Wanting Wednesday’s Ashes: When I Wished I was Catholic

Today is Ash Wednesday.

I know this because I see people’s foreheads smeared with what my Grandfather Abie called schmutz, or dirt. As in, “wipe the schmutz off your face.”

As a kid, I wanted to be Catholic. All my friends were Christian but it seemed the Catholics had all the fun. Midnight masses, Easter Sunrises, Christmas Trees, and Sunday Hams.  And Catechism. Back then, there was no issue holding religious education classes after school, using classrooms.

Once a week, my friends attended these classes, which to me seemed so secret. A gaggle of nuns, dressed in full black habits, their hair tightly bound under starched white wimples, a veil reaching their shoulders, arrived, school supplies and religious icons in oversized totebags.   My only exposure to nuns had been The Sound of Music  and Sally Field as “The Flying Nun.” 

I left to ride the nearly empty school bus home, alone.

The next day, the half-erased chalkboards showed glimpses of what transpired.  My friends talked among themselves about what occurred in my absence. Each nun sounded meaner than the next. I felt so left out.

Then there was Lent.  A month leading up to this period before Easter, my friends discussed what they were giving up for Lent. I wanted to give something up too but the thought of depriving myself of cookies and ice cream for an entire 40 days seemed rather harsh.

By high school, I no longer wished to be Catholic, though I dated Catholic guys and went to their homes for holiday meals. After school, kids played sports, or went to club meetings, or worked.  There were no religious education classes held on the high school premises.

Perhaps I began to identify myself more as a Jew, at least culturally. (My previous post on this topic.)

Yet seeing the ashes today reminded me of what it’s like to be different and want to fit in. And the importance of acceptance and tolerance.

Parental Angst: A Son’s College Story

I remember the phone call verbatim. 10 years later.

“Mom, I left my luggage on the train.”

Jacob, then 17 and a high school junior, had taken the train from Newark, NJ to Philadelphia, PA. He had transferred to the suburban train line to reach Swarthmore College, where he had arranged an overnight stay with a student host and had an interview scheduled the next day.

“You what?”  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.  He had become engrossed in conversation with another passenger.

“What will you wear to your interview? “

“I’ll borrow clothes. Don’t worry.”

Imagine my response.

The next day, after sleeping on the floor, he donned a pair of khakis and a semi-ironed shirt offered by his host, Zach, who had pointed to his closet and said, “take.

The interview went well and Jacob was accepted early decision. (And he retrieved his bag on the way home.)

His freshman year, we packed our mini-van and brought him to college. I made his bed, unpacked his things, gave instructions on how to do laundry, said goodbye, and cried practically the entire ride home. He was the first child to leave home.  

Returning to Swarthmore this past weekend to watch our daughter play tennis- the team traveled 8 hours by bus from Ohio- memories of Jacob’s college years returned.

An avid reader, Jacob used to walk the dog while reading a book; he refused to purchase required books, opting instead to borrow 30 or more titles from the college library about the subject. The librarians all knew him and loved how he boosted circulation. He acted in a play, campaigned for soy milk to be offered in the school cafeteria, founded a massage practice, and volunteered as an evening escort, accompanying drunk or drugged students back to their dorms.

By his sophomore year, he was disillusioned with college and announced his plans to leave.

We were devastated. He and the school had seemed a perfect match. We tried to convince him to finish. “Stick it out. Finish.” My father, furious, also attempted, telling him, “You have opportunities I never had.”

We argued. And finally acquiesced. There was no point wasting time or money if he wasn’t committed.  His college education- and that school- was our dream, not his.

I remember picking him up for the last time. Unmaking the bed, stuffing everything into the car. Frustrated. Annoyed. Worried.  We went out for Thai food as a family; the discussion dominated about what he would do now. Two gentlemen sitting nearby, eavesdropping, couldn’t help interjecting: “It won’t be the worst thing in the world if he drops out of college.”

They were right.

Allowing him to leave college and pursue his own path was difficult. In retrospect, what seemed so important at the time really wasn’t.  Part of letting go, we learned, is allowing children to make decisions themselves.

From “A Wrinkle in Time” to Astronaut

As a young girl, Janice Voss selected A Wrinkle in Time at her local library, unaware that the book would change her life.  

At age 16, she entered college, then interned with NASA, determined to become an astronaut.

Voss died this week of cancer.   One of only six women to have gone into space five times, she explored “the behavior of fire in weightlessness, how plants adapt to extraterrestrial flight” (NYT) and more.

She logged nearly 19 million miles circling the Earth.

Madeleine L’Engle‘s 1963 Newberry Medal Winner tells the story of how Meg Murry, her brother Charles Wallace, and their friend Calvin O’Keefe, travel through time and space, battling evil powers, searching for the Murry children’s father.  More fantasy than science fiction- the characters aren’t imbued with superhuman characteristics – this novel, considered a classic, is celebrating its 50^th birthday this year.

I taught A Wrinkle in Time and the four others in the L’Engle’s Time Quintet to urban middle school students.  Suspending belief and allowing their imaginations to enter unknown galaxies proved challenging for many.  Yet they preserved and came to love the characters and their odyssey.

I don’t know where those former students are now. Maybe some are scientists, inspired by their reading.

On the Trail of The Ancestors: A Black Cowboy’s Ride Across America

Here’s the link to my book, freshly minted and available on Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/Trail-Ancestors-Cowboys-Across-America/dp/1468123920/ref=pd_rhf_ee_p_t_1

Please share!

Happy 200th, Charles Dickens!

Charles Dickens would have been 200 years old this month.  His birth is being celebrated with museum and library exhibits throughout Britain and internationally.

Prince Charles, attending a celebration in Portsmouth, Dickens’ birthplace, read:  ”Despite the many years that have passed, Charles Dickens remains one of the greatest writers of the English language, who used his creative genius to campaign passionately for social justice. The word Dickensian instantly conjures up a vivid picture of Victorian life with all its contrasts and intrigue, and his characterisation is as fresh today as it was on the day it was written.”

What I wonder, is how many people still read him?

A Tale of Two Cities (1859) was my first introduction to Dickens. Assigned in high school freshman English, the book’s plots and characters were discussed and dissected, analyzed in essays and tested about in examinations.  This was before study guides existed- no Cliff Notes, Spark Notes or Internet to help understand the reading.

I remember loving the novel. My father, quipping about my mother’s knitting, would compare her to Madame Defarge; the infamous character who knit the names of her intended victims into garments.

Sophomore year brought Great Expectations (1860-61) and Miss Havisham, the rich spinster who lived in a decrepit mansion.  Even now, when cycling, I’ll comment about the appearance of a forlorn looking house, wondering if Dickens’ character lives there.

Then my reading of Dickens stopped. The rest of high school and college included other authors.

Moving to London in 1982, I became reacquainted with Dickens. The historical blue plaques that dot the landscape include seven honoring Dickens; his family moved a lot.

I bought used copies of his novels at the bookstalls on the South Bank of the Thames River and once again became enthralled with the plots and characters depicting Victorian England.  When the Royal Shakespeare Company announced its 1985 revival of Nicholas Nickleby, (1838-39) an 8-½ hour long stage adaptation, I bought tickets, ready for the marathon. The play is divided into two parts with about an hour in between; it was a fantastic theater experience.  

Returning to the US, and many years later, I took the children to Patrick Stewart’s solo performance of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol (1843) on Broadway.  Stewart played 40 characters from the ghosts to Tiny Tim.  

My three children, recognizing Stewart as Star Trek’s Captain Jean-Luc Picard, sat mesmerized. 

As each child entered high school, I reread some of these Dickens’ classics; it was a good way to inform dinner conversation about homework and provide ideas for essays.  Their reading of Dickens also ended by 10^th grade.

Happy Birthday Charles Dickens! You should be happy at least that teenagers are reading you, if not for pleasure, at least for school.

Tangerine Tango: 2012′s Color– and Mine!

Post Halloween, I tend to stash my orange sweaters to the back of the drawer. Now,  Pantone, the Carlstadt, NJ- based design mavens declared 2012’s color of the year, Tangerine Tango.

Sounds more like a cocktail than a clothing color.

For the first time ever, I’m actually ahead of the new style. I love orange and have citrus-hued clothes by the crateful: sweaters, blouses, sleeveless tops, a dress or two, and accessories: earrings, bracelets, scarves, and tights.   Alas, no shoes!

From my Orange Collection

Take me shopping and I gravitate to the oranges. (and greens)

Frankly, I love the use of colors- whether on walls, in towels, or clothes. I’ve never been the basic beige sort, preferring to don bright shades all the time.  While browsing at a local boutique, I realized I needed new key chains.  Surely these whimsical, snappy shaded baubles wouldn’t get lost. I’d never misplace my keys again. I’d remember that I’m holding them in my left hand while searching for them at the bottom of my pocketbook.

The Israeli designer, Orna Lalo, espouses her artistic philosophy: “Color for me is a language that has a sound, a smell, a touch and taste.”

The tag on the key rings reads: “I always think about the person who will be using my design- I want my colorful creations to smile at you and make you feel good.”

My new key chains

Isn’t that what fashion is all about?

But will I find my keys any faster?

Black Jockeys at the HOOD

Welcome to The HOOD; the House of Original Dreams. A state-funded program serving at-risk youth ages 16-21 in West Chester, PA, 35 miles outside of Philadelphia.   Here young people can prepare for the GED, learn job skills and life lessons.  Their presence is voluntary; by entering the door they’ve made a commitment to change their lives.   Contracted to serve 50 youth, the center assists three times that. Students are bussed each way from their homes, workplaces, shelters and juvenile detention centers.

I visited the HOOD to give a presentation based on my research about the history of the black jockeys.    While working as a literacy consultant in Newark, NJ, I met Miles Dean, a teacher who had ridden his horse across the country in 2008 to celebrate the history of African Americans. * 

At the time, he was trying to organize a National Day of the Black Jockey celebration. Dean’s journey and the jockeys, athletes they’d never known about, intrigued the students at the HOOD.

*Stay tuned: My book about his journey: “On the Trail of the Ancestors: A Black Cowboy’s Ride Across America” will be out in about a month.