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Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Sun Bank Arena, Trenton, June 21, 2012


I was eight years old and running with a dime in my hand
Into the bus stop to pick up a paper for my old man
I'd sit on his lap in that big old buick and steer as we drove through town
He'd tousle my hair and say son take a good look around
This is your hometown, this is your hometown
This is your hometown, this is your hometown

In `65 tension was running high at my high school
There was a lot of fights between the black and white
There was nothing you could do
Two cars at a light on a saturday night in the back seat there was a gun
Words were passed in a shotgun blast
Troubled times had come to my hometown
My hometown, my hometown, my hometown

Now main streets whitewashed windows and vacant stores
Seems like there aint nobody wants to come down here no more
They're closing down the textile mill across the railroad tracks
Foreman says these jobs are going boys and they aint coming back to
Your hometown, your hometown, your hometown, your hometown

Last night me and kate we laid in bed talking about getting out
Packing up our bags maybe heading south
Im thirty-five we got a boy of our own now
Last night I sat him up behind the wheel and said son take a good
Look around
This is your hometown



... Bruce Springsteen, Freehold, My Hometown


E Street, Belmar, Mother's Day, 2012
I know that I'm a little slow on the uptake, but, until today, I did not realize that I am living in Bruce Springsteen's paracosm, or particular mini-world.  Apparently, when the Boss goes worldwide, our little state becomes his Narnia, his Emerald City, his Hogwarts.  Magical things happen every day here in a sort of landscape that he has familiarized all over the world.  Our struggles, our places, our expressions become a distinct way of viewing America, wrecking ball or no. Nobody in Europe is sprung from a cage on Highway 9, but it seems many people have stepped out over the line with us.  Woah-oh!
Here's an article from today's New York Times that tells the story of the Bruce-world that we live in and the expensive but dreamy road trip it took to visit there.

Keep reading and writing this summer.  I am working on an old novel by Joyce Carole Oates about the Adirondacks called Childwold, recommended by the in-laws.  Am also navigating The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks so that the kids can read it at school.  Good stuff.

Maureen

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

Snoozefest!


 New Jersey’s redundantly-named governor a break for closing his eyes during Bruce Springsteen’s “Rocky Ground,” “a kind of really spiritual song, “ according to Christie.  Snoozegate, the pundits (that trendy job choice is almost as obnoxious as entrepreneur, but not quite) are calling it. Sure, the lyrics that include Jesus, Canaan, and Hallelujah are “kind of really” spiritual, but maybe it was the 44 repetitions of the phrase “rocky ground” that the Gov found soporific. (Sorry, Bruce, but I remember counting the repetitions of “ridin’ in the backstreets” at an unfocused party in the eighties once -47.  It became a mantra.) Was Christie sleeping or in reverie? Is he just another state worker not living up to expectations? Come on up for the rising, Governor.  I’ve got your back!
There are a few New Jersey heresies worse than being born to snooze.  Perhaps ordering a salad at the New Brunswick grease trucks or asking for half a slice at Benny Tudino’s in Hoboken would be terrible.  Requesting a low-fat pork roll with egg whites would be an abomination.  Staying on the beach in Asbury Park during a hurricane?  Absolutely out! So catching forty winks in the Promised Land can’t really be that bad.  Chris Christie has been to see Bruuuuuuuuuce 128 times.  I don’t know if he has been awake every minute.  Bruce is the Energizer Bunny in a black leather vest, after all.  He mocks his entire broad demographic by letting us know that he is all up and perky when we have just come home from working all day at our daddy’s garage. And Monday when the foreman calls time, I’ve already got my Bruce tix on my mind.  I have never nodded off during the dozen times I have seen the Boss, and I didn’t even buy my tickets from Maureen Van Zandt.  It is unlikely that Chris Christie, a fellow survivor of the Nebraska album, fell asleep during last week’s paean to the 99%.
"When I was fist-pumping through “Badlands,” no one took pictures of that,'' Christie said when interviewed by the Newark Star-Ledger. "When I was singing to "Out in the Street" thankfully nobody took pictures of that. When I was contorting myself during "Because the Night," nobody took pictures of that."  Too bad.  I would much rather have seen Governor Chris “The Situation” Christie fist-pumping to “poor men wanna be rich, rich men wanna be kings, and a king ain’t satisfied till he rules everything.”  The contortions may have just been too much to bear, though.  Was he contorting himself because the night belongs to lovers and he forgot that his wife was at the concert, too?  These are the deeper questions that the journalists have missed and that only a true Bruce fan would pose.
Although Chris Christie and I were born to run, we have not.  We are both planted here off various exits of Thunder Road, riding on the backstreets looking for a parking space.  We are Jersey people.  We do not sleep during expensive concerts by iconic rock stars, especially the one whose pictures and guitars decorate our offices in the public sector.  We have hungry hearts, and we dance like spirits in the night.
Don’t bully the Governor of New Jersey if he entered the land of hope and dreams.  We all may be better off for it.

Keep reading and writing,
Maureen

Monday, April 9, 2012

On St. Joe's of the Palisades...


A few weeks ago, I walked around the dusty building where I used to go to high school a few decades ago.  There were still some things I recognized, some worn down beyond care and past use.  In the former guidance office of St. Joseph's of the Palisades High School, West New York, a sculpture of trophies lay in the middle of the floor, scattered golden memories of skinny fast kids who ran the streets and tracks of Hudson County.   My former classmates and I were told that we could take whatever we wanted (we made a donation at the end of our adventure.)  I took the heavy cross off the wall.  I am looking at it right now- INRI.
The school hung on for a while through the beginning of this century, but it has finally come it its end.  With our great history of fine athletics, St. Joe's could have become one of those elite Catholic jock schools that feed the NBA, but it did not.  It could have become an academy of learning and scholarship, if anyone were interested in that.  It did not go this way either.  It went the direction of many Catholic Schools, it went to join it patron saint.  Someday it may resurrect itself, but the Catholic Schools of the 20th Century were special schools for a special time, and that time has passed.
Most of the kids who attended St. Joe's and other schools like it - St. Mike's in Union City or St. Pete's in New Brunswick, for example - are third-generation European immigrant kids.  Our grandparents were born in some well-loved but hard-to-live-in place that made them have to leave.  Some of them saw this country as a wonder, but were wary of the anti-Catholic bias abounding here.  They also, like all immigrants, wanted to hold onto the most important remnant of home and their religion.  Parish dances, the Knights of Columbus, the Holy Name Society, throat blessings for St. Blaise Day, green mashed potatoes in cafeteria food on St. Patrick's Day all helped them to connect.  Each of these tangents became less relevant as we Catholics became more assimilated.  The primary source of new immigrants is not even European at all.  The culture of the church is evolving, as it should.

I miss St. Joe's - Bluejays are the best!  Hit 'em in the chest! - but I still hold on to the feeling that being Catholic is being something special.  A chance, as Mother Theresa said, "to do something beautiful for God."  If I got that message, then St. Joe's is still alive, and the real trophies are piled somewhere else.

Glad to be back on the blog,

Maureen

*I usually try to include a poem, but this article put me off it today.  However, you've got to love that Kanye uses the word spiel.

Saturday, April 2, 2011

The Blue Chapel Blues- Union City

When I was a kid attending St. Francis Academy in Union City, I walked home some days past the cloistered home of some Dominicans nuns  who lived in the mysterious Blue Chapel.  That was back in the old days, when St. Michael's Monastery was the centerpiece of Union City architecture; when Veronica's Veil played every Easter season; when the Passion Play at the park Theatre was a Lenten obligation never to be missed.  Union City was a monument to the European Catholic diaspora - Irish priests, Italian customs, French nuns, and the German Fritz Rueter Altenheim on Union Hill.
The Blue Chapel was a place we went to buy religious articles -rosaries, cards - or to see the vestments that would sometimes be purchased and displayed along with the flowers at a funeral.  I never got the past the gift shop.  My mother did all of the talking.  I just remember that it was very quiet, and that I had to stand very straight and still.  To this day, it remains a curosity to me.
This article about the Blue Chapel appeared in this week's Star-Ledger.  The connected videos are great, too.  Give it a read, and remember when you were little and didn't know whether or not nuns had legs.  Better yet, place yourself in the time when there was a church dominated by some ethnic group in your neghborhood, a neighborhood candy store, and you walked to the neighborhood school -Catholic or public. The world was smaller and more familiar. What was your Blue Chapel? Like Blondie, what's the power and passion of your Union City Blue?


Keep reading and writing, especially during Lent when you are not eating potato chips or pretzels or olives,

Maureen*

*Thanks, Judy, for directing me to this article

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Borrowing Lent


shore



By Rima Vesely-Flad



there were no roads in the Sahara


we rode out into the desert, into vast


space, searching. Tuareg nomads,


makeshift tents, camels in the distance.


a soft sun sank and the desert


rose into its own fire. wind licked


my skin, sand blew into the crevices


of my body. scalp, ears, toes.



that was the time in which i


hungered, when every movement in


my life was an act of leaving. i began


to want boundaries, a shore, an edge.


containment. a place to land.



beyond words, beyond a horizon, there


was a way of moving into the wind.


opening to the presence of Jesus on


water. rowing to shore. just


believing a shore existed.



This poem is a reflection on the 21st chapter of John's Gospel.


Is New Jersey the best state for Lent? There is certainly enough guilt to go around - and well-deserved guilt it is, too. We have madated that it is not okay to be a bully here, yet Jerseylicious and Jersey Shore, and the ghosts of The Sopranos still role model that for us at every click of the remote.


I feel a little Lenty in New Jersey and will spend some time over the next forty days walking down that ashy street to the intersection of Palm and Tenebrae.  God tries to enter our hearts in various circuitous ways throughout the year.  Sometimes he tries to sneak in a meaningful moment during a crackling hymn on Christmas morning, before the house is filled with crumple wrapping paper and purple plastic from Little Tykes.  Sometimes He's hiding in a pink candle on an Advent wreath, waiting to drip down on some fake ivy.  During Lent, I think He's waiting for us to come to Him, being present in the nothing special, the emptiness, the no decorations, the lights that are turned off.
I like Lent.  It makes me feel like starting something wonderful.  I have given up some unimportant things that have become too important, but I am mostly looking forward to moving toward the center.  I just started the Stephen R. Covey book The Speed of Trust.  I am going to begin there.  For Lent, I am giving up not trusting.  Let's see.

Keep reading and writing,

Maureen

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Spellbound in New Jersey...

The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;

But a tyrant spell has bound me

And I cannot, cannot go.



The giant trees are bending

Their bare boughs weighed with snow.

And the storm is fast descending,

And yet I cannot go.



Clouds beyond clouds above me,


Wastes beyond wastes below;

But nothing dear can move me;

I will not, cannot go.

...Spellbound by Emily Bronte (not from New Jersey, but would have been great on the Palisades)
 
 
This is a short, creepy poem about things we can't escape from.  For me, I guess, it's writing.  I have missed this blog and the opportunity it provides to get some ideas out.  God gave us this gift of a snow day -  I have enjoyed snow days since 1961 when I was in Kindergarten at St. Francis Academy in Union City - and I have promised myself to post here today. 

Nemesis looking rather aggravated...
 
Lots of reading and writing since we last met, most notably Philip Roth's Nemesis.  This "alternate history" novel is centered on a deadly outbreak of polio in Newark during WWII.  (Newark was actually beset by polio in 1916.) The disease is surely a metaphor for the Holocaust and the impact of surviving a nightmare.  The protagonist is a good-natured soul who becomes beaten-down by the disease he tries to escape and who himself becomes the "method of transport" for the physically crippling polio.  Nemesis, in Greek mythology, is the agent of punishment and balance.  A "nemesis" cannot be defeated; it is one's undoing.  This novel is the story of a guy who has gotten just one too many breaks and whose good luck catches up with him.  He has missed the chance to be a hero.  He carries his nemesis on his back by being a survivor, living in a world of shame and darkness of his own making.
 
It  is reminiscent of Roth's earlier story Eli the Fanatic, which appears in Goodbye, Columbus.  ("What do we do with survivor European Jews who have landed here in suburban Long Island?")  It certainly is connected to Roth's The Plot Against America, the story of President Charles Lindbergh and his election's impact on the Jews of Newark and the nation generally.  Roth asks, "What if?" in these stories in which new historical heroes and villians emerge when opportunites are presented for both courage and disgrace.
 
Ever think about your own "what if"?  Consider the chess pieces on the board of your own life.  What would have happened if you made a few different moves?  More importantly, what would that difference mean?
 
Glad to be back.  Keep reading and writing,
 
Maureen

Monday, September 6, 2010

Happy Rosh Hashanah from Highland Park...

Ah, September!  The beginning of the year in so many ways!  Only a schnorrer could kvetch on a beautiful day like this, no?  Here's an excerpt that starts an excerpt from a great new book by Sam Hoffman and Eric Speigelman of Highland Park:  Old Jews Telling Jokes: 5,000 Years of Funny Bits and Not-So-Kosher Laughs.

"She was so deeply embedded in my consciousness that for the first year of school I seem to have believed that each of my teachers was my mother in disguise. As soon as the last bell had sounded, I would rush off for home, wondering as I ran if I could possibly make it to our apartment before she had succeeded in transforming herself. Invariably she was already in the kitchen by the time I arrived, and setting out my milk and cookies. Instead of causing me to give up my delusions, however, the feat merely intensified my respect for her powers."



So starts Portnoy's Complaint, Philip Roth's definitive kvetch novel of the American Jewish Mother. What's interesting to me is that Roth's portrait doesn't start with any of the petty stereotypical claims- overprotective, anxious, neurotic. Instead Portnoy's mother is defined by her power.



Coincidentally, when I posted my own mother's joke to our website, it was accompanied by the following description: "Diane Hoffman is my mom. She can do pretty much anything and, at any given time, is doing everything." The phrasing may be less sublime, but the sentiment is related. If we, and by "we" I mean the Jewish boys, have an issue with our mothers, the issue is with their abundance of gifts, talents, and abilities, or at least with our perception of these things.



But why are these Jewish mothers so exaggerated? Are there steroids in the flanken? What has created this über-race of shape-shifting moms?

Some scholars suggest that it is intrinsically tied to the Jewish suburban flight during the middle of the last century. For generations the mother had occupied the central role in the Jewish family. In the shtetl, they ran the household, which could include domesticated animals and small farming, while the fathers often spent copious time studying Torah. Suddenly these ferociously intelligent, energetic women were stuck in a house in the middle of nowhere with little or nothing to do. By the 1950s, many could even afford a little help around the house with the laundry and the dusting.



So what's a ravenously curious, intellectually gifted, ambitious woman to do? Many joined associations and community groups such as Hadassah and synagogue sisterhoods. Many ran parent-teacher organizations and started book clubs and charity organizations. And starting in the 1960s, many started to enter the labor market. But before having a job became a generally accepted option, many turned their laserlike focus to their children. This had a mixed effect, which we could address further if we had a chapter on psychoanalysis, but unfortunately the publishers didn't find our collection of 378 Freudian knock-knock jokes to be worth printing.



One might ask-why start the book with a chapter on Jewish mothers?



The answer is simple. That's where it all starts.



A Bonus Freudian Knock-Knock Joke



"Knock knock."



"Who's there?"



"Oedipus."



"Oedipus who?"



"Oedipus shmedipus, as long as he loves his mother."



Dennis Spiegelman



Dennis Spiegelman is Eric's dad. He moved to Los Angeles in 1963, married a shiksa (Eric's word choice), and had two children. He deals in antique and collectible objects.



My Son, the President



It's the year 2016, and a Jew has been elected president. He calls his mother and says, "Ma, I'm the president of the United States! Are you coming to the inauguration?"



She says, "Eh, well, I've got nothing to wear."



He says, "Ma, I'm gonna be the president. I can get you a dressmaker."



She says, "Eh, well, I only eat kosher."



"Ma, I'm gonna be president! I can get you a kosher meal."



She says, "Eh, well, how am I gonna get there?"



"Ma, I can get you Air Force One. Come to the inaugural."



She ends up at the inaugural and they're on the reviewing stand. On the left side of her are all of the Supreme Court justices; on the right side is the president's cabinet.



She nudges the guy to her right and says, "You see that guy with his hand up? His brother's a doctor!"



Sylvie Drake



Sylvie Drake has led a fascinating life, which began in Alexandria, Egypt, in 1930. After she immigrated to the United States in 1949, she spent three years acting and directing with the Pasadena Playhouse.



Rottweiler



What is the difference between a Jewish mother and a Rottweiler?



Eventually, a Rottweiler will let go.



A Bonus Joke from Sylvie Drake:

Staring at the Sea



These four women are sitting on a bench in Santa Monica.



It's a gray day. They're staring out at the gray sea, under a cloudy sky, looking miserable. They're not talking.



All of a sudden, one of them breaks the silence and says, "Oy."



Two seconds later, the one next to her says, "Oy, vey."



A few seconds later, the one next to her says, "Oy vey iz mir."



The fourth one turns toward the others and says, "Excuse me, I thought we had agreed that we weren't going to talk about the children!"



Mike Leiderman



Mike Leiderman has spent more than thirty years as a Chicago TV sportscaster, producer, writer, and host. He was so excited to be a part of Old Jews Telling Jokes that he flew himself from Chicago to Los Angeles to tell his jokes.



Meeting Mom



This guy tells his mother that he's finally going to get married. His mother is thrilled!



She says, "Am I gonna meet her?"



He says, "Well, Ma, I'd like to play a little game with you. You have such a good sense of what's going on. I'd like to bring in three women and have you guess which one's gonna be my wife."



His mother agrees.



The next day, he brings in three beautiful ladies and he sits down on the couch next to his mom. His mom talks to them for two minutes and says, "The redhead in the middle."



He says, "Ma, that's amazing! How'd you do that so quickly?"



She says, "'Cause I don't like her."



Harold Zapolsky



Harold (Harry) Zapolsky spent most of his career as a professor of physics at Rutgers University, where he served two terms as department chair and is now professor emeritus. He also served in Washington, D.C., for several years as program director for theoretical physics at the National Science Foundation.



Bubele



A lady is taking her young son to his first day in school. She's walking him to school and she starts giving him a little lecture.



She says, "Now, bubele, this is a marvelous thing for you, bubele. Bubele, you're never gonna forget it. Just remember, bubele, to behave in school. Remember, bubele, anytime you want to speak, you raise your hand."



They get to the school and she says, "Bubele, have a good day. I'll be waiting for you when you get out of school."



Four hours later, she's standing there, and the little kid runs down the steps. She runs toward him and says, "Bubele, bubele, it's been such an exciting day. Tell me, bubele, what did you learn today?"



He says, "I learned my name was Irving."


Have a wonderful day and a sweet new year, bubele!

Keep reading and writing