Stop Stealing My Paper
One woman’s struggle to save print journalism
By Nicole Ferraro
As a 26-year-old working in the IT business, I’m the only person in my group of friends who subscribes to a print newspaper. My comrades react with amusement when they ask how I’m spending my Sundays.
“Reading the paper?” they howl. “You’re so weird.”
I’m proud of my subscription. I’ve been addicted to newsprint ever since I started clipping articles for current events assignments in 3rd grade. Hearing about the impending “death of print” makes me feel like I’m part of a rescue mission sent to save a civilization. Yet all of my satisfaction falls to pieces when I check my doorstep in the morning to find my paper has been stolen. Read more
How to Putter
Seven steps to unwind your mind at week’s end
By Mat Zucker
My partner Bryan surprised me this year with a very thoughtful Hannukah gift: a gray velour Ralph Lauren tracksuit.
This luxurious outfit, however, is not for jogging on the treadmill; in fact, the soft, thick fabric and sagging lines suggest the very opposite of physical activity. Bryan was instead recognizing my favorite weekend ritual: puttering around the house.
To be clear, puttering is not about being lazy, nor is it “dawdling,” which is about delaying something you should do. To putter is to move aimlessly, usually indoors. We zone out much like we’re stoned, but are in motion and vaguely productive. Read more
Monday Morning Football Flashback
My brush with an NFL hall of famer
By Rosemary Kalikow
My only son announced that Jerry Rice will be voted into the upcoming 2010 Hall of Fame Class during Super Bowl weekend. He specifically relayed this factoid to me because he knows that Rice will always hold a special place in my heart—not because of his maneuvers on the football field, but because of his special play on Columbus Avenue.
In 1994, I was one of five female producers at Live with Regis & Kathie Lee. Regis would often come into our meeting and request a specific guest, always a sports star. I consistently volunteered to take the assignment because the other female producers had no idea who he was talking about. Read more
Nice Jacket, Where Are My Pants?
Panic ensues at the end of a snowy errand
By Thomas Pryor
Nearing the 1964 Christmas break during my 5th grade, 13 inches of snow blanketed my street late on a Thursday evening. Friday morning, my friends and I mushed over to Central Park, towing our sleds through the middle of the street. Back from the sleigh ride, I plopped down outside my apartment on the hall stairs and began undressing. As I worked my top layer off, I heard my father’s familiar step coming up the stairs.
He mumbled to himself, “Damn, I forgot the suit.” Noticing me, his eye focused on my half untied snow boots. “Tommy, here’s the ticket, hurry to the cleaners. I need that suit for the wedding.” Read more
Lessons in Humility
What a high school teacher could offer students aged well beyond their years
By Michael F. Soet
When I said, “I hope to learn as much from my students as they’ll learn from me,” during my interview for a teaching job, I wasn’t sure what I’d meant. I was vying for a position as a social studies instructor at an Upper East Side high school for recent immigrant English language learners. It seemed like a noble line at the time, though I had nothing more in mind than learning how to swear in 12 different languages. I loved foreign cultures and wanted to work with kids who had been marginalized. Only now can I laugh at just how low I had set the bar for what my own “learning” would entail. Read more
City of ‘Motherly’ Love
A different sort of family bonding on annual Thanksgiving trip
By Sally Marshall
I reach the top of the Arc de Triomphe and catch my breath. Paris stretches in every direction. Oh, how I love this city! Filled with emotion, I give my companion’s hand a squeeze and we gaze at the view. Then she turns to me and asks, “Now can we go to a playground, Mommy?”
My traveling partner is my 8-year-old daughter Coco, with whom I have spent the past three Thanksgivings in Paris visiting friends. When I tell people that we’re Paris-bound, the follow-up question invariably is, “Are you bringing Coco?” I tell them that “we” is Coco and me. Phil, my husband, is staying home. Read more
If You Can’t Take the Heat
A newcomer’s first brush with ‘crime’ in the big city
By Linley Taber
As the air gets cooler, I’m reminded of my own first autumn in New York. One night in early winter, not long after I’d moved from my hometown of Baltimore, stands out.
It was 3:02 a.m. when I was jolted awake by an ear-splitting racket. BANG! BANG! BANG! From my spot on the couch, I scanned my first-floor apartment for the source of the sound. As a bubbly, blond 22-year-old dying to prove I could make it in the big city, I had thought my stretch of East 54th Street was safe. Read more
Mouse Games
Getting the runaround from a rude rodent
Nicole Ferraro
Mice and rats in New York City are called a lot of things: vile, filthy, scary, ugly. I’d also add inconsiderate.
I recently moved from my childhood home in Queens to an apartment on East 83rd Street. After a failed three-year relationship with my college boyfriend, and dating a few guys thereafter who proved disappointing, I decided my mid-twenties could be better spent single. I resented when men wasted my time but was more irritated that I let them. Read more
A Frank Memoir
One colleague’s fond recollections
By Tom Allon
“When I look back on our teaching days I wonder how we managed to survive at all. It was of course, a miserable career: the happy career is hardly worth your while. Worse than the ordinary miserable teaching career is the miserable high school teaching career, and worse yet is the miserable New York public high school teaching career.”
This is how I’d imagine a Frank McCourt memoir about our teaching days together at Stuyvesant High School might begin. Read more
Three-Ring Binder
Learning how to step out when your kids take ownership of their education
By Nancy J. Brandwein
My 13-year-old son is pressing me to get him a new three-ring binder. I see this as a positive sign that he cares about his schoolwork, that he no longer sees sloppiness as something either uncontrollable or as a virtue—his own eccentric quirk. His cracking binder is stuffed full of every single paper, every worksheet, every test of the first half of his 7th grade year at a New York City public school.
The need for his new binder is also testament to the demise of the textbook. In social studies, in science, in Spanish, for reasons both financial and ideological, the school he attends hands out Xeroxed worksheets, Xeroxed pages of textbooks and websites, and somehow my son’s 7th grade brain, three-quarters of which is taken up with inchoate longings and Gary Larson cartoons, is meant to organize the scattered pages of information into a coherent whole.
I’m afraid to ask my son what he understands about Boyle’s Law, the Civil War draft riots or the conjugation of certain Spanish irregular verbs. Without the plodding linearity of the textbook to organize his thoughts on these topics, I wonder how he copes with the accretion of information from all these loose-leaf pages. It is only in math that he has a textbook, one that weighs about 50 pounds, and only in that topic, perhaps fittingly, that we see a progression from point A to point B. When he came home with a math textbook in the first week of 6th grade, he was ecstatic. He told us, not once but thrice, that if he got so much as a pencil scratch on its pages we would have to pay the school $50. It was then I realized, sadly, that he’d never had a textbook in all the years of grade school.
I fondly remember some of the textbooks I had while attending school in Northern Virginia in the 1960s. Most of all, I loved my 4th grade Virginia history textbook with its delicate painting of Gunston Hall in shades of pale pink, yellow and Wedgwood blue. In its creamy pages, I read the story of the Lost Colony and saw an illustration of the colonists looking at the mysterious word, “Croatan,” carved in the tree. My 4th grade English grammar textbook was filled with sentences parsed in patterns that looked like flight plans or football plays. And there were science textbooks with diagrams of electrical circuits and wind currents and experiments in shaded boxes. Yet, for all the textbooks I toted home, along with my groovy denim covered three-ring binder with its jean pocket on the cover, it’s hard to remember what I learned, especially in 7th grade. Somehow, one almost feels like at a certain point, after you’ve gotten the basics down, school is beside the point.
The point is that my son, by asking, well, actually, begging, for a new three-ring binder—and also by refusing to weed out ANY papers from his old stuffed one—is taking ownership of his education. I can imagine how he will painstakingly transfer each page into the new binder. For the pages in which the holes are ripped, my son might stick on a tiny white donut-shaped “reinforcement,” a touching remnant from my childhood, along with the satisfying manila dividers with their clear-colored cellophane tabs.
Yet, as my son goes about his ritual of transplanting papers into a new three-ring binder, I need to use mental “dividers” and separate my own nostalgia from the reality of my children’s school life, a life that is almost totally hidden from me. I must come to terms with the fact that just as my son’s and my 9-year-old daughter’s childhoods are theirs, with their play dates and schedules rather than my 1960s devil-may-care existence, so is their schooling, with its reliance on hyperlinks and idea webs rather than encyclopedias and sentence diagrams.
I know now it is a violation to do what I used to when my son was in 6th grade: take the loose papers he had left on the floor or dining room table and put them into his binder with a satisfying snap of the metal rings.
“Mom, where’s my math test???” “It goes in the pocket,” he would complain. Or, “The Spanish worksheet goes in my folder since we’re still doing it.”
Butt out, Mom.
My 4th grader daughter means this, too, when I try to clean out her red vinyl homework folder.
“Why do you have math worksheets from a week ago in here?” “Why do you have this ELA test reading about a ham radio? You already HAD the test?” I ask her, on my way to the recycling stack.
“Nooooo,” she protests. Somehow, in all the numbing boredom of the ELA test prep, which she complained bitterly about for weeks, she has cottoned on to the excitement of owning a Ham radio—two words I hadn’t heard joined together since my own childhood.
“We have to keep this,” she says, and snatches the paper from my hand.
“Mom, can we get a ham radio? Can we? Can we?” my daughter asks me this as we are out the door on the way to school, her heavy backpack filled with library books, lunch, water bottle, folders and composition books.
Like the word “Croatan” carved on a tree, the one true thing etched in my brain from that entire Virginia history textbook, she has picked up a signal in the static of worksheets, test prep and workbooks. She doesn’t quite know what it means, but it’s lighting up a circuit in her brain. And that’s enough.
Nancy J. Brandwein is a freelance writer and editor who has had essays published in The New York Times, Brain, Child and West Side Spirit and Our Town, where she is a featured contributor for her weekly “Snack Attack” column.
