We’ll never tell them…

I will admit that very often I have a rather strange soundtrack in my head playing to my life. But then I have purposefully created strange sound tracks as well for lessons and plays. When I teach World War II, for example, and I have the occasion to show the landing on to Normandy Beach from Spielberg’s Saving Private Ryan I have turned down the movie sound and played the 1940s Vera Lynn song, “We’ll Meet Again.” It is a chilling and jarring juxtaposition, to be sure. But, it makes some sense. Those soldiers, making the daring landing onto those French shores before dawn, perhaps just a few hours before, had been chilling out in an English pub and probably heard a recording of Vera Lynn’s iconic song (and by the way, just a quick tangent, Dame Vera Lynn is still alive! She still makes appearances and smiles and looks great for 97!) But that sound track also allows me to set up for the students the World War II song, “We’ll Meet Again,” so that when I play the ending of the Cold War-era film Dr. Strangelove, and as the world-ending bombs go off, the students have a better sense of the insanity of the bombs and Stanley Kubrick’s decision to pair those images with Vera Lynn’s “We’ll Meet Again.”

Oh, I digress from my sound track in my head observation of this week. In the last few days I have had the words and music of a World War I song playing through my mind:

And when they ask us, how dangerous it was,
Oh, we'll never tell them, no, we'll never tell them:
We spent our pay in some cafe,
And fought wild women night and day,
'Twas the cushiest job we ever had.

And when they ask us, and they're certainly going to ask us,
The reason why we didn't win the Croix de Guerre,
Oh, we'll never tell them, oh, we'll never tell them
There was a front, but damned if we knew where.

Now here might be why that particular song keeps reprising in my head: in class I am discussing a curatorial project that stellar student Alyssa Sclafani offered in AP Art History way back in 2005. Her presentation was entitled, Oh, What a Lovely War, a play that I had taught and would soon direct at Hackley, and this song does appear towards the end of the play. But I think the real reason the song has been on a loop inside my head has to do with the teaching profession itself. I love talking about education, studying it, trying to dissect it what makes it work or what makes it flounder, but in a way, like those soldiers singing about the front in “The Great War,” I don’t know if I can tell what really makes it great or what makes it excruciating.

The other day I spent about 10 hours grading mock exams for the upcoming AP Art History test. A mock exam is exactly what it sounds like—an exam the same length, breadth, scope and challenge of the real test. It allows students to tackle entire course for the first time. All year, either in monthly tests, or exams, the scope is never the entire course. Until the mock exam! So my students gathered last Saturday afternoon , and for three and a quarter hours, examined the history of the visual arts against the landscape of the world’s history.

As I graded the exams, some were great and some were lousy. I know, I know, it was just a mock exam! Who cares! It could be a great chance to simply see where you stand, get a grip about the whole course. I mean, it doesn’t count for anything!

Grading bad tests is so soul-wearying…and the way the grades went, really pretty bizarre. As you may know, the College Board grades the AP tests on a curve, and assigns numbers 5 down to 1, a 5 being the superior score. As in a typical bell curve, the middle, the 3, is where most of the scores fall. And I had scores in each category (in case you like to know: 7 were 5s, 4 were 4s, 11 were 3s, 2 earned a 2, and one poor chap earned a 1--the same grade you get for bubbling the circles in for your name.

No, I am not new to the game of grading. I have long been aware that there will be bad grades. There will be students who don’t study, gasp—even don’t care, and it has nothing to do with me. But as I grade bad exams, it is harder to explain why they wound the soul as much as they do. I don’t teach to assign bad grades. I teach so that students may be empowered to go out into the world armed with skills and attitudes and values that might transform and improve the world around them!! As I read through some of the answers, oh, the weakness of the prose, the illogic of their reasoning, the insipid word choice…a little chipping away of the soul happens! So that is where the World War I song started playing in my head—I mean how could you tell someone not in the teaching biz what grading bad exams feels like. “Oh, you’ve got it rough, do you? Yeah, tell me that while you are lazing around in July!” It is as if all the hopes and dreams you have for humanity pale and fade as you read an essay with no historical context or precise evidence.

Don’t tell me I’m just being dramatic! If you don’t teach, you just don’t know the pain of bad exams. So, the song loops through my head, and I decide again, “No, we’ll never tell them…”

So I went from the Art History class to a faculty meeting where we had the pleasant and arduous task of choosing a winner for the most prestigious award at graduation. There were many nominations and faculty members tripped over themselves trying to explain why each nominee was so worthy and outstanding. I knew almost all of the nominees, but chose not to speak that afternoon. In part, as I reach the end of a year, I can get emotional about some seniors, and you know, we never want to reveal how deep our affection and admiration might be. Not a single negative comment during the whole meeting was uttered. Never did someone interject and say, “Well, that sounds fine, but that’s not how I see him (or her).” For over an hour my colleagues articulated the leadership skills, the improvement in English and Arabic, the attachment to the school, the love of learning, the examples of respect and responsibility—each nominee reflected perfectly why this school exists.

I sat and smiled throughout the meeting, marveling at the wonderful examples we witness of change and transformation. And in a sneaky way, that World War I song crept back into my mind and my soundtrack. “We’ll never tell them…” This time it wasn’t about how a bad day, or  bad exam can shake the psyche—this time it was we couldn’t begin to tell non-teachers what those good days are like, what those moments of epiphany feel like as it dawns on someone about a painting, a movement, a moment in history, their own moment in history. That “A” essay isn’t just good—it’s enlightening, exciting, invigorating in a way that I couldn’t explain to a non-teacher.

I can’t decide or remember if there are more high and low moments here than in my previous three schools. I don’t think it matters. Each week has those moments, I guess, the highs and lows I couldn’t really explain. I’ll just have the music swell as the World War I ditty proclaims that no matter how hard we might try, we just couldn’t explain what it is like, so we’ll never tell.

About I had met with some of the jarred students about their mock exam grades, I walked past the plaza in front of our Dining Hall. On this sunny late afternoon was a little girl, the now 6-year old daughter of one of my colleagues. There she was, totally delighted and enraptured that the pinwheel she was holding was moving all by itself. Such wonder she enjoyed! Could we re-capture that same wonder? Could we explain it? Will we meet again with such joy and wonder?

What is interesting is that last year I left the same meeting, after the return of those mock exams, and spied the then-5-year old wonder child. So glad I get to bump into her and remember the child-like wonder of it all!

 

 

2014 Postcard from Jerusalem, Part II

 

…as I was saying, Irene had this great idea to go to Jerusalem and wave the palms on Palm Sunday! Tom, Irene and I journeyed across the border, along with Tricia, another colleague, and her son. We didn’t plan anything with Tricia and her son, since as she said,

“Well, you know, he’s a teen-age boy, and he wants to lounge around the hotel!” But we did tentatively plan to meet up in the procession on Palm Sunday.

 

Irene did all the planning for the trip, and I was happy to go along for the ride. Irene picked a hotel that turned out to be an interesting choice. It seems that our hotel is a place where many local Jewish families go on Fridays to celebrate Shabbat. These are more conservative families who do not wish to do any work or activity around the Sabbath, so they go to a hotel, where of course a staff will wait on them, make meals, and they even have a synagogue in the hotel. The last time in Jerusalem I stayed in an Arab hotel, so this was a different perspective. There is even a Sabbath elevator, that opens and stops at every floor, and one does not have to press any buttons. The lobbies and dining area were crowded with the families eager to celebrate their Sabbath.

Anyway, on Saturday for lunch, we ate at the Christ Church Guest House near the Jaffa Gate. Jerusalem abounds with Christian hospices, most originally built in the late Victorian age to accommodate the growing numbers of pilgrims. Inside the beautiful compound there was a little museum, so we went there after our lunch. We got to talking to the volunteers there, and one man from the American South offered to take us down below to see some of the architectural wonders. We eagerly agreed, walked through the coffee shop, down into a basement, and then went below into a sub-basement. The volunteer showed us a cistern, photographs, and told stories about the subterranean caverns below and how they have been used through the centuries. We realized that practically every structure in Jerusalem would have a similar story and underground tunnels and cisterns, dating back to Roman days at least.

 

Later that afternoon we made our way over toward the Lion’s Gate to St. Anne’s, a beautiful, 12^th century Crusader church, erected in honor of the mother of Mary. It is built next to the Bethesda Pool, the site where Jesus is believed to have healed a paralytic. There were many quotations about the healing power of the pools (I was born in Bethesda Hospital in Cincinnati, so especially enjoyed the points about Bethesda) and Irene and I walked around looking at the Roman-era pools and waterways (enjoying the fact that we had just had a private tour of another structure all the way across town). But the wonder of this spot is the acoustic brilliance inside the church! The church was built for Gregorian chant, and it may be the most perfect acoustics I have heard anywhere. Anyone can come in and sing—religious songs only—and the sound and the echo are divine.

 

Just down the road begins the Via Dolorosa, traditionally believed to be the route followed by Jesus from the Roman Judgment Hall to Calvary, the scene of crucifixions. There are 14 stations of the cross, and it is not uncommon to see pilgrims carrying large crosses in procession and prayer as they make their way down this street. We followed some of the stations, making our way back out of the magnificent Damascus Gate. On the way toward that Gate, we stopped at the Austrian Hospice for some apfelstrudel. This is a great spot, a great view, and a place I want to try and stay on my next trip to Jerusalem.

 

Near our hotel in East Jerusalem, outside of the Old City gates, is a place marked as “The Garden Tomb, a 1^st century tomb discovered in the modern day in 1867. In the 1880s, a very “Kiplingesque” General Gordon (the same one later killed in the siege in Khartoum in Africa) visited this tomb on his way to Egypt, and had an epiphany. Gordon didn’t believe the evidence that the Church of the Holy Sepulchre was indeed the site of Jesus’ tomb, although since the 4^th century Christians had worshipped at that site. By the late 19^th century various Christian sects argued over this, and the Orthodox simply banned Protestants from worshipping at their site. General Gordon helped fund better excavation, and so this is a “competing” site for Jesus' tomb. What was interesting was the tour offered, the scriptural reminders of Jesus’ burial, and also how this site meets many of the specifications of what the site should be (among them, outside the walls of the city, hewn from a rock, a tomb made for a rich man, situated in a garden, and near a hill that does indeed look like a skull—remember according to the New Testament, Golgotha, “the place of the skull.”) What most impressed me was the guide was not zealously trying to turn anyone’s mind that this was indeed the site. This gentle Anglican, John from England, emphasized that the actual site is of far less importance than the spiritual significance of what really happened. “In the end, the crucial point is that the tomb was empty on the third day. That point—that part of God’s loving plan to bring us forgiveness is what matters.” We joined a group from San Diego, here in the region to do some Medical Missions, for a communion service and prayer. The beautiful garden was indeed a perfect spot to ponder the shifting histories and claims in Jerusalem. One of the leaders from San Diego concluded, “While we can debate the place where this happened, for us there is no dispute that ‘Jesus Christ’ was declared with power to the be the Son of God by his resurrection from the dead,’” as he read from the book of Romans.

 

That evening we walked far and wide in the much more modern, hip section of Jerusalem, going into the famed King David Hotel, and then eating a wonderful meal at Focaccia, a place recommended by a local hipster.

 

The following morning we tramped all through the Old City again, hoping for a viewing of the Dome of the Rock. But, as happens, the tours were cancelled just minutes before we would have gone in. So we looked for palms to wave in the procession. We didn’t have much luck, but then I saw some huge palms and decided to buy them. The palms cost about $6.50 each. Expensive palms! We gathered some lunch from a bakery in the Jewish Quarter and then headed up to the Mount of Olives.

 

On our way across the Kidron Valley we saw an enormous Muslim cemetery below the Dome of the Rock, and then as we crossed the valley we saw one of the oldest Jewish cemeteries in the world. It was this cemetery that religious Jews had in mind when they came to die in the Holy Land through the start of the 20^th century. You walk by the Tombs of the Prophets, believed to be the burial place of Haggai, Malachi and Zechariah. Many Jews have believed, and perhaps still do since I saw a family mourning a recent loss in the cemetery, that from here the route to heaven is the shortest, since God’s presence is always hovering over Jerusalem; others have held that here, on the Mount of Olives, the resurrection of the dead will occur.

 

There are six churches right in about 500 feet of each other, marking sites such as where Mary is believed to have died, where it is believed that Jesus instructed his disciples in the Lord’s Prayer, and a spot that marks where Jesus wept over a vision of the future destruction of Jerusalem. We allowed a couple hours to hike up the hill, visit the churches, and claim a spot for the afternoon procession. We walked by the Garden of Gethsemane, the spot where Jesus prayed the night before his arrest. Another church adjoins the garden, the Basilica of the Agony, from 1924 that shows a gorgeous gold mosaic of God looking down from heaven over Jesus and the peoples of the world.

 

We knew that the procession began in Bethphage, the spot where Jesus and the disciples received a donkey and made their way down the Mount of Olives for the jubilant welcoming into Jerusalem. It was a stiff hike up the hill, but a beautiful day, and we carried our palms up the hill. Once we got there we saw some folks who had more stunning palms and asked where they had gotten them. Oh, I see—they had gotten them just down the street and paid only about 75 cents for them. Oh well!

 

As we settled on a spot to wait for the procession, guess who we see directly across the street, but our colleague Tricia and her son! We got together and told of our exploits around town, and then at 2:30 the procession began. I had no idea what to expect—while I have spent my life waving palms on Palm Sunday, it always lasted about 30 seconds in our family’s church, although at my church in New York City we did process around the block.  But here, in those last minutes before it began, it was clear that hundreds and hundreds of people had gathered to process down the Mount of Olives and into Jerusalem.

 

The Arab Christians traditionally begin the procession with a very Orthodox banner and folderol. And then it seemed that national groups had formed. We stood in line near a group from Poland (“Why have you never visited Poland?” my new BFF inquired). Across the street was a group from Ukraine. As the procession began, the excitement built. We joined in the procession right behind a colorful, jubilant Brazilian group, and right in from of a group from France. The procession down the hill (probably about a 2 mile walk) was mixed with waving, singing, and since we were behind the Brazilians, much dancing! The hosannas and the singing and the smiles and the celebration were indeed an interesting and moving sight. The procession came down the Mount, crossed the Kidron Valley where hundreds of years ago Jesus had come back to Jerusalem for Passover later that week.

 

As the procession continued with all the exuberance and enthusiasm, it was interesting to think more about the Kidron Valley, also known as the Valley of Jehoshaphat. The Book of Joel records that the judgments will be rendered here on resurrection day: “Let the heathen be awakened and come up to the Valley of Jeshosaphat, for there will I sit to judge…” Muslims hold to a similar belief: they believe that Muhammad will sit astride a pillar under the wall of the Dome of the Rock. A wire will be stretched from the pillar to the Mount of Olives, opposite, where Jesus will be seated. All humankind will walk across the wire on its way to eternity. The righteous and faithful will reach the other side safely; the rest will drop down in the Valley of Jehoshaphat and perish.

 

We ended the procession, looked down at our watches and made a beeline back to the hotel to get our bags and make it for the last taxi to the border that day. Timing could not have been more perfect—the trip back took only 2 ½ hours—much shorter than the 6 hours to get to Jerusalem.

What a wonderful and moving way to spend Palm Sunday—a thrilling procession, pondering the mysteries and joys of faith, and time with exquisite friends.

2014 Postcard from Jerusalem

 

 

About six weeks ago, my dear colleague Irene suggested to me, “Why don’t we go to Jerusalem for Palm Sunday?!” I had been to Jerusalem once before—March of 2009, and one can look back to the blog entries of that month and find four separate blog entries about that trip—but given that the time at the border is so long and often frustrating, I had not made the effort to return yet to Jerusalem. But given the idea of joining a procession on Palm Sunday with one of my favorite colleagues ever, I jumped at the chance.

 

So 10 days ago, Irene and her husband Tom and I left early in the morning for the border crossing. Now, as the crow flies, Jerusalem is probably about 50 miles away, but given the Israeli-Palestinian tensions, it takes a long time to get there. Just so you know: from my doorstep to the Damascus Gate in Jerusalem, that Friday morning trip took six hours! And it is not a cheap trip, although given that one doesn’t fly there, it feels as if it should cost just a little bit. Given the taxis to and from the borders, the busses across, the exit fees to both countries, it mounts to almost $200 round-trip to make this little trip just 50 miles away beyond the hills where Abraham and David roamed.

 

But the trip was glorious—although there were setbacks at every stop it seemed. One should avoid Fridays and Saturdays in traveling to Jerusalem since there are closings or delays due to the Sabbath. Some things close early, some restaurants not available for 48 hours, sometimes a line going in all-of-a-sudden closes…that’s just the nature of touring Jerusalem. As stated, the trip was glorious—in part because of the beautiful spring weather, in part because of the company of good friends that ensure long, leisurely meals with laughter and good food, in part because of the tremendous historical burden of Jerusalem itself, and in part because of visiting religious sites at the time of Holy Week. Irene and Tom like to travel exactly as I do—up early, good breakfast, running around town enjoying the physical delights of the hills, savoring the moments, peeking around old, old, old spots, wondering about the various eras of Jerusalem history…

 

Oh, the history of Jerusalem! Walking through the four quarters of Jerusalem (Muslim, Jewish, Christian, and Armenian) one cannot help but get swept up in the religious fervor and dynamism of this city. To millions of Jews, Christians, and Muslims, this city is an omphalos (a cool Greek word I teach my students that means the navel, the very center of it all!) where Solomon reigned in all his glory, where Jesus taught and performed miracles, and where Muhammad visited during a miraculous night journey. While this is a tourist haven, it is just so much deeper than any place I think I have been. Roaming around the ramparts of Jerusalem on a beautiful Saturday afternoon with Irene and Tom, one cannot help but wax philosophical about this omphalos.

 

On Saturday morning we visited the magnificent Tower of David Museum, built right into Saladin’s 15^th century citadel. This is one of those museums that helps put everything in perspective, and shake up everything you think you know about a place! We spent a couple hours as the audioguide took us from exhibit to exhibit, noting the changes and upheavals over the centuries to Jerusalem. The creators of the audioguide often included several of the curators arguing in the audioguide over what Jerusalem has meant over time, and the discussions and tensions over how to convey and display the history of Jerusalem. The structure of the citadel itself allows for breath-taking 360-degree views of the city and environs and the audioguide carefully allowed you to take in the sweep of the majesty of this city. Right below the entrance is the Jaffa Gate. Just a little bit of history allows a deeper understanding of the city: a breach in the city walls beside Jaffa Gate was made for the visit of Kaiser Wilhelm II and his entourage in 1898. It was in that same space that General Allenby, leader of the British forces, entered Jerusalem in 1917, liberating Palestine from Ottoman rule. Every degree of the 360-view held such historical forces as you slowly spun around the history of the ages. Again, the historian in me just cries out!

Jerusalem is the house of one God, the capital of two peoples, the temple of three religions, and she is the only city to exist twice—in heaven and on earth: the terrestrial and the celestial. Wow. Prophets and patriarchs, Abraham, David, Jesus and Muhammad are said to have trod these stones (although you and I both know that modern-day Jerusalem is probably 40-50 feet above the city’s roads of 2000 years ago). Over the centuries—wow, millennia, Jews and Christians and Muslims have conquered and altered her history. When the Bible was translated into Greek and then Latin and then English, it became the universal book, and it made Jerusalem the universal city. Every great king became a David, every special people were the new Israelites and every noble civilization a new Jerusalem, a city that belongs to no one and exists for everyone in their imagination. I guess this is the city’s tragedy as well as her magic: every dreamer of Jerusalem, every visitor in all ages from Jesus’ Apostles to Saladin’s soldiers, from Victorian pilgrims to 21^st century tourists and journalists, arrives with a vision of the authentic Jerusalem and then seems bitterly disappointed by what they find, an ever-changing city that has thrived and shrunk, been re-built and destroyed many times. But since this is Jerusalem, property of all, only their image is the right one—everyone wants the right to impose their ‘Jerusalem’ on Jerusalem—and with sword and fire, they often have.

 

Jerusalem is a spine of world history—it has been for millennia, and continues to be. But much more than the newsworthy political force, I witnessed again that it is far more about the nature of holiness. The phrase ‘Holy City’ is constantly used to describe the reverence for her shrines, but beyond the remnants of these physical places, it is really the essential place on earth for communication between God and man. I teach my students the root of ‘religion,’ early in the year in AP Art History, and the root is, ‘religio,’ which means, to bind together, and oh my—and that concept of groups bound together  is never more evident anywhere else on earth than in this city. You see it in every quarter of the Old City. A colleague of mine, claiming to be atheistic, said she is rather “repelled” by this holiness, seeing it as superstition in a city rife with “righteous bigotry.” But our profound human need for religion, at least by many, many global citizens, makes it possible to begin to understand Jerusalem. It is not Tel Aviv, a cosmopolitan beach town on the Mediterranean—it is the meeting place of God and Humanity, and where, according to many, the questions of the Apocalypse will be settled: the End of Days, where there will be a war between Christ and anti-Christ, when the Kaaba will come from Mecca to Jerusalem, when there will be judgment, resurrection of the dead, and the reign of the Messiah, and the Kingdom of Heaven, the New Jerusalem. All three Abrahamic religions believe in the Apocalypse, but the details vary by faith and sect. Secularists dismiss all this as quaint and old-fashioned, but on the contrary, go to Jerusalem and it is obvious the Apocalypse is a dynamic force in that world’s politics.

 

The sanctity of the city grew out of the “Chosen People” exceptionalism of the Jews. Jerusalem became the Chosen City, Palestine the Chosen Land, and subsequently, Christian and Muslims inherited and embraced this exceptionalism. And of course the “obsession” of Jews and Muslims to control Jerusalem means that in very real 21^st century terms—Jerusalem is also the essence of, and the obstacle to a peace deal.

 

In the last 20 years or so, the glib manifestation of the media as “Jerusalem: Holy City sacred to three religions and 24-hour news show” is never as simple as we try and make it out to be. Canaan, Judah, Judaea, Israel, Palaestina, Bilad al-Shams, Palestine, Greater Syria, the Holy Land, are just some of the names, used to describe this country, with varying borders. One volunteer in a museum told me there are said to be 70 names for Jerusalem. There are multiple names for each temple or house of worship. Every street has at least three names. But that also shows the continuity and co-existence of peoples in the four quarters of the Old City of Jerusalem. It is a hybrid town with layers of overlapping, interlinked cultures. I have seen no other place that evokes such a desire for exclusive possession, but it is rather ironic, since most of Jerusalem’s shrines have been borrowed or stolen. Virtually every stone once stood in the long-forgotten temple of another faith, the victory arch of another empire. In Jerusalem, the truth is often much less important than the myth. “In Jerusalem, don’t ask me for the history of facts,” says the eminent Palestinian historian Dr. Nazmi al-Jubeh. “Take away the fiction and there’s nothing left.”

Uh-oh…the historian in me took over the blog entry! I had planned to tell you about our weekend…instead, as it always does, Jerusalem cannot be contained in a single blog entry or perspective. While I do not think it will be four entries like in 2009, I will have to send another postcard of the actual Palm Sunday Procession—the reason I started the blog entry to begin with…

 

To be continued… 

 

 

Just a slice...

So what have I been doing in the last month since I last checked in with a blog post? Just daily life, really: going to school, grading papers, watching Downton Abbey (finishing Season Four, but I checked in with another group in Season Two), enjoying the onset of spring. I returned home to Jordan a month ago after spring break in Cincinnati. It was a perfectly normal trip in a breezy, quotidian manner. But I did return with a special visitor: my dad. My dad visited once before, in the fall of 2008, the second year of the school, and many things have changed since then. Obviously all of the student body has changed (a student body that has doubled in size since then!), the headmaster has changed, the dean of students has changed…half the faculty… We now have alumni…but I am still in the same apartment and frankly, I’m not sure if anything in my apartment has changed. And I write fewer blog entries. In those days I wrote blog entries twice as often…I suppose the daily life is very much the same.

 

But back to the point! My dad came to Jordan for a return visit! I had worried a little about his travel-ability. Last spring he had a blood-disease-scare for us, and he is over 80 after all. But I had wanted him to come visit Jordan mainly to spend time with the colleagues that I enjoy so much. Last visit we took to the road quite frequently, tramping through Petra, wondering at the Roman ruins in Jerash, contemplating the Crusader castle in Karak, exploring the Baptism site at the Dead Sea—lots of places in Jordan. This time, it was mostly meals and small talk. My dad came for an 8-day feast of fellowship and food.

 

This afternoon as I sat down to reflect on his recent visit, I looked back to what I wrote in 2008 about his visit (which yielded four blog entries!) and here are some of memories of 2008:

 

Toward the end of my father’s big visit to Jordan, I asked him what my mother might have thought of this trip, and he smiled, speculating, “She woulda been on cloud nine the whole time!” He didn’t really need to explain why his Mary Martha would have been so ebullient—I mean if you know our family lore, she was famous for emphasizing any time any trip was in question: “I’ll go!” But my dad went on, “the only thing I think is that she would have wanted more time everywhere”—“let me sit here a little longer in this history class; let me linger a little more at the baptism site; let me ponder a little more about re-tracing the steps of Moses or those Old Testament Moabites; let me hold the hand of my new Jordanian friend a little longer; let me try one more Arab sweet; let me process one more time through that Roman arch; let me ask one more person about growing up in Palestine; let me hear the call to prayer one more time; let me talk to one more faculty member about being a pioneer at this school; let me thank one more student for their refreshing vigor; let me contemplate a little deeper about the possibilities for peace in this Holy Land”—I can almost hear the entreaties she would have offered up.

 

My father has been home in the United States for six days now, and I am sure he has regaled the denizens of the Imperial Diner with the stories of his sauntering in the Holy Land, but I imagine that the most revealing, most illuminating parts of his trip don’t translate well for mass consumption. I mean, it is fun to talk of the camels, and the lunatic drivers, and the mystery meat, and yes, they do have stores that sell things, even P&G products—but I think one memorable element of his trip, and elusive to relay, was his visit to my classroom seeing the KA students in action.

 

My father came to class everyday on this visit as well, although to a different course than when he visited in 2008. Now I teach AP Art History, and he arrived the week that a group of disaffected youth gave birth to Impressionism, a new attitude about the slices of daily life that no one had painted or lionized in their quick, fast-paced, non-judgmental way. This slice of daily life as art offended many at the time, but eventually has become beloved. Again, one of the things he enjoyed the most in the visit was listening to the students (I think he enjoyed watching me teach, as well, but one day he did shake his head and say, “You sure gesture a lot as you teach!”) He marveled as they debated the work of Monet and Manet (“it’s not the same guy?” he wondered!)

As we walked around campus one afternoon he wondered, “Do you think anyone taught like this when I was in school? I mean we never studied any of these things, and history was just about battles and dates. Do you think anyone was doing this exciting work back then?” He then launched into his observations about the students’ friendliness, and willingness to work and become more effective students—the very things I have been telling him since the end of the first year of the school.

 

I wrote this in 2008 after his visit ended:  It still strains credulity that my father made the trip—after all he hasn’t left the United States since 1953. Then he was with the US Air Force and he crossed the Atlantic with his mates in a ship that took 17 days. His entire travel time today—even with the requisite two hour arrival, and the layover in New York, is under 20 hours!

 

I mean this is a man who doesn’t like to go across town for dinner!

 

But this sphinx-like man with the heart of gold, ability to talk to anyone and the gentlest/firmest grip I know came, to Jordan and did what he does best: went out to dinner and talked to people in his leisurely, caring way. I think he was a hit.

 

There were a couple of lovely moments just this morning, as his visit came to an end. We had packed up the car with his suitcases about seven, before breakfast. I would drive him over to the airport at 10, after my first classes. I had to stop over and make a few copies before class, so I sent him off to the Dining Hall—I knew he would be fine. Food and conversation are his calling cards. As I rounded the corner, I saw that my dear student Hamzeh had come up to him, and they walked into the DH together—busily chatting. I heard my dad say, “Anza, how are you today?” He is a good man—not a natural Arabic speaker, but a friendly man. There they were, two of my favorite people together.

 

One of the constants in my father’s two visits to Jordan is his botching of Arabic names! The man is so talented, in so many areas, but yet…he does not have an ear for names in Arabic! We had spent an evening with my dear friend Mazen, and as we pull into the school parking lot, my dad says, “Is this where you park every day, Marvin?” I said, “His name is Mazen, and he repeated, like I had erred: “That’s what I said—Marvin!” And when he met with Sharifa, well, that name didn’t come close to the real one. But it was fun, in this post-Oscar Idina Menzel world to have someone Travolta-ize a name! And my father can do that well!

 

So this trip was not about visiting sites and spots in Jordan—it was about the people in my life. We had dinner out every evening, and here is a rundown of our gastronomic itinerary: 

Saturday          Lubna picked us up at the airport, and I knew my father would remember her from our last visit. We went to our go-to spot, Haret Jdoudna in Madaba. I reminded Lubna of her marriage proposal to my dad before: “If you convert, I’ll marry you!” She reminded me that she thinks my dad is still the more handsome of the two of us!

Sunday          Tonight we went to Madaba to have pizza with Hamzeh. This young man is another constant in my life since 2007, and my father liked seeing him now as junior in college since he was, in 2008, a sophomore in high school.

Monday          On this night Moamer whisked us into Amman for an evening at Burger Shack. Since Moamer and I have been conducting “science experiments” for the best burger in Amman for years, my father should definitely have a hand in gathering some evidence.

Tuesday          Tonight’s invitation came from Shaden, a dear colleague who is the head of our world languages department, and the mother of one of my prize students. Shaden made a feast for kings, course after course, from soup and salad, to fruit and cake. Every dish seemed better than the last. What a magnificent meal!

Wednesday          On this evening we went to the headmaster’s house, and we spent the evening with Monica, Chris and Ruba, and Peter. John grilled steaks, and tonight my dad regaled them with stories from the Imperial Dinner. Another evening of merriment and full tummies.

 

Thursday          The school week ended going out with Mazen and his wife, or of course, Marvin, as my dad hears it. We invited Mona to come along and we went to a place in Amman famous for traditional, grandma-like meals.

Friday       During the day we visited the Royal Automobile Museum in Amman. This was our one tourist-y thing of the trip. This worked so well for us: my dad loved staring at the engines in the wide variety of great cars, and I loved how the design of the museum told the history of modern-day Jordan through seeing King Hussein’s cars. We had lunch with Annabel, a former colleague, and her husband. Then we finished the day with a lingering conversation and flank steak with Julianne. I had looked forward to watching these two in deep conversation, and they didn’t disappoint. They talked about construction and tools and a host of other things. I did the dishes for a long time, leaving them to talk shop happily. Watching their amiable coziness was a delight. In so many ways these stoic two are like siblings. 

Saturday     For my dad’s last day in Jordan we enjoyed a grand luncheon on Mona’s terrace in Amman. This was the feast to end all feasts for a dozen of my friends. Since meals and conversation are at the heart of many of dad’s favorite activities in the USA, it was a delight to revel in the spring Saturday afternoon with loads of great foods, from the salads to the desserts…oh, Mona, you spoiled all of us.

So, it was a month of just daily life, of enjoying the poetry of the quotidian. I finished the last season of Dexter, whose boat by the way is called, “Slice of Life,” a little joke on his being a serial killer that I love. My dad has been ensconced back in his daily life for three weeks now, but he is still enjoying telling the tales of the visit, assuring them he never felt unsafe.

I wanted my friends here to know this man better, this tower of strength and charm and kindness. Both worlds probably have a better sense now as to why I love to visit both worlds.

 

Happy Birthday Thomas Jefferson!

It has been exactly one month since I published a blog entry...just slices of the pie of daily life going on! While this is a remarkably brief blog entry, I will come back tomorrow and catch you up on what has been going on in this past month. For now, let's celebrate the birthday of Thomas Jefferson, born April 13, 1743, with this wonderful quotation by TJ:

I had rather be shut up in a rather modest cottage with my books, my family, and a few old friends, dining on simple bacon, and letting the world roll on as it liked, than to occupy the most splendid post, which any human power can give.

See you tomorrow and I will offer you a slice of daily life, spring 2014.



 

Dropped Names, Part IV, the last installment

I have realized what an unusual autobiography this “Dropped Names” project offers me—a sort-of look at my life with some odd encounters with famous people. Let’s now travel back to the summer of 1986, the summer I graduated from Denison, the summer I visited college friend Sarah in Manhattan (!!!!) and the summer I then moved to North Carolina to begin my teaching career.

Loving cast     I had always had a disdain for soap operas…I needn’t list the reasons, but you could probably guess yourself. But while I was in college a new soap opera debuted with a TV-movie and I thought I would watch the evening movie, laugh at the conventions of the “art form” and move on. Well, I got hooked. (I will whisper this next bit, since it is a little embarrassing: I even made one semester schedule around seeing Loving in my dorm room—no VCRs yet…) So when I discovered that the set of the soap was just a couple blocks from Sarah’s house, I made a beeline over to the ABC studio to hang out by the door. Sarah and I made an afternoon of it, meeting many of the cast, enjoying a chat, gushing over how I enjoyed the show. One older actress on the show, after I said I watched it every day, said, “Don’t you have anything else to do, dear?” Well, eventually low ratings sank the show, they killed off every character (seriously!) and renamed the show, The City. I stopped watching then.

Barbara Walters       My first encounter with Ms. Walters was actually through a letter. My college friend Jill had gotten a job at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, and when I was visiting, Jill showed me a letter from none-other than Barbara Walters. Walters had loaned a Corot painting to the MFA, but now that she was getting divorced, the painting went to the ex in the settlement. Walters wrote to the MFA telling them she needed it back so she could hand it over. Jill was reluctant to show me the letter because Barbara’s phone number was on the stationery and she thought I might memorize the number and call Barbara up! I did memorize the number, but I exercised restraint and never called her. I have some sense. A decade later, at the posh Carlyle Hotel, I found myself seated two people away from Ms. Walters at one of Barbara Cook’s concerts. I almost went over and spoke to her, telling her how she had been such a pioneer for women on television, but I decided she didn’t need to hear that from me. See! More restraint! Instead I just ogled at her small waist and how daintily she ate her pasta.

Elaine Stritch             “Strichy,” as Noel Coward called her, is a bombastic, Broadway icon. I have seen her in many of her shows. One night, while seeing a play revival on Broadway, I had a cough and when intermission ended, I hung back by the standing room in case the cough persisted. As I stood and watched the veteran and formidable actress Marian Seldes emote on stage, none other than Elaine Stritch came up beside me, winked at me, winked at Marian on stage, and whispered to me, “The kid just might make it after all!” I have no idea what she was doing in the back of the theater, but there she was in her trademark black hat and witty, eccentric personality!

Bernadette Peters      This story is among my favorite of all my celebrity encounters. For New Years’ Eve of my senior year of college,1985 going into 1986, my new college friend Sarah invited me to New York for the week. We went to shows and museums and one night Sarah suggested seeing Bernadette Peters in her new smash show, Song and Dance. I whined that I had never liked Peters, but we got standing room tickets for $10 anyway. By the end of Act I, I wanted to be the president of Peters’ fan club! After the show Sarah wanted to see the doorman of the theater, an old friend of hers. He asked if we wanted to go up to Ms. Peters’ dressing room, and I immediately shouted, “Yes!”  We were ushered upstairs, and out of the dressing room came actor Dom Deluise, who gushed, “I taught her everything she knows!” Then we went in, and there she was—she of the big hair and big bosom, and so so tiny and delightful. We talked for about 10 minutes—she couldn’t have been nicer, and she asked us what shows we had seen, hoped to see, and about her show. Several hours before I could hardly have cared less, and now I was a fan for life!

Howard Zinn and Carl Schorske    These two names are two of my favorite historians, and in the 1999-2000 school year both of came to Hackley as guests of mine to talk with my classes. Student Adam Wald asked me about his uncle Carl, in the fall, and I was thrilled to have his Uncle Carl, a great historian of art and history come and talk to our class about Fin-de-Siecle Vienna’s art and politics. A few months later we hosted Howard Zinn, who began his talk to the school with the line, “When I was young, I wanted to change the world, so I became a history teacher.” The crowd laughed—Zinn did not, but went on to explain how he had done his work over the next 50 years. As he spoke, the students saw how this career path had actually changed how History is taught and perceived (remember how he is lauded in Good Will Hunting??) Both of these guys are heroes of mine—how they took the study of history, and deepened and enriched it, and made it about society, and urgency, and questioned the notion of progress. Wow. For years I kept the recorded voicemail from Howard Zinn that began, “Hi John, this is Howard Zinn…”

Maureen McCormack          On a lighter note, one night in the mid-90s I attended Grease in part because Brady Girl-Marcia played Bad Girl-Rizzo on Broadway. After the show I met McCormack at the stage door, recounted my 70s love for The Brady Bunch, and told her that when the show had come to Cincinnati, my hometown, to film at the then-new amusement park, King’s Island I had begged my mother to meet the Bradys. My mother did not take me, and so I wept and wailed that I would never forgive her for that. I did not win the award as the weirdest fan that night, however. There was some strange middle-aged woman who kept creepily repeating: “Maureen, I know your neighbor in California.”  I seem almost normal in comparison.

Kitty Carlisle Hart                Ms. Hart, a grande dame of New York theatrical society, lived to her late 90s, and I spied her several times in the 1990s. One time was at a great theater group, the Drama Department, and their 1990s revival of her husband Moss Hart’s revue, As Thousands Cheer, a 1930s hit that had long been moth-balled. Hart looked regal in her fur stole and diamonds, as everyone else sat comfortable in their jeans and sweaters in the folding-chair downtown theater. I went over to speak to Ms. Hart, told her that I grew up watching her as a panelist on To Tell The Truth. I asked her about those opening nights in the old days, the 1930s, 40s, and 50s, and she wistfully recounted the glamour of those days, looked a little sad about the current state of comfortable theater-going clothes, but looked every inch the socialite she had been for decades. Every time I saw her in the 1990s she looked impeccably dressed and groomed and an icon of exquisite taste. 

Patti Lupone              In 1990 I went to a matinee of Anything Goes and was enchanted by the volcanic talents of Patti Lupone. After the show I went to the stage door, and the doorman asked if I wanted to meet Lupone. Of course! About 10 minutes later a plain woman emerged and asked who wanted to meet her. I did a double-take! On stage she had been as sensuous and dynamic as a human could be allowed to be, but under the wig and make-up seemed a strangely plain human. After that little shock, I talked with Patti Lupone for a little bit, told her that I had written her a fan letter in 1978 when she starred as Eva Peron, and thanked her for her extraordinary performance in Anything Goes. We talked about if the film version of Evita would ever be made, and she sneered that it would most likely never see her starring in the celluloid version. Years and years later, another Sicilian, Madonna, would star in the picture. But oh, Lupone, what a great stage performer!

Kevin Bacon              I went to see The Importance of Being Earnest once starring Lynn Redgrave, and who do you think sat beside me at the play? Kevin Bacon! I wanted to make a joke about the Six Degrees…game, but instead, I let the man be. I did steal many glances at Bacon in his leather jacket and his asymmetrical hair. Again, I acted calm and oh-so—New-York.

Neil Simon                  The autumn of 1984 I spent in Chicago, and one day in front of the Chicago Art Institute I noticed Neil Simon with a young, young woman. He stopped and asked me (maybe I was staring too openly???) what pieces I had liked in the Museum, and I told him the Impressionist exhibit was great (we actually talked for a minute about the Monet haystacks series!). I also told him I had done a scene study of The Odd Couple in a junior-high drama class. He seemed happy with the world and delighted at our conversation. 

John Lewis                 In 2000 I co-taught a class on the Civil Rights era, and we read passages from activist and U.S. Representative John Lewis’ autobiography, Walking With The Wind. Lewis spoke in New York that spring, and several of us went to meet him, get our books signed, and thank him for his long work for the United States people. He was charming, and eager to hear about our course devoted to studying the era in detail. On the cover of his memoir he is in a profile picture from the early 1960s. That night I had a seat seeing him from the profile and it was interesting to see him with that view and think of all he has seen and done in the United States over the last 50+ years.

David Rockefeller     In 2006 I was reading this 90-year old’s memoir of his life and career. If I spent a Sunday in Tarrytown I always went to the church where the Rockefellers attended church (*by the way, not to people-watch—I loved the sermons, the music and the Chagall and Matisse stained glass.). One wintry Sunday I had my head down trying to dodge the gale-force winds, and I ran right into Mr. Rockefeller (yes, by accident!). He was as nice as can be as I apologized, and as he said, “Take care, young man,” I told him I was finishing his book and found his life exciting and inspiring. See how I have matured since my run-in with Sissy Spacek!

Charles Nelson Reilly            One day around the same time I spied the daffy Mr. Reilly on the subway, and I mentioned to him the recent interview when he was nominated for a directing Tony, that he said he didn’t always even read the script as he directed plays. He threw his hand to his head and sighed, “That comment was taken so out of context!” For the next several stops he explained what he really said, and explained his philosophy of directing plays to me.

 

Don Rickles                I mentioned in an earlier email about singer Julius LaRosa, and how in 2004, friend Anne and I went to Las Vegas to see him perform and open for Don Rickles’ comedy act. True to form, Rickles was a riot, and spared no one and no group from his rapier wit. He is hysterical! We met him after the show, and Anne asked him to sit so she could explain how she taught about Don Rickles in her English class, as she taught the novel In Country. (Rickles appears in a TV bit in the work.) Mr. Rickles seemed utterly enchanted with Anne and how un-star crazy she was as she got out her glasses and book, and went into Teacher Mode to explain how he functioned in the book. Watching him watch her was so charming.

JFK, jr.          I had been told that to be real New Yorker you needed to have at least one Kennedy sighting. In the mid-1990s I bumped into JFK, jr. twice. When I attended Brown in 1989, people still spoke about him on campus, and how normal and kind he always was. One day on a sunny day in Central Park, I saw this jogger coming toward me. He had a confidence and charisma even in that mundane act of jogging. Then I realized—it’s John John! I started to think of something to say, perhaps offer sympathy about his mother’s recent death, but in the end, decided to let him be. But as he passed, he made the kind of eye contact that only friendly, caring people make. Eye contact! He wasn’t trying to hide, he wasn’t showing off, he was radiating the charm and avuncular mood for which he was famous. A year or so later, we passed each other on 53^rd Street, and again, he made eye contact and seemed just happy to be alive and passing people, smiling, and offering a friendly nod.

So that’s my list—there may have been more, but those are the people who pop back into my mind from my half century of celebrity-watching in the real world. Our spring break is ending now as I end my list, and my dad and I are poised to travel back together to Jordan tomorrow. Let’s leave the celebrity world and go back to teaching art history and working with faculty in Jordan. Thanks for indulging the trip down memory lane.

 

Dropped Names, Part III

Last week when I wrote the blog entry a few hours before the 86^th annual Academy Awards, I planned to watch the show, as I mentioned. I even talked two young colleagues, Ben and Peter, into coming over at 3:00 AM to watch with me. I got up at 2:45 AM, prepared the Oscar-watching food, the two young ones showed up, and then we spent 90 minutes flipping channels trying to find the Oscars! Ben tried to live-stream them, all to no avail! So, ultimately, there was no Oscar-watching this year…such a shame, oh well, but not tragic…but I did decide that this next edition of “Dropped Names” should feature some of the Oscar winners and nominees I have bumped into (of course, I have already mentioned Al Pacino, Sissy Spacek, George Clooney, Whoopi Goldberg, Helen Hayes and Olivia de Havilland). So let’s see…let’s start with an Oscar winner whose birthday I share—that would be Susan Sarandon.

Susan Sarandon        Way back at Christmas time in 1994, I attended the new A Christmas Carol playing at Madison Square Garden, and who should be sitting beside me, but Susan Sarandon, Tim Robbins, and their children! One unusual costuming note: Susan and Tim were dressed all in black (naturally, in New York) and their children were all in white. Hmmm… Obviously I would think of reasons to turn to my right, discreetly, over the next two hours and check their reactions. I didn’t bother them, but I did love looking at Susan’s gorgeous skin. Ten years later I found myself next to Ms. Sarandon again, at a basketball game, between Hackley School and Dalton (the school where their little children grew up to attend). I almost commented to Ms. Sarandon that we had sat beside each other years ago, but reasoned that she would just stare at me a la Sissy Spacek. I almost told her that we shared the same October 4^th birthday, but in the end, I just sat and cheered when Hackley scored. I was such a non-plussed celeb watcher!

Daniel Day Lewis      This three-time Oscar winner and I were out at the same restaurant one summer night in 2011 in Greenwich Village. I was with the Unger family, one of my favorites in the world, and we noted that we had come in at the same time as Daniel D-L, and just kind of kept watch of him throughout dinner. I made sure we crossed paths, one more time as we left, and he commented to me, “Mate, we came and left at the same time!” I nodded and smiled, again, such a jaded, non-plussed celeb star-gazer!

Sigourney Weaver     The autumn of 1994, when I moved to New York to be a Klingenstein fellow, was a goldmine of celeb sightings—and that fall I went to Brearley School to see a musical. I found myself in line to enter behind a tall, stylish woman, who, wait-a-minute, this was Oscar nominee Sigourney Weaver! I noted that no one acted like they saw the Brearley mom there, but I could also tell that everyone there knew exactly where she was that evening!

Glenn Close   I saw multiple-nominee Glennie jogging in Central Park once, but my favorite encounter with Ms. Close was at a donut shop in Armonk—a shop known for its unbelievably good and in-demand donut treats. The shop had a rule that one could only buy one bag a visit at the shop of the donuts, and Glenn, two people in front of me, pleaded that she wanted more. The weary clerk sighed and responded, “Ms. Close—you know the policy!” I almost volunteered to sell her my bag of the donuts!

Candice Bergen         Years before I loved her in Murphy Brown on TV, this Oscar nominee was in Salzburg, Austria, and we bumped into each other in the American Express office in the Old Town (bumped into each other?? That suggests that Candy and I are old friends!). She was with husband Louis Malle and looked every bit as lovely as one would hope. Again, I kept my cool…

Barbra Streisand       This may be my most tenuous Dropped Name connection, but years ago I spent a weekend with a friend of college friend Jill’s in Connecticut who sold a piece of furniture to Barbra Streisand. Come to think of it, I guess that hardly counts. But I had a great conversation about 17^th century furniture and how the Thirty Years’ War affected furniture production. She said Barbra was a picky buyer.

Liza Minnelli              Liza, oh, Liza, you have been a source of joy and bizarre-behavior for years. I saw Liza in concert several times in the 1980s, and she was always a mesmerizing, riveting performer. However, when I saw her in the late 1990s subbing in Victor/Victoria on Broadway she was in a fog of something and it was a night that I almost gave up theater-going. However, my encounter came when I was in line to enter my favorite NYC cabaret spot, 88s, around 2003, and all of a sudden, a woman cut in line, and brushed past me, going right in. I turned to say something, and noticed that it was La Minnelli herself. While we waited for singer Sally Mayes (who is superb!) I made my way over to Liza’s table to thank her for the concerts of the 80s and her stupendous star quality. She smiled, looked grateful and sincere, and gave me a hug. She also enjoyed the show—I made sure to look over and note her reactions throughout the show!

Jane Fonda                At Brown University, the night before graduation every year is the Campus Dance, and all alumni are invited back every year. I have gone only once, the year I graduated with my Master’s degree from Brown, but the dance was a great affair. I was there with my History peeps and all of a sudden I heard a voice from behind me that I instantly recognized! I turned and there,a few feet away, was Jane Fonda. I went over and said hello (husband at the time Ted Turner is a Brown alum, as was her daughter) and told her that I was a big fan. (I didn’t mention to her that I wrote her for my 7^th grade Oscar project and never heard from her.) I gushed that the year I got into the Oscars—1977—I rooted for her to win for Julia. She was pleasant.

Wendy Hiller             This Oscar winner (she won for Separate Tables in the late 50s) starred in Driving Miss Daisy in London in the summer of 1988, and Tony and I went to see her and then met her afterwards. She was so gracious—insistent that we chat with her while she signed our programs, and asked us about our travels and if we enjoyed the play. I adored her performance and also enjoyed her kindly grande dame persona after the show.

Meryl Streep              Okay, this is maybe me at my most stalker self…I have yet to meet Meryl Streep, although that would be a thrill. But in the fall of 1994 I spent a day at the boarding school Hotchkiss, shadowing a French teacher, and she pointed out Meryl Streep’s son. I made sure I bumped into him during lunch, and almost spoke to him about his wondrous mother, but restrained myself instead. I hope to drop the name Meryl Streep someday!

Celeste Holm              One evening in Manhattan I came across an elegant, older lady, and I realized it was Celeste Holm—an Oscar winner from the mid-1940s. She was outside of Le Bernardin, a wonderful, expensive restaurant. I did decide to go up and speak to Ms. Holm, telling her how much I enjoyed her in a movie, Tom Sawyer, from my childhood, from a TV film about the Presidents, and seeing her in All About Eve. I also confessed that I had watched her in a soap opera (see in the next installment of Dropped Names) when she joined her husband for a few months on the soap. She was thoroughly sweet and a reminder of old Hollywood, old Broadway, early TV, and totally classy and glam. Note to musical theater enthusiasts: Celeste Holm was the original Ado Annie in Oklahoma in 1943. Lovely lady!

So those are my encounters with Oscar winners. There was a summer that I walked around the Turtle Bay area in Manhattan, hoping to bump into 4-time Oscar winner Katharine Hepburn. I never saw her coming out for milk or her dry cleaning! I have seen Oscar winners in plays, but my favorite Oscar-person moment might be watching Joanne Woodward, the director of an agitprop 1930s play in the late 90s, watching her own play she had directed. Splashed across her face was such a love for the work, a pride, an excitement (she had gotten a great performance out of Oscar winner My Cousin Vinny’s Marisa Tomei) and a pure joy. It wasn’t about her being “famous,” but just the thrill of the work.

Tomorrow I will complete my Dropped Names project…