I used to joke that I had motor oil running through my veins. Thanks to my great uncle: Uncle Meyer, as I’ve written about before, most of the Sarasons came north from St. Louis to Detroit to work for GM (my father worked in Flint for the Chevrolet Division starting in 1937, but after WWII, did not return to GM. With a partner, he got a used car lot, which became a DeSoto Dealership, then a Chrysler Dealership. He is the man in the lower right-hand corner of the Featured photo, with pith helmet in waving hand). He had a cousin who owned a Buick Dealership, another with a Cadillac Dealership. One brother was comptroller of GM, another worked at a Pontiac Dealership. On the other side of the family was a Ford Dealership. Motown and all that it entails, is a huge part of who I am.

Woodlawn Cemetery, final resting place of Aretha Franklin, her father, and Rosa Parks, is one block from the little house where I lived until I was almost 11 years old. We moved out of Detroit because the tax that funded the schools was voted down. The school system was already overcrowded and soon it would fall apart altogether. We built a house in a near-suburb, right by the Detroit Zoo and moved on October 1, 1963. Until we moved, I attended an integrated school, with an excellent curriculum, far ahead of what I would move to. I skipped a half grade when I moved (complicated system in Detroit), so was young for the peer group, but had no problem keeping up academically, only with the social life.

The Motown sound was huge as I hit my adolescent years and that was what we listened to (also British invasion music – we loved the Beatles too – but we were proud of our homegrown music) and we learned to dance to that music. We practiced dance moves while waiting for our cooking projects to finish in Home Ec class. My mother wanted to be a professional dancer (she moved to New York in 1935 to study with some of the greats) and I picked up my natural rhythm from her, as we used to dance together when I was a tiny little thing.

As teens, we practiced the dance moves of the Four Tops, the Jackson Five, Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, the Supremes and loved Marvin Gaye, Aretha, Tina Turner and all the other soul and rock singers coming out of our home town. We all could rock out to them, or do smooth moves at our school dances. My dance moves were not unusual. We all did them. I got a lot of attention for my dancing style when I came east to college, but back home I was just one of the pack. Learning to dance the way that the Motown singers did was just what I knew how to do. No biggie.

My new school system was lily white, but I spent my early years seeing integration at work. I also grew up in a liberal, Jewish household, where the ideals of the New Deal were firmly embedded. My family was committed to charitable work, I attended Sunday School at our liberal, Reform Temple starting in kindergarten, going through 12th grade (girls were not yet bat mitzvahed – that would come two years later, too late for me; I was Confirmed in 10th grade. I was an officer of my confirmation class and helped to write the service). Being Jewish was as important to me as coming from Detroit. My father was on our temple board; my mother volunteered for Hadassah, the Brandeis University National Women’s Committee, National Council of Jewish Women.

Confirmation Class, 1968 (first row to the right of center)

All of these influences turned me into the person I am today; a committed liberal, who seeks to “heal the world” (one of the tenets of Judaism), who still loves Motown music and can out-dance most people, though I’d love to learn the new dance moves too. They look pretty cool, even to this 71 year old.

Two years ago, my grandniece Eliza Judy was born.  I haven’t met her yet, but the postings show a smiling and adorable little girl, hugging her stuffed animals, running with toddler steps, dressed in a cute Halloween costume, laughing when parents or grandparents interact with her.  She is healthy, well-off and well-loved, bright and radiating hope for the future. 
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We were recently on a deluxe cruise around Italy and Croatia with some well-heeled travelers on a beautiful ship, 600 passengers in all. We certainly didn’t meet most of them, so could make up stories about the lives of people we only saw in passing. Several evenings we had to wear formal attire. On almost every other night, men had to wear jackets, women wore cocktail attire. During the day, we could wear anything. One man, whose cabin was on the same level of the ship as ours, I frequently saw in workout clothing and on the two days that I used the gym, he was there, working hard with heavy weights, doing crunches, and an aerobic workout. I’d peg him to be in his 60s, with a full head of silver hair, but who knows. He looked good.

1980, starting line of Boston Marathon

Back in Dan’s marathon running days, he worked out with the same group of guys, all members of the Greater Boston Track Club. One used to say sarcastically of anyone who was NOT is shape, “yeah, he’s got his number”, referring to a qualified number to run that year’s Boston Marathon (in those days, one had to run a sub 2:50 marathon to qualify for Boston; there were no charity runners). The phrase came into being after our friend saw the photo I took at the finish line of the 1980 Marathon. It was a hot day and Dan did not finish the race that year. He “hit the wall” at Heartbreak Hill and crashed at a friend’s house, who lived right there on Commonwealth Ave at the time (ironically, we now live around the corner). I waited at the finish line (we then lived in the Back Bay), snapping away and got a photo of the first woman across – the infamous Rosie Ruiz, who hopped on the subway, hoping to be in the middle of the pack, but accidentally WON the race, so I took her photo as she came across the line.

1980, cheater Rosie Ruiz finishes Boston Marathon

Our friend took one look at the cellulite on her legs and said, “yeah, she’s got HER number”, and a slogan was coined. Dan and I still use it, as we did when we saw that buff man, heading to the gym every day on our cruise, but not meant sarcastically. We really meant it when we saw him.

(A college friend excelled at sussing out cosmetic surgery and gave me pointers. I do not mean to be harsh or catty with some of the following comments; just making honest observations – some women do “refreshes” and look great. Some women either go too far or their doctors are not skilled and they do NOT look great. I can usually tell the difference.)

Toward the end of the cruise, we sat near a group that included the buff man and his wife, a blonde creature who’d had too much plastic surgery, wore her cocktail attire with a leather studded jacket draped over. I began to imagine they were from Texas and he wore a Stetson when not cruising (I heard a slight drawl from him, not enough to be from Alabama or Mississippi, which is why I dreamed he was an oil man from Texas; purely speculative, of course).

I pointed out another woman that same evening (a good one for people-gazing – we had a great view of the dining room). She had cheek implants and blown up lips. How could I tell about the cheeks implants, Dan inquired? I just knew (thanks to my college friend). They certainly did not look normal. Her husband looked much older. That might have been a mirage. I have a friend, someone I’ve known since my college years, who is very involved in the art world in Boston and Palm Beach. He made a sardonic comment to me once about the women in Palm Beach. He said there are so many “smiling” faces (faces pulled too tight by plastic surgery) who are not happy. I felt like I saw some of those aboard this ship. Some were immaculately groomed and dressed in beautiful gowns. They were not on any excursions we went on. Perhaps they luxuriated all day at the spa.

View to the pool from the top deck

The ship had lovely amenities. I took a “Pilates” class one afternoon. It was unlike anything I’ve taken and I’ve taken a lot of classes over 14 or so years. This was a series of squats and lunges, using weighted hand-held balls, then some shoulder bridges and push-ups. OK, we’d call that some form of Pilates fusion here in the States. The teacher was a young German man. At least I got a body workout. The other woman in class was German, dressed in leggings and a long-sleeved shirt. She spoke perfect English and informed us she had a shoulder injury, so couldn’t actually do much in the class, but I admired her persistence. She wasn’t familiar with this form of Pilates either.

After class, Kamil, our instructor, asked what shows we’d seen (at 9:30pm there was always some sort of entertainment). She liked the Motown review we’d seen the night before. She wasn’t happy when I gave the Vegas-style dancers in their sequins, doing ballet moves, a thumbs down. I informed her that I come from Motown, started to sing “I’ve Heard it Through the Grapevine” and dance properly to it, as any true Detroiter would. The instructor was impressed. She just sniffed and said she enjoyed the show as it was performed. This woman knew nothing of real Motown. I thought she might be around my age, perhaps a bit younger, hard to tell. Foreigners don’t know how to dance like we did, growing up in Detroit. They just want a show. But hearing the show singer with a foreign accent perform “Proud Mary”…well, no one can rival Tina. Or Aretha, as that same woman tried to sing “Respect”. I can’t imagine anyone rivaling those originals, or ever coming close.

Bronx Girl

“The Bronx?  No thonx!!”  wrote the poet Ogden Nash.

As a kid growing up in the Bronx I didn’t get it,  I didn’t realize my borough had a bad rap,  and I certainly wouldn’t have understood why.  The Bronx was my home and I loved it.  (See Parkchester, Celebrate Me Home)

I even went to college in the Bronx,  but then grad school and marriage finally took me out.  But although I was then living elsewhere,  I spent four decades of my working life commuting back as a public educator in Bronx high schools.

And although there may be some degree of rapport among all folks who discover they’re from the same hometown,  I contend there’s a special bond among us Bronxites.  We seem to share an unpretentiousness,  a true grit,  and of course that Bronx accent.

And one thing we all know – Ogden Nash was dead wrong!

– Dana Susan Lehrman

Cincinnati 

The great African American baseball legend Jackie Robinson was subject to unimaginable prejudice.  Teams would bring up their Southern minor leaguers to taunt and insult him.

One day during a game in Cincinnati,  a border town to the former slave state of Kentucky,  Robinson’s Dodger teammate,  Louisville native Pee Wee Reese walked over to first base and put his arm around Jackie.

Quite a gesture for a Southern gentleman,  and that day the haters shut up.

The writer with unnamed Retro admin.

– Danny L,  guest writer

While prejudice takes different forms in different eras, I fear it never really leaves us.
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My best friend in grade school is now a registered sex offender.
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My maternal grandfather was my first exemplar of bigotry.
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