(NOTE: This is a Long Read. You might want to dip in and out over time, to see what this Young Woman has been writing in her diary)
A quiet hour of reading in the morning.
Mother had a sick headache and did not come downstairs all day.
Very weak sunlight, but not too cold.
I have been thinking about the planets.
The roast was too rare so I ate no dinner.
The good vase broke today, the violet-colored one.
Mother said she wanted to go for a walk but then she changed her mind.
A quiet hour of reading before bed.
Miss W brought over a jar of preserves. I will have to bring her something, but not until next week.
I did not sleep well last night.
A flock of geese, just after one o'clock.
Fluffy caught her paw on a nail. Quite a crisis.
A trip to the library to exchange my books.
The Tapper sisters stayed too long and spoke a lot of nonsense.
No one can locate the largest serving spoon. Much distress.
Miss W asked how we liked the preserves. I said they were very fine. I must remember to try them. I have not yet brought her anything in return.
Mother says she is longing for her garden. I told her "soon" but we both know it will be a while.
Mr D came for tea. Uninvited. He looks sickly.
I have been thinking about the number seven.
The serving spoon has been found.
I did not sleep well again last night.
My embroidery is getting worse, not better.
Mother complained of a sick headache and asked for breakfast in her room. As usual.
There have been strange noises in the pantry.
I wonder if the piano will ever be in tune again.
The light was glorious today but it is still too cold to stay out for long.
A quiet hour of reading before bed.
Mother was humming in the bath. What can that mean?
Where is my little gold locket?
Miss W asked if I baked the scones myself. I assured her that I did.
There hasn't been any sunshine for two days.
Mother stayed in bed all day. She did not each much. I ate two eggs.
I had no trouble falling asleep last night and this morning I was up with the worms.
A quiet hour of reading in the afternoon.
It was impossible to get warm today.
Mr D said there is something very important he wants to ask me. I said "Please don't."
I have still not found my gold locket.
There seems to be something wrong with my left eye.
My eye is completely better today.
I heard Mother humming again but I did not recognize the tune.
Received a letter from L today. She is now in Venice. I try not to care.
Fluffy is going to have kittens. She is behaving strangely but I suppose that is to be expected.
Mr D appeared in the afternoon and I told him to go away.
I have decided never to wear yellow again.
My latest books from the library are all disappointing.
Mother is not pleased with me but refuses to explain why.
I have been thinking about the planets again. And also about the stars.
I will soon need a new hat.
The light was good today. I sat at the window and watched the clouds.
My gold locket has been found! It was in my glove box all along. Mysterious.
I asked Miss G for assistance today when I visited the library. She was gracious and accommodating. I returned with two new novels and high expectations.
A quiet hour of reading this morning and another hour before bed.
I purchased a new bottle of ink this morning and spent the afternoon writing letters that I will not send.
Mr D arrived, uninvited, and offered to read to Mother. I informed him that Mother would not find that to be a pleasurable experience and he departed quickly.
Fluffy has disappeared.
Miss C asked if I would be willing to pose for her. I replied that I did not feel simpatico with the camera. She said perhaps she would ask me on another day.
Miss W brought a small bouquet of flowers from her garden. Mother had a sneezing attack.
Fluffy was found behind the kitchen stove, along with her babies — five adorable kittens.
A quiet hour of reading this evening.
A perfectly nice day. I considered going on a picnic but then decided it was pleasant enough indoors.
I have been thinking about this: what is a good omen, and what is a bad omen?
L wrote from Naples. Her letter was polite and vague.
Mother remained too long in the garden. Now she has a sick headache.
The eldest of the Tapper sisters is engaged. To Mr D. I hope I managed to look pleased when the news was announced.
A quiet hour of reading this morning.
There are many picnics being planned and I am invited to all, but I do not feel tempted.
The relish bowl is shattered. Fluffy is innocent.
There is to be a new post-mistress. She is the niece of Mr B-K.
Miss C asked me to pose for her, once again. Everyone seems to be entranced by her camera, but I am not, not in the least.
I wanted to go for a walk this morning but I could not find my hat.
My visit to the library proved most satisfactory.
It rained all day. I spent a pleasant hour with a book.
Miss W brought a bouquet of flowers, again. There is no need for her to do this as our garden is also flourishing. I found a slug on the underside of a leaf. Fortunately Mother did not notice.
I will scream if I am forced to eat another lettuce leaf. Or even a tomato.
There has been no word from L and I think perhaps there never will be.
Mother has entirely lost her voice. This is puzzling, since she rarely uses it.
Miss W wants to start a reading club. I asked her not to invite me to join.
The doorbell rang at two o'clock, but when I went to answer it no one was there.
Two china cups are missing.
The birds seem frantic. Do they dislike change too?
I wonder if anyone will bring us a pie? I hope not.
A pleasant day: sunshine.
I have been thinking about the moon and the tides.
Surprise! L arrived home and seems to be in good spirits. She brought many sweet gifts. All is well. For now.
Miss C passed by the front gate, holding her camera, but she did not stop in.
Father's old pocket watch appears to be lost. Or perhaps it has been stolen. Mother says it was not valuable but I think it was.
I doubt I slept at all last night.
People are so kind. I wish they would not be.
I told Mother it is time for us to do something about the curtains.
The new post-mistress has watery blue eyes.
Where have my old hair ribbons gone?
Fluffy is missing. So are the kittens. This is all very distressing.
Mrs S has a cold. I wrote and told her not to call on us until she is entirely recovered.
I am trying to be more patient.
I cannot find my ivory comb.
I don't remember the last time I felt young.
L has gone to Boston, suddenly and mysteriously. She left yesterday morning. I don't care.
The younger Miss Tapper wanted to lend me a novel by Mrs T but I told her I already read it, even though I have not. I prefer never to borrow anything from that family.
Spent the afternoon mending. I am in a foul temper.
A murder of crows has set up home in a tree in the side yard. Neither Mother nor I are the least bit pleased.
Mrs S has recovered from her cold. She offered to tune our piano for us, which is a ridiculous suggestion and I told her so.
A very bad night. Hardly slept at all. Dreamed of crows and clocks and spiders.
Miss W brought over not one, but two, pies. What will we do with them?
I wonder: where does the sun go when it wants to hide?
Miss J (a friend of Miss C's) came to tea. She was crying. I offered what comfort I could but I hope she never returns.
It has been two weeks and I have not received a single letter from anyone.
Three small stones were left in a pile on the back steps.
Mrs R broke her toe. I doubt we will see her again this year.
A quiet hour of reading this evening.
Went for a walk with Miss W. She reached for my hand. I told her "No."
The clasp on my bracelet is broken.
Mother is talking about Barcelona. I fear the worst.
There are rumors that the elder Miss Tapper, now Mrs D, is expecting a child. I don't believe this can be true.
Suddenly all my dresses are drab and droopy. It doesn't matter.
Miss F has begun taking French lessons. She is so very earnest.
L has written to announce her engagement. She met him at her cousin's house in Boston. I am shocked. But not surprised.
Miss J is hosting a salon next Wednesday. I told her that Mother and I will be resting that day.
I miss Fluffy and the kittens. I fear the worst has befallen them.
Spent one hour practicing my penmanship, for no reason at all.
Miss W asked me to accompany her to Philadelphia next month. I pretended I did not hear her.
A disappointing visit to the library. There doesn't appear to be a single book I am interested in.
I doubt I will ever sleep through the night again.
I asked Mother if she has seen my beaded bag. She pretended not to know what I was talking about.
I just noticed today: my right hand is apparently slightly larger than my left hand.
Father's pocket watch was discovered under a pile of linen. Relief.
A quiet hour of reading in the morning.
I have replenished my supply of paper and ink.
Mother asked me to air out the guest room but I see no need to do so, as we are not expecting any overnight visitors.
I must have slept for a while last night since I remember dreaming about a lion.
Received unpleasant news this morning.
Mother was exaggerating, things are not as dreadful as I feared.
I saw Miss J in the library yesterday. She was not crying, but still I made a point of avoiding her.
Mr and Mrs D are expecting twins. I have heard it on the highest authority (Dr N). I don't know whether to laugh or cry. I think I will laugh.
Tuesday, December 13, 2016
Saturday, November 26, 2016
My Happiness Poem, written on November 1, 2, 3, 2016
happiness is when
i wake up with music in my head
it could be a sanskrit chant
or maybe aretha or martha and the vandellas
and it stays with me all day
happiness is when
my mother sends me an email
that contains only symbols
hearts, stars, fruit, silly animals, red exclamation marks
and i know she's been having fun with her smartie phone
happiness is when
i ride in the car with the love of my life
and we come to an open stretch of road
just as thousands of leaves
come dancing by — right to left and back again
happiness is when
i feel a bit drab
and then remind myself that
i can put on mis-matched socks
and i do
happiness is when
i decide i just don't care
and i let the leaves blow in
and i don't
vacuum them up
happiness is when
a friend sends an email
that says TY TY TY
and i don't know what it means
but then i figure it out: Thank You Thank You Thank You
happiness is when
i buy a new box of 10 pens
all different colored inks
and feel secure
for at least one month
happiness is when
everyone who is expected arrives
the circle is complete
a grey wet morning
brightens
i wake up with music in my head
it could be a sanskrit chant
or maybe aretha or martha and the vandellas
and it stays with me all day
happiness is when
my mother sends me an email
that contains only symbols
hearts, stars, fruit, silly animals, red exclamation marks
and i know she's been having fun with her smartie phone
happiness is when
i ride in the car with the love of my life
and we come to an open stretch of road
just as thousands of leaves
come dancing by — right to left and back again
happiness is when
i feel a bit drab
and then remind myself that
i can put on mis-matched socks
and i do
happiness is when
i decide i just don't care
and i let the leaves blow in
and i don't
vacuum them up
happiness is when
a friend sends an email
that says TY TY TY
and i don't know what it means
but then i figure it out: Thank You Thank You Thank You
happiness is when
i buy a new box of 10 pens
all different colored inks
and feel secure
for at least one month
happiness is when
everyone who is expected arrives
the circle is complete
a grey wet morning
brightens
Tuesday, November 22, 2016
A Thanksgiving Letter (originally published here on November 20, 2011)
Thanksgiving Day, 9 a.m.
Dear Ava,
I’ve been up since six, bet you were too, and I wish I could have come over but Daddy says it’s slutty the way I run over to your house all the time and I told him it’s not slutty when it’s two girls but he said he’s speaking metaphorically and anyway this is Thanksgiving (like I didn’t know that) and it’s meant for families to be with families, which is just plain stupid, but anyway that’s why I’m writing to you and not talking to you in person and as soon as I can get out the front door without being caught I’ll run this over and put it in your mailbox. I hope you look there. Try to read my mind this second: M-A-I-L B-O-X.
Do you like this paper? It’s not really purple. I know it looks purple but it’s called mauve and no I didn’t spell it wrong, my grandma sent it with a note telling me the color because she’s always trying to improve my mind, so get used to this mauve, you’ll be seeing a lot of it, who else would I write to?
She also sent me a book, "A Child’s Garden of Verses," she is so two centuries ago, but I don’t want to be mad at her because the reason she’s sending me this stuff instead of waiting until Hanukkah is she thinks she might be dead by then which is really sad. But on the other hand it’s not sad because there’s nothing wrong with her, she just gets seasonal dread she calls it, but if she’s still alive on New Year’s Day then I’m really going to be mad at her for being so negative about life.
There was a lot of activity in the kitchen this morning, Dad and his new live-in girlfriend playing around with the turkey, giggle, giggle, giggle. I stayed up in my room because watching them make out over a naked animal would turn my stomach, but now they’ve gone back to bed and it’s quiet as the grave though any second I expect to hear her panting and oh-my-god-ing and I'm sure this is not good for me, mental health-wise, but Dad, being a psychologist, would probably say “Facts of life, Dorrie, get used to it.”
So I'm just wondering about something: “quiet as the grave,” what do you think? Is it quiet in the grave? I doubt it. Gross. Hold on a sec, I’m going to change the channel in my mind. Okay, I’m back.
My ex-step-mother and her two gnomes will be here at one. Is this the weirdest thing you’ve ever heard of? My father is like one of those men with a harem, he gets his ex and his current to come and fuss over him with their cranberry sauces and we’re all supposed to act like it’s normal. He says “We make the rules, not society” but by "we" he means "he" because if I made the rules I’d be at your house right now and we’d have mac-and-cheese from the microwave and we'd play with the Ouija board until our finger tips fell off.
One of the things I’d really like to know is how a woman who is old enough to drive still can’t figure out the meaning of the word vegetarian. When Dad’s live-in realizes I’m not going to eat a single ounce of that 300 pound turkey there’s going to be World War 4 in the dining room. My ex-step-mother might even start crying. She’ll be sad because now that she’s a guest in the house she won’t get to call me names and throw fits. But you never know, anything can happen, I’m sort of hoping for a food fight with the two gnomes, for old time’s sake.
So now it is so much later, how did this happen?
You might have noticed I still haven’t managed to get this letter into your mailbox, hope you haven’t been waiting there, that is if you read my mind in the first place. Did you?
There’s something of a scene going on downstairs, I’ll tell you every single detail when I see you tomorrow, but for now just try to picture this: After the so-called feast my ex-step-mother stood up and recited a poem she wrote especially for the occasion. I thought she would have outgrown that sensitive phase of hers, but apparently not. It was a very long poem, seemed like 3 hours, and I didn’t understand all of it, but I think it was supposed to be erotic, and it kind of upset the live-in who might be living out soon. Hallelujah.
This is the last letter you’ll get from me on this mauve paper. You remember Jeffrey, one of my former step-gnomes, well he was hanging out in my room — don’t ask me how he got through the barricade — and it turns out mauve is his favorite color, which was something of a shocker but not in a totally bad way, so he’s taking the whole box of stationery off my hands except for one sheet which I’ll use to write a thank you note to my grandmother. I couldn’t get him to take "A Child’s Garden of Verses," though. What did I expect? It’s only Thanksgiving. They don’t promise you miracles on Thanksgiving.
Look for me early in the morning, I’ll be right there on your doorstep. You'll know it's me because in spite of everything that happened today I still look the same. On the outside.
Love, Dorrie
Dear Ava,
I’ve been up since six, bet you were too, and I wish I could have come over but Daddy says it’s slutty the way I run over to your house all the time and I told him it’s not slutty when it’s two girls but he said he’s speaking metaphorically and anyway this is Thanksgiving (like I didn’t know that) and it’s meant for families to be with families, which is just plain stupid, but anyway that’s why I’m writing to you and not talking to you in person and as soon as I can get out the front door without being caught I’ll run this over and put it in your mailbox. I hope you look there. Try to read my mind this second: M-A-I-L B-O-X.
Do you like this paper? It’s not really purple. I know it looks purple but it’s called mauve and no I didn’t spell it wrong, my grandma sent it with a note telling me the color because she’s always trying to improve my mind, so get used to this mauve, you’ll be seeing a lot of it, who else would I write to?
She also sent me a book, "A Child’s Garden of Verses," she is so two centuries ago, but I don’t want to be mad at her because the reason she’s sending me this stuff instead of waiting until Hanukkah is she thinks she might be dead by then which is really sad. But on the other hand it’s not sad because there’s nothing wrong with her, she just gets seasonal dread she calls it, but if she’s still alive on New Year’s Day then I’m really going to be mad at her for being so negative about life.
There was a lot of activity in the kitchen this morning, Dad and his new live-in girlfriend playing around with the turkey, giggle, giggle, giggle. I stayed up in my room because watching them make out over a naked animal would turn my stomach, but now they’ve gone back to bed and it’s quiet as the grave though any second I expect to hear her panting and oh-my-god-ing and I'm sure this is not good for me, mental health-wise, but Dad, being a psychologist, would probably say “Facts of life, Dorrie, get used to it.”
So I'm just wondering about something: “quiet as the grave,” what do you think? Is it quiet in the grave? I doubt it. Gross. Hold on a sec, I’m going to change the channel in my mind. Okay, I’m back.
My ex-step-mother and her two gnomes will be here at one. Is this the weirdest thing you’ve ever heard of? My father is like one of those men with a harem, he gets his ex and his current to come and fuss over him with their cranberry sauces and we’re all supposed to act like it’s normal. He says “We make the rules, not society” but by "we" he means "he" because if I made the rules I’d be at your house right now and we’d have mac-and-cheese from the microwave and we'd play with the Ouija board until our finger tips fell off.
One of the things I’d really like to know is how a woman who is old enough to drive still can’t figure out the meaning of the word vegetarian. When Dad’s live-in realizes I’m not going to eat a single ounce of that 300 pound turkey there’s going to be World War 4 in the dining room. My ex-step-mother might even start crying. She’ll be sad because now that she’s a guest in the house she won’t get to call me names and throw fits. But you never know, anything can happen, I’m sort of hoping for a food fight with the two gnomes, for old time’s sake.
So now it is so much later, how did this happen?
You might have noticed I still haven’t managed to get this letter into your mailbox, hope you haven’t been waiting there, that is if you read my mind in the first place. Did you?
There’s something of a scene going on downstairs, I’ll tell you every single detail when I see you tomorrow, but for now just try to picture this: After the so-called feast my ex-step-mother stood up and recited a poem she wrote especially for the occasion. I thought she would have outgrown that sensitive phase of hers, but apparently not. It was a very long poem, seemed like 3 hours, and I didn’t understand all of it, but I think it was supposed to be erotic, and it kind of upset the live-in who might be living out soon. Hallelujah.
This is the last letter you’ll get from me on this mauve paper. You remember Jeffrey, one of my former step-gnomes, well he was hanging out in my room — don’t ask me how he got through the barricade — and it turns out mauve is his favorite color, which was something of a shocker but not in a totally bad way, so he’s taking the whole box of stationery off my hands except for one sheet which I’ll use to write a thank you note to my grandmother. I couldn’t get him to take "A Child’s Garden of Verses," though. What did I expect? It’s only Thanksgiving. They don’t promise you miracles on Thanksgiving.
Look for me early in the morning, I’ll be right there on your doorstep. You'll know it's me because in spite of everything that happened today I still look the same. On the outside.
Love, Dorrie
Thursday, November 17, 2016
the bronx: small poems (revised edition)
the bronx
dad fears the monkey house
refuses to take us to the zoo
the bronx
sweet smells from down the hill
stella d'oro cookie factory
the bronx
my father is well-known
in every chinese restaurant
the bronx
1965 — blackout —
we don't own a single flashlight
the bronx
singing leonard cohen
all the way to school
the bronx
friday night dinners at grandma's
we never say the blessing
the bronx
every time i leave the apartment
mom asks are you prepared?
the bronx
roller skating in the building's hallway
the old people hate us
the bronx
dad says
stop talking about vietnam already
the bronx
a short subway ride from yankee stadium
but we are not a baseball family
the bronx
my sister smears her mouth
with candy lipstick
the bronx
dad takes me to my first movie
davy crockett: king of the wild frontier
the bronx
all i want to be when i grow up
joan baez
the bronx
mother says
stay away from apartment 6E — (trick or treat)
the bronx
my sister and i want a pet
dad buys us a goldfish
the bronx
everyone in the building knows this:
never go down to the basement
the bronx
happy birthday to me
a box of 64 crayola crayons
the bronx
someone gives me a kazoo
bzzzzzzz bzzzzzzzzzz bzzzzzzzzzzzz
the bronx
mom says something shocking:
the hell with shari lewis
the bronx
mom teaches me to crochet
one granny square makes a dress for barbie
the bronx
the first family death
i don't know what to feel
the bronx
run over by a bicycle
tire marks on my body
the bronx
skating around the corner
it's like a different country
the bronx
oh happy day
i pass my junior high typing test
the bronx
every morning
talk talk talk talk radio
the bronx
strange men on the street ask
why so serious?
the bronx
dancing with an older girl
we win the lindy hop contest
the bronx
i buy an ankh pendant
my family is confused
the bronx
my first guitar lesson
go tell aunt rhody
the bronx
odetta in concert
grandma likes her deep voice
the bronx
a patch of blue
we declare it a five-tissue movie
the bronx
dad gets his first car
i'm afraid to ride with him
the bronx
i'm warned
don't even look at the hare krishnas
the bronx
the elevator is always broken
i take the stairs two at a time
the bronx
so many pot parties
i never manage to inhale
the bronx
two spices in the cupboard
but mom doesn't use them
the bronx
a neighbor calls me
rebel without a cause
the bronx
my grandma invents
vegetarian chopped liver
the bronx
my father has many rules
for slicing bagels
the bronx
the dirtiest word i know
fart
the bronx
nobody else likes
pistachio ice cream
the bronx
decide: who is better
helen keller or clara barton
the bronx
my first major crush
hayley mills
the bronx
every girl in my third grade class
gets a toni home perm
the bronx
i feel so grown up
my first bottle of jean nate bath splash
the bronx
one day dad announces he is
anti-quiche
the bronx
a sneeze from next door
i call out gezundheit
the bronx
we play knock hockey
until it's time to watch bonanza
the bronx
crime and punishment
i carry it with me everywhere
the bronx
i go to the wrong apartment by mistake
how did everything change while i was out playing
the bronx
dad says if we owned a house
we could have a junk room, not just a junk drawer
the bronx
some girls get princess phones
i do not
the bronx
the answer is always no
i'll never get to wear nylon stockings
the bronx
i discover that olives
make excellent finger puppets
the bronx
men place bets in the candy store
off limits to children
the bronx
my younger sister, my mother, and i
identical dresses
the bronx
my own library card
little house on the prairie
the bronx
that bad man in the button store
flirts with my mother
the bronx
after the blizzard
men on our block take turns with the shovel
the bronx
dad grows a beard
i stop kissing him
dad fears the monkey house
refuses to take us to the zoo
the bronx
sweet smells from down the hill
stella d'oro cookie factory
the bronx
my father is well-known
in every chinese restaurant
the bronx
1965 — blackout —
we don't own a single flashlight
the bronx
singing leonard cohen
all the way to school
the bronx
friday night dinners at grandma's
we never say the blessing
the bronx
every time i leave the apartment
mom asks are you prepared?
the bronx
roller skating in the building's hallway
the old people hate us
the bronx
dad says
stop talking about vietnam already
the bronx
a short subway ride from yankee stadium
but we are not a baseball family
the bronx
my sister smears her mouth
with candy lipstick
the bronx
dad takes me to my first movie
davy crockett: king of the wild frontier
the bronx
all i want to be when i grow up
joan baez
the bronx
mother says
stay away from apartment 6E — (trick or treat)
the bronx
my sister and i want a pet
dad buys us a goldfish
the bronx
everyone in the building knows this:
never go down to the basement
the bronx
happy birthday to me
a box of 64 crayola crayons
the bronx
someone gives me a kazoo
bzzzzzzz bzzzzzzzzzz bzzzzzzzzzzzz
the bronx
mom says something shocking:
the hell with shari lewis
the bronx
mom teaches me to crochet
one granny square makes a dress for barbie
the bronx
the first family death
i don't know what to feel
the bronx
run over by a bicycle
tire marks on my body
the bronx
skating around the corner
it's like a different country
the bronx
oh happy day
i pass my junior high typing test
the bronx
every morning
talk talk talk talk radio
the bronx
strange men on the street ask
why so serious?
the bronx
dancing with an older girl
we win the lindy hop contest
the bronx
i buy an ankh pendant
my family is confused
the bronx
my first guitar lesson
go tell aunt rhody
the bronx
odetta in concert
grandma likes her deep voice
the bronx
a patch of blue
we declare it a five-tissue movie
the bronx
dad gets his first car
i'm afraid to ride with him
the bronx
i'm warned
don't even look at the hare krishnas
the bronx
the elevator is always broken
i take the stairs two at a time
the bronx
so many pot parties
i never manage to inhale
the bronx
two spices in the cupboard
but mom doesn't use them
the bronx
a neighbor calls me
rebel without a cause
the bronx
my grandma invents
vegetarian chopped liver
the bronx
my father has many rules
for slicing bagels
the bronx
the dirtiest word i know
fart
the bronx
nobody else likes
pistachio ice cream
the bronx
decide: who is better
helen keller or clara barton
the bronx
my first major crush
hayley mills
the bronx
every girl in my third grade class
gets a toni home perm
the bronx
i feel so grown up
my first bottle of jean nate bath splash
the bronx
one day dad announces he is
anti-quiche
the bronx
a sneeze from next door
i call out gezundheit
the bronx
we play knock hockey
until it's time to watch bonanza
the bronx
crime and punishment
i carry it with me everywhere
the bronx
i go to the wrong apartment by mistake
how did everything change while i was out playing
the bronx
dad says if we owned a house
we could have a junk room, not just a junk drawer
the bronx
some girls get princess phones
i do not
the bronx
the answer is always no
i'll never get to wear nylon stockings
the bronx
i discover that olives
make excellent finger puppets
the bronx
men place bets in the candy store
off limits to children
the bronx
my younger sister, my mother, and i
identical dresses
the bronx
my own library card
little house on the prairie
the bronx
that bad man in the button store
flirts with my mother
the bronx
after the blizzard
men on our block take turns with the shovel
the bronx
dad grows a beard
i stop kissing him
Tuesday, October 4, 2016
Family Fashion
In honor of my parents. Mom's birthday is today; Dad's is on Oct 6. They are both turning 89. This is a semi-true story in a category I call "family fiction."
Some time in the 1960s my parents turned into fashion icons . . . of a sort.
It started when my father abandoned his role as a debonair man-about-town (Tyrone Power was the actor he was said to resemble most) and grew a goatee. No one else in our Bronx neighborhood had one.
At first Dad's facial hair puzzled people. It even frightened some of them. "What is that?" they wondered. But Dad persevered, and soon his friends, and even a few relatives, were calling him Fidel, and not in an entirely disparaging way.
Yes, there were cigars involved. He had always smoked cigars — his father owned a tobacco shop, Dad started smoking when he was 11 — but now, with the goatee, and something resembling a swagger in his walk, my father was suddenly cool, hip, some people called him a "hep cat." He wasn't exactly a beatnik, but he was leaning toward being beatnik-y.
People were drawn to him. He was a large man, a loud man, he had a nice smile and a firm handshake. He was popular with men and women alike. When his young cousin, Arnie, grew a goatee, Dad was so proud. "I've started something bigger than me," he said. Before long a man in the apartment building next to ours was seen with a goatee. Then the mailman had one. Mr. Kilgallen, the father of six who lived down the hall, tried to grow one but he wasn't successful. He asked Dad for advice. My father was basking in glory. He loved this time in his life.
My mother was an exceptionally beautiful woman, and was often compared to Natalie Wood. Ava Gardner, too, and Loretta Young. Even Elizabeth Taylor. She was the first of her friends to wear caftans, but on Mom they did not look like lingerie or muumuus — she draped long gold chains loosely around her waist. People said she was exotic.
Then she began to crochet her own evening gowns, elevating the lowly granny square into something magnificent. She took busses and trains all over New York City, into every borough except Staten Island — because she was not about to get into a boat, for God's sake! — in search of the most beautiful yarns. She found them in tiny shops tucked behind (or above, or below) other tiny shops. She crocheted daring floor-length gowns. And yes, there were peek-a-boo holes. But that didn't trouble her and it didn't trouble anyone else, either. Mom was the hit of every bar mitzvah and wedding, and if I'm not mistaken, one or two funerals as well.
Everyone loved my mother. Women followed her around, counting stitches, asking where she went for her patterns, gasping in awe when she said she made them up herself. My mother was envied and admired. Her friends all wanted to be her. They told her this.
Then one day my mother discovered paisley, and she took to it in a big way. So her friends took to paisley too. That's how our neighborhood became a paisley mecca. Crochet hooks and fancy yarns were put aside. All eyes were on the new look, the paisley look.
What did my mother do in paisley? She did everything in paisley. Paisley sheets and pillow cases; curtains and table cloths. Paisley hair ribbons, bags, belts, and scarves. Paisley mini-skirts, paisley maxi-skirts. Paisley halter tops and paisley bell-bottoms. My mother decked herself out in paisley, head to toe, and her friends followed her lead.
Saturday night parties in our apartment were filled with paisley-clad women and cigar-chomping bearded men. It was all very "now" if your idea of now was an episode of Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In.
Before the parties got fully underway the women would gather in the bathroom, taking turns at the mirror, trying on each other's make-up and playing with one another's hair. The men, in the living room, with unfamiliar drinks in their hands, exchanged misinformation about where you could find genuine Cuban cigars.
But even with their liquor and their cigars, the men felt left out when it came to paisley. Yes, there were paisley ties, but how many of those could you own? And my father, who was becoming allergic to ties (metaphorically speaking), was growing petulant. "Wear a cravat," my mother suggested. Can you hear the snort of his reply? I can. My sister and I bought Dad a silk hanky in a paisley design, the kind of hanky some men fold very cleverly and wear in the breast pocket of their suit jacket. Dad was not that kind of man. He blew his nose on the hanky and then he threw it away.
The age of paisley was over.
Soon afterward my mother proclaimed a liking for all shades of "neutral." Who knew there were so many varieties of brown and grey? Beige, taupe, chestnut, khaki, cocoa, amber, ash, cloudy, sandy, pewter, slate, smoke. She wore them all.
And then — poof! — Dad shaved off his goatee.
No more Saturday night parties. No more constant gaiety.
Dad continued to smoke his cigars but no one called him Fidel anymore. His new idols were Phil Silvers, Ernie Kovacs, Jackie Gleason. Big men, but not quite leading men. And by now, neither was my father.
Mom took me shopping for college clothes. She tried hard to persuade me to adopt a love of neutral colors. But in this she did not succeed. I was only interested in one color. Blue. Denim blue to be precise. I filled my suitcase with denim jeans and work shirts from the Army & Navy Store. For variety, an embroidered "peasant blouse" that I bought on MacDougal Street.
At the last possible second before we loaded the car for the trip upstate, Mom tried to slip her one remaining paisley scarf into my bag. "In case you have a special occasion and need to dress up," she said.
The only time I needed to dress up, that first year away, was for a wedding in the woods, just outside of town. The bride wore cut-off jean shorts; the groom wore bathing trunks. I wore a flannel nightgown. The times they were most definitely a-changin'.
Some time in the 1960s my parents turned into fashion icons . . . of a sort.
It started when my father abandoned his role as a debonair man-about-town (Tyrone Power was the actor he was said to resemble most) and grew a goatee. No one else in our Bronx neighborhood had one.
At first Dad's facial hair puzzled people. It even frightened some of them. "What is that?" they wondered. But Dad persevered, and soon his friends, and even a few relatives, were calling him Fidel, and not in an entirely disparaging way.
Yes, there were cigars involved. He had always smoked cigars — his father owned a tobacco shop, Dad started smoking when he was 11 — but now, with the goatee, and something resembling a swagger in his walk, my father was suddenly cool, hip, some people called him a "hep cat." He wasn't exactly a beatnik, but he was leaning toward being beatnik-y.
People were drawn to him. He was a large man, a loud man, he had a nice smile and a firm handshake. He was popular with men and women alike. When his young cousin, Arnie, grew a goatee, Dad was so proud. "I've started something bigger than me," he said. Before long a man in the apartment building next to ours was seen with a goatee. Then the mailman had one. Mr. Kilgallen, the father of six who lived down the hall, tried to grow one but he wasn't successful. He asked Dad for advice. My father was basking in glory. He loved this time in his life.
My mother was an exceptionally beautiful woman, and was often compared to Natalie Wood. Ava Gardner, too, and Loretta Young. Even Elizabeth Taylor. She was the first of her friends to wear caftans, but on Mom they did not look like lingerie or muumuus — she draped long gold chains loosely around her waist. People said she was exotic.
Then she began to crochet her own evening gowns, elevating the lowly granny square into something magnificent. She took busses and trains all over New York City, into every borough except Staten Island — because she was not about to get into a boat, for God's sake! — in search of the most beautiful yarns. She found them in tiny shops tucked behind (or above, or below) other tiny shops. She crocheted daring floor-length gowns. And yes, there were peek-a-boo holes. But that didn't trouble her and it didn't trouble anyone else, either. Mom was the hit of every bar mitzvah and wedding, and if I'm not mistaken, one or two funerals as well.
Everyone loved my mother. Women followed her around, counting stitches, asking where she went for her patterns, gasping in awe when she said she made them up herself. My mother was envied and admired. Her friends all wanted to be her. They told her this.
Then one day my mother discovered paisley, and she took to it in a big way. So her friends took to paisley too. That's how our neighborhood became a paisley mecca. Crochet hooks and fancy yarns were put aside. All eyes were on the new look, the paisley look.
What did my mother do in paisley? She did everything in paisley. Paisley sheets and pillow cases; curtains and table cloths. Paisley hair ribbons, bags, belts, and scarves. Paisley mini-skirts, paisley maxi-skirts. Paisley halter tops and paisley bell-bottoms. My mother decked herself out in paisley, head to toe, and her friends followed her lead.
Saturday night parties in our apartment were filled with paisley-clad women and cigar-chomping bearded men. It was all very "now" if your idea of now was an episode of Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In.
Before the parties got fully underway the women would gather in the bathroom, taking turns at the mirror, trying on each other's make-up and playing with one another's hair. The men, in the living room, with unfamiliar drinks in their hands, exchanged misinformation about where you could find genuine Cuban cigars.
But even with their liquor and their cigars, the men felt left out when it came to paisley. Yes, there were paisley ties, but how many of those could you own? And my father, who was becoming allergic to ties (metaphorically speaking), was growing petulant. "Wear a cravat," my mother suggested. Can you hear the snort of his reply? I can. My sister and I bought Dad a silk hanky in a paisley design, the kind of hanky some men fold very cleverly and wear in the breast pocket of their suit jacket. Dad was not that kind of man. He blew his nose on the hanky and then he threw it away.
The age of paisley was over.
Soon afterward my mother proclaimed a liking for all shades of "neutral." Who knew there were so many varieties of brown and grey? Beige, taupe, chestnut, khaki, cocoa, amber, ash, cloudy, sandy, pewter, slate, smoke. She wore them all.
And then — poof! — Dad shaved off his goatee.
No more Saturday night parties. No more constant gaiety.
Dad continued to smoke his cigars but no one called him Fidel anymore. His new idols were Phil Silvers, Ernie Kovacs, Jackie Gleason. Big men, but not quite leading men. And by now, neither was my father.
Mom took me shopping for college clothes. She tried hard to persuade me to adopt a love of neutral colors. But in this she did not succeed. I was only interested in one color. Blue. Denim blue to be precise. I filled my suitcase with denim jeans and work shirts from the Army & Navy Store. For variety, an embroidered "peasant blouse" that I bought on MacDougal Street.
At the last possible second before we loaded the car for the trip upstate, Mom tried to slip her one remaining paisley scarf into my bag. "In case you have a special occasion and need to dress up," she said.
The only time I needed to dress up, that first year away, was for a wedding in the woods, just outside of town. The bride wore cut-off jean shorts; the groom wore bathing trunks. I wore a flannel nightgown. The times they were most definitely a-changin'.
Friday, September 30, 2016
6-line poems: cherita
I was recently introduced to the poetic form called cherita, through Larry Kimmel's collection, "shards and dust: new and selected cherita" (bottle rockets press, c. 2014)
==
late august
a student runs to catch his bus
nearly knocks me down
pardon me, madam
he calls
over his shoulder
==
community acupuncture room
stretched out in reclining chairs
seven strangers
nobody
snores
today
==
i was a superstitious child
careful never to step
on a sidewalk crack
worried about
my mother's
back
==
taking myself out for thai lunch
the crying baby
the loud-talking man
but the soup is hot
and the music
mellow
==
you can't recall her name
she has short hair
you say
and she wanted me
to give you
her love
==
early morning laughter
waking from a dream
intending to remember the joke
alas —
it is instantly
forgotten
==
eat more kale
a bossy
bumper sticker
stopping beside the car
to stamp my feet
no! i won't!!
==
near the buddhist monastery
pausing to hug a woman
who i hope will become a friend
the air smells faintly
of rain
still an hour away
==
hurrying along
almost missing the word
on the sidewalk
serenity
written in pink chalk
okay — breathing in, breathing out
==
early morning walk
state street
past present future
stepping in someone else's footprints
wondering
who will step in mine
==
many many years ago
half-way between
the Bronx and Ithaca
a single tree
on a hill —
perhaps it is still there
==
two things grandpa taught me
how to multiply
by eight
the proper way to fold
the New York Times
when reading on the subway
==
what was mother thinking?
dressing the three of us alike —
her, my sister, me
on our way to Coney Island
a woman on the train asks
if we are triplets
==
Sunday nights
waiting for Bonanza
to start
we play Chinese checkers
and worry
about the week to come
==
yes there was favoritism
I am given the role of Maria —
The Sound of Music
off-key
but barely audible
small mercy
==
two days before camp
name labels arrive
for mother to iron on
a mistake —
Ira instead of Irene —
she assures me no one will notice
==
that time at the bungalow colony
the uncles smoking and cursing
fighting over the Monopoly board
next time
Aunt Anna says
you should play "Old Maid"
==
each year on his birthday
we give dad a packet
of Balkan Sobranie tobacco
then act shocked
when he lights up
his stinky pipe
==
WARNING!
a word I rebel
against
the way
Keep Out signs
make me inch closer
==
colorful chalk drawings
all summer long
they decorated this street
now that school is open
daisies, hearts, arrows
fade away
==
this morning my neighbor
also on
the park path
her strides
discouragingly longer
than my own
==
on my dear friend's front porch
a sign
in bold block letters
MEDITATE —
i long to stop and sit a while
but i keep on walking
==
I was eleven or twelve
26 hours on a train
from Manhattan to Florida
reading Little House on the Prairie
pretending to be riding
in a covered wagon
==
walking a zig-zag path
avoiding road construction
and smokers
every morning
a slightly altered journey
back to myself
==
remembering last spring
noisy rain fell on
the other side of this window
today a man
and woman flirt
(silently) in the sunshine
==
four streets over
a new building
going up
I match my breathing
to the steady rhythm
of the pile driver
==
late august
a student runs to catch his bus
nearly knocks me down
pardon me, madam
he calls
over his shoulder
==
community acupuncture room
stretched out in reclining chairs
seven strangers
nobody
snores
today
==
i was a superstitious child
careful never to step
on a sidewalk crack
worried about
my mother's
back
==
taking myself out for thai lunch
the crying baby
the loud-talking man
but the soup is hot
and the music
mellow
==
you can't recall her name
she has short hair
you say
and she wanted me
to give you
her love
==
early morning laughter
waking from a dream
intending to remember the joke
alas —
it is instantly
forgotten
==
eat more kale
a bossy
bumper sticker
stopping beside the car
to stamp my feet
no! i won't!!
==
near the buddhist monastery
pausing to hug a woman
who i hope will become a friend
the air smells faintly
of rain
still an hour away
==
hurrying along
almost missing the word
on the sidewalk
serenity
written in pink chalk
okay — breathing in, breathing out
==
early morning walk
state street
past present future
stepping in someone else's footprints
wondering
who will step in mine
==
many many years ago
half-way between
the Bronx and Ithaca
a single tree
on a hill —
perhaps it is still there
==
two things grandpa taught me
how to multiply
by eight
the proper way to fold
the New York Times
when reading on the subway
==
what was mother thinking?
dressing the three of us alike —
her, my sister, me
on our way to Coney Island
a woman on the train asks
if we are triplets
==
Sunday nights
waiting for Bonanza
to start
we play Chinese checkers
and worry
about the week to come
==
yes there was favoritism
I am given the role of Maria —
The Sound of Music
off-key
but barely audible
small mercy
==
two days before camp
name labels arrive
for mother to iron on
a mistake —
Ira instead of Irene —
she assures me no one will notice
==
that time at the bungalow colony
the uncles smoking and cursing
fighting over the Monopoly board
next time
Aunt Anna says
you should play "Old Maid"
==
each year on his birthday
we give dad a packet
of Balkan Sobranie tobacco
then act shocked
when he lights up
his stinky pipe
==
WARNING!
a word I rebel
against
the way
Keep Out signs
make me inch closer
==
colorful chalk drawings
all summer long
they decorated this street
now that school is open
daisies, hearts, arrows
fade away
==
this morning my neighbor
also on
the park path
her strides
discouragingly longer
than my own
==
on my dear friend's front porch
a sign
in bold block letters
MEDITATE —
i long to stop and sit a while
but i keep on walking
==
I was eleven or twelve
26 hours on a train
from Manhattan to Florida
reading Little House on the Prairie
pretending to be riding
in a covered wagon
==
walking a zig-zag path
avoiding road construction
and smokers
every morning
a slightly altered journey
back to myself
==
remembering last spring
noisy rain fell on
the other side of this window
today a man
and woman flirt
(silently) in the sunshine
==
four streets over
a new building
going up
I match my breathing
to the steady rhythm
of the pile driver
Monday, August 15, 2016
The Dictionary (revisited)
I posted this story on my blog many many months ago but I want to share it again now because I like it, and also because I have a number of friends whose children are getting ready to leave for college and (at the very end) "The Dictionary" touches on that.
It belonged to my mother and its blue cover was already fading by the time I first made its acquaintance — the September I started at Junior High School 143 in the Bronx.
My mother did not give me the dictionary. She was very clear about that. “This is my dictionary,” she said, enunciating each word, the way she did when she wanted to be sure I got her point. “I’m letting you borrow it. Treat it with care.”
Before that time I had no need of a dictionary. Spelling was a significant part of the elementary school curriculum but looking words up was not. We were taught to sound things out and to memorize.
“I before E except after C or when sounding like A as in neighbor or weigh.”
“The principal of this school is your pal: P-r-i-n-c-i-P-A-L.”
Using a dictionary would have been, almost, like cheating.
Speaking of cheating, I feel I have to tell you this:
There was a spelling bee in my fourth grade class. Our teacher, Mrs. Mooney, lined us all up, girls on one side of the room and boys on the other. If you messed up on your word you sat down and the next person, on the other team, tried their luck. By some incredible fluke, in the end, I was left standing on the girls’ side and Neil Feinstein was left on the boys’.
The word I got was Christmas. I knew that this was not right. I was Jewish. Mrs. Mooney should not have expected me to even know that such a word existed. In my family, if we had to spell it at all, which we didn’t, but we would have, hypothetically, spelled it X-m-a-s. I suspected that wasn’t what Mrs. Mooney was looking for. I really wanted to get this right, not only for myself but for all the girls in my class. I just couldn’t let them down. But Christmas?
I cast my eyes heavenward — and lo and behold, up there on the wall, hanging just above the enormous blackboard, was a rectangle of beige oak tag. And printed in large black magic marker letters, where anyone could see it if they only knew to look up, was the word Christmas.
Along with Halloween, Thanksgiving, Chanukah, New Year’s Day, Groundhog Day, Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Passover and Easter. A litany of holidays that Mrs. Mooney, not really the artsy-craftsy type, had chosen as decorations for our otherwise austere classroom walls.
It was directly in my line of vision, and not being a girl who would pass up a genuine miracle when it was handed to her on a silver platter, I sang out, loud and true: c-h-r-i-s-t-m-a-s.
“Wrong!” exclaimed Mrs. Mooney. Wrong? How could it be wrong? I read the word — every single letter — off the poster she had scotch-taped onto the wall. I couldn’t be wrong. But also, I couldn’t protest. I was left standing there, the lone girl on the right-hand side of the room, with my mouth hanging wide open.
Mrs. Mooney turned to Neil Feinstein, who until that very moment I’d considered a friend, but now I saw him for what he was — my arch enemy — and he proclaimed capital C-h-r-i-s-t-m-a-s.
“That’s correct!” Mrs. Mooney crowed. “The boys win.”
I returned to my seat, ashamed and defeated, knowing myself to be a big, fat, cheater.
Okay, I just had to get that off my chest. Now I will return to the story of the dictionary.
J. H. S. 143 turned out to be an exciting place. The principal (still our pal and spelled with an A, but this time a man, not a woman), wore a bow tie and talked to us, each morning, over an intercom system. We no longer spent the entire day in the same classroom, but ran through the halls every forty minutes, in a frantic dash from social studies to language arts, from French to math to band practice. We knew, through the secret grapevine, that our science teacher’s first name was Georgia, and that she was “good friends” (which meant something dirty but I wasn’t sure what) with the math teacher, Mr. Lyman. We knew that Madame Strauss, our French teacher, always looked like she’d been crying, but we didn’t know why, and we weren’t sure we wanted to know. We didn’t go to recess, we went to P. E.
My favorite teacher was Miss Gatney, and my favorite subject was Language Arts. In Language Arts you got extra credit just for reading a book that wasn't on the required reading list. And if you illustrated your book report with colored pencils, you got even more extra credit.
I wanted nothing more in life than to please Miss Gatney and to make her proud of me. But her standards were high. She wanted our class to learn how to write perfect essays. Spelling counted. And she wanted to see evidence of our expanding vocabularies. It was no longer good enough to have an idea about what a word meant. You had to go deeper; you had to really get it.
Up until this time, simply by sitting quietly and eavesdropping on adult conversations, I’d been able to cobble together quite an impressive bilingual vocabulary. “Meshugina,” when mentioned often enough in reference to a particular free-spirit of a relative, easily translated into “nut case.” Words like “divorcée,” “paranoid,” “schmuck,” “nudnick,” “chutzpah,” were equally accessible. You just needed to get the context.
But in Miss Gatney’s class, context was no longer the end; it was merely the beginning. And sounding-out skills, which had worked so well in the past, were not going to cut it.
Take the word “tongue,” for example. Sounding out isn’t going to help you. The same goes for “antique.” Sure, you could substitute the words “mouth” and “old,” but that would be falling short of Miss Gatney’s expectations that you “stretch your mind the way you would your muscles.”
I wasn’t interested in stretching anything. I asked my mother, “Ma, how do you spell ‘pleasure’?” Unfortunately her favorite refrain had become “Look it up in the dictionary.” Okay, with “pleasure” you at least know to start in the P’s. But what about Wretched? Psychology? Phenomenal? Europe?
“Maaaa,” I’d whine from my bedroom, “it’s not in the dictionary.”
“Don’t make me come all the way over there and find it for you.”
My mother was getting impossible to handle. And Miss Gatney was getting more and more demanding. “What is the etymology of this word?” “List a synonym and an antonym.” “How do you spell synonym?” “How do you spell thesaurus?”
I’ll let you in on a little secret: I developed quite a strong feeling for dictionaries. And I don’t mean adoration (“to regard with deep, often rapturous love”). I mean antipathy (“aversion, dislike”).
As for that particular big blue one that sat, reproachfully, on my desk — I became somewhat abusive towards it. When there were pages I found myself returning to over and over again (the one with the word “occasionally” for example), I would fold down the top corner for easy reference.
Sometimes I would put a check mark next to a word, red ink showing up so well in the margin, so I could find it even faster the next time I had to look it up. And when I came to a definition that annoyed me, as I did more and more often, I would reach for that red pen again and just cross it out.
I knew that this was wrong. But I didn’t care. I had had it with all the new responsibilities of being a junior high school student. Outlines with Roman numerals; bibliographies neatly printed on color-coded 3x5 index cards.
I was very angry with my mother. I was even more angry with Miss Gatney. Of course, I didn’t show it. Instead, I learned how to write the perfect essay. My teachers, starting with Miss Gatney and continuing into my move to high school, singled me out as an expert topic sentence writer. Yet all the while, year after year, alone in my room, I was busy defiling and defacing that poor blue dictionary.
And then, before I knew it, it was August, 1968. The Democratic National Convention was being televised from Chicago while I got ready to leave for college. My mother ironed name tags into my underwear, as if I were going off to summer camp, while I rummaged through my closets, pulling out peasant blouses, leotards, and dungarees.
On the bottom of the closet floor, jutting out from behind the Chinese checkers set, and the pair of ice-skates I had worn once and then abandoned, was the dictionary, exactly where I’d stashed it back in June, on the last day of high school. I had vowed to never open it again. But suddenly, in a burst of pre-collegiate zeal, I tossed it into my suitcase, along with my Joan Baez albums and my beloved copy of Siddhartha.
My mother, shaken by what she’d just witnessed on television, kids being tear-gassed and clobbered, came into my room, asking for the umpteenth time why exactly it was I thought I had to go to a school five hours’ drive from home. Her eyes caught the dull blue cover of the book, and before I could stop her, she reached into my suitcase and pulled out the dictionary, innocently leafing through it, wistfully reunited with an old friend.
And then she froze. There was the evidence of my delinquency: the dog-eared pages; the red-ink check marks; the angry cross-outs and comments like: “Anyone who uses this word is a phony.”
She clutched the book to her chest. “O-kay,” she said, slowly and deliberately, “you can go to that God-forsaken college, we never should have let you apply in the first place, just stay out of trouble and avoid the police. But there is no way in hell I’m letting you take my dictionary up there with you.”
She knew she could only rescue one of us. I think she made the right decision.
The dictionary remains, to this day, safe and sound on the bookcase in my mother’s living room, next to her copy of The Joy of Cooking, which she never consults anymore, and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, one of her favorite novels. I see it, every time I go home to visit, but I never open it. In general, I find it’s best to keep a healthy distance between myself and dictionaries.
It belonged to my mother and its blue cover was already fading by the time I first made its acquaintance — the September I started at Junior High School 143 in the Bronx.
My mother did not give me the dictionary. She was very clear about that. “This is my dictionary,” she said, enunciating each word, the way she did when she wanted to be sure I got her point. “I’m letting you borrow it. Treat it with care.”
Before that time I had no need of a dictionary. Spelling was a significant part of the elementary school curriculum but looking words up was not. We were taught to sound things out and to memorize.
“I before E except after C or when sounding like A as in neighbor or weigh.”
“The principal of this school is your pal: P-r-i-n-c-i-P-A-L.”
Using a dictionary would have been, almost, like cheating.
Speaking of cheating, I feel I have to tell you this:
There was a spelling bee in my fourth grade class. Our teacher, Mrs. Mooney, lined us all up, girls on one side of the room and boys on the other. If you messed up on your word you sat down and the next person, on the other team, tried their luck. By some incredible fluke, in the end, I was left standing on the girls’ side and Neil Feinstein was left on the boys’.
The word I got was Christmas. I knew that this was not right. I was Jewish. Mrs. Mooney should not have expected me to even know that such a word existed. In my family, if we had to spell it at all, which we didn’t, but we would have, hypothetically, spelled it X-m-a-s. I suspected that wasn’t what Mrs. Mooney was looking for. I really wanted to get this right, not only for myself but for all the girls in my class. I just couldn’t let them down. But Christmas?
I cast my eyes heavenward — and lo and behold, up there on the wall, hanging just above the enormous blackboard, was a rectangle of beige oak tag. And printed in large black magic marker letters, where anyone could see it if they only knew to look up, was the word Christmas.
Along with Halloween, Thanksgiving, Chanukah, New Year’s Day, Groundhog Day, Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Passover and Easter. A litany of holidays that Mrs. Mooney, not really the artsy-craftsy type, had chosen as decorations for our otherwise austere classroom walls.
It was directly in my line of vision, and not being a girl who would pass up a genuine miracle when it was handed to her on a silver platter, I sang out, loud and true: c-h-r-i-s-t-m-a-s.
“Wrong!” exclaimed Mrs. Mooney. Wrong? How could it be wrong? I read the word — every single letter — off the poster she had scotch-taped onto the wall. I couldn’t be wrong. But also, I couldn’t protest. I was left standing there, the lone girl on the right-hand side of the room, with my mouth hanging wide open.
Mrs. Mooney turned to Neil Feinstein, who until that very moment I’d considered a friend, but now I saw him for what he was — my arch enemy — and he proclaimed capital C-h-r-i-s-t-m-a-s.
“That’s correct!” Mrs. Mooney crowed. “The boys win.”
I returned to my seat, ashamed and defeated, knowing myself to be a big, fat, cheater.
Okay, I just had to get that off my chest. Now I will return to the story of the dictionary.
J. H. S. 143 turned out to be an exciting place. The principal (still our pal and spelled with an A, but this time a man, not a woman), wore a bow tie and talked to us, each morning, over an intercom system. We no longer spent the entire day in the same classroom, but ran through the halls every forty minutes, in a frantic dash from social studies to language arts, from French to math to band practice. We knew, through the secret grapevine, that our science teacher’s first name was Georgia, and that she was “good friends” (which meant something dirty but I wasn’t sure what) with the math teacher, Mr. Lyman. We knew that Madame Strauss, our French teacher, always looked like she’d been crying, but we didn’t know why, and we weren’t sure we wanted to know. We didn’t go to recess, we went to P. E.
My favorite teacher was Miss Gatney, and my favorite subject was Language Arts. In Language Arts you got extra credit just for reading a book that wasn't on the required reading list. And if you illustrated your book report with colored pencils, you got even more extra credit.
I wanted nothing more in life than to please Miss Gatney and to make her proud of me. But her standards were high. She wanted our class to learn how to write perfect essays. Spelling counted. And she wanted to see evidence of our expanding vocabularies. It was no longer good enough to have an idea about what a word meant. You had to go deeper; you had to really get it.
Up until this time, simply by sitting quietly and eavesdropping on adult conversations, I’d been able to cobble together quite an impressive bilingual vocabulary. “Meshugina,” when mentioned often enough in reference to a particular free-spirit of a relative, easily translated into “nut case.” Words like “divorcée,” “paranoid,” “schmuck,” “nudnick,” “chutzpah,” were equally accessible. You just needed to get the context.
But in Miss Gatney’s class, context was no longer the end; it was merely the beginning. And sounding-out skills, which had worked so well in the past, were not going to cut it.
Take the word “tongue,” for example. Sounding out isn’t going to help you. The same goes for “antique.” Sure, you could substitute the words “mouth” and “old,” but that would be falling short of Miss Gatney’s expectations that you “stretch your mind the way you would your muscles.”
I wasn’t interested in stretching anything. I asked my mother, “Ma, how do you spell ‘pleasure’?” Unfortunately her favorite refrain had become “Look it up in the dictionary.” Okay, with “pleasure” you at least know to start in the P’s. But what about Wretched? Psychology? Phenomenal? Europe?
“Maaaa,” I’d whine from my bedroom, “it’s not in the dictionary.”
“Don’t make me come all the way over there and find it for you.”
My mother was getting impossible to handle. And Miss Gatney was getting more and more demanding. “What is the etymology of this word?” “List a synonym and an antonym.” “How do you spell synonym?” “How do you spell thesaurus?”
I’ll let you in on a little secret: I developed quite a strong feeling for dictionaries. And I don’t mean adoration (“to regard with deep, often rapturous love”). I mean antipathy (“aversion, dislike”).
As for that particular big blue one that sat, reproachfully, on my desk — I became somewhat abusive towards it. When there were pages I found myself returning to over and over again (the one with the word “occasionally” for example), I would fold down the top corner for easy reference.
Sometimes I would put a check mark next to a word, red ink showing up so well in the margin, so I could find it even faster the next time I had to look it up. And when I came to a definition that annoyed me, as I did more and more often, I would reach for that red pen again and just cross it out.
I knew that this was wrong. But I didn’t care. I had had it with all the new responsibilities of being a junior high school student. Outlines with Roman numerals; bibliographies neatly printed on color-coded 3x5 index cards.
I was very angry with my mother. I was even more angry with Miss Gatney. Of course, I didn’t show it. Instead, I learned how to write the perfect essay. My teachers, starting with Miss Gatney and continuing into my move to high school, singled me out as an expert topic sentence writer. Yet all the while, year after year, alone in my room, I was busy defiling and defacing that poor blue dictionary.
And then, before I knew it, it was August, 1968. The Democratic National Convention was being televised from Chicago while I got ready to leave for college. My mother ironed name tags into my underwear, as if I were going off to summer camp, while I rummaged through my closets, pulling out peasant blouses, leotards, and dungarees.
On the bottom of the closet floor, jutting out from behind the Chinese checkers set, and the pair of ice-skates I had worn once and then abandoned, was the dictionary, exactly where I’d stashed it back in June, on the last day of high school. I had vowed to never open it again. But suddenly, in a burst of pre-collegiate zeal, I tossed it into my suitcase, along with my Joan Baez albums and my beloved copy of Siddhartha.
My mother, shaken by what she’d just witnessed on television, kids being tear-gassed and clobbered, came into my room, asking for the umpteenth time why exactly it was I thought I had to go to a school five hours’ drive from home. Her eyes caught the dull blue cover of the book, and before I could stop her, she reached into my suitcase and pulled out the dictionary, innocently leafing through it, wistfully reunited with an old friend.
And then she froze. There was the evidence of my delinquency: the dog-eared pages; the red-ink check marks; the angry cross-outs and comments like: “Anyone who uses this word is a phony.”
She clutched the book to her chest. “O-kay,” she said, slowly and deliberately, “you can go to that God-forsaken college, we never should have let you apply in the first place, just stay out of trouble and avoid the police. But there is no way in hell I’m letting you take my dictionary up there with you.”
She knew she could only rescue one of us. I think she made the right decision.
The dictionary remains, to this day, safe and sound on the bookcase in my mother’s living room, next to her copy of The Joy of Cooking, which she never consults anymore, and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, one of her favorite novels. I see it, every time I go home to visit, but I never open it. In general, I find it’s best to keep a healthy distance between myself and dictionaries.
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