Who Owns an Icon?

An Obsession with Anne Frank:  Meyer Levin and the Diary

Lawrence Graver. University of California Press, 1995. 254 pp.

By P.H.I.Berroll

In his novel The Ghost Writer, Philip Roth observed that if the Jewish religion had saints, Anne Frank would have been canonized.  More than fifty years after she perished in the Bergen-Belsen death camp, the teenaged girl has taken on a symbolism beyond the facts of her short life and the diary of her two years in hiding.           

But has Anne’s basic humanity become distorted in the process?  Some critics found the recent Academy Award-winning documentary Anne Frank Remembered “revelatory” because it depicted many mundane details of her life, both before and during the Holocaust.  This was confirmation of an indisputable fact: for many people, Anne has become – for better or worse – more of an icon than a flesh-and-blood human being.           

This phenomenon is at the heart of Lawrence Graver’s An Obsession with Anne Frank:  Meyer Levin and the Diary. Graver, the author of critical studies of Beckett, Conrad and Carson McCullers and a faculty member at Williams College, here recounts the bitter dispute between a Jewish-American writer, who saw Anne as one kind of symbol, and his opponents, who saw her as quite another kind. On one level, it is a graphic, chilling account of one man’s descent into conspiracy-mongering paranoia. But it also raises issues about anti-Semitism, Jewish identity and the conflict between art and politics that persist to the present day.

At the center of the book is Meyer Levin (1902-1981) – novelist, journalist and essayist, a man who at the height of his career enjoyed both popular success and respect, if not adoration, from many serious critics. The fact that he is widely forgotten today is not simply due to changing literary tastes.

Graver begins his story in Paris in 1950, when Levin was given a copy of the French edition of the Diary by his wife. By then a writer of some repute, Levin had been profoundly affected by his experiences as a war correspondent in Europe, where he had witnessed the liberation of Dachau, Buchenwald and other camps. Already insecure and conflicted about his place in the world (and America) as a Jew, Levin was provoked by these new horrors into a sense of mission: he was determined to bring the full story of the Holocaust to the widest possible audience, Jews and gentiles alike.

When Levin read the Diary, he knew he had found his instrument.  The book had been a critical and financial success in Holland and France, but Otto Frank, Anne’s father, had been unable to find an English-language publisher.  Levin offered his services to Frank, who accepted.           

Over the next two years, Levin tirelessly promoted the Diary in the U.S., acting as an informal agent for Frank. When the book was finally published by Doubleday in 1952, Levin praised it on the front page of The New York Times Book Review (without mentioning his personal involvement). Both Doubleday executives and other observers gave Levin much of the credit for the Diary‘s becoming a best seller in this country.

Meanwhile, Levin was also corresponding with several theatrical producers about adapting the Diary for the stage. The most prominent of these, Cheryl Crawford, agreed to give him the inside track on an adaptation, as did Otto Frank – despite Levin’s lack of playwriting experience.

It was at this point, as Graver recounts in painstaking detail, that things began to go badly. Levin gave the first draft of his adaptation to Crawford, who did not like it; she showed it to her colleague Kermit Bloomgarden, who was even more negative. Frank began to think about using another writer, though he still felt he had an obligation to at least consider Levin. At the same time, Levin insisted that he had “a right” to adapt the book – despite the fact that he and Frank had never signed a formal agreement.

Finally, Frank gave Bloomgarden the go-ahead to produce the play, and Bloomgarden hired a veteran husband-and-wife team of Hollywood scriptwriters, Frances Goodrich and Albert Hackett, to write it. For Levin, this was the ultimate insult.  Not only was he being deprived of an important creative (and financial) opportunity; even worse, that opportunity was being given to gentiles, whom he felt could not possibly convey the book’s essential message – that Anne and her family were persecuted, and eventually slaughtered, solely because they were Jews.           

When the play opened in October 1955, it confirmed Levin’s worst fears. “Most people,” Graver writes, “adored the Goodrich and Hackett Diary because they felt it transformed horror into something consolatory, inspirational, and even purgatorial… People came out of the theater thinking not of all the eradicated lives and the monstrous implications of the German attempt at genocide, but rather of a smiling young girl who affirmed that ‘In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.'”

Levin sued Frank, Crawford, and Bloomgarden for fraud and breach of contract, and Goodrich and Hackett for plagiarism. He also mounted a campaign in the press in which he asserted that his play had been “suppressed” by the Broadway establishment for being “too Jewish.”  Increasingly paranoid, he claimed that Lillian Hellman, who had recommended the Hacketts to Bloomgarden, was a key figure in the conspiracy. He was convinced that Hellman – who as Graver notes was “an assimilated German-Jew [and] an anti-Zionist” – had determined that only a play reflecting her views would be produced.

The case became a cause célébre in both the Jewish and entertainment communities; at one point, Eleanor Roosevelt was asked by Levin to intervene (she begged off). The ugliest aspect was Levin’s treatment of Otto Frank, a decent man who only wanted to create something positive out of his life-shattering tragedy.  By any standard, Levin’s actions toward him were reprehensible – besides tying him up with litigation, Levin attacked Frank in the press, and wrote him insulting letters that accused him of betraying his daughter’s memory.

Levin’s behavior would normally preclude the reader from having any sympathy for him, and Graver hardly condones it. But the author repeatedly shows that Levin ultimately did more damage to himself than to Frank, or anyone else.  His marriage nearly collapsed; he became alienated from many of his friends (Martha Gellhorn told him bluntly that his adaptation “simply isn’t a very good play… not that the one shown on stage was very good either”); he wasted incalculable amounts of time, money, and energy. And while Levin wrote several best-selling books in the years that followed, his critical reputation was forever damaged by his conduct. (Indeed, it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if this book inspired some readers to take a second look at Levin’s major works, such as Compulsion and The Old Bunch.)           

The court case was settled in 1959, with Levin being paid $15,000 by Frank in exchange for giving up any claim of “rights” to the Diary.But Levin could not let it go. For the rest of his life, he continued lambasting his enemies in print and pushing for a production of his “suppressed” play (which was finally produced in Israel in 1966, to generally good reviews). In his 1974 memoir The Obsession, Levin acknowledged, like a mental patient with periods of lucidity, the irrational nature of his decades-old battle and the crippling effect it had had on his life. Yet he was still unable or unwilling to give it up.

But did Levin in fact have a case?  As the saying goes, even paranoids have enemies; and Graver makes it clear that for all the craziness of Levin’s behavior, his claims were not without merit. It seems likely that Bloomgarden et al. did indeed want a sanitized, de-Judified version of Anne’s story, because they believed such a treatment would appeal to the widest possible audience.  It makes one cringe to read of the play’s director, Garson Kanin, himself Jewish, telling the Hacketts, “The fact that in this play the symbols of persecution and oppression are Jews is incidental.”

Yet in purely commercial terms, one can understand their thinking. Levin’s real problem was that he was battling more than a few individuals. As Graver points out, he was up against the mindset of American popular culture in the Fifties – moderately liberal, optimistic, looking to nudge rather than provoke its audience, preferring Rodgers and Hammerstein to Brecht and Weill.  By refusing to take the “majority” view of Anne’s suffering, he put himself outside the mainstream in that era. It is quite possible that even if his play had been staged on Broadway, it would have gotten bad reviews and a very short run. And then who would Levin have blamed?           

The larger issue remains:  since the Hacketts’ play has been translated into countless languages and performed around the world, has it not fulfilled Levin’s dream, even in a truncated fashion?  And could it have been realized in any other fashion?  Graver does not attempt to answer these questions; perhaps it is still too soon after the original events for anyone to do so.  But he has made an important contribution to the discussion, which makes his book well worth reading.

Originally written for Tikkun magazine, 1996.

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In Mid-Manhattan, Culture and Cuisine All’Italia

By P.H.I.Berroll

It’s easy to feel a bit disoriented when entering Eataly for the first time. Not just because of the crowds, which are plentiful at most hours of the day, or the noise, which is on the level of a Times Square subway station at rush hour. It’s the fact that Eataly is not a place that can be easily categorized. Part market, part tourist attraction, part festival – it really doesn’t resemble any venue typically found in New York, or for that matter in the U.S.

And that, as it turns out, is part of the plan. Eataly’s creators are attempting nothing less than the establishment of a high-class Italian culinary emporium in the heart of New York City. Located in Manhattan’s Flatiron District at the corner of Fifth Avenue and 23rd Street, Eataly is based on another marketplace of the same name which entrepreneur Oscar Farinetti opened in the Italian city of Turin in 2007. For his New York venture, Farinetti took on a trio of culinary heavy hitters as partners: celebrated chefs and food-TV personalities Mario Batali and Lidia and Joe Bastianich. The group opened Eataly in August 2010, with the stated goal of making it “the ultimate culinary mecca for New Yorkers, visitors, gourmands and Italophiles alike.”

This explains why every aspect of Eataly is designed to appeal to three primary audiences: sophisticated Americans, Italians and people who wish they were Italian. Starting with the “Welcome/Benvenuto” banner that greets visitors at the entrance, all of Eataly’s signs are in both Italian and English – “We consider this to be a quintessential element of Eataly,” says managing partner Alex Saper. Helpful hints are posted for non-American customers (“In the U.S., leaving a tip is customary. Typically, 15 to 20 percent is sufficient”). Ask for “salami” and you’ll get a blank stare – what’s offered here is salumi. Walls are decorated with maps and other displays about the history and culture of Italy’s numerous regions.

But above all, there’s the food, a cornucopia of Italian national and regional specialties with an emphasis on artisanal (i.e. hand-made rather than mass-produced) products. Eataly includes seven full-service eateries, each specializing in a different food group: Le Verdure (vegetables), Il Manzo (meat), Il Pesce (fish), I Salumi e I Formaggi (salumi and cheese), Il Crudo (a raw bar), and of course, La Pizza and La Pasta.

Since no Italian meal would be complete without wine and dessert, there’s also Lavazza Café (named for Italy’s premier coffee company) and Eataly Wine. Lavazza offers gelato, pastries, chocolates and bite-sized dolci al cucchiaio (“spoon desserts”), along with espresso and cappuccino. At the wine shop, customers can choose from among nearly 1,000 bottles of vino from the major winemaking regions of Italy.

And for people who think “Italian beer” is an oxymoron, Eataly recently opened La Birreria, a 4,500 square-foot open-air rooftop beer garden, which offers a wide variety of both Italian and American craft beers.

Each section of Eataly has been staffed and stocked to appeal to consumers looking for something more than “typical” Italian fare. Le Verdure, for example, features a resident “vegetable butcher” who cleans, peels, chops and cuts the customer’s order – saving discarded peels and trimmings to be used as compost. Much of the pasta on sale is made fresh, by hand, every day. So is the mozzarella at the cheese department, charmingly named Il Laboratorio della Mozzarella.

Having a “laboratory” on the premises is in line with the overall mission of Eataly. Much of its agenda focuses on discovery, on education, on expanding the knowledge of the visitor. This is the idea behind Eataly’s on-premises scuola in which instructors – including Batali and the Bastianiches – offer regular classes in cooking and food and wine appreciation as well as nutritional, sociological and scientific topics relating to food.

Finally, there are the retail items – rows upon rows of shelves stocked with cured and fresh meats, cheeses, fruits and vegetables, fish, handmade pastas, desserts, baked and canned goods, sauces, olive oils, and coffees and teas, not to mention cooking utensils and cookbooks.  Customers can haul their bounty to the checkout line using lightweight shopping carts made from recycled plastic water bottles.

There’s no denying that the unique qualities of Eataly can be jarring to the uninitiated. It’s not the aforementioned crowds, which won’t shock anyone who has experienced lunch hour at Zabar’s or Whole Foods, or the prices (described as “fair” and “reasonable” by Eataly’s founders – which is another way of saying not cheap, but not excessively pricey by New York standards). It has more to do with the very nature of the Eataly experience.

Like most Americans, New Yorkers are used to buying pre-prepared food at salad or hot food bars and eating their meals at readily available restaurant tables. At Eataly, the first option doesn’t exist and the second only in truncated form. At each restaurant, it’s not uncommon for the customer to wait on line to order, wait again while the food is made, then wait again for one of the sparse number of tables to become available.  (There is the option of ordering to go, then finding a seat on a bench at nearby Madison Square Park.)  Nor is it easy to combine food categories; if you want a meat dish with your rigatoni, it will mean separate trips to Il Manzo and La Pasta. It’s appropriate that Eataly employs an international environmental organization called Slow Food as a consultant.

But customers who are willing to take a bit more time than usual will find the experience well worth the wait. (First-timers are advised to use Eataly’s main entrance on 23rd Street, where an information booth is staffed by helpful employees who answer questions and hand out detailed floor plans.)

If Eataly proves to be a success, the partners are poised to expand into other major U.S. cities. “They have been scouting locations,” says Alex Saper. “Right now they’re considering L.A., San Francisco, D.C. or Boston.”

Though it’s too early to gauge how well Eataly has been received by the general public, it has made a positive impression on one particularly tough group of critics: the online “foodie” community. While describing Eataly’s layout as “daunting,” “a madhouse” and “a trip,” food bloggers have been nearly unanimous in praising the quality and variety of its offerings.

“I can’t say that it’s built for browsing, unless you come in right after it opens,” says Ann Newman, a New York food writer. “But the food is really high class, and a lot of it is different from the usual gourmet choices. That makes it a special place.”

Eataly is located at 200 Fifth Avenue, with entrances on both Fifth Avenue and 23 Street. It is open seven days a week from 9:00am to 11:00pm, though the hours of individual departments may vary.  For more information visit www.eataly.com or call 646-398-5100.

Originally published in NewYorkInternational magazine, 2011.

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Voices of Remembrance

By P.H.I.Berroll

The massacre began on September 28, 1941, and continued over the following two days. Scores of Ukrainian Jews were rounded up by Nazi storm troopers and their Ukrainian sympathizers, marched into a clearing in the middle of a wooded area, and shot, their bodies dumped into a mass grave.

As many as 35,000 men, women and children – the exact number has never been determined – were killed in the Babi Yar massacre, which could probably be called the first mass atrocity of the Holocaust.  It took some time for news of the slaughter to reach the world, and even longer for its full significance to be acknowledged by the Soviet leaders on whose territory it had taken place.

But the Soviet Jews who survived the war have never forgotten Babi Yar.  And those who have settled in Brooklyn have made a point of raising their voices in remembrance.

For the past seven years, they have gathered on the anniversary of Babi Yar to commemorate the tragedy.  This year’s ceremony, held this past Sunday at the East Midwood Jewish Center on Ocean Avenue, was a mixture of music, poetry, and dramatic testimony, expressing both the sadness of shared memories and the assertiveness born of survival.

About 600 people filled the EMJC sanctuary for the three-hour program, conducted mainly in Russian, which was organized by the Center, UJA-Federation, and the Association of Holocaust Survivors of the Former Soviet Union, a 700-member local group.  “Previously, they had held it at various other locations,” said Dr. Bernard Metrick, a former president of EJMC.  “But it kept getting bigger – that’s why they came here.”

Metrick had helped bring the program to EMJC for the first time last year.  At the time, admission was free; this year, it was $3, in order to raise money to expand the new museum of Jewish history in Battery Park.  The program’s organizers were hoping that with additional funding, the museum, which focuses on the European Jewish community before and during the Holocaust, would have more space for materials and exhibits about the fate of Jews in the USSR. Many of those Jews, if they were not sent to death camps, died in Warsaw-style ghettoes created by the Nazis or were killed by local anti-Semites who were happy to do the Nazis’ bidding.

This sad history was mentioned repeatedly during Sunday’s ceremony.  The stage was draped by a banner reading (in Russian), “Soviet Jewish Holocaust Memorial Day.”  And the ceremony began – after the singing of “The Star Spangled Banner” and “Hatikvah” – with a candlelight procession of about 30 survivors, bearing placards with photos of loved ones and names of various locations where thousands of Jews had perished:  Minsk, Odessa, Kishinev, Moldava, among others.

Later, Malka Budilovsky of the Soviet Holocaust survivors group, who was leading the ceremony, called on audience members to stand up and give their names and the towns where they had originally lived, in the hope that they could re-establish some long-broken connections. “Last year, two survivors from the Minsk ghetto recognized each other,” explained Lydia Vareljan, coordinator of the Russian division of UJA-Federation. “They hadn’t seen each other since the war.  When they saw each other across the room, they gave a great cry, and the whole ceremony stopped.”

Nothing quite so dramatic happened this year.  But there were still numerous poignant and dramatic moments, from the musical performances by popular singers Boris Pevsner (in Russian) and Marina Buchina (in Yiddish) to the address by Robert Kaplan of the Jewish Community Relations Council, who described his visit to the scene of the massacre.

“Most of my family had been buried in Babi Yar,” Kaplan told the audience.  “I don’t think there were enough tears among myself and the students I brought with me to fill Babi Yar, because Babi Yar is a valley of tears.”  But he ended on a note of hope:  “We (later) visited a refusenik family – I saw my mother’s face in one of the women’s eyes.  It turned out that they were my cousins.  Am Yisroel Chai.”

Other speakers included Rabbi Aaron Kass of EMJC, who said that Jews “must not give Hitler a posthumous victory by abandoning all that you and your parents struggled so hard to preserve,” and Assemblyman Jules Polonetsky (D-Brighton Beach), who praised the audience:  “The only way I and my generation can understand what happened is by sitting here and listening to you.  For that, I am deeply grateful.”

Indeed, the idea that survivors not be silent — so that the world will not be allowed to forget — echoed throughout the ceremony, as when two actual survivors of Babi Yar, Ludmila Tkach and Manya Greenberg, recounted their stories to the audience.  Tkach, who now lives in Los Angeles, was four years old at the time; she had been pushed into the mass grave by her mother’s falling body, and had later crawled out from under the corpses after the killers had left the scene.  Greenberg, now of Philadelphia, was twelve.  She was spared when a local policeman took her out of the line of march when he decided that she did not “look Jewish.”

The program ended with Pevsner leading the audience in a Russian song about peace.  The title roughly translates as “Buchenwald Choir,” after the inmates in the camp who organized a singing group.

But as much as the audience could feel a strengthened sense of group solidarity – and of progress in telling their stories to the world – they knew that one great challenge remains:  to get a full accounting of the tragedy from their former rulers.

The former Soviet government had for many years refused to acknowledge that most of those killed were Jews; the official line was that they were unspecified “victims of Fascism.”  But in 1962, the poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko protested that policy in his now-famous poem, “Babi Yar.”  In the years that followed, the Soviets were increasingly pressured to change their version of the massacre; this finally happened during the Gorbachev years.  (Yevtushenko, who now lives in New York and teaches at Brooklyn College, was originally scheduled to appear at Sunday’s ceremony, but had to cancel due to a scheduling conflict.)

More progress has been made since the breakup of the USSR.  According to Russian-language journalist Joseph Richter, who attended Sunday’s program, Israel and Ukraine are currently negotiating the construction of a new memorial.  “The Ukrainians are saying, ‘we have a wonderful tradition of friendship with the Jews,’” said Richter, with a laugh.

Another reporter, Arkadiy Kagan of the Russian Forward – whose grandparents were among the 400,000 Jews who died in the Minsk ghetto – was even more hopeful.  “I have heard that Jews in Kiev have been able to do something similar (to Sunday’s ceremony),” he said.  “As recently as 1980, such commemorations were not allowed.”

Originally published in Jewish Week weekly newspaper, 1997.

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The Grandmother of Borough Hall

By P.H.I.Berroll

In the spacious conference room on the second floor of Queens Borough Hall, Claire Shulman speaks to a visiting delegation of Russian women about her job as Borough President.  The women, legislative aides in the former Soviet Union, are visiting the U.S. to learn about the workings of American government and politics (“Next, we’re going to see Bella Abzug,” says their interpreter).  One of the Russians asks Shulman how she deals with day-to-day problems, such as a poorly paved street.

“I call up the person in charge of roads, who is a mayoral appointee,” Shulman responds, “and I say, ‘By tomorrow, you’d better pave this street, or else.”  She pauses. “It usually works.”  The women laugh – “That’s how it is in Russia,” says the interpreter.

The performance is typical Shulman, combining the no-nonsense pragmatism of a veteran officeholder with the wry warmth of a Jewish grandmother.  It’s a style that an overwhelming number of Queens voters find appealing: the 71-year-old Shulman, currently running for her fourth term as Borough President, is so popular that local Republicans offered the lifelong Democrat their line on the ballot in November.  (She declined, not wanting to cause difficulties for other Democratic candidates in Queens.)  At this point, Shulman‘s only opposition is Conservative Party candidate David DiCasa.

Few would have predicted such success for Shulman when she took office in March of 1986.  Then Deputy Borough President, she was named to the higher post following the suicide of the incumbent, Donald Manes, who had been implicated in the city-wide corruption scandals of the mid-‘80s.  Shulman had never held elective office, and it was widely assumed by political insiders that her role was to “keep the office warm” for a few months while the powerful Queens Democratic organization chose a legitimate successor to Manes.

But Shulman says she “never paid much attention” to what others might have thought — “I decided what I was going to focus on and I went ahead and did it.” Gaining the support of Rep. Thomas Manton, the Queens Democratic leader, she was elected to serve the remainder of Manes’ term, then re-elected to full four-year terms in 1989 (with 86% of the vote) and 1993.

It’s no exaggeration to say that Shulman is now one of the most powerful Democratic women in New York City politics… which is why many observers were shocked when she recently decided not to support her longtime colleague, Manhattan Borough President Ruth Messinger, for Mayor this year.  Against the wishes of Manton and other Queens Democrats, she crossed party lines to endorse Mayor Rudolph Giuliani for a second term (she had backed David Dinkins in 1993).

It had been rumored that Shulman’s endorsement was part of a quid pro quo in exchange for the offer of the GOP line to her.  But Shulman insists that only two factors figured in her decision:  she was impressed with the Mayor’s record – and less so with the campaigns of his opponents.

“It was not an easy thing to do,” she says. “I knew it would hurt the feelings of people I’ve worked with over the years.  But I felt it was my responsibility to endorse who I felt would be the best mayor for the next four years.  And I believed that Giuliani had done a good job – that the city has come back, that its reputation worldwide has improved, revenues have increased; the city just seemed to be in a lot better shape.”

Though Shulman asserts, “I still believe in the Democratic philosophy that we are responsible for the most vulnerable in our society,” she feels “that the way the Mayor is going about it, by trying to increase the tax base so that we can provide services for those folks, is appropriate and proper for the future of this city.”

As for the Democrats, “I wanted to give them an opportunity to say what their programs and positions for the future would be – and though I think they’re all decent people, in my opinion they have not yet done this. I don’t see what they would do to improve the city.”

Understandably, Messinger was none too pleased by her colleague’s choice. “I regret that she made this decision,” she said recently in an interview on radio station WNYC. “It’s a bad decision for the city and a bad decision for Queens.  Five of the six school districts in Queens are seriously overcrowded, and some classrooms are 110-120% over capacity.”

But Shulman does not share Messinger’s view that Giuliani’s budget cuts are a major cause of school overcrowding. “This problem didn’t just happen,” she says. “The reason Queens is so behind in the number of [classroom] seats that are required is that we get new kids into the system – a couple of thousand every year.  They’re all immigrants, coming here for a better life, and we want to make sure their kids get educated.

“There are things that we can do.  We’re trying to play catch-up with the construction of schools.  Also, the Board of Education and I have spoken to [teacher’s union head] Sandy Feldman about the idea of a 12 month school year, which will cut the overage by about 30%.  And keeping the schools open longer every day is another possibility.”

The problems of Queens’ immigrant population are a major concern of Shulman’s – particularly the large number of Bukharan Jews from the former Soviet republic of Uzbekistan who have settled in the Rego Park-Forest Hills area in recent years.

 “There’s been a net decrease in the number of Jews in Queens over the last decade, as the population ages,” says Shulman aide Michael Rogovin, “butrecently there’s been a large Bukharan immigrant influx. (The group takes its name from the city of Bukhara, the Uzbek capital where many of them had lived.) The Bukharans have special needs, but they’re not unique to the Jewish community. They have the same needs as all immigrants — culturalization, language, making ends meet, educational issues.  And these are issues that involve government more than with other Jewish communities.”

Most of the Bukharans are Orthodox Jews, while many native-born Queens Jews belong to other denominations.   But Shulman feels that differences between the groups are a matter of “culture, not religion.

“For example,” she says, “in apartment houses, the Bukharans congregate in the halls.  If they have a party, sometimes that’s where it takes place — and some of the Jews that have been here a while don’t quite understand that.  So we’ve met with both sides, brought them together … and there now seems to be a kind of peaceful coexistence going on.”

Shulman’s office has also collected food for the Bukharans for the Jewish holidays, and provided English as a Second Language classes “so that they can learn the English necessary for naturalization.  I have over 400,000 seniors in this borough, and I think somewhere between 20 and 30,000 are not citizens, but legal immigrants.  And I was concerned that a lot of these folks were going to lose their benefits (under the recent changes in Federal welfare rules).”

Shulman’s traditional, grass-roots approach to government is rooted in her background.  Born in Flatbush (“across from Ebbets Field”) and a graduate of Adelphi University, she moved to Queens in 1945, working as a registered nurse at Queens Hospital Center, where she met her husband, Melvin, a physician.  While living in Bayside and raising two sons, Lawrence and Kim, and a daughter, Ellen, she became increasingly involved in school and community affairs: “I joined mother’s clubs and the PTA,” she says, “and I got to know a lot about education.  I did a lot of pro bono work in the education field, lobbying for more money.”

Shulman went on to become a member of Queens Community Board 11, then became board chair in 1968 “mostly because no one else wanted the job.”  Her new position gave her grounding – and a growing interest – in the city and state budgeting process. “So when my kids were old enough,” she says, “I thought, ‘Gee, maybe I should try government.’ I knew most of the elected officials (in Queens) through my work, and when they offered me a job as Director of Queens Community Boards at the end of 1972, I took it.”

Shulman went on to serve in the position for eight years, then was named Deputy Borough President by Manes. “By that time I’d learned the city government pretty thoroughly, but I was still an appointed official.  And then I got to be Borough President,” she says dryly, “in an unusual way.”

But her experience gave her the skill to deal with numerous challenges during her decade-plus in office – including a significant loss of power when the Board of Estimate was abolished in 1989. (Each of the five Borough Presidents had a seat on the Board, which functioned as a counterweight to the Mayor – a role that is now filled by the City Council.)

“I still have many discretionary dollars,” says Shulman.  “I still appoint a member of the City Planning Commission, and a member of the School Board.  And there’s something that’s not in the City Charter:  I get elected in a county of two million people.  I don’t mean to sound intimidating, but with those numbers, it’s very hazardous to take me on in an important issue if you’re a city-wide elected official.”

Under New York City’s 1993 term-limits law, Shulman’s next term will be her last.  Her agenda is ambitious:  it includes plans to expand Queens Hospital Center – “We have the largest senior population (in the city) which creates a demand that we cannot fulfill at the present time” – and to build the Technodome, a proposed sports and entertainment center, on 300 acres on the Rockaway Peninsula.

As for her future after leaving office, “Well,” Shulman laughs, “my staff thinks I’m immortal… Seriously, I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

Looking back on her career, Shulman feels that things are much easier for women in politics than when she entered public life, “and I’m delighted about that. I think people are becoming accustomed to the idea that women can function in government, and that they can function on a very high level.”

Does she see herself as a role model for younger women?  “I hope so.  I hope they find this to be a satisfying career – not only women, but younger people.”

One woman who has clearly been inspired by Shulman’s example is her daughter, Ellen Shulman Baker.  Dr. Baker is a physician and an astronaut, whose space career includes voyages on the Atlantis and Columbia space shuttles and the first docking (in 1995) of Atlantis with the troubled Russian space station Mir.

“My daughter is probably the most organized person I know,” says Shulman, almost in amazement.  “She’s got two little kids, and she does everything for them that I did for my kids – but I wasn’t working, other than pro bono things.  I’m just so impressed by her, and women like her. They’re doing everything.”

Originally published in Jewish Week weekly newspaper, 1997.

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The Art of Reception Crashing

My friend C., a fellow journalist, is emphatic about what he considers a true joy of our profession.  Is it a prominent byline, an exclusive story, an expose of wrongdoing? Guess again. “What I really like,” he says, “is all the chances you get to eat and drink for free.”

C. is talking about receptions – those mini-parties held in conjunction with an art exhibit, a panel discussion, or virtually any other kind of public venture.  It’s safe to say that in New York City, there is a different reception on just about every night of the year.  And it’s also true that you don’t have to be (or claim to be) a reporter in order to partake.  Au contraire – by employing some fairly simple strategies, you too can help yourself to a healthy amount of free eats and liquor, and even discover opportunities for personal and professional networking.

Note the word “free.”  I emphasize this because I am not talking about those get-you-coming-and-going affairs where, in addition to the price of entry, one is expected to buy $3-$5 tickets for food (i.e., hot dogs) and drink (i.e., beer).  This kind of gouging is especially common at political receptions, such as Democratic or G.O.P. “victory parties,” and it’s one more reason to be disillusioned with politics.  No, the kind of gatherings you’ll want to frequent fall into many different categories, but they all have one aspect in common:  something about them is free – admission, food, the bar, any combination of two, or all three.

Receptions in New York can be roughly grouped into three levels, each with its own distinct characteristics.  To wit:

Low End

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Examples:

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small-gallery exhibit openings; off-off-Off-Broadway productions; poetry, play, or other literary readings

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Food:

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crackers (Carr’s and Ritz), cheese (cheddar and Swiss cubes, a small wheel of Brie), fruit (grapes)

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Drink:

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jug wine (Gallo or worse)

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To Find:

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Check listings in Times, Voice, T.O.N.Y., New York, and your   neighborhood weekly.

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Admission:

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Exhibits and readings, usually free; productions, usually about $10-15  (advance reservations may be necessary)

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Comments:

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These are good for an occasional nosh-and-slosh, but if you find yourself  depending on them for regular nutrition, you’ve got a problem. Be aware that at some point in the evening, you may be called upon to shore up the  ego of the artist/playwright/performers whose work is on display, so come  prepared with a line or two of vaguely complimentary b.s. (see sidebar)

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Mid-level

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Examples:

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Panel discussions/seminars, alumni or professional association gatherings

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Food:

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Buffet featuring crudités, cutesy mini-sandwiches on baguettes, hummus & babaganoush with pita or French bread, cheese & crackers (see above), occasional hot items (e.g. buffalo wings)

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Drink:

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Mainstream domestic and imported beers (don’t expect any fruit-flavored or microbrewery products); red & white wine (no more than two varieties of each); Coke/Pepsi/Sprite (regular & diet); Perrier

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To Find:

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Ads in special-interest magazines; word of mouth; postings in your office, neighborhood laundromat, the Web; your neighbor’s discarded junk mail

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Admission:

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Free to members of sponsoring group

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For “association” events, that’s the rub – it generally helps to have attended the school or be in the profession in question.  The next best thing is to be involved with someone who is, or claim as much (“I was supposed to meet my date here.  Can I just stick my head inside for a minute and…”).  As for discussions/seminars, you may have to join the sponsoring organization for an annual fee of $25-$45 (not a bad deal – there will be a number of receptions in the course of the year, so you’ll earn back your “investment” several times over)

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High End

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Examples:

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Awards ceremonies; other “annual events”

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Food:

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Same as B) plus trays of hors d’oeuvres carried by circulating waiters; mixed nuts at bar; small baked desserts (cookies, brownies)

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Drink:

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Same as B) plus any traditional mixed drinks (a Kamikaze or Sex on the Beach is probably unavailable)

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To Find:

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Same as B), or have a connection, direct or otherwise (say, friend or relative of your ex, providing the breakup was amicable), on the inside

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Admission:

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Generally same as B)

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Once inside, there are a few simple rules of behavior to keep in mind for a successful evening:

1)         Watch your mouth.  You may have to make conversation at some point; and your reason for showing up – are you there to find career opportunities, meet that Special Someone, or just stuff your face? – will help determine what you say.  The occasional vague-but-convincing response (see sidebar) can help you avoid serious embarrassment.

2)         Be discreet.  Even if you haven’t eaten since that pathetic little croissant you had for breakfast, try not to show it – don’t blitz the waiters, don’t attack the buffet table like the fat relatives at your cousin’s wedding.  And while it’s okay to take a few goodies with you for later consumption, be subtle. (Wrapping some hors d’oeuvres in a napkin and slipping it into your purse or gym bag is okay.  Stuffing beer cans into your pants is not.)

3)         Sign that listIf you forget everything else I’ve told you, remember this.  Getting on an organization’s mailing list is the key to future invites from that group… and others, because they tend to exchange lists (think junk mail).

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A final word:  if you ever get invited to a really important reception (as in, “For only $1,000, you’ll get the chance to meet Sen. D’Amato in person”), be advised that most of what I’ve told you here does not apply.  But then, if you were in that league, you wouldn’t be reading this.

— Phil Berroll

Sidebar:

Block That Gaffe!

It’s not uncommon for novice reception-crashers to feel more than a bit insecure, even paranoid.  After all, you know you don’t really belong; how long will it take for everyone else to find out?  Not to worry, however.  Depending on the situation, any or all of the epigrams below will discourage prying by your fellow guests, and help you avoid the embarrassing  faux pas.  (They’ll also enable you to recognize fellow crashers when they use these or similar lines.  What you do with that knowledge is entirely up to you.)

“I’m not comfortable making a judgment.  I work in a completely different style.”

“My wife (husband, boy/girlfriend) couldn’t make it.  She gave me her invitation.”

“We have a chapter in San Francisco.  Nothing like this, though.”

“Interesting use of color.”

“I honestly don’t remember.  I’m on so many lists, I lose track.”

“I’m not sure I agree with everything that was said, but there were a lot of interesting points… what do you think?”

“I’m with the Passaic County Courier … that’s okay, you wouldn’t unless you live in Passaic (laugh).”

“(Name) said it was okay.  You know – heavyset woman with glasses?  Frizzy hair?”

“Sorry… my English not so good.”

Originally published in  New York Values magazine, 1996.

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Strangers to the Tribe

By P.H.I.Berroll

Gabrielle Glaser can identify with Madeline Albright.  Like the Secretary of State, Glaser, a freelance journalist, grew up believing that she was a Christian – in her case, a German Lutheran, like most of her neighbors in rural Oregon – before learning otherwise. While visiting Poland in 1984, Glaser found out that she was actually descended from Jews who had emigrated from that country a century earlier.

Unlike Albright, Glaser chose to return to Judaism, and formally converted.  One factor in her decision was her marriage to New York Times correspondent Steven Engelberg, the son of Holocaust survivors.  “When we had our first child, we had to make a decision,” she says.  “I didn’t want to my kids to be confused.”  Yet she found that her in-laws still had trouble accepting her as a member of their faith — they seemed to feel that “I wasn’t Jewish enough.”

Glaser began to wonder if there were other American couples who had experienced similar problems.  Her curiosity has resulted in a new book, Strangers to the Tribe:  Portraits of Interfaith Marriage (Houghton Mifflin), in which she profiles 11 interfaith couples and the challenges that they face in our multicultural – but still predominantly non-Jewish – society.

On Friday, November 17, Glaser discussed her book in an appearance at the Barnes & Noble bookstore in Bayside’s Bay Terrace shopping mall.  Her talk was part of a weeklong program, Interfaith Week, sponsored by the Samuel Field YMHA of Little Neck. The Field YMHA had conceived Interfaith Week as a means of publicizing a new project, Interfaith Network, which it had developed with a grant from the Mazer Foundation (the grant was arranged through UJA-Federation).  This program includes monthly meetings for interfaith couples, a support group for their parents and grandparents, and a telephone “warmline” providing confidential responses to interfaith-related questions.

“We decided that what we needed was a way of getting the information out to the public that we were here and we were available,” says program coordinator Lynn Levy.  In addition to Glaser, the week’s speakers included Lynne Wolfe, director of the interfaith-outreach program at MetroWest, a Jewish community center in New Jersey.  “Lynne has really been a forerunner in interfaith outreach,” says Levy.  “She’s worked very closely with Dr. Egon Mayer of Jewish Outreach Institute (JOY) in Manhattan, who is one of the great spokesmen for outreach in the Jewish community today.”

Glaser told the Barnes & Noble audience that she hopes her book “will give people who feel lonely or isolated in the intermarriage experience something to think about.  It will give them models for how other people do it, how other people feel.” And she has tried to do this, she said, while maintaining a tone of objectivity, in contrast to what she calls the “judgmental” tone of previous books on the subject.

Some of Glaser’s subjects – ranging in age from 20s to 70s – are certain to raise eyebrows.

Take, for example, the Schandler-Wong family of Hawaii.  “The mother is from an Orthodox Jewish home in North Carolina,” said Glaser.  “She worked for United Airlines, and wound up meeting a very nice Chinese man from Honolulu.  He ultimately decided to convert, and they raised two kids in Honolulu named Ari & Sha’aloni Wong.  They have a drawer for kosher chopsticks.”

Such situations may sound amusing, but in truth, according to Glaser, intermarriage can often be a minefield of pain and confusion.  Especially tough, she said, are holidays and “life-cycle” events, which “may trigger heartfelt feelings about identity, and who we are, and how is this child going to be raised – what does it mean to me if I’m a Jew and I baptize my child?  What does it mean to me if I’m a Catholic and this child isn’t baptized?  What does it mean for the child in the future?”

Levy, who made a few remarks following Glaser’s talk, agreed that what she calls “the December dilemma” is a major issue for interfaith couples:  “The Christmas tree is often the center of a highly charged drama — particularly for a family which identifies itself as Jewish, except for this two or three weeks of the year when they put the tree in the window. This year it will be particularly rough, because (Christmas and Hanukkah) coincide on the calendar.  There’s no way of keeping them separate and distinct.”

Some families, said Glaser, try to split the difference, especially regarding their children.  She cited the case of a Catholic-Jewish couple whose first child was baptized at the insistence of the wife’s mother.  “The father (felt) he was railroaded into this decision.  And they decided at that moment that the next child would be Jewish.  So now they have a 12-year-old girl who’s Catholic, and an 8- or 9- year-old boy who’s Jewish.  And that’s unusual, I would say.  But it’s not something I would recommend.”

Nor does she advise intermarrieds to bring up their children with no religious identification.  When a woman in the audience asked about a niece who was raised in an interfaith marriage, without any religious education, “Will she wonder who she is?” Glaser responded, “I’m sure she will.  Studies show that children raised in this way wind up as agnostics, with no steady faith, with no strong, clear identity.  Is that a nightmare? No – I think in part, that’s America.  Everybody has a little bit of this, a little bit of that.  But for Jewish people, I think it’s something of a sad outcome.”

But perhaps the saddest people in these situations, the ones with the greatest sense of heartbreak and injury, are the couples’ parents.  Glaser has met a number of them.

“They feel wronged, and very, very hurt,” she said. “It’s your sense of identity, of your spiritual legacy being passed on.  ‘How could my children do this to me?’ ‘How could they have not known this was important to me?’ It’s very sad and very painful for everybody involved, especially those who feel that they’re the losers in the paradigm.  If your grandchildren don’t end up as you had envisioned, it’s very, very difficult.  And not everybody is always on their best behavior.

“The best way I found for people to work through these issues,” Glaser continued, “is the ordinary old hard way of talking, and confronting them head on at the very beginning of the relationship.  I think the worst thing was when people didn’t talk about them, when they just decided that somehow fate would help them decide, or the children would decide later, and they didn’t talk to their parents, they didn’t address the issues.”

Her sentiments were echoed by Levy, who told the audience that this was the purpose of the Field YMHA’s outreach program. “It’s very possible to create and maintain a good environment and healthy relationships,” she said.  “And we’re going to explore, in these groups, different avenues and ways of doing that. Because the reality is that we are experiencing a 52% rate of intermarriage in Jewish life, and it’s a reality that’s not apt to go away.  We have to deal with the reality of those numbers.”

Still, the good news, according to Glaser, is that surveys indicate that more than half of those 52% are couples raising their children as Jews.  Indeed, both women insisted, the conventional wisdom that intermarriage is a kind of conversion-by-default for the Jewish partner is not true.  Quite the contrary, said Levy: “Once [gentile partners] have become interested in learning about Judaism,” she asserted, “they are leaning towards Judaism – I can’t say for sure about conversions, but certainly in terms of rearing children and having a single-religion home, which is, I would say, the first step toward conversion.”

Interestingly, according to Levy, a gentile wife is often more likely to push for a Jewish home than her born-Jewish husband. “Very often a husband has taken a middle-of-the-road stance – he’ll refuse to have a Christian home, but won’t really be the force behind a Jewish home,” she said. “But once the non-Jewish wife becomes interested in Judaism, she is really in a position to make that a reality for the family. I think this might be because even in today’s society, the woman structures the home.  She’s there more with the children; she’s the one who introduces religion into the home, and certain rituals.”

This was certainly true for Glaser. “My husband, like many Jews his age, basically had no Jewish experiences between his bar mitzvah and his wedding,” she told her audience, “aside from Passover and Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. I wanted our children to be raised as Jews in much stronger terms – ‘We are going to light Shabbat candles every Friday night. We’re going to synagogue every weekend.’

“My husband,” she said with a laugh, “sometimes raises up his hands and says, ‘How did this happen?  Who is this person?’”

Originally published in Jewish Week weekly newspaper, 1997.

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Seeking Justice for Terrorist Victims

By P.H.I.Berroll

The relatives of several American victims of terrorism have tried to achieve some degree of closure by suing foreign governments, such as Iran, which sponsor terrorist groups. A number of plaintiffs have been successful, winning large court judgments.

But in a cruel irony, they have been prevented from receiving any of the money – by their own government.

The latest such case involves the families of Sarah Duker and Matthew Eisenfeld, the Americans killed in a Jerusalem bus bombing in February 1996. Because the Iran-backed terrorist group Hamas claimed responsibility for the attack, the families sued the Iranian government for damages. On July 11 of this year, the U.S. District Court in Manhattan ruled in their favor, ordering Iran to pay them more than $300 million.

But when – if ever – they will receive the money is still uncertain.

The problem goes back to a sweeping law passed by U.S. legislators in the wake of the Jerusalem bombing and other acts of terrorism that claimed American victims. In April 1996, Congress enacted the Antiterrorism and Effective Death Penalty Act, designed to combat terrorism against Americans at home and overseas. One of its provisions gave plaintiffs the right to sue, in American courts, foreign nations named by the U.S. government as sponsors of terrorism – countries whom the State Department had previously branded “rogue nations,” but now describes with the more benign-sounding term “states of concern.” (In addition to Iran, the current list includes Cuba, Iraq, Libya, North Korea, Sudan, and Syria.)

Then, in 1998, Congress passed a related measure calling for the U.S. State and Treasury Departments to assist terrorism-suit plaintiffs in recovering the money awarded them in court. There was just one catch: the President had the right to waive such assistance in the interests of national security.

Since then, the Clinton Administration has invoked the waiver in several high-profile cases. The family of college student Alisa Flatow – killed in a bus bombing by the Iran-backed Islamic Jihad on the Gaza Strip in April 1995 – went to court against the Islamic republic, and was awarded $247.5 million in March 1998. They have yet to see any of the money; the Administration has gone to court to block the family from collecting. And they have taken similar action in the Duker-Eisenfeld case.

According to Washington, DC attorney Steven Perlis, who represents the Duker, Eisenfeld and Flatow families, the award money is supposed to come from Iranian assets currently held by the U.S. government. These amount to “somewhere between $406 million and $1.5 billion” in cash, he says, and “probably another $25-30 million in real estate.

Mr. Perlis says that after he “moved to attach those assets,” the Administration claimed that “because this property is in the custodial control of the United States, it is not attachable unless the government of the United States waives its governmental immunity to attachment. They could have made the assets available – all they had to do was say, ‘We are immune, but we waive our immunity.’ They declined.”

Mr. Perlis notes that he was not told of the specific reasons for the Administration’s position – “All they have to do is assert their immunity,” he says; “they are not required to give an explanation” – and feels it would be “inappropriate” to speculate.

But some foreign policy experts have argued on national-security grounds that going after Iranian assets could be counterproductive. Harvard Law School professor Anne-Marie Slaughter and journalist David Bosco support this view in a recent article, “Plaintiff’s Diplomacy,” in the journal Foreign Affairs, generally known as the “Bible” of the foreign policy establishment.

Slaughter and Bosco write that suing Iran and other terrorism-sponsoring nations exposes the U.S. to retaliation against its own assets overseas; politicizes the courts, “mak[ing] American tribunals instruments of particular foreign policies;” and could make the target governments “defensive” while “discouraging dialogue, engagement, political reform, and integration… into international legal and financial regimes.”  The writers suggest an alternative: that the government set up a fund to compensate victims of terrorism, then negotiate “at the appropriate time” for terrorist-sponsor governments to make payments into the fund.

Mr. Perlis, however, is pursuing a more direct approach, on several fronts. He continues to negotiate with the Administration in the hopes of resolving the matter. But he is also working in support of legislation – the Justice for Victims of Terrorism Act, co-sponsored by retiring Sens. Frank Lautenberg (D-NJ) and Connie Mack (R-FL) –that would allow the families to collect at least some of the damages awarded them in the courts.

Mr. Perlis is well-connected on Capitol Hill – he worked as a counsel to the Senate for six and a half years – and very determined.

“We’ll simply continue,” he says, “and eventually we’ll win.”

Originally written for Forward weekly newspaper, 2000.

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Getting Off the Roller Coaster: Women Seek Tools to Overcome Eating Disorders

By P.H.I.Berroll

For most of her life, Susan B., now 51, has struggled with eating disorders of one kind or another.  As a child, she was a compulsive overeater; as a “size 16” teenager, she was taken by her mother to a doctor who prescribed diet pills. She spent most of the next decade on a dietary roller coaster – “I’d go up and down 20 to 25 pounds,” she says – but didn’t think she was abnormal until, at 28, she was diagnosed with hypoglycemia and told to cut sugar out of her diet.  She tried, but the “withdrawal” drove her into bulimia, the disorder whose victims compulsively purge their bodies of recently eaten food, usually by vomiting. Though she repeatedly underwent therapy and hospitalization, this condition plagued her for years.

By 1995, says Susan, “I knew I was going to die” from a heart attack, a common occurrence among bulimics – “They’d find me over a toilet bowl.”  But her daughter, herself a former bulimic, convinced her to again enter therapy, as well as a 12-step program.  (Because the program requests anonymity from its participants, Susan does not publicly reveal her last name.)  After another two years of struggle, she believes – or hopes – that she is finally on the right track:  “I’ve maintained my weight for nine months.”

Susan’s story was part of a seminar, “Eating Disorders: The Mirror Has Two Faces,” held this past Sunday at the Yeshiva of Flatbush elementary school auditorium. (The seminar was the third in a series organized by the Yeshiva’s ladies auxiliary; earlier programs had dealt with stress management and the problems of the “sandwich generation” in caring for elderly parents.)  A group of about 60 people, almost all of them women, came to hear a panel of speakers discuss the topics of  nutrition, dieting and body appearance, and how unhealthy attitudes in those areas can cause devastation to women’s lives — as they did to Susan’s.

The statistics in this area are disturbing – and they go beyond the more extreme disorders, such as bulimia and anorexia (self-starvation).

“Fifty percent of nine-year-old and 80% of ten-year-old girls in the U.S. have dieted,” said auxiliary vice-chair Flora Bienstock, the panel’s moderator.  “We must not allow these trends to continue.”

One of the panelists, Amy Wysoker, a psychiatric nurse who teaches at Long Island University, cited studies showing that “95% of people in diet programs such as Weight Watchers are women” and that “99% of the people who lose weight put it back on within two years.”

Wysoker emphasized the societal pressures on young women to lose weight at all costs that often contribute to their problems.  “Every time our children pick up a magazine, they see all these pictures of thin women,” she said.  “You pick up The New York Times and there’s the fashion section… We need to start getting to children when they’re very young.”  She asserted that “it will take a grass-roots effort to counteract these media images.”

Another panelist, social worker Ilene Fishman, founder of The Eating Disorders Center of Montclair (NJ), agreed with Wysoker that parents have to help their children develop a healthy self-image:  “What do you teach them about their own value and worth?  Is it based on achievement, or based on appearance?” She added that it was important for women of all ages to come to terms with their own appearance, to avoid perfectionist attitudes.  (“I’ll always have fatter arms than I’d like,” she joked.)

While Wysoker and Fishman spoke mainly about obsessive weight loss, panelist Rick Shields, a psychologist and nutritionist, emphasized the other end of the spectrum:  overeating, a particular problem in this country because of the unhealthy nature of the common American diet.

“Today,” he said, “the average American consumes about 130 pounds of sugar a year” – up more than 400 percent since the days of the early colonists – “and the equivalent of a stick of butter a  day” in unhealthy oils and fats.  Shields also noted that as much as 90 percent of the nation’s food supply has been processed and refined, thus removing many essential nutrients.

Like many American nutritionists, Shields spoke highly of the traditional low-fat-and-sugar Japanese diet, which emphasizes fish, vegetables and brown rice, and recommended something similar for his audience.

“Since I’ve been talking,” he said, “over one million red blood cells have died in each of our bodies.  The danish you had for breakfast won’t replace them.”

Shields flavored his presentation with several quotations from Rambam (Maimonides), whom he called “the first holistic physician” because “he understood the mind-body connection” and the importance of a healthy lifestyle.

“Rambam says, ‘Overeating is like poison to the body,’ even good foods,” said Shields.  “He says you should leave the table before you’re full.”

In the question-and-answer session which followed, some audience members wondered whether Shields, with his condemnation of certain foods, was contradicting the other panelists, who had spoken of getting away from the idea of “bad” foods (and of women thinking themselves “bad” for eating them).  Shields replied that he hadn’t meant to suggest there was no place for higher-fat and -sugar foods, just not on a regular basis – “I’m more concerned with (their) abuse and overindulgence.”

And Wysoker made it clear that she was not condoning overeating or obesity.  But the problem, she asserted, was that many women distort the concept of healthy weight loss, wanting to shed additional pounds for cosmetic rather than health reasons.  “They need to lose 10 to 15 pounds,” she said, “but they’ll try to lose 60.”

Most of the questioners were clearly worried about their own children – what, they wondered, could they do to have a positive influence? Fishman reiterated that it was important to set a good example: “If (children) see Mommy obsessing about her weight,” she said, “they’ll be affected.”

Shields added, “If parents know the harm they’re causing by putting bad habits in place at an early age, they’d try to change… It’s not that people don’t care, it’s that they don’t know.”

Bienstock, like the other women in attendance, was clearly impressed by what she had heard.  But she also spoke of the ongoing need to deal with these problems – which, she asserted, could be seen outside the walls of the Yeshiva any day of the week.  “We promoted [this program] within the local community,” she said, “and even the neighborhood pizza man thought it was a good idea.  He said teenage girls who come in to his place are constantly talking about their weight.”

As for Susan, her struggle goes on.

“I have to admit that I still want to lose more weight.  It’s always there,” she says.  “But I’m very grateful that I’m taking care of myself … and that there is help for everyone out there if you really, really want it.”

Originally published in Jewish Week weekly newspaper, 1997.

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Yente for the Masses

Walter Winchell:  A Novel

By Michael Herr.  Alfred A. Knopf, 1990. 158 pp.

By P.H.I.Berroll

Fifty years ago, The NewYorker devoted an unprecedented six issues to a profile of Walter Winchell – actually, it was more of an attack – by the essayist St.Clair McKelway. It was later published in book form.  On the surface, this seems absurd.  Winchell was not an artist, a statesman (except perhaps in his own mind), or a philosopher.  He was a “reporter” and “broadcaster” in the very loosest sense – his words appeared in a newspaper, and he spoke into a microphone.  But much of what he said and wrote had been given to him by others, and most of it was hardly profound – a potpourri of news “flashes,” jokes, capsule reviews, political commentary, and above all, gossip about celebrities of the day.

Yet he was impossible to ignore – indeed, at that time, he was arguably the most powerful journalist (however one defines the term) in America.  His influence was felt from the halls of Congress to the executive suites of Hollywood; it is estimated that 90% of the adult American population followed his daily columns and his Sunday night broadcasts.  His very name had become iconic:  when John O’Hara referred to “the local Winchell” in his story “Pal Joey,” his readers needed no explanation.  As the saying goes, if he didn’t know you – and mention your name – you probably weren’t worth knowing.

Considering all this, there is no question that Winchell merited serious attention in his day.  But what of the present – given the fact that he later fell so far into obscurity that at his funeral in 1972, the only people in attendance were his daughter, Walda, and a rabbi hired for the occasion?  Does he still have relevance to anyone other than the most devoted historians of popular culture?

The answer is yes, and not just because his life was the classic American rise-and-fall story.  Winchell exploited, and personified, a social phenomenon which predated him, but which he brought to a previously undreamed-of level:  the cult of celebrity, the adulation of the famous and/or accomplished by the majority of “ordinary” Americans.  The effects of this on American journalism, politics, and society in general are still being debated today; as recently as March of this year, Time devoted a cover story to the “new” American gossip industry… strikingly similar to a Newsweek cover piece from the mid-Seventies.

Thus the time would appear to be ripe for another look at Winchell, a true pioneer of that industry. All we have had since his death are a few minor biographies – no one, it seemed, considered his story particularly “commercial.”  Now comes Michael Herr’s Walter Winchell, an attempt to make his life compelling by presenting it, in effect, as a kind of movie-on-paper.  One could regard this as either appropriate or redundant, since that life, even without embellishment, has all the elements of a traditional Hollywood production:  a riveting protagonist, a straightforward narrative, sharp dialogue, supporting characters right out of Central Casting, even a clear moral.  Indeed, the real question is why Herr, a writer as skilled at screenwriting (Full Metal Jacket, Apocalypse Now) as at journalism (Dispatches), chose to render the tale in this fashion.  Why not do it as a pure, straightforward screenplay?

As it turns out, he did.  Herr originally conceived the project as a film, several years ago – at one point, Robert Benton (Kramer vs. Kramer) had been penciled in as director – but it never materialized, for what I imagine were the usual myriad Hollywood reasons.  Yet as he tells us in his rather tortured, overlong preface, “I always meant it to be read, and in that sense thought of it as something ‘more’ than a screenplay… You could call it a screenplay that’s typed like a novel, that reads like a novel but plays like a movie.”

Come again?  Well, in technical terms, what happens is that most of the “scenes” are written as if intended to be filmed, beginning with terse settings of time and place (“A delicatessen on Broadway, early afternoon”) and filled with asides to the reader-as-audience (“We see a train speeding through the night, hear music on the sound track suggestive almost of flight and pursuit”).  Characters both famous and obscure are introduced with capsule descriptions (“A tall, well-dressed man, SHERMAN BILLINGSLEY, comes by”).  Few sections go beyond three pages, and some are nothing more than quick snatches of dialogue:  “Walter, broadcasting with great force:  ‘Listen, Adolf and Benito and Tojo – don’t think the oceans can protect you…We’re coming at you now with everything we’ve got, and it’s plenty!  We did it before, and we can do it again…'”

What we have, then, is a cinematic life depicted in cinematic terms. And while it would be stretching things to say that Herr has created a new literary form in the tradition of Capote and Mailer’s “non-fiction novels” – in most cases, the “screenplay novel” style would be too clumsy and unsubtle – for this particular subject, it works quite well.  The book, like Winchell himself, is fast, loud, aggressive, often funny, sometimes obnoxious, occasionally moving, and never, ever dull (and it would still make a hell of a movie).  But also like its subject, it often conveys a sense of being all surface and no depth; we are too aware of unanswered questions, of vital points left unraised.

The book begins with a long opening scene: Winchell in 1943, at the height of his power, holding court at his personal table in New York’s Stork Club with Billingsley, the owner, and a close friend, Damon Runyon (Ernest Hemingway also drops by). It then flashes back to his childhood in turn-of-the-century Harlem, then still a Jewish neighborhood, before progressing forward.  Herr presents the young Walter, trying to escape his early poverty by cracking the vaudeville circuit. His efforts bring him nothing but failure and humiliation, but at the same time, he develops a rather nasty but enjoyable hobby:  jotting down bits and pieces of overheard “dirt” on his fellow performers, then posting the stories on backstage bulletin boards for everyone to read.  The gimmick gets him attention, then employment on various second-level newspapers… and, in 1929, a column for the Mirror, one of several New York publications owned by legendary press baron William Randolph Hearst.

Over the next three years, Winchell was one of the few Americans whose “stock” went up.  He was featured on the cover of Time, called “a national institution” by Alexander Woolcott; even those who dismissed him as a sort of yente for the masses had to concede that his use of language – the bizarre coinages and alliterations (“infanticipating” for pregnant, “phfft” for romantic breakup), the separation of items by three dots to suggest telegraphic urgency – was unlike anything previously seen in print.

With his entry into broadcasting in 1932, his rise was complete; that breathless, machine-gun voice, suggesting barely controlled hysteria, went out weekly to “Mr. and Mrs. America and all the ships at sea” – and millions stopped their lives to hear the tribune of the famous, granting them a brief, thrilling glimpse into a realm as distant and fabulous as Camelot, or Oz.

But to extend the metaphor, the wizard was really just a small man behind a curtain, grotesquely puffed up with a sense of his own importance.  Some of this may have been rooted in his background; his hardscrabble childhood gave him an overabundance of energy and ambition, common to thousands of young men from similar backgrounds.  But Winchell was not only determined to escape the ghetto; he was obsessed with attention, perpetually craving the spotlight – and achieving that aim made him a monster of egotism, selfishness, and near-sadistic cruelty.

Much of this was not, as one might assume, directed at those whose names, and secrets, appeared in his column; many of his subjects were happy to be mentioned as long as he spelled their names correctly.  But those with less status in his world – including the press agents who provided much of his material – learned to expect a steady diet of abuse, often for the minutest of provocations. And anyone who crossed him could face professional oblivion (“‘Barry Gray is dead, you got it?  Move it around, and make sure everybody understands.  Anybody who goes on his show is dead too…'”).  His neglect of his family was abominable:  his wife was literally driven to drink by his philandering, and his son’s “acting out” included wearing Nazi regalia in public (“‘Just ask yourself,'” sneers Junior, “‘how would you act if you had Walter Winchell for a father?'”).

And the damage done by Winchell went beyond the realm of the personal; loving power in any form, he was, inevitably, drawn into the political sphere, his near-total ignorance in such matters notwithstanding.  At first, the results were praiseworthy: he was ahead of many of his “serious” colleagues in alerting America to the evils of Nazism and exposing its supporters in this country, and his admiration for Franklin Roosevelt – even though it was fortified by FDR’s skillful stroking – was heartfelt and honest.  But with the end of the war and his cold-shouldering by Harry Truman (again, the personal and the political were mixed), Winchell shifted rightward.  He sided with Billingsley, a reactionary bigot, against Josephine Baker when the latter claimed racist treatment at the Stork Club; the ensuing controversy helped drive him into the McCarthy camp, and he became one of the most vicious red-baiters of the era.  His more liberal audiences were permanently alienated, and everyone else found him tiresome – he had been a lonely crusader in his anti-Nazi campaign, but as an anti-Communist, his braying was indistinguishable from the rest of the pack.

After that, his fall was precipitous and unbroken… and the causes were numerous.  When television supplanted radio as the dominant medium in America, Winchell tried to adapt; but his attempt at breaking into TV, in competition with his hated rival Ed Sullivan, was disastrous – when audiences had an image to go with the disembodied voice, they were repelled by “an angry middle-aged man yelling at the camera.”  In print, competitors such as the kindler, gentler Leonard Lyons began encroaching on his turf, and the number of papers carrying Winchell’s column declined from over 1,000 to less than two hundred. Narrating the popular TV series “The Untouchables” kept him in the public eye for a few more years, but as a voice of nostalgia, as much a part of the past as the events he was describing.  His end became official when his last employers, the Mirror and the New York Journal-American, were destroyed by labor disputes, as had happened to the Stork Club. But in truth, he had long since become irrelevant; as the loss of power fed the loss of access and vice versa, he had been reduced to reporting such marginalia as “Gina Lollobrigida never wears a girdle.”

As anyone who knew him could have predicted, Winchell did not go quietly from the scene, but kicking and screaming – and plenty of people were happy to give him a kick of their own on the way down.  Yet if he never completely accepted his fate, the shock of it, at least, seemed to lessen with the passage of time. (Or perhaps he had half-consciously expected it; Herr asserts that Winchell “always knew that fate’s natural and expected malice would do something awful to him, just as it had to all his friends”).  The book’s final image is of Winchell retired in Arizona, his wife and son dead, the latter a suicide.  He’s saluting the flag – a reminder of his patriotism, the one unshakeable value for this child of immigrants who symbolized the best and worst aspects of the American Dream.

In presenting evidence for the “what” of Winchell’s importance, Herr has done an excellent job.  But as this is a novel and not a critical biography, he inevitably leaves us curious about the “why” and “how.” Why would a sixth-grade dropout of unsurpassed vulgarity – his favorite forms of exercise, he said, were “bending, stretching, and coming” – be treated as respected oracle by so many of his countrymen?  How could someone who once referred to Paris as a seaport and to Emile Zola as a woman, who walked out on Waiting For Godot insisting that it was “a hoax,” be taken seriously, to the point where a word from him could make or break careers and reputations?

To answer this, we have to place Winchell in the context of this nation’s cultural history.  Of course, “dishing the dirt” is a basic human impulse; we’ve had village gossips for as long as we’ve had villages.  But in America, where individualism and its corollary, privacy, are sacrosanct, gossip – the revealing of secrets, essentially a violation of privacy – has taken on the particular lure of the forbidden.

This is especially true when those being gossiped about are “prominent” in one way or another.  Since we are supposedly a nation without fixed classes, where every citizen has an equal chance in life, it inevitably follows that as Kurt Vonnegut once observed, “the [real] political parties in America …are Winners and Losers,” and that the latter will often take a not-so-secret enjoyment in seeing the former brought low (e.g., Donald Trump, Leona Helmsley, Claus von Bulow, etc., etc.).

Thus it is not surprising that publishers first discovered that gossip could sell newspapers in the late 19th century, when a distinct American aristocracy emerged: the “captains of industry” – later “robber barons” – whose lavish entertaining and consuming habits became the stuff of dreams for the less-fortunate reading public.  Many papers began running a “society column,” a record of the comings and goings of the wealthy (primarily the established wealthy; those whose riches were too nouveau, or who had the wrong religion or accent, need not apply).

In those days, the coverage was respectful, even adulatory – it was assumed that readers were content to know about the parties and possessions of the upper class, not their scandals. But Winchell changed all that.

Entering the field at a time when heroes and fantasy figures were suddenly emerging from previously obscure or nonexistent areas – radio, movies, professional sports, even organized crime – he tapped into the new hungers of the public by democratizing the pantheon of fame.  Winchell opened his pages to anyone, and for any reason; attracting his attention, for anything from a riveting stage performance to a juicy sex scandal, was the only criterion.  At the same time, he added an undertone of adolescent nastiness, like someone painting a mustache on the Mona Lisa; sure, anybody could get in, but it could just as easily be as an accused “swish” or adulterer as for writing a literary masterpiece (“‘Al Capone,’ he says in the book, ‘[is] as famous as Al Jolson.'”).

And the very arrogance that made Winchell so loathsome as a human being helped fuel his professional success.  No matter how powerful he became, he always maintained the persona of the outsider, the tough “little guy” exposing and bringing down the big shots.  (This was not entirely a fantasy. Though as assimilated, and nonobservant, as many Jews of that period, Winchell could still be graphically reminded of his origins; he was once denounced by Mississippi congressman John Rankin as “a little slime-mongering kike” – this was duly entered in the Congressional Record.)  And as someone who had spent so many years in the futile pursuit of headliner status, he could identify with all those Americans who might, however vaguely, harbor similar dreams – and resentments.  It helped that he was operating in an era when such feelings were in abundance:  we tend to forget that many Americans in the 1920’s weren’t invited to the Jazz Age party, and during the Depression, the party crowd had become an even smaller minority.  Indeed, the greater social and economic security of Americans in the postwar years could have been a factor in Winchell’s loss of popularity.

What about his legacy?  A scene in the Stork Club, late in the book, depicts Winchell watching “Roy Cohn… dancing with a pretty young woman.” It brings to mind Barbara Walters, who occasionally dated Cohn in the ‘50s and went on to become, in a sense, Winchell’s journalistic “daughter.”  Walters’ celebrity journalism, where Mother Teresa and Eddie Murphy are assigned equal significance – once again, fame in itself, rather than how one attains it, is all that matters – is essentially latter-day Winchellism. And his influence can be seen throughout American media, from People to “Entertainment Tonight” to countless local news shows. In Herr’s words, “If people go around today treating themselves like celebrities because not to be a celebrity is just too awful, we may have Walter Winchell to thank.”

But there are differences, both pro and con.  There is no single figure who possesses, or abuses, as much power as Winchell – whatever happened to “Miss Rona” Barrett or Joyce Haber? – which is just as well.  On the other hand, gossip itself has become all-pervasive in ways that Winchell never would have imagined, to the point where celebrity dirt is assigned equal or greater status with events of truly historic import.  (In that recent Time story, Carl Bernstein noted that “supposedly responsible newspapers [gave] over Page One to Donald and Ivana Trump” just as Nelson Mandela was being liberated and the Allies of World War II were approving German reunification.)  Winchell, at least, understood the difference between the serious and the trivial; if Liz Smith or Diana “The Ear” McClelland wouldn’t presume to make foreign policy pronouncements, neither would Winchell have tried to get a Trump-like story on the front page.  Herr recreates a 1939 broadcast where Winchell spends ten minutes attacking Congressional isolationists before throwing in a tidbit “‘just for those of you who think I ought to stick to Broadway gossip'” about a starlet’s presumed bed-hopping.

But one similarity between Winchell and his successors is clear:  the basic impetus for their work is still negative.  Smith et al. may proclaim their essential niceness, just as positive items such as marriages and “legitimate” births were a staple for Winchell.  But as any honest editor will tell you, it’s the scandals that really boost circulation; and when people refer to “juicy” gossip, they’re not talking about parties where no one misbehaved.

And perhaps this is a good explanation for the latter-day revival of the gossip industry. Once again, we are in a period of great economic and social uncertainty, where a small, loud group parties on while everyone else presses their collective nose against the window, hoping to see something embarrassing.  Given current conditions, I wouldn’t bet on the industry losing steam any time before the next century.

Originally written for Tikkun magazine, 1992.

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Class Distinctions

The Inheritance:  How Three Families and America Moved From Roosevelt to Reagan

By Samuel G. Freedman.  Simon & Schuster, 1996.  464 pp.

By P.H.I.Berroll

In a photograph at the front of this book, three fortyish political activists – Frank Trotta, Jr., Leslie Maeby, and Tim Carey – stand together at a restaurant in Peekskill, N.Y.  Peekskill is the home base of conservative Republican George Pataki, who was elected New York’s Governor in 1994 on promises to cut taxes and spending (i.e., social-service programs) and bring back the death penalty.  Both Carey and Maeby worked for Pataki’s campaign, and it’s a safe bet that Trotta, a lifelong Republican, gave him his vote.

A progressive could be forgiven for being repelled by this trio of plump, smug reactionaries – I certainly was.  But it is a measure of Samuel G. Freedman’s achievement in The Inheritance that one finishes the book with a deeper understanding of the three… and a feeling of sadness at losing them to the “enemy” camp.

I say “losing” because Carey, Maeby, and Trotta all came from families – Irish, Polish, and Italian respectively – who had an allegiance to the Democrats that rivaled their love of America itself.  Those families typified the working-class Catholics who formed the bedrock of the party for decades, especially after the election of Franklin Roosevelt in 1932.  But the younger generation is symbolic of the “Reagan Democrats” who helped return the G.O.P. to power almost 50 years later.

In The Inheritance, Freedman, a former New York Times reporter and author of two previous books – Upon This Rock, a portrait of a black church, and Small Victories, about a teacher in an inner-city public school – has put a human face on this phenomenon, using a skillful blend of the “macro” of national trends and statistics and the “micro” minutiae of everyday lives.  I can’t recommend the book strongly enough for Tikkun readers, for it addresses one of the most frequently discussed questions in these pages:  why have millions of voters from blue-collar backgrounds abandoned the Democrats, even though it seemed clearly against their economic interests to do so?  The theme of The Inheritance is that for these voters, it’s not just the economy, stupid – gut issues have competed with pocketbook issues for primacy, and in recent years have frequently won.

Freedman begins his story with one grandparent from each of his three families.  All of them had truly Dickensian childhoods.  Silvio Burigo was raised by relatives after his immigrant father committed suicide; he left school at an early age to become a plumber.  Joseph Obrycki’s father, a leader of the Polish community in Baltimore, was a business failure, and the teenaged Joe became the principal support of his family – as a numbers runner.  Lizzie Sanford (later Garrett) and her widowed Irish mother fled the poverty of Liverpool and settled in New York City’s Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood, where things were not much better.

The Depression years found all three with families of their own, struggling to get by.  For Burigo and Garrett, support for the Democrats was a matter of bread-on-the-table survival:  Roosevelt promised economic improvement and a social-welfare safety net.  For Obrycki, now active in Baltimore’s Democratic machine, it was about political loyalty.  But in varying degrees, they all came to establish a deeper emotional connection to the party (class resentment was also a factor – in their eyes, “Republican” meant “rich Protestant”).  And they helped spread the gospel to their relatives, friends, and co-workers.

For more than three decades, more loyal Democratic voters could not be found.  But then cracks in the bedrock began to appear, not among the older generation – though Burigo was angered by the government-ordered integration of his union in the 1960’s – but with their children and grandchildren, who knew not FDR.  For them, liberal-Democratic politics came to be seen not as a source of aid and protection, but as an enemy.  And the fault lines, as Freedman illustrates, were often created by the clash of opposing social values.

As a young military policeman, Sanford’s grandson Tim Carey stood guard at the Pentagon during the massive antiwar protest of October 1967.  It awakened his class consciousness, but in a radically different sense from his grandmother:  he saw himself as being attacked by college kids with draft deferments while he and his buddies were “bearing the burden they shirked.”  (With his reporter’s eye for the telling detail, Freedman depicts Carey “[seeing] the first can fly…Tomato soup, he noted as it lay dented on the ground; he had stocked plenty in his days at Shopwell.”)

Frank Trotta, grandson of Burigo, was also alienated by the antiwar movement’s excesses, and resentful that tenants of the complex where his father worked as a janitor were given low-rent apartments, on which many neglected the upkeep, by the government.  And both he and Carey were angered by the apparent ease with which nonwhite students were given admission and scholarships – for which they had to struggle – to New York’s state university system.

Joe Obrycki’s daughter Vilma, meanwhile, had left Baltimore with her husband, Jack Maeby; they eventually settled in Colonie, N.Y., a suburb of Albany, the state capital.  In their case, liberalism had done its job all too well:  towns like Colonie grew with plenty of help from government programs (e.g., FHA housing loans and the interstate highway system).  Yet local Republicans thrived by attacking Albany’s Democrats for their “bloated payroll” and other financial excesses.  All across the country, suburban, formerly blue-collar voters were buying into a similar ideology.  And it was passed down to their children – including the Maebys’ daughter Leslie, who eventually became finance director for the state Republican party.

It is disheartening to read about Maeby, Tim Carey (a campaign strategist) and Frank Trotta (a lawyer) expending their energies on people like Pataki and Alfonse D’Amato.  And Freedman suggests that this was not inevitable:  he devotes a chapter to Tim’s uncle, Richie Garrett, whose ecological concerns made him a Democratic activist in the late ’60s.  But he also depicts, convincingly, the political incompetence and arrogance that helped drive other such voters from the Democrats.

Indeed, arrogance, and elitism, is a recurring motif in the book.  Freedman doesn’t object to most Left/liberal ideology; but he makes it clear that if it had been presented to these people in a dialogue of equals, instead of with the attitude of we know best, and you must be a racist/fascist/militarist if you disagree, the wholesale defections of the ’80s might have been avoided.  He suggests, for example, that while Silvio Burigo was something of a racist, bigotry alone did not explain his resistance, and that of his fellow plumbers, to integrating their union.  It was more a matter of ethnic solidarity – membership was one of the few things these men could pass on to their sons and nephews – and this attitude, however narrow-minded, could have at least have been addressed by the union’s opponents.

What of the future?  At the end of The Inheritance, Freedman sounds pessimistic:  “When [the older] generation passes, so will the collective memory of the New Deal.”  But while the South, that other one-time bastion of Democratic solidarity, may be irretrievably lost, the rest of the country, judging from the election of 1996, is still up for grabs.  And if there is any hope of winning back the Reagan Democrats and avoiding the creation of new ones, the lessons of this book must be put into practice.

Originally written for Tikkun magazine, 1998.

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