New York City and Me

I posted this last year and someone flagged it for copyright. All the words are mine. The photo is from Flickr's The Commons Collection and has no known copyright restrictions. Last year I didn't have the time/strength to deal with the false claim. This year I do, so I'm putting it back up because - except for the part at the bottom which says it's my first time in NY on my own - it's all relevant. It's just that it's my second time. 

High school wasn't a fun place for me. Rather than just plod along and deal with it I decided to find a way around the system.

New York City skyline from Queens, c. 1974
From The Commons at Flickr

My school offered several ways to get credits without being on campus. Working 15 hours a week counted as "work experience" so I took on a job (receptionist at a hair salon). Furthermore, I was able to work the system such that I was able to take community college courses at night in lieu of high school classes. As it worked out, I only had to be at school in the mornings. I left before noon and went about my life which, on a good day, meant putting in a couple of hours at work, going home to my apartment (yes, I lived outside my parents' home as a junior in high school - perhaps I'll write a post about that sometime), cooking dinner and then taking off again for night classes. I don't know where I got my energy. But then again, I was 17.

This isn't to say that I didn't have a healthy teenage social life. I did. But my friends were a little older.

Somewhere along the line I got it into my head that I "belonged" in NYC and so that is what became my goal. My grades didn't warrant Columbia and my SATs kept me out of NYU, so, thinking I'd study fashion merchandising, I applied and was accepted to FIT - Fashion Institute of Technology - a SUNY school that required general ed along with marketing, advertising and design courses. They also had dorms.

With all the extra courses I took (summer school included) I was able to graduate high school a semester early, so in January of 1987 - two months before my 18th birthday - I found myself on a plane to NYC.

We (my dad and I) flew directly into a wild winter storm and were stranded in Chicago for two days before we finally arrived. FIT was out of dormrooms, so they cleaned out a storage space and furnished it with a bed, a bunk bed and three desks. I was so pleased to actually, finally be there that I wouldn't have cared if they'd stuffed us in the basement.

My dad and I went shopping for bedding and such and then he had to catch a bus back to the airport. We said our goodbyes on the corner 7th Avenue and 34th Street. To this day he says it's the hardest thing he's ever done. Of course, my memory is absolute elation - I'd made it to New York. And I was on my own.

I lived there for two years. The only constant was my job at the New York Health and Racket Club and a wild ride. Let's just say that I moved through three universities (finally ending up at Hunter) and four apartments. While there I dated wildly, went "clubbing" with my pals and learned how to handle my liquor. By 1989 I was done.

I told folks it was the high cost of living. I was making barely $6/hour and my rent was $900/month. But really, the city was eating me up and spitting me out. It was the late 80's - AIDS had come into public awareness and Madonna was in vogue - Like a Virgin. Rudy Giuliani hadn't become mayor yet and the city was a mess. From my apartment window (granted this particular apartment was on 46th and 10th) I could watch the prostitutes and their pimps and learned who belonged to whom and how to avoid a police raid. Maybe it was too much for me. But looking back on it, I can't help but feel I gave up.

I didn't really make it in NYC.

I left and moved back to California where I worked through my last two years of college at UC Riverside (with a stint or two at Hebrew U) not dis-similarly to how I got through high school: head down, straight on.

Marriage - and the fact that my husband and his family were from New Jersey - brought me back East several times over the past 12 years, but I've not had an opportunity to spend time in New York on my own - without the arguing or the children. Until now.

The stars have aligned in just the right way to stick me on a cross country flight over a long weekend. I've got four days to re-discover New York as a woman more than twice the age of girl I was in '87.

I'm so excited.

Montana Part III - That Moment

Last month my friend Jenna Skype'd to say she was getting her ovaries removed in (yet another) preventative measure to hopefully avoid a cancer relapse. I was in a rare position to afford the $300 plane ticket to Kalispell, Montana and decided to fly out to give her hand. This is the last of three posts about that trip. The first post is here and the second post is here.

A couple of days before leaving for Montana I received an email from Jenna saying that her cousin's daughter, Lillian, had gone to sleep on Halloween eve and did not wake up. Lillian was a healthy, 13-day-old baby.

Jenna (a graphic designer) volunteered to design the program for the funeral service and was able to complete it a night before she went to the hospital. Prepping for surgery should not include this sort of activity, but no one plans for death, and certainly nothing as unthinkable as this.

The funeral was on Sunday so, three days after her surgery, Jenna was sitting in the front of the sanctuary with her husband, while I stayed in the back of the room, sitting quietly with her boys.

"Let us not grieve that Lillian is gone, but celebrate that she was here. Look around this room, see how many lives she has touched in her short time with us."

Indeed, the room was full of people. Of course, I knew very few of them, and many (like me) had never even met Lillian. But we were all in tears by the end of the slide show that was meant to celebrate her life.

Later, at the reception, I heard Jenna say to her cousin, "I know what it's like to have everything be one way one moment and then totally different the next. Please let me know if you'd like to talk." Of course, the "moment" Jenna referred to was the one where the doctor told her "you have cancer." Those words spoken in that moment changed everything for her.

I'm grateful in my life to have not had such a moment (knock wood). Of course this is not to say that change hasn't happened. It has - but my "moments" have been longer - allowing space to adjust and become, eventually, comfortable. This, I've learned, is a luxury.

_________

My friend Erin Vang has just completed an amazing project called Kaddish in Two Part Harmony and she has dedicated this beautiful Kaddish to Baby Lillian. (A Kaddish is a prayer of mourning). Erin's french horn is particularly lovely.

Daily Kaddish for Lillian Isabel (October 18-21, 2011) (sound file)

Translation of the Mourners Kaddish:

May the great Name of God be exalted and sanctified, throughout the world, which he has created according to his will. May his Kingship be established in your lifetime and in your days, and in the lifetime of the entire household of Israel, swiftly and in the near future; and say, Amen.

May his great name be blessed, forever and ever.

Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled, honored elevated and lauded be the Name of the holy one, Blessed is he- above and beyond any blessings and hymns, Praises and consolations which are uttered in the world; and say Amen. May there be abundant peace from Heaven, and life, upon us and upon all Israel; and say, Amen.

_________

Lillian's older sister (12) wrote this poem in honor of Lillian.

Lillian Isabel, Oct 18 - Oct 21, 2011

WE WILL ALWAYS HOLD YOU CLOSE

Lillybel, Lillybel

My oh so sweet baby

Our beautiful Lillybel

Come to us in our darkest

hour.

We showered you in love

For 13 days I held you

close.

Our sweet Lillybel

The more we cry

The more we love

It was and is all

for you.

Lillybel, Lillybel

My oh so sweet Lillybel

Our beautiful baby girl

Even if you cried

at night

Even if you need us

now

We are here for you

And you are up high for

Us

I’ll pick a star up

in the sky

Just for you

And think of you all day.

Lillybel, Lillybel

My oh so sweet Lillybel

Our beautiful baby girl

You knew no cruelty

You only knew love

We shielded you from

loss

Just to save ourselves

Now we are hugging, kissing,

loving

waiting… waiting for

you to show yourself to

us again

Lillybel, Lillybel

My oh so sweet baby girl

Our Beautiful Lillybel

Our one and only

Baby

Lillybel

-----------

In loving memory of Lillian Isabel Nelson

I dedicate this poem to you

Your always loving Big Sister

The Zone

In seventh grade I somehow ended up in a sewing class. I don't even remember why I chose it. I'd never used a sewing machine before - let alone hand sewn a button. None of my friends sewed. It wasn't something that interested my parents.

But I found myself in the sewing class with a dozen machines, a bunch of girls I didn't know and a silver-haired teacher with glasses and a stern face. Our first project was a pair of shorts. For the life of me I couldn't figure out how the front and back came together to create something that could be worn. My mom took me to the fabric store and I chose a lavender cotton with tiny white dots. It wasn't a pattern I would ever wear, but I wasn't really thinking about that. It hadn't occurred to me that this new hobby could produce garments I'd actually be seen in.

Halfway through the semester, my parents and sister went on vacation (being an uncomfortably rebellious teenager, I refused to go.) A friend of my mom's had a daughter in college - Laura - and she came to stay with mr for the week.

Laura arrived with her sewing machine and a stack of Seventeen Magazines saying, "I heard you like to sew, so I brought these projects for us to work on!" The project was to sew two t-shirts into a dress and embellish with ribbons and such. The magazine photos were SO cute. We got started.

Sewing requires a lot of space so we set up on the long table in the kitchen. Snipping and seaming and gathering and sewing. I was fully involved and ended up with - if not an exact replica on the Seventeen model - something that was very close. Done! I looked at the clock and it was half past twelve. Midnight. The last time I'd looked it had been around 8. It was the first time in my life that I'd gotten so absorbed in a task (save reading) that everything else disappeared.

I call that place "the zone" and it's a wonderful place to be. There are very few activities that get me there, but the ones that do are my confirmed passions. Certainly reading was the first - getting so involved in a story that I entered the world inside the book. Then sewing, as I mentioned. In my late teens it became apparent that cooking and preparing for a party put me in that zone. Where others became frazzled and stressed at the thought of entertaining, I found the hours before the guests arrived to be similar to a solo dance around my home - cooking and cleaning and decorating - nothing else mattered. Then in my early 20s - three quarters of the way through a Masters in Jewish Studies - I got a computer and discovered a program called Printshop. It was my boyfriend's birthday and I had no money so I made him an extended card - a booklet really. It took me hours to complete - learning the program as I went along - but time stood still. Once again, it was almost midnight. Little did I know I'd discovered my career.

It took another three or four years before I realized that design could put me in that "zone" for which I longed. Then it took another few years before I understood that graphic design was a job and I could make it mine.

So here I am. It's 18 years later and I'm a graphic designer. I'm lucky that my work allows me to enter "the zone" on a regular basis. Don't get me wrong! It's not all timeless activity. Reaching that place is still a novelty but it's always a pleasure coming out of it with a beautiful product to show my client.

I bring this all up now because last week a friend bought me - I mean Maia - a sewing machine. I've been teaching both kids to make pillows and bags from scraps of fabric and old clothes. This weekend the kids are with their dad so I thought I'd try my hand at sewing from a pattern again -- first time in a couple of decades. I decided to go with pajama pants (which I needed) and bought a pattern and some gorgeous fabric on sale. I got started at around two pm. Next thing I know it's 4:30 and I have a pair of jammies that are über cool. The afternoon happily melted away. In fact - I forgot to eat - which is great since it's Yom Kippur and I was supposed to be fasting anyway.

How do you reach the "zone?"

 

Breezy Birthing Day

Pregnancy does not become me. Aside from the usual nausea and fatigue, I break out in acne worse than a pubescent hamburger flipper. It's nasty. Additionally, I'm a small person, so the last trimester is particularly painful. Maia (my second) would push at my ribs with her feet - as if she wanted to stretch out her legs. It became so bad that I had my friend, a midwife, strip my membranes to try and induce labor - something that was done quite successfully during my first pregnancy. It worked: two days later the contractions began.

During Contractions

Between Contractions

This is where most women launch into a diatribe about the trauma of their birthing experience. I know this because it's what I did after I had Joe (my first). Descriptions with details about episiotomy stitches and epidural headaches abound. I'm not gonna do that.


The contractions came exactly six years ago on a hot afternoon - soft and far apart - just like they're supposed to. I conducted my day as usual - worked (there was a deadline that had to be reached!), hung out with Joe, a new neighbor came by to visit. I called my doula - a longtime girlfriend who was coming up from Santa Cruz to help me out and take photos - so she could start her one-hour drive. My friend, the midwife, lived next door and checked in on me often.

It was late when the contractions became stronger and closer together. My husband (at the time) left me in the capable hands of my doula-friend and my midwife-friend who took shifts while he slept. It was wonderful. The labor was textbook - there was no pain between contractions and it was hard to tell when to leave for the hospital. Eventually my midwife-friend checked how far I was dilated and proclaimed us ready to go.

Once admitted to the hospital my friends and I lit a gardenia scented candle and tried to get some sleep (then-husband was at home with 4-year-old Joe). In the morning they offered pitocin to speed things along. When it was time to have the epidural I questioned it - maybe it's not needed? But the nurse and midwife-friend said to take it then or I there wouldn't be another chance. I took their advice.

My husband (at the time) arrived just as I was starting to push, and Maia slipped out fifteen minutes later. A beautiful healthy baby girl.

Easy, peasy, breezy.

Especially when you compare it to my first birthing experience: with Joe I had back labor and the pain was excruti----oops - I said I wasn't gonna do that.

What's your labor story? I know you want to tell it.

(All photos by Deborah Bresnick)

International Women's Day and My First Job

International Women's Day was not something that I'd ever heard of, but it was March 1994 and I was charged with writing flap and panel copy and a marketing campaign for a March-release book entitled THE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF WOMEN. International Women's Day was to be my hook for enticing radio interviews, speaking dates and reviews for my author and her book.

The project was phase two of a job I'd been invited to apply for with a well known publishing company in San Francisco. My advising professor at the GTU Masters Program in Jewish Studies had a book being published with them and had recommended me for the position; it was the first (ie. only) interesting prospect that had come my way since graduating. The position's title: Marketing Associate, World Religion and Women's Studies Books.

Having never written "copy" in my life (academic papers don't count) I took on the task the only way I knew how: research. Mind you, this was before the Internet, so I couldn't just go online and google "how to write a book marketing plan," instead, I pulled out every book I owned (hundreds) and read flap and panels as if they were works of art (some were!). I went to the library and checked out books on copy writing, marketing and publicity. I studied it all and settled in to work.

I got the second interview. And honestly, I wasn't surprised. My writing was excellent - I'd agonized over every word - and the marketing plan was tight. It covered every form of media (at the time) and offered solutions to travel costs that included hi tech things like "radio phone interviews." If there was one thing I'd learned during all those years at school, it was how to research the hell out of things.

What I didn't learn was how to interview.

The hiring manager and I had met the week before (he gave me the test-project). He too had been a divinity student and we'd hit it off immediately. He gave me the lo-down on what to expect and sent me off. Over the course of the day I was interviewed by two editors, the publisher, the director of publicity, the president and human resources. I can think of a zillion things I said during those conversations that should have cost me the job. For example, when one editor said, "your writing is excellent, can you tell me why you want to go into marketing instead of editing?" In my head I'm thinking, "um, because the job opening is in the Marketing Department and I need a job?" Out loud: "Marketing just seems much more interesting and fun than editing." Yes, I said this to the editor. Or how about what I said to the president when she asked me what I do "in my spare time." Brilliantly: "oh, I read. One of my favorite magazines is xxx, isn't it published by this company?" "It may have the same name as us, but we've never had anything to do with that magazine." It gets worse. In Human Resources I was asked "how did it go?" "Oh, it went great. I especially enjoyed meeting with that woman who had the big fancy office." "You mean xxx, the president?" Uh. Yeah. Her. Can we say foot in mouth? Palm to face?

I was hired.

Hindsight isn't always twenty twenty and it's taken a long time for me to realize that I had some huge cheerleaders rooting for me behind the scenes. My professor - about to publish his first book with this company - was no doubt extremely influential: he wanted someone he knew to work on his book. It would serve him well if I were to get the job (and it did!) Furthermore, the support of the hiring manager, who seemed to think I was perfect for the job, was enormous. I imagine he had to do some pretty strong convincing to get me hired to that position. (Thanks Steve!)

The job was short lived (I was laid off with a third of the staff 8 months later) but what I learned about working with professionals in an office environment was invaluable for landing my next job and the next ....

So, International Woman's Day. It comes along every year ... I wonder if Terry Gross is interviewing anyone significant today ....

The Maiden, the Bitch and Prince Charming (or, The Zombie Princess)

Maia and Joe have been really into old Disney movies. Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty and Snow White are favorites. Have you watched these films lately?

The casts are painfully identical. All star a poorly treated (dare I say abused) maiden; an evil older woman; and a man–but not just any man, noooo–this guy is Prince Charming himself!

Similarities continue with the plot: maiden lives under the control of the bitchy older woman, goes through a series of horrid events, makes some friends, is found by Prince Charming and lives happily ever after.

Of the three, I think Snow White is most disturbing. There is a terrifying scene in which she is lost in the forest, eyes stare at her from every which way, screeches and moans can be heard before she collapses into a heap of trembling sobs. It's like a really bad LSD trip.

Snow White makes friends with seven men, dwarfs actually, who live and work together in the woods (WTF??). The guys are slobs and keep her around because she cooks and cleans for them. Furthermore, ALL seven of them harbor secret crushes on her and fight for private places to get their nuts off (OK, I made this part up. But it could be true. We don't know that it's not.) Our maiden leads her little friends on by doting on them and kissing their little noses and ears, foreheads and beards. All the while she moons over a prince she met once and was too shy to even speak with.

Enter evil woman who poisons poor Snow White with a shiny red symbol of lost innocence–the apple. One bite and she drops to the floor. Dead. The dwarfs turn out to be necrophiliacs of sorts: embalming the maiden in a glass casket (above ground) so they can gaze at her body daily. Feigning grief while privately taking turns fulfilling their deepest fantasies (We don't know that this is true, but it could be, and that's all that really matters.)

And so it goes until, having heard of this odd freak-show of a story, Prince Charming rides his white stallion to the casket. Overcome with passion (necrophilia) the gentleman kisses the (DEAD) maiden who, to every one's surprise, blinks her eyes and awakens. At this point, we can argue, Snow White is a zombie, she is of the living dead.

This doesn't dissuade the Prince from gathering his prize up and whisking her away to his castle where they live–and this part is really true, cause it says so in the movie–happily ever after.