Maira Kalman, The Illustrated Woman | Video on TED.com

Image via Wikipedia

The way I view my childhood has been a prominent factor in the way I live as an adult. People who know me know that I have a fascination with my earliest, most formative years; sweetness and light. My most vivid memories are attached to my childhood friend Paul. We lived across the street from one another in a suburban Long Island town and days when not in school were filled with bike rides, and creating a Humane Society with stuffed animals, writing our own comic with colorful characters, and collecting bugs and shed cicada shells. We were children growing up in the 70's when it was still safe to wander around our town unsupervised, before cellphones and video games and computer. The world was ours to explore, and we sure did explore it. We were creative and imaginative by default, products of our generation. When I wasn't with Paul, I spent the bulk of my summer weeks in an all girls camp in Sag Harbor, Long Island diving off the wooden pier swimming like a fish for hours on end, and singing folk tunes like Blowin' In The Wind, If I Had a Hammer, Big Yellow Taxi and Little Boxes to the strumming of our hippie nun counselor's guitar around campfires at night. I think the only thing that saved me as an adult, was in fact my whimsical, freedom to be a child and enjoy all that childhood brings. This is where I was able to explore, think and wonder. It is what I hold on to and the reason, despite my abusive marriage, periods of financial insatiability and the struggles and passions of living abroad, I have continued to stay sane. Somewhat.

Though I received my undergraduate degree in English Literature and had dreams of becoming a professor at a swanky university, fate led me to change from my English Master's to pursue my graduate studies in Elementary Education. There, something unexpected happened. I realized that being a teacher might give me the opportunity to be with little people living the ages I loved most. I realized I could help them to consciously enjoy being a child and learning about the world. I also fell in love with children's literature again. After four years of reading Rousseau, Shakespeare, Sartre and Whitman, I realized I had a love for language, creativity and the aesthetic. There are some children's authors that I return to year after year to help illustrate my love of language and the qualities that made my childhood so fulfilling. The natural disposition of a child is to be totally open to all possibilities and explore them with a passion that is often lost with age. To some, staying trapped in the mind of a child is seen as immaturity, and in some cases, this is true. In other cases, this can be considered to be the embodiment of the artistic soul. Maira Kalman is one author who uses her child-like sense of whimsy to create writing and art that goes beyond the label of children's author.

I first came across a Kalman book called Ooh La La Max In Love about a dog named Max Stravinsky who goes off to Paris, living like a Parisian. He goes to clubs, eats in restaurants, and in the City of lights and Love, he falls in love with a minx of a Dalmatian named, what else, Crepes Suzette. It appealed to me first for the subtle jokes referencing famous French artists with the likes of the surrealist painter Rene Magritte,the songstress Josephine Baker, and author of The Hunchback of Notre Dame Victor Hugo. This book was too funny for children to get it, I thought at first glance. However, upon a second read, I realized the word play and rhymes would appeal to children, and of course I am failing to mention the stunning illustrations Kalman paints having a very French feel to them. I took it for a whirl for the first time in my second grade classroom when I was working in The Bronx, NY and the kids were screaming with laughter. Of course they would connect to the illustrations, characters and plot. Fantastic.

In recent yeas I rediscovered Kalman through The New Yorker Magazine which she has been a regular contributor to for several years. One particular cover illustration of a map of New York City created with Rick Meyerowitz know to most as New Yorkistan, is one that will stay in the minds of readers for a long time. I recently rediscovered Kalman again through TED. This particular talk by Kalman reignited my connection to childhood, and the importance for my need to express myself artistically. It speaks to me as a woman, though gender does not need to be a factor here. As an artist, Kalman is deeply rooted in her childhood, her culture and her artistic spirit.

Enjoy this clip, and listen close. If you feel any connection at all to what she says, perhaps it is time to reexamine your artistic self and reconnect with the fascination of a child.

Maira Kalman, the illustrated woman | Video on TED.com

It's My Blog And I'll Write If I Want To...The Portraits Series Begins

So for a while now, I've had this idea to write portraits of the amazing people who have touched my life.  I wrote one, Portrait of a Friendship, about my dearest and longest sustaining friendship with my dear Dawn.  Kindered spirits are we, soul sisters to be sure.  She came into my life briefly, then stayed through it all.  Despite moves, loves and losses we have always maintained the closest of friendships, the tightest of bonds.  There have been other significant women in my life, women whom I admired, there have been those who taught me about my profession as an educator, my world, myself.  I am truly grateful for having had them in my life even if ever so briefly.  Coincidentally, these people happen to be women.  A good friend, also a woman,  recently said to me, "Maria, you attract some amazing people into your life, but you also attract some really bad ones."  Indeed.  It got me thinking, that the good ones have been women or gay men, and the bad... well, you guessed it, all the men that have passed through my heart.  Or at least my sheets.

HELEN

                 I should begin at the beginning of my rebirth.

Image via Wikipedia

Five months before meeting Helen, I left my husband.  He was punching me.  I was bleeding.  I was thrown onto concrete... confused, a bit dazed.  Minutes later I was standing outside a gas station, barefoot, and looking down there was a a halo.  A sparkling rainbow around my bare feet in glorious tones of azure, crimson and gold.  I was standing in a puddle of oil with no shoes on my feet, no home to live in, and only the clothes on my back.  Danny and Theresa, my husband's cousin and his wife, in the car next to me telling me to follow them upstate to their home.  Of course I got in the car and did as they said. Robotic movements.
When I got upstate I had nothing.  No clothing to unpack, no shoes to politely offer to take off when I entered their home, just me.  They quickly made up a bed for me and told me to get some rest, that we would talk in the morning.  Somewhere in the house a dog barked.  Confused. 
And talk we did.  It was a family pow-wow.  Aunt Margie came up from the Bronx to assess the situation.  I would stay until I could get myself a place of my own, stay as long as I needed to. Get myself together. 
So it was that I was placed in a First Grade classroom with a sharp Bronx born Puerto Rican, Helen.  I kept my private life private and so did she.  She was smart and patient and knew her profession well.  She had a classroom assistant, Evelinda, who helped her with planning, copying, and organizing the students.  We met every day at lunch to discuss teaching plans, and Helen taught me the ways of the school, and how to meet the needs of the students.  She knew her kids well, and planned individualized instruction for a tough inner city group of kids that needed so much more than reading and writing.  She came off as tough and serious with high expectations for the kids and they knew it.  She was also creative and caring with the students, but never let them take advantage of her good nature.  During those lunches, we would meet with the other teachers who were also good, strong teachers, and tough as nails Bronx born women.  They cursed like sailors and told dirty jokes, and gossiped about the teachers on the second floor.  It was the time for the girls to be girls and blow off some steam.  And that's when Helen first called me Ma.  I knew what she meant right away.  Having grown up in a Spanish home myself, I was and still am, called mamita by my mother.   In hispanic culture it is common for women to call their daughters mamita, a term of endearment and affection.  Helen threw her own twist on it, and called everyone "Ma" for short.  Years later I would tell new groups of friends about Helen and how much she meant to me personally and professionally, and others began calling me  Ma too.
Then one day, she asked what I was doing Friday night, and if I wanted to go to her place to "hanggou".  Her Boricua accent came out when she said hang out.  Like it was one word.
Friday night came and I followed her home after work.  We entered the bottom floor of the house to be greeted by a steep flight of green shag carpeted stairs, and  Helen pointed up saying,  "That's my house, that door.  Go up!" She turned to close the door and I looked up the stairs...  the smells of Pernil, a Puerto Rican stove top pork dish, beans and rice wafted down the stairs.  As I got closer to the door I heard voices, Sandy, her mother's  dog, barking and the sounds of Univision 41 Nueva York, New York's Spanish speaking news channel.  Helen was at the top of the stairs with me now, and she put her key in the door.  She opened it and all at once the two little girls, Megan and Genesi, and Sandi the sand colored dog all ran toward her at once.  "Mommy mommy!" they screamed, and she gave them both big hugs and kisses.   "Ma?  Mammie?  Where you at?  I need a fucking drink!  Come on McCabe, follow me."  Teacher was gone, the mother was home, and Helen was Helen in full force.  Out came the tequilla.  I knew I was in trouble.   This was another world, and I was so glad to be in it.
Her mother, Ada came out from the sala, or living room, with a tall boy can of Budweiser in her hand. Helen walked right up to her, gave her a kiss, took a swig from the beer can and handed it back to her mother.  "get your own damn beer.... " Then looking at me, "Oh hi, hello, I'm Helen's mom, Eda."  he was an adorable blond with glasses and a button nose.  she had a bright smile and an infectious laugh.  She welcomed me to their home, and made me feel like part of the family.  
After that night Helen and I began what would be a very meaningful friendship for me.  She took me to the Copacabana where we danced all night long.  We continued to work together and party after work, and though it was clear I had no rhythm for dancing, and a low tolerance for drinking, we talked and laughed and cried.  I told her my story, and Helen said, "Baby, when you met me, you met God.  Don't you worry about a thing".  I was stunned, but did indeed find some comfort in her words.
On one of those nights at her house, when the girls had gone t sleep and the house was quiet, Helen began to share her concerns for her brother.  He was married at the time to a woman Helen thought was not good for him.  She spoke mostly about him as a person and how good he was.  She pulled out some of his drawings and shared them with me.  I was stunned by how good they were.  They were mostly of Superheroes in various action poses, pencil or black ink sketches.  She was sad he had altogether stopped drawing since being with her.  I remember developing a crush on him, sight unseen based on what she shared with me about him.
When the towers fell, we were at work together.  Passing by the parent/faculty room, I could not believe what I was seeing; clouds of smoke billowing where two of the tallest building in Manhattan once stood.  Flames, confusion... I really did not comprehend what I was seeing.  Parents began picking up there children from school and of course we could not leave until every child was safely escorted by a parent or neighbor.  When it was time for us to finally leave, we heard that police were closing bridges and tunnels and doing checkpoints on all highways leading out of Manhattan.  Helen insisted I come home with her, that the drive up to my cottage in Brewster was too far.  Cell phone service was in and out, and Helen was frantically trying get in touch with her husband, brother, aunt and mother.  Ada worked on Pearl street, just blocks from the Trade Center. We would find out later that she was stuck in the confusion with others.  She told us later it was the quietest subway ride home she ever experienced.  She had been covered in ash, like thousands of others that day, but when she finally arrived home we were all so happy to see her.  All of us stood stunned in front of the T.V. as we watched the clips over and over, the reports on the news giving bits of information, and then finally Mayor Rudolph Giuliani came on to update the people on what officials knew at that point and what was being done.  The news was grim, and difficult to hear.  We were frozen.   I don't remember what or how much, but I am sure we drank some that night.  I slept there that night, glad for having people I loved close to me.
About a year after that Helen and her husband decided to pack it up and move to Florida.  Life in New York was too expensive and stressful, and they wanted more for their children. When Helen broke the news to us, it was sad, but we were all so happy for the possibilities for her and her family.  She was so excited about moving and living near the beach.  Soon her best friend and sister in law Gracie moved her family down to Florida.  And, about a year or two after that I found the strength to move to Italy.
Helen and I don't talk every day, but we are in touch through the internet and I always wish her well.  I knew how important she was to me at the time, and will never forget the impact she had on me.  A few weeks before she left, she told me she wanted me to stay in touch with her brother.  She was worried about him because he was going though a divorce, and since I had been through the same, thought I could talk to him if he needed support.  We did, and now he is a special friend of mine too.
Seeing pictures of Helen looking so happy, watching her family grow and change, has made me so happy for her, and I will always think of her as an angel who held me and guided me exactly when I needed it.
So Helen, you see, good things really do happen to good people.  Love you girl.