tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89059265909118968622024-02-19T10:29:08.421-05:00HudsonetteJottings on what makes life worth living.Hudsonettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06791523899082200794noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8905926590911896862.post-39390707591276701942014-02-04T23:18:00.000-05:002014-02-04T23:18:20.751-05:00Tears For Philip Seymour Hoffman<div class="MsoNormal">
It is beyond sad to lose the brilliant actor Philip Seymour
Hoffman. His performance in Death of A Salesman quite simply tore me apart. As
soon as he came on stage every detail of his artistry drew me into Willy
Loman’s misery. It ended up shaking me to the core.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The performance had particular resonance for me because the
character he played reminded me so much of my father. My father wasn’t exactly
Willy Loman. And I’m certainly not Biff, but listen to this: <o:p></o:p></div>
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My father came to this country from India in the late 1940s.
He became an aerospace engineer, married a brilliant and beautiful woman from
Korea, bought a house in the suburbs with a pool, and had five children. He taught
us to live as moral beings, to be the best in science and math, and to love music,
literature and the arts. But, as Willy Loman and so many others discovered in times
of economic change, the American Dream was illusory. <o:p></o:p></div>
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There was no happily ever after. When the space program cut back
in the 1970s Papa was out of work. He declared bankruptcy but was still burdened
with family responsibilities. We moved out of the house and my parents
divorced. And my father, the rocket scientist, could not find work except, as
he said in his last note to us, to build weapons, which he would not do. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A proud man, he always dressed neatly to pick up his
unemployment check. Like Willy Loman, my father became superfluous when his
particular set of skills was no longer needed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In the play Willy Loman’s wife Linda tells their son Biff
“he’s been trying to kill himself.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
had previously written to Biff about Willy’s accident driving off the road, but
she found out later a witness said he had deliberately smashed into a railing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When I was about thirteen, I read a news item of a man who
had driven his car off a cliff but survived with only a broken arm. That man turned
out to be my father. I did not realize at the time that it was his first
attempt to commit suicide. <o:p></o:p></div>
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At some point my father came to the conclusion that he was
worth more dead than alive. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Like Willy Loman, he made the awful, deliberate decision to
take his life so that his family could have the insurance money. When I was
sixteen, he succeeded.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’d seen the Dustin Hoffman and Brian Dennehy revivals of
Death of A Salesman. We all knew the story. Yet I hadn’t noticed how closely
this play tracked my father’s death. It took Philip Seymour Hoffman’s searing
performance to slash through the emotional fortress I had maintained for 38
years. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When you lose a parent at a young age and no one talks about
it, you can bury it away into adulthood as a deep, unexpressed and unexamined sorrow.
But the way Philip Seymour Hoffman captured the utter humanity of Willie Loman
and his plight elevated the play to the realm of art. He illuminated my father’s
own hard times, Papa’s love for his family, and his final lonely decision. As I
watched the play my tears flowed freely, without judgment or anger, but with
love and understanding for my Papa as a human being. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So thank you, Philip Seymour Hoffman, for performing with such
intelligence, compassion and truth. But now your children have lost their
father while young. I hope they find healing and peace. They have a difficult
road ahead of them. </div>
Hudsonettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06791523899082200794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8905926590911896862.post-75350100900637965532013-09-09T22:15:00.000-04:002013-09-10T08:31:25.802-04:00The 9/11 Memorial, Visited<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI6i0p-Y1XUA8I0oqFdCEMQON1A6vgMNg9iWV99it3DZgwisYRBTAUM2vaDYTtgP_ilDpMeFXJjqDWPKnznK4uWUgyyoLdu2pHmJHQfFv7Onucze7PLpZNNYSgiFH6P1cjtT0SPkX7OGci/s1600/IMG_2597.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI6i0p-Y1XUA8I0oqFdCEMQON1A6vgMNg9iWV99it3DZgwisYRBTAUM2vaDYTtgP_ilDpMeFXJjqDWPKnznK4uWUgyyoLdu2pHmJHQfFv7Onucze7PLpZNNYSgiFH6P1cjtT0SPkX7OGci/s320/IMG_2597.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Just before the 12th anniversary of the terrorist attack, The 9/11 Memorial opened its doors in the evening just to the Lower Manhattan community. I jumped at the chance to view the memorial away from the hordes of tourists. And I was touched that we residents were given a moment of our own. Much of the attention, rightly so, has been on those who lost loved ones in the attack. But those of us who witnessed the neighborhood engulfed in the toxic cloud of debris and human remains and heard of the sudden death of thousands of our fellow New Yorkers have been in shock and grief ever since and also in need of some structured place to heal and pay our respects.<br />
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After 9/11, far from having a public place to go for contemplation and healing, Lower Manhattan was upended. We spent a dozen years trudging around the World Trade Center site assaulted and jostled by the noise and harsh visuals of the largest construction project in the world.<br />
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But here it is, finally. With just what I wanted to see first. Soft, verdant grass. Trees. Life.<br />
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I'm glad they took the time to do such a splendid job. The plaza spreads out with ample place to stroll. You can choose where your footsteps go and where your mind takes you. The two reflecting pools, supposed to be the size of the footprints of the towers, if not at their exact location, are enormous. Appropriately monumental. And the sound of rushing water, falling from the sides, running horizontally and falling deeper into a center rectangle is LOUD. A breeze can cover you in wetness. All of this is surrounded by a varied cityscape of Lower Manhattan buildings, modern and old, that embrace the site with a sense of belonging, together with an ever-changing sky that is all part of the memorial experience.<br />
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Most striking to me is the presence of the names carved expertly and beautifully into the dark stone surrounding the pools. You can touch the letters and ponder. I don't know them, so they are abstract texts to me, but not just text-art as in Ed Ruscha's works - far more profound. The letters spell out a person who once lived, who was special in some way and whose death will not go unnoticed. All kinds of names, different ethnicities, first names chosen by parents long ago with great care. I wonder about their lives. I remember reading small biographies of many of the dead in the paper. One in particular I wish I had remembered to look up ahead of time so I could look for him. The man who had no family or close loved ones to report him missing. The only way authorities knew he was among the dead was because he did not make his regular Tuesday haircut appointment and the woman at the salon reported his name. Now it's etched in stone somewhere on this plaza.<br />
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The sheer monumentality of it all makes one humble. It succeeds as a memorial by creating a place to lift us from our trivial daily lives so that we have the space and time to ponder the still unimaginable magnitude of the loss. The destruction of hate. Heroic acts of selflessness. Healing and continued anguish. Our individual self and this great city.<br />
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Though firmly and sometimes grumpily an atheist, I was happy to see a Buddhist monk there - our city needs all the help it can get where such tremendous violence took place.<br />
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It said in the news that there are well over a thousand people who worked at or lived near the World Trade Center site after the 9/11 attacks that now have cancer. The terrorist attack did not just happen and end on September 11, 2001. It continues to this day in horrific, anguished memories and in the very bodies of people walking in the city. The 9/11 Memorial does what it should do. It pays respect, to the dead and to the living. We were in great need of such a place and it is finally here.<br />
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Looking up from the dark pools of water and my thoughts I was gladdened to see the city, rising, flourishing. Look there - you can see the Spanish architect Santiago Calatrava's wings take shape over the new Fulton Transit Center next to old, beloved, St. Paul's Chapel, and 1 World Trade, almost ready for business.<br />
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<br />Hudsonettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06791523899082200794noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8905926590911896862.post-45347047566955757442012-04-29T01:16:00.002-04:002012-04-29T01:16:07.671-04:00Breathing Space<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Enterprise flying near the Woolworth Building in Lower Manhattan, from my apartment rooftop April 27, 2012.</td></tr>
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I hear the soft slaps of my father's burgundy Papa-slippers as he walks down the hallway to its end, then slowly turns around and paces back. Over and over. Back and forth. With 3-year-old me riding piggyback, or <i>o-boo-ba</i>, as my Korean mom would say. It is the middle of the night and I can't breathe. The asthma medicines in 1961 were not helpful. There was some yellow, icky-tasting liquid that I recall. The only thing that made me feel better was getting a piggyback-ride and gradually falling asleep as my shallow, rapid breathing synchronized to the steady rhythm of fatherly slippers. It's one of my earliest and most vivid memories of Papa, <a href="http://www.hudsonette.com/2010/10/rocket-man-crashed-in-los-angeles.html">who died when I was a teen</a>.<br />
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I could've used an <i>o-boo-ba</i> this past week when I landed in the hospital for asthma, but Papa's not around anymore and I'm a grown-up adult. Still, it would've been more comforting than the massive amounts of corticosteroids that made me jittery and the <i>Ambien</i> that gave me nightmares.<br />
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Although I must say, steroids do the trick. Thank you, science, for better daily medicines, which should keep most asthmatics - those who receive consistent health care - out of the emergency room. My problem is that I'm allergic to just about everything on this planet, and this was a particularly bad allergy season. I think the only thing that would really help my health, but at great injury to my sense of style, would be if I were to go about my day in an air-conditioned, HEPA-filtered spacesuit.<br />
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Asthma can be debilitating to people in varying degrees. There was <i>New York Times </i>foreign correspondent <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2012/02/17/world/middleeast/anthony-shadid-a-new-york-times-reporter-dies-in-syria.html?pagewanted=all">Anthony Shadid</a>, born in Oklahoma City like my husband, who died of uncontrolled asthma triggered by an allergy to horses when he was crossing the border out of Syria. Then there was Teddy Roosevelt, who overcame his childhood asthma by exercise and sheer willpower, which, frankly, I find annoying. After having read more about <a href="http://www.bookbrowse.com/reviews/index.cfm/book_number/942/theodore-rex">Teddy Roosevelt</a> recently, I can say that TR was a maniac. Do not compare me to TR. I will never be able to overcome asthma to <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-River-Doubt-Theodore-Roosevelts/dp/0385507968">lead an expedition into the Amazon jungle</a>, nor could I <a href="http://blogs.smithsonianmag.com/history/2012/04/theodore-roosevelts-life-saving-speech">continue with a speech after having been shot and the bullet still lodged in my chest.</a><br />
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I can't complain about asthma and do not. My father passed on the genetic disposition to me and my siblings - the five of us - but that's just how it was. My parents never thought of us as growing up to careers requiring healthy lungs, like athletes or florists. The life of the mind was the ticket, with its infinite possibilities. We may have been fragile and earthbound, but our imaginations were lifted aloft by literature, music and science.<br />
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And yet, early on I vowed never to have children because I did not want to watch my child gasp for air while I stood by helplessly. Now, I wonder. But I had my busy career, and met my Oklahoman late in life, and there you have it. We are quite happy without kids. Except that we do have a darling child, who happens to have four legs and a tail.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Darwin</td></tr>
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On Friday, the day after I got out of the hospital, I was breathing easier but still feeling pretty low. Then something happened that sent my spirits soaring. The Space Shuttle prototype Enterprise was making a special last fly-by over New York City. I was tired but there was no way I would miss this. It represented my father's aspirations in space exploration as a scientist and a classic Star Trek fan, which he also passed on to me.<br />
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I went up to the roof of my apartment building in Lower Manhattan to watch for her. The skies were a beautiful blue with soft white clouds, and the bracing fresh air soothed my lungs. There was a joyful hoopin' and hollerin' from people all around as Enterprise came into view. Then everyone in this busy city just stopped what they were doing to look up, eyes wide and hearts full of pride at this universal symbol for transcending earthly constraints.<br />
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Hitching a ride on the back of a jumbo jet, Enterprise flew triumphantly from the Statue of Liberty up the Hudson River, turned around by the George Washington Bridge, and then flew back down again. An <i>o</i>-<i>boo-ba!</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlqzGFcLxjEbeeTlf0zLoGgOEtIiL_GQ4pqoHFWPXjOdkX_ZXf48Iiu7vwfJ_eU7cC4CKcqvJu7BP_GLFOdtiDGN086k2jKNJvBZEO1LQgtlJW-F25V_gQlYbi_ipk3_FfZiAWV3F1PhSd/s1600/800px-Shuttle_Enterprise_Flight_to_New_York_(201204270023HQ).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlqzGFcLxjEbeeTlf0zLoGgOEtIiL_GQ4pqoHFWPXjOdkX_ZXf48Iiu7vwfJ_eU7cC4CKcqvJu7BP_GLFOdtiDGN086k2jKNJvBZEO1LQgtlJW-F25V_gQlYbi_ipk3_FfZiAWV3F1PhSd/s400/800px-Shuttle_Enterprise_Flight_to_New_York_(201204270023HQ).jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">NASA photo, April 27, 2012</td></tr>
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<br /></div>Hudsonettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06791523899082200794noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8905926590911896862.post-85565517651252080932012-02-14T14:43:00.000-05:002012-02-14T14:43:02.899-05:00Don't Miss the Boat: A New York Love Story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfaicQooyT8nlBOmMYeZYTDgIk0X62mU9is_0w3dOd_LJ5K8mDDGYxKu4x9-vtS-Br1vJn1nSqc0hGSYS6mw7zh16MHFj3a7H4uUDDwGLo5F22sXNso1ZwJY664MhWQCf79fEkqYX3z_SO/s1600/Ellis+Island.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfaicQooyT8nlBOmMYeZYTDgIk0X62mU9is_0w3dOd_LJ5K8mDDGYxKu4x9-vtS-Br1vJn1nSqc0hGSYS6mw7zh16MHFj3a7H4uUDDwGLo5F22sXNso1ZwJY664MhWQCf79fEkqYX3z_SO/s320/Ellis+Island.jpg" width="320" yda="true" /></a></div>One sultry summer day in 1997 I met my future husband on a boat to Ellis Island. It was as romantic as it sounds.<br />
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I was 39 years old and unmarried, 38 of those years by choice. My Korean mother, who to her great regret started a family before she graduated from college, programmed me well: I was to have an education and an independent career before I got married, and at the same time, no man was good enough for me. To my mother’s dismay, it worked too well. Not only did I have one career, as a college professor, I started as second one, in law, and now she was worried I’d never meet a life companion. <br />
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I started to worry, too. I had earlier convinced myself that I was fine being alone, thank you very much, but now I had just moved to New York City, from Chicago by way of Ohio, had no clue about how to meet anyone, and dearly wanted someone to share my life. It couldn’t be anyone – it had be someone interested in books, history, music, especially classical piano, films and art but most of all, someone with an ironic sense of humor – another gift from my sharp-witted mother. I was so lonely that I filled out a notebook form at a coffee shop that facilitated dates. When I listed my education: B.A./M.A./Ph.D from The University of Chicago and soon to be J.D. from Columbia Law with a specialty in First Amendment law, I thought: “No way anyone’s going to call me.” And no one did.<br />
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My fellow law students were in their early 20s –way too young. One of them, a brilliant, extremely stylish and extremely short 24-year old Vietnamese woman name Thi, dragged me one day while we were working as summer law firm clerks to an event at Ellis Island hosted by The Lawyers Committee on Human Rights. I didn’t want to go but she was adamant. When we boarded the boat at the southern most end of Manhattan, a man in shirtsleeves with blondish hair and, yes I’ll say it – dreamy blue eyes - sat behind us, mopping sweat from his brow from the heat. “You lawyers?” He inquired. I said yes, budding lawyers. He was a journalist on the editorial board of a New York newspaper, invited to the event by friends he knew on the Committee. He had interviewed them on series of articles about Cuban prisoners back when he was at the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. (I found out later that the series made him a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize). <br />
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A writer! My heart quickened. The conversation came easily and we ended up chatting further at Ellis Island, surrounded by its riveting, haunting history and the glorious harbor. I looked very young, so I made a sure he knew I was older than the other law students and found out he was ten years my senior. No problem.<br />
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The boat ride back on jet-black, gentle waves gave us a tremendous view of the skyscrapers of lower Manhattan, now glittering with lights and bathed in the romantic glow of the smitten. I confided to Thi that I’d like to see this man again, but didn’t know what to do. He was about to disembark and walk out of my life forever. She suggested running after him to ask him for his business card. (I told you she was brilliant!) I did just that and he said: “Would you like to go to dinner sometime?” <br />
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When I got back to the law firm, I promptly did a Lexis search (no one Googled back then). If he wasn’t a good writer, I would be very disappointed indeed. I was pleased to see many, many awards and columns of great insight, including one that talked about a trip into Brooklyn while musing on the current Edward Hopper exhibit –I love Hopper and had just seen that exhibit! Later, on our many daily phone conversations, I found out he’s so well-read it puts me to shame, is extremely and sharply funny, and – something important to me – is of a shared cultural heritage that made it unnecessary to explain, for example, what Watergate means or who Floyd the Barber is. In fact, he’s a big fan of Floyd’s. To top it off, he mentioned in passing that he owns a baby grand piano and likes classical music. That's the equivalent of a red Ferrari to other women. I was hooked.<br />
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Who knew that I’d meet just the right man for me late in life in New York City on that fateful boat. He’s a southern gentleman from East Texas and Oklahoma, a slow talker with each well-chosen word a gem, a writer of extraordinary original ideas grounded in facts and observation, and quite simply the kindest, most humane person I ever met. Since that first dinner, we have not gone a day without chatting and laughing, and we’ve now been together almost 15 years, married for twelve. <br />
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That’s my New York love story. I guess the motto is, don’t give up. You never know. Don’t miss the boat.<br />
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<em>And they lived happily ever after.</em>Hudsonettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06791523899082200794noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8905926590911896862.post-16666988671129209542011-10-16T23:36:00.002-04:002011-10-17T11:11:34.944-04:00Zuccotti Park<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyt2NbFwjoCKuGqzyHLBVT2-rhD-yztE2Nt7JwDuAZ4i5RGkXfkyXH5Dmh-4Za_dkNA93TwzUyNGORjJTCC798zHKFXXnOMUHoIj2423G65BA7qrIjMtDlPHeFsAJEDzjiIM1yeCtH40Ou/s1600/IMG_0975.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyt2NbFwjoCKuGqzyHLBVT2-rhD-yztE2Nt7JwDuAZ4i5RGkXfkyXH5Dmh-4Za_dkNA93TwzUyNGORjJTCC798zHKFXXnOMUHoIj2423G65BA7qrIjMtDlPHeFsAJEDzjiIM1yeCtH40Ou/s320/IMG_0975.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
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My black lab Darwin and I often walk through Zuccotti Park in Lower Manhattan early in the morning on our way past the World Trade Center, on to the West Street dog park and then around the bottom of the island. Zuccotti Park is better than most privately-owned public spaces - it's prettier and more inviting, lined with trees, filled with flower beds, with cool light panels arrayed on the ground and benches throughout made of nice smooth stone. On one side are carts for coffee and pastries and fresh juices, and every week a farmers market sets up, adorning the park with rows of colorful produce. <br />
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Darwin enjoys nosing about the flower beds and greeting people sitting at tables eating their breakfast, with the ulterior motive, of course, that they share some muffin with him. Sometimes he chases pigeons or looks up at the little birds out of his reach, hidden in trees. We see people sipping coffee, checking their calendars for the busy day, others obviously dressed in their best, too early for their interview, silently running through their presentation or pitch. Then there are groups of robust construction guys, some chatting and laughing for the last few moments of relaxation before the tough job ahead, others drinking coffee alone, lunch box in hand, pensive.<br />
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The park is just across from the World Trade Center construction zone, and thus situated at the edge of doom that awful day, receiving the first blow of that terrible cloud of ash, debris and human remains that rushed through the corridors and covered Lower Manhattan after the towers fell. The office where I worked in 2001 was a few blocks from there, and after the attack I would walk up to where the renovated park now stands to gaze at the skeletal remains of the twin towers, then sitting atop piles of rubble and toxic smoke. <br />
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For the last month, the park has become the site of another ground zero, the vortex of the Occupy Wall Street movement, which has spread throughout the country and beyond. It has transformed into a setting for the quintessential exercise of free speech: pointed criticism at the powers that be for the way they run the country - in particular by ignoring the inequities that resulted after the economic collapse largely caused by unregulated financial markets. But I'll leave it to them to explain. Mostly young people. The park is filled with their passion and hope and the desperate need to be heard. And they speak on behalf of so many who worked diligently but lost jobs through no fault of their own, suddenly saddled with credit card debt, student loans, and unpaid mortgages while the giant two-faced banks show no mercy - taking in hard-earned money on one side, investing in scurrilous financial products on the other. Make no mistake, all of New York City needs our banks and financial markets to be flourishing, but it will not hurt the economic basis of the city to question and critique the process.<br />
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The political and cultural debate started in Zuccotti Park will continue for a long time. Who knows if it will change anything? It has engendered a deeply hostile reaction from those with certain established views and old fears. And many residents of Lower Manhattan are not happy that their neighborhood, newly restored ten years after 9/11, is upended again. Police, already a huge presence around Wall Street due to terrorism concerns, have set up new blockades. Individuals having nothing do to with the policies under protest are mistaken for "bankers" and harassed. Families are bothered by the drums and chanting late into the night. <br />
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The Occupiers vow to be there indefinitely, and it may be a very long time before Darwin and I get our morning stroll there again. No matter. The park has changed forever. At some point they will leave, perhaps when it gets too cold, so cold that, as in Paul Bunyan stories, the heated words of their debates over economic and social justice themselves become frozen, hanging in the air, until they thaw in the spring, to the astonishment of Darwin, who will look up into the trees and hear the voices of democracy.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTTMitu4SMXJgAejARAJOfauASQo_KIjGe22Q2NJIfQaI1iA9zdbypwf-yPR9DXTvLZN08U1L_WDTGpBVWgaBSC-AM9z7QjxIyHtbOvVYChqeH26qMTMfxqg3eZSB9PnwhAgzbJGmxaARC/s1600/IMG_1269.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTTMitu4SMXJgAejARAJOfauASQo_KIjGe22Q2NJIfQaI1iA9zdbypwf-yPR9DXTvLZN08U1L_WDTGpBVWgaBSC-AM9z7QjxIyHtbOvVYChqeH26qMTMfxqg3eZSB9PnwhAgzbJGmxaARC/s320/IMG_1269.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Hudsonettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06791523899082200794noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8905926590911896862.post-25164358980216672492011-07-03T20:03:00.003-04:002011-07-04T23:48:41.308-04:00Father Harrie's Seat At The July 4th ParadeI've been fortunate to have been friends with some extraordinary people, brilliant, creative and kind. Most of them aren't here anymore, like Mom and her best friend, Harrie. Mom, from Korea, my father, from India and Harrie, from Holland, all met when they were students living at the University of Chicago's International House in the late '40s. Harrie and Mom were classmates in art history, and he became close to our family after Papa died.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYh9xPxccd1FBE5OBHKgXQGDi7hPDiUpmtqN-KZaX44U5DXvYT6IuljKqldAw69jJaIS6EWL9xjcqEHHevy0Ipt77vQg3qTvLbhydaet0o-u0OBC2K8rmWOW25r-tdpP0Xq57u15AXdgFf/s1600/Harrie+photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYh9xPxccd1FBE5OBHKgXQGDi7hPDiUpmtqN-KZaX44U5DXvYT6IuljKqldAw69jJaIS6EWL9xjcqEHHevy0Ipt77vQg3qTvLbhydaet0o-u0OBC2K8rmWOW25r-tdpP0Xq57u15AXdgFf/s320/Harrie+photo.JPG" width="184" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Harrie at my wedding in 2000</i></td></tr>
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<div>Most people called him Father Harrie, since he was a Catholic priest, but I did not. Mom didn't either. Ever the rationalist, at dinner she would suddenly ask: "You don't really believe in God, do you?" To which he would simply answer "Yes" and ask for more potatoes. He liked potatoes especially, and cheese, being a Dutchman, and we always had a nice bottle of Scotch at the ready for when he visited. He lived in the United States for over 60 years and never became a citizen. But he loved and respected his adopted country and he always looked forward, like a little kid, to the local July 4th parade.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">To describe Harrie as "a kid" is a bit unusual. Besides being a priest, he was a beloved and esteemed professor of Chinese and Japanese art history at The University of Chicago and generations of his students now teach all over the country. He taught us how to <i>look</i> at a great work of art. He'd take a detail, like a boulder at the bottom of a Chinese landscape painted by a master, and show us how the smallest sequence of brush strokes was full of vitality, whereas the same boulder in a later copy by a lesser artist would just sit there like a dud. I treasure the many happy times we went to museums together, peering into paintings with his pocket viewer, discussing what each of us liked best, me wishing I had his superhero-level vision for art.<br />
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He and Mom both shared a gift for recognizing authenticity and they loved to go antiquing on Midwest country roads, looking for early American objects like tools and toys. They often discussed loudly - in Japanese - the quality and price of a potential find, though it was obvious what they were saying to everyone in the store. It was usually "No Good!"<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMmGCq-e2Sqr2c3eY-K6Hscf6NaRmzUkWiFZ28FUnZi8b4iUeZPkvyzW-3sxVKBQgReNcgHyUhl2oVf_8BtmbNMC9rrORgmuoKz2y-YYWs7JpBcYmuCRU_tDjAYHkmvyaVfnmh6N7zssfd/s1600/Big+Apple.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMmGCq-e2Sqr2c3eY-K6Hscf6NaRmzUkWiFZ28FUnZi8b4iUeZPkvyzW-3sxVKBQgReNcgHyUhl2oVf_8BtmbNMC9rrORgmuoKz2y-YYWs7JpBcYmuCRU_tDjAYHkmvyaVfnmh6N7zssfd/s320/Big+Apple.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="218" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><i>Harrie painted a postcard "The Big Apple" when I moved to New York City in 1995</i></td></tr>
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Harrie had a deep love for the simple and real. He was born into a Dutch farmer's family of 11 kids - one daughter and 10 sons, with Harrie chosen to be sent off to the priesthood, which is what landed him in China before the revolution. He loved to work with his hands, repairing antique pocket watches or restoring a deserving old chair. He painted still lifes and drew whimsical cartoons. Mom and Harrie's best friends were not academics but a retired butcher named Roger, a gentle, large man with a bald head and an anchor tattooed on his massive arm, and his wife Pearl, with whom they shared a love of well-made and well-worn objects. They'd go over to see Roger and Pearl for coffee after dinner on Thursdays.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrKBK800md71OoEmvSGJrtOSztVh4Ol-cihEZy2XuCQ4tKvwcot-QqKbmo5Y5R1lzR5obGT-VbIKHUsgOtjlY6eIanF7G0yMowT-aJKtEmoAr0hkf2OvqNMNK3YAHloZxLBks8auV_Lhtb/s1600/Harrie+cartoon.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrKBK800md71OoEmvSGJrtOSztVh4Ol-cihEZy2XuCQ4tKvwcot-QqKbmo5Y5R1lzR5obGT-VbIKHUsgOtjlY6eIanF7G0yMowT-aJKtEmoAr0hkf2OvqNMNK3YAHloZxLBks8auV_Lhtb/s320/Harrie+cartoon.JPG" width="268" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Harrie's self-portrait "thank you" card to me for a subscription to The New York Review of Books</i></td></tr>
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</div>On the day before the local Independence Day parade, Harrie would be full of excited anticipation, planning on where to set down two little fold-up chairs for him and Mom, worried that they would arrive late. It's not that Harrie and Mom had much grasp of American history. Visiting Gettysburg for me was as close to a religious experience as I can imagine. I was deeply affected by the carnage and Abraham Lincoln's perfect, healing words urging the divided country to unite. Mom's response, with her characteristic Korean directness, was: "Nothing! Nothing there!!" On the other hand, to me a local parade in Evanston, Illinois was nothing special - some local pols and Realtors in open cars followed by a few marching bands. But to Harrie, it was a valued tradition, every year the same ritual that brought people together to enjoy the simple joys of life, with barbecue after and then fireworks by Lake Michigan. Never mind that he and Mom argued about the barbecue - she wanted the fire blazing hot for <i>bulgogi</i>, he wanted to tone it down for the chicken.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Harrie died peacefully of a heart attack in his sleep in 2007, a little over two years after Mom passed. I miss them both. I will not be at the parade in Evanston, but I can still imagine his smile of delight as the bands march by, and I can almost hear the two of them arguing about how hot the grill should be. The meal was always fabulous, even if the chicken was a bit too charred.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Happy July 4th. I love this country.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: auto;"><br />
</div></div>Hudsonettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06791523899082200794noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8905926590911896862.post-4258138472946027802011-04-24T20:24:00.008-04:002011-04-24T21:48:50.203-04:00The Thug in the Picture<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT0oMVCQFhJpNhmC8BGQ5LdFWKjFKYZ4XACJO6cHQgp6xIIP1qmHS5uzxk3WoJ7Yz5bxTgM4UAprQqsVSYWhsVFP32ROP49prJnI_qk0wwdrA3nPx1NopZf4XJg9QOGsWGfFKHctrnerDF/s400/mail.jpeg" width="353" /></div><br />
See that guy walking up on the right side of this photo? The fellow in the dark slacks and jacket. You can't make it out, but he's carrying a paper shopping bag, one with handles, looking like one of the many casual visitors to the Beijing University campus that lovely spring afternoon in 1994 when I shot this picture. I was aiming for the bulletin boards, which don't look like much, but they played an important role in modern history as the spot where students pasted notices of political demonstrations. I thought it would be nice to show to my Chinese literature students back at Oberlin College, who would appreciate their significance. As soon as I snapped the picture, though, all hell broke loose.<br />
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The man with the shopping bag suddenly rushed toward me, yelling and gesturing menacingly. A crowd immediately gathered, then uniformed guards brisling with guns and bayonets surrounded me. You see, Shopping-Bag Guy was a plainclothes policeman, one of those thugs you've been hearing about so much lately who help the Chinese government keep things under strict control while operating outside official law. You mess with them, they can beat you bloody and have you thrown in jail with no recourse. I knew that an American reporter had just been beaten up by such a thug, and so when he demanded my camera, I immediately handed it over. Instead of confiscating it, however, he opened the back and pulled the film roll, without taking it out, just to expose it, then he handed it back to me and stomped away. The crowd dispersed. The guards, thankfully, went back to their posts. It was a grim moment to say the least. <br />
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I developed the roll anyway, and only one picture survived. The very photo worth keeping.<br />
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I had for many years been immersed in the study of Chinese literature and culture. I found some truths along the way, but not the truths I expected. What I discovered was the universal need to be treated with dignity and respect. What I also discovered was that those in power, obsessed with their own survival, will go to great lengths to make sure that basic human need is not met.<br />
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This fundamental truth is being played out in Egypt and Libya right now. Again and again, protesters say all they want is to be treated like human beings instead of slaves in an authoritarian state. They want respect for the work they do, to be permitted to enjoy dinner with their family without harassment at the end of the day, to express joy when they're happy and speak their minds at injustice without fear of reprisal. They don't want to be treated like animals or like cogs in a machine.<br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Last January President Hu Jintao suggested China isn't ready for human rights because they are still a developing country. But they've long been ready. They've been ready from the time of the anonymous soldiers in the 7th century BC, whose poems complain of unrelenting border wars, to the Tang dynasty poet Du Fu, who lamented that while in exile he was not able to set the emperor straight. And they're ready today as we've seen in the strong undercurrent of political dissent and the detention of the artist Ai Weiwei, the Nobel laureate Liu Xiaobo and so many other human rights activists.<br />
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Even local villagers are taking on instances of corruption and abuse. In tiny <a href="http://www.economist.com/blogs/banyan/2011/03/chinese_democracy?fsrc=scn/tw/te/bl/victoryinminiature">Zhaiqiao</a> they rose up in anger when their village head Qian Yunhui, who had been protesting the unjust confiscation of land by a power plant, was suddenly and conveniently run over by a truck. The village promptly voted his close relative to the post to carry on where the deceased had left off.<br />
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If most Chinese are willing to submit to total government control, why does the Chinese government work so hard at silencing voices of opposition? It takes an enormous amount of energy and resources to spy on what everyone is saying or thinking and blot out any hint of criticism. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
When I lived in Beijing, my insignificant mail would arrive with a big piece of Scotch tape clumsily pasted over where it had been ripped open and reviewed. The government is so obsessed with quashing criticism that it goes to ridiculous lengths. Even Confucius was not spared in the recent crackdown when his giant statue was unceremoniously removed from Tiananmen square under cover of darkness one night this past week. Guess they suddenly remembered that Confucius demanded ethical and humane behavior from rulers as well. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The truth I learned in China was that basic human rights, including the freedom to speak up at injustice and abuse of power, were more important than an appreciation of the finest ancient brocade. I'm now a First Amendment lawyer, protecting the work of journalists to report and criticize government officials and others who affect our lives. I go to work every day to make sure that our free speech guarantees are preserved and not chipped away.<br />
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I have Shopping-Bag Guy to thank. <br />
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</div>Hudsonettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06791523899082200794noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8905926590911896862.post-81995152329726289172011-02-18T22:18:00.000-05:002011-02-18T22:18:01.240-05:00Readers Without Borders<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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First a shock and then a rush of blood to my chest - a physical sensation of loss. What? The Barnes and Noble at Lincoln Center is closing? That can't be! Where will we go to check out the new books first-hand (even though we sometimes end up buying them on Amazon)? Where will we go for cards, gift-wrap, maps, magazines and calendars? What about the wonderful book signings, where I met my favorite theater director, David Cromer, and had the whole cast of <i>Our Town</i> sign my new hardcover copy of the play, after they performed a scene and generously answered questions from the audience? Where will I arrange to meet friends, if not "on the first floor of the Barnes and Noble, Broadway side"?<br />
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</div><div>It was more than a bookstore. It was a place where people came together - to buy books or just browse around and chat. It had become as essential to the community as a city park or other public destination. And it was leaving us.</div><div><div><br />
</div><div>I recall when I first started going to this particular Barnes and Noble. It was when I was a law student at Columbia. This was a second career for me, so I was way older than my classmates, which meant no dates on weekends except with the <i>X-Files</i> on Fridays. I would often take in a film at the movie house on 68th and Broadway and then walk a block over to the Barnes and Noble to browse the new hardcovers, look at magazines, maybe get a cup of coffee. I don't drink - alcohol aggravates my asthma - so I don't hang out in bars. This was a place I could go to by myself, a safe place, and, most of all, there were books. </div></div><div><br />
</div><div>At first I was unimpressed. I'm a snob, you see, having worked in the greatest of all independent bookshops, The Seminary Coop Bookstore, while I was a grad student at the University of Chicago. We were expected to answer questions with a knowledge of the extensive stock of titles, specialized academic disciplines included, and if we didn't have it, we'd "special order" it. We did it straight up - no coffee, just books. </div><div><br />
</div><div>But I gradually warmed to the Barnes and Noble. I recall when I started going out with Mr. H (we are now married and living happily ever after), we went to the bookstore to do research for a trip to Montreal. I found a lovely little hotel in one of the guidebooks, showed Mr. H the passage, and said: Okay, let's memorize this." He looked up from the guidebook and said: "You know, we could just buy it." I burst out laughing. As a poor student, I was so used to just browsing, it hadn't occurred to me actually to buy the book!</div><div><br />
</div><div>And now we hear that Borders is closing its stores in Manhattan and all over the country, including the one we frequent in the charming town of Saratoga Springs, NY, where we rent a weekend apartment. We like Borders stores because they usually have a good local history section. When we travel to different cities, we make a point to stop at the Borders to look for books on the special history of the place, and we usually pick up some other reading for the trip as well. The Borders in Saratoga is a large brick structure at the center of the main street. Often, when we're strolling in downtown Saratoga, Mr. H will run in to to get the papers (which we also read online), while I wait outside with Darwin, our black lab. Darwin and I see all manner of people going in and out of the bookstore while we wait - old and young, hip and nerd. Musicians are often outside on the sidewalk, and there's a Seattle's Best with tables inside where people chat over books, news and coffee. It's a festive scene, rich with human interaction. With the bookstore gone, there will be a huge gap in the texture of the neighborhood. <br />
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We all understand the economic difficulties in maintaining a physical bookstore when everyone, including me, is reading on iPads or Kindles. But I still buy hard-copy books, and not always online. Sometimes I can't wait for the mail, I want to have the book in my hands right away. When Mr. H and I make the 3-hour drive up to Saratoga, we listen to audiobooks from my iPad through the car speakers. We invariably end up going into a bookstore and buying the same book so we can look at the drawings and pictures and look back at some passages I might have missed while napping. After all, you can't listen to <i>Endurance</i>, the spellbinding story of Shackleton's adventure in Antarctica, without wanting to see a photograph of the tall ship trapped, surrounded by ice, or hear <i>The River of Doubt</i>, without wanting to see what Teddy Roosevelt looked like writing his articles for <i>Scribner's</i> in the middle of the Amazon jungle sitting at a little portable table while covered up by gloves and mosquito netting. And you can't listen to these books without wanting to have your own copies on the shelf forever because they are so, so great.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Going to bookstores is part of our lifestyle and they offer a special place for people to gather. Will physical location become less and less necessary as we become more digitized, so that we don't ever need to leave our homes to bump elbows with strangers over coffee, books and records? (Don't get me going over the loss of Tower Records). We may end up like the Krell of <i>Forbidden Planet</i>, who became so technologically advanced that they had no need for physical instruments and withdrew into their own minds, ultimately to destroy themselves and their civilization with their own terrifying monsters from the id.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Well, maybe it won't be that bad, but it is a huge loss. And I am sad.</div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNLm4ofraudb6VTiXDwSpZMexblNZh_BAR_F_GmwahVd-Og5vCJDXsLH3FoFBydAIdCZHKCmJJbRURVZkeyUYcrCe7cuJQDUU3VsR3cqLwr12oi4Z-uzDjLeRy92TAdw7G_1zenzrbGOnH/s1600/IMG_0155.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
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</div>Hudsonettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06791523899082200794noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8905926590911896862.post-81578341756654183722010-10-18T19:39:00.000-04:002010-10-18T19:39:53.797-04:00The Rocket Man Crashed in Los Angeles<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div align="left"><em><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: small;">The Theme Building at LAX ca. 1960 and Paul R. Williams, one of the designers.</span></em></div></td></tr>
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</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; line-height: 22px;">Went back to Los Angeles last week for a business conference. Greeting me was the striking mid-century modern Theme Building at Los Angeles International Airport, newly restored. The futuristic structure was designed in 1959 to give Angelenos a sense of unbridled optimism. It inspired the cartoon sky-buildings in <em>The Jetsons</em>. When I was a child my father, a space scientist, traveled often for work to D.C. Every time we went to pick him up from the airport I'd gaze with wonder at that white and blue spaceship with legs like the Martian invader ships in <em>War of the Worlds</em>. My childhood was all about space travel, the outer realms of imagination and the future. I grew up in the 1960s, a time brimming with a sense of change and possibility. We never missed seeing <em>Star Trek</em>, <em>Outer Limits</em>, <em>One Step Be</em>yond and <em>Twilight Zone. </em>I loved the works of Heinlein, Asimov, Clarke and Bradbury. I carefully pasted news clippings of the first moon landing in a scrapbook and the family together watched men walk on the moon with overwhelming pride. Nothing was impossible. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; line-height: 22px;">I truly believed that humans would live on other planets in my lifetime. My father nurtured that sense of embracing the future and readied us by giving us math problems to solve, instilling in us a love of literature and music, and also a sense of duty to him and my mother. In his spare time he built complex abstract modern sculptures of wood and steel in sinuous, twisting shapes. He came from India as a graduate student, met a beautiful, perceptive woman from Korea, had five children, moved to a big house with a swimming pool in the suburbs of Los Angeles, and lived, as so many Americans still do, on the edge of his means. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; line-height: 22px;">But when I landed in Los Angeles last week, I gazed on the Theme Building with a sense of melancholy. It had been over 35 years since I lived in L.A. Sure, the spaceship structure looked shiny and new after millions of dollars of restoration, but its promise of the future looked dated -- a retro kind of impotence. The well-worn freeways taking me from the airport were all too familiar. No Jetsons hovercraft here, not even high-speed rail, just miles and miles of concrete, as far as the eye could see.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; line-height: 22px;">And my childhood home? Thank you, but I prefer not to visit. No one I know is home. The sixties gave way to the seventies. Escalating costs of the Vietnam War drew funding away from the space program, and my father was out of a job. Divorce and bankruptcy soon followed. I recall combing the LA Times classifieds as a young teen for a first-ever job for my mom, who became a salesclerk at a high-end clothing store. I also recall accompanying my father, who was always meticulously dressed and groomed, to the Federal Building on Wilshire Boulevard to pick up his mail and unemployment check. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; line-height: 22px;">We didn't know if the space program would flourish again. All we knew was that my father, a rocket scientist, could not find work. And then, on the very day that the nation held its breath as Nixon resigned, my father, at the age of 50 -- in a serene act of what he believed was Hindu devotion, and because he thought he was worth more dead to his family than alive -- took his life. It was August 9th, 1974, the day that the future darkened and changed course. I was sixteen. I left Los Angeles a year later for college and a lifetime of grappling with a deep, hidden sorrow. My father left me with a final problem that could not be solved.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; line-height: 22px;">Today, the advances in science and technology would have delighted my father, not to mention the new Star Trek movie. While his tragic, final act has haunted me to this day, it also pushed me to make the most of my one life. I put myself through college and graduate schools, collected an array of degrees, found a wonderful husband late in life who respects me and makes me laugh every day, a dog who respects me some of the time and gives me unconditional love, and a dream job that keeps my mind sharp and spirits high. It's a happiness that focuses on day-to-day challenges and joys rather than on far-off galaxies. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; line-height: 22px;">Would I have achieved all this if my father had lived? I don't know. All I know is that I did not care to linger in Los Angeles last week. Too much sorrow was embedded in those freeways and swelled in the ever-returning waves of the Pacific Ocean. I caught the first flight I could out of LAX after the conference and hurried home.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="font-size: small;">My father and mother, taken soon after they met in Chicago in the late 1940s.</span></em> <br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"></div>Hudsonettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06791523899082200794noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8905926590911896862.post-80033667970227570772010-08-14T11:50:00.026-04:002010-08-14T15:52:11.298-04:00Stuck On Stupid About Ground Zero<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyZIzlzwHcVRTu2MCLrzynUUkQhVMAOpzHXGXqQbyGg6tq3uUSJuTmKm8TU2kARpHKCfMfhF7fxWD2cSiXFuuQ0SfIraPV5S3LRqGLlSsuk39csY8SHHYsRun4vHjdGr7ob-PFX9UaVV9G/s1600/0420-0906-1122-5738_memorial_for_9_11_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyZIzlzwHcVRTu2MCLrzynUUkQhVMAOpzHXGXqQbyGg6tq3uUSJuTmKm8TU2kARpHKCfMfhF7fxWD2cSiXFuuQ0SfIraPV5S3LRqGLlSsuk39csY8SHHYsRun4vHjdGr7ob-PFX9UaVV9G/s320/0420-0906-1122-5738_memorial_for_9_11_m.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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The President of the United States spoke out in support of the right to build a mosque near Ground Zero yesterday - or was it Obama/Andy of Mayberry, giving yet another remedial civics lesson to his benighted townspeople, whipped up into a frenzy over some darn thing:<br />
<blockquote> “This is America, and our commitment to religious freedom must be unshakable. The principle that people of all faiths are welcome in this country, and will not be treated differently by their government, is essential to who we are.”</blockquote>Much has been written about the opposition to a mosque-muslim center two blocks from Ground Zero. My favorite was this one on Twitter:<br />
<blockquote>I want to know the exact distance from ground zero, in feet, beyond which we're no longer allowed to be ignorant bigots. I want the number ~ @HunterDK</blockquote>While all this was raging, we moved into our new home in a newly-built apartment building in lower Manhattan, just blocks from Ground Zero and the proposed Muslim center. This is a return to the area for me. About ten years ago I toiled for long hours in a law firm near Wall Street. At that time, it was a neighborhood that you did not want to linger in if you didn't have to. When I came in on weekends, the place was deserted. I spotted one or two other beleaguered and tired-looking lawyers on the street, but that's about it. There was a small residential population, but not enough to merit even a single grocery store. You couldn't buy a fresh tomato in the area even if you had a million dollar Wall Street bonus burning in your pocket.<br />
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Now the place is flourishing. The residential population is booming, along with the amenities. In addition to groceries, restaurants, schools and shopping, several farmers markets have popped up to add bursts of color contrast - red peppers and tomatoes, bright green and yellow zucchini - to the brown-grey cobblestones and historic buildings. Ground zero is active with construction, not only of the long-awaited but over-produced memorial, but also of buildings promising modern, new office spaces wired from head to toe for the 21st century. It seems like every day a business announces it's packing up and moving to lower Manhattan. <br />
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Ten years was enough time to get over the psychic trauma lingering in the neighborhood from my law firm job, and I moved back with great enthusiasm. We're gradually getting used to the new digs: My husband loves the seven-minute walk to work, we're both in awe of our tremendous high-rise view of Manhattan, including the Empire State Building, and our dog Darwin is slowly coming to grips with the fact that there are no grass and dirt facilities nearby. Our walks turn into historic and architectural tours: There's Federal Hall, where George Washington, in a low tone so as not to appear overreaching, took the oath of office. The broad steps under Washington's statue are ideal for eating a sandwich on a sunny day while watching people go by. There's Wall Street, so reviled by America today for running the country into a near-depression and almost ruining the middle class, but still central to the economy of the world and buzzing with excitement when the NYSE bell rings in the trading day. There's the old, revered Delmonico's restaurant, which taught our founding generation how to eat a meal in a civilized fashion.<br />
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Then there's the site that is of more recent, and still painful, history, and that is Ground Zero. When I came home from work for the first time after we moved, while ascending the subway escalator at Wall Street I flashed back to the morning of September 11, 2001 when I made that same trip to work, emerging from the subway about 9 am. I went to the small kiosk as I usually do to get a bottled iced tea. It was run by a Muslim man who knew me as a regular. He was the one to tell me that morning: "Two planes just hit the World Trade Center Towers." I went out onto the street, looked up, and saw flames shooting out of the towers. It was alarming and disturbing, but I didn't know what to think, so I went to work. But soon after I got to my office there was a low, disturbing rumble that suddenly became louder and the sky went out. I didn't know then that one of the towers had collapsed, and the wave of debris thundering past my windows was a crushed mass of building and people. I rushed up to the law library, where many had gathered to watch the news on television, and watched in horror as I realized what was happening. Then the second tower roared past in a demented black cloud of dust and debris. A nightmare from hell. <br />
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Luckily, I was not showered with debris like others who were on the street when the buildings fell, and I did not know anyone personally who may have been in the Word Trade Center towers, the place where I'd get my flu shots every fall. Still, it was an unthinkable experience - my mind couldn't process it. My husband saved the voice message I left him to tell him I was okay and that I loved him - the voice was stoic, not hysterical. The phones went dead but I was able to send an e-mail to my family, letting them know I was still here. Remarkably, and rather too-conscientiously, I sent a message to our local counsel in Mississippi, attaching the draft legal brief I had been working on, telling him that we were under terrorist attack and that if something happened to me he was to get this brief filed on time. <br />
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A partner at the firm came by my office about 1 pm and suggested it was time to evacuate in small groups. The debris cloud had settled and there hadn't been any new explosions. One of my friends, eight-months pregnant, had a long walk back to Brooklyn ahead of her. Some of us going north went out together, handkerchiefs at our mouths. What we saw was truly that of a science-fiction movie. Nothing but thick ash and debris and no one around but the national guard and police speeding in on buses and jeeps. We slowly made our way up the East River. I saw the magnificent Brooklyn Bridge still standing and my heart leapt with joy that they hadn't destroyed it. Looking back we saw the giant plumes of black smoke against that pristine blue September sky. Still no tears or cries - we were silent. Finally, just past Canal Street in Chinatown, the subways started to run again, and I was able to make my way home to our apartment in Times Square. <br />
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I somehow had the wherewithal to go shopping for water and supplies in case the island of Manhattan was shut down. But after I got home, for two days all I did was stare at the television, reliving the collapse over and over. My husband told me this was not a good thing and that I should go out. The museums in New York, in an act of grace, opened their doors for free that week. I went to the Museum of Modern Art and sat in front of the large panels of Monet's Water Lilies, immersed myself in the wash of deep blues, greens and pale pinks, and began to feel restored. <br />
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That was my experience, and each New Yorker has his or her own story. I won't even go into how I had to return to work the next Tuesday, computers working on generators as our only lights, trying hard to churn out urgent legal work in the midst of a pungent, choking haze of burning plastic, metal and bodies. We all got through it. Well, some of the secretaries in the firm decided to never come back. To take a break, I'd walk the six blocks from my office to Ground Zero and gaze upon the remains of the twin towers, reaching upward like a skeletal hand. Sure, I hated the stark architecture of the twin towers and wished they hadn't been built - but I didn't want them to be taken down this way, and now the remains are deeply beloved.<br />
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With all that past still very much present within me, I have no problem welcoming a mosque to lower Manhattan, just as I welcome any other place of worship to service and give comfort to the people who live and work in the area. Those of you on the outside who have long disdained New York, who are you to suddenly dictate what should be built in our neighborhood? And those family members of 9/11 victims opposed to the mosque, I'm sorry for your loss, but don't lecture me about loved ones dying. I've lost both parents and several other loved ones, but I'm not going to claim the location of their death as a personal cemetery. All New Yorkers suffered a huge loss that day, when the government failed to protect us and we as Americans finally learned what it means to be under attack. No New Yorker or American will ever be the same.<br />
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We are building a memorial for those who died and we will always honor the incredible sacrifice of the first responders and the ordinary people who became heroes because they died simply for going to their jobs. But those few who would appropriate the whole area out of a misguided sense of self-righteousness or to advance narrow political objectives are wrong.<br />
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As you can see, New York, and especially lower Manhattan, is moving forward, thriving in our country's freedom and the comfort of knowing that our country's ideals of equality and justice govern. There's much to do. If a mosque can attract capable and productive residents, go ahead and build it! All who are smart, talented, skilled and forward-looking, you are most welcome. We do not discriminate based on religion, but rather on skills, intelligence and a broad worldview. Those who are stuck on stupid, who have, in effect, let the terrorists win by forcing us to abandon our core constitutional values, please get out of the way. We're too busy for this nonsense.<br />
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<i>Read George Washington's magnificent, brief <a href="http://bit.ly/bPZxRJ">speech</a> given in 1790 to a Jewish community in Rhode Island on the subject of religious freedom.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i>Hudsonettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06791523899082200794noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8905926590911896862.post-13092762212626511262010-07-31T12:27:00.008-04:002010-08-01T19:24:48.450-04:00Scatter My Ashes Over the Dog Park<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Sz2RW3kIfPwa3mqB295ByZytd00YIUCd66NZIidMO2SVb318FKUUJYxe7RlD23l6ajYHVf_J9wEXTMAEiOQOYDIw5vhBpQ7C81IwEA0b8CZGSAfyzh-K5URvlAgF5iNUVlhffvx5d4Xi/s1600/P1010497.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Sz2RW3kIfPwa3mqB295ByZytd00YIUCd66NZIidMO2SVb318FKUUJYxe7RlD23l6ajYHVf_J9wEXTMAEiOQOYDIw5vhBpQ7C81IwEA0b8CZGSAfyzh-K5URvlAgF5iNUVlhffvx5d4Xi/s320/P1010497.JPG" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">We moved from Times Square, vortex of all that is crazy, crowded and neon, to Riverdale, a lovely part of the Bronx with views of the Hudson River, lush with trees and fresh air. After six years, we're moving back to Manhattan to be closer to work. I'll miss the ever-shifting beauty of the trees, moon and stars, and the Hudson grandeur. But most of all, I'll miss the dog park, the place where I met my neighbors and learned to chat.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">On my first day in the dog park, just across from our apartment complex, a raging discussion was in progress. The subject? When were they going to bury Anna Nicole Smith's highly contested but rapidly decomposing body. "Why are they fighting over that body anyway?" a woman wearing pin curlers shouted, pointing to a New York Post. It's just a body - it's not her. When I die, I want my ashes scattered over the dog park." We roared with laughter. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It was a varied group - a professor of Russian literature, an admissions officer at a private school, a clerk at a big-chain baby store, a nurse (in the pin curlers), a loud, foul-mouthed but extremely funny artist, a bridge-builder (not the metaphorical one, but a real one), a recovering stockbroker-now-third-grade teacher. There would be more over the years, people came and left, all with varied backgrounds, outlooks, income, ethnicity, sexual orientation. It was like the set of a play. Or maybe a sitcom. Every day several of us would get together to watch our dogs run and wrestle, and to chat about things, from the mundane (the healthy texture of dog poop) to the transcendent (symbolic imagery in Buddhist art, the athletic grace of Derek Jeter). One morning the issue among the ladies was whether or not one had to wear a bra to the dog park in the morning (most voted yes). Other days I'd argue with the Russian lit teacher over Shakespeare and off-Broadway plays. We talked of work, family, joys and sorrows, and became friends.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Although this kind of easy camaraderie goes on all over, whether it be in dog parks, children's playgrounds, bars or diners, it meant a great deal to me. I was a loner bordering on the misanthropic. I spent years in academic research and then law, more comfortable with books than light conversation. And much of that time was at The University of Chicago, known for taking one's blush of youth away and replacing it with book-learning and poor social skills. I sparkled when teaching students, but was awkward speaking with adults and hated going to dinner parties or other social gatherings. In New York City, not many people talk with or even know their neighbors in the same apartment building, so it was no problem. But then I moved to Riverdale, got a puppy, and had no choice but to meet, and talk to, the neighbors. I'm so glad I did.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Slowly, day by day, my reluctance to engage with others dropped away. What was great about the dog park is that I met people I would never have met had I not gotten a dog. They were outside my usual circle of colleagues, and maybe this made it possible for our conversations to be deeper, more joyful and carefree. It was like having an extended family without the psychodrama, or dropping in for coffee at a neighbor's house as shown in American ads in the '50s. I recognized the same phenomenon in Roger Ebert's </span><a href="http://bit.ly/DJBJx"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">beautiful essay</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> in which he describes the joy of getting to know people outside his circle at AA meetings. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I needed this. The reason I got a dog was to ease the unbearable grief from my mother's passing (it helps). Within a span of three years, two other elders close to me died. I had relied on these three to watch over and be proud of me (my father died when I was young). But then I joined the dog park group. They gave me advice when I got a cold, I rejoiced with them over good job news, we worried together over the awful troubles of the world and cried together when dearly-loved dogs died. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">They were in many ways ordinary people who worked hard every day in demanding jobs to make ends meet while managing households or school study at night. But once you got to know them better, you discovered how extraordinary they really were. Some had heavy added burdens such as caring for a paralyzed brother or declining parents, which they did without complaint.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Remarkably, these same people found time for creative pursuits as well. The owner of the scrappy Boston Terrier/Frenchy mix did lamp working - making gorgeous, translucent colored glass beads that she turned into lovely necklaces and bracelets. She's Jewish, but crafted a delicate rosary in glass to match the color of family members' birthstones for a Catholic friend when she became gravely ill. The "mom" of the lovely black and white Papillon had one of the sharpest minds I ever encountered and did amazing, detailed needlepoint work, while the owner of the Katrina rescue German Shepherd-mix (my dog Darwin's best buddy) regaled us with tales of her cooking adventures, most recently Korean cuisine.The construction guy who owns the magnificent, kindly Rottweiler also painted pictures of scenes in Cuba. They all did something to give a flourish to their lives. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I'm moving to a high-rise in Manhattan in a couple of days and do not expect to strike up close friendships among my neighbors. But I leave the Bronx transformed. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Thank you, my friends. </span><br />
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</span></div>Hudsonettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06791523899082200794noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8905926590911896862.post-19819480095010301732010-07-13T10:35:00.006-04:002010-07-13T22:49:55.751-04:00My Own Toy Story<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><br />
</span></span>Moving time again. After six years in this place it feels like the right time. But how did the closets generate so much stuff on their own when I wasn't looking? Throwing out boxes of the detritus of everyday life feels liberating and brings to mind the free spirit of the Tang Dynasty zen monk Han Shan (Cold Mountain): <br />
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<i>Thin grass does for a mattress.</i><br />
<i>The blue sky makes a good quilt.</i><br />
<i>Happy with a stone under head</i><br />
<i>Let heaven and earth go about their changes.</i><br />
(trans. Gary Snyder)<br />
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Han Shan was a favorite figure of my Korean mom, whose big laugh was better than any zen monk's and whose rationalistic iconoclasm terrorized our best friend Harrie, the art historian/Catholic priest. Like Han Shan, mom was big on the doctrine of non-attachment to material things. Except that she collected things. Antiques. Early American - especially toys and all manner of useful objects.<br />
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Like this antique tin goose. When you turn the key, it noisily lurches across the table in a most ungainly fashion. But there's the delicate design, just enough to hint at the wings and a kindly face. And there's the lovely blue color, the ample feet to support such a large body, and the rust that shows its age. It's seen a lot and taken a lot of falls.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9DTodKuUuScqN6J828ke8ap80jjxU5NdXEQJ5OZ-8XnJJh58kbxog5-IHvnIaub6Z9-uVPK-3jWYt2p_7gjzV9Q9DaEnD_ZuAKNjkjsAl01NDtOcQMgXrYPoAX9AtxcAAnSWdCGsa9GDT/s1600/P1010570.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9DTodKuUuScqN6J828ke8ap80jjxU5NdXEQJ5OZ-8XnJJh58kbxog5-IHvnIaub6Z9-uVPK-3jWYt2p_7gjzV9Q9DaEnD_ZuAKNjkjsAl01NDtOcQMgXrYPoAX9AtxcAAnSWdCGsa9GDT/s320/P1010570.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A lowly shoehorn with exquisite color graphics "Shinola -The Wonderful Shoe Polish" serving both as useful object and advertisement.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzP_YlwoMd4j32fMmbBWJzPbYBdXPZtEZp0jvEBnqvLm8BoCeqrtvo5Gt36n62hYZ3GVQ_RpOx80SoxQQMg5ibwgWhPUuGFgSUhfLmWaJ7k47gTN_2ZkBwCcYUXZ1dkkDuNtRdR8QqTC12/s1600/P1010579.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzP_YlwoMd4j32fMmbBWJzPbYBdXPZtEZp0jvEBnqvLm8BoCeqrtvo5Gt36n62hYZ3GVQ_RpOx80SoxQQMg5ibwgWhPUuGFgSUhfLmWaJ7k47gTN_2ZkBwCcYUXZ1dkkDuNtRdR8QqTC12/s200/P1010579.jpg" width="97" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>A real prize, the striking orange cast-iron car with sturdy black wheels that still go. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja1pC_hev2oQ0EGEiosU4YW3AiijqoCyWGaeJ1Rb7WRsq0FviU-QGHHZvz0kahb9iZXArICMq1PZOBwNYHg4krv9waQAS1nKpZiUl_ki-gRkf7h9Gg-oOBPKT3PM-mGeqlHncW_M4uta6y/s1600/P1010596.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja1pC_hev2oQ0EGEiosU4YW3AiijqoCyWGaeJ1Rb7WRsq0FviU-QGHHZvz0kahb9iZXArICMq1PZOBwNYHg4krv9waQAS1nKpZiUl_ki-gRkf7h9Gg-oOBPKT3PM-mGeqlHncW_M4uta6y/s320/P1010596.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">She left many tin boxes, this one is adorned in gorgeous color illustrations of Aesop's Fables.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZw3-YFVZZDfYsud-jvLmcVY5vXs56qzrSsBdAPAvzxcVig-B7UMRt3Fm8QAdx_AbTbuDOFMpbje6BJPUJKnOQKCczyM6djo20uv9BJ8PyvX23dcLQVSSbBAsES04tdYhhYy3XTTaek2dl/s1600/P1010597.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZw3-YFVZZDfYsud-jvLmcVY5vXs56qzrSsBdAPAvzxcVig-B7UMRt3Fm8QAdx_AbTbuDOFMpbje6BJPUJKnOQKCczyM6djo20uv9BJ8PyvX23dcLQVSSbBAsES04tdYhhYy3XTTaek2dl/s200/P1010597.JPG" width="158" /></a><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Here's just a sample of wrought-iron objects, now modern art: a measuring device acting like a zen circle, a tiny screwdriver with curves to the max, an old pan-scrubber made of connected ringlets.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0NUebv28Kfr_xMN0LLZGRH3GvT51drJJGym45WDqp9yAGriSuaxCbMmJrAe5shdU1_dukZS-82oJWcS-4Kzxn3H7stks6P6RWm02_1PJITqjdYxk92pFCuNsBWaEuUgkud58iErZKJ7AD/s1600/P1010602.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0NUebv28Kfr_xMN0LLZGRH3GvT51drJJGym45WDqp9yAGriSuaxCbMmJrAe5shdU1_dukZS-82oJWcS-4Kzxn3H7stks6P6RWm02_1PJITqjdYxk92pFCuNsBWaEuUgkud58iErZKJ7AD/s200/P1010602.jpg" width="188" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcjFcpYwzQ9w5mEipVBLwyKe4_3YSa3_6nbeJ8jqx5DDxT-QiymVCbGsBrCT2AXjVISs2QTV29VS9gTC5Z-SbpNflKN3K05AOyYPriGVbWWd58J4KO_PDXgBNKs8-EXYUkS9-ZqoGYbvMR/s1600/P1010575.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcjFcpYwzQ9w5mEipVBLwyKe4_3YSa3_6nbeJ8jqx5DDxT-QiymVCbGsBrCT2AXjVISs2QTV29VS9gTC5Z-SbpNflKN3K05AOyYPriGVbWWd58J4KO_PDXgBNKs8-EXYUkS9-ZqoGYbvMR/s200/P1010575.jpg" width="123" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQJ4nkSQgNjJCBVettpB2bbfr-FheBqAd3V-zndvoFbgTVt3OPYl7yhEHxMKJmr-W37V8QDejRrIxMmnSVMJl1enB2PXgq77wkaRgd8rR8H10k3K8Kak59dGo8qjD7V0krSzzETDyoemp4/s1600/P1010577.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQJ4nkSQgNjJCBVettpB2bbfr-FheBqAd3V-zndvoFbgTVt3OPYl7yhEHxMKJmr-W37V8QDejRrIxMmnSVMJl1enB2PXgq77wkaRgd8rR8H10k3K8Kak59dGo8qjD7V0krSzzETDyoemp4/s200/P1010577.jpg" width="116" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div>When mom died six years ago, I cherished these carefully chosen objects like sacred relics and displayed them and the paintings and furniture she left all over our Riverdale apartment, just north of Manhattan. Both my husband and I loved to be surrounded by these things, so colorful and beautiful in themselves, but even more precious because they embodied my mom's spirit.<br />
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But now we want to be back in the middle of New York City, to feel its pulse and walk out to coffee, music, theater, art, film at a moment's notice. And to be closer to our jobs, of course. We found the perfect apartment in a financial district high-rise. It's tiny, but with floor-to-ceiling windows and panoramic views of Manhattan and the rivers. But all those windows means there's no space to hang or display my mom's antiques. They must be packed and shipped up to our small rental upstate, where they will wait for us on weekends and maybe, if lucky, be taken out of their boxes and displayed or handled.<br />
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Six years ago I couldn't have done this. I couldn't let go of these objects just as I couldn't accept that my mom, my best friend, was gone. But time heals, and I gradually realized that she wasn't really gone. All those years I spent with her she was teaching me how to discern the real from the fake, in people and things. What is art and what is uninspired craft. It's a way of seeing that I could never master, but I can hope to approach, and even in my hit-and-miss fashion enriches my life considerably. When I marvel at the beauty of ancient Japanese pottery or the fine curve of the most humble wooden antique cutting tool, I'm doing it because she instilled a perspective in me, one drawn to truth and beauty. If I paused long enough to think about it, I could also see her in my own big laugh - especially when it's triggered by the puncturing of the pompous and inauthentic. She's a part of me and my perspective. And the objects themselves are no longer sacred. <br />
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It's okay. They can go in the box.<br />
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As Han Shan asked in a poem: "Who can leap the world's ties and sit with me among the white clouds?" Me, mom. I'm ready.<br />
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</div>Hudsonettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06791523899082200794noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8905926590911896862.post-37247518694202745562010-07-04T08:19:00.032-04:002010-07-05T08:00:54.448-04:00Give Me Liberty (and also Chopin)My cousin Tiru was a scientist from India who came to America in the late 1960's. He tutored me in physics, piano, star-gazing and PG Wodehouse. He died suddenly 3 years ago, but I recall his July 4th story. <br /><br />He lived alone in a small house in La Habra, outside of Los Angeles. When not figuring out how to protect astronauts from space radiation (his day job), he played a gorgeous 19th-century Steinway that he rebuilt.<br /><br />On July 4th, fireworks were in full, noisy bloom. There was a muffled bump at the door. He opened it, and there stood a large grey dog. <br /><br />Tiru looked up and down the street - no owner in sight. The dog let himself in. He lapped up the bit of ice cream my cousin offered. Then Tiru went back to playing the piano. Chopin Nocturnes were his favorite. The dog settled under the piano, listening peacefully.<br /><br />When the fireworks were over, the dog got up, and walked to the door. Tiru let him out, and the dog went on his way. <br /><br />Dogs don't like fireworks. But they do like Chopin.<br /><br />Happy July 4th. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Tiru took me to see Artur Rubinstein in his 90's at Orchestra Hall in Chicago. I remember Mayor Richard Daley (the elder) gave the great pianist a special plaque. Funny seeing the two of them on stage together! Here's Rubinstein playing a Nocturne that I once played for my much-loved and admired cousin:<br /></span><br /><br /><br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/kmo0H3jxGCA&hl=en_US&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/kmo0H3jxGCA&hl=en_US&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object>Hudsonettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06791523899082200794noreply@blogger.com6