What is it that makes them so mean?

With the recent release of Lee Daniels' The Butler, there has been much discussion about race relations - how far we've come, how far we still have to go. Since The Butler takes place from 1957-2008, and I was born in 1959, it brought back memories of a childhood that included upsetting television news images, and frightening real-life encounters with racism. The following is a true story of something that happened when I was in the fourth grade. Names have been changed:

I had just started Kindergarten in 1964 when Mom and Dad told me the news: We were moving to a new house. It was two doors down from my favorite kindergarten classmate, Katherine. She told me there were four other girls our age on the block. Since I was an only child, this new abundance of potential playmates made my heart sing.

I still remember when we went to the house in Glendale, New York for the first time. It was a warm September day. Mom and Dad went into the house. I was more interested in meeting my new playmates. My parents let me stay outside with Katherine who introduced me to some of the girls on the block. Debbie and Donna were sisters. Their mom, Dora, and her friend, Marilyn, were sunning themselves on lounge chairs in their driveway. The two women never even turned their heads as we approached. When Katherine introduced me, Marilyn said, “Just what we need, another goddamn kid.” I remember feeling hurt, and sorry for her daughter, Linda, for having a mother who didn’t like kids.

I quickly learned that fitting in wouldn’t be easy. My parents were the only immigrants on the block. We were the only family who spoke a language other than English. My parents pronounced my name Rih-tah, and Americans pronounced it Ree-da, which left me wondering how to pronounce my own name. I was the only one who didn’t have siblings. I was the only one who wore clothes my mother made. I was the only one who wasn’t catholic. Katherine moved away soon after I moved in, which made me the only one who went to public school. Marilyn called it n****r school. “I’ll be goddamned if I send my kids to school with goddamn n****rs.”  

The kids would make fun of my parents’ accent, ridicule my school, stomp all over the freshly-laundered Barbie clothes my mother made. I wondered what is it that makes them so mean?

Despite Marilyn’s disapproval, I loved my school. In fourth grade, I had a teacher whom I adored. Her name was Mrs. Thompson. I admired everything about her. Her first name was Jane, my favorite name since I discovered it in my first grade reader. She was young, slender, energetic. She made learning fun. She laughed often and was kind to us. Being in Mrs. Thompson’s class was a joy.

Because we got along so well, the time we spent in school together wasn’t enough for us. We decided to organize an after-school softball game. There was a park and ball field adjacent to the schoolyard. We gathered there on a sunny Friday afternoon.

There was a rough group of kids my mother called “teenagers” who hung out at the park. My mother often warned, “Stay away from those teenagers.” Not long after we began our ball game, the teenagers began to assemble nearby watching the game. Some of them were drinking out of paper bags. They looked angry and I remembered my mother’s warning, but I was happy to be out there in the sunshine playing with my friends, so I didn’t pay much attention to them. 

I was in the outfield, happily fiddling with the glove my crush, Kenny, lent me when I heard screaming. I looked up and saw Paula and Laurie running toward me, terror on their faces. The teenagers were on the infield attacking some of our friends. At first, I didn’t get it. Why were they attacking us? Was it just because we were playing ball in their park? Then I heard that word again, n****r. One of the teenagers picked up a bat. Holding his paper-bag drink in his right hand, he swung the bat awkwardly with his left. I’ll never forget the sound of the bat hitting Abe’s head. Horrified and crying, we ran back to the school to get help. Paula, Laurie, and I frantically banged on the massive metal doors with our skinny arms and small fists. No one answered. With no adults around, and no access to a telephone, we did the only thing we could think of: We ran home to get our mothers. By the time my mother and I got back to the ball field, the teenagers were gone, and Abe was being placed in an ambulance. Two other boys, both named Thomas, had also been hurt.

We returned to school on Monday with sorrowful, fourth-grade hearts. Their injuries wrapped in bandages, Thomas Bell and Thomas Holmes were present. Abe was absent. I carefully avoided eye-contact with Kenny whose older brother was one of the teenagers. I could only imagine how badly he felt. It was the first time I saw Mrs. Thompson look sad.

Abe eventually made a full recovery and returned to school. After awhile, we got back to being Mrs. Thompson’s class, but every time we went to recess we’d see the ball field and remember.

©2013 Rita Maniscalco. All rights reserved.

13 Life Lessons from the 2013 US Open Tennis Championships

Every year, like millions of others around the world, I draw a great deal of inspiration from the US Open tennis championships. I look at the young players and marvel, not only at their superior athletic ability, but at their poise, composure and maturity. Most of them began playing tennis when they were very young: Novak Djokavic started when he was 6! In order to make it as professionals, these kids had to grow up quickly - traveling, practicing, competing, striving for excellence, and learning what it takes to win. Here are 13 valuable lessons tennis teaches:

• ·         Rule # 1: Take good care of your body: Include time for rest and recovery

• ·         In order to achieve worthy goals, some sacrifice is necessary

• ·         Surround yourself with a great team

• ·         When the wind is against you, swing harder.

• ·         Instead of reacting to circumstances, create opportunities

• ·         Be grateful for your opponents: They make you better.

• ·         How you show up after a crushing defeat says more about you than how you performed on the court.

• ·         Make good use of any rain delays

• ·         Past performance is not necessarily indicative of future results.

• ·         Trust your instincts: Don’t think too much

• ·          The victory will go to the one who can identify and overcome obstacles

• ·         Flexibility is key

• ·         Make sure you have a good coach

Dog Story

Until one has loved an animal, part of one’s soul remains un-awakened
- Anatole France

I said no for eighteen years. I was the mother of two active boys and the wife of a driven husband. There were scores of ballgames, dozens of class trips, hours of homework. When they asked, over and over and over again, if we could get a dog, I said no. I didn’t feel I could take care of one more being. Then, suddenly it seems, they no longer came to crawl into bed with us when there was a thunder storm. They got part time jobs, took the SAT’s, learned to drive. They became more independent. I was surprised to find I missed taking care of a little one. The next time they asked for a dog, I said yes.  I bought some books about dog training. How hard could it be?

We went to North Shore Animal League and saw a cute black lab mix. He was small and needy-looking and I was ready to take him home, but my husband, Dan, suggested we stop at a pet store before making a final decision. I didn’t want to support the puppy mill trade, but agreed to go to satisfy Dan. What I didn’t know is that Dan and our son, Justin, had seen a puppy at the pet shop the night before. They had a plan.

We walked into Shake-a-Paw in Hicksville. The store smelled of excrement, cedar shavings, and disinfectant. The shrill bark of dozens of puppies clamoring for attention pierced our ears. They were all in a makeshift corral, furry babies walking clumsily on eight-week-old legs. Some were wrestling like bear cubs, playfully biting and tumbling. Others pleaded for our attention as though they knew we held the promise of love and care. 

Dan called out to me, “Honey, come look at this one.”

He was in a small crate by himself, a yellow Labrador retriever puppy, a fur ball with soulful eyes and floppy ears. There’s a reason advertisers use yellow lab pups to sell products. He was the cutest thing I’d ever seen. “Wanna hold him?” asked Dan.

The cubicle could fit only one of us. My husband and sons encouraged me to go in. The salesperson brought two lab pups, a black and a chocolate, into the cubicle. The black one barked constantly, the chocolate kept jumping, scratching my bare legs with sharp little claws. She handed me the yellow one. He looked at me with sad eyes and settled quietly against my chest. I fell in love. There was no way I was going home without him. I looked at Dan without saying a word and he understood. “I knew she’d fall in love with him,” Dan said to Justin smiling victoriously. We named him Kato.

By the time we filled out the paperwork, purchased the necessary paraphernalia, and set it up at home, it was late and we were all exhausted. We placed Kato into his crate in the family room and went upstairs to bed. 

Kato cried all night. No one got any sleep. When we took him into the yard he lay down on the grass looking miserable. When we touched him, he tried to bite us with his sharp puppy teeth. He was uninterested in the toys we bought him preferring instead to tear at the perennials we had planted, pulling until he had them out by the roots, and then shaking them like mad. Whenever we put him back in the crate, he cried. With the boys almost grown, life had begun to get easier. Now, with this little monster living with us, we had no peace day or night. We were exhausted.

Weeks passed. None of the training techniques in the books worked. When we tried to teach him how to walk on a lead, he’d grab the leash in his mouth and play tug-of-war. Even dousing the leash in hot sauce didn’t deter him. He chewed on furniture and pulled up loops of carpeting. He bit us. I developed tightness in my chest. Dan would have nightmares about a lion living in our home. We had gone through major life changes, raised two children, faced the many challenges of family life and had never been this stressed out.

Dan came home one day and said, “I spoke to Jim at work. He already owns a lab. He said he’d be willing to take Kato.” Dan thought I’d be relieved. I was shocked and angry. We weren’t quitters.

“No way! We are not failing at this. I’m going to call a professional trainer. “

The first trainer was a burly man with a gruff voice. “Oh, this is a tough guy. Alpha male. Not gonna be easy.” His training technique consisted of placing Kato on a leash and yanking it roughly to get Kato to obey commands. Kato looked frightened. His eyes pleaded for help.

“Surely there must be a gentler way to do this,” I said.

The trainer sneered and said, “Well, you could try to hug and kiss him into it.” I couldn’t get him out the door fast enough.

The second trainer also identified Kato as an alpha male. She went over basic commands with us and suggested rewarding good behavior with treats, but we had already tried those techniques.

I was beside myself. I didn’t want to fail and I loved Kato despite his bad behavior, but I thought we might have to take Jim up on his offer. Then a friend told me about a television show called The Dog Whisperer starring Cesar Millan. His tagline is I rehabilitate dogs. I train people.

Dan and I became disciples. We DVR’d the show and created Dog Whisperer marathons. For weeks, our kids saw only the backs of our heads as we sat in an oversized chair together watching episode after episode. What Cesar said made sense to us. We needed to understand how a dog thinks. Cesar talked about the importance of rules, boundaries, and limitations which sounded like good parenting. He also expressed the importance of giving the dog three things in exactly this order: exercise, discipline, and affection. According to Cesar, it all begins with the relationships we form with our dogs during walks. We began to use Cesar’s techniques.

Kato’s behavior improved rapidly. We were empowered by our new dog training skills. It was a relief to know we could make this work after all. Within a few weeks, he obeyed basic commands, walked well on the lead, and stopped biting. He still, however, exhibited some alpha male quirks. 

One afternoon, I was in the yard with Kato when Dan came home. In typical alpha male fashion, Kato stayed put and waited for Dan to come and greet him. Dan didn’t even look at him. Kato was clearly put off by this. He looked at Dan and raised his chin as if to say, “You must acknowledge me.” Dan stood perfectly still and continued to ignore him. I watched in silence as Kato crawled slowly toward Dan, his belly almost touching the ground. When he got there, he lay at Dan’s feet, and put his head down.

“Congratulations”, I said to Dan. “You are now the alpha male.”

©2013 Rita Maniscalco All rights reserved.

A Memory for Mother's Day: The King and My Mother and I

The King and My Mother and I

Mom was washing the breakfast dishes. The kitchen smelled like bacon and Palmolive. Thinking to my fifteen-year-old self, yeah-right, like this would ever happen, I asked anyway: “Hey Mom, do you want to see Elvis in concert?” She turned off the faucet and looked at me.

“What did you say?”
“Do you want to go see Elvis Presley? He’s playing at the Coliseum on July 19^th. Tickets go on sale today,” I said holding up the newspaper to show her.

She quickly stripped off her yellow latex gloves leaving them dangling inside-out on the edge of the sink. She rushed over to the table, took the newspaper from my hands, and slid slowly into the chair as she read the ad. Mom had no patience for nonsense and no time for fun. Money was tight. We never went out to dinner or the movies or got Carvel ice cream. We had only been on three vacations that I could remember. Go to a concert? No way!

Looking at the ad she said, “Your father won’t want to go.” It was the response I expected, the excuse she always used when she didn’t want to do something. Then she said something that shocked me, “Do you want to go with me? I’ll get tickets.” Who was this woman?

Mom hated both vanity and waste. She didn’t wear make-up and never got a manicure. She darned socks and used towels until they were threadbare. She made do with what she had and rarely bought herself anything new, but it was no wonder considering her history.

Mom had grown up poor and much too quickly. Her mom died of cerebral meningitis when she was five. Her dad was drafted into the army three years later. She and her sister were left with their brand new step-mother at their home in Yugoslavia during World War II. They were ethnic Germans. Their ancestors had lived in the area harmoniously with Hungarians, Romanians, Italians, Serbs and others for more than 200 years, and had never set foot in Germany. When Hitler attempted to have Tito assassinated a second time, all ethnic Germans were in mortal danger. They had to sleep in their clothes prepared to escape from Serbian Partisans at a moment’s notice taking only what they could carry. They escaped by train in a cattle car. Because it was safer to travel only at night, the journey took months. Many died along the way. 

In the meantime, her father became a prisoner of war. By the time he was released, he had fallen in love with a woman who worked at the prison. The woman became pregnant, so he started a new life with her and never returned to his family, nor provided any financial support. He left his young daughters to be raised by their step-mother in Germany, a country that was strange to them, among native Germans, many of whom didn’t want them there. My mother was nine years old. Her sister was ten.

After finishing eighth grade, mom went to work. She also began training as a seamstress. At fourteen, she led the life of a responsible young adult. Money came only via hard work and was to be spent wisely.

Mom became a serious, capable woman. She emigrated to the U.S. with my father and her stepmother in 1957. They worked hard all day and studied English at night. By 1959, she and my father co-owned a two-family home. Six years later, they purchased a home of their own.

Mom loved her home and enjoyed entertaining. All holiday gatherings were at our house. As frugal as she was, when it came to having company, she was a very generous host. The food was mostly homemade, but there were also some purchased delicacies. Beverages flowed freely. When anyone stayed overnight, Mom would have them take the master bedroom since there was no guest room.

Another indulgence was music. There was always music. Whether it was soft classical radio on a Sunday afternoon, or record albums that included Nat King Cole, Andy Williams, and movie soundtracks, the little blue light on our Blaupunkt was on. The only Elvis album was gospel music, including Mom’s favorite, How Great Thou Art. I knew Mom was an Elvis fan, but I didn’t think she’d go to a concert. She waited in the rain for two hours to get tickets. 

The seats were close to the top of the stadium, so Mom brought heavy binoculars on a leather strap which she placed over my head like a lei. When the lights went down, Elvis’s imminent arrival was announced with Strauss’s fanfare from 2001, Thus Sprach Zarathustra. Elvis was greeted by a tidal wave of screams and flashcubes. He was wearing a low-cut white shirt, glittering sequined vest, and huge black and white fringed bell-bottoms. The fact that he looked like a pudgy cartoon version of the 1950’s Elvis didn’t seem to bother his fans. There were rippling explosions of light everywhere he turned. His first song was The Wonder of You, the perfect opening for a king who clearly had affection for and was amused by his subjects. As Elvis sang, he bent down to accept gifts from fans in the front row, even kissing a fortunate few. A stagehand, dressed and coifed like an Elvis-wannabe, placed silk scarf after scarf on Elvis’ neck which he promptly slid off and gifted to adoring fans.

When Elvis appeared, Mom grabbed the binoculars, forgetting the strap was around my neck, and yanked them toward her. For most of the concert, I felt invisible which was just fine with me. Mom sat up at the edge of her seat, wide-eyed, with both hands over her mouth as though she couldn’t believe she was really there. From time to time she’d whisper, “What a voice,” or “He’s beautiful.” As she looked at him, I looked at her. I saw for the first time, not my mother, but a girl with a crush on a guy. I was happy to see this side of her, thrilled we had those feelings in common. 

Elvis belted out hit after hit and the hours flew by. His final encore was Mom’s favorite, How Great Thou Art. I stood beside my mother, my heart filled to overflowing, as Elvis’s magnificent voice filled the stadium one last time.

In the weeks before the concert, Dad, feigning jealousy, teased her quite a bit. When he came to pick us up in his white, ’67 Chevy Nova, he asked, “So, how was the concert?” Mom crinkled her nose, and said with a shrug, “It was OK.”

©2013 Rita Maniscalco. All rights reserved.