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

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

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

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

Ladies and Gentlemen...

Rachael Hip-Flores and Bill Galarno in Two Gents

Congrats to Piscataway's own Rachael Hip-Flores who appeared in the Judith Shakespeare Company's recent production of Two Gentlemen onf Verona.  Rachael is back from her engagin role in Anyone But Me, for which she won a Best Female Actor in a Drama Series "Streamy" award for her role as Vivian.

Rachael and her Streamy

The diversity of opportunities for actors is immense, and theperformance venue, though still a challenge certainly, takes many forms. Sometimes great acting appears on this little screen in front of us right now. As a performer, Rachael is a gender chameleon and a bit of a medium-bender, too.  There are lots of new shapes out there that challenge us to bend along with them.

A bit of Jersey writing before we sign off today...


THE cold passed reluctantly from the earth,


and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched

out on the hills, resting. As the landscape

changed from brown to green, the army awak-

ened, and began to tremble with eagerness at the

noise of rumors. It cast its eyes upon the roads,

which were growing from long troughs of liquid

mud to proper thoroughfares. A river, amber-

tinted in the shadow of its banks, purled at the

army's feet; and at night, when the stream had

become of a sorrowful blackness, one could see

across it the red, eyelike gleam of hostile camp-

fires set in the low brows of distant hills.

...From The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane, Newark/Asbury Park

Keep reading and writing,

Maureen

Back after a Summer Blog-Break...

Sorry for the extended break, readers.  I have been awash in a sea of anti-education waves here in the Garden State, one with a very strong undertow.  Nonetheless, I have now washed up on the shore somewhere between the old Casino building in Asbury and the Kohr's stand on the Casino Pier in Seaside.  I'm ready to resume the writes of summer.
Lots going on with great Jersey writers and artists from the complete domination of the New Yorker magazine to Jersey guys Doug and Mike Starn's  "Big Bambu" exhibit on the top of MOMA.  As much as I have avoided any contact with the Jersey Shore reprobates, even I experienced a "sighting" on the boards of two long-haired babes from the cast. (Just lucky, I guess!)

I've been enjoying Mark Diionno's color pieces on Jersey towns and people, but I feel that he's better at writing insight articles for the front page. (just sayin')  Joe Weil has been growing a "garden of verses" near the SUNY Binghampton campus.  We are all waiting for the Dodge Festival in Newark this October, too.

A new spin?  Let's roll with Jerseylicious and Jersey Housewives and all the other nonsense.  It's all silly and insubstantial.  Two weeks ago I had to laugh at the line near the Cake Boss bakery in Hoboken.  (I was told by a local that it's part of the Ellis Island, Statue of Liberty loop for NJ tourists.)  Let's have some fun with all this stuff.  For those of us that are not Italian-American and from New Jersey, let's hold our own, too.  Fist-pump for us, my Irish peeps!
Read some stuff.  Have some fun.  Don't stop writing.
Maureen

Remember Them All on Memorial Day...

From today's Star-Ledger...

"The House of Representatives this afternoon passed a suicide-prevention measure named for a New Jersey soldier who took his own life after serving two tours of duty in Iraq.


The legislation would require military counselors to remain in touch with Iraq and Afghanistan veterans who are in the Individual Ready Reserve, a pool of tens of thousands of service members who have returned to civilian life but who remain available for call-up.


IRR members, living off-base and isolated from their buddies, typically don’t have access to the same support services as active-duty and National Guard troops, something the bill’s sponsor, Rep. Rush Holt (D-12th Dist.), has called a critical void in the military’s suicide-prevention efforts.


Under the measure, counselors must call IRR members and other isolated service members every 90 days to assess their well-being. The legislation is named for Army Sgt. Coleman Bean, an East Brunswick native who committed suicide in September 2008 at age 25.

Bean parachuted into northern Iraq during the 2003 invasion and served a second tour in 2007. Diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder, he struggled to rebuild his life and had difficulty getting help from both the Army and the Department of Veterans Affairs.

The Senate has yet to take up the bill."

Two years ago, I took a group of Boy Scouts from Troop 223 to Coleman's funeral in Milltown.  The scouts were very affected by what they saw and heard at the church service, especially by the close relationship between Coleman and his brothers.  They were just regular guys from our regular town, but war reached out its greedy hand and snatched Coleman, even when everyone thought he was safe at home.

This Memorial Day, let's remember that not all war wounds are the same and that some are easier to see than others are.  Let's make sure that all our soldiers get the support they need to remain whole.

Keep reading and writing,

Maureen