. But these may not be enough.
No one wants to go back to the days when every person with a serious illness had to memorize the names and locations of those few pharmacies where one can go to in the middle of the night in case of an emergency.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Cuteness
By Raanan Geberer
Published on polseguera.com
Many years ago, when I was working in public housing management in Boston, a new co-worker came to us. Her name was Marcia. She was very short, around 5 foot 1, had curly red hair, and spoke in a tiny, high voice that endeared me to her. She dressed in clothes that seemed exotic to me – silk scarves, white blouses with ruffles, charcoal wool skirts – and this added to her charm. Years later, I realized that this wasn’t that uncommon, it was just upper-class – her father was an executive at some big public relations firm, and she herself had gone to Sarah Lawrence. She played the cello, and this, too, drew me to her, since I once played the violin. And the fact that she frequently had bags under her eyes said to me, right or wrong, that she had been crying – and made me identify with her, since I had suffered too.
Soon, I fell in love with her. With every minute, I looked across the room at her. Something told me she was looking at me too. Although when I spoke to her, her voice lowered, she stuttered and she sometimes looked away, I attributed that to shyness – that she felt the same way I did, but was afraid to show it. In my mind, I called her my little darling, my little sweetheart, my little fairy-tale princess, my little angel. I even made up a name for her: “Miss Tiny Face.” It’s no secret–my little-girl fantasy was in overdrive! At the office Christmas party, I took her hand under the table and she withdrew it, mumbling something. So much in love was I, however, that I took that as a sign that she felt the same way I did but didn’t feel this was the right time or place to show it.
By this point, I had convinced myself that I was going to marry her, that our meeting here was part of God’s plan. The mere sight of her put me into a trance. I was going crazy, wondering what I could do to be with her. If I tried something, surely everyone would know. I had an idea. My parents were having a Passover seder in a few months. I would invite her there, then, on the way home, confess my feelings toward her, and we’d begin our relationship. I congratulated myself on such a clever plan. Within a year, we’d be married.
But it never happened. Soon afterward, she began flirting with another co-worker – oddly, a rather tall guy – and seeing him after work. With him, she was open, excited, laughing, extroverted. So she was shy only where I was concerned! What a shock! I went home and cried every day. Sometimes I’d come into the office over the weekend, when no one was around, go over to her desk, talk to her as if she were there, and cry some more. I fantasized that someday I’d sing old romantic songs like “It’s Only a Paper Moon” to her, and that in a flash, she’d finally understand and fall in love with me, too.
Then came a second shock. Within a month, she apparently stopped seeing this guy as well, since not only did she no longer talk to him but just stared at him with an icy glance when he addressed her. Sometimes, she’d direct nasty, insulting and sarcastic remarks to him, then laugh. I was shocked. This wasn’t the way a little darling, a little angel, was supposed to behave! Why couldn’t she be the way I wanted her to be – sweet, shy, vulnerable?
The day after she left the job, I called her.
“Marcia, this is Joe.”
“Oh. How are you?” I could tell she was nervous.
“Marcia, I’d like to discuss my feelings for you.”
I was extremely proud of my bravery, my boldness, but was met only with silence.
“Marcia, I said I’d like to discuss my feelings for you.”
“There is nothing to discuss! I thought I made that clear by our conversation at Steve’s birthday party.” That conversation only lasted for a few seconds, and besides I was drunk at the time, so I didn’t really remember it.
“Well, I’ll GIVE you something to discuss,” I said, my voice rising. “Would you like to marry me?”
“Joe, I think I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
“But Marcia....”
“Goodbye! Don’t call again!” I didn’t know whether to cry or to curse her out. In time, I stopped thinking about her.
* * *
It was 25 years later. My wife Ronnie and I were still grieving over the loss of Celeste, the wonderful tabby cat whom we had taken care of for 16 years. At the vet, we saw a beautiful 9-month-old female cat up for adoption named Fuzzy, another tabby, but silver. Around her head, she had the typical tabby stripes, but she also had spots on her body like a leopard. When we stuck our fingers in the cage, she came to us and sniffed them. She also let us shake her paws through the cage. “She has such sweet, spiritual eyes,” enthused Ronnie. “And she’s so beautiful!” Soon, we filled out adoption papers for her.
We had to wait for the cat rescue organization who put her there to approve us, but in the meantime, we went to the vet every spare chance we had to say hello to Fuzzy. On one occasion, they let us take her out of the cage and into an exam room – under their supervision, of course – and we both petted her.
We finally heard from the animal rescue organization, but it was not what we thought. “Your wife told me she wants a really cuddly, friendly cat,” said this woman, Kathy, “but we’re not sure that Fuzzy is right for you. She spend the first five months of her life in an outdoor cat colony and we’re not sure whether she ever lived in a home with humans before. She’s somewhat unpredictable–we’re thinking that she might need a home with other cats, or she might need to be fostered.”
Kathy sent us an e-mail with pictures of other cats, most of them older, and asked us to come to the organization’s main headquarters, where they kept most of their other cats. But the day before we were supposed to go, I visited the vet one more time. Fuzzy was still there, and when I put my finger in, she once again put her paw to it. Looking at her, I started crying. I didn’t want to give up my little baby, my sweet, fragile little thing, no matter what Kathy said! I called Ronnie and told her I wanted Fuzzy. Then I called Kathy and told her of my decision. Kathy seemed oddly non-committal. “OK,” she said, “so you’ll try Fuzzy.” Try? Why just try?
The next day, my wife went to the vet and picked up Fuzzy. Although I didn’t know it until later, as she was leaving with the cat, one of the vet’s assistants turned to her, smiling, and said, “She bites, but we like her anyway.” My wife was slightly taken aback, but she took Fuzzy home nonetheless. Later on, she told me she wished she had listened to him
For the first few days, Fuzzy hid a lot. She knew how to eat and how to use the littler box. As a matter of fact, she kept eating – and kept mewing for food. But often, when she saw us coming or even when she saw one of us make a sudden motion, she froze and hid behind the television.
After a week or so, she started coming out and even sat next to my wife on the sofa. Several times, she licked my wife’s face. “Oh, thank you, thank you!” Ronnie said. She also loved to chase the foam rubber balls we bought for her. But Fuzzy’s friendliness definitely had its limits. When we tried to pet her, more often than not, she’d bite after a few seconds. She’d turn her head, open her mouth wide, then lunge forward with her head.
At first, my wife made light of it. “It’s only been a week,” she said. “When we had Celeste only a week, she was still in the closet!”
After awhile, she improved–a little bit. Soon, she only bit about half or a third of the time we tried to pet her. Ronnie told me about one incident when Fuzzy jumped up, opened her mouth like she was going to bite her, but then, apparently changing her mind, started licking her instead.
And then, after we’d had her about two weeks, she stopped “developing.” Sometimes she gave the appearance of being friendly and my wife would start to pet her, only to have her suddenly bite. “She’s a rotten bastard!” my wife yelled once after Fuzzy suddenly lunged at her. About the same time, Fuzzy began screaming for food earlier and earlier in the morning – and whenever I went into the kitchen, she followed me and looked up, expecting to be fed. It didn’t make any difference whether she’d been fed only an hour or two ago.
She was a little more friendly with me than with Ronnie – probably because I was the one who fed her in the morning – and she let me pet her for longer periods than my wife. Sometimes, when I came out in the morning in response to her cries, she was so grateful to see me that she jumped up and grasped my hand with her paws. But even I had to keep a close eye on her, because she might decide to bite at any minute. Once, as I was singing a childlike song that I had just composed for her and shaking her paws gently, she suddenly moved her head forward and bit my hand. I burst into tears.
My wife called her an “ice princess” and said, “When I come home, I don’t look forward to seeing her. Of course I’ll take care of her, but he thought of seeing her doesn’t thrill me.” And after we had one or two more arguments about the cat, I began making calls and sending e-mails to the vet and to the adoption agency, asking about our options. The girl at the vet’s office said that we could make an appointment to discuss the cat’s behavior problems, but if it didn’t work out, we could always bring her back. ‘It’s not that unusual,” she said.
During the next two weeks, I began to read up on the web about cats with biting problems. I tried everything they recommended – walking away, hitting her gently on the nose, saying “NO!” in a loud voice – and nothing seemed to work. I even called my wife’s friend Judy, who had raised a cat that had been pretty wild and aggressive when she’d first gotten her as a kitten.
“She could change,” said Judy, “but with our cat, it took years – and there’s no guarantee.”
The next weekend, we went away for three days. We warned the neighbor whom we were paying to feed Fuzzy NOT to pet her. When we came back, twice that evening, she jumped on my wife’s leg and clawed it. “She probably wants to play,” my wife said, giving her the benefit of the doubt. So she took out the foam rubber balls and watched Fuzzy bat them around. By now, this was the only pleasure we derived from having Fuzzy.
Later, after Fuzzy had tired herself out, I went over to her and talked to her in a soft voice, half in tears. “PLEASE, be a good girl and a nice baby! We don’t want to have to return you! Be a nice little cat!” I started petting her gently, but after about the seventh pet, she turned her head and bit my finger. She didn’t get the message.
When we had first gotten Fuzzy, we decided that she would sleep in the living room, at least for awhile– we wanted to get to know her a bit before she could sleep with us, like Celeste did. But that night, when we were lying in bed, my wife suddenly screamed.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “She’s in here! She just jumped on my belly with her claws out! Look–I’m bleeding!” I searched the room for her, found her hiding under the bed, then carried into the living room. That night, we both decided that we’d bring her back to the vet first thing in the morning.
As I was dropping her off in the vet’s office, a thin, short-haired young woman saw me and introduced herself to me. It was Kathy from the rescue organization.
“Thanks for your e-mail from a few days ago,” she said. “Now we know more about Fuzzy’s behavior patterns. Instead of placing her for adoption, we’ll try to get someone to foster her. When you said you wanted Fuzzy, I thought, `Well, I really don’t know......’ She probably never was in a home before!”
Leaving the vet’s, I though about Marcia for the first time in a long time. There were some similarities between Marcia and Fuzzy, I reflected. In both cases, I made decisions based on outward appearances – Marcia’s adorable little-girl looks, Fuzzy’s beautiful silver fur. I should have paid attention to the little signs that could have told me what they were like inside.
On a deeper level, I remembered how, so many years ago, the neighbor who gave us our old cat, Celeste, told us, “If you give her love, she’ll give you love in return.” With both Marcia and Fuzzy, on the other hand, I tried to give love, but received something quite different.
Published on polseguera.com
Many years ago, when I was working in public housing management in Boston, a new co-worker came to us. Her name was Marcia. She was very short, around 5 foot 1, had curly red hair, and spoke in a tiny, high voice that endeared me to her. She dressed in clothes that seemed exotic to me – silk scarves, white blouses with ruffles, charcoal wool skirts – and this added to her charm. Years later, I realized that this wasn’t that uncommon, it was just upper-class – her father was an executive at some big public relations firm, and she herself had gone to Sarah Lawrence. She played the cello, and this, too, drew me to her, since I once played the violin. And the fact that she frequently had bags under her eyes said to me, right or wrong, that she had been crying – and made me identify with her, since I had suffered too.
Soon, I fell in love with her. With every minute, I looked across the room at her. Something told me she was looking at me too. Although when I spoke to her, her voice lowered, she stuttered and she sometimes looked away, I attributed that to shyness – that she felt the same way I did, but was afraid to show it. In my mind, I called her my little darling, my little sweetheart, my little fairy-tale princess, my little angel. I even made up a name for her: “Miss Tiny Face.” It’s no secret–my little-girl fantasy was in overdrive! At the office Christmas party, I took her hand under the table and she withdrew it, mumbling something. So much in love was I, however, that I took that as a sign that she felt the same way I did but didn’t feel this was the right time or place to show it.
By this point, I had convinced myself that I was going to marry her, that our meeting here was part of God’s plan. The mere sight of her put me into a trance. I was going crazy, wondering what I could do to be with her. If I tried something, surely everyone would know. I had an idea. My parents were having a Passover seder in a few months. I would invite her there, then, on the way home, confess my feelings toward her, and we’d begin our relationship. I congratulated myself on such a clever plan. Within a year, we’d be married.
But it never happened. Soon afterward, she began flirting with another co-worker – oddly, a rather tall guy – and seeing him after work. With him, she was open, excited, laughing, extroverted. So she was shy only where I was concerned! What a shock! I went home and cried every day. Sometimes I’d come into the office over the weekend, when no one was around, go over to her desk, talk to her as if she were there, and cry some more. I fantasized that someday I’d sing old romantic songs like “It’s Only a Paper Moon” to her, and that in a flash, she’d finally understand and fall in love with me, too.
Then came a second shock. Within a month, she apparently stopped seeing this guy as well, since not only did she no longer talk to him but just stared at him with an icy glance when he addressed her. Sometimes, she’d direct nasty, insulting and sarcastic remarks to him, then laugh. I was shocked. This wasn’t the way a little darling, a little angel, was supposed to behave! Why couldn’t she be the way I wanted her to be – sweet, shy, vulnerable?
The day after she left the job, I called her.
“Marcia, this is Joe.”
“Oh. How are you?” I could tell she was nervous.
“Marcia, I’d like to discuss my feelings for you.”
I was extremely proud of my bravery, my boldness, but was met only with silence.
“Marcia, I said I’d like to discuss my feelings for you.”
“There is nothing to discuss! I thought I made that clear by our conversation at Steve’s birthday party.” That conversation only lasted for a few seconds, and besides I was drunk at the time, so I didn’t really remember it.
“Well, I’ll GIVE you something to discuss,” I said, my voice rising. “Would you like to marry me?”
“Joe, I think I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
“But Marcia....”
“Goodbye! Don’t call again!” I didn’t know whether to cry or to curse her out. In time, I stopped thinking about her.
* * *
It was 25 years later. My wife Ronnie and I were still grieving over the loss of Celeste, the wonderful tabby cat whom we had taken care of for 16 years. At the vet, we saw a beautiful 9-month-old female cat up for adoption named Fuzzy, another tabby, but silver. Around her head, she had the typical tabby stripes, but she also had spots on her body like a leopard. When we stuck our fingers in the cage, she came to us and sniffed them. She also let us shake her paws through the cage. “She has such sweet, spiritual eyes,” enthused Ronnie. “And she’s so beautiful!” Soon, we filled out adoption papers for her.
We had to wait for the cat rescue organization who put her there to approve us, but in the meantime, we went to the vet every spare chance we had to say hello to Fuzzy. On one occasion, they let us take her out of the cage and into an exam room – under their supervision, of course – and we both petted her.
We finally heard from the animal rescue organization, but it was not what we thought. “Your wife told me she wants a really cuddly, friendly cat,” said this woman, Kathy, “but we’re not sure that Fuzzy is right for you. She spend the first five months of her life in an outdoor cat colony and we’re not sure whether she ever lived in a home with humans before. She’s somewhat unpredictable–we’re thinking that she might need a home with other cats, or she might need to be fostered.”
Kathy sent us an e-mail with pictures of other cats, most of them older, and asked us to come to the organization’s main headquarters, where they kept most of their other cats. But the day before we were supposed to go, I visited the vet one more time. Fuzzy was still there, and when I put my finger in, she once again put her paw to it. Looking at her, I started crying. I didn’t want to give up my little baby, my sweet, fragile little thing, no matter what Kathy said! I called Ronnie and told her I wanted Fuzzy. Then I called Kathy and told her of my decision. Kathy seemed oddly non-committal. “OK,” she said, “so you’ll try Fuzzy.” Try? Why just try?
The next day, my wife went to the vet and picked up Fuzzy. Although I didn’t know it until later, as she was leaving with the cat, one of the vet’s assistants turned to her, smiling, and said, “She bites, but we like her anyway.” My wife was slightly taken aback, but she took Fuzzy home nonetheless. Later on, she told me she wished she had listened to him
For the first few days, Fuzzy hid a lot. She knew how to eat and how to use the littler box. As a matter of fact, she kept eating – and kept mewing for food. But often, when she saw us coming or even when she saw one of us make a sudden motion, she froze and hid behind the television.
After a week or so, she started coming out and even sat next to my wife on the sofa. Several times, she licked my wife’s face. “Oh, thank you, thank you!” Ronnie said. She also loved to chase the foam rubber balls we bought for her. But Fuzzy’s friendliness definitely had its limits. When we tried to pet her, more often than not, she’d bite after a few seconds. She’d turn her head, open her mouth wide, then lunge forward with her head.
At first, my wife made light of it. “It’s only been a week,” she said. “When we had Celeste only a week, she was still in the closet!”
After awhile, she improved–a little bit. Soon, she only bit about half or a third of the time we tried to pet her. Ronnie told me about one incident when Fuzzy jumped up, opened her mouth like she was going to bite her, but then, apparently changing her mind, started licking her instead.
And then, after we’d had her about two weeks, she stopped “developing.” Sometimes she gave the appearance of being friendly and my wife would start to pet her, only to have her suddenly bite. “She’s a rotten bastard!” my wife yelled once after Fuzzy suddenly lunged at her. About the same time, Fuzzy began screaming for food earlier and earlier in the morning – and whenever I went into the kitchen, she followed me and looked up, expecting to be fed. It didn’t make any difference whether she’d been fed only an hour or two ago.
She was a little more friendly with me than with Ronnie – probably because I was the one who fed her in the morning – and she let me pet her for longer periods than my wife. Sometimes, when I came out in the morning in response to her cries, she was so grateful to see me that she jumped up and grasped my hand with her paws. But even I had to keep a close eye on her, because she might decide to bite at any minute. Once, as I was singing a childlike song that I had just composed for her and shaking her paws gently, she suddenly moved her head forward and bit my hand. I burst into tears.
My wife called her an “ice princess” and said, “When I come home, I don’t look forward to seeing her. Of course I’ll take care of her, but he thought of seeing her doesn’t thrill me.” And after we had one or two more arguments about the cat, I began making calls and sending e-mails to the vet and to the adoption agency, asking about our options. The girl at the vet’s office said that we could make an appointment to discuss the cat’s behavior problems, but if it didn’t work out, we could always bring her back. ‘It’s not that unusual,” she said.
During the next two weeks, I began to read up on the web about cats with biting problems. I tried everything they recommended – walking away, hitting her gently on the nose, saying “NO!” in a loud voice – and nothing seemed to work. I even called my wife’s friend Judy, who had raised a cat that had been pretty wild and aggressive when she’d first gotten her as a kitten.
“She could change,” said Judy, “but with our cat, it took years – and there’s no guarantee.”
The next weekend, we went away for three days. We warned the neighbor whom we were paying to feed Fuzzy NOT to pet her. When we came back, twice that evening, she jumped on my wife’s leg and clawed it. “She probably wants to play,” my wife said, giving her the benefit of the doubt. So she took out the foam rubber balls and watched Fuzzy bat them around. By now, this was the only pleasure we derived from having Fuzzy.
Later, after Fuzzy had tired herself out, I went over to her and talked to her in a soft voice, half in tears. “PLEASE, be a good girl and a nice baby! We don’t want to have to return you! Be a nice little cat!” I started petting her gently, but after about the seventh pet, she turned her head and bit my finger. She didn’t get the message.
When we had first gotten Fuzzy, we decided that she would sleep in the living room, at least for awhile– we wanted to get to know her a bit before she could sleep with us, like Celeste did. But that night, when we were lying in bed, my wife suddenly screamed.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “She’s in here! She just jumped on my belly with her claws out! Look–I’m bleeding!” I searched the room for her, found her hiding under the bed, then carried into the living room. That night, we both decided that we’d bring her back to the vet first thing in the morning.
As I was dropping her off in the vet’s office, a thin, short-haired young woman saw me and introduced herself to me. It was Kathy from the rescue organization.
“Thanks for your e-mail from a few days ago,” she said. “Now we know more about Fuzzy’s behavior patterns. Instead of placing her for adoption, we’ll try to get someone to foster her. When you said you wanted Fuzzy, I thought, `Well, I really don’t know......’ She probably never was in a home before!”
Leaving the vet’s, I though about Marcia for the first time in a long time. There were some similarities between Marcia and Fuzzy, I reflected. In both cases, I made decisions based on outward appearances – Marcia’s adorable little-girl looks, Fuzzy’s beautiful silver fur. I should have paid attention to the little signs that could have told me what they were like inside.
On a deeper level, I remembered how, so many years ago, the neighbor who gave us our old cat, Celeste, told us, “If you give her love, she’ll give you love in return.” With both Marcia and Fuzzy, on the other hand, I tried to give love, but received something quite different.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Low Bank Interest Rates Demand Action
By Raanan Geberer
Published in Brooklyn Daily Eagle, July 13, 2010
BROOKLYN – I’m the type of person who rarely looks at interest rates. I figure it doesn’t make any difference whether something is a point up or down from what it was before. I know that when I opened a new short-term CD account about two ago it was around 3 percent, down from 4 percent just beforehand. I was a tiny bit unhappy about this, but not that much.
Therefore, it was a shock to me when my wife called it to my attention that the current rate interest on this CD account was only about 0.35 percent or so.
Now, the only reason someone opens a CD account is to get a higher interest rate than a regular savings account. So a 0.35 percent interest rate on a CD, even a seven-month CD, is rather disconcerting. Thinking it might be just a peculiarity of this particular bank, I went to another bank where I have an account and asked for a copy of their rates. They were very similar.
I know that interest rates are more or less set by the Federal Reserve Bank, and that interest rates are lowered for some reason having to do with the economy. However, I don’t really care – I can understand lower rates, but this is a little too much. And I’m really shocked that there isn’t more of an outcry about this.
I would encourage anyone who’s upset about these low bank interest rates to deluge the state Banking Superintendent, the Federal Reserve Bank, their elected representatives and anyone else with phone calls and e-mails. Maybe then, someone will re-think these abysmally low rates.
Published in Brooklyn Daily Eagle, July 13, 2010
BROOKLYN – I’m the type of person who rarely looks at interest rates. I figure it doesn’t make any difference whether something is a point up or down from what it was before. I know that when I opened a new short-term CD account about two ago it was around 3 percent, down from 4 percent just beforehand. I was a tiny bit unhappy about this, but not that much.
Therefore, it was a shock to me when my wife called it to my attention that the current rate interest on this CD account was only about 0.35 percent or so.
Now, the only reason someone opens a CD account is to get a higher interest rate than a regular savings account. So a 0.35 percent interest rate on a CD, even a seven-month CD, is rather disconcerting. Thinking it might be just a peculiarity of this particular bank, I went to another bank where I have an account and asked for a copy of their rates. They were very similar.
I know that interest rates are more or less set by the Federal Reserve Bank, and that interest rates are lowered for some reason having to do with the economy. However, I don’t really care – I can understand lower rates, but this is a little too much. And I’m really shocked that there isn’t more of an outcry about this.
I would encourage anyone who’s upset about these low bank interest rates to deluge the state Banking Superintendent, the Federal Reserve Bank, their elected representatives and anyone else with phone calls and e-mails. Maybe then, someone will re-think these abysmally low rates.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Let the States Tackle Healthcare
(first published in "Brooklyn Daily Eagle"
Today in Washington, D.C., we have the phenomenon of a Democratic president, a Democratic House and a Democratic Senate unable to come together a healthcare bill that was approved, in different versions, by both the House and the Senate.
Maybe the president, Congress and the Senate are too scared or too incompetent. Maybe they want the Republicans’ love and cooperation (or what President Obama calls “bipartisanship”) so much that they’re willing to bend over backwards for it — and it still doesn’t work. In any case, if you compare Obama’s campaign promises with his unwillingness to fight for his goals, the results are shocking.
But, thankfully, this country does not only consist of an all-powerful federal government and powerless local governments. Even though the power of the federal government has steadily expanded since the 1930s, the states still have substantial power.
So why not have the states take the lead on healthcare?
There’s plenty of precedent for the states starting their own social programs. Long before the federal government began to institute welfare programs, Franklin D. Roosevelt, then the governor of New York state, started such a program (then called “relief”).
Also, several years before the federal government passed unemployment insurance, the state of Wisconsin, in 1932, began its own unemployment insurance program.
Even when one looks at healthcare reform, there are several state-sponsored programs worth looking at today. Vermont passed its own universal healthcare legislation in 2008. Massachusetts, under conservative Republican Gov. Mitt Romney, also passed its own plan, although that plan has come under its share of criticism. Hawaii has a plan very similar to those found in European nations.
Instead of lamenting the dismal state of affairs in Washington, D.C., perhaps it’s time for advocates of universal healthcare to take matters into their own hands in state governments.
Today in Washington, D.C., we have the phenomenon of a Democratic president, a Democratic House and a Democratic Senate unable to come together a healthcare bill that was approved, in different versions, by both the House and the Senate.
Maybe the president, Congress and the Senate are too scared or too incompetent. Maybe they want the Republicans’ love and cooperation (or what President Obama calls “bipartisanship”) so much that they’re willing to bend over backwards for it — and it still doesn’t work. In any case, if you compare Obama’s campaign promises with his unwillingness to fight for his goals, the results are shocking.
But, thankfully, this country does not only consist of an all-powerful federal government and powerless local governments. Even though the power of the federal government has steadily expanded since the 1930s, the states still have substantial power.
So why not have the states take the lead on healthcare?
There’s plenty of precedent for the states starting their own social programs. Long before the federal government began to institute welfare programs, Franklin D. Roosevelt, then the governor of New York state, started such a program (then called “relief”).
Also, several years before the federal government passed unemployment insurance, the state of Wisconsin, in 1932, began its own unemployment insurance program.
Even when one looks at healthcare reform, there are several state-sponsored programs worth looking at today. Vermont passed its own universal healthcare legislation in 2008. Massachusetts, under conservative Republican Gov. Mitt Romney, also passed its own plan, although that plan has come under its share of criticism. Hawaii has a plan very similar to those found in European nations.
Instead of lamenting the dismal state of affairs in Washington, D.C., perhaps it’s time for advocates of universal healthcare to take matters into their own hands in state governments.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
New Year's Eve 1980
By Raanan Geberer
Published in "Two Hawks Quarterly," Spring 2010
“Have you heard the story of Gunny Joe?
Who lived way down by the Kokomo?
AAAAH, GUNNY JOE!!!!”
Rob Rothstein bellowed the nonsensical rhyme at the top of his lungs, right in the middle of the sleazy donut place at 23rd Street and Eighth Avenue that he had entered to get away from the bitter cold. He was drunk and he didn’t care who knew it. The one-eyed old guy behind the counter, who had seen everything, just handed Ron his paper cup of coffee with no expression.
Rob was coming from one New Year’s Eve party and going to another. The first, in an old apartment house on 20th Street facing Gramercy Park, was given by Jamie, one of the people from his old job. The owner of the small PR firm was a Fordham graduate, and most of the other people who worked there had gone to Fordham too. Most of them, although Rob’s age, were fairly conservative – not in politics, which they didn’t talk about, but in terms of lifestyle, family, careers. They were clean-cut, well-dressed, red-cheeked and smiling, in contrast to Rob with his jeans he had worn three days in a row, his shirt with ink stains on the pocket, his unshined shoes, and his anger and frustration. They milled around, drank beer, greeted each other loudly and talked about football, with Billy Joel playing in the background. There was really only one thing Rob shared with them – drinking..
After being at the party for about an hour, Rob was beginning to feel claustrophobic. He had to leave. Now, he was getting on the subway, on his way to his second New Year’s Eve Party up in Inwood. By his calculations, he’d probably get there about an hour before the new year. .
The A train was packed with people going to New Year’s parties. Across from Rob was a group of young European tourists dressed in party hats and speaking a language that he couldn’t make out. Next to him was a leather-jacketed homeboy playing “Rapper’s Delight” on a boom box. The train picked up speed on the long stretch between 59th and 125th Streets. When it got to 181st, Rob felt strange because that was his stop. But he had to continue to 207th, the last stop on the line.
Once in Inwood, Rob walked up to 218th Street, then started walking west, soldiering forward against the icy wind. Some of these homes, he thought, had to be worth a fortune, like those brick houses where you had to walk up two or three stone staircases just to get to the front door. The Art Deco apartment houses weren’t too bad either. Without a doubt, this must be the most expensive part of Inwood. He identified the address where the party was, right across from Baker Field, rang the front bell, and took the elevator up.
If Rob’s first party was Billy Joel, this one was Elvis Costello, Devo and Blondie. There was a lot more dancing AND drinking, and quite a bit of pot smoking too. Unlike the 20th Street crew, these guys didn’t only drink beer – they passed around bottles of red wine and Sangria. Rob was finally able to relax. The girls were his type – no makeup, long straight hair, jeans, handcrafted jewelry. He looked around and saw his friend, Milos the Czech, who was talking to two young Hispanic guys whom Rob took to be fellow students of his from CCNY. Milos was a few years older than most of the people here, about the same age as Rob – when Milos defected from Czechosolvakia and came to the U.S., the ungrateful authorities here made him start his college career again from the beginning.
“How are yew, Rob?” Milos asked. “My classmates here were just showing me this liqueur made of cane sugar. It’s from de Dominican Republic! De person giving dis party is dis vorking-class voman called Risa, I don’t know her, but she’s a gude person anyvay! So how’s de other party?”
“So boring! I’m glad I left there when I did!”
“My friend Jonasz is on his vay, you remember, de computer guy? He has two ideologies–de Buddhist ideology and de secretary-fucking ideology. Dey don’t mix!” Both laughed.
“Any food here?” Rob asked. “The other place had nothing but some chips and dip and raw carrots and celery.”
“Are you kidding?” answered Milos. “Here, ve have everything! Ve have chili, ve have vegetarian chili, ve have lasagna, ve have eggplant...”
“Great!” Rob answered. “Is your wife coming?”
“Yes, she’s coming a little vhile later vit one of her fellow anthropology students. I bet der having a debate about Melville Herskovits or Frank Bals now!” Both laughed. “You vant some grass?”
“Maybe a little later. I’ve got to eat first.”
“OK. I go to bathroom. I think dat tomorrow night, me and some of my friends, ve go to punk club in de East Village. Vant to go vit us?”
“Definitely! See you later, Milos. By the way, in a few weeks, Reagan will be president.”
“Don’t remind me! Dat stupid cowboy actor? Dat’s America for yew” Again, they laughed, and then Milos walked down the long hallway to the bathroom.
Rob walked back into the other room, took some chips with salsa and a piece of garlic bread, and sat down on the couch. It was so soft he fell backward into the cushion. Next to him was a breathtaking, very tall thin girl with long brown hair and olive skin, almost certainly Mediterranean. She was wearing turquoise earrings, a silver bracelet, jeans and a jacket with a fur collar – not the kind of fur collar you’d buy on Fifth Avenue, bu the kind you’d buy at a thrift store.
“Hi,” Rob said, extending his hand, “I’m Rob.”
“I’m Delia De Leon. Are you a City College student also?”
Aha. De Leon, an old Sephardic Jewish name. She was perfect. “No,” Rob answered, “I’m just friends with Milos over there. I’ve graduated already. I even have a master’s! I went to the State University at Albany, then Hunter.”
“Hey, my sister goes to Albany! So what do you do?”
“I’m a housing assistant for the city, but I’m looking to get a job in city planning–that’s what I got my master’s in. What are you majoring in?”
“I have a double major–psychology and art..Many of the people in my family were artists. Some of my photos are on display at the Ethical Culture Society in Riverdale ” Perfect! Rob loved artistic types, although he himself had no artistic talent. Maybe someday he’d write poetry.
The next question that Rob wanted to ask was embarrassing, so he decided to begin with a statement instead. “I live in a studio apartment on Cabrini Boulevard, across from Milos and his wife. How about you.”
“Oh, I was living with my parents, but I just moved with two other girls to our own place on Broadway Terrace, not too far from here.” Rob was glad. He was tired of meeting these dull, timid and socially awkward “nebbish” types who had never lived anywhere other than with their parents. Even when, after receiving his B.A., he had been stuck at home for almost a year, he consoled himself with the fact that at least he had lived away beforehand.
“That’s great!” Rob told Delia. “Where did you come from before?”
“I grew up in Kingsbridge, in Tibbett Towers.”
BOOM! Tibbett Towers!. To Rob, that meant just one thing.
“Do you know Celeste Bernstein?”
“Of course? Who doesn’t know Celeste? I haven’t heard from her lately. I hear she’s become a real women’s libber.”
Rob couldn’t help himself – he started asking question after question about Celeste Bernstein. Delia started to get annoyed. He knew he’d lost any chance of going out with her. In a haze, he made his way to the other room and took a glass of Chianti.
Celeste Bernstein had been the great love of Rob’s life. They met during Christmas vacation while Rob was a freshman in college and Celeste was still in high school. Her family seemed very exotic to him – her mother was a playwright and her father was a former Trotskyist, although he was now the branch manager of a bank. Rob lost his virginity with her, and that heart-felt, passionate night they spent together up in Albany was one of his most cherished memories. They wrote each other long romantic letters, and he’d come in to the city every other weekend to see her.
But even then, she seemed restless, occasionally talking about wanting to have sex with other guys and girls, although she never followed through. She changed her future plans every other week – one time she wanted to become a doctor, the next, an airplane pilot. Sometimes she would talk about living about Hawaii; other times, about moving to Europe. After she proposed that, for the Fourth of July, they run naked through the hallway of her apartment building to “freak everybody out,” he began to drift away from her. It was only when his friend from Brooklyn began seeing her that he realized how much she meant to him.
Last year, Rob had a second chance with Celeste. They had three dates. Then, on the way home, she suddenly started singing nonsense syllables and shrieking wildly. She reminded Rob of a former co-worker who forgot to take her psychiatric medication one day and had to be sent home. When he asked Celeste timidly if he could spend the night with her, she turned on him savagely and accused him of treating her “like a piece of meat” – as if they had never had a relationship, as if she had never had any of the one-night stands that she’d bragged about. When he called her the next week, she threatened to call the police. Now, he hungered for any news of Celeste. He started to cry.
A few minutes after New Year’s, he grabbed some chocolate cake and said goodbye to Milos and his wife. He went outside, not bothering to say goodbye to Delia.
Everywhere around him, people were celebrating the New Year. And here he was, mourning an old love.
Published in "Two Hawks Quarterly," Spring 2010
“Have you heard the story of Gunny Joe?
Who lived way down by the Kokomo?
AAAAH, GUNNY JOE!!!!”
Rob Rothstein bellowed the nonsensical rhyme at the top of his lungs, right in the middle of the sleazy donut place at 23rd Street and Eighth Avenue that he had entered to get away from the bitter cold. He was drunk and he didn’t care who knew it. The one-eyed old guy behind the counter, who had seen everything, just handed Ron his paper cup of coffee with no expression.
Rob was coming from one New Year’s Eve party and going to another. The first, in an old apartment house on 20th Street facing Gramercy Park, was given by Jamie, one of the people from his old job. The owner of the small PR firm was a Fordham graduate, and most of the other people who worked there had gone to Fordham too. Most of them, although Rob’s age, were fairly conservative – not in politics, which they didn’t talk about, but in terms of lifestyle, family, careers. They were clean-cut, well-dressed, red-cheeked and smiling, in contrast to Rob with his jeans he had worn three days in a row, his shirt with ink stains on the pocket, his unshined shoes, and his anger and frustration. They milled around, drank beer, greeted each other loudly and talked about football, with Billy Joel playing in the background. There was really only one thing Rob shared with them – drinking..
After being at the party for about an hour, Rob was beginning to feel claustrophobic. He had to leave. Now, he was getting on the subway, on his way to his second New Year’s Eve Party up in Inwood. By his calculations, he’d probably get there about an hour before the new year. .
The A train was packed with people going to New Year’s parties. Across from Rob was a group of young European tourists dressed in party hats and speaking a language that he couldn’t make out. Next to him was a leather-jacketed homeboy playing “Rapper’s Delight” on a boom box. The train picked up speed on the long stretch between 59th and 125th Streets. When it got to 181st, Rob felt strange because that was his stop. But he had to continue to 207th, the last stop on the line.
Once in Inwood, Rob walked up to 218th Street, then started walking west, soldiering forward against the icy wind. Some of these homes, he thought, had to be worth a fortune, like those brick houses where you had to walk up two or three stone staircases just to get to the front door. The Art Deco apartment houses weren’t too bad either. Without a doubt, this must be the most expensive part of Inwood. He identified the address where the party was, right across from Baker Field, rang the front bell, and took the elevator up.
If Rob’s first party was Billy Joel, this one was Elvis Costello, Devo and Blondie. There was a lot more dancing AND drinking, and quite a bit of pot smoking too. Unlike the 20th Street crew, these guys didn’t only drink beer – they passed around bottles of red wine and Sangria. Rob was finally able to relax. The girls were his type – no makeup, long straight hair, jeans, handcrafted jewelry. He looked around and saw his friend, Milos the Czech, who was talking to two young Hispanic guys whom Rob took to be fellow students of his from CCNY. Milos was a few years older than most of the people here, about the same age as Rob – when Milos defected from Czechosolvakia and came to the U.S., the ungrateful authorities here made him start his college career again from the beginning.
“How are yew, Rob?” Milos asked. “My classmates here were just showing me this liqueur made of cane sugar. It’s from de Dominican Republic! De person giving dis party is dis vorking-class voman called Risa, I don’t know her, but she’s a gude person anyvay! So how’s de other party?”
“So boring! I’m glad I left there when I did!”
“My friend Jonasz is on his vay, you remember, de computer guy? He has two ideologies–de Buddhist ideology and de secretary-fucking ideology. Dey don’t mix!” Both laughed.
“Any food here?” Rob asked. “The other place had nothing but some chips and dip and raw carrots and celery.”
“Are you kidding?” answered Milos. “Here, ve have everything! Ve have chili, ve have vegetarian chili, ve have lasagna, ve have eggplant...”
“Great!” Rob answered. “Is your wife coming?”
“Yes, she’s coming a little vhile later vit one of her fellow anthropology students. I bet der having a debate about Melville Herskovits or Frank Bals now!” Both laughed. “You vant some grass?”
“Maybe a little later. I’ve got to eat first.”
“OK. I go to bathroom. I think dat tomorrow night, me and some of my friends, ve go to punk club in de East Village. Vant to go vit us?”
“Definitely! See you later, Milos. By the way, in a few weeks, Reagan will be president.”
“Don’t remind me! Dat stupid cowboy actor? Dat’s America for yew” Again, they laughed, and then Milos walked down the long hallway to the bathroom.
Rob walked back into the other room, took some chips with salsa and a piece of garlic bread, and sat down on the couch. It was so soft he fell backward into the cushion. Next to him was a breathtaking, very tall thin girl with long brown hair and olive skin, almost certainly Mediterranean. She was wearing turquoise earrings, a silver bracelet, jeans and a jacket with a fur collar – not the kind of fur collar you’d buy on Fifth Avenue, bu the kind you’d buy at a thrift store.
“Hi,” Rob said, extending his hand, “I’m Rob.”
“I’m Delia De Leon. Are you a City College student also?”
Aha. De Leon, an old Sephardic Jewish name. She was perfect. “No,” Rob answered, “I’m just friends with Milos over there. I’ve graduated already. I even have a master’s! I went to the State University at Albany, then Hunter.”
“Hey, my sister goes to Albany! So what do you do?”
“I’m a housing assistant for the city, but I’m looking to get a job in city planning–that’s what I got my master’s in. What are you majoring in?”
“I have a double major–psychology and art..Many of the people in my family were artists. Some of my photos are on display at the Ethical Culture Society in Riverdale ” Perfect! Rob loved artistic types, although he himself had no artistic talent. Maybe someday he’d write poetry.
The next question that Rob wanted to ask was embarrassing, so he decided to begin with a statement instead. “I live in a studio apartment on Cabrini Boulevard, across from Milos and his wife. How about you.”
“Oh, I was living with my parents, but I just moved with two other girls to our own place on Broadway Terrace, not too far from here.” Rob was glad. He was tired of meeting these dull, timid and socially awkward “nebbish” types who had never lived anywhere other than with their parents. Even when, after receiving his B.A., he had been stuck at home for almost a year, he consoled himself with the fact that at least he had lived away beforehand.
“That’s great!” Rob told Delia. “Where did you come from before?”
“I grew up in Kingsbridge, in Tibbett Towers.”
BOOM! Tibbett Towers!. To Rob, that meant just one thing.
“Do you know Celeste Bernstein?”
“Of course? Who doesn’t know Celeste? I haven’t heard from her lately. I hear she’s become a real women’s libber.”
Rob couldn’t help himself – he started asking question after question about Celeste Bernstein. Delia started to get annoyed. He knew he’d lost any chance of going out with her. In a haze, he made his way to the other room and took a glass of Chianti.
Celeste Bernstein had been the great love of Rob’s life. They met during Christmas vacation while Rob was a freshman in college and Celeste was still in high school. Her family seemed very exotic to him – her mother was a playwright and her father was a former Trotskyist, although he was now the branch manager of a bank. Rob lost his virginity with her, and that heart-felt, passionate night they spent together up in Albany was one of his most cherished memories. They wrote each other long romantic letters, and he’d come in to the city every other weekend to see her.
But even then, she seemed restless, occasionally talking about wanting to have sex with other guys and girls, although she never followed through. She changed her future plans every other week – one time she wanted to become a doctor, the next, an airplane pilot. Sometimes she would talk about living about Hawaii; other times, about moving to Europe. After she proposed that, for the Fourth of July, they run naked through the hallway of her apartment building to “freak everybody out,” he began to drift away from her. It was only when his friend from Brooklyn began seeing her that he realized how much she meant to him.
Last year, Rob had a second chance with Celeste. They had three dates. Then, on the way home, she suddenly started singing nonsense syllables and shrieking wildly. She reminded Rob of a former co-worker who forgot to take her psychiatric medication one day and had to be sent home. When he asked Celeste timidly if he could spend the night with her, she turned on him savagely and accused him of treating her “like a piece of meat” – as if they had never had a relationship, as if she had never had any of the one-night stands that she’d bragged about. When he called her the next week, she threatened to call the police. Now, he hungered for any news of Celeste. He started to cry.
A few minutes after New Year’s, he grabbed some chocolate cake and said goodbye to Milos and his wife. He went outside, not bothering to say goodbye to Delia.
Everywhere around him, people were celebrating the New Year. And here he was, mourning an old love.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
The Civil Rights Movement and the Cold War
By Raanan Geberer
Originally published in Brooklyn Daily Eagle
On the birth anniversary of the Rev. Martin Luther King, we celebrate the enlargement of civil rights in the U.S. to include African-Americans in the mid-1960s.
While no one doubts the importance of King, other civil rights leaders and the “freedom riders,” there were other factors, I believe, that also contributed the end of racial segregation in the South and, to a lesser extent, in the North.
One is the increasingly militant attitude of the generation of Black Americans who had fought in World War II. After risking their lives for this country, they had no desire to a life of second-class citizenship.
But there is another factor, one rarely mentioned. During the 1950s and early 1960s, the main conflict in the world was the Cold War between the U.S. and the Soviet Union.
At the same time, the old British and French empires were breaking up. Dozens of former colonies were becoming independent. Most of these nations were in Africa, the Caribbean, Asia and the Indian subcontinent. In other words, most were nonwhite nations.
As long as African-Americans were treated like second-class citizens in both the South and the North, the Soviet Union and Communist China could say to these nations, “See how America treats nonwhites? You can’t trust the U.S.! The Soviet Union, not America, is the land of equality!”
The U.S. was vulnerable on that score, and its leaders, President Eisenhower, Kennedy and Johnson, knew it.
For years, the national Democratic Party had tolerated the prejudice-filled racial beliefs espoused by most elected representatives in the Deep South. After all, these states were an integral part of the Democratic machine, and their leadership was instrumental in getting Democratic-sponsored legislation passed in the House and the Senate.
Up until about 1960, just about the only people willing to plead for African-American equality were African-Americans themselves; lawyers and journalists from liberal states such as New York and Illinois; some academics and clergymen; a few industrial labor unions; show-business types like Frank Sinatra; some Jewish organizations, and left-wing radicals.
There was progress in some fields — such as the integration of major-league baseball and Nat King Cole’s short-lived TV show — but a real lack of progress in others. I once read that in 1950, one could walk from one end of the Manhattan business district to the other without encountering a single black secretary. Here in Brooklyn, the construction of Downstate Hospital during the early 1960s sparked angry demonstrations because the construction unions had effectively barred hiring any black workers other than janitors.
All this soon changed, and in a big way. The stakes were now higher. The U.S. couldn’t tolerate a Soviet-allied Africa, a Soviet-allied Asia, a Soviet-allied Caribbean. Keeping the Soviets out of these areas was much more important to those in power in Washington, D.C., than pleasing “good old boys” in Mississippi and Alabama and Archie Bunker types in New York and Boston.
In short, segregation had to go.
Once again, Martin Luther King’s message was a powerful one. No one doubts the heroism of King, his Southern followers who put their lives on the line, and the Northern college students who volunteered to help his cause. But his movement was not the only force that ended institutional segregation in the U.S. Geo-politics and the Cold War also played a role.
Originally published in Brooklyn Daily Eagle
On the birth anniversary of the Rev. Martin Luther King, we celebrate the enlargement of civil rights in the U.S. to include African-Americans in the mid-1960s.
While no one doubts the importance of King, other civil rights leaders and the “freedom riders,” there were other factors, I believe, that also contributed the end of racial segregation in the South and, to a lesser extent, in the North.
One is the increasingly militant attitude of the generation of Black Americans who had fought in World War II. After risking their lives for this country, they had no desire to a life of second-class citizenship.
But there is another factor, one rarely mentioned. During the 1950s and early 1960s, the main conflict in the world was the Cold War between the U.S. and the Soviet Union.
At the same time, the old British and French empires were breaking up. Dozens of former colonies were becoming independent. Most of these nations were in Africa, the Caribbean, Asia and the Indian subcontinent. In other words, most were nonwhite nations.
As long as African-Americans were treated like second-class citizens in both the South and the North, the Soviet Union and Communist China could say to these nations, “See how America treats nonwhites? You can’t trust the U.S.! The Soviet Union, not America, is the land of equality!”
The U.S. was vulnerable on that score, and its leaders, President Eisenhower, Kennedy and Johnson, knew it.
For years, the national Democratic Party had tolerated the prejudice-filled racial beliefs espoused by most elected representatives in the Deep South. After all, these states were an integral part of the Democratic machine, and their leadership was instrumental in getting Democratic-sponsored legislation passed in the House and the Senate.
Up until about 1960, just about the only people willing to plead for African-American equality were African-Americans themselves; lawyers and journalists from liberal states such as New York and Illinois; some academics and clergymen; a few industrial labor unions; show-business types like Frank Sinatra; some Jewish organizations, and left-wing radicals.
There was progress in some fields — such as the integration of major-league baseball and Nat King Cole’s short-lived TV show — but a real lack of progress in others. I once read that in 1950, one could walk from one end of the Manhattan business district to the other without encountering a single black secretary. Here in Brooklyn, the construction of Downstate Hospital during the early 1960s sparked angry demonstrations because the construction unions had effectively barred hiring any black workers other than janitors.
All this soon changed, and in a big way. The stakes were now higher. The U.S. couldn’t tolerate a Soviet-allied Africa, a Soviet-allied Asia, a Soviet-allied Caribbean. Keeping the Soviets out of these areas was much more important to those in power in Washington, D.C., than pleasing “good old boys” in Mississippi and Alabama and Archie Bunker types in New York and Boston.
In short, segregation had to go.
Once again, Martin Luther King’s message was a powerful one. No one doubts the heroism of King, his Southern followers who put their lives on the line, and the Northern college students who volunteered to help his cause. But his movement was not the only force that ended institutional segregation in the U.S. Geo-politics and the Cold War also played a role.
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