Grandchildren

By Eleanor Kazdan, September 21, 2021 — Soleil and LuAya stayed with us this past weekend while their parents were in New York City celebrating their tenth anniversary. Sunday was a beautiful sunny day. We went up to the roof deck where I did a fifteen-minute writing practice, Soleil read a book, and LuAya drew a picture. Thinking of a topic to write about, it seemed obvious. I would write about my grandchildren.
I have never been a long-range planner. When people would say they had a five- or ten-year plan for their lives, I was astounded. My modus operandi has been to take opportunities as they came up. And I have had a lot of amazing opportunities in my life.
So when I was younger I never thought about grandchildren. If I had I might have held on to my walkie-talkie doll Rosemary, my baby doll Frances, my purple and yellow bunny rabbit, and my Little Women books. My daughter Julia was never interested in these things. So sixteen years ago, when we moved to the city and downsized, I got rid of them, along with many other possessions.
If I had thought of future grandchildren I would have bought a more kid-friendly house. Not one with dangerous railiing-less stairwells, and only one small extra bedroom. But sixteen years later here they all are these three beautiful grandchildren — Soleil, LuAya, and Aron. LuAya would have loved to meet my old dolls, and perhaps read Little Women when she was older. She is sad that I gave away my doll, Rosemary, and has given that name to one of her dolls as a tribute.
My lack of a life plan has worked well for me. Some people have more of a long-term vision. One way is not better than the other, just different. But everyone just finds themselves present in the here-and-now, however, they got there, and whether they had a plan or not.

First Memories

By Eleanor Kazdan, August 20, 2021 — I learned in my child language development class that we have no memories before the time that we can verbalize, so that explains why my first memory is from when I was 2. I was the firstborn of 4 children. My parents and I lived in downtown Toronto in what they called a semi-detached house. We shared a front porch with our neighbors, separated by a wooden lattice. My very first fleeting memory is of me and my parents walking down the street. I was in the middle holding their hands and jumping up and swinging every few steps. I felt completely happy and protected. Another memory from this age is of me joyfully jumping on my bed.

There was a little boy named who Ian lived in the attached house next door. When we were both about 3, he started coming over and finger painting with me. Also at age 3, I went to preschool which wasn’t very common in the early ’50s. We sat in a circle and sang songs. The teacher’s name was Hannah. She played a piano that was painted blue.

My family moved to a new house when I was about 3 1/2. I had a little brother by then and my mother was pregnant with twins. I remember her lying on the floor and bleeding. She had to have an emergency C-Section and all turned out well. I was so proud of my tiny twin brothers.

My early childhood was carefree and happy. I’m pretty amazed to look back and remember these long ago snippets of my life at age 70.

Maria Breaking the Rules of Good Manners

By José Dominguez, May 20, 2021 — The dining table was for me and the rest of my brothers a school of good manners and etiquette. My father was in some way solemn and respectful to his traditions. His constant supervision of our eating manners left an imprint on us. To begin with, he had to be the first person to take a seat and had to be at the table headboard. My mother’s place was to his right with the task of supervising the cookery movements from the kitchen and serving the food. The kitchen was an independent room out of our sight.

The routine started with our hand cleaning. All food had to be eaten. By any means, we had to protect the table cloth from food or drink spills. There were no special plates. Cutting the food had to be done with mastery to prevent any spills. We ate in small portions. We never talked when chewing. We were prohibited to clean the plate with bread or tortillas. [We were taught] “Don’t interrupt conversations.” Tacos were on a special plate so we were not allowed to do tacos with our food. We had to say, “please” when asking for something, not to play while eating, etc. After the first plate was done my mother ran to deal with the next until dessert was served. Of course, with aging, my father became less strict and more permissive.

Nevertheless, when married, Maria and I were invited to live with my parents and in a way, some formalities were not strictly reinforced. Since Maria did not know all the details of our home table culture, she had to learn it. She sat beside my father’s left side, meaning that she was the most important person after my parents.

On one occasion, the dessert was mango and my mother included the special trident that we always used to hold, peel and eat that tropical fruit. Nobody told her how to use it but she managed to copy my movements. First, she put pressure on the mango so it could not move. Next, she took the trident and her task was to find the central piece that we called “hueso” or “bone” in English. Several times she tried to hit the target but was frustrated in her trials. So, she decided not to fail and applied more pressure to the mango and more pressure to the trident, and voila!! The mango flew through the air and landed on my father’s lap. My mother was horrified, I was in suspense, Maria was begging for pardon, and my father was laughing with all the strengths of his lungs. The solemnity was broken and Maria became more and more close to my father, mostly because of her willingness to help in any endeavor needed to keep our family well attended. She was so supportive that my father, in one unusual confession, told her in front of me: “Maria, I always had the dream of a daughter but God gave me 6 sons. With you I have received the daughter I never had. Thank you.”

My Almost Frustrated Lunch Invitation

By José Dominguez, May 13, 2021 — At the beginning of my law studies, I immediately made some friends that later became an important part of my life. Almost all of them were school teachers and very serious readers. Each one had a very different approach to life and our paths mingled naturally, nurtured by the school environment that gave us a common ground to share readings, discuss social issues, communicate accomplishments, publish gossips, tell jokes, etc.

In the meanwhile, I was living in my aunt’s rented room paid for by my parents. As you can imagine, living in that way was a blessing because it gave me the opportunity to continue my studies and my lifestyle. In another way, it had its own limitations. Well, life is not perfect, nothing is perfect except God, according to some believers. One imperfect thing was the scarce and elemental food that I ate. At the precise moment when the episode of this story happened, I had been eating the same simple menu for 7 years since I was 12. My monthly allowance helped me to pay for my transportation, and virtually drinking coffee or refreshments were a luxury. Nevertheless, since my father used to work in the cinema business, I had a card that gave me and a guest a green light to enter any theater for free. Sometimes I made some extra pesos finding clients who wanted to see weekend movies by paying half the entrance. The reality is that when I was invited to eat, I was more than happy because it meant avoiding having lunch or dinner as usual.
One of my friends was Alberto Saenz. We called him “Beto,” but since he was a classical music lover we ended calling him “Beethoven.” He was a super intense fellow. Nobody knew more than him about Mexican culture, philosophy, music, art, etc. Always smiling, he lived in a world made of beautiful art images, musical notes, and discussions with famous thinkers. Occasionally when I asked him something, he didn’t clasp the question immediately and I had to repeat the interrogation since he was absent. Recognizing his lapse, he begged for my pardon and asked me to excuse his tardiness to respond. It didn’t upset me. I knew he came and went from our world to his abstract and intense inner space. He was teaching philosophy at the nearest high school and lived with his parents and two sisters. One day, I don’t remember why, he told me: “Dominguitos (nickname meaning little Dominguez), come tomorrow to my house. I invite you to eat, can you be there at 1:00 pm?” My obvious response was: ”Of course Beethoven, count me and my empty stomach [in].” Wow, for me it was a liberation to skip my routine menu and eat something different.
The next day, I went to his house just in time. He received me joyfully as always and invited me to his room. It was a big room illuminated poorly, the walls were filled with books and a lamp defined his bed with intense brightness. Clearly, he was previously smoking and listening to music. He began to speak about the music that at that moment he was enjoying. Among other things, he told me: “There’s no other like Tchaikovsky. Do you know, Dominguitos, that he is the most representative Russian composer and perhaps the most creative musical author?”
“I don’t know too much of music,” I responded, “But surely enjoy deeply a few of his creations…” He interrupted me and started explaining how the author managed to infuse the theme with the help of the orchestra. At that moment I decided it was my turn to interrupt. My mind was wandering. I had been there for one hour and there were no signs of my invitation to eat. I was worried because in a few minutes I would have to take a bus to school. In the most friendly way that I was able to speak, I asked him: “Sorry to interrupt, but just want to remind you that you invited me to eat lunch at one and it’s going to be time to take the bus to school. What is on your mind?”
He incorporated himself with one jump and taking his right hand to his forehead said in a pleading manner: “Excuse me Dominguitos, I forgot about it! Oh, you have to accept my excuses, please! I feel very, very bad since I already ate!” Before I was able to respond to anything he took me by the arm and drew me in a hurry to the kitchen. “This has a solution!” he said. With a mastery I didn’t know Beto had, he lit the stove, placing on it a big frying pan with oil. Later, like a hurricane, he took from the refrigerator lots of groceries and began to cut in pieces onions, tomatoes, jalapenos, ham, among other things.
“I’m going to surprise you with my favorite creation: famous ‘Beto’s egg omelet,’ just you wait!!” With the same frenzy of a director in front of an orchestra he moved his arms and body cutting, throwing, mixing, seasoning. Very soon the food aroma and my hunger expanded my gastronomical experience in such a way that those scents were more vivid than Verdi’s operas in the Scala de Milan. I devoured ‘Beto’s special plate’ and immersed in my eating, could see Beto’s face shining with satisfaction. At the end of the meal, I told him: “Beto, my stomach and I are very pleased, thank you.” He saw me with a child-like glance. Smiling, he told me: “I’m glad you like it, in the future, I will not forget any of my invitations … promise.”

Some Child Play, Some Play Incidents

By José Domingues, May 6, 2021 — When I was a child, playing was the chance to find free space to do what pleased me the most. Sometimes I played repetitive games, sometimes I had unique opportunities to wander.

At the age of 6, I ventured into the jungle (our back lot of the house), where those tremendous predators dwelled (our dogs Payaso y Azabache). I knew they devoured brutally any human being at will, but I, armed with my deathly magic sword (a broomstick) opted to give those vicious animals a lesson to vindicate all the hardships they had caused to those humans who dared to cross by that risky trail (the corral in which they lived). Not surprisingly, the poor dogs didn’t want to fight with the landlord’s son and retired to a corner, confused, producing light grunts that were more indicative of surprise than defiance. Even when I incited them to fight they decided to take a nap, frustrating my warlike instincts. Nevertheless, in my mind, I closed the case as if the two beasts, scared and overwhelmed by my audacious bravery, decided to quit and rest. In this way, they kept their lives as a grace granted by me.
On another occasion, my adventurous mind decided to have friends to play with and socialize with neighborhood kids. Our block where I used to live was small and on the street that ran behind our house lived Marino. Equal in age, we used to play together several times until one day I did the biggest transaction of my life: I traded my new Mickey Mouse clock for a little box full of plastic small cars, trucks, and one or two tiny horses. My mother was truly disturbed and I thought, “Oh, those adults do not know how to appreciate the true value of things!!” The fun was over since my mom didn’t like his way of wheeling and dealing.
Another form to have fun came when our house was summited to a total renovation and I discovered, thanks to my familiarity with the construction workers, that all the front of the main building was previously a very old house. Between the wooden floors and the earth existed an empty space three feet high. Of course, there was no light and that precisely triggered my craving for adventure and eagerness to explore. So, I began a series of inspections in the dark helped by a flashlight. To enter, I had to lift two heavy metal doors, then descend to the basement through a cement stair and enter the underground using a small window. There, in the total darkness, I felt that some strange eyes were following my movements, so I had to be very cautious to look around again and again just to prevent the tragedy of falling in one ambush of the forces of evil. That’s why I always took with me a small crucifix to throw away spirits or any other creature of the nether regions. I crawled under all the rooms, always trying to guess what furniture or what space of the main floor I was experiencing from my subterranean perspective. I never found anything important in my search except dust, spider webs, and one or two insects. However, each time that I initiated another inspection my heart was beating and I thought: ”Perhaps this time I will find something, or … perhaps something is going to find me.”
I think some of my conduct was in the category of “good behavior,” since one Christmas I received an Indian bow with several arrows and a silver revolver with a plastic case. In the upper part, six blue-wood bullets were accommodated in a row. I walked to my mother’s room big mirror and practiced, many, many times, how to draw the pistol as fast as I could just to be prepared for a nasty and bloody encounter.
The few showers of rain that fell in our city allowed us to have extra excitement. In front of our house, there was a not-so-high terrace covered by decorative tiles. When it rained, the water over the surface served as a super sliding spot. One day after a rain, I took off my shoes and began to slide at high speed over the wet floor. All was ok until I was running too fast and ended up incapable to stop landing in the garden with my left arm as a shield. One broken bone was the result.

After the medical attention of my injuries, my father gave me two presents: one basketball so I could take it to school to play, and the installation of a punching bag. The basketball had to wait for my injury recuperation and personal growth since in the beginning even when I used all my strengths, the ball didn’t reach the ring. For me it was easy to wait, it was a matter of patience. In the meantime, I ended up surrounded always by guys who wanted to play with me, or more properly, with the ball. The use of the punching bag was another thing. The ball was so big that I had to punch it with good strong hits if I wanted to make it touch the upper part of the wood installation. I dedicated some time to hitting the ball and later bragged with my classmates [about] my sports accomplishments and how surely I would develop tremendous muscles and boxing skills in the future.
For sure, my best toys were all those plastic soldiers that little by little integrated my personal army at my disposition to enter in combat as soon as I gave the order. Some were Mexican infantry soldiers marching gallantly in a fantastic parade. Some of them were mounted on brown horses, and others were in combat positions pointing their guns, throwing grenades, or firing machine guns. Later, I increased my collection with Indians, cowboys, American GIs, and a group of English Jerrys. I had also four Second World War tanks, two of them in full fighting capacity and two with no turret at all, two torn boats and some cannons. I didn’t need more than to spend hours playing around the house mostly in those places with little circulation. In my mind, I designed a strategy and gave trending orders to be fulfilled unconditionally. The opponent party were the bad ones, of course. They were less powerful and less brave but compensated their weakness with evil tricks sufficient to destroy any adversary. I displaced my figurines through the rooms as if they were moving offensively or defensively. My mother was surprised by my solitary struggle between the good guys and the bad guys and gave me the nickname of the “lonely wolf.”

My plastic army had to face different hard combats when playing with Victor, my two years older brother. In one large room that we called the “storeroom,” he displayed a row of his soldiers. Opposite to him, I also disposed my own. We took turns to throw marbles as if they were real bullets. In the end, the victory was for the most aggressive and sharp marble thrower who defeated all the opponents. It was fun.
My list of incidents is too long so I decided to continue at another time. One thing I learned from all these trials … now, if Sofia, my granddaughter, speaks alone with her doll, it’s ok…if she doesn’t want to share with me her magic ring, I understand. Or if she asks me to play with her dolls, I don’t have any problem…I close my eyes and enter into the magic world of make-believe.

Vocational Test

By José Dominguez, February 25, 2021 — Working with people at El Paso Texas gave me the opportunity to learn things in circumstances new to me. My master’s [degree] studies oriented my compass to deal mostly with feelings and human uniqueness. Nevertheless, the abstract generalization of statistics were always present and frequently used.  As I understand, standardized tests are the optimum application of statistics in humans. So, instead of having the hardship of knowing yourself, as the Dephi Oracle suggested, with [tests] now it’s easy to know any level of introverted vs. extroverted orientation, ego development, IQ, moral maturity, etc.

Dr. Larry Hamilton, my boss in those times, invited me to work with a group of teenagers in a public school. It was the end of the semester and those kids were going to enter high school. Our intervention was to give advice on decision making so they could have some reference and clarification of their vocational orientation. Dr. Hamilton explained the purpose to the group of 20 or more students and distributed the test. I thought [about] how lucky these guys were because in Mexico it’s difficult to have that experience so handy. The students took the task very seriously and answered the questionnaires. At the end, we explained the way to score the test and the meaning of it. The result would tell the student if their orientation was to mechanics, sales, health, sports, business, humanities, etc. They were very excited and formulated several questions, except for one girl.

She was seated silently with her face inexpressive, looking far, far away. She contrasted with the eagerness of the rest of the class. Obviously, she was not interested at all in the exercise. I approached her and asked if I could see the test results. She didn’t answer, just gave me the booklet. I read the result and told her: “Well, it seems that this test points to a very strong orientation of you. What do you think about that?” Calmly, she turned her face towards me and took from my hand the test booklet, and suddenly threw the papers free. They landed all over the table.  Pointing them with her right index expressed [she said], “These are little papers, only papers…nothing more.” We didn’t say anything to her, accepting that she had the right to have her own criteria. Statistics, tests, and formal generalizations of data are practical and many people take advantage. Standardized tests have lots of advocates but there are some people who have personal point of view about what they want from life and prefer to run the risk to be wrong. Statistics do not govern their lives. At that moment I wished the little lady a good trip in this adventure that is life, sure that she had her own compass to deal with her future.

Fun at the Lodge

By Carolyn Boston, February 18, 2021 — Several years ago I was invited to go on a ski trip with my aunt to upstate New York to the Wallkill Ski Resort. I had never been skiing and was excited to have the experience. When we arrived at the mountain, the snow was falling quietly and the air was hushed as the snowflakes fell to the ground. I loved the beauty of the mountain and the sight of avid skiers zooming past me. What struck me the most was that there were hundreds of young children among the adults who were skiing amazingly well on the ice. They almost looked like they were performing at the Olympics.

My aunt and I went to the lodge to put on our skis. The ski boots were difficult for me to manage because my ankles were weak.
We headed out to the slopes to get instruction on to manage the skis and the poles on the ice. My aunt had been skiing many times and was familiar with how to maneuver the slopes. When we went out to start learning how to ski I had brought my pocketbook with me and my aunt said to me, “What are you doing with your pocketbook? You need to put it in a locker.” I said, “That’s okay I’ll just put it around my neck.”

As the ski instructor showed me how to step from side to side I demonstrated back to him what he had shown me. As I took another side step forward something happened. All of a sudden I started to move, and when I say move I mean move.
I was skiing down the slope in front of me so fast that it felt like I was going 90 miles an hour. I heard myself screaming at the top of my lungs. In a panic, I started reaching for anybody to help me break my fall. All of my targets skied away quickly. Down the first slope, I went continuously screaming and picking up even greater speed. I heard peals of laughter behind me plus a familiar voice, my aunt being the loudest. I started praying, calling on everybody in Heaven to save me. I heard a voice say, I don’t know if it was my instructor, “Use your poles, use your poles.”
I kept saying to myself, “I’m going to die, I’m going to die.” I started jamming the poles into the snow but I pushed them so hard into the snow that they curved and I broke them. I couldn’t use them, they were all curved and I was screaming, I was crazy. The hysterical laughter got louder and louder behind me.
All of a sudden a cliff appeared ahead of me. It looked ominous. I saw myself going over it and plunging to my death. I screamed loud in terror and lost my voice.
Suddenly, there appeared a miracle. There was a barn or a small lodge ahead of me. I picked up supersonic speed, I saw two huge trash cans. The next thing that happened, I plunged headfirst into the trashcan, skis sticking out of the top.

Finally, my instructor and my aunt came to assist me out of the trashcan. The instructor tried to control his laughter and I saw the sides of his lips trembling as he tried to gain his control. My aunt was continuously laughing and doubled over holding her stomach. I kept complaining that no one would let me grab a hold of them to stop my fall. My aunt said, “Can you stop a speeding bullet?” I was in intense pain and when I arrived home I had turned blue, purple, yellow, brown, and green on my buttocks and on my legs, and I said to myself, “I am never going back again.”
This story was one of my aunt’s favorite stories and she told it every time we got together when the family got together for Christmas or whatever holiday. She said I was flying down the slopes, she said I looked like Snoopy with a little red scarf flying behind him. I still laugh about it, but that was my last ski trip.

Meeting a Famous Person

By Eleanor Kazdan, Philadelphia, PA 01/21/2021 — It’s amazing that in my 70 plus years of living I haven’t met more famous people. I had a slight brush with fame when I was 8 or 9 years old, although not in person. Every week my father listened to the famous folk singer Burl Ives on the radio. That was in the radio days. I can still hear the theme song, “Sing a Little and Play a Little,” in my mind. My father would sing along to the songs he knew in his mellow baritone voice. At the end of each program, an announcer would give an address to send away for an autographed picture of Burl. One week I had the idea of doing this. I think I had already forgotten about it when a postcard arrived for me with the promised autographed picture of him. I was elated. I treasured this and still have it tucked away in a box somewhere.

When I was 11 years old I became best friends at summer camp with Mary Beth Solomon. It was my first ongoing friendship with someone who didn’t live in my neighborhood or go to my school. Mary Beth lived a 20-minute bus ride from me. She and I had a lot in common including taking piano and singing lessons. Mary Beth was a whiz. Her grandmother had secretly taken Mary Beth for piano lessons, against the wishes of her parents, when she was 4 years old. Apparently Mary Beth was so nervous that she peed on the teacher’s piano bench. Her father, Stanley Solomon, was a viola player in the Toronto Symphony. I was certainly proud to have a friend with such an illustrious father. As well as playing in the symphony, Mr. Solomon, as I called him, played in the O’Keefe Center Orchestra for Broadway musicals.
One day he invited me and Mary Beth to meet him backstage after a performance of Camelot. There was quite a crush of people. We spotted Mary Beth’s father and went over to him. “I’d like to introduce you to someone,” he said, “Robert Goulet.” Go time. There was the star of Camelot, Robert Goulet, in front of 2 gaga 11 or 12-year-old girls. [He was] smiling from ear to ear, perfectly capped teeth gleaming, looking at us with his piercing blue eyes in a tanned super handsome face. His black hair was slicked with greasy kid stuff. Suddenly, he bent down and planted a kiss on the cheek of each of us. I felt faint. There must be something about fame that makes one’s heart beat faster and causes unexpected reactions — especially in pre-teen girls.

Parents as Teachers

By Frances Bryce, January 14, 2021 — This story is about me being a parent educator or coach for parents. My return to Philadelphia was from a request of my best friend, who was in charge of a community center. She asked me to come and join the program that she had just gotten a grant for. The grant was called Parents as Teachers and it’s a national program. So I thought about it and then I said: “Yes, I would [join her].”

The program she ran was from foster care truancy, rite of passage, and pre-kindergarten. These were for single parents and some of them had been selected to be in the program. And a lot of them were teenagers who had young kids. And they lived in an area in Philadelphia where the unemployment was 26% and there were a number of young parents who were teenagers and had children. They had very little or no parenting skills because they were children themselves. My friend called and talked about the program and asked if I would go to the place where you would train and get certification before coming to Philadelphia, which I did.

The reality and the real events were pretty soon apparent to me after I joined the program. I finally got the parents engaged in the session in one or two weeks, depending on the need that each parent educator thought that the child and the parent would benefit from. I coached parents who worked sometimes on two jobs and had very little time for what they began to think was another program and just used up some of their time. But after talking to them about what was program was about and that they really were the first child’s teacher and how that would help in the lives of the kids. And so we talked about how the kids could explore and learn things and so when they reach kindergarten they were up to par.
One of the parents that I had in the program, she was an older parent not a teenager, loved this little child that she had, and she was afraid to let him crawl on the floor because she though he might bump into something and damage his brain. So we spent time talking about minor dings were okay for kids and the brain had a covering. And so she was so pleased when she learned that something new that she had been afraid of, and that allowed her child to explore and eventually walk.
Then I had another teenage parent and her main thing was with her friends who had young kids was to dress the kids in the latest things, some of them even had brand name sneakers before they could walk. And so she said that was their thing with kids. So I said, “Well since you are already into dressing the kids, let us talk about doing something that the kids won’t outgrow.” And so we worked on that and I suggested that she share that information with her friend.
I taught one lady who had some learning disability about reading to her child. She couldn’t read and I said “The child doesn’t know you can’t read, so look at the pictures and make a story.”
Then the last parent was a parent who had a child that wouldn’t sleep at night so she had answered an ad for a promo for a cable company and she only told me about the problem when she got in trouble. Because the promo was over and she could not pay the bill. So she said the only way the child would sleep was if she could watch cartoons all night and that way she could sleep. So I suggested to her that the child would finally go to sleep if she had a little patience with her. And every time she got out of bed she put her back and one of things that she could do was read her a story and cuddle with her for a few minutes. And so later she said this helped a lot.
I did this fifteen years I think because I came back to Philadelphia to stay one year and then I was able to go back to California every Winter when school was out. It was quite rewarding, we read to the kids, and I did that until [there was] no funding and I couldn’t volunteer in those places anymore.
It was really, really, really great.

Eventually, they stopped funding it when the city got into problems and I had talked to the guy that ran the program to try to get the school board to initiate and take up that program. He never did. So the program ended and I did some volunteer work with the agency still for those kids I thought was most needed, but I even had to stop that because the agency felt like they were in jeopardy because they could no longer carry insurance for me. So that was the end of that.
There were many many stories where the parents received some information and used that information and some that they did not. But I was privileged to help some of the parents and not really be upset because I could not help every parent that I served. I was lucky to be in a position so that I could do that to help. You can’t help everybody but you can help somebody, and I realized that. You can’t help everybody but at least you can give them the information and hope that they can use some of it. And some of them did; a lot of them.

Photos of Fights

By José Dominguez, Philadelphia, PA 01/07/2021 — I’m not interested in violence per se I had the voyeuristic tropism to images of some fights. For example, several years ago I did a special photo tour to cover a bullfight in the now-demolished Plaza Monumental in my hometown Ciudad Juarez. I had a very good time and my intent was facilitated since the spectacle process is repetitive. I was prepared to catch the crucial moments with some easiness. I was not happy about the outcome because I ended reflecting that in reality, there was no fight. It was a calculated bloody show where the poor animal has very few chances to fight back or to fend for itself except if the Toreador [bullfighter] commits an error or if the bull did some action out of the routine.

Nevertheless, the photos were neat and showed me how by taking photos it’s possible to freeze the dramatic action with some kind of artistic balance. It was my first photo excursion to a bullfight and it was my last.
Several months later, one Saturday in June 1990 around noon in Ciudad Juarez, my late wife Maria arrived to relieve me from my work shift in our store. I continued having a very good relationship with a family that organized cockfights. I thought the opportunity was set to cover a match with photos in a friendly environment. I had to say that those combats attracted in my humble city lots of persons dedicated mainly to non-legal affairs and it could be dangerous to mess with them in something they took so seriously. My first visit to the facility gave me a chance to enter an underworld scene.
To arrive at the place, I had to travel outside of the city to the southwest by the highway that goes to the Casa Cerrandas. To be there it meant not to be under the protection of the regular city or state police, since the neighborhood was the regular settlements in the middle of the desert. The place consisted of a 2 acre totally walled property. Only those cars that were truly identified as clients or friends were accepted. The family owner gave me a gentle welcome and gave me a tour of the place. It consisted of a more or less big house, not fancy at all. A large area with cock cages, some training grounds on the main construction was the fighting ring. It was a big open warehouse that can easily accommodate 200 people seated and at the center a large wood ring 4 feet tall around a circular arena ten yards in diameter.
The audience was arriving and the amarradores began to set the knives into the animal legs. According to everybody the success of the encounter depended on how well the blades were fixed. The schedule was posted and the first fights were to begin. There were a lot of activity of participants making bets until the event was announced, “Post your bets. Take your seats. We are going to start our first fight. Here we have to my left a white cock from Mr. Perez and to my right the red one from Chava Lopez.”
In the ring center his owner with the orange cock in their hands proceeded to put the animals near the ground and began to spur the birds to prepare them to fight. The rival animals reacted and immediately erected their neck first and moved their bodies violently trying to get free and jump to their adversary. Then the judge gave the order, “Suelten los gallos. Let loose the cocks.”
At that moment they touched the ground and let them free. Each combatant flew to reach the antagonist with legs in front. Immediately both birds confronted each other jumping and running in fatal dance. All it was a pandemonium of strokes, feathers in the air, flapping pecks, sand clouds, and animals frantically moving around the walls defending and attacking. The crowd was screaming and cursing the animals. At last one of them just collapsed and the other covered with blood stood up with difficulty because of the wounds that the defeated cock inflicted on him.
I was using a very good camera and prepared to take pictures at high speed using very sensitive film and to check with theme light. I supposed that my pictures were going to be super, but several days later after the film was developed I noticed that the illumination didn’t help me. The photos were unclear, blue, full of shadows and there were no details. To make things worse, the fighter interaction looked in the prints as a disorganized encounter and disengagement of two silhouettes. All rolls of film had the same outcome— not defined and not well-distributed images. The next time I would use my flash, I decided, with no doubt.
The next Saturday I went furnished with my professional flash ready to capture many detailed images according to my criteria. Even in my previous experience, I noticed that the pair entangled in the fight followed a circle moment near the ring’s circumference. So, I was prepared to shoot, aiming to the arena center. I also prepared myself to follow the pair until they arrived at my position. It happened as I predicted. I started fighting at the center at the ring center then followed the pair in their movements near to the wall until they were near to me.

At that moment, a hand grabbed my shirt by my back my camera went loose to the floor and
an angry man was shouting to me, “You blinded my cock with your flash and you are going to pay for this!” I lost my balance and fall to the ground at the same time that he delivered a thrust against my poor humanity but missed by miracle. At the same time, the ring judge grabbed his arm yelling at him, “I am in command here and you’re are not going to start a fight.” The man accepted reluctantly and lunged at me with hateful looks and saying lots of implications.

The event continued. Shaken as a frightened rabbit, I decided not to try my luck anymore in my artistic endeavor with so many angry men around me. I don’t know if I contributed to the death of that rooster, but I learned it’s better to respect the rules of the audience, especially with that level of violence. The next scheduled fight involved a cock owned by the same person that tried to hit me. But this animal was sent also to the cooks’ cemetery. Some people around were teasing him saying, “Tell us what’s happened with your second cock. Where was the flash that took him to hell?” My lesson in life was that I decided not to institutionalize violence anymore. So, I changed my art appreciation drastically.

Shocking Events

By Eleanor Kazdan, Philadelphia, January 1, 2021 — Last night I watched the sickening mob violence in the Capitol unfold in real-time; there was a sense of unreality. This was not a police drama on Netflix. Newscasters were trying to do their jobs while dealing with their own emotions. It was gritty and shocking, an assault on democracy. Violence was incited by a leader elected to protect the people and his henchmen. Like most people, I was glued to the television for hours.
In my altered state, my mind raced back to other events where I felt the same sense of shock, outrage, and otherworldliness. The first time I can remember occurred on October 11, 1991. I had called in sick to work that day and was watching television. Hearings were taking place to confirm Clarence Thomas to the Supreme Court and Anita Hill had come forward accusing him of sexual harassment during her years working as an Aide for him. Her brave testimony before a group of powerful men was so shocking. She didn’t flinch as she described in frank detail the sexual comments he had made to her. She kept her cool throughout the four-day hearings despite the open antagonism and misogyny. Like most people I could hardly believe that what I was witnessing was real.
The second event was the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001. I was driving to work on that cloudless day when I heard the first vague reports of a plane crash on the radio. We didn’t fully comprehend the scope of what was occurring for many hours. During the workday, we heard snippets of news while trying to do our jobs. It was only in the evening, affixed to the television, that the full details began to emerge. I can still see the horrifying image of a couple jumping to their deaths from the World Trade Center rather than die at the hands of terrorists. Along with the rest of the world, I was almost immobilized with shock as I watched the news day after day and felt that our lives would never be the same.
I have been witness to these awful, historic events and of course, now we have the pandemic. I am at a loss for words.

Perspective

By Eleanor Kazdan, November 12, 2020 — When I start feeling sorry for myself about the sudden and gradual changes in my life due to the pandemic, I think of others who have had to endure much worse.

My maternal grandparents, Anna and Moses Stolow fled from Russia in the 1920s because of violent Anti-Semitism. Before that, my grandfather was a draft dodger. He forged papers to avoid fighting for the Czar’s army in the 1900s. My mother was a young child and almost died of pneumonia because of the arduous voyage to North America. They along with many other Jews were displaced in strange cities where they didn’t speak the language and had little choice but to work long hours in unskilled jobs to eke out an existence.
My mother and her four younger brothers grew up in the bitter cold of Montreal winters without hot water. When my grandmother became ill with tuberculosis my mother and her brothers were sent to an orphanage for at least a year as my grandfather was unable to care for the family. There my mother experienced both cruelty and kindness. Luckily, the family left Eastern Europe before the worst horrors of the Holocaust.
My father’s parents, Frank and Annie, also fled from Russia in the early 1900s. They first moved to New York City when my father was born. After moving to Toronto a few years later, my grandfather died suddenly after gall bladder surgery. My grandmother was left to support three young children. She scraped by as a seamstress. When my father was four years old he began selling newspapers in the streets of Toronto and by the age of 6 had other children working for him. He suffered dental pain for years after injuring his front teeth; the family couldn’t afford to go to a dentist. One of his newspaper customers offered to pay for the needed work which ended up being the extraction of teeth.
George, the father of my childhood friend Kathy lost his wife and young child to the Nazis in Hungary in the 1940s. He remarried. Soon after Kathy was born, his wife died of breast cancer. He remarried a 3rd time bringing his family to Canada in 1956 during the Hungarian Revolution. Kathy remembered their escape when she was 6 or 7 and how her staying quiet was a matter of life or death. In Toronto, George and his wife Klara learned English, worked hard, and built a comfortable life for their family.
The family of another childhood friend, Elaine, had a similar story. Elaine’s father Sam lost his wife and young child in the Holocaust. He married Elaine’s mother Sara who had avoided the gas chambers in Poland by pretending to be a Christian girl. They moved to Toronto in the late 1940s. Sam and Sara opened a clothing store and worked hard to give Elaine and her sister a wonderful life.

Now it is our turn to endure hardship of another sort. We are part of history and our grandchildren and great-grandchildren will be telling our stories one day.

A Reversal of Kindness

By Ann von Dehsen, September 10, 2020 — I live in a second-story small apartment, with a small balcony that overlooks the small street of Sartain. A few weeks ago someone discarded a small sofa on the sidewalk across the street. I was sitting on the balcony a few weeks ago when an apparently homeless man on his bike approached the sofa. He first removed the cushions and then searched the couch as we all do when looking for spare change. Success! I watched him put a few things in his pocket. I could see him through the railings but he couldn’t really see me. So I continued to watch, mesmerized by his careful actions.
He took one of several bags from his handlebars and placed it on the stacked cushions which now were about waist high as he stood. He first removed a bottle of water using it to carefully wash his face, then his long hair, and rinse out his mouth.
Then he took out some hand sanitizer and cleaned his hands. After spreading out a paper napkin on the top cushion he removed two styrofoam food containers and a four-pack of small yogurts, and two pint-sized cartons of milk. He opened the styrofoam containers and appeared to combine the contents into one container. Then he tucked another napkin bib-style into his worn flannel shirt, produced a wrapped bag of plastic silverware, and used the knife to cut the sandwich into small pieces. He began to eat slowly and seemed to savor each bite often looking up to the sky with a big smile. Before moving on to the yogurt he folded the now empty styrofoam containers into tiny squares and carefully put them back in the bag.
As he began to eat the yogurt I stood up to go back inside the apartment and he happened to look up and see me responding with a wave and a smile.
I said, “Good Morning, it’s a beautiful day.”
And then he responded with a phrase, with some words that have stayed with me ever since, “Would you like some food? I have plenty.”
Well, it was such an unexpected act of kindness. I said, “Thank you so much, I’m fine. Enjoy your breakfast.”
He said, “Don’t worry I will,” with a smile again.
From inside my apartment, I could still see him and watched as he finished the yogurts and drank the milk folding down those cartons as before and placing them in the bag. Then he removed and carefully folded his bib napkin and paper placemat and put them carefully in his pocket as he adjusted his long rope belt. Finally, he carefully put on his mask, took care to brush off the top cushion in case he left any crumbs, and hopped on his bike heading down South Street as I silently wished this kind and dignified soul well.

The Old Is New Again

By Frances Bryce, August 27, 2020 — The late period had for me a problem of keeping me cool when my air conditioner in my living-kitchen area refused to continue cooling downstairs. These are window units. I finally got a new device to replace the old one that had given up the ghost. A week later, I was made aware that my refrigerator was not keeping the contents cold. My butter, which usually required to be left out for a long period before it was spreadable, now had a very soft spread. I thought a quick fix would increase the setting to make it cooler. Later when I opened the refrigerator no apparent lowering of the temperature. I checked to see if the freezer, which is a top unit, was okay. There was visible frost on the shelf and some of the items had no problem with the freezing. Had the freezer door not completely closed when I opened it? What should I do?
I realized that before refrigerators were a common appliance in the house, there was always
the icebox and that was a unit that you bought blocks of ice and put in the top, and that unit at the bottom kept everything cold. So what I did, I took some containers and put water in them and put them in the freezer, and now I had my icebox. This kept the cooling part of the refrigerator cool. But this was not a problem solved yet.

I first went on the internet, and then to the Home Depot store itself. Finding someone to see me took awhile. But then I already found the model I had selected only to learn that the delivery date for my zip code would be September 15th. This was on August the 23rd. That’s a long time to fill and refill plastic containers and get the cooling in the refrigerator. I set out if I could find a refrigerator delivered at an earlier date. The holiday and the demand for delivery service with fewer workers to this date meant I must continue my search as I do now.
What was done in the past using frozen ice for the top of the container when we had no refrigerator is the method I used now. I cool containers of water put them in the refrigerator and when they melt I take the other ones out. I will be doing this until I get a new unit. And that’s the deal.

Belief and Desire

By Cynthia Morihara, August 27, 2020 — After listening to a motivational speech from the Society of Leadership and Success of which I am a member, I learned that in order to accomplish something in life one must have both belief and desire. It is my belief and desire that I can obtain Pennsylvania teaching certification and licensing within the next year. After some research on the Internet, I discovered that my certification from Hawaii is not valid here, thus to start the certification process I must pass 5 Praxis exams with scores of approximately 83% each.
The subject covered on the exam subjects are reading, writing, mathematics, social studies, and art. It is my desire that I can prepare for these 5 subjects in less than a year. My college background will help. I have a master’s degree in several credits past that, most of them in mathematics and science. Preparing for the exams will take additional help. First, I will go to the Khan Academy, a free website containing Praxis exams and preparatory materials. If necessary I will then look to study.com and Quizlet. I have ordered a Praxis preparation guide that will help me with reading, writing, and mathematics. At a used book store I bought 7 beautifully illustrated art history books most of which I will read in preparation for the art exam.

I have mixed feelings about writing. In high school history classes, I always fumbled with the essay questions and much preferred the multiple-choice. Perhaps Best Day will go a long way to help me feel more comfortable with the challenge of writing. In mathematics, I have gone up to Calculus 3. In doing so I realize I could have been an Engineer, a much saner profession than teaching in the public school.

At any rate, with some review, I should have no trouble with the mathematics portion of the Praxis. I prepare for Social Studies by reading the news and every World War II book that I can find. Two good friends of mine were history majors and I’m in awe of their extensive knowledge of the subject. Talking to them inspires me to research US and World History. Art was my undergraduate major. I am reading Jansen’s History of Art. Also, the Philadelphia Museum of Art is a favorite place where I go and attend all the gallery tours. Perhaps I need to study up on contemporary art and aboriginal art next.
If I read as much as my sister does I would not worry about the reading portion of the test. However, reading the classics is not a normal pastime with me. During the practice test I found myself wasting much time because I had to read passages several times to get the meaning. I also need to review parts of speech and English grammar.
With some perseverance and luck, I hope to accomplish my goal. With desire and belief, I think I can study, I think I can. Study will be a better use of my time than watching Netflix which is what I have been doing a lot of up to now.

Mother’s Love

By José Dominguez, August 20, 2020 — All things happened when my mom was about 75 years old more or less. How she survived living alone in that rented apartment for 10 or more years after this happened, well the only explanation is that she was a very special person for sure. I do not know if I under the same circumstances could lead a decent life as she lived. I just don’t know.
Let me tell you a few attributes to demonstrate my mom’s personality. She had a realistic idea of each one of her 6 sons and what to expect and what not to expect from us. Nevertheless, she managed to attend each Sunday’s Mass, be an active member of a high society’s ladies club named Botón Rojo to buy groceries, and visit almost all her sons’ houses except one. Her permanent companions were my father’s dear memories and her faith in God that treasured family until the last moment of her life.
One Saturday morning I went to her apartment to take her to buy groceries she received me with a super great smile, “Let me tell you Pepito, I had a very interesting visit that gave me a big joy. Well, two days ago, your brother Ramon came to visit me. I was so excited that I expressed to him my happy feelings spontaneously, but noticed that Ramon was not answering or following my remarks. So, I stopped and told him ‘What’s happening with you Ramoncito? Why are you so quiet? Why don’t you want to speak with me?’ He refused to answer my question and at last opted to tell me, ‘Mother, I don’t want to speak words of men.’ I knew that he was referring to speaking the words of God. I didn’t have problems with that but I was sure that there are many other things to speak about not necessarily those words. So I insisted, ‘No Ramoncito, we can speak about many other things, for example about the weather, about nature, about little birds, the butterflies etc.’ I guess I didn’t convince him because he left a few moments later. Nevertheless, the visit gave me great pleasure.

I do not know what the cause he was thinking. I do not approve of his personal decision to be Christian and to accept Jesus with such passion. But you know he was really a mess. I cried over him many, many, many times. I prayed for the intercession of my favorite Saint, Saint Judas the Saint of the lost causes to show him a new path so he will find happiness and peace. But nothing happened. The struggle went for years, many years of bitterness and praying. He and Roberta, his wife, turned their eyes to the word and they were born again.
I guess he was baptized, I think even when I think he didn’t need it. He didn’t need the ceremony because he was already baptized. But born again for sure he was. In reality, he was different. He was not the person he used to be. In that was he was another person. Re-baptized or not it was for him the beginning of a new life. I am not sure if Saint Judas intercession could be a miracle or perhaps it was due to the many prayers of several other persons. But Ramoncito was a new person. Not necessarily as I wanted. I prayed and the Saints I prayed to God and the Saints for changing him. I didn’t pray so he would pay me a visit. However, each one of his visits rejuvenates my soul. I didn’t ask for Ramon’s love, which I hold so dearly. I didn’t pray for wishes to come true or my small poor and poor cravings. You know, my opinions are not important. As Ramon correctly said, ‘They are only words of a man, words of a lonely mother.’
Nevertheless, nobody knows the ways of God. What is important is that he’s happy enjoying his life and his family. I am not important, my words are insignificant. Every day my life diminishes. Every day the circle of my life is smaller and smaller. Oh, I am not sure if my tears and prayer were taken into account, but I don’t care. Even when he doesn’t believe in it or even when he doesn’t know my feelings or thoughts, he’s alright that way. As we say in Spanish, ‘No me lo muevan. El esta muy bien ahí.’ Meaning: ‘Don’t move it please. He is very well the way he is right now.’”

Olive Street

By Norman Cain, August 13, 2020 — I couldn’t have been more than maybe about 3 or 4 years old when I lived on Olive Street, in West Philadelphia. I believe Olive Street starts way around Fishtown somewhere. It was always a long narrow street, no more than a block [wide]/ The last vestiges of Olive Street may be around 48th between Addison and Fairmount and West Philadelphia. But I can remember that. It was so beautiful, it was like being in a dream or vision. And Olive Street, I mean it was so pretty, and it was like the springtime of the year and so I must have been about 3 or 4 years old because my parents told me that there were two other locations where we lived before we moved to Olive Street.
The street was full of memories — It was like a village. It was … about 2 blocks away from where Drexel University had their football field at the time. We used to … go over a little later on Sundays and play football in the field. But I believe for gentrification, that Drexel is going to take that particular area over because when I go over there now the street is all fixed in, and they’re just letting the neighborhood go down.
But even with that, when I look through that fence … I can see where everybody’s house was and it’s just like I’m right there [with] the things that have transpired once I lived there. It was a thing like I was young and the street was just so beautiful. now it’s older and I guess I don’t want to be morbid.
I guess I’m in the autumn of my life or something like that. It just gives me chills.

My First Evening at College

By Norman Cain, July 23, 2020 — My first evening on the college campus that I attended and that was in 1961. And it was traditional during that particular period at HBCUs [Historically Black Colleges & Universities] that freshmen went through a hazing process.

I traveled by train from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania to Bluefield, West Virginia where I would begin my freshman year as a student at Bluefield State College in Bluefield, West Virginia. After arriving in Bluefield around 7 pm. I took a taxi from the train station to the campus. Immediately after disembarking the taxi in front of the boys’ dormitory. I was overwhelmed by a penetration of the intense wind-driven air that slashed through my thick woolen coat, extra bulky sweater, long johns, and onto the innards of my body. Seeing a step, I could not recall having been subjected to such a vehement chill.
Additionally, I was temporarily thrown off guard by the extraneous appearance of a cluster of boisterous upperclassmen chanting “Crab, crab, crab” as I thought I was a dormitory entrance and descended the slightly snow-covered steps and ambled across a bed of slick ice up to the taxi where I stood frozen because of the brisk wind and being startled by what for a second I could see to be a berserk mob.

I quickly regained my composure realizing that incoming freshmen at Bluefield State College were named “crabs.” That was the name they were given during the traditional HBCU hazing period. Several upperclassmen hastily retrieved my luggage from the trunk of the taxi and with me in the middle and their chanting, they generally trotted across a blanket of milky frosted snow through the (unclear) snow flurry that suddenly began to plummet from the sky.

Once inside the dormitory, I felt the warmth emanating from there. I was led down to a door and the occupants within commenced to join the chant of “Crab, crab, crab.” Finally, I was guided into a room where I was instructed to sit in a chair that was placed directly in the middle of the room. I apprehensively followed directions and sat, swiftly braced to myself, then I relaxed cause I guessed that whatever was about to transpire would be a part of an old-age African American collegiate hazing tradition. The light came from a high voltage light bulb that extended from the ceiling. The heat from the chimney radiated through the wall.
The room’s (hot and glistening floor) was a mirror that appeared as if it had recently been buffed with pine oil and it had a sweet aroma. The room was filled with upperclassmen who for some reason or another remained on campus during the winter semester break. One said “You should have come in September. Then you would have been with 100 other crabs. Now there would be no more than 50 that would come for the second semester.” Everyone in the room laughed but me. Suddenly I felt a pair of buzzing hair clippers roving across my head and the chorus of the old religious song Amazing Grace. I was being initiated into collegiate life. I started classes a week later.
I was there for about a week before the returning students came from the Christmas break and I think during that January we had no more than 50 new students come in and most of those were commuting students, so I was there by myself. In those days you had Veterans from the Korean War, because this was in ’61. I took the harassment up until the Sunday when the students came back. That Sunday was like one of the best days in my life because I was a young guy, 18 years old, and I saw all of these beautiful girls. I was not going to be acting silly around them.

SEPTA

By John, June 25, 2020 — One of the things that surprises me is that I take SEPTA quite a bit and some of the employees like the train conductor, the guy who gives out the tickets for the train, or some of the bus drivers are not wearing a mask.
I’m looking at them like, you know you’re telling passengers you must have a mask to get on the bus or the train or anything SEPTA, and you’re an employee, what kind of example are you setting? You’re not even putting a mask on. They’re not following their own rules. I take the 40 bus to the Senior Center also, and one driver didn’t have a mask at all. I didn’t say anything, you know I’m not going to cause a problem. But it was just disappointing to see that, that’s all, and I went to the back of the bus, as far away as I could.
I use the LUCY bus I lot. I live in University City, and I try to take that every time to go anywhere. Because it’s empty. Most of the time I get on and I’m the only one on it. So I love that.

Five Weddings and a Marriage

By Norman Cain, June 6, 2020 — This is a story about the 4 or 5 times that I’ve been a groomsman in weddings. In late July of 1964, I was a groomsman in the wedding of my best friend at the time, Sam Jenkins. The wedding took place in Wilmington, Delaware. Several years later I ventured to Rock Hill, South Carolina to be a groomsman in the wedding of a guy named Dave; I have forgotten his last name. He was from North Jersey. In the Fall of 1971, I was the groomsman in the wedding of a dear friend we called Hooks in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. In the early Summer of 1973, I was in the wedding of my best friend in college, Matt Wood, in West Virginia. He resided in Cleveland, Ohio where he met his bride-to-be, a Philadelphian. The groomsmen and bridesmaids consisted of members of my 1964 graduating class at Bluefield State College in Bluefield, West Virginia. The last wedding I participated in was that of my childhood buddy Andrew White. That wedding was held in Philadelphia. The weddings I mentioned were hectic, yet enjoyable. They were all great affairs and were the stuff of great memories.

However, the memorable and best wedding I’ve ever been involved in was my own which took place in the Republic of Panama in June of 1967. There was no church service but rather a quaint ceremony presided over by a judge. There was no fabulous country club where the reception took place but rather the humble home of my in-laws, and the humble village people were the guests.

My wife was from the Republic of Panama, actually the canal zone. Her father worked on the Panama Canal. So, if you were a government employee over there, life was just a little better. They were not rich but life was better with the housing and the government schools and whatnot. I was over in Panama as a military policeman for 2 years. It was a beautiful experience. Luckily, I was there during the Vietnam era. We had no problems in Panama because right before I came there were a lot of riots from the kids from the University of Panama. But luckily we didn’t have to be involved with that. It turned out to be very, very well in this experience that I can’t forget.
I’ve been throughout various sections of the United States as a groomsman in weddings going through all of the changes and the frustrations and whatnot, and all of the weddings with the exception of mine were held in large halls and were great affairs. But the wedding that I had took place in a City Hall in the Republic of Panama and the reception took place in my in-laws’ home in Panama which was not a large home at all but it was packed with community folk, and with the house dresses on and whatnot it was a great affair. That was the best wedding that I’ve been involved in.