Reflections: A Tribute to a College Professor and a College Application Letter

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 Reflections: A Tribute to a College Professor and a College Application Letter

Professor Emeritus Leo Nickole ’49 at an event celebrating the 40th anniversary of the Spring Musical at Alumni Weekend, 1993. Photo/Emerson College Archives

There’s a lot of reflection going on during these days of Covid. I can only speak for myself, but with all this time and distance, I find myself better able to digest quietly much of what comes my way. Two things really touched me in different ways this week.

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The first was a tribute to my daughter’s college professor, Leo Nickole. He was a legend at Emerson College in Boston, where Lee studied as an undergraduate. I remember being very impressed as a youngster myself by the theatre department professors at Brooklyn College. They were the artistic gods of their calling then, so I understood the wellspring of emotion that came forth in a zoom tribute with 50+ ( I think) performers singing “Our Time” from “Merrily We Roll Along.” 

This was the last production I saw Lee in at Emerson before she graduated, and the song itself is an anthem to hope for the future. You can imagine how emotional it was to see my daughter, now a second-grade teacher with two daughters of her own, singing her heart out -a heart that held many memories of that time in her life. As I recall (and that is a loaded concept), it was a good time for her. She was living in Boston (the first time she had happily left home. Earlier attempts at sleepaway camp were disastrous) and had lots of friends and a serious boyfriend who, at the time, became part of the family. That was my rosy recollection of my daughter’s time away at Emerson.

The reflection that ensued for me was that I really didn’t know all that much about my daughter’s time at Emerson, save for the few visits we made to Boston to see her in a show. There were more than a few, but they are episodes in my memories - the productions and the roles she played as a young actor. I was so proud. I was living my dream through her and I freely admit it. 

But my reflection revealed to me how little I really know about how my daughter was during those four halcyon years of her life. I am not proud to admit that I wrote few letters to her. There was no text or email in those days, which makes life these days for parents of college-age students so much easier.

She came home for holidays, of course, and other occasions, with boyfriend in tow, and I remember (and remember what I said about my rose-colored memory) that she always seemed happy. But what did I know? I was in an emotional maelstrom, fighting for my life, and I was only too glad that she was far away. The maelstrom was my second husband who had deteriorated mentally (bipolar was the diagnosis) and I was doing my best to keep my head and the little head of my second daughter (only 5 or 6 at the time) above water. 

I lost so much during those years – my own wellbeing took a hit from which I barely recovered. My little daughter still bears the scars and struggles on in the face of the fact that she has no father (to speak of) and is now expecting her first child. But, in the context of this reflection, I lost my first child. When she came back to me after graduation, and she always comes back in her glorious resilient way, she was a fully formed woman. And, I expect, what was fully formed were her opinions of me and the deep sadness she must have felt somewhere inside knowing that I was inaccessible to her during those years – trying to hold my own in a second marriage that was one of the worst decisions of my life, and trying to raise a second child in the maelstrom.

The second thing I found most touching this week was an essay that my current love found in an anthropological dig in his archive of collections. It was written by his daughter, who is now 26, wrote when she was applying to attend Temple University. I found it both fascinating and impressive incorporating both the strategy of “tugging at the heartstrings,” which she described as “self-aggrandizement,” while telling a story that was horrifying from the standpoint of the child who experienced it. She told of a time when her 7-year old self was left alone in her house. She didn’t remember why and doesn’t address that unusual fact in the essay. She simply says, “Who knows why?” or, “I can’t remember.”

At some point, the alarm went off in the house and she was completely terrified and ran to hide in the bathroom. Then, instead of leading the reader through a narrative about how this experience traumatized her for life, she credits and thanks her parents for having provided enough tests in her childhood to make her the “mature, self-assured, self-determined” individual that she has become. 

Reading her essay, I felt her pain, knowing that her independence grew out of her ability to build the defenses she needed in life to withstand the many obstacles that life can bring – the divorce of her parents, adolescence going between two households including dealing with new step siblings in her life who weren’t always accepting. 

This is a tough young lady. At a recent party for the birthday of her father, she made a very touching speech (which, of course, she had written) that was filled with gratitude for the love and support that he had given her over the years. She also thanked him for accepting her sexual exploration, a revelation that was both poignantly honest and brave. But this is Rebecca.

What is the substance of my reflection during these moments when we all yearn for our children and wish that we could be living in a “family village” with all loved ones around us? I think we often make it very difficult for our children to love and respect us. They must work hard to overcome the obstacles that we often selfishly and mindlessly throw their ways. I could list the endless decisions I’ve made that have affected my kids and I see it all around me in others. Then, I also see those who fearfully live their lives to protect their children at every turn from life’s demons. It can’t be done.

Alice and Frank

I met Alice in 1978 when I was hired as the Advertising and Promotion Director at WOR Radio. I was so young, so excited to have the job, so ready to be a young professional. Alice was the Public Affairs Director. It was “dislike at first sight.” Not sure why, but we just didn’t hit it off. She was all sophistication . . . all Manhattan . . . Alice would hail limos, not cabs. Alice had personal shoppers. Alice had a mink she called Henry.  This was Alice. She just couldn’t help it.

It may come as no surprise that the city mouse and the Brooklyn girl started to find that they could be allies. We’d walk the corridors of the radio station arm in arm and people would know that trouble was coming. And we got in a lot of trouble in those days. When Alice announced she was leaving the radio station to take a job in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, it absolutely broke my heart. But, I threw a party at a dance club and charged it to my expense account. 

Over the years, Alice lived through all my marital woes, the birth of my girls, my career transitions – and she had a few of her own. She left Florida and came back to New York. Finally, she left broadcasting and entered a whole new career in the New York Courts system. She quickly rose to the top of her area and became the favorite of most of the judges in New York State.

But something was missing. Alice wanted more. When she announced that she was moving to New Jersey, I was not the only one of her friends who was stunned. How could it be? But Alice explained it so that it made sense. Her commuting for two hours each way from her new home in North Brunswick NJ made sense. She had her furry friends – Sasha and Ashley – and continued her busy single involved life with the Links, her church, and other organizations. There was never a moment when Alice wasn’t in charge of something or flying off to some reunion or convention.

I had already gone through two husbands when Alice called me to let me know that she had gotten married – not that she was planning to get married, but she had just gone and done it. I must admit that I was very sad that she didn’t invite me, that I wasn’t there to see her take a step I never thought she’d take. I don’t know why she didn’t invite me. But as I tried to process that decision on her part, my decision was not to be angry at her.

It wasn’t too long before we met her Francis, as she called him, “my Francis.” It was on the floral arrangement at the funeral home yesterday when we saw the incredible man who was her husband, whom we’d come to know as Frank, in his final repose. When I first heard about their marriage, I remember thinking how ironic the whole thing was – Alice, now a married lady – and Italian!

Alice chose this man for his incredible kindness, gentleness, sweetness – and he chose her right back. His entire extended Italian family chose my friend Alice, an African-American woman raised in Harlem, to be part of their family. Frank had been widowed and had four children and grandchildren. He even had a dog, Jenny,  that Alice came to adore, this woman who only had cats.

At today’s funeral, I got reacquainted with the many people whom I’d met before in Alice circle – all her sorority sisters (the Links), neighbors, her family, Frank’s family. “Their” great grandchildren (they call her GIGI) sat on her lap at the cemetery. At the repast after the burial, seated with two of her wonderful Links sisters, Maxine and Marge, and two of her dear old friends, Vera and John Smith, I remarked that I thought that my friend Alice had done more for integration than most. The picture of her family, all gathered in support of her and in celebration of “her Francis,” is, in her own words, a “United Nations of families” – black, white, Hispanic, Italian and every other imaginable ethnicity.

Vera and I speculated about how Alice might move forward. She was married to Frank for seventeen years. But, I can tell you that my friend Alice will live another life and continue to spread love and get love wherever she goes. 

She just can’t help it. 

Country Thoughts: Vulnerability and Ferocity

Whenever I visit our home in Pennsylvania, I have a feeling of being closer to nature, closer to the earth. That may have something to do with the fact that our windows face nothing but forest, trees, deer, and chipmunks. We don't hear the incessant cacophony of leaf blowers and lawn movers. Perhaps my age is showing, but the peace and quiet is comforting and the solitude is nurturing.

In recent months, I have been surrounded by news and reality about people in my life experiencing health issues (myself included) and the ultimate transition we all face - death.  I don't think I'm anywhere near dying, but it has given me pause to think about how we all face life's last ultimatum.

Having experienced my beloved parents' transitions during the past two years, I had a first hand view into how well they were, or were not prepared for this passage.  Most recently, I also was fortunate enough to observe a colleague who had been valiantly dealing with the ravages of cancer for ten years, whose courageous demeanor and bearing during the last month of her life was a model for all of us. All this observation provided some information about how I think we can all prepare for this eventuality.

All of us are born into this world with built-in obsolescence.  That is, from the day we are "driven out of the lot," our minds and bodies begin to take on the appearance of every genetic marker and every environmental factor that our lives inherit and encounter. So, we are naturally vulnerable. Vulnerability.

How we choose to deal our our natural vulnerability is how we face our lives.
When I was younger, I never gave it a thought. I simply moved from situation to situation, illness to illness, diagnosis to diagnosis, taking the medication and doing my best to follow doctor's orders, including all emotional and mental episodes. Back then, I didn't see the cumulative picture of my vulnerability bucket, so to speak, not thinking much about it, just moving on.  But I was very lucky.

I was the fortunate recipient of a genetic predisposition to be fierce.  I wouldn't have characterized myself that way until recently, but looking back I can see that my knee-jerk reactions (that were often not carefully considered) were most of the time fierce retorts to my innate vulnerability.

The memory of my mother and father has helped me to arrive at this juncture where I can see that without a determination or a predisposition to be fierce in the face of life's ultimatum, we would all be victim's of our innate vulnerability. My father, without having the awareness to name it, was the fiercest person I have ever known.  In the face of many major illnesses, he got himself up and honored his life, loved his loved ones and continued to be a creative and positive force for all of us.

My poor mother, on the other hand, was the victim of vulnerability long before she really had to stand up for herself at death's door.  Her tough childhood along with a sheltered (of her own making) marriage, did not prepare her for the ultimate test - my father, her protector, died first. It wasn't supposed to happen that way.

What does this all mean to me?  Or to anyone who sees any meaning in my theory?  We are all vulnerable. But we have a choice about how we deal with that vulnerability.  My choice is to face everyday with the resolve to be fierce, to love my loved ones with every bit of strength I can muster and to honor myself and my work.  That said, I know that in the throes of illness or pain (mental or physical), it is often difficult. But understanding is always a great focus from which I can always summon strength.  For that I am very grateful. And I am very sad for those who cannot see the peace that it brings.

Spring Dream

I love dreams because they reach into the deepest recesses of our psyches and retrieve data that is then combined with reality to create stories either that mean absolutely nothing, or are sign posts to places we need to explore further. In this dream I am in an apartment like the ones I've inhabited in Brooklyn and Montclair -in upper floors of older homes.  Everything is old and cozy. 

My daughter has decided to leave (no sign of her husband in this dream).  Is she going long-term? for the evening?  Don't remember.  But I am left to care for little Molly, my granddaughter. 

But most of the dream centers on my friend Diana, who has also decided that she is moving, without her husband Evan, who is also in the dream, and being very helpful about her move.  They decide to go to Manhattan to shop for items for her new place. 

When they come back, they have purchased a very spiffy and shiny armoire and other items, which Evan is busy putting together.  By the way, this Evan is not like the Evan I've seen and met.  The Evan in my dream has long hair in a pony-tail and his hair is streaked with some kind of plastic highlight that he picks off throughout the dream.

At some point, I decide that I need to prepare some food.  I pull together salad of fruit and other items.  I think it is just enough and then Lenny tells me that we need to invite more people because we have so much food. 

Diana also helps me to sort the fruit and salad.  I have somehow put them altogether an unappetizing jumble.  She asks me if I have bigger bowls, and, of course I do and I supply them. There is a small fruit in the mix that looks like a small pineapple but when opened reveals lots of little colored berries.  Molly loves this and I show her how to open the pineapple. 

I don't remember much more except the feeling that I was redecorating the place a little at a time throughout and feeling like it was an improvement over the shabby, dreary place it was. 

Go figure. Yesterday, I had salad for lunch and salad for dinner and a small portion of cheese as a treat later in the evening.  The rest of it?  Diana has figured in my life as someone whom I love and admire and whose relationship with her husband I admire.  Caring for my little granddaughter is something that is very natural to me as it is in the dream.  But where's my other granddaughter, Lucy?  And, hilariously, Lenny makes a brief appearance to advise me on the food, which is a constant in our relationship.  He's always advising me about one thing or another, but especially about food. 

Must have something to do with the spring cleaning blog I just wrote.  

 

New Years Day 2015: Musings

Waking up this morning, New Year's Day, my mind started to wrap itself around the concept of 2015.  It really seems, like no other New Year, the beginning of the rest of my life. 

I no longer have parents on earth.  One after another, they left and my life goes on without them, though I miss them sorely, especially my dear smiling happy father. 

I have a challenging new career in real estate, which I still find curious, frightening and exciting. 

I turn to my beautiful children, grandchildren, extended family, my partner, Lenny, and dear friends now and going forward for foundation, for comfort, for support, for fun.  Having no siblings, I have always said that I made my family of friends.  I have, therefore, many sisters and brothers, but we are not blood relatives.  No matter.  They have meant as much to me and have loved me perhaps better than siblings could. 

But I'm thinking about the future and what it will hold.  I'm not morbidly musing on how long I may live, though learning this morning about the death of a friend from college poises me to know that this will start to happen more and more as I get older and older. 

No . . . I'm musing about how things will change, evolve, progress.  After having a lovely celebratory meal in a lovely restaurant last night, I wonder what the future of good food and fine dining will be.  I began to think that someday we may all take a pill once a day that will provide us with all the nourishment our bodies require.  Think about all the food accouterments that will become antiques, unneeded - pots, pans, dishes, cutlery, stoves, refrigerators, dining rooms furniture.  The list is endless.  No need for a kitchen at all.  No need for a dining room at all. 

Houses will shrink.  And as entertainment devices become smaller and smaller and mobile, no need for living space to accommodate screens and comfy chairs.  No more barcaloungers. 

Our homes simply will be spaces to accommodate our sleeping needs.  And who knows how that could change. 

Oh!  And no need for garages or driveways - only small landing pads to accommodate the landing and take-off of our personal transportation devices. 

Old fashioned types or those who remember the "good old days" when families actually sat down to a meal together, or shared family time, will be considered bohemian - or worse - criminals.  There will be farms that will be set up to house these rebels and keep them separated from society.  As in the film "Fahrenheit 451" where people became living books in a society that banned and burned them, these foodie bohemians will roam the fields of the fooditentiaries talking about menus, recipes, ingredients, and china patterns.

So, in 2015, my mind is moving to what the world might evolve to be.  But seriously, my prayer is that the world evolves to be at all.  Food is an easy fantasy subject for me, and so my fantasies don't move in the direction of things that are cataclysmic or terrifying.  Daily life provides enough of that. 

I'd take the food supplements over terrorism, deaths from handguns, and the bitter hatred that seems to grip our country.  I'll take the nourishment of knowing that my grandchildren and their children and grandchildren will have a world as lovely as the one I've known, to enjoy in their future.

The lovely view from our Pennsylvania retreat

 

Thanksgiving 2014 - Loss and Gratitude

"Write."  "Write about it," said my friend.

This was a most unusual Thanksgiving.  My children were not present.  My grandchildren were not present. 

A months and some days after my mom passed on, I decided to spend this family holiday with her family/my family, something I had always wanted to do WITH her.  But, for many reasons, it never came to pass.  These were the cousins and Aunt whom I'd spent summer vacations with.  My mom, dad and I would trek up to New England and visit and enjoy the family she had left behind when she left with her Italian sailor after the war, to set up household in his native Brooklyn. 

So I caught up with my dear dear Aunt Jean (the wife of my mom's older brother), who will be 94 in March 2015 - and

Me and Aunt Jean

she will make it.  She was as full of life and love as she ever was.  Sadly, it reminded me of how my mom didn't take advantage of this wonderful spirit, who loved her and expressed it over and over again yesterday.  Did I say that Aunt Jean is having some issues with memory and repeats herself?  A lot.

It was a bittersweet occasion.  Trying to be very much in the mode of living in the moment, I enjoyed every second of my dear cousins - George, Cynthia, Paula, Carl - and their children - Neil, Mallory, Joel.  And, of course, my mother's own dear cousin Phyllis and her husband Charlie were there too.

There wasn't a lot of discussion about my mom's passing, except my Aunt asked me a few times when she died, and then followed the answer with expressions about how much she loved my mom and dad.  Somehow, I didn't tire of hearing about it.  It was genuine and coming from her heart.

One of my missions during this trip was to find a good place to deposit my mom's ashes.  Half of them have already gone to the Veterans Cemetery in Southern New Jersey to join and be next to my dad's.  His headstone is engraved with his ever constant reminder to "Keep Smiling."  And hers will bear her ever constant reminder to live "one day at a time."  They'll be there together.

But I wanted her to be also interned with her family in New England - the family that meant so much to her, the family that also burdened her for life with the sad scars of her childhood.  And so, with my two dear cousins, George and Cynthia, and with Lenny, we deposited her ashes at the grave site of her family, which will also be the grave site of my dear Aunt Jean. 

We visited all my cousins family homes throughout the town of Attleboro, Massachusetts, which were also the places I had visited and stayed as a child.   Such good memories.  And we visited my Aunt's last home (before she moved on to the extraordinary assisted living facility where where she currently lives), which will soon become the home of my cousin Mallory, George and Cynthia's beautiful and talented daughter.  This young lady was blessed with great gifts.  She is both a talent artist and performer.  And her life has been challenged since she was a little girl by what could be insurmountable physical issues.  But, sit and listen to Mallory talk about her life and learn a life lesson from someone so young.  She is an inspiration.

All in all, this was a very filling and satisfying Thanksgiving.  And, I'm not even talking about the extraordinary repast that was set forth by my wonderful cousins.

I returned my mother to the place of her birth - the place where she experienced joy and sorrow.  The place where she met my father and was spirited away to another life, away from everything she ever knew (reminds me of a song from "Fiddler on the Roof").  And she always fantasized about returning, even though the tales of her childhood suggest that she was best served by the escape engineered by the Italian prince who was my father.

More than anything, I want to develop this connection with these wonderful folks, with whom I share DNA and extraordinary history.  We share music, memories and yes, the pain of family history that is not always positive.  But we are positive.  Beautifully so.

I want to share and grow old with them.  I want to share my children and grandchildren with their children and grandchildren and I want to share my life with their life.  It's a great gift.  The greatest gift. 

To Sleep Perchance to Dream

It has almost been one year since my dear dad moved up.  I still have a little problem thinking of him as gone, dead, deceased, no more.  The daily reality of my life has been an exercise in keeping myself steady, healthy, engaged and positive.  I have things to do.  I have my mother to care for.  I have my partner and children and grandchildren to care about. 

But when the night comes and I close my eyes to go to sleep, all bets are off.  My dream world is a world where I'm visited by everyone and anyone who has ever entered my life - from old employers, to former husbands to good friends to children to the most casual of acquaintances.  Most people have dreams, so when I first experienced such graphic and sometimes frightening dreams, I attributed it to medication - always an easy answer to anything.

As time has passed, though, I am more and more fascinated by what my mind shows me each night.  There is one recurring theme.  I am usually being marginalized in some way or criticized in some way.  Does this mean that at the core of my being, I am still not pleased with who I am?  Do I still feel that I deserve to be ignored or punished - for what?

 That's why last night's dream was so different.  In the dream, I was hosting a birthday party (though at times it seemed like a wedding party) for my younger daughter.  All her friends were there.  The house in which we were living was bigger than my house.  In the midst of the chaos of young girls reveling, my friend D. came by with a gift for me.  By the way, my friend D. is a genuinely giving and loving person, so it seemed real that she would bring me a gift.

I was surprised and delighted to receive a gift.  The gift was in many parts.  There were silk flowers, ribbons, small vases - a crafter's dream.  I expressed my delight at the gift but couldn't focus on it because of the cacaphony.  She seemed upset, which is so unlike D.  She seemed to have been drinking.  I asked her what was wrong and she said that my house always seemed so much nicer than her house. 

Somehow we wound up at her house - next door - where all the parents of the kids at my house wound up, as well.   Her house was, indeed, not up to its usual standard of tidiness.  There was dust everywhere and a fountain in the middle of her living room was stagnant and was polluted with all kinds of garbage and litter.

D. continued to drink and all the adults suggested that it might be a good idea to pray with her.  Switch to reality - anyone who knows me knows that I am not a praying person.  I have been known to meditate and focus my positive energy, but the concept of prayer as I was taught as a child is not one that I can easily practice.  So, in the dream, I do suggest prayer to D. and she accepts the idea as a possible antidote to her depression.  We all sit in a circle in the stagnant pool of water, holding hands and praying.  That image, in and of itself, is rich with interpretation.  But being in the middle of the circle, I cannot even begin to understand.  Am I D.?  Am I me? 

The dreams ends with me, D. and her husband walking to the beach.  He is much thinner than I have known him to be and he has long hair and a pony tail.  We are talking about a former acquaintance and I share that I thought he had drug problems. 

If you think that this dream is a dire warning from my psyche that I should be seeking help - or, if you think that I should be changing diet immediately to exclude wasabe peas immediately before bedtime, I am accepting all ideas and suggestions. 

This dream is only one of a nightly excursion to places I never asked to go.  But perhaps I am asking.  As Shakespeare wrote, ""We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep."