My Parents' Airmail 1959-1960

 

I come from a family of letter writers. My mother Shirley and her sister Charlotte swapped letters every week. They remembered their mother Eva writing to her parents Esther and Lehman in the 1920s.  And she expected me to carry on the tradition when I left for college. The rule: No letters, no tuition payments.

Long after my mother died of cancer in 1984, a cousin sent me a stack of airmail letters she found that my mother and father had exchanged. They are from 1959 and 1960, when my parents had separated. My father, Mark, was in France, where my parents had moved after their 1955 wedding; my mother had returned stateside with my baby brother Cooper and me to Tyler, Texas, where Aunt Charlotte and her family lived.

Mom saved all the letters from Dad and made copies of some of her typed responses. Reading them 60 years after the fact, I truly recognized her plain-spoken eloquence.

Let’s start with the marital context. My father’s letters echo the browbeating tone that sounded so familiar from my visits to him as a teen, when he lived in Manhattan. He alternated between trying to hustle money for his dubious business ventures and berating Mom for her personality, her post-childbirth appearance and her baffling need to work. December 4, 1959, he wrote,

 “Since you are still sulking in your shell I’ll say a few things, as you can see I am in no position to send you money. . . If you have confidence in me then do what you once proposed, sell everything and come back, or bring the stocks and some money or get a loan on the stocks.”

My mother’s letters start with a wistful, affectionate mood. June 7, 1960: “When I married you it wasn’t for your money or your good looks—call it love if you like. . . You have many good traits and I still love you. I would like nothing better than to be with you again and have our family together.”

But she turned to a steely determination to move on as a divorced working mom. No, she would NOT attend charm school (he really did suggest that!), hock her wedding ring, sell her late parents’ stock investments and return to France. I broke the following paragraph from November 28, 1960 into poetic lines,

“If all your troubles were just plain hard luck I could be sorry for you

but I think you brought so much of this on yourself.

The day I married you, you didn’t have a dime and now you are broke again

but badly in debt, this time you work it out alone.

I am going on with the divorce—

this life is going to get me if I don’t,

you know a person can stand just so much.

Maybe later when you get your problems worked out

 and get a job where you can take care of your family

 you will come courtin’ again, until that time it is quits for us.”

Hearing my mother’s Texas accent in every line, I thought, “She could have been writing songs for Patsy Cline and Tammy Wynette.”

Dad returned to Texas, they divorced, he soon remarried a retired ballet academy owner and moved to New York. Cooper and I saw him one weekend in 10 years.

Mom and I exchanged hundreds of letters while I was in college and then a writer in Brooklyn. I saved all her letters, and typed mine on carbon paper so I have all my replies.

And she still had things to say about Dad. In November 1983 Cooper had visited me. I tried to get us together with our father, but that didn’t happen. She wrote, “I know you all enjoyed being together. Too bad Mark is such a stinker and didn’t get to be with you all. It was his loss.”

The last letter from her was December 27, 1983, two weeks before she died. I was trying to support myself as a freelance writer in Brooklyn. Her final thoughts:

“Wanna buy the Dallas Cowboys? We don’t have to worry about watching them anymore this year. I hope ’84 will be a good year for you, may even find a job. Love, lots of kisses, Mom.”

After Mom died, I continued to write weekly to Aunt Charlotte until she died, 13 years later.

What to make of this? Mom had an authentic voice. Chatty, earthy, absolutely honest. She could capture a mood in a few phrases that left no confusion about where she stood. I can only aspire to that. What a legacy. If any of you have letters from friends and family, treasure them. And write some yourself—folks will be shocked to get them and will express their delight when they email you a note of thanks. Shirley and Charlotte would be mighty pleased with you all for doing that

Everyday Poetry, in Honor of Bill Buschel

Bill Buschel, who died in February 23, turbocharged my involvement in open mics. I had spoken before at literary salons and libraries, but I didn’t see how to move ahead. Then I discovered the Hudson Valley Writers Center open mic in 2019. With Bill running the show I became a regular. Over the months and years, first in person and then on Zoom during and after the pandemic, I found my voice with his encouragement.

From Bill’s astute, heartfelt comments I learned the value of the telling phase, how words can capture a moment, a personality speaking out, or lashing out. In his honor, I’m calling this piece “Everyday Poetry,” lines I’ve heard over the decades, or said myself, that I associate with a dot in time. I’ve provided context for them. They fall into four topical obsessions: Texas, dating, travel and my parents.

Nobody thinks, “Oh, I’m speaking in poetry!” but, looking back, they were.  

The wonder years on the border

“They sit in the dark, because dark are their sins.” Spoken by a devout Baptist lady, looking askance at her daughter and her son-in-law watching TV in the darkness of their den, with window shades pulled down to block the blazing Texas sunshine. 

“I’d sit here and talk and you’d eat it all up.” Something directed to me by a fellow high school student, explaining why she wouldn’t go out with me.

Shirley-isms and stuff my father said

Some are what I call Shirley-isms, named after my late mother, Shirley Wallach. She had an earthy, ribald quality to what she said. For example: “She sure knows how to wobble her twat,” about a beauty pageant contestant, the daughter of a dear friend of hers. In my youthful innocence, I thought “twat” referred to her hindquarters. How wrong I was!

“Don’t get anybody pregnant,” her sole piece of advice in 1976 when I left Mission, Texas, for Princeton University. She had nothing to worry about during my college years. She also passed on this bit of life experience when noting a friend was in the family way: “Pregnant ladies need to pee a lot.”

“You’re just like your father.” “You’re just like your mother.” My divorced parents, alas, used me as a target in the unfixable resentments of their short marriage. They both expressed the same thought. My mother spoke from frustration, my father from malice. 

“They’ll eat you alive at Princeton if you don’t know opera.” That’s from my father, part of his relentless campaign to convince me to spend my senior year of high school at the Lawrenceville School in New Jersey, to become a polished young gentleman. Actually, not knowing much about Bruce Springsteen was a bigger impediment at Old Nassau.

 Youthful influencers and fellow Texans

This sports classic came from an assistant coach for my high school baseball team. Coach Canales thought some of the players weren’t hustling enough at a practice, so he said, “Grandma was slow but she was old.” Did the guys run faster? I don’t know, but I remember this pithy observation and use it to this day. 

“Motorcycle helmet laws are a form of communism,” a beauty from my high school typing teacher, which captures a common political viewpoint of Texas in the 1970s. Maybe now, too. 

“Polo, I’m going to get the hell out of Texas.” A high school classmate reminded me I told him this. And I did get the hell out, although I always like going back. In fact, I’ll be returning to my 50^th reunion in June.

“The Sandinistas are going to march up through Mexico and invade Harlingen.” This was a prophetic comment by a high school classmate at our 10^th reunion on the Texas-Mexico border in 1986 during the Reagan era, after the revolution in Nicaragua. Amusing and somewhat dubious sounding at the time, the comment became far more accurate when the Biden-Harris junta flung open the borders to one and all in 2021. And yes, tens of thousands, or even more, barreled across the Rio Grande where we had lived.

“I love it here in Texas, we can build whatever we want and shoot our guns.” As said by a contact involved in Houston real estate. The building part is because Houston really does have no zoning laws.

 Sharp observations from tour guides

“One thousand percent they hate the Jews here,” from Benny, my tour guide in Israel in June 1982 when our group visited Hebron, in Judea and Samaria.

Marina in the Kremlin

“It is not so interesting to kill them quickly,” a keen historical observation by Marina, my peppy Intourist tour guide in Moscow in September 1987. She was referring to how Ivan the Terrible treated the nobles, but I’ll always associate that with the vast bloody sweep of Russian history. I’ve borrowed the phrase when I share my thoughts on innovative approaches to criminal justice and counter-terrorism. 

 Paradise lost

Two poetic musings come from a romantic interest of the early 1980s. “Van, you’re only 25 but I’m already 25.” She wanted to move our relationship along, after two months. Her biological clock was ticking and she had no time to waste.

She also said, “I’ve been fucked so many times I had to get a bigger diaphragm.” Was she trying to make me jealous, or grateful that a woman of such vast erotic experience was dating me? People who knew about such sensitive matters later told me, "Ummmm, no, that’s not the way it works."

And finally: “You’re a self-involved prick who just doesn’t get it.” Another moment from a relationship gone south. That could be the title of the next volume of my memoirs, or a key line in a rom-com novel.

What do others remember about me? 

All these memories are coming, of course, from my side of the story. I am sure I have said many, many things that lodged in people's memories, ranging from moving to hurtful to sublimely idiotic. I would often blurt something without thinking through the implications. I cringe at the time I told a woman her mother's apartment was, if I recall correctly, "a great example of 1950s Jewish home decorating." That certainly didn't land right.  

If anybody reading this wants to contribute your own example of my everyday poetry, well, hit me with your best shot. 

 Remembering Bill Buschel in his own words

So, Bill, thanks for everything. May your memory be a blessing for your many friends and family. I'll always remember you. 

Poetic Thoughts, January 28, 1975

I was looking through a folder of poetry and stories from high school and I found this, written 51 years ago today.

My Friend, the Proton

the proton in my friend, a very nice friend he is

staying in his orbit, always minding his biz.

sometimes the little proton gets lonely

like we all do, so he finds a willing

hydroxide, and they form a drop of water

falling split-splat upon my window-pane

like my chemistry book says they oughta;

yes, the happy proton is a good friend. 

The Daily Creative Grind

I recently received a misdirected email from a women's program at a writing group. The topic was writing for 20 minutes a day as a form of "accountability." I liked the idea and wrote this to describe my own form of creative accountability.

Writing 20 minutes a day has been an obsession for so long I feel anxious when I don’t write. I started a journal on September 15, 1970, when I was 12 years old, and I never stopped. Early entries were sporadic but by 1972 I wrote daily, musing about school, books I read, the Dallas Cowboys, religion, my divorced parents and girls girls girls.

I still write at least a few sentences every day in 140-page wire-bound notebooks from Target or Staples. I fill at least three every year. Each notebook is numbered and closes with an updated total page count. I avoid using the same pen for consecutive entries, so the ink color varies. The topics range from national news to anxieties about aging to creative ideas and my relationships. I even reflect on what happens to my journals when I’m gone.

Scribbles and screeds, sometimes in capital letters, from decades ago provide the raw material for blog posts, essays, fiction and open mics. What I tossed off in the 1970s as a teen says a lot to me as I’m into Social Security territory.

My suggestion: Devote yourself to a creative effort daily for even a month or year and you’ll write an amazing amount of content. Far from a burden, it will become a daily passion.

Tough-love career development

You want to hear some tough-love stories? I know the genre well: horrible job reviews. They came when I worked for two consulting firms, McKinsey and Booz Allen Hamilton, between 1999 and 2001. I had joined McKinsey from the accounting firm PricewaterhouseCoopers, where I had had a great run as a writer and editor in my first job after 15 years in business journalism. However, the team I worked with at PwC relocated from Manhattan to Jersey City, and I then lived in Connecticut. That commute required taking three trains each way. In a spasm of practicality, ego and a wildly inflated sense of my capabilities, I talked my way into a job with McKinsey in Stamford, much nearer my Fairfield County home. 

McKinsey has always had a reputation as a tough place to work, being compared to the Marines and the Jesuits. A colleague at PwC warned me about going there. I dismissed her astute advice. I deemed myself ready for a move to more responsibility. I wasn’t; I should have stayed at PwC, commute be damned or negotiated for work in the Stamford office. 

But I didn't take those paths.

Already stressed over a troubled home life, I struggled with my job as communications manager for the marketing practice. A review from May 5, 2000, after less than a year on the job, rated me as having “Issues,” one step above “struggling.” The reviewer collected input from people I worked with. She fairly listed my strengths and accomplishments.

On the plus side:

• Enthusiastic about working to implement a comprehensive external relations program
• Set up a competitive intelligence newsletter
• Proactive in preparing materials for an Internet Marketing Conference (at the time I was taking Prednisone, which just about put me a mental ward as it exacerbated the extreme tension at home and work). 

Then reach the key development actions.

•  “Needs to improve the quality of writing—ensure more value added. Focus on what the implications are for the target audience. Push the thinking” rather than just implement changes suggested by the authors.
• Proactively take advantage of help being offered
•  Assume better control of the process.

I never even reached out to PwC, although that might have worked. Instead, I jumped to another job in consulting before my next McKinsey review. All the issues traveled with me to Booz Allen's thought leadership journal, Strategy & Business. The world of deep dives into corporate strategy and management just wasn’t my forte. I'm far more concrete in my thinking and writing, never adept at interpreting MBA-level analytics. That and my personality foibles were a crippling combination. 

Even more agonizingly detailed than the McKinsey review, my “assignment performance” was “may be a problem.” Creating articles with consultants showed “a need for Van to be more aggressive in the value creation and/or process management aspects of this objective.”

And another: 

“Van should proactively seek help from his managers on projects when he truly needs it. Balanced against that, he should try to address the situation to find an alternative, using his own experience and/or reaching out to peers or his proposed mentor. And so it went for 10 pages."

Booz Allen laid me off in July 2001 as the dot-com bubble economy started to implode. The job loss kept me out of Manhattan on 9/11.

Why gaze into this mirror reflecting back some of the most horrendous years of my life? For decades I stored the reviews in a "career development" folder, never reading them. Finally, I decided to consider them, not out of a sense of masochism but to try to learn from them, a quarter century later. 

Taking a long perspective, the evaluations were fair, a form of tough love to get me to do what I was hired to do. I wasn’t a kid, after all. I think of them as a corporate version of couples therapy telling me what I needed to hear (and hear again). After those two positions, I vowed to never let status or high pay seduce me. Booz Allen's tough love turned into the best career move I've ever made. In February 2002 I got a job as a proposal writer for KPMG as the Enron scandal shook up the accounting industry. I had never even seen a proposal until I started writing them, but I found a job that ideally suits my communications strengths and competitive drive. With proposals, your team either wins or loses. It's as simple as that. Dazzling insights for the C-suite matter less than making a persuasive pitch to buy a firm's services. That's a language I understand. 

To this day I’m still writing proposals, elsewhere. And the lessons I learned at McKinsey and Booz Allen, what caused me so much grief, stayed with me. Be active, not passive. Watch out for procrastination. Find work that plays to my strengths. Show the confidence to tell people, "I don't understand what you're trying to say here." Offer alternative ways of making your case. 

Now I get high marks for writing and managing proposals, and even do writers' workshops called “The Wallach Way.” 

Life rarely moves in a direct line, either personally or professionally. In between terrible job reviews, layoffs, firings, unemployment, ill-starred moves, waking up at 4 a.m. in a cold sweat—I stumbled into every possible career briar patch. But here I am, evidently doing something right. Proposals still work for me. As I once explained to co-workers about why, I simply said, "I like to win."

Remembrance of Trek Episodes Past: Edith Keeler Edition

 I never published this as a blog post, only as a YouTube post during the pandemic. So here it is.

Facing Up to Fear of Driving in the Search for the Zipless Ride

Fearof Flying? I liked Erica Jong’s saucy 1973 novel, but I never feared flying. But Fear of Driving? That I can relate to.

When did my driving anxiety begin? When I realized I was named after a car, the British racecar the Vanwall? Because my father was a car nut and I wanted to separate myself from that? When I got broadsided in my mother’s ’68 Impala making a left-hand turn on busy North 10^th Street in McAllen, Texas in 1975 after seeing “The Longest Yard”? Perhaps when I had to buy a car in 1979 for a summer newspaper internship on Long Island? The 1971 AMC Hornet I bought for $500 from a graduate student was creaky and rusty. I had to drive from Princeton to Long Island with only a map, fearing for my life as I negotiated the Belt Parkway and the Long Island Expressway in the dark to Old Bethpage? Fear of getting attacked in a sketchy neighborhood, the source of panic of Sherman McCoy in the novel "The Bonfire of the Vanities"?

Fear. Fear of mistakes, fear of injury, fear of liability, fear of other drivers. Fear of my ability to respond to split-second situations, fear of not noticing potential danger.

I spent 11 years without a car when I lived in New York, after I donated the Hornet to Goodwill Then when I moved to Connecticut in 1991, my then-wife and I got a Saab with a stick shift, and I Iearned how to drive that. As the decades went on I made reasonably long trips with other cars. I steeled myself to drive from Westchester County to the Boston area when my partner Naomi and I visited her daughter and my son up here. Nothing ever happened although I found I-84 through Hartford nerve-wracking.

We moved to Massachusetts in April. The Bay State’s fearsome reputation for aggressive drivers, knowns as Massholes, naturally spooked me. Then I found I had issues with peripheral vision. Early drives around the area, especially at night, were terrifying, even with GPS. But bit by bit, I created what I call my “ant trails” to get from one place to another. Even so, my pulse rate jumps when I had to go someplace new.

After living here for 7 months, Naomi and I became a one-car family. We traded in both our cars for a 2026 Toyota Corolla Cross Hybrid. It’s the first new car I’ve ever owned.

I only drove the Cross around the dealer’s parking lot, I couldn’t get myself to take it on nearby roads. But once we got home, I decided that fear wouldn’t work. Usually, once I start driving I calm down. I realized that driving is like sex. The first times are anxiety-wracked and uncertain, but then you figure out the pedals, buttons, when to speed up, when to slow down, and you get the hang of it. In theory, anyway. And when you driving a slinky European roadster like my brother’s Porsche. the rules go out the window.

Pulling 50 years of hard-won driving experience together, I told myself some basics:

• Don’t’ speed. I don’t, I’m that old guy who never goes faster than the speed limit, to the annoyance of people whizzing around me.
• Pay attention (not a problem for me, as I never talk on my phone, rarely listen to the radio, keep a distance from the car in front of you, signal well ahead of turning or changing lanes.
• Obsessively check the periphery, like crosswalks and driveways. 
• Pay attention to the GPS and don’t blindly turn into a construction site. I’ve done that before.
• If at all possible, don’t drive at night.

I’m getting comfortable in the Cross. Gas pedal, brake, lights, turn indicators. It’s not rocket science.

Yesterday morning I drove Naomi to a train station for her trip to Stamford, Connecticut for a weekend with friends. I got there and back. I know my way there. Does my heart go thumpa-thumpa? Sure. But once I get going, the GPS gives me confidence that I know what I’m doing. Its digital glow keeps me company and limits memory and guesswork from the car and driver relationship. It’s like a personal coach saying, “Fear not, you can do it.”

In the spirit of “Fear of Flying,” I call this calmer state “the zipless ride.”

Spies, Wreckers and Unmasked Celebrities

 [I wrote this in 2018 but it remained unpublished until now. I've added analysis and links for those mentioned to update their activities. Louis CK and Garrison Keillor are still performing, and Kevin Spacey is involved in a new sci-fi movie. Tavis Smiley has a syndicated radio interview show. Harvey Weinstein faces a retrial over rape allegations. Matt Lauer keeps a low profile but thinks he can make a comeback. Al Franken is back in the Senate, or, rather, he plays a senator on the Netflix streaming series The Residence. Three women are chasing Russell Simmons for $8 million in settlement funds. Tavis Smiley interviews people on his syndicated radio show. Journalist Ronan Farrow, who spurred the #MeToo movement with his articles about Weinstein and other high-profile men, continues to serve as a contributing writer for The New Yorker.}

For months I've tinkered with ideas comparing this fall's wave of #MeToo accusations against men of sexual assault with the show trials and purges of leaders of the Communist Party in 1936-1938 in the Soviet Union.

At first, I read the coerced confessions of men like Nikolai Rykov and Nikolai Bukharin with the statements of Harvey Weinstein, Matt Lauer and Kevin Spacey. I lined up excerpts and looked for a common thread:

Bukharin stated: "I have merited the most severe punishment, and I agree with Citizen the Procurator, who several times repeated that I stand on the threshold of my hour of death."

Weinstein stated: "I came of age in the 60’s and 70’s, when all the rules about behavior and workplaces were different. That was the culture then. I have since learned it’s not an excuse, in the office - or out of it. To anyone. I realized some time ago that I needed to be a better person and my interactions with the people I work with have changed. I appreciate the way I’ve behaved with colleagues in the past has caused a lot of pain, and I sincerely apologize for it."

That approach didn't work, since Rykov and Bukharin had been tortured and their families threatened and their testimony had been written for them. They knew that in all likelihood they would be executed (spoiler alert: they were). Weinstein, Lauer and Spacey face career disruptions, if not ruin, and some awkward moments when they lunch at Spago in Hollywood. The comparison felt forced and unfair to the horrors experienced by the millions executed or imprisoned by Joseph Stalin in his purge mania.

A new line of investigation became visible when I read an article in the New York Post with the intriguing headline, "Academy members now regret banning Weinstein so hastily."

The article sketched the challenges faced by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences after the swift boot given to member Harvey Weinstein after his sordid record finally became widely known thanks to articles in The New York Times and The New Yorker. One quote:

“[We] can’t regret [kicking out Harvey] because [we] didn’t really have a choice,” said one male member of AMPAS’ board of governors. “Some members were quite vehement. But [we] didn’t have time to really weigh out the repercussions.”

The Academy is wrestling how to treat other members accused of sexual assaults, including Oscar winner Casey Affleck. The phrase "slippery slope" even arises.

My attention drifted back 80 years to the show trials and purges of the USSR. The purges in the 1930s started gradually, then picked up speed as denunciations and kill lists multiplied. The secret police, the NKVD, had quotas they had to meet. The executioners were themselves executed, and then those that came after them were executed. Stalin finally slowed the process and ended the trials. He died in 1953 and Nikita Khrushchev became the boss.

How do these particular cases connect to Stalin's USSR? That's not so much through the punishments (torture and execution vs. social ostracism and canceled shows) or the veracity of the charges (total fabrications in the USSR vs. highly probably in the USA), but through the demands or willingness for public confession. The USSR's justice system depended on confessions; the men in these #MeToo cases readily unmasked themselves, although that contrition, real or simply for PR purposes, didn't protect their careers.

Let's look at what the men said, in their own words. 

Spies and wreckers

Imagine living in Moscow in the late 1930s. You skim a fresh copy of Pravda at your factory canteen and emit a low whistle at the sensational news from the latest show trial. Look at all the former loyal Party members exposed at rotten spies and wreckers, Trotskyites in the pay of the British Secret Service since 1918 intent on bringing down the first socialist state! They all confessed and almost all are sentenced to death. You finish reading, close the paper, get back to work and pray the NKVD squads don’t come for you that night.

The American public has glimpsed a tiny, scintillating part of the show-trial process this fall with the unmasking of sexual predators, starting in spectacular fashion in October when the New York Times and then The New Yorker unmasked film executive Harvey Weinstein. Knowing what was rushing at him, Weinstein called on his friends and flunkies to stop the articles, but the facts finally landed like a bunker buster on his secret lair. He fell hard and fast, in good Soviet style, losing his company, his memberships in industry academies and, possibly, his freedom, depending on how investigations proceed.

As the unmaskings (a word favored in the Soviet press of the day) grind on, swallowing targets across entertainment, politics, media and business, I’m intrigued by the theme of confessions. Confessions were essential to the show trial productions, with defendants beaten, threatened, humiliated and coached into saying exactly what Joseph Stalin wanted, prior to the preordained guilty verdicts and executions. Early victims were told they (and, most important, their families) would survive if they confessed to whatever Stalin concocted for them, and they were desperate enough to agree. That didn't save them.

While reflecting different times and pressures (Harvey Weinstein isn’t getting a bullet in the back of his head), the confessions of 1937-38 and 2017-18 bear comparison.

Two fought back, one directly and another obliquely. Nikolai Krestinsky, diplomat and former Soviet ambassador to Germany, jammed the prosecutorial works in 1938 with his court statement: “I do not recognize that I am guilty. I am not a Trotskyite. I was never a member of the 'right-winger and Trotskyite bloc,' which I did not know to exist. Nor have I committed a single one of the crimes imputed to me, personally; and in particular I am not guilty of having maintained relations with the German Secret Service.” He recanted the next day, after more torture.

Nikolai Bukharin, on trial with Krestinsky, took a dual approach, admitting full guilt to preposterous charges but arguing against details:

In Court I admitted and still admit my guilt in respect to the crimes which I committed and of which I was accused by Citizen the State Prosecutor at the end of the Court investigation and on the basis of the materials of the investigation in the possession of the Procurator. I declared also in Court, and I stress and repeat it now, that I regard myself politically responsible for the sum total of the crimes committed by the ”bloc of Rights and Trotskyites.”

I have merited the most severe punishment, and I agree with Citizen the Procurator, who several times repeated that I stand on the threshold of my hour of death.

Nevertheless, I consider that I have the right to refute certain charges which were brought: a) in the printed Indictment, b) during the Court investigation, and c) in the speech for the prosecution made by Citizen the Procurator of the U.S.S.R.

Both confessions are notable, Krestinsky for boldness and Bukharin for an effort to both admit and refute.

In the 2017 confessions, we see a literary genre emerging that for the most part covers common themes: contrition, shock at their behavior, robust career-long support for women, determination to get to the bottom of their aberrant actions and, in some cases, defiance

Harvey Weinstein’s October 5 statement said in full:

I came of age in the 60’s and 70’s, when all the rules about behavior and workplaces were different. That was the culture then.

I have since learned it’s not an excuse, in the office--or out of it. To anyone.

I realized some time ago that I needed to be a better person and my interactions with the people I work with have changed.

I appreciate the way I’ve behaved with colleagues in the past has caused a lot of pain, and I sincerely apologize for it.

Though I’m trying to do better, I know I have a long way to go. That is my commitment. My journey now will be to learn about myself and conquer my demons. Over the last year I've asked Lisa Bloom to tutor me and she's put together a team of people. I've brought on therapists and I plan to take a leave of absence from my company and to deal with this issue head on. I so respect all women and regret what happened. I hope that my actions will speak louder than words and that one day we will all be able to earn their trust and sit down together with Lisa to learn more. Jay Z wrote in 4:44 "I'm not the man I thought I was and I better be that man for my children." The same is true for me. I want a second chance in the community but I know I've got work to do to earn it. I have goals that are now priorities. Trust me, this isn't an overnight process. I've been trying to do this for 10 years and this is a wake-up call. I cannot be more remorseful about the people I hurt and I plan to do right by all of them.

I am going to need a place to channel that anger so I've decided that I'm going to give the NRA my full attention. I hope Wayne LaPierre will enjoy his retirement party. I'm going to do it at the same place I had my Bar Mitzvah. I'm making a movie about our President, perhaps we can make it a joint retirement party. One year ago, I began organizing a $5 million foundation to give scholarships to women directors at USC. While this might seem coincidental, it has been in the works for a year. It will be named after my mom and I won't disappoint her.

Meanwhile, Kevin Spacey tweeted:

I have a lot of respect and admiration for Anthony Rapp as an actor. I'm beyond horrified to hear his story. I honestly do not remember the encounter, it would have been over 30 years ago. But if I did behave as he describes, I owe him the sincerest apology for what would have been deeply inappropriate drunken behavior, and I am sorry for the feelings he describes having carried with him all these years.

"This story has encouraged me to address other things about my life. I know that there are stories out there about me and that some have been fuelled by the fact that I have been so protective of my privacy. As those closest to me know, in my life I have had relationships with both men and women. I have loved and had romantic encounters with men throughout my life, and I choose now to live as a gay man. I want to deal with this honestly and openly and that starts with examining my own behavior.

Charlie Rose said this in a statement to the Washington Post:

In my 45 years in journalism, I have prided myself on being an advocate for the careers of the women with whom I have worked. Nevertheless, in the past few days, claims have been made about my behavior toward some former female colleagues. It is essential that these women know I hear them and that I deeply apologize for my inappropriate behavior,” he continued. “I am greatly embarrassed. I have behaved insensitively at times, and I accept responsibility for that, though I do not believe that all of these allegations are accurate. I always felt that I was pursuing shared feelings, even though I now realize I was mistaken. I have learned a great deal as a result of these events, and I hope others will too. All of us, including me, are coming to a newer and deeper recognition of the pain caused by conduct in the past, and have come to a profound new respect for women and their lives.

And Matt Lauer:

There are no words to express my sorrow and regret for the pain I have caused others by words and actions. To the people I have hurt, I am truly sorry. As I am writing this I realize the depth of the damage and disappointment I have left behind at home and at NBC.  Some of what is being said about me is untrue or mischaracterized, but there is enough truth in these stories to make me feel embarrassed and ashamed. I regret that my shame is now shared by the people I cherish dearly. Repairing the damage will take a lot of time and soul searching and I'm committed to beginning that effort. It is now my full time job. The last two days have forced me to take a very hard look at my own troubling flaws. It's been humbling. I am blessed to be surrounded by the people I love. I thank them for their patience and grace.

Louis C.K.:

I want to address the stories told to the New York Times by five women named Abby, Rebecca, Dana, Julia who felt able to name themselves and one who did not.

These stories are true. At the time, I said to myself that what I did was okay because I never showed a woman my dick without asking first, which is also true. But what I learned later in life, too late, is that when you have power over another person, asking them to look at your dick isn’t a question. It’s a predicament for them. The power I had over these women is that they admired me. And I wielded that power irresponsibly.

I have been remorseful of my actions. And I’ve tried to learn from them. And run from them. Now I’m aware of the extent of the impact of my actions. I learned yesterday the extent to which I left these women who admired me feeling badly about themselves and cautious around other men who would never have put them in that position.

I also took advantage of the fact that I was widely admired in my and their community, which disabled them from sharing their story and brought hardship to them when they tried because people who look up to me didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t think that I was doing any of that because my position allowed me not to think about it.

There is nothing about this that I forgive myself for. And I have to reconcile it with who I am. Which is nothing compared to the task I left them with.

I wish I had reacted to their admiration of me by being a good example to them as a man and given them some guidance as a comedian, including because I admired their work.

The hardest regret to live with is what you’ve done to hurt someone else. And I can hardly wrap my head around the scope of hurt I brought on them. I’d be remiss to exclude the hurt that I’ve brought on people who I work with and have worked with who’s professional and personal lives have been impacted by all of this, including projects currently in production: the cast and crew of Better Things, Baskets, The Cops, One Mississippi, and I Love You Daddy. I deeply regret that this has brought negative attention to my manager Dave Becky who only tried to mediate a situation that I caused. I’ve brought anguish and hardship to the people at FX who have given me so much The Orchard who took a chance on my movie. and every other entity that has bet on me through the years.

I’ve brought pain to my family, my friends, my children and their mother.

I have spent my long and lucky career talking and saying anything I want. I will now step back and take a long time to listen.

Thank you for reading.

Garrison Keillor on his website:

I am deeply grateful for all the years I had doing ‘A Prairie Home Companion’ and ‘The Writer’s Almanac,’ the summer tours, the outdoor shows at Tanglewood and Wolf Trap, the friendships of musicians and actors, the saga of Lake Wobegon, the songs and sketches, Guy Noir, Dusty & Lefty, the sheer pleasure of standing in the warmth of that audience. A person could not hope for more than what I was given. I’ve been fired over a story that I think is more interesting and more complicated than the version MPR heard. Most stories are. It’s some sort of poetic irony to be knocked off the air by a story, having told so many of them myself, but I’m 75 and don’t have any interest in arguing about this. And I cannot in conscience bring danger to a great organization I’ve worked hard for since 1969. I am sorry for all the poets whose work I won’t be reading on the radio and sorry for the people who will lose work on account of this. But my profound feeling is that of gratitude, especially to my wife Jenny, and for this painful experience that has brought us even closer together.

Al Franken:

The first thing I want to do is apologize: to Leeann, to everyone else who was part of that tour, to everyone who has worked for me, to everyone I represent, and to everyone who counts on me to be an ally and supporter and champion of women. There's more I want to say, but the first and most important thing—and if it's the only thing you care to hear, that's fine—is: I'm sorry.

"I respect women. I don't respect men who don't. And the fact that my own actions have given people a good reason to doubt that makes me feel ashamed.

"But I want to say something else, too. Over the last few months, all of us—including and especially men who respect women—have been forced to take a good, hard look at our own actions and think (perhaps, shamefully, for the first time) about how those actions have affected women.

"For instance, that picture. I don't know what was in my head when I took that picture, and it doesn't matter. There's no excuse. I look at it now and I feel disgusted with myself. It isn't funny. It's completely inappropriate. It's obvious how Leeann would feel violated by that picture. And, what's more, I can see how millions of other women would feel violated by it—women who have had similar experiences in their own lives, women who fear having those experiences, women who look up to me, women who have counted on me.

"Coming from the world of comedy, I've told and written a lot of jokes that I once thought were funny but later came to realize were just plain offensive. But the intentions behind my actions aren't the point at all. It's the impact these jokes had on others that matters. And I'm sorry it's taken me so long to come to terms with that.

"While I don't remember the rehearsal for the skit as Leeann does, I understand why we need to listen to and believe women's experiences.

"I am asking that an ethics investigation be undertaken, and I will gladly cooperate.

"And the truth is, what people think of me in light of this is far less important than what people think of women who continue to come forward to tell their stories. They deserve to be heard, and believed. And they deserve to know that I am their ally and supporter. I have let them down and am committed to making it up to them."

Russell Simmons:

I vehemently deny all these allegations. These horrific accusations have shocked me to my core and all of my relations have been consensual.

I am blessed to have shared extraordinary relationships, whether through work or love, with many great women; and I have enormous respect for the women’s movement worldwide and their struggle for respect, dignity, equality and power. I am devastated by any reason I may have given to anyone to say or think of me in the ways that are currently being described. In recent weeks, some former business, creative and romantic partners have aired grievances as claims I categorically reject. In some of these instances, financial motives and direct contradictory witness testimony has been supplied to the media, which has been completely left out of stories. In the last few days, one woman attempted to extort me for $500,000 only to recant her ridiculous claim. The current allegations sent to me by The New York Times range from the patently untrue to the frivolous and hurtful. The presumption of innocent until proven guilty must not be replaced by “Guilty by Accusation.”

I have already apologized for the instances of thoughtlessness in my consensual relations. I have separated myself from my businesses and charities in order to not become a distraction. I have re-dedicated myself to spiritual learning, healing and working on behalf of the communities to which I have devoted my life. I have accepted that I can and should get dirt on my sleeves if it means witnessing the birth of a new consciousness about women. What I will not accept is responsibility for what I have not done. I have conducted my life with a message of peace and love. Although I have been candid about how I have lived in books and interviews detailing my flaws, I will relentlessly fight against any untruthful character assassination that paints me as a man of violence.

Tavis Smiley:

“I have the utmost respect for women and celebrate the courage of those who have come forth to tell their truth. To be clear, I have never groped, coerced, or exposed myself inappropriately to any workplace colleague in my entire broadcast career, covering 6 networks over 30 years.”

Then on GMA:

“I want to make sure we don’t lose all sense of nuance and proportionality in this conversation because if we do, people end up being guilty simply by accusation,” he said. “I’m not an angry black man and this notion of a hostile environment just doesn’t fit.”

Smiley was harshly critical of PBS’ actions. He maintained he was never informed that PBS had brought in an outside law firm to investigation what the network has called “multiple” and “credible” allegations of harassment. Smiley said he met with PBS executives and lawyers for three hours but was never informed of specific allegations. He said that meeting was scheduled “only under the threat of a lawsuit.”

Smiley was also critical of the fact that news of his suspension from PBS broke on Dec. 13 in Variety just minutes after the conclusion of that meeting.

“I’m human. I’m not perfect but this doesn’t rise to the level” of sexual misconduct, Smiley said of his past relationships. “PBS made a huge mistake here and they need to fix it.”

PBS released a statement through a spokesman following Smiley’s interview, which stated in no uncertain terms that the broadcaster continues to back its actions.

“Tavis Smiley needs to get his story straight,” the statement begins. It goes on to highlight Smiley’s difficulty in the “GDA” interview remembering the exact number of current employees with whom he has had sexual relationships.

“This contradicts his Facebook post from last week, where he cited only one previous relationship with an employee. Mr. Smiley even told viewers ‘I don’t know where your heart’s going to lead you.’ PBS is certain that it should not lead to multiple sexual relationships between the owner of a company and subordinates over many years particularly where employment decisions may be linked to sex.”

The statement also slammed Smiley for claiming he applauds women who have come forward with despite his company requiring current and former employees to sign non-disclosure agreements, and added that PBS “stands by its decision to respect the anonymity of those who are afraid to come forward publicly.”

“Mr. Smiley’s own words today coupled with the information discovered during the investigation confirms PBS’ decision to indefinitely suspend the distribution of  ‘Tavis Smiley.’”

Walmart has backed away from its sponsorship of Smiley’s programs while PBS’ investigation is ongoing. Walmart and Mills Entertainment have also dropped out of plans to back a 40-city live tour “Death of a King: A Live Theatrical Experience,” based on Smiley’s 2014 book of the same name about Martin Luther King Jr.

The Law of Spontaneous Conversations, Massachusetts Edition

There’s something about me that draws people who want to talk. They can’t wait to tell me their obsessions and life stories. Whether I respond doesn’t matter so much as that I hear them. They don’t realize that, even though I may look like a bald Jewish therapist with a beard—I’m not. But they see me that way.

These encounters typically happen on public transit or places where I can’t easily get away. The topics range from scary to engaging. I once had an elderly woman grab my arm and say, “Help me across the street.” So I did. That charmed me. And I like to help tourists who I can tell are befuddled with a subway map.

Usually I’ll listen because the world is full of lonely people, and if somebody wants to connect for 30 minutes on the train, I’m up for that. You never know where a chat will go, Sometimes we even exchange business cards.

But the conversations can turn ominous. When I lived in a New York suburb and commuted, I once sat across from a man who exuded tension and repressed anger. His mutterings about the 2008 recession and the source of problems in suburban schools signaled that.

I declined to engage and he said in an aggrieved tone, “Well, I see you just want to read your book.” He’d be quiet for a station or two and then he’d start again. I didn’t answer anything about who I was, where I lived, what I do for a living. My great fear was we’d both get off at the same station and then our cars would be parked side by side, and he’d harangue me all the way to the parking lot.

Then there was the time I was on a tour bus in Israel, again reading, when a man across the aisle asks me what time it was, an obvious opening gambit. I told him and he was off and running. He was from Australia, and now was visiting Israel. He ranted about the sign of the beast and the Apocalypse. And I thought, “Whooah, warning, warning.”

Then he asked, “So, sir, what religion are you?”

I wasn’t gonna go there. I told him, “I don’t want to talk about my religion, and I’m going to get back to reading my book.” So that was that.

Sometimes, however, a conversation catches my attention. I’m empathetic and I’ll think, let’s see what connects. You talk to me, I’ll talk to you. My favorites? When men (always men) notice the camera I often carry with me, my trusty Sony A5000, and ask me about it. Bingo! Because I love to talk about cameras and creativity.

Now, I moved to Reading from Katonah, New York, in April. I have noticed how friendly and chatty people in Massachusetts are. Really! From the first minutes after I arrived, as I was unpacking, I was able to talk to my neighbors. They have plenty of time and good guidance on living here. At a condo shareholders meeting, I was charmed to hear three of them chat about their families and number of grandchildren. One invited my partner Naomi and me to see her apartment, which we did.

People here will strike up a conversation; on the street, in a parking lot. Maybe right here tonight! For example, we were in Marblehead a few weeks ago for the art festival. A woman sidled up to us to talk about the weather and the festival. She mentioned she spends part of the year living in Morocco. My flashed, “Alert, alert, she wants to talk about Morocco.” As we wandered Marblehead, I asked for details and she happily provided them.

My favorite story so far happened a few Saturday evenings ago. I was approaching my apartment building and saw a woman get out of her car and head toward the entrance. She tried to open the door but couldn’t.

“I can get you in,” I said.

“I’m looking for the restaurant,” she replied.

“Oh, Post 1917, that’s around the corner. It’s easier for me to walk you there than give you directions.”

In her late 40s or early 50s, she was dressed for a festive social occasion. As we walked over, she put her arm through mine and exclaimed, “Aren’t you the gentleman!”

“I’m happy to help, it’s a little hard to find.”

I opened the door and escorted her inside. Before I could leave, she asked, “Can I get you a drink?”

I didn’t see that coming. With a sheepish smile I politely declined and wished her a great evening. Whatever she had planned, I'm sure she had a memorable Saturday night. 

Too bad I didn’t tell her to subscribe to my YouTube channel! Maybe next time.

Welcome to Massachusetts: Where the natives are friendly and appreciate gentlemanly behavior.

 

When the Breaks Go the Right Way

 After three tough months in Massachusetts, some life challenges are beginning to resolve themselves. Sometimes things finally go right.

First, after months of frustration, I finally got my Massachusetts driver’s license. The difficulties: My car title still had a lien listed on it, although I had paid it off on 2019. I finally found the lien release letter and got my license plates. But then I couldn’t get a Massachusetts license because I failed the peripheral vision test. This was a huge surprise for me, since I never knew I had a problem. Vision tests by an optometrist confirmed this. The office connected me to Mass Eye and Ear, a highly respected institution. The team there dilated me, peered into my eyeballs, administered visions tests and, to my surprise, I finally passed. A week later I got an official form completed by the team confirming this. Then I went to the motor vehicle office ready to get my license.

A customer service rep asked me, “Are you a truck driver?”

What? “No, I’m just a car driver.”

“This form is for commercial drivers.”

I left, crushed, and had Mass Eye send me the information on the right form. With that in hand, I called the RMV’s senior line to make an appointment. It was two weeks later, this past Monday.

When all this was happening, I was in a lot of pain from twisting my back soon after moving here. I was worried that I had re-injured my meniscus in my knee—I had had surgery for that three years ago. I finally saw an orthopedist practice that x-rayed me, showing two lower vertebrae pressing together. That most likely cause the numbness in my leg. A physical therapy practice could see me – in three weeks.

So this left a lot of time for stewing and fretting. Then I had a call from Bay State Physical Therapy last week. Could I come in two weeks early? Oh, a slot had opened? Heck yeah! I started last week.

This past Monday, Bastille Day, marked a memorable day. I arrived at the RMV, got a slip giving me a number that would be called, and sat as close as possible to the row of service reps behind their plexiglass barriers. I felt a knot in my chest and wondered, seriously, if I’d have a heart attack from the tension. This was my 6^th trip to the RMV. I was loaded with my passport, social security card, the letter from Mass Eye and freshly completed application form; I had checked every need. Rattled, I couldn’t look at my phone or read. I just sat and looked around at the people waiting and waiting. Meanwhile, the minutes ticked by since I had a 2 pm physical therapy session. I arrived at 11, and the clock had already struck noon.

Finally, my number, L 555, was up. I went to the section, trying to feel confident, although I just felt resigned. Que será, será. I passed my documents to the rep and nothing looked amiss. She asked for two documents confirming my current address, and I had those. I knew the tide was turning when she took my photo against a plain background.

And then I was done. I got my temporary license and was on my way. I didn’t even have to rush to physical therapy.

The PT felt good as the therapist tested my leg and its strength. With that and the license, I could feel my outlook shifting. The stress locked in my chest eased, a big relief. I told the therapist I felt better and the leg pain was becoming more an annoyance, less of a crisis. I’m limping less and sleeping better. 

So what’s it mean? Sometimes the breaks go your way, even as the aging process slams into my awareness, and my peripheral vision. I now drive with even more obsessive concentration, scanning to my left and right like a nervous Secret Service agent. I’m adjusting. But I’ll never drive like the stereotypical Masshole, as the term goes up here, no matter how good my vision is. I’ll remain the rule-obeying driver who drives the Massholes crazy.