I love New York City rain gear. I am not talking about fancy things that you might buy at Saks or a cool downtown boutique. I am talking about plastic shopping bags. I am always impressed by the ability of a New Yorker to take a simple bag and wrap it around his head to protect himself from a sudden downpour. But, I am not talking about the generic bag raincoats that they give people on those open, double-decker tourist buses, either. They are all the same. They are manufactured to be rain gear. I'm talking about creativity here, people. I'm talking about the real thing.
Because I lived in the city for many years, I am occasionally called upon for a list of things to do and see by friends who are contemplating a visit to New York. I give them the list, and then they ultimately ignore all of my recommendations. I don't let this hurt my feelings. Their reasoning for this is sound. Only a handful of the items on my list are things that most tourists do. My list just doesn't seem right. To many, the things that make New York, New York, are not on my list. But I beg to differ. New York is a different place from what most tourists see, hear . . . and even smell.
Before I was married, I lived in New York for about ten years, and spent another five or so with the husband and the baby girl and baby boy children. While the kids each spent some of their babydom in the city, their formative years were spent visiting. Kind of like, well, tourists. They will never admit to this, by the way. If you ask them they will deny it. Just want to make that clear. They've spent a lot of time in town. They know their way around.
Since Spring is officially here, tourist season is on its way. Even though March is coming in and going out like a lion. Even if Punxsutawney Phil's handler is taking some heat for Phil's predictions. I figured I'd give some tips for visiting New York this spring or summer for those on a budget, with kids or on their own. On a budget, because I am cheap. With kids, because I have some and they like to do cool things. On their own because most of these ideas are good for folks with and without the little monsters. And, as an FYI, the family doesn't like to stand in lines. That's really important. Minimal line standing. Unless it's for something really, really good. But I will say that you should absolutely do some New York line-standing-touristy-things, just not too many, or you will waste all your time standing in lines. You might even want to buy a one-day ticket on one of those tourist buses to get your bearings early on if you're there for a few days. Definitely head to the top of the Empire State Building. It's historic and it's just a cool building. Ellis Island is an interesting place to go as well. And if you must see Times Square, go ahead and walk around for a few minutes. Just don't linger. All those guys dressed up as Elmo and Minnie Mouse? They are not the real New York.
This past summer, the family and I took a dream vacation to Europe. One week was spent entirely in Paris, the next in Rome. The husband had never been to Europe and had always wanted to go. I was all for it. We decided to rent apartments in each city, allowing us to live to a certain extent as Parisians and Romans do, grocery shopping at local stores and outdoor markets, stopping at the corner boulangerie in the morning and boucherie in the afternoon. Since the girl child studies Italian, the boy child French, and the husband gets by in Spanish, Italian and German, we did pretty well language-wise. I think that I, the consummate American, handled speaking English pretty darn well. It really helped that many Europeans do too. I do, however believe that the husband's native Tagalog was the most useful language in Rome. Lots of Filipinos in Rome. Who would have known? Anyway, we enjoyed some time in museums and tourist attractions, but most of our trip was spent walking the neighborhoods, eating the local foods, and getting to know the people. Our apartment hosts had left us amazing walking tours and lists of their favorite restaurants and gelaterie. And thanks to some pre-trip social media chats, we made some new friends that have become dear friends. How lucky are we?
I highly recommend an apartment over staying at a hotel if you're planning some time in New York. There are agencies out there to help with finding the right place, but you have to be sure to ask the right questions regarding the kitchen appliances, laundry facilities, etc. although I think this might apply more in Europe than in the U.S. And check out the neighborhood as best you can. Try to find a friend in the city that can steer you to one, although remember that their tastes may differ from yours, especially if they are used to being in a city environment and you are not. What seems harmless to them may seem scary to you! But "living" in the city, rather than "visiting" it, can give you a unique perspective that you wouldn't ordinarily get while staying at a hotel.
As a day tripper, there is much more to do than going to a Broadway show or a museum, although those things are surely worthwhile. My kids were surprised to discover that many of their classmates think that all of New York looks like Times Square. And we only live about an hour from the city. The following is a list of places to go and things to do that you might not have thought about otherwise. If you enjoy them, please let me know!
THEATER
I don't do Broadway. I will catch flack for saying this, I am sure. There are some amazing shows out there. I know that. I have been to shows, but typically the cost to entertainment-value ratio leaves me underwhelmed. I did especially enjoy a production of Guys and Dolls starring Nathan Lane, but you probably don't want to hear about that because it was over twenty years ago. I will move on.
I am not good at navigating online ticket sellers and TKTS. I have no patience for this. But this does not mean that my children have been deprived of theater. Au contraire. New York is full of professional and pre-professional theater that is cheap or free (but you want to give a donation!) Some of our family favorites are:
The New Victory Theater (http://www.newvictory.org/Home.aspx)
We started going to the New Vic when the kids were young. It's a small theater on 42nd Street where you can find theater productions from all over the world for kids of all ages. For us, it has always been a safe space. Upon entering, the boy child and girl child would take off to participate in an activity or see an exhibit while we placed our bags in a locker and stowed the stroller.
Tickets run about $25 each, more or less, and just about every seat in the house is good. If sitting in the orchestra, kids have the option of soft booster seats. All shows are listed with information such as age appropriateness (roughly from two to everyone) and length, and just about everyone can enjoy a New Vic show. One of my fondest memories at the theater involves the young boy child at one of the first shows we attended. We were sitting up in the mezzanine and were pleased to discover that there was a talkback that day. Folks, mainly downstairs, were asking questions of the actors on the stage. All of a sudden I realized that the boy child had his hand up in the air. The next thing I knew, my shy boy was standing and asking his question, projecting all the way down to the stage below. Proud Mama. Not sure of another place where this could have happened. I love the New Vic.
TADA! Youth Theater (https://www.tadatheater.com/currentseason.asp)
We were turned on to TADA! by a friend when the kids were quite small. When the girl child became interested in performing, she took some classes there. They have a Youth Ensemble that is a pre-professional theater program, and a huge number of kids audition for the ensemble each year. I know this because the girl child auditioned for it herself a couple of times.
The shows are all original, and the casts are made up completely of incredibly talented kids from tiny to teen. It is not a fancy theater, you sit on benches, but tickets range from $8-$25 or so and you definitely get more than you pay for.
Arm-of-the-Sea Theater (http://www.armofthesea.org/)
Arm-of-the-Sea is a mask and puppet theater that deals with contemporary themes. We've been able to catch them a couple of times in Central Park in the summer. Entertainment for all ages. Check out their website for their touring shows.
New York Classical Theatre (http://newyorkclassical.org/about-us)
Although some may think so, you are never too young for Shakespeare and the other classics. I know this to be true because we began bringing the boy child and the girl child to see the New York Classical Theatre when they were quite young. They have seen more Shakespeare performed than most adults I know, and some Moliere for good measure.
New York Classical performs what they call "panoramic theater." Basically, the "stage" moves from place to place, and the audience follows. This may sound chaotic, but they've got it all down. No tickets and no waiting in line. You can find them in warm weather in Central Park near West 103rd Street, Battery Park at Castle Clinton, or at the World Financial Center when the weather is cooler. They also have family workshops before the shows on certain nights. We usually head to whichever park with an early picnic, eat a light supper on the grass, and wait for the show to begin. Yes, we've been rained out in the middle of a performance more than once, but it's just given us a good excuse to see the show again!
DINING
Do not expect a New York foodie tour from me. I'm sure there are tons of blogs out there that will tell you where the trendiest, coolest places are. I cannot tell you that, although I understand: I was a tall food addict myself, back in the day. What I will give you is a rundown of some ideas for eating in the city. Before we begin, you must follow some basic rules:
Rule number one: If you can eat at the same restaurant at your local mall in Ohio, do not eat there in New York. Seriously. Why would you do that?
Rule number two: Do not wait on line for a chain restaurant that is supposed to be trendy and cool and isn't and that has outlets in various cities across the globe and serves expensive, mediocre (at best) food. You know what I'm talking about.
Really. There are so many excellent places to eat. I am going to stick with ideas in Manhattan, but there are tons of great restaurants in the boros, so if you have time, head out to Flushing for Asian, Astoria for Greek or Egyptian, or Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn for some Middle Eastern fare. But if you can't do that there are different neighborhoods in Manhattan dedicated to serving great, ethnic food, all for a price that will be comparable or less than what you'd pay if you broke either rule number one or number two above. Some examples are:
1. Curry Hill, the area between 26th and 30th streets on Lexington Avenue. My family likes to go to the Pakistani restaurant where a lot of the cab drivers go. It's totally no frills combo plates from behind a glassed-in steam table. But, there are more upscale places to choose from, as well as some amazing markets to shop in, like Kalustyans.
2. Koreatown: This area is located between 31st and 33rd Streets, between 5th and 6th Avenues, close to Macy's and the Empire State Building. There are places where you can order raw meats, seafood and veggies, and cook them up on a grill in the middle of your table. A DIY hibachi restaurant, if you will. Korean restaurants will typically provide you with small bowls of appetizers, like pickles and salads, included with your meal. There are also some great dumpling places. Our favorite is Mandoo Bar. You can watch the staff making the dumplings through the window.
3. Chinatown: Of course, we've all heard of Chinatown in NY. We like to walk around and check out all the markets. A few things to know about eating:
a. If you go to the Peking Duck House, order Peking Duck. Otherwise, go someplace else. Really.
b. Try a dumpling house. There are blogs about these so you can find one. My family likes one on Chrystie Street, but don't take my word for it because there are others that are probably just as good. One day, my family of four had lunch there for $11. Not kidding.
c. Joe's Shanghai is not the only place that serves soup dumplings. You don't need to wait on line.
d. If you are a party of four or less, you may be seated at a table with other patrons. Do not be alarmed.
e. Go to Mei Li Wah Bakery and try some buns. Sure, it's not fancy. Not even close. But try it anyway.
f. Check out some of the snack shops like Aji Ichiban or taste some pastries from a bakery. Lots of good stuff for cheap.
g. Chinatown is not just about Chinese food. There are Vietnamese, Malaysian and other Asian cuisines available as well.
4. Little Italy: I don't have much to say about Little Italy. It's a bit too touristy for my tastes and the one meal I ate there, many years ago, was so-so. I would suggest going for a walk through the area after eating in Chinatown, and maybe grab a gelato or a pastry. For pizza, my family likes John's Brick Oven on Bleeker, and I've had great pizza at Lombardi's as well.
5. There is a proliferation of "hole-in-the-wall" restaurants that are cheap and good, all over the city. The girl child loves Dogmatic on 17th street, where everything is all-natural and grass fed. Of course it costs more for grass fed than Grey's Papaya, but you get what you pay for here. There's Mamoun's for falafel, Meatball Obsession for, uh, meatballs, Dos Toros for Mexican . . . I could go on but I won't.
6. Finally, if you're out and about and the weather is nice, a fun thing to do is check out the food trucks. There are so many amazing ones in the city, and the great thing is that you can track them online. Googling "food trucks in nyc" will give you a number of websites to choose from, and you can find places using zip codes or your current location from your smart phone. Rickshaw dumpling bar now not only has a restaurant on 23rd Street, but a food truck and kiosk in Times Square. If you're at the restaurant, try the chocolate dumplings. Wear the bib.
THINGS TO DO:
New York has some of the best museums in the world, and many major tourist attractions. But, here are some things that might seem off the beaten path, but just as great:
Greenmarkets: My kids love to go to Union Square on greenmarket days. If your family lives in a city or the suburbs, chances are they haven't really had a chance to talk to a real farmer. Well, here's that chance—who would have imagined? Plus, the veggies are so amazing, you won't want to pass them up, even if you're only just looking. I had the pleasure of living a few blocks away for more than ten years, so I know this to be true. If you're staying in an apartment, this is a great place to do some marketing for veggies, meats and dairy as well. One of the things both the girl child and boy child like to do is grab a fresh loaf of bread and some cheese, and possibly a giant brownie, from a local farmer. Then we sit in the park with some bottles of water from the bodega down the street, and have a picnic.
Candy stores: There are folks that must go to a candy store in Times Square that sells items you can buy in the supermarket. OK. Let me repeat something I've said before. Really? Others insist that Dylan's Candy Bar is the best. I've been there. It's a bit glitzy for me.
There's a plethora of great chocolate shops throughout the city with gourmet candies and macaroons, and you can find them all online. My favorite shop, however, is Jacques Torres on Hudson Street (https://www.mrchocolate.com/news/about/locations/hudson-street/) In it, you can find the window to my soul. Well, actually, it's just a window you can look through and see the chocolates being made. Same thing. Anyway, they have other locations but I like this one best because you can see the crew at work. They will allow you to taste the hot chocolate from the hot chocolate bar if you want. I highly recommend it. It is so rich, my family just shares one cup.
For something less extravagant, I recommend heading over to Economy Candy on the Lower East Side (http://www.economycandy.com/). It's a tiny space crammed with sweet-y goodness. They have all the favorites from childhood (if you're old like me), plus any kind of halvah you might like. Even if it's not fancy, I'd say that it rivals Dylan's any day.
The New York Public Library/Bryant Park: Did you see Ghostbusters? Well, if you did, then checking out the reading room is a must. Ah, it's a must anyway. It's so cool. There are also some interesting exhibits there as well. And, behind the library is Bryant Park, which houses a shopping village and a skating rink in winter, and a carousel, ping pong and outdoor movies in the summer.
NYC Parks: You can't beat the NYC Park System. (http://www.nycgovparks.org/) I've already mentioned a couple of them. There are so many things to do. Green markets, free tai chi and yoga, chess, ping pong, movies, theater, music, playgrounds, and buskers. We used to take the kids to Central Park and just let them climb around on the rocks. Best. Day. Ever.
Street Fairs: These are not confined to those you've been to selling socks and "as seen on TV" products. Check out the Tribeca Family Festival Street Fair (https://www.facebook.com/events/433908179968455/) or the World Science Festival Street Fair (http://worldsciencefestival.com/events/street_fair_2012) Ninth avenue hosts a food festival. These are also listed online.
The Cloisters/Fort Tryon Park: The Cloisters is a branch of the Metropolitan Museum and definitely worth a visit. (http://www.metmuseum.org/visit/visit-the-cloisters) Fort Tryon Park is nice on any day, but even nicer when there's a medieval fest (http://www.whidc.org/home.html)
The Cathedral of St. John the Divine: (http://stjohndivine.org/index.html) Not only is the cathedral beautiful, but it hosts events and workshops, concerts and shows. Check out their website for details.
The High Line: (http://www.thehighline.org/) Visit the High Line, a public park built on a historic rail line. Eat at the food stands or just go for a walk. Great on a beautiful day.
Hudson River Park: (http://www.hudsonriverpark.org/) Check it out on a bike or on foot. Lots of things to do along the water.
Governor's Island: (http://www.nyharborparks.org/visit/gois.html) only a ferry ride away.
The Brooklyn Bridge: walk across!
TRANSPORTATION:
I like to walk in NY. Maybe that's just me. I had some friends visiting years ago and I walked them around for so many hours I think that I may have broken them. The next day, they took a tour bus. As I mentioned, the tour buses are convenient and let you on and off wherever you want to go. However, there is something to be said for navigating the local transportation system when you visit a city. While I wasn't particularly fond of the Paris Metro, it got us around very well. I did like taking the tram in Rome, even if it didn't go very far. So I suggest giving the subway a try. It can be confusing, but it's a great way to get around fairly quickly. Metro buses may take a bit longer, but you get to see some of the city while riding. We sometimes enjoy taking what we call "the slowest bus down Fifth Avenue." If you can get a seat, it's not so bad. For walking and public transportation directions within the city, go to hopstop.com.
A few autumn's ago, the girl child asked a friend to come and spend the day with us in the city. The boy child was going to his fencing class, and we were going to hang out—we didn't really have a destination except for Economy Candy on the lower east side. We parked the car, dropped off the boy child, and headed by subway to the store. I thought it would be fun to let the girls buy the metro cards, and while they were standing at the machine we heard a commotion. Before I realized what was happening, a small rat ran right over the girl child's friend's feet. Apparently a rat fight gone wrong. She was a good sport, the girl child's friend. She didn't flinch; she laughed it off. A trouper, this girl child was. To this day, I am still amazed that the girl child's friend's parents ever left her in our care again, but they did.
The rest of the subway trip was uneventful, and we made it to the candy store. However, we decided that maybe it would be fun to walk back uptown. It started to drizzle about halfway to Union Square, so we hopped on a train and decided to wait it out at Barnes and Noble. But we got bored at B&N, so we grabbed some plastic bags and held them over our heads as we ran through what was left of the day's green market. We found ourselves in Filene's Basement, a misnomer because it was actually located on the second, third, and fourth floors. Anyway, when we got there we heard some sloshing. The girl child's friend was wearing some cute ballet flats, which were now filled with water. We hit the ladies room, where she dried them under the hand drier. Resourceful. I settled into a chair by the windows with a view of Union Square park, and when I turned around, the girl children were giving me a fashion show. They had created New York City rain hats from plastic bags. Priceless.
Friday, March 29, 2013
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Spring Cleaning
My house is starting to look like one from an episode of Hoarders. Well, maybe that's not completely true. We can still walk through it pretty easily, although I wonder how the girl child gets her closet door open sometimes. I like to blame the rest of the family for the hoarding behavior, but it's not completely their fault. However, I would definitely say that they are not blameless. We all like to hang on to stuff, and it seems like the more space we have, the more we fill. I would venture a guess that we are not alone in this, but I did feel a bit uncomfortable when one of the moms from school came by a few years back to pick something up and the first words out of her mouth were, "You sure have a lot of stuff." Well yes, we do.
Sometimes I envy my friends that have an easy time parting with possessions. Obviously, I do not, and those I have parted with I often regret, looking back and wishing that I hadn't let them go. I have one friend who would cull her childrens' toys every few months, keeping the number small and age appropriate. I still feel guilty about getting rid of the wooden building blocks—the kids said they would have played with them a few more years. They would probably still be playing with them now. These children, they are not helpful. Another friend regularly has yard sales and rakes in the bucks, although I believe that his family has taken to hiding their most prized possessions to keep from finding a favored pillow pet out on a folding table on the driveway. Both of their homes are free of clutter, however, which I cannot particularly say of my own, and although I have tried to emulate both of them at various times, I have failed epically.
Some may say that we have too many books. Is it possible to have too many books? We are a family of readers. The husband and I have each worked in publishing for over twenty-five years, but even before I worked in the industry I carried my books from place to place, college dorm room to apartment, apartment to house. I have books from my childhood, from my mother's childhood, from my father's high school days, from the husband's first days in this country, stamped with a book stamp that says: "This book belongs to 'the husband,'" or something to that effect. I don't want to give them up. The kids stack up books they no longer want to keep, but I put them aside. "You may want these later," I say. "You may want these for your children." Some of these books were not their favorites. But some of them were mine. I think that maybe these books will skip a generation. Maybe the boy grandchild or the girl grandchild will love them as much as I loved them. Or maybe not. It's hard to say. But where will I keep them? Should I let them go?
I have determined that wherever we live, our home will always seem like a too-small New York City apartment, furnished with items that are worn, yet comfortable. The girl child has mentioned that when she has a house, the rooms will have "themes." I think that she means that the furniture will match; the walls will be freshly painted a color that complements. As I've mentioned in the past, she is a rebel. I used to think that one day I would have grown-up things, that the hand-me-downs and furniture from IKEA and the old wooden chairs would be replaced, but I think that by now that moment has passed. I don't really mind. And there are days when I love the clutter, when I love to dress the girl child in an authentic skirt and jacket from the ’70s that we did not have to leave our home to find. I suppose that after this week, we may still have a lot of stuff. But maybe not as much as before. I hope.
March is time for "spring cleaning," although it seems like a misnomer when the weather report calls for snow. I have taken the week off from work, and between observing all of the holidays that will take place I plan on spending some quality time with the children, sorting out the house. I began this endeavor during my break between Christmas and the New Year. I did not get very far. I do not believe that the children are looking forward to this spring cleaning extravaganza with as much enthusiasm as I am. I can't imagine why not. But the husband has given me free rein to get rid of anything I want. I don't believe that he is being completely honest here, but I am willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. We'll see how that goes.
One of my first projects will be to clean out our storage closet. It is a long, narrow, walk-in, and at the far end is the area the girl child calls "the vault." Hanging bags are filled with some very hip outfits from the ’60s and ’70s, previously worn by the grandma, my mother. There are even some very small articles of clothing worn by the tiny, childhood me. Did I happen to mention that the house we live in is the house I grew up in? It is. We rearranged and renovated, trying to make it as much our own as possible, but instead of getting just a house, we got rooms filled with boxes and bags and shelves of memories. Some of these we gave away or sold, but others still remain.
I had sorted the storage closet when we first moved in, labeling bins full of art supplies and photographs, and memory boxes for each child. Drawers were filled with my old yearbooks and scrapbooks that date back to my childhood. Even before the boy child could talk, I began filling a big, plastic bin with items that might be used for future school projects. The bins were full of oddly shaped styrofoam pieces, scoops from baby formula, cardboard trays from vegetables, silver mylar balloons. By the time the girl child entered third grade we had the makings of the best diorama or science project or history project ever. You need a satellite dish? Well, that miniature plastic champagne glass will do quite nicely, thank you very much.
Sometimes I envy my friends that have an easy time parting with possessions. Obviously, I do not, and those I have parted with I often regret, looking back and wishing that I hadn't let them go. I have one friend who would cull her childrens' toys every few months, keeping the number small and age appropriate. I still feel guilty about getting rid of the wooden building blocks—the kids said they would have played with them a few more years. They would probably still be playing with them now. These children, they are not helpful. Another friend regularly has yard sales and rakes in the bucks, although I believe that his family has taken to hiding their most prized possessions to keep from finding a favored pillow pet out on a folding table on the driveway. Both of their homes are free of clutter, however, which I cannot particularly say of my own, and although I have tried to emulate both of them at various times, I have failed epically.
Some may say that we have too many books. Is it possible to have too many books? We are a family of readers. The husband and I have each worked in publishing for over twenty-five years, but even before I worked in the industry I carried my books from place to place, college dorm room to apartment, apartment to house. I have books from my childhood, from my mother's childhood, from my father's high school days, from the husband's first days in this country, stamped with a book stamp that says: "This book belongs to 'the husband,'" or something to that effect. I don't want to give them up. The kids stack up books they no longer want to keep, but I put them aside. "You may want these later," I say. "You may want these for your children." Some of these books were not their favorites. But some of them were mine. I think that maybe these books will skip a generation. Maybe the boy grandchild or the girl grandchild will love them as much as I loved them. Or maybe not. It's hard to say. But where will I keep them? Should I let them go?
I have determined that wherever we live, our home will always seem like a too-small New York City apartment, furnished with items that are worn, yet comfortable. The girl child has mentioned that when she has a house, the rooms will have "themes." I think that she means that the furniture will match; the walls will be freshly painted a color that complements. As I've mentioned in the past, she is a rebel. I used to think that one day I would have grown-up things, that the hand-me-downs and furniture from IKEA and the old wooden chairs would be replaced, but I think that by now that moment has passed. I don't really mind. And there are days when I love the clutter, when I love to dress the girl child in an authentic skirt and jacket from the ’70s that we did not have to leave our home to find. I suppose that after this week, we may still have a lot of stuff. But maybe not as much as before. I hope.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Tag, You're It
We went to see a musical at the Intermediate School last night. The boy child wasn't in it, but many of his friends were. Theater geeks. It was the first time we'd gone to see a play there. In the cafetorium, with the acoustics as they are, we didn't really notice the breaking voices of puberty and the high notes not-quite-reached. There was something in the air. You could see it in the eyes of the actors as they took the stage. The passion. They were exactly where they wanted to be.
The boy child and the girl child are both professional actors. The boy child is a member of the Screen Actors Guild and if he gets another Equity job, he must join the union. This is a good thing. People work for years to become guild members. It is an honor, something to work toward. The boy child did not choose this. He was not the child that was always putting on a show. He did not dance around the house. He did not sing. This was all the girl child's fault, as many things are. She will deny being the cause of most of them, but she will not deny this.
The girl child starts with a voiceover evaluation, and moves on to "modeling." She never enjoyed having her picture taken and she was always kind of shy, so we are stumped. The boy child comes along for the ride. It is fun. If he or she gets a job, it could pay for his very expensive fencing lessons, her very expensive horseback riding classes. Camp. If not, it is a break from the school day, a chance to meet some interesting people. We do not know where it will lead.
They get managers. The girl child takes lessons: acting, musical theater. She tries out for a musical ensemble group in New York but does not get in. She goes to acting class but mostly watches. She does not like improv. She does not dance. She is not always comfortable inside her skin. Professional calls start coming. Most come for the boy child. She does not say anything. She goes to the auditions with him and watches the children. She is a pre-teen white girl from the suburbs in the body of mature Latina teen-ager with a city sense of style. She does not speak español. She is too white. She is too dark. She is perfect. She is beautiful. She has a body that is just right for an eleven-year-old. She is not stick skinny. She is not flat-chested. She will never get the job. I want it for her more than I can tell her. I want it for her because she wants it, and I want her to have everything she wants. I remind her to exercise and to stop eating when she is full. I am a jerk. Luckily, she does not pay any attention to what I say. Sometimes pre-teen rebellion is a good thing.
The boy child does nothing to enhance his "career." He plays soccer. He fences. He sings "Happy Birthday" to his manager and she sends him on auditions for Broadway. For Broadway. He gets callbacks, sometimes more than one for the same show. He gets down to the wire, down to three kids, two kids. He doesn't get the job. He doesn't mind. He moves on to the next one. He goes to acting class for one semester. The owner of the school writes parts for him in a movie, in a play. He is asked to join the junior company, even though he doesn't take class. He is a natural. He has "It." "It," the intangible thing. "It" is a presence. "It" makes people take notice.
The girl child asks to join the acting school company. She can't be there on the audition day. They tell her next time. They let others in without auditions, and when I say something about it they let her in, too. She does everything: she makes props, posters, does stage crew. She is excited. She fills in as an actor when she's needed. Later, they forget to call her, forget she is part of the group. She is not told about meetings. She is disappointed. She doesn't say a word.
The boy child is being taught how to tap dance in a hallway by Tommy Tune and Dick Cavett while the dancers of the Broadway musical Spider Man rehearse next door. He is reciting Pablo Neruda's Enigmas for Robert Wilson. He is moving for Lucinda Childs. This is not the description of a surreal dream I had last night because I ate too much Mexican food. This really happened. This was real.
The boy child starts singing lessons. He is sitting in a room of twenty children at a callback for the national tour of Mary Poppins. There are ten girls and ten boys. Two of each will be chosen. Many know each other from a theater school in Westchester. It is a Broadway baby making machine. It is a feeder to Disney productions. Others flew in from Ohio, from Atlanta, in a storm. One mother cut her Florida vacation short to be there. The children go into the other room and we parents hear them singing "Let's Go Fly a Kite" for the first time. It is beautiful. It is like they have been singing together for years. The casting director tells a mom: "At this level, it is not about talent anymore. It's about who is the best match for the boy/girl still on tour. It is about who best fits the costume." I wonder how we've gotten here. I don't quite know how this happened. This is a good thing, but it is strange. The girl child finally asks, "When will the calls come for me?" It breaks my heart.
The girl child goes with the boy child to everything she can. She sits on a sound stage in Secaucus and watches the director, talks to the woman in the production office. She hangs with the young actors and crew in a small apartment in Brooklyn. She becomes the set photographer. She gets a professional credit for that. She is thirteen. She meets directors, producers, script supervisors, wardrobe and makeup. She sees it all. When the girl child directs her first play, at fourteen, the director of the film comes to see it.
She is in a low budget industrial with about twenty other children. Someone tells them to line up in two lines. She asks,"Boys and girls together? Should we line up by height?" She organizes the children. I watch her. I am proud.
She is in Central Park watching the boy child kick a soccer ball into a net on the set of a movie. She watches the director. She talks to the producer. She auditions for a theater company in New York City. It is all about girl power. It is not all about what you look like, what you can do. It is more about who you are. She gets in. When she appears in a show at the NY International Fringe Festival, the director of the film comes to watch.
The boy child plays chess with the director on the set. He reads. He plays Minecraft on his computer with another boy who is sitting next to him playing Minecraft on his own computer. They do not speak. They chat online. He draws pictures and maps the story of the film he is in as a graph. Did I mention before that he is a nerd? High school acceptance letters arrive in the mail. I am at work, on the telephone with the girl child when the boy child's bus arrives at the house. She runs outside with the letter. I am still on the phone when I hear him screaming. He is running around in circles, emitting shrieks of delight. The children on the bus cheer. The boy child wants to be an engineer, and this school specializes in marine science and technology. They have advanced engineering courses. Later that week, the boy child looks through the course list for the school: engineering, math. I hear him say, "I am having such a major nerdgasm right now." I laugh, but I see in his eyes that this is exactly where he wants to be.
The girl child is a freshman at a high school that focuses on communication arts. She makes her first film, a required project. Her teacher reads her script at his desk. He looks up and says, surprised, "This is good." He says she can work with the juniors and seniors. He lends her a camera for another class. Her film is posted online and an upperclassman stops to ask her about it. She tells him it's only half of what it was supposed to be, because she didn't have time. It was for her freshman project. He looks at her, surprised, and asks, "You're a freshman?"
Tag, you're "It."
The boy child and the girl child are both professional actors. The boy child is a member of the Screen Actors Guild and if he gets another Equity job, he must join the union. This is a good thing. People work for years to become guild members. It is an honor, something to work toward. The boy child did not choose this. He was not the child that was always putting on a show. He did not dance around the house. He did not sing. This was all the girl child's fault, as many things are. She will deny being the cause of most of them, but she will not deny this.
The girl child starts with a voiceover evaluation, and moves on to "modeling." She never enjoyed having her picture taken and she was always kind of shy, so we are stumped. The boy child comes along for the ride. It is fun. If he or she gets a job, it could pay for his very expensive fencing lessons, her very expensive horseback riding classes. Camp. If not, it is a break from the school day, a chance to meet some interesting people. We do not know where it will lead.
They get managers. The girl child takes lessons: acting, musical theater. She tries out for a musical ensemble group in New York but does not get in. She goes to acting class but mostly watches. She does not like improv. She does not dance. She is not always comfortable inside her skin. Professional calls start coming. Most come for the boy child. She does not say anything. She goes to the auditions with him and watches the children. She is a pre-teen white girl from the suburbs in the body of mature Latina teen-ager with a city sense of style. She does not speak español. She is too white. She is too dark. She is perfect. She is beautiful. She has a body that is just right for an eleven-year-old. She is not stick skinny. She is not flat-chested. She will never get the job. I want it for her more than I can tell her. I want it for her because she wants it, and I want her to have everything she wants. I remind her to exercise and to stop eating when she is full. I am a jerk. Luckily, she does not pay any attention to what I say. Sometimes pre-teen rebellion is a good thing.
The boy child does nothing to enhance his "career." He plays soccer. He fences. He sings "Happy Birthday" to his manager and she sends him on auditions for Broadway. For Broadway. He gets callbacks, sometimes more than one for the same show. He gets down to the wire, down to three kids, two kids. He doesn't get the job. He doesn't mind. He moves on to the next one. He goes to acting class for one semester. The owner of the school writes parts for him in a movie, in a play. He is asked to join the junior company, even though he doesn't take class. He is a natural. He has "It." "It," the intangible thing. "It" is a presence. "It" makes people take notice.
The girl child asks to join the acting school company. She can't be there on the audition day. They tell her next time. They let others in without auditions, and when I say something about it they let her in, too. She does everything: she makes props, posters, does stage crew. She is excited. She fills in as an actor when she's needed. Later, they forget to call her, forget she is part of the group. She is not told about meetings. She is disappointed. She doesn't say a word.
The boy child is being taught how to tap dance in a hallway by Tommy Tune and Dick Cavett while the dancers of the Broadway musical Spider Man rehearse next door. He is reciting Pablo Neruda's Enigmas for Robert Wilson. He is moving for Lucinda Childs. This is not the description of a surreal dream I had last night because I ate too much Mexican food. This really happened. This was real.
The boy child starts singing lessons. He is sitting in a room of twenty children at a callback for the national tour of Mary Poppins. There are ten girls and ten boys. Two of each will be chosen. Many know each other from a theater school in Westchester. It is a Broadway baby making machine. It is a feeder to Disney productions. Others flew in from Ohio, from Atlanta, in a storm. One mother cut her Florida vacation short to be there. The children go into the other room and we parents hear them singing "Let's Go Fly a Kite" for the first time. It is beautiful. It is like they have been singing together for years. The casting director tells a mom: "At this level, it is not about talent anymore. It's about who is the best match for the boy/girl still on tour. It is about who best fits the costume." I wonder how we've gotten here. I don't quite know how this happened. This is a good thing, but it is strange. The girl child finally asks, "When will the calls come for me?" It breaks my heart.
The girl child goes with the boy child to everything she can. She sits on a sound stage in Secaucus and watches the director, talks to the woman in the production office. She hangs with the young actors and crew in a small apartment in Brooklyn. She becomes the set photographer. She gets a professional credit for that. She is thirteen. She meets directors, producers, script supervisors, wardrobe and makeup. She sees it all. When the girl child directs her first play, at fourteen, the director of the film comes to see it.
She is in a low budget industrial with about twenty other children. Someone tells them to line up in two lines. She asks,"Boys and girls together? Should we line up by height?" She organizes the children. I watch her. I am proud.
She is in Central Park watching the boy child kick a soccer ball into a net on the set of a movie. She watches the director. She talks to the producer. She auditions for a theater company in New York City. It is all about girl power. It is not all about what you look like, what you can do. It is more about who you are. She gets in. When she appears in a show at the NY International Fringe Festival, the director of the film comes to watch.
The boy child plays chess with the director on the set. He reads. He plays Minecraft on his computer with another boy who is sitting next to him playing Minecraft on his own computer. They do not speak. They chat online. He draws pictures and maps the story of the film he is in as a graph. Did I mention before that he is a nerd? High school acceptance letters arrive in the mail. I am at work, on the telephone with the girl child when the boy child's bus arrives at the house. She runs outside with the letter. I am still on the phone when I hear him screaming. He is running around in circles, emitting shrieks of delight. The children on the bus cheer. The boy child wants to be an engineer, and this school specializes in marine science and technology. They have advanced engineering courses. Later that week, the boy child looks through the course list for the school: engineering, math. I hear him say, "I am having such a major nerdgasm right now." I laugh, but I see in his eyes that this is exactly where he wants to be.
The girl child is a freshman at a high school that focuses on communication arts. She makes her first film, a required project. Her teacher reads her script at his desk. He looks up and says, surprised, "This is good." He says she can work with the juniors and seniors. He lends her a camera for another class. Her film is posted online and an upperclassman stops to ask her about it. She tells him it's only half of what it was supposed to be, because she didn't have time. It was for her freshman project. He looks at her, surprised, and asks, "You're a freshman?"
Tag, you're "It."
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Identity Theft
Over the past few years, well, more than I few, I have come to the realization that my life is no longer my own. I can't put my finger on exactly when the transition happened, but at some point, I went from being me to being "the girl child's mom." Or "the boy child's mom." Or even, "the husband's wife."
This is not always a bad thing. I am usually proud of the things that the girl child and boy child do, and I kind of like being known as their mom. Even being "the husband's wife" is OK. He is a gregarious kind of guy, the husband, and although he sometimes says or does things over which I have no control, I generally don't mind being known as his wife.
But, I do have a life, you know.
Well, I used to, anyway.
Before the girl child and the boy child were born, I actually did things. Sometimes, I went to the movies. I took art classes. I ate dinner with friends. The husband and I traveled. We didn't usually go all that far, but occasionally we would impulsively head up to Maine for a long weekend. We would stop at the Freeport outlet stores and buy just about whatever we wanted. For ourselves. We had this thing called "discretionary income." I can't remember exactly what that is, but I kind of remember that back then, it was fun to have. I'd venture a guess that it would be nice to have it again sometime.
I have noticed that when I make telephone calls, I often introduce myself by saying my name, and then following up with, "the girl child's mom." It is as if my name is not enough to identify myself. One day not too long ago, I got on the bus and saw a man I recognized. As I was walking past him, I said hi. He looked at me blankly. I said, "You're so-and-so's dad, aren't you? I'm the girl child's mom." And then he knew who I was. Apparently, he has no life either.
Most of the time, I arrange my life around the boy child and the girl child. If there is something that they are scheduled to do, I have been known to rearrange my plans. I know there are parents who do not do that. I know they are out there, these parents. They go to the gym. Whenever. They. Want. They may even go out at night. I know I could do this, I suppose. It is no one's fault but my own that I do not. But honestly, I'd rather the boy child have a dance lesson each month than pay for the gym for myself. Perhaps there are other forces at work, though, when it comes to the gym membership. Maybe this is a bad example. But I think you catch my drift.
Sometimes I wonder what I am going to do when the girl child and the boy child go off to college. Who will I be? Sure, I have my work and everything, but that is not what really defines me. I will have to redefine my Saturdays and Sundays, my weeknights after work. No more back-to-school nights. School fundraisers. Schlepping to the mall for outgrown jeans. Homework help. What will I do?
We may eat dinner after six again, the husband and I. We may once again stay up all night watching Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn film festivals on PBS. We may go out to dinner with friends. Maybe we'll head out of town for the weekend. I can safely say with some certainty, however, that we will still be without discretionary income. At least until the girl child and the boy child get themselves some jobs. Until then, I do believe that I am not the only one in this predicament. I am thinking of starting a support group.
This is not always a bad thing. I am usually proud of the things that the girl child and boy child do, and I kind of like being known as their mom. Even being "the husband's wife" is OK. He is a gregarious kind of guy, the husband, and although he sometimes says or does things over which I have no control, I generally don't mind being known as his wife.
But, I do have a life, you know.
Well, I used to, anyway.
Before the girl child and the boy child were born, I actually did things. Sometimes, I went to the movies. I took art classes. I ate dinner with friends. The husband and I traveled. We didn't usually go all that far, but occasionally we would impulsively head up to Maine for a long weekend. We would stop at the Freeport outlet stores and buy just about whatever we wanted. For ourselves. We had this thing called "discretionary income." I can't remember exactly what that is, but I kind of remember that back then, it was fun to have. I'd venture a guess that it would be nice to have it again sometime.
I have noticed that when I make telephone calls, I often introduce myself by saying my name, and then following up with, "the girl child's mom." It is as if my name is not enough to identify myself. One day not too long ago, I got on the bus and saw a man I recognized. As I was walking past him, I said hi. He looked at me blankly. I said, "You're so-and-so's dad, aren't you? I'm the girl child's mom." And then he knew who I was. Apparently, he has no life either.
Most of the time, I arrange my life around the boy child and the girl child. If there is something that they are scheduled to do, I have been known to rearrange my plans. I know there are parents who do not do that. I know they are out there, these parents. They go to the gym. Whenever. They. Want. They may even go out at night. I know I could do this, I suppose. It is no one's fault but my own that I do not. But honestly, I'd rather the boy child have a dance lesson each month than pay for the gym for myself. Perhaps there are other forces at work, though, when it comes to the gym membership. Maybe this is a bad example. But I think you catch my drift.
Sometimes I wonder what I am going to do when the girl child and the boy child go off to college. Who will I be? Sure, I have my work and everything, but that is not what really defines me. I will have to redefine my Saturdays and Sundays, my weeknights after work. No more back-to-school nights. School fundraisers. Schlepping to the mall for outgrown jeans. Homework help. What will I do?
We may eat dinner after six again, the husband and I. We may once again stay up all night watching Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn film festivals on PBS. We may go out to dinner with friends. Maybe we'll head out of town for the weekend. I can safely say with some certainty, however, that we will still be without discretionary income. At least until the girl child and the boy child get themselves some jobs. Until then, I do believe that I am not the only one in this predicament. I am thinking of starting a support group.
Monday, March 4, 2013
On Writing Well
Some of my friends tell me that I write the way I talk. One of them says that when she reads my posts, she feels like she's hanging out with me. This is good, since she lives about 800 miles away and we rarely get to see each other. Occasionally though, I'll be talking to friends that live locally and I notice that maybe they're not really paying attention. Or maybe they seem a bit impatient. It's like they already know what I'm going to say. And then it dawns on me: they do. They read the blog. Whoops. OK, there's no way for me to know they read it, so I guess it's not really my fault. I don't mean to be redundant. Some of my friends used to tell me that I told them the same thing over and over again. That was my fault. But I just stopped talking to them anyway—jerks. Unfortunately, though, now I'm beginning to get confused. The other day I started to tell a friend something and almost stopped myself because I thought she might have read the post, but then I realized that I hadn't written it yet.
I write in my head while I'm walking or driving the car. It gets a little crazy because then I have to rush to get wherever I'm going so I can type some notes really quickly. I don't want to forget. I run through the door yelling "don't talk to me" or something similar and grab a computer. The husband gets annoyed because dinner is ready. I can't really blame him. The family is hungry. But my memory ain't so good these days. Gotta write things down.
I sometimes write in my head in the shower, too. I thought about writing on the shower doors but that wouldn't really work well. I wouldn't be able to see what I've written until someone else is in the shower and then I would be on the outside and everything would be backwards. And, I imagine that whoever is taking the shower wouldn't really appreciate it. Also, someone would probably draw a big smiley face over my notes. They have no respect for the written word. Even if it's printed in steam.
I'd never really written anything significant before I started writing these posts a few months ago. I didn't think I was very good at writing. In my senior year of high school, my AP English teacher took me aside and said, "I don't understand why you're doing so poorly in my class. You did better than everyone else on the placement test." Hmmmm. Even as a kid I knew that the placement test, a multiple choice exam given in ninth grade, wasn't indicative of how I would write in twelfth. Or how my critical thinking skills would be. This was a woman with a Ph.D and a side job grading AP exams. I hoped that she wasn't going to be the one grading my paper.
It's troubling to me that school kids are forced to write a comprehensive essay in a class period. It's a lot of pressure. Sometimes these essays are worth a large portion of a kid's grade. I know from my own experience that, at least in my real world, I will never have to write something really super important, something that might possibly make or break my future, in less than an hour. I suspect that this is true for most people I know. Unless, of course, you are a journalist breaking a big news story. Or you're taking a test. Of course, we all know that testing is the reason there is so much stress on writing a complete essay in under an hour at school, but no one will tell you that. Because that would probably fall under the heading of "teaching to the test," which no school wants to hear they do, even though many of them do it.
It typically takes me longer than an hour to write a good email. If this were the olden days, if someone were to draw a cartoon of me writing, there would be crumpled papers everywhere. They'd be on the desk, on the floor; the trash can would be overflowing with crumpled papers. Timed writing tests kill me. I am not the type of person who can whip something out. I have no formula. I have to think about it, mull it over in my head, try things out and give things up. My kids are the same way. Fortunately, they have usually been able to get through timed writing tests with good scores—they are able to grasp the format, the "key words and phrases" that get them the grades they need. Luckily, they haven't internalized some of the more dubious writing "skills" they were taught under the guise of good writing. In the past, I would occasionally read one of the girl or boy child's essays and ask, "Why the heck did you write that?? No good writer writes like that. It sucks!" And the kid would answer, "That's the way we're supposed to do it."
Certainly, there is validity in teaching a child how to organize himself and write quickly and efficiently. The bottom line is the kids need to do well on tests—efficient test-taking is an important skill they will need to get into universities and graduate schools. They might even need it for job placement. But test taking skills and good writing skills need to be differentiated from formulas that "test graders" use for rating standardized tests. Critical thinking and creativity need to be added to the mix. I'm not sure this differentiation is made clear, at least to the kids. When they were little, I may have once or twice advised my children to do whatever the teacher asked them to do, and then to completely erase it from their minds. I am a rebel. I am also afraid. I imagine that soon we will have created a generation of good writers thinking that they can't write because they have not learned how to write badly enough to get a good test score. Does that make sense?
Back in my senior year, two of the books we read were A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, by James Joyce, and Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austin. At the time, I'm sorry to say, I couldn't get in to reading either of them. In the subsequent years, I have not picked up Portrait again. The fate of Stephen Dedalus never quite piqued my interest, although I have remembered his name all these years. Perhaps I should try it again. But, I've read Pride and Prejudice more than once and enjoyed it, thanks, in no small part, to Colin Firth and that scene in the mini-series where he arrives home and goes for a quick swim. You know the one. And, you may be wondering how I did on that AP exam I took so many years ago. I wound up with a 3, allowing me to skip a semester of freshman English. I guess we know who didn't grade my test.
I write in my head while I'm walking or driving the car. It gets a little crazy because then I have to rush to get wherever I'm going so I can type some notes really quickly. I don't want to forget. I run through the door yelling "don't talk to me" or something similar and grab a computer. The husband gets annoyed because dinner is ready. I can't really blame him. The family is hungry. But my memory ain't so good these days. Gotta write things down.
I sometimes write in my head in the shower, too. I thought about writing on the shower doors but that wouldn't really work well. I wouldn't be able to see what I've written until someone else is in the shower and then I would be on the outside and everything would be backwards. And, I imagine that whoever is taking the shower wouldn't really appreciate it. Also, someone would probably draw a big smiley face over my notes. They have no respect for the written word. Even if it's printed in steam.
I'd never really written anything significant before I started writing these posts a few months ago. I didn't think I was very good at writing. In my senior year of high school, my AP English teacher took me aside and said, "I don't understand why you're doing so poorly in my class. You did better than everyone else on the placement test." Hmmmm. Even as a kid I knew that the placement test, a multiple choice exam given in ninth grade, wasn't indicative of how I would write in twelfth. Or how my critical thinking skills would be. This was a woman with a Ph.D and a side job grading AP exams. I hoped that she wasn't going to be the one grading my paper.
It's troubling to me that school kids are forced to write a comprehensive essay in a class period. It's a lot of pressure. Sometimes these essays are worth a large portion of a kid's grade. I know from my own experience that, at least in my real world, I will never have to write something really super important, something that might possibly make or break my future, in less than an hour. I suspect that this is true for most people I know. Unless, of course, you are a journalist breaking a big news story. Or you're taking a test. Of course, we all know that testing is the reason there is so much stress on writing a complete essay in under an hour at school, but no one will tell you that. Because that would probably fall under the heading of "teaching to the test," which no school wants to hear they do, even though many of them do it.
It typically takes me longer than an hour to write a good email. If this were the olden days, if someone were to draw a cartoon of me writing, there would be crumpled papers everywhere. They'd be on the desk, on the floor; the trash can would be overflowing with crumpled papers. Timed writing tests kill me. I am not the type of person who can whip something out. I have no formula. I have to think about it, mull it over in my head, try things out and give things up. My kids are the same way. Fortunately, they have usually been able to get through timed writing tests with good scores—they are able to grasp the format, the "key words and phrases" that get them the grades they need. Luckily, they haven't internalized some of the more dubious writing "skills" they were taught under the guise of good writing. In the past, I would occasionally read one of the girl or boy child's essays and ask, "Why the heck did you write that?? No good writer writes like that. It sucks!" And the kid would answer, "That's the way we're supposed to do it."
Certainly, there is validity in teaching a child how to organize himself and write quickly and efficiently. The bottom line is the kids need to do well on tests—efficient test-taking is an important skill they will need to get into universities and graduate schools. They might even need it for job placement. But test taking skills and good writing skills need to be differentiated from formulas that "test graders" use for rating standardized tests. Critical thinking and creativity need to be added to the mix. I'm not sure this differentiation is made clear, at least to the kids. When they were little, I may have once or twice advised my children to do whatever the teacher asked them to do, and then to completely erase it from their minds. I am a rebel. I am also afraid. I imagine that soon we will have created a generation of good writers thinking that they can't write because they have not learned how to write badly enough to get a good test score. Does that make sense?
Back in my senior year, two of the books we read were A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, by James Joyce, and Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austin. At the time, I'm sorry to say, I couldn't get in to reading either of them. In the subsequent years, I have not picked up Portrait again. The fate of Stephen Dedalus never quite piqued my interest, although I have remembered his name all these years. Perhaps I should try it again. But, I've read Pride and Prejudice more than once and enjoyed it, thanks, in no small part, to Colin Firth and that scene in the mini-series where he arrives home and goes for a quick swim. You know the one. And, you may be wondering how I did on that AP exam I took so many years ago. I wound up with a 3, allowing me to skip a semester of freshman English. I guess we know who didn't grade my test.
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