My Ukraine Essay Has been Published in Europe

Here is the link:
http://planet-bpm.com/2012/06/bpm-return-to-ukraine/

The Canyons of New York City

See my New Post about the canyons of New York City in my Lost in the City blog.

 http://olya-thompson.blogspot.com/2012/06/that-building-across-street.html

My Short Little Amusing "Mommy" Blogpost

In these days of mommy blogs, I thought I'd share an observation from years ago, based on an  interaction between by then-four-year-old daughter and one of her peers.

I had arrived to pick up my four-year-old daughter from preschool and chanced upon the following conversation between her and a little classmate named Marie:

"My mommy says I can write my letters better than anybody," said little Marie. "My mommy says I keep my room neater than anybody," she continued. "My mommy says I am the best in the school."

Undeterred, my daughter responded with a thoughtful look, and then broke into an exuberant smile, exclaiming, "My mommy says I'm the most wonderfullest kid in the world!" Then she paused, and quickly added in a world-weary tone: "But Marie, you know how all these mommies are!"

As they say.... Out of the mouths of babes...

Interview With Olya Thompson

Here is a link to a Europe interview about my work that crosses "national and cultural barriers." I feel so honored. My work is being published in Spain, Austria, Germany, France and Switzerland.

http://planet-bpm.com/2012/05/bpm-interviewing-olya-thompson/

On Attending a Taras Shevchenko Poetry Slam

I recently happened upon a Manhattan poetry slam in the East Village, at the Bowery Poetry Club, where I was amazed to hear a few works of the beloved Ukrainian poet, Taras Shevchenko, read aloud in English translation. It occurred to me that this event, celebrating this former serf, was yet another milestone -- another sign that his work -- and that of Ukrainian literature -- was taking its rightful place after years of suppression (first by the Czarist regime, then by the Soviets) -- in the realm of world literature.



Taras Shevchenko Self-Portrait Oil

The reading sent me back to my long-ago days at my Ukrainian expatriate grammar school in New York City, where I learned some of Tara's Shevchenko's poems by rote. His poems – not to mention the language that I spoke -- were banned at the time in the Soviet Union.

As I listened to the selections, I found myself mulling over the vagaries inherent in translation. How, I wondered, does one begin to convey a language, with its subtleties in meaning, its sounds, its syntax, all things that define an entire culture? Perhaps the words of  19^th century English linguist George Barrow said it all: "Translation is at best an echo." I also found myself wondering about the contrast between the dramatic manner of recitation -- with rhetorical flourishes in tone and gesture -- and the simple unassuming poems that I had long ago memorized that reflected the natural rhythms of the language in its purest form. Nonetheless, what was most significant here was the very act of translation that enabled these works to be shared with another culture. And what came through in all of the poems read aloud was their mood -- those all too familiar feelings of pervasive sadness and yearning, of displacement and loss, that for centuries and to this very day have articulated the sensibility of an entire nation, and its expatriate diaspora, of which I myself am considered a member.

I began to think back to a long-ago day in my expatriate school when I was eight years old and asked by my teacher to recite one of the poet's works on a Ukrainian radio program. The poem, "Na Velykden," or "On Easter Day," told the story of a group of children gathered together discussing their new holiday finery, with the exception of one orphan boy, who had nothing to display. I dutifully headed across the street to the recording studio -- wearing my navy-blue school jumper and with my hair braided into the traditional two plaits -- and unselfconsciously recited its words in my soft girlish voice, conveying my own excitement about an upcoming holiday celebration, tinged with the sadness I felt about the fate of the poor boy.

"Prekrasno!" my teacher had said when I finished the recording session. That is, "Well done."

However, still lost in meaning of the words and the mood the poem created, I did not respond to his praise with my usual bright smile of pleasure. "But why," I asked him, in all my childhood innocence, "is that little boy so alone? And why is that ending so sad?"

The obvious answer was that the poet was most likely was referring to himself, having been born into serfdom and orphaned when he was young.

But my teacher instead said gently to me, "Do not let me see that little cloud upon your face," in the language that is so evocative and lyrical that it is often difficult to convey in words. "It is just art," he continued. "Emotion is the nature of art." Then he distracted me, letting me listen to my voice on the tape, and when we were finished, he gave me a Ukrainian picture book. He inscribed it to "Sonechko," which means something like "little sunbeam." I ran off to meet my mother, having all but forgotten those flickering flashes of emotion that had crossed my face.

As though he were reading my thoughts, the speaker who presided over the poetry event brought me out of my reverie by commenting somewhat ruefully on the melancholy nature of Ukrainian art, as he then introduced a musical interlude that featured the plaintive strains of a ballad that was played on the bandura -- the national instrument.

The final poem at the reading was one that I recognized, and perhaps Shevchenko's best known one, "Yak Umru" or "When I die," which expressed his dying wish in exile to be buried in his native land, and is perhaps the most evocative of the sadness and uprootedness and pain that for so many centuries marked Ukraine's troubled heritage.

Shevchenko, who was exiled for his writing, for his use of the native language, for his gentle words of protest, died at the young age of 47, worn out from his ordeal. His fate was not all that dissimilar from that of many other persecuted Ukrainian artists and poets and thinkers.

Interestingly, however, during my time studying Comparative Literature in graduate school, I never heard any mention of Taras Shevchenko. At that time, Ukraine, and therefore its language and culture, did not officially exist.

The growing recognition of this 19^th century poet's work, I am sure, is a result of the subsequent breakup of the Soviet Union, and of Ukraine's becoming somewhat of an independent nation which, though still troubled, has increasingly found the eyes of the world upon it, and with this, has experienced a growing interest in its history and its culture.

In his sensibility and love for his native land, Shevchenko is now labeled as a Romantic Poet. In his concern for the fate of his people, he is considered a great Humanist.

His poetry is indeed sad and beautiful and its verses do resonate.

Why, I asked myself at the end of the reading, are Ukrainians so emotional as a nation? Why, I asked myself, do we as a people -- a nation of artists and poets and musicians -- always wear our hearts on our sleeves? 

It occurred to me right then that the measure of love is loss. How does one even begin to adjust to the loss of the country that one loves – to that yearning for the familiar features of its land, the musical rhythms of the language one speaks, the customs one shares with its warm and expressive people. Loss is the legacy of war -- with its unspeakable tragedies and its resulting upheavals and dislocations -- that even now at times leaves one isolated and alone in a new and often unfamiliar nation that provides one with limitless opportunities for reinvention. How is one to begin to construct or reconstruct a new self in this new place, yet preserve one's very identity? And that is the very dilemma of the uprooted expatriate.

One does this -- as Bob Holman, owner of the poetry club and a founder of the Alliance for Endangered Languages, pointed out at the end of the reading -- by continuing to practice one's language, by preserving one's culture. One does this by commemorating Taras Shevchenko at this hipster poetry locale.

And one does this, I realized, by forging a dual identity as a Ukrainian-American writer, by coming to a reading such as this one, by reconnecting with the diaspora, by sharing my culture with others, and by continuing to tell the story of my roots.

Airport: A Reflection on Single Parenting

It’s getting late, about 11 p.m. on a Sunday night, a few days before Halloween. After several flight delays, I’m still at the American Airlines terminal at Chicago's O’Hare Airport, waiting to board the plane to Dallas, where I have an interview in the early morning on the next day.

I pace around restlessly. Then I set down my fold-over carry-on bag, the strap of which is digging into my shoulder, and I wearily drop into the nearest plastic-form chair.

Sitting opposite me is a young girl, about 13, and her older brother, about 17, I would say. They’re wearing jeans and sneakers and look a bit tired and rumpled. They trade banter and tease each other affectionately. The girl is holding a plastic trick-or-treat bag that she keeps rummaging in, perhaps a gift from a grandmother. She takes out a homemade cupcake with orange icing and a chocolate jack-o-lantern face. Then a younger sibling, a sister with long brown hair, perhaps seven or eight, arrives, with their mother in tow. The girl is carrying an identical trick or treat bag. The mother is a cheerful and sophisticated-looking woman, dressed in business attire. She’s wearing a wedding ring.

For me, the frequent flyer, airports are all alike, and so are the people I see there. Yet for some reason, I find myself staring.

They don’t stare back but smile good-naturedly at me.

This scene of relaxed family togetherness seems so ordinary, yet so poignant:  Families, it always seemed to me, are the possessors of happiness. I wonder if they are aware of their special lot, enveloped in their cocoonlike interiors of closed doors, warm glowing lights. Their secure worlds seem all so different from those of parents like me, raising a child alone. “Families, I hate you,” Andre Gide, the French essayist and novelist, once said. But I don’t feel anger or envy as I gaze at that closely knit group, only fascination and some sadness.

Maybe I’m just tired and moody, or maybe it’s just the season, the darkening days of late October with the promise of the holidays soon to come, or maybe it’s the cupcakes, a reminder of life’s simpler pleasures. Most likely, though, it’s simply the nature of my work, of newspaper work in general.

For the past five years, I’ve moved six times without the prospect of ever settling down. Too often I’ve had an assignment in one place, had to leave my child in another. This time, though, I am finally in a position to choose, am in a position where my daughter and I will finally be together.

I should consider myself lucky, I tell myself.  After all, I am interviewing for a job that I will most likely get -- a job that I worked hard to get, one that is a major career opportunity.... Nevertheless, tonight, I find myself particularly pensive and alone....

It’s time to board. Passengers begin to line up single file at the gate. I just sit there, not wanting to wait in that long queue with that bulky canvas bag. The family across from me begins to collect their coats and carry-on luggage.

“Wait!” the 13-year-old suddenly cries out. She cannot find her pass. The teen rummages in her purse, in her pockets. Suddenly, her older brother reaches into her Halloween bag and pulls out the pass triumphantly. They all laugh.

As they begin to make their way across the terminal, the little one pipes up – her pass is also missing. “You too!” says her mother good-naturedly. There’s another bout of rummaging, and together they manage to find it.

I cannot take my eyes off them, those children so rambunctious and carefree, that mother so indulgent and so patient. Perhaps I idealize, a mere observer, looking on from the other side of the fence. But on days when I am rushed and tired and far from any place I can call home, it seems that I see families everywhere, reminders of a lifestyle I have not been able to provide.

“Mom,” you mustn’t be so impatient with me,” my teen-age daughter had said to me this morning.

It saddens me to realize that the expression of patience and joy on the face of this Dallas-bound mother is not one with which I have often been able to turn to my child. More often than not, mine was one of impatience and worry. If she would have misplaced her pass, I know I would have said, not without exasperation, “Find that boarding pass quickly! We'll miss the flight! Why don’t you know where you put it?”

She grew up a hurried child, without that cushion provided by a family of two parents, grandparents and siblings. She grew up in a world where I had to make our way, a world filled with appointments and sitters and deadlines and schedules, a world that did not wait.

“Let’s go,” I’d say to her when she was a toddler, “or I’ll be late.” I had to get her up early so I could get to school and work. Drowsy with sleep, she’d dawdle. “Hurry,” I would tell her. “Go eat your cereal.” “Make sure you have your scarf and mittens. Where are your mittens?”

She was often out of step in a world that moved more quickly than she did. “Late again,” the elementary school teacher would say when she arrived, more often than not still munching on a slice of peanut butter toast. “You’re always late….” The teacher would tell her. “Your homework is late.” My heart would sink those many days as I sat helplessly tied to my desk at work thinking about those carefully lettered assignments still on the kitchen table, about her trying to negotiate her way alone to school or back home, about her taking the bus to her dance lessons.

"My honey, please...." I would say.....  “Be careful.” "Be prepared." “Be on time,” I would admonish her.... “The world is a serious place.”

“But Mom….,” she would inevitably reply. Then she would explain  about the magical new snowfall that she had to explore, about a stray cat that she had found on her way to school and had to bring back home, about the library book she had forgotten and had to return for….

Despite all my worry and endless direction, she simply continued to wander on blithely through life, carefree as any child, and just assumed that the world would love her.

And it did.

Yes, she often filled her mother with much consternation, yet she also won much approval and applause. She fascinated her teachers with her tales of her misadventures, her soaring flights of imagination, and her infectious laugh. She had walked into her school for an  interview and on the spot was given a scholarship to attend. She waltzed into a professional dance audition and was the one invited to stay. She was a spinner of cartwheels, a master of mime, a fount of insatiable curiosity, always posing her inevitable "but why?" Where, her teachers have often asked me, does all her confidence and spontaneity and joy come from?  Where, I have often asked myself, does it all come from?

Yes, I would have thought that this young girl would have turned out to be cautious, overly conscientious, and careworn like her mother. How, I had often asked myself, could I continue to provide her with all she that she needs to grow and to flourish?

Yes, there were many times in my daughter’s life when I could not be there, and there were times when I had to keep her waiting, when I was late. When parents talk to me about letting down their kids, they tell of tantrums and tirades and tears. But she never railed against me or blamed me or complained or made demands. When an exam made me late for her school pageant, she waved to me in her cat costume from the stage. When a flight delay made me late for her graduation, she stepped out of the ordered procession of mortarboards to greet me.

As I now look as this Dallas-bound mother, I wonder at the constancy I demanded of my child as I tried to make our way, juggling schools and jobs and schedules.

Just this morning while packing, I had spoken sharply to her. “You’re so thin,” I said, my offhand comment couching my concern only as a criticism. “Giving me more to worry about,” I said to her.

"Mom, you mustn't be so impatient with me," she said in reply.

As I sit and wait here in this airport, her gentle plaint echoes.... When I begin to think about the life that she and I had, I cannot begin to tally the toll. My school…. Work…. The travel…. The dislocations…. The years she spent in boarding school…. The demands of my work and providing access to her growing opportunities…. I could not begin to fathom how to balance it all. There was just too much in her life that I  could not control.

No, the circumstances for her growth have not been ideal.

She is a caring child who deserved to be doted on, who should have had a rowdy bunch of brothers and sisters, a loving father, a few aunts and uncles, perhaps, even two pairs of fond grandparents. But there was nothing I could do about that. Instead, I got her a shiny red bicycle that she drove around the campus where I worked, went sledding with her at Riverside Park, signed her up for those dance lessons she so wanted to attend, promised on this trip to bring her back a pair of cowboy boots….

It’s almost midnight when I hear the final call for boarding. I see the family with their trick-or-treat bags go through the boarding gate, those denizens of an insulated world where planes can wait and children are cherished. I gather up my raincoat and luggage.

“Cupcakes,” I say to myself when I walk onto the plane. “That’s what I’ll do. When I get home, we’ll make Halloween cupcakes.”

But as our life would have it, as soon as I return, my daughter announces that she has another scholarship, an opportunity of a lifetime.

“I won’t take the job,” I tell her.

“But the scholarship doesn’t matter,” she said heatedly to me.

“Oh yes, it does,” I said back to her.

“So, your reason for coming here is gone?” says the editor who interviewed me, when he calls from Dallas.

In a way, our life has always been like that O. Henry Christmas story, each one of us willing to sacrifice the things that mean a lot for the other, but neither one of us willing to accept that sacrifice from the other. Yes, O. Henry, the master of the unexpected ending….

Weeks later, that airport scene still lingers in my mind. I mention it to a colleague, a married mother of three.

“Lord knows!” she exclaims. “That woman must have been on valium! And those kids, she adds, "they must have been on their best behavior. At home, I’ll bet you that they’re constantly at each other’s throats.” “Besides," she continues, “Maybe they weren’t even her kids. For all you know, they might have been her step kids whom she sees once a year. Or maybe they were kids from her first marriage, living with her ex.

I consider all the possibilities. I want to believe her. But somehow I cannot.

(c)Olya Thompson

Bringing Up Bebe

Oh dear! I was at a gathering and made a faux pas. The gentleman seated next to me was sitting next to a young woman and, next to her, was another woman who looked to be around his age -- who, I assumed, was his wife. He was speaking to me about his 20-something daughter and his 16-year-old son. So I just assumed that the young woman in their midst was their daughter.

Well, he, much chagrined, then introduced me to the older woman -- who, he said, was his sister, and then to the young woman seated between them -- who, he said, was his wife.

I had misinterpreted the situation completely. Or would it not have seemed a bit unusual to anyone? It follows that I was embarrassed. The last thing I would ever have wanted to do would have been to make anyone feel uncomfortable....

I guess the situation I found myself in was as embarrassing as if I had met Callista, Newt Gingrich's third wife, and referred to her, in front of Newt as his daughter. I imagine that the old Newt would have been upset with me. But, Callista is, after all, three years younger than one of Newt's daughters from his first marriage and about the exact age of his other daughter. And then, I must add, in public, at least, his daughters do not seem all too uncomfortable with that. 

The man sitting next to me went on to say that the 16-year-old son was acting out.

"The is a difficult age," I said, diplomatically, not quote knowing how to respond to this new confidence. I began to try to imagine about how a teen-ager might feel when his father marries a woman not much older than he is, and when that woman becomes his step-mother.

Next, he continued our increasingly awkward conversation by referring, in glowing terms, to a recently published book about rearing children in France, that is, to Pamela Druckerman's "Bringing Up Bebe."

I knew about the book and had read the reviews. It is common to make polite conversation about books in  social situations, but I was puzzled by the choice of a book on this particular topic. Parenting and babies?

He then went on to add that -- in addition to his 20-something daughter and 16-year-old son, he had a two-year-old son with his young wife, and that they were always up on the latest child rearing trends.

"I have two grandsons," I said in return, trying to find some common ground. I elaborated that my thirty-something daughter now has two sons, ages four and two.

He looked at me in surprise. "You have two grandsons?" he said.

Relationships that once seemed simple suddenly began to seem more complicated to me than I could ever imagine.

"I know that book you mentioned," I said, changing the topic. To me, Druckerman's discoveries about French parenting, were nothing novel or unusual. "That's how  I was raised," I said, referring to my European parents.

In her book, Druckerman observed that the French were not obsessive about child-rearing, but were far more relaxed than Americans. As a result of her stay in France, Druckerman became a convert to what seemed a different way of life to her: In France, there was no emphasis on the newest toy or newest child-rearing method. Babies slept through the night. Children ate adult foods. Children had time to play freely and to discover the world at their leisure. Parents behaved like adults and let their children simply be children.

To me, her observations seemed like common sense.

I guess it followed that I raised my daughter according to the European model, along with some wisdom gleaned from Dr. Spock, who was very much in vogue at the time.

I then thought back to the era when my daughter was growing up, when women my age were opting out of -- or postponing -- parenthood to pursue careers, and when the birth rate had hit an all time low. And then I thought about how my generation had gone full circle with mothers my age having children and even fertility treatment later in life.

I suppose it's all  for the good that our world has become more child-centered. And over the  years, attitudes toward having children and how to raise them do change, as is even evident when one compares the old Dr. Spock book that was my Bible with the current one for new parents, "What to Expect When You're Expecting."

But in this very competitive city, I do think that parents do go overboard in obsessing about their children, in arranging playdates, and rushing around scheduling lessons for toddlers and even babies, and hyper-ventilating  about getting their children into the right preschool.  New books about trends, such Amy Chua's "Battle Hymn of  the  Tiger Mother," about Chinese parenting, become a sensation and the talk of the city, only to be now displaced by newer ones, such as Druckerman's take on the French version of raising "bebes." Why, I wonder, are American parents so insecure?

It does seem to me that somewhere there must always be a saner, more sensible, middle ground.

It also does seem to me that relationships these days have become so very complex that one must be very cautious and never assume anything.

On Libya and "Democracy"

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I believed in the optimism of the “Arab Spring” and in our country’s support of “incipient democratic movements” in the Arab nations. Like others, I was appalled by the story of the obviously deluded Libyan dictator who was so corrupt that he distributed his country’s wealth among his family, while his own people went without and then, rebelled.

But when I viewed the videotaped actions of these rebels, I wondered what “incipient democratic movements” we were supporting. It was my feeling at the time that, indeed, the barbaric manner of Col. Muammar el-Qadaffi’s death did not bode well for the future of Libya.

After Libyan rebels found the once-charismatic revolutionary leader turned dictator hiding in a drain tunnel, his convoy struck by NATO warplanes, they descended upon him like a pack of wild animals. They even sodomized him with what looked to be a metal stick, all to the incantations of “God is Great,” while filming his ordeal.

Who was this god they were appealing to, I wondered, while rebels tortured and killed the helpless captive.

The graphic videos that resulted, posted on the Internet for all to see, were chilling:

Bright red blood was pouring down and obscuring the side of Qadaffi’s face, who was screaming out in pain. Then, the camera focused on one moment when the dazed dictator, obviously suffering, lifted up his hand to wipe his face, and stared in disbelief at his bloodied palm..

"Keep him alive! Keep him alive!” jeered his attackers. There was an image of him placed atop a jeep or van. There were the sounds of pistol shots. Next, the camera rested on a photo of his dead body. He had been summarily executed, with a bullet wound to his head.

There was talk of an investigation among Western nations, as killing a prisoner of war is against international law, but it never took place.

The official Libyan explanation -- that Qadaffi had been killed in a cross fire – was obviously contradicted by the posted videos. His tormenters and killer were not identified. Rather, they were hailed as national heroes

We left it at that.

“We came, we saw, he died," said our Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, unseemingly blithe, when she was shown the graphic video that confirmed Qadaffi’s death. Her take on Caesar’s famous dictum -- “Veni. Vidi, Vici,” or “I came. I saw. I conquered.” -- seemed somewhat flip and arrogant, in view of this flagrant violation of the laws of the Geneva Convention.

Next the rebels posted a videotape that showed the dictator’s decomposing body, displayed in a glass-covered meat freezer, while an endless line of jubilant Libyan citizens, entire families of men, women and children, paraded past it taking photos – celebrating, I suppose, some sort of gruesome Libyan family day

Who were these people who behaved this way? I began to wonder. In a civilized country, a man who committed the crimes against humanity that Qadaffi did would have been called to account in  an orderly legal proceeding.

I waited for a response of outrage at this scene of desecration but it never came.

The days after Qadaffi’s death were not marked by the proclamation of “freedom” as we had been giddily expecting, but by the proclamation of Shariah law and the revival of bigamy. Shariah law -- the religious law of Islam, abrogates the rights of women, celebrates “vengeance,” and in its extreme, justifies Jihad – or war against non-believers, endorsing killing and even suicide, done in the name of Allah.

Was I the only one left wondering about where this new development, inconsistent with our democratic ideals, not to mention the rights of women, was leading to?

In our press, there was much talk about Libya’s “liberation” and promising future, as television cameras and reports focused on its “freedom-fighters” ravaging what remained of his Qadaffi’s lavish lifestyle. An op-ed in the New York Times actually stated that there was nothing unusual in the manner of Qaddafi’s death, except for the fact that it was filmed. He died, it said, in the manner of all dictators, citing the infamous Caligula. There was even lot of kidding around, as on a late night comedy show, where a little boy was featured on Halloween, walking about encased in a cardboard drainpipe costume and sporting a military-style hat. The official stance was that Qaddadi deserved to die the way he did. See, for example, Charles Krauthammer's "Libyan 'Crossfire'"  in the Washington Post. 

Such a stance seemed all the more troubling, in view of the complicated history our nation has had with the Libyan leader. He was certainly responsible for the bombing of Lockerbie, but he also paid reparations to the families of the victims. He reinstated himself in the eyes of the West, also by agreeing to not to stockpile nuclear weapons and not to harbor terrorists. (In fact, it was his anti-Islam stance that most angered his country’s religious extremists.) Just in the past few years he and members of his family had been formally received as visitors to our nation.

In this day and age, it seemed to me, our country had moved much beyond the days of the treatment of Caligula. Maybe not. As I think of the sickening videos posted on YouTube, in our reaction we seemed no different than the Libyans -- or the ancient Romans who watched gladiators killing each other for sport or enjoyed the spectacle of Christians thrown to the lions -- viewing and celebrating scenes that appeal to humanity’s basest emotions. What kind of nation have we become? And what have we accomplished?

It has become fairly obvious by now that the "incipient democratic movements” we so jubilantly supported have brought into power a bunch of militant Islam factions, who abhor and distrust all things Western, their rage exacerbated by memories of colonialism. In the end all that we left behind as a result of our intervention is a lawless country torn apart by tribal warfare, its fighters no different than the ones who so barbarically killed Qadaffi.

http://olyasthoughtsonlife.blogspot.com/2013/03/on-libya-we-reap-what-we-sow.html

On Carriage Horses in Central Park

I would walk by those horse-drawn carriages as I frequented the Wollman ice-skating rink in Central Park as a child while my father played chess. They stood on 59th Street, across the street from the Plaza Hotel, lined up in a queue. I would also see them as I walked past the Pierre on 5th, the hotel where my school held fund-raisers. Walking through the park after school, I would often see those carriages chauffeuring a couple holding hands or a laughing group that was out on the town.

A city girl, I knew nothing else of horses other than what I observed about those lingering near Central Park. To me, those horse-drawn carriages with their coachmen in top hats and tails seemed romantic. I imagined them a part of the old idyllic pre-Soviet world my expatriate mother told me stories about, clattering over the cobblestones of city streets as she went shopping or taking her over the river and through the woods to and from boarding school. An avid reader, I imagined those carriages were much like the ones heroines of the 19th century European novels traveled in, on their way to experience adventure and intrigue. And I remember watching a Fred Astaire movie, where those carriages provided a romantic presence, particularly in a scene where their doors fly open and the singer dances in the park.

So, when I was a debutante at an expatriate East European ball, there was nothing I could have imagined I would enjoy more than to take a festive ride in a horse-drawn carriage though the park, with a tuxedoed escort and me in my long white silky gown.

Years later, my preteen daughter, in the city for a summer ballet program, took a carriage ride through the park with her classmates. For her, the carriages carried no memories, such as they did for me. The ride was simply a novelty, a fairy tale come true, a memorable treat among the many Central Park had to offer. She was still young enough to delight in riding the carousel at the children’s zoo, to climb the Alice in Wonderland statue, then to wander over to the boathouse and embark on a perilous adventure, losing the oars in the park’s lake. I still have a photo of her and her classmates, posing in the drivers' seat of the carriage, its dapper young driver in a tophat standing in front, and all of them mugging for the camera.

But now, after we returned to live in the city, it seems to me that Cinderella’s coach has turned into a pumpkin, the horses into mice. And those coachmen seem -- not majestic guides to an enchanted evening --- or even drivers offering up a memorable treat -- but ordinary fellows in worn coats, determined to take their carriages out for a turn in order to make a buck.

Could it be that the city has changed in my absence, or is it me? The Cinderella story, I always thought of as metaphor for growing up, for viewing life no longer with youthful flights of fancy, but as it is.

When I see the horses nowadays about the city, they seem incongruous, out of place. A ride in a horse-drawn carriage though the park in the springtime is one thing, but to see those horses standing near the curb in inclement weather or being driven through the rain, sleet and snow is another. And to see them on the very city streets, sharing the asphalt with traffic and the dodging cabs is yet another.

What a shock it is hearing again and again that yet another of those carriage horses had bolted and died in the streets. For me, at least, such incidents serve to epitomize the convergence of modern technology and these olden carriages, the clash of the contemporary city and what some call the “charming” and “quaint” reminders of 'Old New York.'

Yes, what some call “charming” and “quaint” reminders of "Old New York" do hark back to bygone and more tranquil days in the city when the animals were a form of transport, as the many bricked-over stable entrances in the city’s oldest buildings, particularly on the East Side, attest to. The clickety-click of their hooves echo back to the New York of Henry James and Edith Wharton. But the city has long since changed. To residents such as this one, their so-called “charm” has become tired, even cruel.

I chanced to walk by those horses on 59th Street on a cold and rainy Saturday. The daylight was already turning into an early dusk. The carriages looked shabby, not at all like the purveyors of privilege they seemed in my youth. A huge sign mounted on the carriages advertised their rates. Their drivers, calling out to tourists, seemed much like any other vendors hawking their wares in the city.

There were not many takers. The horses simply stood there, gentle, patiently waiting, docile, easily led. The carriage drivers, wearing dingy weather-proofed clothing over their overcoats, waited and waited for business. Theirs was a somewhat futile endeavor, given the darkness and the weather.

I took the occasion to linger and observe. Indeed, some of the animals seemed tired, haggard, like workhorses. I saw one of them take one step forward in line, following the lead of the carriage directly in front, only to be met with a threatening gesture from his driver. Not unlike a dog that has learned to cower, the horse immediately stepped back, with nary a neigh nor a whimper. I looked away.

Yet other animals seemed coddled. They were covered with blankets in the cold wet weather, treated more like trusty friends. One was fed from a store of carrots in a sack, was gently spoken to by name.

As I watched one or two of the vehicles finally take off with a rare customer in tow amid the rainy chill, I marveled at those stoic animals with blinders on, patiently plodding with that rhythmic clickety-click in their step, pulling their load. To me, they seemed a sad symbol of forbearance in a modern world somehow gone awry

Water Globe: Some Thoughts on 9/11

I used to have a water globe, a tourist trinket, of Manhattan Island. It included the Empire State Building, the Chrysler building with its dome, a department store, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the George Washington Bridge, the Statue of Liberty, a yellow cab, and of course, the Twin Towers. The base was made of nicely beveled cherry wood and contained a music box. When I turned the water globe upside down and wound it up with the key beneath, a charming little scenario ensued: Glittery sparkles danced around and landed on the buildings to the tune of  "New York, New York," calling to mind Frank Sinatra's memorable tribute to the City, a place where anything was possible and all dreams came true.

I set the globe on a three-legged side table I had bought in SoHo. Unfortunately, I found that three-legged tables are more decorative than functional. Inevitably one day the globe went crashing to the ground. It was reduced to a mess of broken glass, water mixed with glitter, and a gray three-dimensional metal silhouette of the city attached to the inner workings of a music box. I was broken-hearted. There was something about that trinket that for me that encapsulated the city’s enchantment and promise, and the familiar and most-prominent sites in the city where I grew up gave me comfort. I went to seek out a replacement.

But when I went back to the department store to get a new one, I discovered that the next year’s model had changed. This one was set on a stark black cube. The sparkles had been replaced with snow. And the Twin Towers were missing. I suppose the designer of the globe simply omitted the towers because they no longer existed. But to me at least, that omission seemed an attempt to erase the memories, the nightmare. I thought about the gaping hole in the ground I had seen when I finally forced myself to go downtown and view the actual site. The water globe’s pristine white snow also seemed fake, incongruous in Manhattan, where within hours sidewalks are salted down and cleared, turning snow into huge puddles and mounds of dirty piles, making it impossible to cross the street. Holding the new globe in my hand, I wondered whether the glamour and glitz have gone from the city, whether the city had become a place where dreams turned to a grey slush. The missing buildings once towering over the island and a symbol of a city’s upward striving, now smacked of a city’s hubris, not unlike that Icarus who soared too close to the sun. Eerily, looking back, one can see how our tallest buildings stood out as an easy target to some unknown demented enemy.

I put the replacement globe back on the shelf and decided not to buy it.

I don’t know anyone in the city who was not traumatized by the events of 9/11. The city’s memory, it seems to me, is now divided into pre-9/11 and post-9/11. One day we felt complacent and safe, and then the next, vulnerable and on edge. I remember my daughter frantically calling me on the phone on that fateful day telling me to turn on the television. The scene I witnessed ten years ago was so unreal, surpassing any sort of imagined science fiction movie. I remember the details of that day all too clearly: the clear blue sky, the smoke from the first tower, the second airplane hitting the second tower. I personally could not watch the disaster unfold, and turned the television off after a short clip of then-mayor Rudolph Giuliani standing at the base of one of the buildings shaking hands with firemen headed bravely upstairs, not knowing what horrors awaited them. I remember the next day’s paper featured a photograph taken by a free lance photographer: People were jumping off one of the burning towers. Caught in midair were business people, men and women in suits, falling briefcases, and loose high heeled shoes. “People falling,” I distinctly remember the caption said. I wondered at that imprecise diction. People were actually jumping from the inferno to their deaths. I threw the newspaper out, yet that disturbing and shocking photo of people in midair still stays in my mind. Ever since that day when the skyline immutably changed, life in New York City has never been the same.

I remember the subsequent days and months feeling like I was living in a city under siege. There were police drills of endless rows of squad cars speeding down the avenues with sirens blaring, blocking all traffic; soldiers dressed in camouflage stood with guns posted at the entrances to Central Park and to the subway. Makeshift altars -- made up of flowers, stuffed animals, a candle, a note, a photo -- were all over the city. Everywhere I saw those reminders of those who died. Then there was that pervasive smell – of melted buildings and much worse. I remember the feeling of being trapped on an island that felt like an imminent target. Even my building handed out a protocol of instructions for emergency preparedness, including directions on how to assemble a “go-bag”, should disaster strike. “Code Orange” was the security buzz-word. A Department of Homeland Security was established as we braced ourselves for future attacks. Our city felt more like a target than a welcoming beacon. Many who had another place to go, left. The rest of us huddled closely together, our discussions dominated by whether to leave the city, that is, evacuate, or to stay. Our belief in a predictable world had been shattered. We lost our innocence.

Now, ten years later, as the city nears its day of commemoration of 9/11 and honors the memory of the nearly 3,000 people who died, the shocking immediacy of those much too visceral images broadcast over the television and indelibly captured in photographs, has mercifully faded. The imminent threat of disaster has receded over the years, as a city on the alert, still at times edgy, has returned to almost normal function. After all, no further attacks have occurred. The perpetrator of this act of war, after a long quest, has been duly captured and buried at sea. The threat is now over, we have been told. There is now a sense of closure and vindication. In the meantime, the city has moved on, has had no choice but to move on, has had to rebuild and recover. With the passage of time, that gaping wound in the ground has closed up and has now become a memorial nearing completion.

However, as I try to think back to that very day, all I am left with that image of that fragile glass globe with its missing buildings and black base, and I am at a loss for words. I dread the TV clips and photos that inevitably resurface on each and every 9/11 anniversary, and all the memories that they retrigger. I cannot bear to have all the details of the attack rehashed by the media again, and again, and again. Numerous books have since been written, documenting the event, but I have no interest in reading them. All I can remember how is exposed and vulnerable and helpless we felt in our once-invincible city when our tallest buildings were destroyed. It is still utterly impossible for me to make sense of what transpired quite literally out of the blue and its resultant trauma.

(c) Olya Thompson

Heavy Weighs the Burden of the Royal Crown

 The Japanese Crown Princess Masako, I hear, is depressed. For seven years, she, now 46, has not made any appearances in public. The cause of her depression is the pressure that came with her royal position to produce a male heir to the Japanese dynasty. As the years went by, that pressure mounted, and mounted, and ultimately contributed to what has been widely acknowledged as a royal breakdown.

The Princess is an accomplished woman. She was educated at Harvard and Oxford and speaks several languages, a skill she acquired from living abroad during her father’s various posts as a high power diplomat. She passed the rigorous exams for the foreign service, and was widely expected to succeed her father. Then Prince Neruhito first met her when she was 22 and he was 26. Shortly after, he proposed. Her answer was “no,” as she was not prepared to give up her career. Five years later, as concern mounted about the prince marrying and producing an heir to the dynasty, his response was that he was only interested in Masako. Masoko, then 29, finally agreed to the prince’s proposal. 

The result was a much publicized “fairytale” wedding. Immediately, expectations mounted. The county waited, while the Prince and Princess cheerfully responded to inquiries about a royal heir. As the years went by, the press and public gave voice to a mounting concern about royal succession. Masako’s popularity began to plummet. At 36, the princess became pregnant and the news was prematurely leaked by an intrusive press to an expectant public. Then the princess sustained a miscarriage, much to the disappointment of an expectant nation..Even the Prince intervened, chastising the press for prematurely revealing intimate matters. Normally vivacious, the princess stopped making public appearances. A year later, she had a child, a girl, who is now said to be one of the only joys in her life.   

For a while there was talk of a female heir. Then, that idea was was dropped when the Crown Prince’s brother had a son, who is now expected to inherit the throne. In addition, the most recent news is that her daughter Princess Aiko had been bullied at an exclusive school for royals, became anxious and was afraid to return. Her mother emerged form her seclusion and reappeared in the public eye as she accompanied her daughter to school.

Now the family of the Crown Prince is criticized by the public. The Princess is seen as weak, her daughter, as anxious and vulnerable.  There is talk the public does not want an unhealthy family and now the Prince may lose his Crown.

Rather than scorn, the family deserves empathy. Imagine a modern country where one’s woman’s entire worth is evaluated solely by her ability to bear a male child.

To weigh down a woman nearing middle age with the future of an entire dynasty was unreasonable and cruel. The stress place on Masako was not conducive to child-bearing, or, to say the least, her health.  It is sad that this talented woman, who had so much to offer in serving her country, now spends her days depressed, in seclusion. She sacrificed her intellectual pursuits to become a member of the royalty, and is now viewed as a failure.    

What is it with these royal families who destroy their vulnerable princesses?

Diana is another case in point. Prince Charles, who had put off marriage, was pressured to produce a royal heir and chose the hapless and young Diana. The result was another widely “celebrated” fairytale wedding. Diana managed to produce the requisite “heir” and a “spare,” but hers is a story also sad, that of a marriage gone awry. Diana had the love of the public but not that of her own spouse. Little did she know when she married that her royal husband was committed to another woman he had met long ago. She ended up in a loveless marriage. She rebelled against royal protocol and she suffered a tragic death, beleaguered by a relentless tabloid press.

Can we dare to say that royalty is an outdated remnant of another era? Royal marriages used to be arranged for political reasons. There was no happiness expected within them. Can we dare posit the notion that the royalty has become redundant in a modern age? They do not govern, but serve as mere figureheads. These days, countries are governed by prime ministers and presidents. Can we dare say the ancient system to ensure succession has become outdated and even cruel? We have, I hope, moved way past the days of Henry the Eighth, who beheaded Ann Boelyn, who was only able to bear him a female child. In our world, romance governs choice of partners.

What is it with this obsession with succession?

In real life, sad to say, these highly touted “fairy-tale” weddings turned out to be a fantasy, a mere figment of children’s storybooks. After all, life happens. The typical storybook ending of “living happily after,” unfortunately, often does not.

And the very real suffering of these two contemporary princesses shows that the burden of an antiquated crown does indeed exact a heavy toll.

Enough said about unrealistic standards and the public’s expectations of the royals

Healthcare and the Party of Scrooge

Finally, the United States has taken a huge step to join the ranks of civilized nations in the area of health care. Before the vote, President Obama predicted the bill will pass. “The reason it will pass is because it’s the right thing to do.”

Unfortunately, in their reaction to the legislation and the historic passage of the bill, Senate Republicans, not one of whom voted for the bill, did not rejoice, but showed themselves to be a negative and niggardly party of nay-sayers, the party of Scrooge. Weeks after the passage of the bill, Senate Republicans, not one of whom was in the position of not having heathcare, are still smarting from their defeat.

It was obvious something needed to be done. The system was not working. Those who needed insurance couldn’t get it, and those who had it, were complacent. The inequities in this huge industry needed to be addressed. The most grievous abuses of the health care industry, a lucrative business, needed to be curbed:There was the pre-existing condition clause, that would not grant insurance to those already ill. There was a cap on benefits. Then there were those who got sick and saw their premiums skyrocket or were dropped by their plan. There are the prohibitive costs of a single payer plan. And the prohibitive costs of providing insurance for small business.

The insurance companies’ aim was to make huge profits, not to provide healthcare for those who need it: The lower the risk pool, the better for them. Unlike some Americans seem to think, the biggest reason for bankruptcy in this nation is not irresponsible credit card spending but out of control health care costs, for those who do not have coverage or have lost it.

Senate Republican responses uncannily echoed a return to the social injustices of Dickensian England.“Are there no (debtor’s) prisons? Are there no poorhouses?” was Scrooge’s miserly self-serving response when asked about the less fortunate. “Aren’t there emergency rooms to serve those who do not have insurance? “ was the questionable logic of our Republican nay-sayers. (Don’t they realize how much emergency room care costs? As opposed to preventive treatment?) Prominent also was the selfish argument of the Far Right, “I have health insurance. Why should I be responsible for the health of another?

”This modest bill aimed to help the most vulnerable populations: the sick, the young, the poor, the Tiny Tims. Nonetheless, the Republicans’ reaction to the bill was, “Bah Humbug,” as Scrooge would say. All along, the passage of the bill was marked by obstructionism, and stonewalling, and even derision. They proved themselves a selfish lot, who care little about their neighbor, about their friend, about their fellow man. In their mean-spirited approach, they showed an appalling lack of concern for those fellow Americans who had been subject to the worst abuses of the insurance industry.

What was amazing about the debate surrounding the bill was the outrageous logic and false analogy that Republicans passed off as argument. What was even more amazing, was the incoherent nonsense of the Republican legislators who made fools of themselves. Their response was angry, petty and perverse: The right to health care is not granted in the Bill of Rights, they argued. (But what does health care have to do with a political statement regarding rights of people rebelling from an autocratic England? We did not rebel against England because of healthcare!) Neither is healthcare guaranteed in the Constitution, they incongruously argued. (But doesn’t this political document about the founding of a nation state that all men are created equal, giving more heft to the argument for the expansion of health care to all of America’s people?)

 As I was beginning to write this, I even got an urgent email, from a doctor, who stated in his self-serving arguments that no one has "a right” to health care. Has he forgotten his oath that by virtue of his training, he has an ethical obligation to serve his fellow human beings? No one has “a right” to his services, he argued, as though he were a mere entrepreneur.

Even more amazing, were the threats and violence that followed. “Don’t retreat, reload,” said Sarah Palin, who sounded more like a rabble rouser than a concerned citizen. What is that supposed to mean?Nancy Pelosi, the Speaker of the House, even received threatening phone calls.

Embarrassingly for our nation, Republicans showed themselves to be anything but civilized, but rather, the party of greed, subject to special interests, and lacking, to say the least, in generosity, good will and grace toward their fellow man.

After the passage of this bill, Obama echoed former Senator Kennedy’s pronouncement that healthcare is not only a right, but a moral imperative. Our society has an ethical responsibility to treat those who are ill. Everyone should share the risk.It is time for Republicans to drop their selfish garble. It is time to ask ourselves who we are as a people. It is time for all decent Americans to stand up to the tyranny of insurers and their profit driven industry.” It is also time for all Americans to pull together and say “We did it.”

One can only hope that our nay-sayers get a visit from the ghost of Marley, and like Scrooge, be forced to come to their senses.

Stroller Parade: On Multiple Births and Ethics

I watch the endless parade of strollers pushed by mommies and nannies that makes its way down the Avenue in front of my building.  Double and even triple strollers are a commonplace on the sidewalks of the city. Twins, once a rarity, are not uncommon. The year 2006 recorded the highest birth rate for twins, double the number in 1980.

As access and demand for fertility treatment spreads, more and more infants born are twins and even triplets. As couples flock to fertility treatment, reproductive medicine doctors routinely warn them that a woman is not built to carry more than one child. That there are inherent dangers in having twins, including low birth weight and premature birth, not to mention other very serious complications, like cerebral palsy, heart defects, developmental problems, and even death.

It broke my heart recently to read a Times story where a mother describes her premature twins as looking, not like the normal babies she expected, but as “aliens.” The babies are tiny; each one weighs three pounds, one ounce. They are kept alive on respirators that force air in and out of their lungs, are fed through tubes, and attached to heart monitors. It is inconceivable that these babies do not suffer, do not feel pain. The twins were a product of in vitro fertilization. The couple opted to have two embryos implanted, although the woman was cited as an ideal candidate for a single embryo transfer. She says pregnancy had become an obsession -- as it has with many of the young couples who flock to fertility centers today. After a prolonged stay in a neonatal unit, their twins finally got to go home.  This outcome was considered a success by the clinic that helped create them, yet it traumatized the parents, not to mention the babies. In another case cited, two embryos began to develop. One died inside the womb while the other was born prematurely, weighing a little over a pound. The child survived but has significant disabilities.

Unfortunately, because fertility doctors are rainmakers these days, their success is measured by the number of births they produce. They succumb to economic pressure as couples opt to implant as many embryos as possible, in hopes one will survive. As a result, our hospital neonatal units are now facing a nightmare resulting from premature multiple births.

Because the fertility business is money-driven, the higher the numbers of births, even including unhealthy preterm births, the higher the rating of the clinic and the more business they get. In Europe, where socialized medicine is common, doctors typically initially implant only one embryo when doing in vitro.

During the last 20 years we have seen an exponential drop in infant health in this country, partly due to the rise of premature babies stemming from in vitro and multiple pregnancies. In infant health, we now rank way behind European countries. A March of Dimes study cited infertility treatment as one of the main reasons for a 35 percent increase in premature infants.

I first began hearing about fertility treatment when professional women my age who had opted out of having children then turned around and decided on a last-ditch effort to beat time.  Artificial insemination and in vitro fertilization became buzzwords for professional couples. That’s when a rise in twins, fraternal twins, that is, was first noted. I think back to the experience of a physician friend who underwent in vitro. During her pregnancy several implanted embryos began to develop. That was the first time I heard the term ”embryo reduction,” that is, a euphemism for aborting embryos so one or two could survive. The twins that resulted were nonetheless born pre-term, a little over a pound each, and spent months at a neonatal unit at the hospital.  One seemed healthy, while the other had problems, including cerebral palsy and developmental disabilities, and was sent home with a heart monitor. Then the seemingly healthy one suddenly died. At the time, I thought about this horrendous tragedy as a sad anomaly, and I could not begin to imagine the feelings of the mother.

Now, as fertility treatment has spread, we have come to take the process for granted. On this matter, technology has moved way ahead of ethics. Are we so selfish and desperate to replicate our genes at any cost, even at the cost of the health of our own children? In the process, do we not devalue the gift of life?

Finally, doctors are becoming more vocal about the dangers of the multiple pregnancies that many have come to take for granted. In fact, the new President for the American Society for Reproductive Medicine, Dr. William E. Gibbons, says the Society is continuing to refine guidelines to reduce the incidence of multiple births.

Hospitals and insurers are also beginning to look closely at the financial costs of neonatal care stemming from in vitro that can easily approach 1 million for one child. They are considering something akin to the European model.

I will end with a story of a pregnancy that ends on a note different from the scenarios described above:
I am in the hospital visiting a couple who are very dear to me. Their son was born just this morning. He looks so peaceful as he sleeps.  His father is holding him, snuggly wrapped in a receiving blanket. The father hands him to me.  The baby begins to awaken and then responds to the gentle rhythms of my rocking him. He clenches his tiny fists and unclenches them. He puckers his lips and makes a sucking motion. He is a miracle. A perfect little human being. What does he think of this world? Does he dream? I wonder. What does he dream about?  The womb?  His face is angelic. He sleeps with the innocence and calm possible only in an infant. A line from Coleridge’s “Frost at Midnight comes to mind, “My babe, so beautiful, it fills my heart with tender gladness to look at thee.” What does he feel? I wonder. Hunger? Yes. Comfort? Yes. Pain? Yes. When the nurse comes in to take a blood sample, he lets out a cry. His mommy, drained from the efforts of the day and lying on the hospital bed, takes him from me. He lies against her as he nurses, hearing her familiar heartbeat, her soothing voice. He was delivered at the hospital with a perfect bill of health, according to a scale on rating infant health at time of birth, the APGAR score, named after the pediatrician first used it. Health, the nurse tells me, is directly related to birth weight and the age of gestation. The infant was full term. Unlike the types of births we seem to increasingly hear about these days as medical technology expands, there were no complications.  His parents were worried, as many couples do, about their ability to conceive, but they did not join in the current rush to fertility treatment. Their result was a healthy normal child. It was not long before the little family left the hospital with him.

Unlike what fertility clinics seem to think with their numbers game that considers the premature births of twins and triplets a success, and so take risks with the health of our children, theirs is indeed a really good outcome. 

On New York City's Out-of-Control Public Schools

I was sorting through the detritus piled on my coffee table: applications, transcripts, advertisements for credit by examination, course brochures, grade reports, certification exam results, fingerprint forms, pricey home-study textbooks.

That was all that remained from my misguided quest to become a teacher in the New York City public schools.

It seemed so simple at first. I had heeded the idealistic call to public service. "I appreciate the value of a classical education," I wrote in my cover letter. "I remember those who influenced me and would like to pass on my enthusiasm to your students."

"If you already have a master's," a recruiter told me, "you only need 18 credits of education courses. And you need a year of teaching experience."

I had already easily passed the State teachers' exam. The so-called "courses" that I proceeded to take by examination were likewise nonchallenging, a mere exercise in paperwork -- and an obvious  financial boon to the company that offered them for college credit.

I must say, I  expected something more rigorous. I was beginning to wonder what I was getting into....

My years of teaching college, I was told, didn't count. To get the experience, an assistant principal said I could work as a full-time substitute teacher at his school, which billed itself as "an academic preparatory school."

"A full-time substitute," I wondered. "What was that?" I imagined I would be taking over for a teacher who had to take some sort of extended medical absence. Well, I soon found myself filling in for all the numerous teachers in the school who did not hesitate to take all their union-allotted sick days and leave.

Pollyanna that I was, I walked into the classrooms expecting to communicate my love for reading and writing and to be accorded the respect I had given my own teachers.

No one prepared me for the chaos that would ensue. I had no Virgil as my guide as I braved the inferno. As soon as I handed out the day's assignment, students automatically dropped it on the classroom floor already littered with candy wrappers, or wadded it up and tried to pitch it into the trash basket. Students came to class with no paper or pen, not to mention textbooks. They brought their cell phones that kept going off. They wore earphones and listened to rap music so loud that it permeated the classroom. Students used profanity toward me and each other to such an extent that it seemed an integral part of their vocabulary. Fighting students tumbled onto the floor and knocked over desks and chairs. On two occasions I found myself on the floor. Several times, I observed students led away in hand-cuffs.

"You tell us to stop playing cards," said one student to me, "and I will take your handbag." Another said, "Are you out of your mind?" when I told him to take off his earphones. Talk about courtesy and respect.... There was the class where students spent the period chasing each other. Then there was the student who bolted out of the classroom and in his rage put his fist through the glass in the door.

The bottom windows in the classrooms had to be locked because students threw books and soda cans out the window. Students disconnected the  emergency phones that were in  each classroom. Stink bombs were set off in the halls. Fire alarms went off at random.  Students freely roamed the hallways during class time. Teachers were asked to patrol the halls in addition to their educational duties.

I asked the department chairwoman what to do about cheating, and she shrugged. That seemed the least of the dilemmas the school was facing. If I mentioned any problem, the assistant principal was congenial as always and waved me away. For him, it was merely another typical day.

Nobody talked about the discipline problem that was as big as an elephant in your living room. Teachers dared not complain, lest they be accused of poor classroom management and be blamed for student misbehavior. "A simple complaint," one veteran teacher once told me "is regarded as a cause of retribution by the administration. It's like living in a Communist country."

Where were those teachers, I wondered, for whom I was expected to fill in on a regular basis? Why did they call in sick so often? Perhaps they were simply biding their time until retirement. Or perhaps they were just burned out from coping with the chaos that ensued every day....

But what about a school's obligation to teach students? I at first wondered. Weren't there any sort of requirements that needed to be met? And what about homework? I had even ingenuously inquired. After all, when I taught college I never missed a day of class, and I also quite naturally expected my students to learn something.... And to hand in assignments.... Silly me.  Having come in with such preconceived notions, I soon learned that I had missed the boat entirely....

If I had a question about how the education system works, I was lost in a bureaucratic underworld. Despite my many queries, no one could confirm how much substitute teaching was needed for certification. One year, I was told initially. Two years, said a different administrator. The rule had been changed to three, said another nonchalantly. How could I or anybody be expected to endure three years of this? I wondered.  Or even one? Nobody was accountable and nobody cared.

Unlike Don Quixote, I could not persist in battling windmills. I had to face reality. Despite the school's stated mission, its "quest for excellence," I soon  found that I was not expected to enlighten anyone. (Neither, I  began  to realize,  were the other teachers.) I was there as a baby-sitter, no-- more than that -- as some sort of security officer to reign in the out--of-control discipline problems that predominated in the public schools. My so-called "school," I realized, was nothing more than a "warehouse."

Not only were the students lost to learning. The teachers themselves were also victims -- fearful to complain about what went on in their classrooms, lest they lose their jobs; weary of the daily onslaught of disruptive behavior; and of being expected to do not much more than clock in their time. The only requirement that I was given was to take attendance -- in order to ensure the school continued to receive its government finding.

I could not believe any type of school was allowed to function this way. Actually, I could not even believe that all I was privvy to was even legal.  And we talk about school reform. The system was self-perpetuating, I realized, because no one who was invested in it dared to question it for fear of repercussions.. And why, I began to wonder, were those in charge of this "reign-of-terror" not held responsible?

The last straw in my short-lived education career was a course I had to take that featured a video on how to fend off an attack by a student. With my gentle disposition, I had long since realized that I did not have the requisite military temperament. Athough I bought the $25 money order to accompany my teaching application for the following year, I just couldn't bring myself to fill out the form. I simply had to give up on my misguided quest. And I stopped answering those early-morning phone calls asking me to come in yet again and sub.

With much relief, I said goodbye to all that.

To say the least, all those advertisements about "making a difference" as a teacher turned out to be misleading. I cannot begin to explain how powerless I was made to feel  in this dysfunctional system. And I shudder to think about how this school was preparing its students for the future by allowing behavior such as I witnessed.

And all the while the uninitiated constantly editorialize about why the city school system has problems retaining capable teachers and has under-performing schools

This Original Form of this Article was Published in Newday. All Rights Reserved.

Court's Busing Order is the Wong Stop

WHEN I TAUGHT English at the University of North Carolina in the 1980s, I enrolled my daughter in a private school in Charlotte that offered her a scholarship. It was not long before I learned that the academic tradition of private schools there was not the time-honored one of the Northeast. Their establishment was linked to a 1969 court ruling, upheld by the Supreme Court in 1971, that attempted to achieve the integration of two separate but unequal public school systems. One of them was for blacks and one for whites. These schools dated back to the start of the first court-ordered busing.

So, how could a Federal District Court judge recenty rule that busing was no longer necessary in Charlotte because "all vestiges of past discrimination" have disappeared? Last month Judge Robert D. Potter said that the Charlotte-Mecklenburg school district had complied with the original decision of the Supreme Court. But what the initial 1969 Federal District Court ruling actually did was prompt a mass exodus from the Charlotte-Mecklenburg school system into newly established private schools like the one my daughter was enrolled in.

And it prompted the vehement objections of those who could not afford to opt out and did not want their children bused to schools in black neighborhoods. As one of my daughter's private school classmates asserted, "My mother would never let me go to school with them. "

My daughter was not happy in her "elite" school. Being accustomed to the diversity that characterized New York City, she felt out of place in a school that was almost all white and affluent. It was not long before she moved on.

I must say that I, too, felt somewhat of an outsider in a city where old habits died hard and residential segregation and racial discrimination were rampant. "What are you doing here? Why aren't you with your people?" one of my neighbors even asked me, perplexed by my New York City and my Eastern European origins.)

Though the city's booming bank business may have had a few black employees, the races did not mix socially. The scenario was the same at the college where I taught; the student population was homogeneous - except for the occasional token black basketball player. Blacks had their own state colleges. In short, the Charlotte I experienced was a place where Jim Crow was still very much alive.

Clearly, Judge Robert D. Potter merely caved in to what had always been the status quo in Charlotte. Not surprisingly, his decision came in the wake of a lawsuit by white parents who contended that Charlotte's educational policies discriminate against whites and objected because their children were not able to go to a neighborhood school.

And, amazingly, the residential segregation that persists in Charlotte, he concluded, was not a school system's responsibility to rectify.

Black educators certainly did not agree with this decision. School board officials said they needed more time because the school system had not done all it could to eliminate disparities between the black and white neighborhood schools. In response to thenobjections, the judge found it "bizarre" that the school board took the position that busing had not achieved its goals. "Now it wished to use that order as a pretext to pursue race-conscious, diversity enhancing politics in perpetuity," wrote this former campaign worker for Sen. Jesse Helms, who even collected signatures on a petition against the busing plan in 1969 --as though the goals of integration and diversity were an aberration.

So, where does all this finally leave Charlotte,the first city in the country to implement busing in 1969 in order to equalize the disparity between black schools and white schools? The city, it looks like, has merely come full circle. Busing ended at the same starting point where it originated, with white children remaining in their schools and black ones in theirs.

It seems those "separate but equal" standards still apply. In this, unfortunately, Charlotte is not alone, but part of a disheartening trend. As has happened in other cities in the past five years, the same courts that imposed busing plans have dismantled them, officially declaring their school systems "desegregated."

Sadly, it looks like the legacy of busing and integration will not become that of a historic goal achieved but a strategy that has been exhausted.

The Story of a Coyote Named Pierre

Imagine my shock when I first heard about Pierre, the coyote that had been spotted in Central Park, in my own urban backyard -- in a place that seemed way too near.

After all, during my childhood summers in the more remote pine forests of the Catskills, the coyote was the beast I feared most. Back then, I was occasionally awakened by a distant eerie howl that echoed in the dark night. "Listen to that," my father, the wildlife lover, would observe with fascination. "A coyote." For me, a city girl, then about 7 or 8 -- who was already convinced that the Loch Ness Monster lived in the nearby lake -- that response was not reassuring. And his talk of bobcats in the area didn't help allay my trepidation.

Then came the day I was roused from my reading by an unspeakable noise -- a frantic yelping and a high-pitched, ear-piercing screeching, accompanied by howls of pain. I saw a mixed-breed mutt and a coyote engaged in a fierce fight in the broad daylight right on the newly mowed lawn. The animals reared up on their hind legs. Then the coyote dashed off into the forest, leaving the dog mauled. Its owner fired a fatal shot to get the dog out of his pain. I will always remember the starkness of the blast that reverberated in the silence of our country retreat.

However, as I looked at that recent newspaper photo of the coyote captured in Central Park -- tranquilized, strapped to a stretcher, with its paws hanging over, its pointy ears, its expression docile rather than fierce -- I felt pity rather than fear. The story of the plight of the lone animal as a terrified fugitive -- pursued by animal workers, police (not to mention a helicopter) -- dodging back and forth among my familiar childhood haunts: the Wollman Rink, the Great Lawn and the Mall, where he finally collapsed -- seemed incredible. And to many in the city, including myself, it was even heart-rending.

After all, the photo is cute; the creature seems harmless, looks much like a scruffy dog. "It's kind of neat," a friend said about the incident. "They should have left him alone," was another city-dweller's sentiment.

About the latter point of view, I wasn't too sure. So I asked Parks Commissioner Henry Stern what he thought.  "It's an extraordinary incident in the city's biological history," he said, echoing the general amazement and fascination of  New Yorkers at finding a wild animal in their midst. But he also talked about the incident tongue-in cheek, citing it as another one of the advantages of the city's leash law: "to save your dog from being eaten." He really wasn't kidding:

Indeed, there was a danger posed by Pierre, and we could not have left him there. According to the National Wildlife Foundation, coyotes have been known to attack small dogs and other small animals and even small children in urban centers all over the country; in recent years, the number of attacks have been  on the rise. The presence of Pierre, which seemed odd to New Yorkers, was but a reflection of what was happening all over the country.

While some species of wildlife have declined with development, coyotes -- much like Wily E. Coyote in the Roadrunner cartoon -- are extremely adaptable creatures.  Originally from the West, they have spread all over the country and even to the cities. In the state of New York, they have been migrating southward, showing up in recent years in the suburbs, such as Westchester, then The Bronx, and now, somehow, even in Central Park.

"We are afraid to let our pets out," one suburban homeowner said. Another, in Westport, Conn., said she fears for her child.

"There is a danger when an animal one admires from afar comes too close," said Richard Lattis, the President of the Wildlife Conservation Society. (Coyotes, after all, are natural predators; in their upstate New York woodland habitat, they kill fawns; traveling in packs, they attack deer.) "Fear causes people to look at predators in a certain way. The coyote," Mr. Lattis said, "had no chance in the city."

So it seemed. Coyotes, to say the least, are considered a nuisance, not an endangered species. From this standpoint alone, the fate of the Central Park coyote was becoming unfortunately all too clear.
Oh dear. Indeed, like many New Yorkers, I found myself beginning to fear for the coyote named Pierre.

But in what can only be described as a quintessential New York City story, the coyote has been given a permanent home. Mr. Lattis arranged to have the beast serve as the very point of the coyote exhibit, which tells how the animals have thrived, despite efforts to exterminate them. "Now he's a New Yorker," Mr. Lattis commented, not without a hint of civic pride.

"Lucky Pierre," he was named by Mr. Stern. "Lucky," I suppose, because he had been spared; "Pierre" because he was living in a cave in a fenced-in nature preserve right across from the elegant Pierre Hotel on Fifth Avenue. 

Soon, the coyote that won the hearts of city-dwellers will be making his debut. Having already undergone his physical at the Bronx Zoo, he is now under quarantine in Queens, getting acclimated, getting to know his coyote counterparts, preparing for this grand event. He will be stepping out at the Queens Zoo for his formal presentation to New York society. Well-rehearsed, I imagine, his silver and black fur glistening, Pierre will make his bow. Then New Yorkers will get the opportunity to see him happily ensconced in his new home, to wish him well, and to cheer.  Zoo officials now estimate that this will occur toward the end of May or in early June. 

I am a lover of happy endings, and am particularly delighted with the outcome of the story of Pierre. Nonetheless, as I now walk about the pathways of Central Park and admire the daffodils and even spot some violets, I find myself wondering about what other wild creature will next make its appearance there.

For some reason, I keep thinking of bobcats.

Carriage Horses

I would walk by them as I frequented the Wollman ice-skating rink as a child while my father played chess. They stood on 59th Street, across the street from the Plaza Hotel, lined up in a queue. I would also see them as I walked past the Pierre on 5th, the hotel where my school held fund-raisers. Walking though the park after school, I would often see those horse-drawn carriages chauffeuring a couple holding hands or a laughing group that was out on the town.
A city girl, I knew nothing else of horses other than what I observed about those lingering near Central Park. To me, those horse-drawn carriages with their coachmen in top hats and tails seemed romantic. I imagined them a part of the old idyllic pre-Soviet world my expatriate mother told me stories about, clattering over the cobblestones of city streets as she went shopping or taking her over the river and through the woods to and from boarding school. An avid reader, I imagined those carriages were much like the ones heroines of the 19th century European novels traveled in, on their way to experience adventure and intrigue. And I remember watching a Fred Astaire movie, where those carriages provided a romantic presence, particularly in a scene where their doors fly open and the singer dances in the park.
So, when I was a debutante at an expatriate East European ball, there was nothing I could have imagined I would enjoy more than to take a festive ride in a horse-drawn carriage though the park, with a tuxedoed escort and me in my long white silky gown.
Years later, my preteen daughter, in the city for a summer ballet program, took a carriage ride through the park with her classmates. For her, the carriages carried no baggage or memories such as they did for me. The ride was simply a novelty, a fairy tale come true, a memorable treat among the many Central Park had to offer. She was still young enough to delight in riding the carousel at the children’s zoo, to climb the Alice in Wonderland statue, then to wander over to the boathouse and embark on a perilous adventure, losing the oars in the park’s lake. I still have a photo of her, standing in front of the carriage, its driver grinning, and she, mugging for the camera.
But now, after we recently returned to live in the city, it seems to me that Cinderella’s coach has turned into a pumpkin, the horses into mice. And those coachmen seem -- not majestic guides to an enchanted evening --- or even drivers offering up a memorable treat -- but ordinary fellows in worn coats, determined to take their carriages out for a turn in order to make a buck.
Could it be that the city has changed in my absence, or is it me? The Cinderella story, I always thought of as metaphor for growing up, for viewing life no longer with youthful flights of fancy, but as it is.
When I see the horses nowadays about the city, they seem incongruous, out of place. A ride in a horse-drawn carriage though the park in the springtime is one thing, but to see those horses standing near the curb in January’s inclement weather or being driven through the rain, sleet and snow is another. And to see them on the very city streets, sharing the asphalt with traffic and the dodging cabs is yet another.
But what a shock it was hearing about one of those carriage horses falling dead in the cold wet street. On a rainy day, the story said, the horse was electrocuted after stepping on a Con Edison manhole cover. The frayed electrical wires beneath had been corroded by salt that had been spread on the streets.. The animal’s metal horseshoes had made all the difference between life and death. For me, at least, this incident itself seemed to epitomize the convergence of modern technology and these olden carriages, the clash of the contemporary city and what some call the “charming” and “quaint” reminders of Old New York.”
Yes, what some call “charming” and “quaint” reminders of Old New York” do hark back to bygone and more tranquil days in the city when the animals were a form of transport, as the many bricked-over stable entrances in the city’s oldest buildings, particularly on the East Side, attest to. The clickety-click of their hooves echo back to the New York of Henry James and Edith Wharton. But the city has long since changed. To residents such as this one, their so-called “charm” has become tired, even cruel.
“She liked this job,” the horse’s owner reportedly said.
She liked this job?
I chanced to walk by those horses on 59th Street on a cold and rainy Saturday about a week or so after that freak accident. The daylight was already turning into an early dusk. The carriages looked shabby, not at all like the purveyors of privilege they seemed in my youth. “Thirty-five dollars for the first half-hour,” a sign mounted on the carriages said. Their drivers, calling out to tourists, seemed much like any other vendors hawking their wares in the city.
There were not many takers. The horses simply stood there, gentle, patiently waiting, docile, easily led. The carriage drivers, wearing dingy weather-proofed clothing over their overcoats, waited and waited for business. Theirs was a somewhat futile endeavor, given the darkness and the weather.
I took the occasion to linger and observe. Indeed, some of the animals seemed tired, haggard, like workhorses. I saw one of them take one step forward in line, following the lead of the carriage directly in front, only to be met with a threatening gesture from his driver. Not unlike a dog that has learned to cower, the horse immediately stepped back, with nary a neigh nor a whimper. I looked away.
. Yet other animals seemed coddled. They were covered with blankets in the cold wet weather, treated more like trusty friends. One was fed from a store of carrots in a sack, was gently spoken to by name.
As I watched one or two of the vehicles finally take off with a rare customer in tow amid the rainy chill, I marveled at those stoic animals with blinders on, patiently plodding with that rhythmic clickety-click in their step, pulling their load. To me, they seemed a sad symbol of forbearance in a modern world somehow gone awry.

Keep Those Ugly Twenties in Your Pockets

I AM USED to tradition. I don’t like surprises. Yet, as I go to the automatic teller to get some cash, suddenly out comes this brash $20 bill that looks remarkably different.
I do a double take. Andrew Jackson’s face has become funny-looking in that large off-center oval, his shock of wavy hair and long, thin, angular face looming, his shoulders and cape cut off. What has the U.S. Bureau of Engraving and Printing made of the dignity of our president? Then, the ornate ribbonlike banner on top, with The United States of America printed on it, is gone. What remains in its place is merely a straightforward typeface seemingly unworthy of a national currency that used to be backed by a standard of gold: Federal Reserve Note, the bill bluntly states.
The name of our country is pushed off to the side. And the once-majestic-looking White House, surrounded by greenery that used to fade gently into the background, has become merely a stark building surrounded by an oval suspended in white space. Gone also are the graceful, classical designs that used to border the building. I wonder if the Bureau of Engraving and Printing couldn’t have been more discreet in its design – if it couldn’t have produced a more pleasing arrangement.
I must say I like the looks of the old bill better. Its ornate, elegant, balanced design makes it look serious, dependable, reflecting what I would expect from our national currency. Then, on the new bills, there are those odd, irritating, contemporary pop-art features. That weird hologramlike number 20 that turns bright green under the light. And there is that jarringly large number 20 that looks more like what you find on Monopoly money. These sans-serif numbers differ conspicuously in typeface from those printed in the other three corners. They make the new bill seem somewhat vulgar, garish, when compared to the more dignified old bills.
These incongruous bills look like the product of some jokester. Their parts don’t match. They look fake, not to be taken seriously. They remind me of a game, one of those popular how-many-things-
wrong-can-you-find-in-this-picture puzzles for children.
As I look more and more carefully at the bill, I find there are more and more changes to be uncovered – like the watermark duplicating the picture of the president that is revealed when I hold the bill up to the light.
The Treasury Department, of course, for security purposes, has not revealed all the bills’ new features. I think back to the hoopla when the new $100 bill made its debut more than two years ago. But the announcement of the new twenties went by almost unnoticed; that is, until those strange bills began to appear. Of course, any merchant will tell you the new $20 bill doesn’t look all that different from the new hundreds or new fifties. But, like most freelance writers, I don’t carry wads of money.
Unlike some of the tourists I see at stores carrying hundreds in gold money clips and unlike Russians, for whom the $100 bill has become a collectors’ item, I rarely even use denominations of $50 or $100s and, indeed, would find them awkward, hard to break.
My automatic teller, like most, dispenses twenties. Fives and tens and twenties are what I, like most Americans, conduct transactions with – or with a credit card. So I have never before inspected the new hundreds and fifties very closely. But, as I now glance at a $50 bill, it seems to me that Grant, with his solid face, closely cropped hair and clipped beard, and sporting a bow tie, is better centered in that oval; his portrait more tasteful than that ridiculous blown-up picture of our poor lanky Jackson.
This is not to say the Bureau of Engraving and Printing intentionally meant to make a deceased president look silly. The new $20 bill is indeed clever and utilitarian in its purpose to combat more and more sophisticated methods of counterfeiting. And it does look updated, more modern. It is a reflection of a different pragmatic era where aesthetics don’t matter.
Besides, many of today’s financial transactions are electronic, involving money we never actually see, so the look of our currency isn’t so important as it used to be. Paper dollars, in our country at least, are slowly becoming irrelevant. Being replaced at the rate of 1 percent a week, our traditional twenties may soon be products of a bygone era. And in the year 2000, I hear, a new version of a $10 bill and a $5 bill is expected, and then, a new $1 bill is to follow. Alas, I will miss those old bills.
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