When I worked for ASI in Chicago in 1978, Indiana was my territory. General Motors was a national account, controlled by an account manager who had the relationship with the corporate office in Detroit, but I had several satellite accounts including Delco in Kokomo, an hour north of Indianapolis. My contact person was a mid-level manager named Dick Marshall, on whom I called early in my tenure with the company. He was tall, lanky, fair-haired. I had learned in my recent sales training to set my new contact at ease with the “warm-up”: ask some questions about what he liked to do and perhaps reveal a bit about myself as well.

I quickly learned that he was a classic Corvette aficionado. He collected, restored and showed them. His face lit up as he spoke of them. He invited me to have our next meeting at his home (right next to the plant), so he could show his collection to me. I accepted his offer.

As soon as I got home to my apartment, I called Dan in Boston (my resident car expert; yes, we were a commuting couple for 16 months) and asked him to tell me EVERYTHING about Vettes. There was no “google” 45 years ago. Dan complied and I learned a bit about GM’s finest sports car.

A few weeks later, Dick and I had a business meeting on the couch of his small living room. I instinctively felt I could trust him and that trust was well-placed. His home was not much bigger than the HUGE attached garage he led me to. It housed four cars: a white 1953 Corvette, in pieces all over a tarp, in the process of being restored; two red 1964 Vettes with a white insert, which were his every day, driving-around cars.

And the piece de resistance of his collection: a yellow, 1966 fully restored Sting Ray (like the one in the Featured photo). It was impeccable, PERFECT. You could eat off the engine block. This car, he showed in concourses and shows. It was his pride and joy. I was not allowed to touch it. He didn’t drive it. To transport it, he would put it up on a trailer.

We continued to have an excellent relationship for the nine months that I was in that territory and he signed a small contract with me. But he was up for a promotion that took him to Detroit. Housing costs were different there and he wound up selling off his collection. I think it broke his heart.

I was home in Detroit for Thanksgiving that year with my parents. I went over to my favorite cousin’s later in the evening. Her father, my dad’s oldest brother, had been the assistant comptroller of GM for years, though now long-retired. I told him my company wanted me to make a courtesy call at GM because of my familial connections. The man I was supposed to call on had been hired by Uncle Art (I think his name was Tom, but I’m not sure after 45 years). Uncle Art said it was fine to use his name when making the appointment.

And so, a few weeks later, I did just that, saying that Art Sarason’s niece, Betsy Pfau, would like to call on the gentleman to pay respects from ASI. I stayed with my folks and asked my dad how to get to the Renaissance Center, which was built long after I left the area (this event took place before GPS). Dad’s directions weren’t quite good enough and I was sailing past those towers, still on the highway, and had to figure out how to double back and find my way, but I did get there. I always allowed myself “getting lost” time.

I was shown into Tom’s office. He greeted me brusquely. “What is your relationship to Art Sarason?”, he demanded. I held up my briefcase, which had my monogram ESP embossed in gold letters (a going-away gift from my previous company), “Do you see that ‘S’? It stands for Sarason. Art is my uncle.” Well, the man became a pussycat, asked after my uncle, for whom he had great respect and the meeting went quite well.

After that, I visited Dick Marshall in the same building, just to say hi. He looked ashen, though he was certainly happy to see me. He was so unhappy to be in Detroit, missed his cars terribly (he was driving a Buick LeMans, heaven knows why). We talked about an hour. He felt he had made a big mistake, but there was no turning back. It was clear to me that he had left his heart and soul behind when he sold those Corvettes, even for a big corporate promotion. He had left perfection behind. I never heard from him again.

 

Malcolm

I never imagined that after decades of friendship we and Malcolm would become estranged,  but regrettably it happened.

He and my husband Danny roomed together in college and remained very close.  Mal was the most sophisticated one in their crowd  – he bought his clothes at Brooks,  went to Dunhill’s for his pipe tobacco,  and for years rented shares in summer houses in the chic Hamptons.

After college Mal went to Harvard for an MBA, and then worked as a business consultant,  eventually running his own firm.  He dated many women over the years but never married and lived a peripatetic life,  traveling on business a good part of every month while living with his widowed mother in the New York suburbs.

When he was not traveling he’d often meet Danny for lunch and just as often we three would have dinner together.   After his mother died we’d invite him to join us for holidays,  and when he sold her house I helped him pack for his move to an apartment in the same town.

Then a dozen or so years ago Mal suffered a stroke and could no longer work,  and it seemed his life began to spiral down.  He’d refuse our invitations and we saw him less and less.

Then one day Mal called to say he could no longer manage on his own,  and was moving to an assisted living facility,  As he had no family and considered us his closest friends,  he asked our help with the move, and hoped we’d find a home for his cat Lily.

Of course we said we would,  and arranged to meet him at his place.  Over the years we’d seen him at our home or at restaurants,  and so when we arrived at Mal’s apartment we were shocked to see that our once fastidious friend had become a hoarder practically living in squalor.

So unexpectedly we found ourselves handling not only the packing and the logistics of his move,  but hiring a company to thoroughly clean out the apartment.  Mal then told us he owed many months of back rent,  and in fact was broke.   And so we paid not only his moving and cleanup expenses,  but his back rent as well,  and found a home for his cat.

But the day we helped Mal move into the assisted living facility was the last time we saw him.  He made it clear that our visits would not be welcome,  and since then has rebuffed all our overtures,  and stopped responding to our calls and emails.

At first I was angry at his seeming ingratitude for all we’d done for him.  But I realized of course it was Mal who was angry –  at his own helplessness and dependency,  and at the loss of the accomplished and active life that had once been his.

And so for all those years of friendship we had shared,  I forgave him.

– Dana Susan Lehrman 

My beloved Rabbi Al Axelrad, who was the chaplain at Brandeis when I was an undergrad, retired many years later, but continued to lead High Holiday services until a few years ago. He was a true teacher. His services lasted a long time because he quoted from all sorts of outside texts and I always felt I came away having learned something new.

The last time I saw my father, who died on January 3, 1990, he came into Boston to see his little grandsons and spend Yom Kippur with us. I got him tickets to Rabbi Al’s service and took him over to Brandeis to show him where they were held and where he should park. He came back after the service, truly moved, saying he understood how Al had influenced both his children (my brother became a rabbi in part because of Al’s influence). Dad made a contribution to Hillel at Brandeis in Al’s honor that year. He would only live three more months, but we didn’t know that at the time.

I was decimated by my father’s death (he died of a heart attack, alone in a hospital in Laguna Beach, CA, almost 34 years ago. I still tear up, thinking of him). At services the next autumn, Rabbi Al quoted from an essay from one of his former students: Deborah Lipstadt. She had done her Masters and PhD at Brandeis, overlapped some years with me and been friendly with Al (everyone was). Her essay was called, “The Lord Was His”, and was printed in a collection called “Jewish Reflections on Death”. Al’s quote stuck me, and I spoke to him after the service, asking where it came from. I bought the book and read the essay many times.

Fast forward: Deborah is now a professor at Emory University, a leading authority on antisemitism and the Holocaust. English author David Irving sued her for libel after she called him a Holocaust denier, but she won. The UK libel laws are much more difficult than in the US, so this was a great victory, which she wrote about in “History on Trial”. The case was turned into a movie called “Denial” with Rachel Weisz  portraying her.

She was the historical consultant for the establishment of the US Holocaust Museum and, in 2022 was named by President Biden as the US Special Envoy for Monitoring and Combating Antisemitism.

In 2019, Brandeis awarded her an honorary degree and she was the Commencement speaker. My husband and I were at the Fellows Breakfast with all the honorary degree recipients for that day. Our nephew graduated that year and my husband wanted to hurry out and get our seats so we had a good view. I told him I wanted to speak to her and tell her how much her essay had helped me to grieve for my father. I got an eye-roll, but I persisted.

I shyly introduced myself as the sister of Rabbi Richard Sarason (she had heard of my distinguished brother) and long-time friend of Rabbi Al Axelrad. I informed her of that long-ago service where Al had quoted a paragraph from her essay, which made me seek out the entire writing and how much it had helped me, as I read it year after year, trying to seek meaning and solace from my own father’s death.

Her father had left a message to his offspring, which was the point of the essay. A proper German Jewish man who sold monuments, so was involved with death, her father left instructions that the traditional hymn, Adon Olam, be sung at the end of his funeral. That song is only sung at the close of the morning Sabbath service, never at a funeral. She had puzzled about this, then finally focused on the final phrase, which is: “The Lord is with me/I will not fear.” Her father had meant that as his legacy and final message to his children and she understood. We could be sad, lonely, mourn for our loved one, but we were not to fear.

She looked at me with great tenderness. This distinguished scholar and fearless fighter for human rights told me that this essay was the first piece she’d ever had published. It meant so much to her that I took the time to tell her how much the essay meant to me.

Our brief encounter meant the world to each of us.

Teacher Strike

In September 1968 I was a newly minted school librarian working in a New York City public high school when my union,  the United Federation of Teachers (UFT),  then led by Al Shanker,  voted to strike.  I joined the picket line.

The strike followed a confrontation between a newly established community-controlled school board in the largely Black Ocean Hill-Brownsville section of Brooklyn after 19 teachers and administrators – almost all of whom were Jewish  – were fired  without notice.  The UFT demanded the teachers‘  reinstatement and accused the school board of anti-semitism.

Thus the situation was complex involving racism and school decentralization,  and over 90% of the city’s teachers walked out leaving over a million children with no school.

Finally after 36 days of stalemate, protests,  and picket lines at schools all over the city,  the New York State Education Commissioner took temporary control of the Brooklyn school district,  the dismissed teachers were reinstated,  and the schools reopened.  But for his part in leading the teachers strike – illegal in New York State – Shanker was jailed for 15 days.

Later he went on to lead the national teachers union,  the American Federation of Teachers (AFT),  and In 1998,  a year after his death,  President Clinton posthumously awarded Al Shanker the Medal of Freedom.

(If you’ve just read this,  thank a teacher!)

– Dana Susan Lehrman

We are fortunate to own a historic home in the village of Edgartown on Martha’s Vineyard. Holmes Coffin House. It has a plaque above the door and for many years, was down the block from the Martha’s Vineyard Museum, which has since moved to a large campus in Vineyard Haven, but the street retains the “Cooke Legacy Garden” with the oldest house on the island still in its original location, surrounded by lovely, historic gardens. People seem to enjoy the view over the fence to the carriage house (the Featured photo, a professional photo, used by our architect on his Instagram site, web page and print ads) and I frequently come home to find people snapping photos of my property.

I will stop and engage these strangers in conversation – “Do you like the view?” “Do you want to know more about the house?” “Yes, it IS my house, aren’t I lucky?” Then, if I have time, and the people seem interested, I may launch into a little history lesson about Holmes Coffin, the stone mason, who laid the curb stone at their feet, the foundation for this house and his brother Jared’s house across the street. Jared, who was the master builder of Edgartown, built his house six years earlier than mine, in the same style as ours. We are quite friendly with those owners, which is wonderful for all concerned.

We are very close to the commercial district, just a block and a half from Main Street. At the end of the block is the court house, and on one corner is St. Elizabeth’s Catholic Church, where I love to watch all the beautiful weddings.

The original Baptist Church, built in 1839, designed by Frederick Baylies, Jr, son of the last missionary to the Indigenous people of the island, who also designed the Federated Church around the corner, and the Old Whaling Church (originally a Methodist Church) on Main Street, the three landmark churches of Edgartown, is across the street. After this church congregation joined with the Congregational, the building became a Masonic Temple, but has been a private residence since 1979. We have known the past two owners, as well as the current and have been in it many times. This is also a much-photographed building that draws many comments from those wandering down the street, so I add commentary about it as well, telling how there are multiple staircases leading to the four bedrooms which occupy the four corners upstairs. Everyone seems intrigued that it is a private residence, as it is an imposing building.

A few weeks ago, as we were all preparing for the coming of Hurricane Lee, which turned out to be a bust, I stepped outside to get some food and take photos for an upcoming Retrospect story. I ran into a nice young man, who noticed that I stumbled out the door. I muttered something about what a klutz I am and we laughed. I went around the corner for my first errand and lost sight of him. I ran into him again about 15 minutes later as I wandered up North Water Street (a main street in town). He seemed flustered. I asked if I could help. I introduced myself. He told me his name. It was unusual (and I’ve forgotten it). He said it is Chinese; he is half Chinese. He was in town for a cousin’s wedding, but people couldn’t fly in that Friday because of the storm – all the flights had been canceled (and by later that day, the ferry had stopped running as well). He seemed quite upset. I asked where the ceremony and reception would be. The ceremony was at St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church on North Summer Street (the church that had welcomed the Venezuelan refugees that Ron DeSantis had illegally flown up to us a year ago). The reception was at the Edgartown Yacht Club. Both nice, close, easy-to-walk-to locations. I tried to reassure him that all would be fine. I didn’t want to alarm him that EYC is on the harbor and can flood during a big storm with high tides and large ocean swells, but I did not share that information with him. The storm was still hours away, though the winds had already kicked up. I tried to reassure him. I told him that he knew where I lived, that I’d be in all day and the next, if I could do anything to help him, just knock on my door. I did not hear from him, the storm wasn’t bad at all but I hoped that by talking to him, I calmed him down.

Strangers are only that until we introduce ourselves. Then we can get to know them and just maybe, have a bit to add to their day or their lives.

 

I loved to read as a child and would often take trips to my local library, the Sherwood Forest branch of the Detroit Public Library, as well as my school library. I remember the first book I ever read there: “Elizabeth Enters” about the recently deceased sovereign. Even as a second grader, I enjoyed learning about the British monarchy.

So it is not surprising that I would instill a love of reading in my own children, providing them with lots of books around our home, both their own, and borrowed from the public library. We were lucky to have access to two wonderful libraries throughout the years.

Edgartown was fortunate to have one of the original Carnegie libraries and it was a great place to hang out on a rainy summer day, or borrow a video to entertain the kids. But the building was in downtown, historic Edgartown, with no parking, no room for expansion and old facilities. A huge fundraising effort allowed the library to move to the outskirts of central Edgartown with this original building restored and maintained as a sort of visitor center/museum by the Preservation Trust, highlighting the historic properties they own.

The new library is modern, welcoming from front and back (you can see the enclosed playground area, just inside the fence). There are rooms for public book readings, a great children’s area, and large stacks; quite an improvement over the old space.

Newton also has a fantastic library with ample parking (though it is across from City Hall, so the parking gets used by overflow visitors there, as well). Public sculptures adorn the lawn, in particular, this trio of Pooh figures by renown local artist Nancy Schön, who also did the “Make Way for Ducklings” sculpture in the Public Garden. And the Children’s Reading Room is warm and welcoming. I frequently took out loads of books with my children here. I have a distinct memory of a nursery school teacher rolling her eyes when I proudly told her that I’d taken out 10 books for David. He loved them, but somehow she didn’t think that was appropriate for a four year old. I guess she’d think twice now, as Dr. Pfau (PhD in Computational Neuroscience, 2014, Columbia University) is much in demand at AI seminars all over the world.

Last month, my granddaughter Rosa’s daycare took her little group on its first field trip (the yellow vests are not a form of protest; they are easy identification of their group). Where did they go? To a library of course. Getting them off to a good start.

Does anyone remember the program “Reading is Fundamental”? It really is.

 

I come from Detroit. My family was in the automotive industry. My great uncle, Meyer Prentis (Uncle Meyer) was the Treasurer of General Motors when it was the largest corporation in the world. My dad’s oldest brother was it’s comptroller. My dad worked for the Chevrolet division in Flint, MI before WWII, but upon returning from the war, struck out on his own. With a partner, he opened a used car lot, which morphed into a DeSoto dealership (anyone remember that marque?), then a Chrysler dealership. You see his business card as the Featured photo. I used to joke that I had motor oil running through my veins.

Though I was a youngster at the time, I saw how unions helped to build out this country’s middle class. But I also know the power (and corruption) of the UAW and Teamsters (indeed, Shawn Fain, the current head of the UAW just came to power recently when the corrupt former head was overthrown).

My father already was in business trouble when the UAW went out on strike in 1967. His partner wanted to leave the business, insisting he be bought out. I believe my father completed that financial obligation in 1972. Long before that, he had expanded the physical footprint of the dealership, adding a large wing. In order to do so, took out a big mortgage on the business. With a long strike, he ran out of inventory to sell. He was forced to sell the dealership at a financial loss back to Chrysler. He went to work for a cousin who owned a Buick dealership (some years later, he left the automotive industry altogether; he turned to professional philanthropy for his living). I was still a kid at home and the finances of our family were not discussed with the children, but I felt the impact.

I am not asking for sympathy, merely stating the facts. No one thinks about who gets hurt during a lengthy strike. I have no documentation, but I would not be surprised if some of my wealthier relatives helped to pay for my brother’s and my private college tuition. Our aunts and uncles were proud of our achievements and wanted them to continue. Or perhaps my dad had savings set aside for the tuition. I don’t know and no one is now alive who can answer these questions. I only knew that I was filled with gratitude to be in the position I was in and didn’t want to waste a single precious moment that was given to me.

My dear friend Christie and I were visiting my parents before driving up for our first visit (of what became a decade-long tradition) to the National Music Camp when Jimmy Hoffa, disgraced, paroled, ex-head of the Teamsters went missing from suburban Detroit on July 30, 1975. For years after, we joked that we did it and we knew where the body was buried. (For sure, the Mafia did it and the body was never found.) The Teamsters were another huge presence in Detroit, one with big Mob ties. I was even quite familiar with Machus Red Fox, the restaurant where Hoffa’s meeting was set and he was last seen. It was a nice restaurant that my parents took me to on special occasions. Yes, Detroit is a union town, with all the ramifications.

In the aftermath of the market meltdown in 2008, the UAW gave the Big Three automakers huge concessions (the US government bailed out the car companies, but those loans were entirely repaid). Now the UAW is on strike against the Big Three. They are trying to make up what has been lost in the intervening 15 years. They are asking for close to a 40% pay increase over 4 years, a four-day work week, defined pension benefits, better health care, no-cut jobs, no more tiered hiring, limit to hiring temporary, non-union employees and more. They are worried about the coming revolution they foresee with the production of electronic vehicles. These seem like reasonable demands, given how well the auto industry has done in the intervening 15 years, yet the workers have not gotten commensurate increases as the auto industry is once again flying high, and in most industries, defined pensions are a thing of the past.

The pandemic hurt the car companies, with all the supply chain issues, and no one was renting cars, so the rental car companies shed their inventory and did not replace them for a while. But now, everything is booming. It takes a long time to source a car to purchase and prices have soared. I understand the UAW’s frustration and wish to catch up. But how much and how quickly? I have followed the deliberations as best I can. They certainly are entitled to their share, as they cut back during the time of distress. Time will tell how this all works and who pays the price (the consumer, the car companies, the workers themselves, as they lose weeks of pay?).

It is true that the wages have fallen in real dollars for work, while the CEOs are making huge salaries and share prices are soaring. None of this is fair, but the Union’s demands seem huge. They all must negotiate in good faith, rather than trying to “hold the other hostage”. Steve Rattner, Obama’s “car tzar” and an auto policy expert, wrote an op-ed in the NYTimes recently entitled, “Killing the Golden Goose”, positing that asking for too much and holding firm on the demands is a lose-lose situation.

Of course, I am not privy to the negotiations. The automakers have already offered a 20% pay increase. There are other demands that may not be met and the longer the strike goes on, the more it hurts their own workers, everyone in the supply chain (as it did my father, back in the day), the economy in general. Who does this help? Draw your own conclusions, but I would say, if the economy goes to hell, we are all losers.

This week, President Biden walked the picket line (with Shawn Fain looking on), offering full-throated support. TFG went to a non-union shop and talked about all that he did to support unions (pundits refute those claims, like everything else that comes out of his mouth; his audience, holding signs, was seeded with his supporters, who were not union members, just props for sound bites).

In August I heard an interesting panel discussion comprised of two members of the Writer’s Guild and one member of the Director’s Guild talk about the concurrent Writer’s and Actor’s strike and the various thorny issues being worked out that have risen to the top of the pile. Panelists were: Doug Liman, director of huge hits like “Mr. and Mrs. Smith” and “The Bourne Identity”, Misan Sagay who wrote “Belle” and Scott Frank, who has a long list of accomplishments, but most recently wrote, produced and directed “The Queen’s Gambit” (which, as the panel moderator said, “Got us all through COVID”). Misan lives in the UK, but is a member of the WGA, so does have that perspective. They covered an interesting set of topics that I will try to encapsulate for this discussion.

Major topics include size and usefulness of “writer’s rooms”, as a way to learn the craft, as a step ladder on a rung up to larger production jobs, as a creative outlet, or as a hindrance to creativity. Another topic is payment of residuals which has been blown apart with the move to streaming services. And the huge elephant in the room is the use of AI, both as a tool for writing, but also, instead of actors. So those were the big topics that were being negotiated. Each person on the panel had a point of view.

The topic of the writer’s room drew a mix of views. Doug Liman really liked them, thought they were a great source of creativity, but didn’t want the unions to set a fixed number of people to be present. Misan also likes them as a way to learn the craft and to be used as a stepping stone to bigger jobs. Scott Frank thought they were useless, a hindrance to his creative process. Doug’s warning was if they become like the Teamsters, where a set number have to be present, regardless of what they do or contribute and only add to the cost of production.

Residuals payment has changed dramatically with the streaming services. With networks, when shows were sold into syndication, residuals were paid in perpetuity and were a healthy way for actors and writers to earn a living. With the streaming services, writers are paid an upfront (frequently large) fee to write a show. There are no residuals no matter how many times the show is streamed. The network does not share that information. So the model is quite different and that is a major sticking point that is being hashed out.

Another big item is the use of AI, both in script development and acting. Doug Liman predicted that extras will be no more – they will all be generated by the use of AI. That was startling to hear. But the biggest fear was to hear the writers talk about chatbots writing scripts “in the voice of” famous authors. Some thought they might use AI to give them ideas, or a first draft, but THEY want to control that, not some Hollywood-type who is going around them. This is unknown territory and they want to get their arms around it now before it gets out of control.

Tom Fontana, hugely successful writer and producer of such hit shows as “St. Elsewhere”, “Homecide, Life on the Streets” and “Oz” was the subject of a large profile in the Washington Post on September 7. This is his fourth strike and he is angry! The stakes have never been higher. He says that at age 71, he’ll be OK, but the world he grew up in has changed so much that he wants to be sure that everyone he mentors will be OK.

The strike was just settled and the topics the panel discussed in August were resolved. Residuals will be paid on streamers, there will be writers rooms (I don’t know the exact terms of that part of the deal), something was negotiated about AI, but I don’t know exactly what. Actors and writers who are not at the top of the heap were desperate to keep their apartments. They can’t pay their rent. Big concessions were made; the writers got much of what they wanted. I suspect the actors will settle soon too. The talk shows will be back this week, but productions on scripted shows will take much longer to get back into production.

I saw in the paper yesterday that well-known authors like John Grisham and George R.R. Martin are suing OpenAI for training ChatGPT on their novels so that it can produce writing in these authors’ voice, using details that show the AI must have read the work, and is using it without copyright permission. AI continues to disrupt.

Now hotel workers in Las Vegas have authorized a strike. And the beat goes on…

 

Hitch hiking has transformed from adventure to a warning about self preservation.
Read More

Overture.  The Middletown Ct. Police Station—Bartok’s Sonata for two pianos and percussion.

Before beginning my job as a substitute teacher, I traveled to the police department for a fingerprint security check.  The officer, a large friendly African American interviewed me.

“Where will you be teaching?”

“Middletown High School.”

“Oh,” he warningly replied. “Do you know that is a dangerous place? I would not let my son attend that school.”

My department chair, an elderly woman who had no interest in leadership but only in control, warned me not to wander in the classroom.  “Stay in your chair or next to your desk,” she warned.  Wrong: my first two weeks included an equal number of personal attacks: a forceful attempt to steal my phone, and wet spit on my shirt for enforcing a regulation.

I did not report either aggression to the SRO.  I had learned that the detention room was just a secure space that fostered antisocial behavior, not remorse.  For instance, the students played a blood game.  They took turns hitting other students on the knuckles with a quarter.  The first to bleed had to put money on the table. The last to bleed collected the money.

I informed the chair about this conduct.  Unbelievably, she claimed that during her decades of teaching she had never heard of this.  And she advised me to ignore it. After all, this was not a teaching responsibility.

One afternoon, I looked out the window.  There were four police cars next to the building.  I heard an uproar in the hallway.  Several policemen were escorting a gaggle of students back to their classrooms. The students were taking a recess without permission.

For me this educational experience was disturbing.  My chair told me to record the answers and grades on a test that was given by a teacher who had to leave for a medical emergency. The students had received credit for remembering that Japan was our enemy in World War 1.  I checked their high school text.  Their memory was right.  But the text was wrong.  The students did not care.  The test was knowledge of the book.  Perplexed, I complained to the chair who said the students correctly answered the question.  It was not up to me to question the book.  She refused to report this error to the publisher. This, and the refusal to teach evolution and other scientific facts added to my feelings of despair.

Where am I? Is this an educational institution?

 

Andante. A Low Security Prison for Juveniles—Stravinsky, Symphony in Three Movements.

President’ Johnson’s passage of the Civil Rights Act (1966) officially led to desegregation reforms through the country.  The American Friends Service Committee took advantage of this funded federal program to send community workers to report on prisons behavior.

I was the leader of 10 college students sent to the prison in Lexington Ky. We were to live a few weeks there to observe desegregation progress. Unknowingly, the AFSC chose poorly if they were seeking infractions. The juvenile center was a model prison. We had few negative observations. This facility was a shining example for the reforms. The staff included many social workers and counsellors who worked with the youth to change their behavior. Furthermore, it had a low percentage of black prisoners.  Unfortunately some were in maximum security cells.

For me, the most disheartening discovery was in revelations about the background of these youth.  During the orientation, older residents interrogated the newbies regarding about their criminal history. Most of them had committed much worse crimes than they had been convicted for.  Those caught for shop lifting or violent behavior had a personal list of car theft, arson, and rape.

While I was observing one such orientation, a resident asked the novice if he had sisters.

Answer: “none.”

The inquisitor’s face reflected shock, hurt, and anger. He never asked a question again.

Later, I asked the counsellor about this behavior.

“Oh,” he answered.  “The kid hoped he could rake the inmate over. He himself had been forced to admit that he had raped his sisters.  So, he was looking for another victim.”

The negative attitudes toward prisoners seemed more apparent before and after they were confined.  Many female prisoners were punished for prostitution.  Their prison record would further limit their ability to take part in society.

All former inmates would have difficulty in obtaining adequate employment, they could not vote, and their educational backgrounds and opportunities were squelched. Within the next five years their recidivism rate would be nearly 50%!

One positive escape: boys could enlist in the military.  The girls had no comparable alternative to prison.

When the residents were released, they would return to a hostile community. For instance, once I went with a black student coworker to eat at a local restaurant.  I had received a list of restaurants that accepted integrated customers.  We chose a drive-in.  Later, we realized we had not read the fine print that black customers had to remain in the car.  Because I was driving an uncomfortable VW bug, we went into the restaurant.  We waited for service.  In several minutes the sheriff and his crew marched into the restaurant, ordering us to leave immediately.  In the parking lot, I referred to President Johnson’s Civil Rights Act which protected integration. The Sheriff, who looked like an extra in a red neck film, pointed to his expansive chest declaring, “I am the law here.”

Without any evidence, I can only assume that if I had not been with him, and not identified myself with the local prison administration, the student would have been abused and even become a captive in the local jail.

To handle our anger, we went to a primarily black bar in a low-income neighborhood.  Since we looked young, the bar tender asked to see our IDs. Looking at my driver’s license he informed me that it had expired.  Because he had heard the story of my biracial encounter, he warned me that if the Sherrif had seen this ID, I would be in the county jail.  For only the first time in my life I fainted!

Coda:  Harlem.  The Police Marching Band for military and patriotic events. (Never in East Harlem)

I lived at 76 E 111^th Street for 18 months. My block was three avenues from the East River and one avenue from Third.  The nearest subway station to the south was on 99^th St.  This Street was on the southern border of Harlem.  It acted like a prison wall. Cabbies from Downtown often refused to cross the line when their fare wanted to travel uptown.

What is significant is that each street, like a cell block, had a clear identification.  Mine was known for alcoholics; our neighboring blocks nurtured drugs and prostitution.   One could usually recognize the various addicts by their violent behavior– the alcoholics engaged in group control, ownership of women, and simple theft.  The addicts were dormant during the day.  When they needed cash for a fix, they would engage in destructive behavior—breaking into a store crashing equipment and seeking to find something valuable to fence quickly for their addiction.

Harlem’s street grids marked clear boundaries from each other. Residents stayed on outdoor steps; gangs protected their neighborhoods, and police kept order.

The apartment sitters protected their domain.  The sidewalks were unattended and often littered with paper wrappers, beer cans, and cigarette butts. Strangers walking past were seen with some suspicion—drug dealers? Police? Gangsters?  The locals might yell at strangers.  When I walked my girlfriend through the neighborhoods, I positioned her by the curb.  I walked in front of the gawkers for her safety.

From my first-floor apartment window, I witnessed pick pockets, mugging, and rowdiness, Violent behavior was rife.  One incident which amused me was to find a small washing machine placed on the roof of my VW.  My most fuming gang member planted a nickel or dime bag under my door, then called the police. Later he murdered my replacement.

The mafia and police ran protection extortion rackets from the merchants and the vulnerable population. I detected several such incidents:  four mafia characters demanding their regular payment from a restaurant owner, police attending a youthful late night party threatening people who were on parole or underage with arrest if they did not pay up.

There were many who isolated themselves. A beautifully dressed young woman invited me to her apartment.  The rooms were decorated with bright wallpaper, high quality furniture, photographs, and displays of jewelry. A stunning bedroom harbored a four-poster bed.  During our conversations, I learned she worked in Wall Street as a secretary.  She was single.  When asked what she thought of New York City and her job, she responded that it was the beginning and end of her subway commute.  Other than that, her real life was in her apartment.

To me she appeared self-incarcerated.

 

Conclusion and Credits.

The symphonic program on incarceration was composed of three prominent types of cells: school, prison, neighborhoods.

Thanks to the Kagan Law Enforcement Think Tank for sponsoring this event.

 

Recent Photo of problems at the Lexington Juvenile Prison

The closest I can come to feeling imprisoned is how the pandemic impacted my freedom starting in March, 2020.
Read More