Desiderata

This is older than you. I sometimes find it Xeroxed, framed and hanging in neglected corners of hospitals.

Take it down, trust it to your memory, put it among your “Things To Be Remembered,” and look at it when your spirits are low. It’s guaranteed to make you feel strong again. Trust me.

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy

            Max Ehrmann, 1927

Do all the good you can.

Thanks to Barry Carter for telling my story

I am very grateful to Barry Carter, who wrote an article about me that was published in the Star Ledger.  I appreciated how carefully he listened to what I had to say and how accurately he reported it.  He articulated it in a concise manner.  And the article was on the first page of the New Jersey section so lots of people saw.  I've been delighted to hear from old friends and to make new friends, like the School Ambassadors at North Boulevard Elementary School in Pompton Plains, NJ.  Rutgers University, where my husband Ernie Thompson's papers are kept, also got in touch.  I am happy that they would be interested in adding my papers to his.  It is wonderful to have this support for spreading the word that writing is so important for so many people!

I did notice that the title of the article said that I was a one-time activist.  Maybe "one whole lifetime activist" would have been even better.

Kudos to Barry!  As my son Josh's Jamaican friends say, "Big Up!"

North Boulevard Elementary School Ambassadors sent me a present

Today I received a wonderful present from the School Ambassadors of North Boulevard Elementary School in Pompton Plains, NJ.  Lorraine La Tempa, School Nurse and facilitator of the School Ambassador Program, said, "They are boys and girls that make a difference in our school and community."  They made clay pens for me to give to the students in my memoir writing class.  There was a letter included with the pens.  It said, "We read the article in the Star-Ledger about you and your writing class.  We were happy to hear about all you did in your life.  We are a group of 4th and 5th grade students... Our group meets at lunch time and we do service learning projects.  Our group is called School Ambassadors.  As a group we decided to make pens for you and your writing class.  We hope you enjoy them.  It is great to hear how you are using writing as favorite memories of your lives.  By reading the article we also learned about desegregation and treating everyone equally."  The letter was signed by Jessie, Hailey, Heather, Evelyn, Julia, sofia, Catherine, Jenna, Veronica, Caitlin, Teagan, Victoria, Joylene, Leah, Maelana, Lucy, Melissa and Erika.

Thank you, School Ambassadors.

I hope that the efforts of these wonderful young people will inspire others to pick up their pens and start to write.  I am organizing a Kickstarter campaign to raise money for the Maggie Ink Project.  The money will support the publication of the stories of all kinds of wonderful people.  Please donate to Maggie Ink.

Keep writing!

A Favor for a Friend

I was hospitalized a while ago at a different facility, and a family, whom I shall blog about separately, departed. About 3:00 am, a new tenant arrived who had chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, allergies and asthma. She was desperately ill, and the staff took care of her most of the night.

By morning, we had become acquainted. She is from a neighboring city and a fascinating and lovely woman. She is middle-aged, a religious woman, the mother of a family.

By mid-morning, we had become fast friends. She did me a kindness when it came dinner time. She actually got up out of bed and came where I was, bed-bound and unable to walk. She came over a few steps, found my food for me and helped me start eating.

The next day, we continued our friendship and at dinner time, she said, “You know I had ice cream and cake for dinner, but it didn’t satisfy me. Have you got anything?” I said, “Yes! Some people brought chocolate kisses and I have Werthers.” She said, “I’ll come over,” and she did. She picked up a handful of candy and started to eat it. She was leaning against the wall opposite me, where I could see her. The television was a few degrees away, but I was not watching it. I was watching her.

I suddenly noticed she was starting to slump. We have machines in hospitals for calling nurses and aides, but they work slowly. By the time someone notices a signal and finishes with another patient, minutes can go by, a quarter of an hour can go by. It wasn’t going to work just to push the button, so I took a deep breath and I started yelling “Help.” Four times I yelled “Help,” and she continued to slump.

We were near an open door and a hallway, and someone came and grabbed her around the middle, like a sack of sugar, and we saved her from falling and crashing her head. Later, we learned she did have these black-out episodes and it could have been serious. I was so pleased that I was able to do a little favor for my new friend.

Do all the good you can.

Serendipity

When Shirl stopped working for me, I wanted to give her a present, but what?  She shared with me that she loved linzer tortes, the cookies with raspberry jam in the middle.  She remembered them as the most delicious things she had ever tasted, but she had not been able to find the equal of what she remembered.  I was telling my friend Liga Stam about this and she said, "I know how to make linzer tortes!"  "What great luck!" I said.  "Would you make some for Shirl?"  And she agreed.  I think they're going to make them this Sunday!

A Fond Farewell to Shirleen, A Warm Welcome to Marlo!

It is with mixed emotions that I say farewell to Shirleen Dorman!  Shirl, a wonderful writer, pushed this project from the start.  She was instrumental in the initiation and carrying out of communication with contacts at local libraries, newspapers and especially this Maggie: INK Blog.  Her expertise as a writer has afforded her the opportunity, (after 2 years of unemployment), to acquire a full-time position (with a salary not commiserate to her worth), but one that I am sure she will enjoy.  While I will miss her dearly and appreciate every minute she spent with me, I am happy for her and I take this moment to extend my heartfelt appreciation for all the work she has done.  Shirl, I wish you well!  I certainly hope that you will continue to share in the future of this project.

Luckily, I am fortunate yet again to walk into the next phase of this project with the assistance of Marlo Johnson.  She comes to me from Chicago, Illinois with a background in Educational Administration and Electrical Engineering.  Marlo is an eager young wife and mom who has already expressed that she is learning and growing with this work.  Marlo, welcome!  I looked forward to working with you and doing great things with your assistance! 

I am excited about the opportunity to continue this project and I look forward to sharing more about my life, past and present. 

Paul Robeson, Home for the Holidays

I urge you not to miss one of the great treats: the singing of Paul Robeson, the renowned actor, musician, linguist and humanitarian.  YouTube has a mix of 100 of his songs.  It's a great sampler.  There are also wonderful comments that bring the man to life.  I liked this one by SpecialHelen which Mindy read to me:  "When my father was a boy, he and his sister and parents fled Poland. It was a long and eventful train journey and my grandfather was beaten by a German guard. For whatever reason Paul Robeson was on the train, he sat with my grandparents and spoke to them in Yiddish to try and allay their fears. So, for me, listening to him is a priviledge."


Paul was blacklisted in the 1950s and we organized a concert for him at our house in Orange, NJ, to help him earn a living.  He held my newborn son, Joshua Paul, and sang, "Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho."  It was a great blessing.  Josh has become a musician, too.  He wrote me a song, "Waltz for Maggie," which he has recorded for his new album.  He brought me a CD of the song, and I have been enjoying its gentle rhythms and lovely melody.  I hope all will enjoy his album.  

New Jersey: What's It To Me?

When I was a child in Ohio many years ago, I had one puzzle—a map of the United States. I loved it and put it together over the years dozens of times. The only piece I lost was the State of New Jersey. I didn’t cry over it because I thought I’d never see New Jersey anyway.

    Meanwhile, in the State of Florida, in the town of Crescent City, fate was preparing to change that. The town had one Jewish couple named Kushner, who owned the dry goods store. A teenager named Cliff Hunter had a part-time job with them until he went away to college. It was the Depression, and his parents could not send him back for a second year, which was a shame because Cliff was a talented kid. The Kushners called their three nephews in Hudson County, New Jersey, and arranged that they would make a job for Cliff and find him a place to live. He could continue his studies in sculpture and painting at the Y on 92nd Street in New York City. For now, he was a house painter.

    Then came Pearl Harbor. Cliff was drafted into the Army, stationed in North Carolina, met and married me, transferred to the Army Air Corps, learned to fly in California, and in due course, went overseas. I went to New York to await his return, intending to study, but first I wanted to meet the fabulous Kushner family. We loved each other at first sight. They found a room for me next door, and I moved from Central Park West to West New York two days later. We remained dear friends until they died, the second of them only this past year.

    What’s New Jersey to me? My home.

Do all the good you can.

This Is Your Life



Marranos: Secret Seder in Spain during the 
Inquisition. Painting by Moshe Maimon.



You are living in Spain in the 15^th century. You are a member of a large and loving Jewish family surrounded by a close-knit community. You are preparing to celebrate Passover. But you are also preparing to celebrate Easter. The Easter services will be on Good Friday and Easter Sunday in bright daylight in the Cathedral; the Passover service will be conducted after dark in a cave.

      Why are you living a double life? Because you are a Marrano, one of a large number of Spanish Jews—over 100,000—forced to convert to Christianity to escape persecution but continuing to practice Judaism in secret.

      Marrano means “swine” in Spanish.

      Who gave you that name?

      Your Christian persecutors?

      To most Jews, the Marranos were not renegades but “forced converts” or “compelled ones” and therefore martyrs. Thousands of your fellow Jews who did not convert were massacred by mobs stirred up by fanatical priests.

      By the middle of the 1400’s the situation had quieted down and many of you held high positions in the state, the royal court, and even the Catholic Church and had intermarried with the noblest families.

      But hatred continued against you, ostensibly because of rumors that you still clung to your religion.

      Was it true?

      Whether true or false made little difference. Beginning in 1473 riots against Jews spread from city to city and in 1480 Spain introduced the Inquisition to institutionalize control over the persecution. In its first year, 300 Marranos were subjected to auto de fe, the sentence by the Inquisition to be burned at the stake, ironically called “the Act of Faith.”

      Tens of thousands died in this cruel and senseless fashion, many of your friends and relatives among them. You wept until you had no more tears. And in every case, the possessions of those who died were confiscated, enriching the crown and solidifying its power.

      As time went on, Queen Isabella elevated her personal spiritual adviser, Torquemada, to head the Inquisition. He devised the ultimate test for the Marranos: If you are genuinely converted, you will tell us about any conversos you know who still observe Judaism.

      Tell us and save your life!¹

      Finally, on March 31, 1492, an edict was issued for the total expulsion of all Jews from Spain,² to take effect in three months. You didn’t need time to prepare. You were not allowed to take anything with you but the clothes on your backs. All your money, jewels, land, household goods, belongings of every kind had to be abandoned.

      Some of your friends saved themselves by being baptized. You searched your conscience and decided to join the thousands who went into exile.

      Discussions went on long into the nights. Where to go? Some of you went to North African countries where you were welcomed by the Muslims, and some to Italy and the Ottoman Empire.

      Some went to Spanish and Portuguese colonies in the New World but the Inquisition followed.

      It is estimated that 2,000 died at the stake and far more were whipped, jailed, or sent to the galleys. Some were driven to emigrate yet again: the first Jews to settle in North America were religious refugees from Brazil.

      You finally decided to go to Holland and, with the help of a friendly shoemaker, smuggled out diamonds in a hollow heel to start your business again. Most were not so fortunate and arrived penniless at their new homes.

      You had to leave many Marrano friends in Spain, where they eventually died or became assimilated³ though many kept their faith in their hearts and passed on their beliefs to successive generations.

¹Shades of Joe McCarthy 500 years later.

²Portugal, where an Inquisition had been equally horrendous, followed suit in 1497.

³In the Balearic Islands, Marrano descendants known as Cheutas (swine) still persist as an isolated, stigmatized community. Some still linger in Portugal but having been cut off from Jews for so long have developed strange customs and resist traditional tenets of Judaism.

Do all the good you can.

 

           

$1,000 Down, $9,000 To Go

Congratulations to Walter Barry, the first grantor to Maggie:INK. Maggie:INK is more than my blog: it has a double mission to publish works by new writers (the elderly, the working class and those without a "name") and to spread the idea that writing brings serenity and peace to the writer. 

Mindy and Walter

     Walter has been in my life for more than 65 years, during which time he has enjoyed several extraordinary careers, the first as an international representative for the United Electrical, Radio & Machine Workers of America (UE), one of the first of the burgeoning CIO unions. When McCarthyism hit, Walter became an "egg man," purchasing cracked eggs in South Jersey, freezing them and selling them to bakeries. About that time, my husband, Ernie Thompson, suggested to Walter that he get into the housing business, which led to Walter's being involved in rehabbing 1500 housing units in Hoboken, changing it from a slum, which had become a source of ridicule, to a much desired residence, especially for young people working in New York City.

     So thank you again Walter for the grant. That's $1,000 down, $9,000 to go. We are eternally grateful. It would be great if our first book were to be your memoir. Are you writing?

Do all the good you can.

Meeting Hannah: How My Life Was Changed

The First 18 Years: I grew up on a small farm just outside Chippewa Lake, Ohio in a very small town southwest of Cleveland. There were no Jews. Total contact: Zero.

College Years: I attended Muskingum College in New Concord, Ohio, a Presbyterian school of about 800 students. No black students were in attendance during my four years. Furthermore, I never encountered a single Jewish student or professor. I rather think I would have learned if there were any because in my freshman year, I started a campaign to admit blacks and was at once called into the office of the Dean of Women and threatened with immediate expulsion. If there had been any Jews on campus, I like to think they would have supported the campaign, which died aborning. Total contact: Zero.

1941: I went to work for the YWCA in Charlotte, North Carolina. I soon met Hannah Malkin, a native of the state and a social worker. We became friends and she taught me not only about the labor movement but a whole new way of thinking about history and society in general.¹ It was war-time and we were soon separated, but she so influenced my life that I was never again the same. We are still friends. Total contact: One.

Hannah told me a joke that I still enjoy. When taking a sponge bath, you wash down as far as possible, then you wash up as far as possible and then you wash possible. 

1942: Just after the Christmas following Pearl Harbor, I met Cliff Hunter, like me a white Protestant. He had grown up in a small town in Florida where there was one Jewish family. Their name was Kushner and they owned a store where Cliff sometimes worked during high school. When his father’s orange crop failed and Cliff could not return to college, the Kushners contacted their New Jersey nephews, house and sign painters, and had them offer him a job and a place to live. Evenings he was able to attend the famous 92nd Street Y to continue studying painting and sculpture. This went on until he was drafted in 1941 and sent to an army camp near Charlotte. Fate stepped in. We met through friends and married in June 1943. Great information!

1944: Cliff was transferred to the Army Air Corps and became a bomber pilot. When he went overseas, I went to New York to visit Hannah, but very soon contacted the nephew who had been most helpful to Cliff, Meyer Kushner. It was love at first sight with Meyer, his wife Shayna and me. I moved from Central Park West to West New York that week to a room they found for me next door. We remained close friends for the rest of their lives. Jackpot! Wonderful personal contact.

1945: My husband was killed in action in March after his plane was damaged in a bombing run over France, forcing him to crash land in the English Channel. His co-pilot was thrown out and Cliff went to rescue him and drowned in the attempt. I was alone and broken-hearted. I had resigned my job in Charlotte to be with Cliff for a year while he was in pilot training. Now I had to find work. Hoping to help the war effort, I applied at the local electronics factory. It was not hiring, but the Electrical Workers Union (UE) was looking for a secretary. I had had half a year of typing in high school. I figured I could do the job. I applied and was hired. My boss was business agent Jules Paris.² He was Jewish. He taught me a good deal about the labor movement. Joe and Ruth Fischer rescued me from my solitary room and I lived with them for several years, for which I am eternally grateful. Learning and many good relationships resulted.

I now live at Daughters of Israel in West Orange, NJ, which
offers wonderful views of the South Mountain.

1946-50: In succession, I worked in UE locals in Union City, Bayonne and Jersey City and then District 4 in Newark. When the rival IUE began to raid UE locals, our lawyer, Morton Stavis, fought back by filing lawsuits. He needed evening and weekend help; I had just bought a house in Orange and needed money. Late in December that year, I began working with him full time. It was the beginning of an association that lasted 42 years. He had been a Yeshiva boy, was graduated from Columbia Law School before his 21^st birthday and had to wait to take the bar exam. Unable to find a job as a Jewish lawyer in New York, he became one of FDR’s bright young men and had a brilliant career with the federal government (his first work being to prove the constitutionality of the Social Security Act), turned to labor law, conducted a general practice for many years, became involved in civil rights struggles here and in the South and was a founder of the Center for Constitutional Rights. How could I help but learn? And all of it good.

Mitten derinen: I began to acquire Jewish relatives. My second husband was Ernest Thompson, a brilliant union organizer and the first black to be hired on the UE national staff. Our daughter Mindy married a young Jewish writer, Michael Kaufman. From that marriage came Molly Rose Kaufman, my beloved grand-daughter, who received her Master’s degree in journalism from Columbia University. Dena, an adopted daughter of Mindy and Mike, became and remains Jewish. Her daughter, A’Lelia (or Lily, as she likes to be called) will have her Bat Mitzvah in December.

The Hoboken years: After Ernie’s death, I moved to Hoboken to facilitate commuting to the Center for Constitutional Rights in New York City where my boss then concentrated his full energies, having given up his private office. My job ended in 1992 with his tragic and untimely death from a fall. Hoboken is a lively place, but it was not my place. My family and friends and my Unitarian Universalist Church were in Essex County. After several years, I wearied of “riding the rails” (NJ Transit) between Hoboken and the Oranges. I decided to move back. By a stroke of luck, I learned of the Village Apartments in South Orange, run by Federation. I applied on a Monday, was accepted the following Thursday and moved in on Friday (the 13^th!). I was there for four years, until I became ill. I am now living at Daughters of Israel on Pleasant Valley Way in West Orange. Once again, Jews are changing my life and, as always, for the better.

¹And new ways of acting, as well: she and I joined and worked with the NAACP in Charlotte.

²While I knew him, Jules’ first son was born. His side of the family had a favorite deceased uncle they wanted the boy named for; his wife’s side of the family had their candidate. Jules wanted him named for a union organizer named Jerry. The son received his formal names but was always “Jerry.” There is a Jerry Paris listed among the credits on some Hollywood films. Is it my friend Jules’ son?

Do all the good you can.



SAS Shoes

One of the things most of us hate with a passion is having our feet hurt, so it was not that long ago--could it have been in the 1950s--on an annual visit to my sister in Tucson, Arizona that I was introduced to blessed relief from such punishment. It came in the form of SAS Shoes (San Antonio Shoes).

This ergonomically crafted footwear for women is made in San Antonio, Texas. It is designed in good taste, made of fine leather by experienced cobblers, in conservative but attractive styles, and best of all, holds up under long hard usage without showing wear. It is the ideal lifetime shoe at a price most American women can afford.

A typical pair of SAS walking shoes.

When I traveled in Europe in the 1960s, I would sometimes spot "my" shoes on a fellow traveler. I would tap her on the shoulder, give her a warm hello and share a few minutes of joy with her over our lucky find in having comfortable feet for our trip.

Every year, there was the joy of shopping in the West for a new pair of SAS Shoes--I remember once I treated myself to three pairs--but it was still a relief when I moved to Essex County and found them at Futter's in Millburn.

I now have two pairs that will last the rest of my life. If you wear a size 6 1/2, get in touch. I have some dressy ones worn a time or two that I will happily pass on without charge.

Do all the good you can.

Thank You, Susan

I want to say heartfelt and sincere thanks to Susan Sarandon for coming out so forcefully in favor of the uprising, Occupy Wall Street. She is a person of conviction, clarity and courage. We need her leadership and example. Thanks, Susan.

The Lucky Sixpence

One of the most fascinating coins ever produced is the English sixpence. It was first issued by Edward VI in 1551 as a hammered coin that was struck with a hammer. For many years, the sixpence was made of silver and was produced wherever the British flag flew, including all England's territories and protectorates. It was equal to six pennies or pence. I'm sure it was a useful coin--imagine our coinage without the nickel!

In 1947, under the reign of George VI, the composition was changed to copper-nickel alloy. The last sixpence was minted in 1967 during the reign of Elizabeth II except for a proof issued in 1970. In 1971, all coinage became based on the decimal system and the sixpence was revalued at two and a half pence. It was demonitized in 1980.

Why do we care about the sixpence? Because it is the single most lucky of all the coins. Everyone should carry one in his wallet. But even more important is its role in marriage. My theory is that the fact that 50% of U.S. marriages end on the rocks is that they never get a proper start.

Every U.S. bride knows from kindergarten that at her nuptials she should wear "Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed, Something Blue," but how many realize they have fallen short because they have omitted "And a Lucky Sixpence in Her Shoe"? The union may not be doomed from its inception but has a serious shadow over it that only unfailing and total devotion by both parties can overcome, and how often is that achieved. 

If only the couple had looked ahead and taken out insurance with a Lucky Sixpence!

Do All The Good You Can.

Don't Call Them Girls!



Until I moved to South Orange four and a half years ago, I did not know who had staff, who hired maids or who had servants. Once I arrived at the Village Apartments, I had to learn because these are senior apartments and many of the people who live there could not exist without assistance from their "help."



There has been a remarkable book published, and I hope by now most of you have read it or seen the movie.  It is called The Help, and it reveals how disgracefully many of the servants in the South, black servants, are treated by white families, particularly by white women because they do the hiring and supervision.



I found there wasn't a day went by at Village Apartments that someone didn't talk about "my girl"--it could be a good thing or a bad thing. Now, many of these women have accumulated ages endowing them with great respect. They are in their fifties, sixties, or in their seventies. Sometimes, they are in their eighties, and they are still working because they need to work.

They are not girls. They are women in every sense of the world: highly intelligent, experienced and deserving of the greatest possible respect.

Please stop calling them girls!

Do all the good you can.



90 Year Old Joins Occupy Wall Street from Bed in Nursing Home

The book, which I wrote last year when I was 90, called From One to Ninety-one: A Life, was published this summer. It ended with a plea that our people join hands to end the un-American, undemocratic atmosphere of greed that characterizes our society and poisons our lives today. I quoted Langston Hughes, who said:

                  Not me alone...
                  But all the whole oppressed...
                  Must put their hands with mine
                  To shake the pillars of those temples
                  Wherein...the rule of greed's upheld...
                  That must be ended.

We are at a time when our corporations are placing profit over people, self-interest over justice, and oppression over equality while they control and stymie our government. But thanks to a few progressive forces, organized as Occupy Wall Street, we have reached a remarkable point and the possibility of change for the better. Though it originated as a small group of young people camping out at Zuccotti Park in lower Manhattan, it has ballooned to include virtually all the major religious denominations, as well as labor, the unemployed and the marginalized. When protesters were threatened with eviction, Move.on stepped in with a massive e-mail petition and labor stepped up as well, sending members to the park early Friday morning. There were no evictions!

Each of us must stop living in the four walls of his house. We must live in the community, in our society, and push for changes which will save America.

This was my first blog, from a nursing home where I have terminal cancer, and I plan to continue to share my thoughts with you on politics, the magic of chocolate, poker, bridge, the English sixpence, my family, SAS shoes, Marcel Marceau and your thoughts on a myriad of topics we may enjoy together.

And speaking of family, this is the birthday of my daughter, Mindy Thompson Fullilove. We use this occasion to congratulate her and celebrate the splendid life she is building.

Do all the good you can, as long as ever you can.