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.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
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.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Credit Card, Foreclosure Wrongs Require Organized Opposition
Reprinted from Brooklyn Daily Eagle
By Raanan Geberer
During the weekend, I happened to see Suze Orman’s well-known financial advice program. The the guest was Ann Minch, who has gotten more than 100,000 hits on her YouTube post describing her one-woman “credit card revolt.”
It seems that the Bank of America, where she had her credit card, suddenly and arbitrarily raised her interest rate from 17 percent to 30 percent. Perhaps the bank had to make up money it lost in bad investments, so it decided to roll the expense onto its credit-card customers — I don’t know. But Ms. Minch, a California resident, was so incensed that she decided to make a video announcing to the whole world that she wasn’t paying her credit-card bill, telling everybody why. “I know it’ll be bad for my credit rating,” she said, “but the banks aren’t lending anyway, so what difference does it make?”
This strategy worked. Soon, Bank of America called and offered to lower her interest rate. Suze Orman congratulated her about this on the show.
As I see it, this development is similar to the spontaneous, unorganized protests that sprang up during the early 1930s at the very beginning of the Great Depression — and is symbolic of the fact that we may be entering such a period now.
At that time, for example, a group of farmers armed with shotguns might show up at a fellow farmer’s place to prevent the county sheriff from foreclosing on the place. Similarly, in an urban setting, neighbors might have gathered in front of an apartment house to prevent the marshal from evicting one of their neighbors. While it’s true that radical groups soon got involved in these types of protests, they were merely following and trying to exploit the popular mood — the discontent was already there.
At any rate, actions like this, although they’re important, are very limited in effectiveness and are only “step one.” Ann Minch is only one person. What’s needed are well-thought-out strategies.
If people are really worried about high credit-card rates, every one of them should deluge their Congressperson, their Senator and even the White House with e-mails and phone calls. They should write letters to newspapers, phone in to call-in shows, post on Internet bulletin boards, hold press conference, stage large protest rallies.
At that point, and only at that point, will the “powers that be” start to really take them seriously. Issues like high credit-card rates are important, but to even get to first base, those who wish to change things have to learn how to play the game.
By Raanan Geberer
During the weekend, I happened to see Suze Orman’s well-known financial advice program. The the guest was Ann Minch, who has gotten more than 100,000 hits on her YouTube post describing her one-woman “credit card revolt.”
It seems that the Bank of America, where she had her credit card, suddenly and arbitrarily raised her interest rate from 17 percent to 30 percent. Perhaps the bank had to make up money it lost in bad investments, so it decided to roll the expense onto its credit-card customers — I don’t know. But Ms. Minch, a California resident, was so incensed that she decided to make a video announcing to the whole world that she wasn’t paying her credit-card bill, telling everybody why. “I know it’ll be bad for my credit rating,” she said, “but the banks aren’t lending anyway, so what difference does it make?”
This strategy worked. Soon, Bank of America called and offered to lower her interest rate. Suze Orman congratulated her about this on the show.
As I see it, this development is similar to the spontaneous, unorganized protests that sprang up during the early 1930s at the very beginning of the Great Depression — and is symbolic of the fact that we may be entering such a period now.
At that time, for example, a group of farmers armed with shotguns might show up at a fellow farmer’s place to prevent the county sheriff from foreclosing on the place. Similarly, in an urban setting, neighbors might have gathered in front of an apartment house to prevent the marshal from evicting one of their neighbors. While it’s true that radical groups soon got involved in these types of protests, they were merely following and trying to exploit the popular mood — the discontent was already there.
At any rate, actions like this, although they’re important, are very limited in effectiveness and are only “step one.” Ann Minch is only one person. What’s needed are well-thought-out strategies.
If people are really worried about high credit-card rates, every one of them should deluge their Congressperson, their Senator and even the White House with e-mails and phone calls. They should write letters to newspapers, phone in to call-in shows, post on Internet bulletin boards, hold press conference, stage large protest rallies.
At that point, and only at that point, will the “powers that be” start to really take them seriously. Issues like high credit-card rates are important, but to even get to first base, those who wish to change things have to learn how to play the game.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Insurance Firms' Healthcare ROle
Originally published in "Brooklyn Daily Eagle"
By Raanan Geberer
What’s missing from the debate on President Obama’s healthcare-reform plan?
Any mention of the big insurance companies, it seems. Just about the only time they were mentioned was in Obama’s initial speech on the subject, when he said that “people who like their health insurance won’t have to give it up.”
Both Democrats and Republicans have said that the current healthcare system needs fixing, but they never mention what brought the nation’s healthcare system to its current state.
As I see it, the trouble started back in the mid- or late 1980s, when the insurance companies began to switch to managed care. When I got my first managed-care plan, I was actually happy. Before that, because I took (and still take) multiple asthma medications, I had to pay the full price, then submit a bill and wait until I got a refund for, I believe, 80 percent of the price. Now, I didn’t have to pay anything up front except for a co-payment.
However, managed care had its down side. If someone wanted to go to, say, a neurologist or a pulmonary doctor, one had to go to the primary care doctor and ask his permission. In some cases this was no problem, but many doctors were and are very reluctant to refer patients to specialists except in cases of life-threatening conditions.
According to some reports, which I can’t confirm but can’t find denial of either, in many networks doctors are penalized for making too many referrals to specialists. And according to the “California Physician” web site, in 2007, United Healthcare decided to fine physicians who refer patients to out-of-network doctors.
One thing I do know is that this is true for drugs. For years, my doctor prescribed Lipitor. About a year ago, I began getting all sorts of phone calls and messages about why I should use a cheaper, “preferred” drug. Then I was told by the pharmacist that I had to get a new prescription every single time I asked for Lipitor. Eventually, I got tired of this and asked my doctor to prescribe the cheaper drug — even though some surveys show that Lipitor is slightly more effective.
The more illnesses, prescriptions and/or operations you have, the more likely it is that you will have serious problems with your HMO. A while ago my wife had a sinus operation. She soon received a letter saying that her doctor had never given a referral to the surgeon for the operation (he obviously did, otherwise the surgery would not have taken place). It took about 10 e-mails back and forth to straighten that out.
There seems to be a double standard for criticizing corporations in this country: everyone loves to slam the Big Three auto companies, but no one dares criticize either the big investment banks or the big insurance companies. If President Obama really wants more support for his healthcare measures, he must criticize the insurance companies publicly. Not only will this gain support among the average person, it will focus the spotlight on the ties legislators who oppose the plan have with the insurance companies and how much money they have received in campaign contributions. Then it would be their turn to be on the defensive.
By Raanan Geberer
What’s missing from the debate on President Obama’s healthcare-reform plan?
Any mention of the big insurance companies, it seems. Just about the only time they were mentioned was in Obama’s initial speech on the subject, when he said that “people who like their health insurance won’t have to give it up.”
Both Democrats and Republicans have said that the current healthcare system needs fixing, but they never mention what brought the nation’s healthcare system to its current state.
As I see it, the trouble started back in the mid- or late 1980s, when the insurance companies began to switch to managed care. When I got my first managed-care plan, I was actually happy. Before that, because I took (and still take) multiple asthma medications, I had to pay the full price, then submit a bill and wait until I got a refund for, I believe, 80 percent of the price. Now, I didn’t have to pay anything up front except for a co-payment.
However, managed care had its down side. If someone wanted to go to, say, a neurologist or a pulmonary doctor, one had to go to the primary care doctor and ask his permission. In some cases this was no problem, but many doctors were and are very reluctant to refer patients to specialists except in cases of life-threatening conditions.
According to some reports, which I can’t confirm but can’t find denial of either, in many networks doctors are penalized for making too many referrals to specialists. And according to the “California Physician” web site, in 2007, United Healthcare decided to fine physicians who refer patients to out-of-network doctors.
One thing I do know is that this is true for drugs. For years, my doctor prescribed Lipitor. About a year ago, I began getting all sorts of phone calls and messages about why I should use a cheaper, “preferred” drug. Then I was told by the pharmacist that I had to get a new prescription every single time I asked for Lipitor. Eventually, I got tired of this and asked my doctor to prescribe the cheaper drug — even though some surveys show that Lipitor is slightly more effective.
The more illnesses, prescriptions and/or operations you have, the more likely it is that you will have serious problems with your HMO. A while ago my wife had a sinus operation. She soon received a letter saying that her doctor had never given a referral to the surgeon for the operation (he obviously did, otherwise the surgery would not have taken place). It took about 10 e-mails back and forth to straighten that out.
There seems to be a double standard for criticizing corporations in this country: everyone loves to slam the Big Three auto companies, but no one dares criticize either the big investment banks or the big insurance companies. If President Obama really wants more support for his healthcare measures, he must criticize the insurance companies publicly. Not only will this gain support among the average person, it will focus the spotlight on the ties legislators who oppose the plan have with the insurance companies and how much money they have received in campaign contributions. Then it would be their turn to be on the defensive.
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